“Hungry? There’s no time to hunt, Ashes. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. It’s not your fault.”
My fault? Everything is my fault.
Faintly, she heard the whoosh of wings in the darkness, and looked up.
Fear choked her. She reached out a quaking hand to gently touch her daughter.
Ashes looked around. “Is it time to—”
“Shh!” Skimmer pointed.
Ashes turned and saw the two warriors standing on the boulders up the trail. Silhouetted against the Blessed Star People, they looked tall and dark.
“We still have a chance,” Skimmer whispered. “Do you remember the pile of rocks we passed on the way up? I want you to slide off this boulder very slowly, and sneak down the trail. Hide in those rocks until I come for you. If they catch me, do you remember what I told you?”
In a tight voice, Ashes whispered, “Yes.”
Gravel scritched as Ashes slipped off the boulder and sneaked down the trail.
Skimmer sat perfectly still, giving Ashes time to conceal herself before she followed. If they spotted her, and she could draw them far enough away, Ashes might escape.
Just as she was preparing to run, a rock flew out of nowhere to clatter off a boulder beyond the warriors. The men flinched, clutched their weapons, trotted away to investigate.
From no more than three paces behind her, a deep masculine voice softly ordered, “Hurry. Follow my voice. There’s a hole here.”
“Who—”
“Do it!”
She slid to the ground, ducked low, and scurried toward the voice.
She found the shelter—little more than a crawl space beneath a toppled slab—and slithered under it on her stomach. Scents of dried grass, human sweat, and rodent dung stung her nostrils. Packrat middens of twigs, dried berries, and oddly shaped rocks lay at the bases of the boulders. Eyes glinted in the very back, a body’s length away.
She whispered, “Who are you?”
As her eyes adjusted, she could tell he held a war club in his fist.
“Quiet.”
Feet pounded on the trail, heading down the slope. She couldn’t make out the words, but she heard the warriors whispering to each other. They stopped three times—looked around—and continued on.
The man whispered, “Those are Kakala’s warriors. He’s camped up in the spruce. Your daughter won’t try to run, will she?”
Skimmer shook her head—and prayed she was right.
They stared at each other. He was tall and heavily muscled, with a straight nose and short black hair—hair recently cut in mourning. As hers would soon be, when she had the luxury of grieving for Hookmaker.
He whispered, “Who are you?”
“Skimmer, of … once of the Nine Pipes band.”
He studied her with dark, unblinking eyes. “Stay here until I tell you to follow me.”
He crawled out and studied the rocky slope. After several moments, he called, “Come. Quietly. Let’s go find your daughter.”
“Who are you?” she whispered as she crawled cautiously from under the rock.
“I am Windwolf … your new friend.”
Nineteen
Kakala and Keresa stood at the edge of the spruce belt, their eyes fixed on the fantastic shapes of the Ice Giants filling the northern horizon. Father Sun had just risen above the gleaming surface of the Thunder Sea like a bloody ball. He shot a gaudy red light across the ice floes, like liquid fire. The bergs jutted up, casting long shadows over the water.
The crimson light bathed the high spikes of the Ice Giants, contrasting with black shadows and thick fog that glowed with a dark pink.
Keresa shivered at the sight. The sky had taken on such odd colors of late. Was it a sign that their world was about to die, as some rumormongers insisted?
She glanced at Kakala. “I wish you would not do this thing. There is no reason we can’t all continue in our search for Windwolf.”
Kakala looked down at his darts. The long shafts hung from his left hand, slim and deadly, their stone points catching the weird red of the morning sun.
He sighed wearily and said, “The Council must know of this new alliance between the Lame Bull and Sunpath. No matter what the consequences, we still serve our people.”
“But,” she wondered, “do they still serve us?”
He shot her a warning look.
“I’m serious.” She narrowed her eyes, staring out at the purple tundra that separated them from the Nightland villages. “We owe our loyalty to our people. We accept their orders, and die—like Maga—trying to the best of our ability to fulfill them. You have won victory after victory, broken the will and spirit of the Sunpath People. And now, because you do not bring Windwolf’s head, they will punish you?” She shook her head. “This is not right.”