People of the Nightland(4)

What is the difference between madness and inspiration? Deputy War Chief Keresa pondered that as she crouched before her group of warriors. She was tall, with long black hair braided behind her head. She clutched a slim atlatl in her right hand; a long war dart was nocked in the throwing stick’s hook. Using the stick as a catapult, she could launch the dart with enough force to drive it clear through a man. A thick bearhide vest snugged her chest, its tight fit accenting the swell of her breasts. She wore hunting pants belted at the waist where her war club hung. Tall moccasins rose to her knees.

The trap they were about to spring might be the way to finally break the Sunpath People. She glanced back at the Sunpath traitor, Goodeagle, who had dropped a sudden shining opportunity into their very laps.

She hated the man. The revulsion was instinctual. Something was wrong about him. Perhaps he was just too pretty to measure up to her opinion of what a man should be.

She turned her attention back to Walking Seal Village where it lay in the hollow below them, and wondered again if this was crazy. But many of her notions and actions were considered strange. Not many women dedicated themselves to war, but she had learned early on that her soul was different, perhaps more male than female. She had always preferred the hunt and the arts of war to those of the camp, cooking, and the care of children.

She glanced across at Kakala, high war chief of the Nightland People and her best friend. His body was squat and thickly muscled, the face marred by scars that draped over his round cheeks and flat nose. He had risen from disgrace and despair to become the Nightland People’s greatest warrior. Despite being hard-used by life, fate, and the war trail, those piercing brown eyes would soften on those rare occasions when he let his true soul shine through. He was tough, and deadly in war, and the warriors who followed him worshipped the very ground he trod.

Today, even Kakala looked worried as he shot wary sidelong glances at the traitor. Behind him, his warriors seemed to have no such misgivings, but crouched in the snow, atlatls and darts ready. Their wolfish eyes betrayed the lust for battle.

Keresa considered that as she raised her head past the snowcapped ridge and looked at Walking Seal Village. But for the smoke rising from the hide-covered lodges, it might have been abandoned. The winter-bare oaks around it lent the place a forlorn look—as if oaks could feel sorrow that Deputy War Chief Karigi and his warriors waited in the great ceremonial lodge.

A poisoned bait in the center of the trap we’ve laid.

Cocking her head, she could hear voices from below, some shouting happily: noise to make things appear normal. But would canny old Windwolf fall for it? She shot another uneasy glance at the traitor.

Is this really what you wanted, Goodeagle?

The traitor crouched, looking anything but eager. His too-pretty and sensitive face did little to conceal the anxiety plaguing his soul. At the moment, his dark eyes were fixed on the snow before him, pouting lips working. The jaw muscles behind his smooth cheeks kept knotting like frantic mice. Lines of worry incised his normally smooth brow.

Yes, she thought, you’d better torture yourself over what you’ve done.

She glanced back at Walking Seal Village, aware that her own soul was in turmoil. She had always liked Windwolf, enemy that he had become. They had been friendly, if wary, adversaries before the coming of the Guide and the rise of Councilor Nashat.

She glanced down at her slim hand where it clutched the atlatl. In days past—before the Guide—the Nightland, Sunpath, and Lame Bull Peoples had coexisted for the most part. War had been different then, consisting of raids that arose over petty grievances, or boundary disputes. Generally, after each side had proven its valor, peace would be brokered by a third party, Trading would occur, and a mutually satisfactory conclusion would be negotiated between the warring bands.

Then Councilman Nashat had embraced the Guide, and her world had changed. She remembered the laughter and amusement when Nashat first brought the Guide out to address the summer gathering. People snickered and laughed behind their hands, wondering what foolishness the Idiot would spout. He’d been the butt of jokes for years, only to leave, wandering the land like a lost dog, scavenging for scraps left by other peoples.

Then Nashat had brought him back, treating him not only with honor, but insisting that he address the four clans of the Nightland Peoples.

The laughter and jeers had only lasted for moments after Ti-Bish began to speak. Something in his eyes, in the awed pronunciation of his words, had captivated the audience. He had spoken with passion and belief, as he related a vision given to him by the Spirit of Raven Hunter himself.

She had sat amazed, glancing skeptically at the people around her. The Guide’s lilting words—delivered with such conviction—had even swayed her soul. She might have believed herself, but for a chance glance in Nashat’s direction.