People of the Nightland(158)

Windwolf whipped his war club up, pivoted, and caught the surprised Tanga on the side of the head, knocking the man back. From the feel of the blow, he could tell it hadn’t connected well, but might be enough to stun.

Blackta’s warriors waded in, each clawing for his war club. Keresa had rushed forward, trading blows with a barely seen assailant.

To fight in such a way was madness, slashing at dark forms, trying to dodge and weave flailing clubs.

Keresa! Spirits, where is Keresa? Windwolf ducked a hissing war club that would have missed him by a hand’s width anyway.

“Now, Kakala,” Blackta grunted. “I’ve waited too long for this.”

Windwolf ducked down, peering, seeing Blackta hunched atop Kakala’s prostrate body. He’s only half-recovered from the blow at Headswift Village. Blackta was choking the life out of him.

Windwolf leapt, slamming his body into Blackta’s. A hot rage burst through him, remembering Bramble’s naked body: the dart jutting from her chest; the bite marks on her skin; the stains between her thighs … and a little eight-summers-old girl lying spread-eagled with tears running down her face.

Windwolf bellowed, raising his war club, smashing it down on the scrambling man beneath him. Time slowed as Windwolf methodically worked his club, hammering away, feeling each satisfying impact as stone crushed flesh, bone, and skin.

He reveled in the droplets of gore spattering his hands and face, and battered away, revisiting each burned camp, each haunted expression. The smell of smoke from burning lodges stung his nose. The shrieks of the dying sounded over and over as he pounded his rage into Blackta’s body.

“Windwolf?” a voice asked. “Windwolf?”

He turned, ready to lash out, as a hand landed on his shoulder, and pulled him back.

“Windwolf!”

“What?” he gasped.

Kakala, voice hoarse, rasped, “Worried that he might get up again, War Chief?”

Windwolf nodded, panting, staring around at the darkness. “Keresa?”

“Here.” He heard her voice. “The rest have fled.”

“Not all of us.” Tanga’s voice came from the dark gap of the gate. “The first man who moves, dies. I swear, I’ll drive a dart right through him.”

“Put your weapons down, Tanga,” Kakala ordered. “It’s over.”

“Oh, no. The pen’s empty. The slaves are gone. So help me, Kakala, you’re going to rot your life out in the cages. But first, Windwolf, stand up. Stand where I can see you.”

“Why?” he asked, wondering how much cover Blackta’s body would give him.

“Because I’m killing you. Now. Tonight. Your head is my trophy to carry into the Long Dark.”

Keresa’s calm voice said from the side, “If you hurt him, Tanga, I’ll hand you your balls.”

“You?” he asked. “Side with Windwolf?” He chuckled. “Oh, Nashat has waited for years to have you for his own. And, you, you cold-blooded camp bitch, will be my gift to him … . But then, sharing Nashat’s bed is better than dying in the cages.”

Windwolf caught the faintest movement in the darkness behind Tanga. Then the warrior stiffened and jerked, taking a half stumble. Tanga glanced down, atlatl and darts clattering to the ground. He weaved, coughed. His knees gone weak, Tanga pitched sideways to the ground, kicking, gasping as he fingered a dart point that protruded from his chest.

A dark form rose behind him, saying, “War Chief Windwolf? I think that’s the last one.”

“Who are you?” Windwolf stood slowly.

“Sacred Feathers, War Chief.” The man stepped over Tanga’s body, staring down in the darkness. “I found one of your darts by the gate. Grandfather Drummer is dead.” He straightened. “He was right all along.” He took a deep breath. “My daughter, Elk Leaf … she was in the warriors’ tent … . They …” His voice broke.

“I know,” Windwolf said. “The other women have already taken her. She’s headed south.”

“Which is where we need to go,” Kakala said, rising stiffly.

A man screamed in the darkness. Windwolf turned on his heel, lifting his war club.

“It’s all right, War Chief,” a low voice called. “It’s Kishkat and Tapa. I hope we didn’t get here too late. But there were two warriors out here that were going to stick you like fish as soon as they had a shot.”

“A third one ran,” a second voice called. Forms emerged from the darkness. Windwolf could make out three of them.

Keresa said, “Come on, Windwolf, let’s get out of here before Nashat sends the whole Nightland world down on us.”