People of the Morning Star(53)

He’s going to pause at the door. Seven Skull Shield side-stepped and crouched in the shadow of the Clan Keeper’s raised dais in the rear of the palace. And, as expected, the intruder paused, glancing back to make sure the room’s occupants remained undisturbed.

Is the light good enough that he’ll notice my blanket’s empty by the door?

Apparently not. The intruder lowered his war club to the floor, and using both hands, slipped the long chert knife through the crack and lifted, obviously severing any thong on the inside. Then he carefully swiveled the door to one side, picked up his club, and vanished into the blackness.

Seven Skull Shield made a face, battled the sudden urge to just grab a couple of the better pieces of copper and pottery and run for it, and shook his head as he tiptoed to the Clan Keeper’s doorway.

As he’d anticipated, the intruder was just inside, again demonstrating his skill as he let his eyes adjust further to the gloom.

Seven Skull Shield closed his eyes, willing himself to be one with the darkness. He sensed the intruder’s movement, and slipped in after him.

The hunt had grown serious now. No way out. Seven Skull Shield’s heart began to pound, a tickle of energy spiking in his muscles. Opening his eyes to the darkness he ghosted after the intruder.

To Seven Skull Shield’s surprise, the man stopped before the Clan Keeper’s bed and carefully lowered the war club to the floor. Like a hawk over a sleeping rabbit, he positioned himself. Then, in an instant, he clapped a hand over the sleeping woman’s mouth and pressed the long stone knife to her neck. In a thickly accented voice, as though repeating from memory, he said, “Greetings from the one you threw away!”

Seven Skull Shield’s fingers closed on the man’s war club. Pivoting on one foot, he swung the vicious club up, and drove it smack into the base of the intruder’s neck where it rose from the shoulders. Vertebra cracked and snapped under the impact. The black-painted man dropped the way a heavy wet stone slipped through greased fingers … full onto the Clan Keeper’s breast.

Seven Skull Shield reached down and muscled the twitching corpse off of where it pinned old Blue Heron to her blankets. A scream of terror ripped from the old woman’s throat, and outside the door, the palace erupted in shouts and confusion.





Nineteen

The ordeal was excruciating. Blue Heron wasn’t sure which was worse, the pain from Rides-the-Lightning’s ministrations, or reliving the terror of her near execution.

She sat on her raised dais, her blankets wadded into a knot behind her. The crackling fire illuminated her ornate walls, the sleeping benches, boxes, fine baskets, and highly polished brownware jars.

“Don’t flinch,” Rides-the-Lightning muttered. His gray-blind eyes stared emptily as he sewed her up by feel. “It just makes it more difficult.”

She grimaced as he slipped another cactus spine through the bloody cut that transected her throat. When the assassin had jerked under the death blow, the incredibly sharp blade had sliced her skin.

“You try having your throat cut in the middle of the night, you old…” No, she couldn’t say it. No matter how angry and frightened she might be.

“Any deeper,” Rides-the-Lightning reminded yet again, “and it would have severed your windpipe. You’re a very lucky woman.”

She made a fist, and shot a sidelong glance at where Seven Skull Shield was standing off to the side, a calculating animation behind his dark eyes.

Fire and vomit! Now I’m indebted to the likes of him?

She needed but close her eyes, however, and the terror flashed like white light behind her eyes. The hand clapping to her mouth, the sharp edge of the knife pressing into her throat, and that soft voice, “Greetings from the one you threw away!” sent a shiver through her.

“Stop moving!” Rides-the-Lightning insisted again as he wound thread around the cactus spines to pull her severed skin together.

How could a blind man sew with such perfection?

“It burns!”

“Of course it does! They’re cactus spines. Pain enhances healing. Just be glad—”

“Yes, yes.” She winced as he pushed her chin up again.

With a sidelong glance she could see Clay Bell and Fire Temper, her supposed guards, standing by the door. Both gripped their war clubs and looked sheepish. They’d been asleep in their beds to either side of her door, of course.

Smooth Pebble emerged from Blue Heron’s sleeping quarters, a torch in her hands. The berdache stepped over, shaking her head. “I’ve never seen him before. His entire body is painted in black. Rubbing the paint off his face, I was surprised to discover he has no tattoos.”