People of the Nightland(22)

Nashat waved them down. “It’s not about a warmer for his bed! He was in one of those states … carrying on about a sacred bundle.”

Satah’s white eyes swam in his head, as if searching for something. “I thought we had all of the bundles. That was the point of the first raids. To obtain them.”

“All but the Wolf Bundle,” Ta’Hona growled. “The Lame Bull have that one. But why Wolf Dreamer’s bundle should travel with us to the Long Dark is beyond me.”

“Leave it to Power,” Nashat urged. “If the Guide desires it, we will obtain it for him. Who knows, maybe that is the last sacrifice we must make before leaving?”

A tremor rumbled through the ice. All eyes went to the curved ceiling, where gravel and bands of white ice glistened in the flickering light.

Recovering, Nashat added, “If we burn the Wolf Bundle as a last act in this world, so be it.”

“What of Windwolf?” Khepa asked. “Did Kakala report anything about him?”

“He did.” Nashat studied his hand as he clenched and opened his fingers. “One of his warriors overheard a conversation among the captives. Something about a meeting with Chief Lookingbill. I have already dispatched Kakala and his warriors to investigate. It may be that Windwolf will fall into our hands, at the same time giving us reason to turn on the Lame Bull. True or not, Windwolf will be a minor irritation.”

“Not if he keeps killing our young men the way he has been. I’d give almost anything to put him in a cage for a while and watch him bleed.”

“Blame that on Karigi,” Ta’Hona replied.

“Leave my war chief out of this!” Satah pointed a hard finger. “No one ever had to put him in a cage for incompetence.”

Nashat raised his hands to placate. “We have enough to worry about without turning on ourselves. Our war chiefs have done all that was expected of them.” And, after all, Karigi had his uses. Kakala, however, had started to worry Nashat. Rumors were that he had taken to warning camps before he destroyed them.

The last thing I need is a war chief with a conscience.

Which brings us to … “We have another problem.”

All eyes turned to Nashat.

“The slaves are eating more than they are producing. We have too many. Especially with this last bunch the Guide had us bring in.”

“We can’t just turn them loose,” Ta’Hona replied, a frown lining his scarred old face.

“No.” Nashat narrowed his eyes. “They are dangerous. The fools still cry out to Wolf Dreamer, asking his blessing and help. Others sing the praises of Windwolf. I would hate to see this get out of hand. The accursed man causes us enough problems without some slave getting the idea he might come in some silly attempt at rescue.”

“Then deal with it.” Khepa waved a thick-veined hand in dismissal.

“That is the will of the Council?” Nashat asked.

Three heads bobbed.

“Then deal with it, I shall.” He smiled. “As a token of the respect I have for the Wolverine Clan war chief, Satah, I shall let Karigi attend to it.”

Satah grinned, exposing his toothless pink gums.

“I still don’t see what the Guide wants with this woman,” Ta’Hona growled.

Nashat could care less what Ti-Bish wanted with a woman. His concern was Windwolf—and the Lame Bull People.





Seven

Lookingbill followed Trembler down the night-dark trail. War Chief Fish Hawk—big and raw-boned—stood before the rockshelter with his war club gripped in a tight fist. Six more warriors could be seen around the slope, their gazes trained on the darkness.

Lookingbill walked up to Fish Hawk and said, “I want you to move far enough away that your warriors can’t overhear. There are enough stories spread as it is.”

“Is that a good idea? This is Windwolf we’re talking about.”

“By coming alone, Windwolf has shown his trustworthiness.”

Fish Hawk gave him a long, penetrating look, then lifted a hand and called, “Warriors, spread out. Let’s not get caught by surprise.”

Lookingbill turned to Trembler. “If you would move up the trail a ways, you could ensure that we are not interrupted by anyone coming to look for me.”

“I’ll make some fitting excuse, old friend.” Trembler laid a hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps something about a problem with your bowels.”

He sighed. “Oh, and they’d love to believe that!”

Lookingbill ducked into the cramped space, and the small oil lamp in the middle of the floor flickered. The hole consisted of three boulders slanted against each other. Lookingbill sniffed, smelling dry, cold rock; but there was something else, a hint of human sweat, the faintest odor of old campfires.