Forest finches didn’t scatter any quicker when a sharp-shinned hawk flew over.
Fire Cat took a deep breath and held the stone up propped on his thumb and forefinger. “Whoever made this knew his business.”
No expression crossed her face, her almost vacant gaze sucking at him. Then she stepped forward, each step balanced and languid as she strode up to him.
Stopping no more than a pace away, a tear broke free and coursed down her left cheek as she reached out and gently lifted the stone from his hand. Then she slapped him hard across the cheeks.
Fire Cat turned his face with the blow, lessening the impact. Shaking it off, he gave her a wry smile. “I apologize for upsetting you.” He gestured at the stone. “A piece like that should be held, used, not left on a shelf like statuary.”
“I should kill you for even laying a finger on this.” She cradled the stone between her breasts.
He inclined his head slightly. “I won’t touch it again. Hard as that will be for me. It has an allure, perfect balance.”
Her slim fingers slipped across the polished stone in a caress worthy of a lover. He started to step away when, voice catching, she asked, “How did he die?”
“In war, Lady.”
“How did you defeat him?”
“Are you sure you want to hear this?”
Her head tilted to expose the soft angle of her cheek. “He says I must.”
“Who says? Morning Star?”
“Piasa,” she whispered, her eyes growling larger, lips parting, as if the beast had just stepped into the room.
Fire Cat glanced uncertainly around and swore a cold draft had just blown through.
She’d fixed her dark gaze on his, waiting, fingers lightly stroking the stone.
He took a breath, oddly hesitant to inflict yet another hurt upon her. “We’d been warned that they were coming. Word came up the river when they passed River-Washed-Mountain. Our scouts were in place when the Morning Star’s squadrons landed two-day’s march downriver. My orders were that no one was to alert them, that they believe they’d caught us by surprise.”
She nodded, as if seeing it in her head.
“It was last fall, just before harvest. They were coming up the main trail from the south where the forest gives way to the corn, bean, and squash fields south of town. The corn was head-high on either side, and the trail drops off a low terrace that gives a good view of Red Wing town maybe ten bow-shots in the distance.
“I let the Morning Star’s commanders see just what they wanted to in the distance: Red Wing town’s squadrons pulled up in formation around the town walls. It was the logical way to fight a defensive action. Right there on the flat before the walls so that if Red Wing were to be outfought, we could retreat behind the fortifications and carry on the defense.”
She’d shifted her attention from the chunkey stone to him, listening intently.
Fire Cat spread his hands sympathetically. “Emerging from the trail that way, they were clustered in a thick column and streaming along between the cornfields. They were perfectly massed, trotting six deep, shields to the fore. They didn’t even have their bows strung. At sight of the squadrons before the town, they began singing, clacking their bow staves against their shields.
“That’s when I ordered the pot drum to beat the attack. At that first boom my squadrons rose from the corn and a first volley was on the way. We caught them from both sides, pouring arrows into them like a dense hail. And through it all, the squadrons advancing from the rear just kept coming, spilling out into the confusion, screams, dying men, and raining arrows.”
“And my husband?” she asked softly, another tear trickling down her cheek.
“Three times he almost managed to get them organized, though to do so he literally had to clamber over the bodies of the dead and dying.” He narrowed an eye. “I couldn’t let him do that. You do understand. He was much too talented.”
She gave him a slight nod, and he continued, “I signaled the drum again, and we charged forward to overwhelm them. He was calling orders to his seconds, and they to their thirds. He was desperately trying to establish a shield line to allow his men to reform. I waited until he raised his arm. When he did I had a clear shot and drove an arrow under his armpit where it wasn’t protected.”
Her expression began to crumble, her swallow loud.
“The squadrons he’d seen before the town? They were a ruse, far enough away that he couldn’t tell they were composed of women and children, old men, anyone capable of holding a piece of matting that would look like a shield, or a stick or hammer that might be mistaken for bows or war clubs over the distance.”