People of the Nightland(24)

“Clearly. We had no problems with Ti-Bish until he began preaching that anyone who worshipped Wolf Dreamer was evil.” Windwolf tilted his head and appeared to be listening to the night sounds outside. Softly, he continued, “Since the attacks began, many would like nothing better than to kill him … and Nashat wouldn’t like that.”

Lookingbill nodded in understanding. “You’ve been on the trail for many days. Have you heard that the Nine Pipes band was attacked and destroyed?”

Windwolf’s face slackened. “Were there survivors?”

“Kakala took all the women. I was told earlier that Nashat has ordered them held in some sort of pen and was waiting for Ti-Bish to decide their fates.”

Windwolf massaged his brow. “His soul must be loose.”

“Sometimes it seems so. The servants in the Nightland caves say that after Raven Hunter talks with Ti-Bish, he wanders the ice labyrinth for days, mumbling to himself, waving his arms like a madman, trying to find the hole in the ice to lead his people back to the time of the Long Dark.”

Windwolf’s eyes glowed as though from an inner fire. “Let us get to the point. Why did you ask me to come here?”

Lookingbill held that intense gaze and saw something frail behind it, as though the man was trying very hard to cover a soul-deep pain.

“You’re here because I want to help you find a way to kill the Nightland Prophet.”





Eight

In a world gone mad, Skimmer shivered and struggled unsuccessfully to find some faint thread to cling to. She huddled in the darkness, clinging to her daughter, Ashes, for what little warmth they could share.

She had stared in disbelief when Kakala’s warriors had herded them into the pen. The walls were a curious construction of spruce poles carried up from the Lame Bull lands, sections of whale, mammoth, and other ribs, all lashed together. It was the sort of thing her people built to trap animals in.

Who could have thought up such a thing? And what was its purpose?

Then Nashat had walked out, peered through the bars, pointed to high-breasted young Blue Wing, and ordered her removed. Skimmer and the rest of the women had watched silently as pretty Blue Wing stepped out, endured Nashat’s rude assessment of her slim body, and then was ordered to be taken and delivered to the Guide.

Skimmer had silently thanked Wolf Dreamer that it wasn’t her. Now, after four days, she wasn’t so sure. Blue Wing might have to endure Ti-Bish pumping himself between her legs, but she probably had food and drink.

Skimmer swallowed down her dry throat. Is that what I have become? An animal willing to let a twisted beast use my body in return for a drink and something to eat?

And what of Ashes? She considered at her daughter, safely nestled at her feet.

Skimmer shivered, and looked up at the moonlit night. Only the wind from the south gave them hope. When it faded, the terrible cold came rolling down from the Ice Giants. She could see them above the line of poles, rising white and misty in the moonlight.

Skimmer had never been this close to the huge mountains of ice, had never imagined that they could be so big. They filled the northern horizon, rising in oddly shaped peaks that rose to twisted points. Here and there, she could see where some had slid down, the ice cracked and broken. The whole of it was riddled with dark holes that ran down to where?

The very thought of it sent shivers through her bones that not even her chilled flesh could mock.

What brought me here? Her reeling soul couldn’t quite grasp her situation. It was like living a disjointed Dream, some impossible twist of imagined horror.

Oh, Hookmaker, how did this happen to us? But her husband was gone. The time to plead with ghosts was over. The fate they had feared had come to collect them. Hookmaker was dead. She’d stood behind his body, had stared in disbelief that the man she loved and argued with lay bleeding and dying before her. In that shocked moment, some voice within had urged her to run; but she had remained rooted, eyes fixed on her husband as he groaned and blood ran out of his head. She’d barely noticed the warriors who surrounded her, lifted her, and carried her away. She had turned, staring in horror at Hookmaker’s body until it was out of sight.

“Mother, I’m scared. Where’s Father?” Ashes’ pleading voice interrupted her misery.

“Don’t cry, Ashes,” Skimmer whispered. “Hallowed Ancestors, please don’t cry.”

She glanced up at the pole palisade that surrounded the cramped captives. Like wicked black fangs it rose against the moonlit night. She turned her head away, trying to send her souls back to a place where Hookmaker lived, where the stench of human feces, urine, and fear didn’t clog her nose.