People of the Nightland(40)

Nashat’s cup froze halfway to his mouth. Not that he believed it, but on occasion Ti-Bish’s prophecies had proven correct. “When? Did he tell you?”

Ti-Bish tilted his head uncertainly. “He just said we have to double the number of guards around the Nightland Caves’ entrances. We have to be prepared.”

Nashat nodded. “I’ll take care of it immediately.”

Ti-Bish’s eyes went wide and empty. “Raven Hunter also said you must stop punishing our warriors for losing battles, Nashat. If you don’t, some of our warriors will turn against us.”

“Raven Hunter said that?” He drummed his fingers on his leg.

“Yes. Every warrior whispers the name of Brookwood Village when they’re about to go on a raid.”

Nashat just stared at him. Ten and two summers ago, the Council of Elders had ordered War Chief Gowinn to attack a Lame Bull village and steal children to serve as slaves. He had failed miserably—lost half his warriors—and the rest had run like scared dogs. In punishment, the Council had ordered the survivors locked in pine pole cages for moons. Many had died, including then–Deputy Kakala’s wife, Hako. Since that day, their warriors, especially Kakala, had lost few battles.

Nashat looked around. “What did you do with the woman I sent you?”

“Woman?”

“You asked me to get a woman for you. One from the Nine Pipes band.” Nashat frowned, feigning ignorance. “What was her name? Blue Fern, Blue …”

“Blue Wing!”

“Yes.”

“I sent her home.”

“I don’t suppose you could tell me why?”

“She was the wrong woman.”

Nashat stared in disbelief. “The wrong one?”

“Raven Hunter says it doesn’t matter anymore. The right one will come to me.”

How do I explain that to Kakala?

Ti-Bish abruptly leaped to his feet, cocked his head as though listening to someone, and ran across the chamber for his mittens. As he slipped them on, he said, “Forgive me, I must go meet with the Elders.”

“About what?”

Ti-Bush’s gaze darted around the walls as though to check on the darker patches of ice. “I have to tell them about punishing warriors, and the Sunpath souls.”

Gulping the rest of his tea, Nashat said, “This must be done now?”

Ti-Bish nodded. “Kakala has to be in the right place at the right time.” He shot a suddenly worried look at Nashat. “If they put him in a cage, nothing will work right.”

Nashat stifled his desire to wince. “You have told me, Guide. That is enough. The Council does as I wish. No need for you to go.” The last thing I need is you inciting panic. “Leave it to me.”

“You’ll see to it?”

“Of course.”





Fifteen

By the Guide’s sacred eyebrows, I’m sick of all this. Kakala filled his lungs, expecting sweet night air. Instead, he drew in the stink of Maga’s rotting guts.

He made a face, turning his head away. To his right, Maga groaned, his right leg stiffening, the heel digging a groove out of the spruce needles.

Kakala stared up through the branches, seeing slivers of a partly cloudy night sky. The waning moon had already lost part of its western curve.

Three of his remaining warriors huddled around a low fire, its glow hidden by the rounded piles of rock surrounding it. The others lay out around the periphery of the spruce-clad ridge, keeping watch for any pursuit.

Maga drew a series of fast breaths, his mouth wide.

Kakala reached down, laying his cold hand on Maga’s sweat-hot forehead. “Easy.”

“S-Sorry, War Chief.” Maga swallowed hard. “More water?”

“Of course.” Kakala reached for the bladder, untied the neck, and dribbled the cold fluid into Maga’s mouth. The man swallowed wrong, coughing and crying out as his punctured guts spasmed.

“Sorry,” Kakala soothed. “My fault.”

“No, War Chief. Mine.”

Kakala ground his teeth, his fist tightening on the neck of the bladder. Maga had taken a dart low, just above the bony ridge of the hip. The keen stone point had cut straight through, Maga’s abdomen scarcely slowing the long dart.

Five dead. And Maga. He glanced up at the spruce, thinking how nice it would be to be a tree instead of a man. As a tree, he could just live, his roots deep in the soil, his branches extended to the sun.

But it all has gone wrong. He couldn’t help but glance back to the north. If he were to walk down the slope, peer past the trees, he could see the distant Nightland villages, their fires winking far across the narrow band of tundra.

When I return, it will mean disgrace. The cage. He could almost wish he were Maga. Even dying of a pus-fouled gut would be better.