People of the Nightland(36)

Thank the Spirits that his warriors knew him well enough to leave him alone when those moods were upon him.

So, what am I going to do?

On impulse, he said, “I need to send a runner to my warriors as soon as possible, Trembler.”

“I know just the person. I’ll arrange it.”

“Good. Oh, and if you could put a pack together, something with food for a fast-traveling man, I would appreciate it.”

“But,” Trembler said in surprise, “if you’re sending a runner to your warriors, where are you going? How will we contact—”

“It’s better if you don’t know. When my warriors are in place, I’ll send a runner to you with the time and place to meet us.”

Trembler shifted his gaze to the snow falling through the evergreen branches. “I will need to discuss this with Chief Lookingbill and the other Elders, but I suspect we will do as you say.”

“Good.”

“Maybe you should consider resting here for just a day or two, then—”

“Trembler, think about it. The sooner I’m gone, the safer you will be. I’d appreciate it if you would find that runner for me immediately.”

Trembler hesitated as though he wanted to say something else. Instead, he said, “Lookingbill is waiting for you in his personal chamber. Just walk up this trail. Fish Hawk is guarding him. He’ll take you to Lookingbill.”

“You have my heartfelt thanks.”

Trembler bowed and walked away down the slope toward the base of the cliff.

Windwolf clenched his hands into fists. How long could he keep this up? When would his body and soul finally let him down?

Bramble, I need you.

For ten and three summers she’d been the thin, shining blade that had flashed between him and the world. She’d been the other half of his life, the part that balanced his foibles, sharpened his ideas, and kept him from blunders. Memories of her laughter haunted him. The sound rose so clearly in his mind he thought he’d heard it. He started to turn before he physically stopped himself.

Dead. She’s dead. He remembered her sad smile in the Dream.

He shook off the image.

War Chief Fish Hawk, with four warriors, stood in a group before one of the higher entrances into the rocks. Windwolf picked up a snapped dart, seeing Nightland colors on the shaft. He pitched it off to the side.

As he climbed, the Thunder Sea came into view across the distant tops of the spruce forest. The silver water was dotted with shining icebergs. Father Sun’s light turned them into white spears. The icebergs, children of the Ice Giants, played constantly, rolling over and over in water, Singing in sweet clear voices.

Behind them, almost lost in the low clouds, he could make out the jagged line of the Ice Giants themselves. Their cold seemed to seep into his very bones.

What terrible things do you hide in your dark depths?

Fish Hawk called, “Our chief is waiting for you, Windwolf.”

Windwolf picked up his pace. “It’s good to see you alive, Fish Hawk.”

“And you also, War Chief. But for you, it would have gone far worse for us.” He turned to the cave entrance and called, “Chief Lookingbill? Windwolf would see you.”

“Have him enter.”

Windwolf ducked beneath the leather curtain and was surprised to see the mostly bald elder sitting up, his back leaned against a roll of hides. His deeply wrinkled face had lost a good deal of color, but he looked better than Windwolf had imagined he would. His arm was in a sling, and a thick bandage covered his left shoulder.

Windwolf said, “You’re tougher than I thought.”

“Kakala’s dart glanced off my collarbone. It only hurts when I turn my head or try and move my arm. It bled cleanly. I’ll be all right.” He paused. “Do you know how often a man turns his head and tries to lift his arm?”

“I can imagine.”

Windwolf’s gaze swept the chamber. The place was four paces across, and extended perhaps three body lengths. Five massive slabs, of rocks had sagged against each other to create the space. No sunlight penetrated between the slabs, which meant it must be a warm, dry haven. The fire that burned in the middle of the chamber cast a ruddy hue over the walls.

“I was sorry to hear about the death of your daughter, Chief.”

Lookingbill’s old jaw quaked as he said, “She was our Storyteller. As well as she knew the oral traditions of our people, she was also an expert with the atlatl. She killed one of Kakala’s warriors before he darted her.”

“I’m doubly sorry to lose her.”

Within Lookingbill’s reach, a variety of weapons rested: six darts and an atlatl, plus a buffalohide shield painted with blue images of falcons and yellow doves.