“Someday, when you’re the high war chief, you’re going to regret that your deputy has to lead every war party.”
“Then I’d better pick you as my deputy. You can always find your way. I don’t understand it.”
Her laughter reminded him of warm winds through autumn-brittle leaves. He cherished it, engraving it in his memory to hear again and again. When he thought he could bear no more of the horrors of war, or the futility of command, recalling her laughter soothed him.
Somewhere, down deep in his soul, scenes of her death struggled to rise, flitting like butterfly wings through the Dream. Desperate to avoid them, he looked into her mischievous eyes.
“Hako,” he said. “I love you. I wish we could—”
Faintly, he heard the boulder above him being rolled away. Hako’s face began to fade. He fought against it, not wanting to wake up. The ladder thudded as it struck the floor, and all around him warriors leaped to their feet cursing.
Kakala rolled to his back and grimaced at everything in the chamber: the warriors backed against the walls; silver streaks of moonlight painted the floor; the hated ladder was like a lance through the heart of his domain.
He noted Keresa’s strained expression as she dropped to the floor. He knew that stiff posture, and the thunder reflected on her lined brow. Something had her terribly upset.
His spine went stiff when a deep voice called from above, “Kakala? It’s Windwolf.”
Kakala pulled himself to his feet. “What do you want?”
Windwolf stepped into the gap and looked down. Behind him, Sister Moon’s face gleamed, giving the air a silver sheen.
From the corner of Kakala’s eye, he saw Keresa hug herself.
Windwolf coldly said, “I need to speak with you, War Chief.”
“I have nothing to say.”
They held each other’s gaze like two bull mammoths during the rut. Windwolf yielded first, shifting his attention to one of the warriors who stood guard. Windwolf said something that Kakala couldn’t hear, but he understood when two armed warriors climbed down the ladder. Six others stood over the opening with their darts aimed down.
The tall warrior said, “Climb up. Now.”
Kakala looked at his own warriors. None of them seemed to be breathing.
Keresa said, “Just go, Kakala. Find out what he wants.”
Kakala muttered a curse and climbed. When he stepped onto the boulders, two men took particular pleasure in searching him.
Windwolf said, “Tie his hands.”
One of the warriors pulled out a twisted hide rope and tied Kakala’s hands in front of him.
“Do you see that flat boulder up the slope?” Windwolf pointed.
Kakala turned to look. It was perhaps three body lengths long and two wide. “I can see it just fine, thank you.”
“Walk toward it.”
Is it my time to die?
He smiled grimly. For days, he’d been trying to figure out why he was still alive—now he wished he’d enjoyed them more.
When he reached the flat rock, Windwolf ordered, “Sit down.”
Four warriors surrounded him, taking up positions eight body lengths away—which he found interesting. Windwolf must have told them he wanted privacy. Another warrior placed a basket on the rock, then trotted back toward the village.
Kakala took a moment to appreciate the stunning view. To the north, the peaks of the Ice Giants glowed in the moonlight as though lit from within. Thunder Sea looked liquid silver. A fringe of dark spruce trees rimmed his high perch, resembling a buffalo’s beard curving beneath a pristine stone face.
“If I have to tell you to sit down again, you’ll be standing up for the rest of the night,” Windwolf said.
Kakala eased down onto the rock. In the moonlight, Windwolf looked haggard, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep, but he wore a clean blue war shirt, painted with red buffalo, and he’d bathed recently. His short black hair shone.
For that alone, Kakala detested him.
He’d actually been dreaming of taking baths in rivers, pools, waterfalls, even the icy Thunder Sea. Anywhere to wash away the blood, grime, and stink that clung to his body.
Windwolf spread his legs; the weapons clattered on his belt. “That basket contains food and water. The Healer, Flathead, said you needed to eat.”
Kakala studied the basket, and his mouth started to water. For two days, he’d felt like his navel had melted into his spine.
He held up his bound hands. “How am I supposed to eat with my hands tied?”
“A clever man like you? I’m sure you’ll discover a way.”
Kakala slid over, grabbed the basket, and brought it back to his lap. As he unfolded the hide inside, the smell of roasted arctic hare rose. He pulled it out, delighted with an entire rabbit roasted on a skewer.