People of the Nightland(117)
Kakala laughed incredulously. “You’re bold.”
With unsettling silence, Windwolf walked over and seated himself. He stared hard into Kakala’s eyes. “Let’s discuss your last couple of days in the cage.”
Kakala barely moved. “Why?”
“I assume it’s bothering you.”
His gut tried to tie itself in knots. “And?”
“I’d rather it didn’t.”
Kakala stared his disbelief. “Why would you care?”
“How can I keep that from happening to you and your warriors?”
Kakala shook his head as though he hadn’t heard right. This had to be some ploy to gain leverage. “What’s this? Don’t tell me you’ve started to believe the rumors circulating among broken Sunpath refugees that you’re the promised Dreamer sent to save the world from the coming cataclysm?”
“If I let you go, Elder Nashat will certainly order you captured and hauled off to cages—”
“Not … ! Not … certainly.” Blood had started to surge deafeningly in his ears. “Why are we discussing this?”
Windwolf’s face fell into stiff lines. “Because I thought if we could solve that problem you would be able to make decisions more clearly.”
“Which decisions did you have in mind?”
Windwolf looked up without moving a muscle. “Decisions regarding the Sunpath People and the Lame Bull People.”
“You think I have any influence on that?”
They stared unforgivingly at each other for a time, each silently trying to guess the other’s strategy.
In cynical amusement, Kakala asked, “Why don’t you just tell me what you’re offering? If I betray my people, you will … what?”
Windwolf bowed his head and stared at the smooth surface of the rock. In a curious voice, he asked, “After the attack on the Sprucebell band, why did you send runners to the neighboring Sunpath villages telling them to expect survivors? I’ve heard you did the same thing at other places.”
Kakala frowned. The man changed subjects as quickly as a cougar could its charge. Was it designed to fluster him? He studied Windwolf’s bland expression.
In a mockingly conspiratorial voice, he said, “Perhaps I’m the promised Dreamer who’s going to save the world.”
Windwolf stiffened. “Let me know when you decide to talk to me as one leader to another.” Then the man rose, turned his back on Kakala, and walked away. Over his shoulder, he said, “Get some sleep, War Chief.”
The guards trotted forward. Kakala took another long drink from the water bag before he rose unsteadily to his feet.
“Walk,” the tall warrior ordered.
Distress
My slave girl, Pipe, is dead. That beautiful little girl torn to shreds by some mad Spirit. I found pieces of her scattered through the lower tunnels. I buried her head at the fiery lake. My heart aches so much that I can barely force myself to keep going. Raven Hunter says it’s Wolf Dreamer’s work.
I don’t believe it.
I told him yesterday that she loved Wolf Dreamer and didn’t wish to return to the Long Dark—that she had vowed to serve me well until the time came for us to go, then she begged me to let her return to her own Sunpath band.
Ancestors, forgive me. I didn’t know how insanely desperate he has become.
Now I fear he’ll do anything to keep me believing.
Forty-nine
Sunrise remained hidden behind the high ridge to the east, but a luminous halo arced over the horizon and turned the bellies of the drifting Cloud People a glittering gold.
“Very well, let’s begin,” War Chief Fish Hawk said, and started swinging his war club. He’d twisted his black hair into a bun at the nape of his neck and wore a tattered deerhide shirt that reached to his knees. From his cord belt a variety of weapons hung: a stiletto, atlatl, and shining black chert knife. “First, a warrior must loosen his shoulder muscles.”
Silvertip followed Fish Hawk’s moves, swinging his club back and forth with his right hand, then switching it to his left hand. Two tens of boys and girls, including Ashes, circled Fish Hawk, all swinging their clubs.
As he swung it upward in an arc, Silvertip studied his club. It had belonged to his dead father. Beautifully crafted from hickory, the shaft, as long as his arm, had been carefully thinned and polished. The warhead was fashioned from a splinter of mammoth’s tusk, the ivory ground to a sharp point, then grooved and attached to the hickory shaft with green sinew. As the sinew dried, it had shrunk, binding the tusk and wood together. Immediately below the warhead, his father had embedded a large finely flaked quartzite spike. It glinted as he swung the club up and around, now making circular motions.