People of the Nightland(12)

Behind him, his deputy, Silt, said, “Forgive me, War Chief, but this is a bad idea.”

Windwolf turned. “Then why have you come this far?”

A medium-sized man with bark-colored eyes and shoulder-length black hair, Silt had a straight nose and full lips. His mammoth-hide cape bore evidence of many campfires. Soot and grease stained the front.

“I’m hoping I can turn you around. We can’t afford to be captured by Kakala’s Nightland warriors.”

“This may be our last chance to save our people, Silt.”

Silt gave Windwolf a disbelieving look. “You’re on your way to offer yourself up like a sacrificial moose!”

“I don’t want you dying with me. You’re my best warrior.”

Windwolf sucked in a deep breath and let the tangy scents of coming evening, damp earth, and spruce needles soothe his wounded soul. Over the two winters since Bramble’s death, he’d watched helplessly as band after band was destroyed. No one had understood until too late. People just didn’t think in terms of this kind of warfare. It hadn’t been part of their understanding until the Prophet’s warriors had made believers of them. By then, it had been too late.

He glanced back at Silt. Silt had been one of the first. A peace chief. He’d insisted that whatever the Prophet’s warriors had been incited by, they had nothing against either him or the Flower band of the Sunpath People.

… Until Kakala burned his village to the ground, killed the men, and drove off the women and children they hadn’t murdered outright.

Silt had miraculously escaped with his life and a handful of warriors. Now they knew. But, by the wind, what a terrible way to learn.

Silt said, “I don’t understand why you’re doing this. A chief from the Lame Bull People summons you, and you run to meet him? You’ve lost your wits.”

“Maybe.”

Silt sounded irritated: “Three moons ago you’d have never taken such chances. You’d have sent in a trusted warrior first, to scout the village, before you—”

“After you turn back, I’ll scout the village myself.”

“After I turn back? What if it’s a trap?”

“I’ve been in traps before.”

“Yes, of course, but you had ten tens of warriors crouching in the forest to get you out. This is different.”

“I have to do this, Silt. Alone.” And if the Lame Bull offer is a trap, perhaps I’m better off dead. He flinched at the pain in his soul. What was the point of living when all a man had to look forward to was the destruction of his world?

Silt made a deep-throated utterance of disgust and bowed his head. “Why? Explain it to me.”

Windwolf watched him with numb patience. It got harder every day to teeter around the edges of that chasm that had grown in his soul. Part of him longed to lose itself in that inner pit of darkness. At least then the agony would end. “I’ve explained it tens of times.”

“Do it again.”

Windwolf heaved a sigh and stopped short as his keen eyes detected movement. He ducked down, slowly easing under the prickly cover of a spruce. Silent as a ghost, Silt had followed.

Windwolf parted the branches with his hand. A short distance away, a giant sloth, the size of a buffalo cow, snuffled the dirt while it used its huge claws to dig for roots. Covered with coarse, shaggy hair, the slow-moving animal made an easy target for supper.

“I can slip off to the left,” Silt barely whispered.

Windwolf considered, then exhaled. “No, let him go. Our packs carry enough for now. Why should we ruin his day, take his life, when all we could carry away is a couple of steaks?” He glanced up. “I’m tired of everything having to do with ravens. And that’s who’d have a feast here.”

Slowly they backed to the trail. Once again on their way, Silt asked, “Is that what this is all about? You’re tired of killing?”

Was it? For two winters now, his rage over Bramble’s death had preoccupied him, driven him, and caused him to take reckless risks. Each time, however, Wolf Dreamer seemed to favor him. No matter how audacious his plan, somehow, he had always managed to pull it off.

Have I begun to think I’m invincible?

He said, “Chief Lookingbill asked me to meet with him. I’m fairly certain he understands what our own people did not … until it was too late. He’s afraid of the Nightland, Silt. He has perhaps three tens of warriors in Headswift Village. Kakala has ten tens. Lookingbill doesn’t know if the Lame Bull are next. And he certainly doesn’t want word getting back to the Nightland that a group of our warriors was camping with him. That would ensure an immediate Nightland response.”