People of the Nightland(50)

He pointed at Ashes, who shifted in Skimmer’s lap. “What’s her name?”

“Ashes.”

“Quite a little girl. She bit me when I tried to drag her out of the rocks last night.” He pulled up his sleeve, showing a red crescent of tooth marks.

“She didn’t mean it. She was just—”

“Oh, yes, she did. You didn’t see the satisfied gleam in her eyes at the sight of my blood.”

“She was frightened.”

“So was I.” He spread his feet and propped his darts close at hand. “Are you thirsty?”

“Yes.”

He untied a gut water bag from his belt and handed it to her.

In a sleepy voice, Ashes said, “I don’t like him, Mother. He killed our people.”

“Sleep, Ashes. We might have to run again soon. Do you want a drink?”

Ashes gave the man a distinctly unflattering look, then buried her face in Skimmer’s cape, said, “No,” and closed her eyes.

The corners of his mouth tucked in a suppressed smile. “She’s perceptive.”

Skimmer closed her eyes, fighting exhaustion. Images flashed, and for one terrible moment she was back in the pen, hearing the snapping sounds of stone against skulls.

She jerked her eyes open, but couldn’t find her voice. Then croaked, “No! Please! I …” She shivered, hands shaking. Saw movement, and tensed. Only to recognize him. And remember. “Windwolf!”

His bushy brows lifted. “The last time a woman said my name like that, I had to dive for cover. And I hate running battles.”

She tried to lift the bag for a drink, but her hands were shaking and she sloshed the liquid over her sleeve before it could touch her lips. She kept hearing the people in the enclosure screaming his name. Gripping the bag in both hands, she lowered it to the ground. “What are you doing here? You should be out protecting one of our villages.”

“I was returning from scouting the Nightland villages. I thought maybe I could get past the guards and kill the Guide. They had too many warriors at the cave mouths, so I gave it up. Then, heading back, I stumbled onto Kakala’s warriors. I was actually hoping for a chance to drive a dart into Kakala’s back when he finally got around to presenting it to me,” he said sternly. “But in the process I happened to find you.”

“Me?”

“Or was that someone else I found last night trying to stumble into Kakala’s camp?”

As his words sank in, she felt light-headed. She lifted the gut bag again and drank several swallows. When she handed it back to him, she asked, “How did you manage to find Kakala?”

“I followed his trail after he attacked Headswift Village. It seems the Lame Bull People have finally caught the Nightland’s attention.” He studied her carefully, taking in the gore that matted her hair, eyes lingering on the bloodstains. And, by the Wolf Dream, he couldn’t have missed the stench of death that clung to her like sap.

“Then Lookingbill is finally going to fight on our side?”

“He’s going to try.”

Tears suddenly burned her eyes. She turned away so he couldn’t see her face.

In a gentle voice, he said, “I pray Wolf Dreamer helps him. He’s going to need it.”

“Don’t talk to me of prayers,” she hissed with more violence than she’d intended. “Tell me where your warriors are. They’re the only thing that can help us.”

His eyes narrowed. “I thought you were a believer?”

“Only a fool would believe in Wolf Dreamer after what I … The things …” A pause. “Fools … we’ve been fools.” She blinked away tears, aware her hands were shaking again.

Spirits, please! Not now! Come on, Skimmer, keep yourself together. She knotted her fists, clenched her jaw, muscles rigid.

He watched her with knowing eyes, and then looked northward toward the glittering bulk of the Ice Giants. Red light burned in the high jagged ice peaks. “Yes, but I like fools. On the other hand, I agree with you. The only reliable shields our people have are their weapons, the strength of their bodies, and the skill of their hands.”

“And the hatred that keeps us going.”

His tall body was silhouetted against the red sky’s gleam. The crimson light framed his oval face and made his eyes look like black empty sockets.

He didn’t say anything for a time; then he came down the slope and knelt in front of her. “Lookingbill’s daughter was recently murdered. I don’t know how well he will be when we arrive. He—”

“Murdered, by whom? Nightland warriors?” Her tumbling soul fixed on that, desperate to concentrate on anything that didn’t remind her of horror.