People of the Nightland(53)

“Do it!” he ordered.

Windwolf passed the first of the lodges, leaping over the body of a Nightland warrior who stared terrified at the dart point protruding from the middle of his chest.

Breath tearing at his throat, Windwolf raced past the first lodge, instinctively shooting a glance inside. The blurred image had to be fantasy. Those couldn’t be people piled in there!

He raced full-out for the ceremonial lodge. A Nightland warrior burst from behind the next lodge, paused long enough to cast a wild dart, and ran for all he was worth. The whistling dart passed off to the left. Silt, on the run, grunted as he cast his own dart. It sliced the air past Windwolf’s head, arced out, the shaft gleaming in sunlight as it pierced the fleeing warrior’s right buttock. The man tripped, landing hard on his chest and screaming.

Silt cried, “Bramble knew what she was doing! She bought us time. We have to go. Now! Do you hear me?”

“I told you to press the attack!”

Windwolf leapt the fallen warrior, who was reaching behind himself, fingers slipping along Silt’s shaft.

Kakala’s inside. With how many more?

Heedless of the danger, Windwolf rounded the side of the great lodge and charged full tilt through the doorway. He heard Silt shout, “Hurry! I’ll cover the door, but they’re coming fast!”

Windwolf’s heart hammered against his ribs as he burst into the main room. Panting, he raised his atlatl, ready to drive the first shaft into Kakala’s breast. The room was empty, the great fire in the center smoking.

“Bramble?” he bellowed.

He threw back the first door curtain and leaped inside, crying, “Bramble?” The clan room was empty, parfleches, packs, and sacred bundles spilled out on the floor as if by angry children.

He bolted for the next chamber, shouting, “Bramble! Where are you?” He dove through the door curtain, ready to kill.

The sacred shields had been smeared with blood and excrement to kill their Spirits, and left on the floor. Overturned parfleches, wooden dishes, wadded-up hides, and Clan Matron Agate’s gutted body lay before him.

The only sounds were the horrified shrieks of the warriors outside, fighting for their lives.

“Bramble!”

He searched the piles of bloody hides. A fierce battle had taken place here. Had she … had she made it out? Was she even now waiting for him in the forest beyond the village?

Hope leapt within.

He rushed to the next chamber.

She lay naked, sprawled across a sacred mammoth hide, her hands bound to a pole. A tall war dart had been driven deep into her chest. Blood leaked red and slick from her mouth and nose. The fluid smearing the insides of her thighs was proof of what they’d done before they’d killed her.

He cast his darts aside, cut her hands loose, and knelt, gently lifting her head. His eyes fixed with disbelief on the dart shaft sticking out between her breasts. Blood pumped out around it, but she was still breathing.

He snapped off the dart and murmured, “Bramble, hold on. I have to get you out of here.”

As he slid his arms beneath her to lift her, she groaned. Her dark eyes flickered, and a faint smile touched her lips. Barely audible she whispered, “Foolish. You shouldn’t … have come.”

“Save your strength, we’ve—”

“No.” She shook her head weakly. Blood-matted locks of long black hair fell over his arm. “Listen …” She twined weak fingers in his hide sleeve and seemed to be mustering her failing strength. “Goodeagle … betrayed … us. Goodeagle was … was here. Karigi … he …”

She gasped, and her body convulsed.

“Windwolf?” Silt yelled. “Windwolf, it’s now or never!”

Feet came pounding through the lodge. Silt threw back the curtain, and came to a sudden halt when he saw Bramble slumped on the floor, her beautiful face slack with death.

Windwolf gathered her in his arms and pulled her tightly against him, murmuring, “No.”

Silt gave him five heartbeats to mourn, then gripped his sleeve and roughly dragged him to his feet. “She’s dead! We have to hurry!”

Together they ran back to the village and straight into a barrage of darts … .





“Windwolf?” a woman’s voice called.

“Bramble?”

“Windwolf!” she hissed. “Hurry. Get up!”

A hard kick in the side brought him wide awake, lunging for his weapons. Before he’d even made it to his feet, he had a dart nocked in his atlatl. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He was in the spruce lands, trees bathed in faint reddish gray light. Instead of Bramble’s blood, he smelled sweet air scented with spruce.