She slid down the rocks and trotted out to meet the warriors who waited at the base of the boulders.
Kakala scowled at her back. What I would give to just turn around and leave this place.
Thirty
In all the low places, mist had settled, cloaking the village in damp, intense cold. Icicles hung from the spruce boughs. The entire world looked iron gray in the lavender light of dawn.
Windwolf followed Lookingbill as he hobbled toward the back of the ceremonial chamber. The old man had pulled up the hood of his buckskin cape to shield his bald head from the frigid air. His fleshy nose had turned red.
“Dipper is ready. No one likes this, me most of all, but—”
“I don’t like it, either,” Windwolf said, “but it’s the best I can do with the time I’ve had.”
Lookingbill turned, and his wrinkled face pinched. “I had hoped you’d tell me it was infallible, that I needn’t worry. Instead, you agree with me?”
“I try not to deceive chiefs.”
Lookingbill smiled faintly and continued toward the rear of the chamber, where a number of weapons lay piled: Four tens of darts leaned against the wall, their sharp stone points glinting; atlatls were laid out on the floor, ready for warriors in need; and a mound of bone stilettos rested to the left of the atlatls.
Lookingbill pulled a dart, as long as he was tall, from the pile and checked its balance. As he bent to retrieve an atlatl, he said, “When do you—”
“Chief!” A young warrior dashed into the rockshelter and blinked while his eyes adjusted to the darkness.
“I’m here, Lone Eagle. What is it?”
“War Chief Fish Hawk said to tell you that our scouts have reported. The Nightland warriors are coming!”
“Very well. Get to your place.”
“Yes, Elder.”
The youth ran from the chamber, and Lookingbill expelled a breath. When he turned back to gaze at Windwolf, his eyes tightened. “War Chief, you look like you just stared into Raven Hunter’s eyes and he stared back.”
Windwolf did not smile. “Raven Hunter always stares back, Chief. That is my personal nightmare.”
Silvertip huddled in the dark angle of two leaning rocks at the mouth of his mother’s chamber. He stared down at his feet, clad in deerhide moccasins with mastodonhide soles. His feet looked small in the gloom.
In the rear, his mother sat across from Skimmer and Ashes, the women talking softly.
He reached out, running his fingers along the side of the Wolf Bundle. Every instinct urged him to stay here, to cower in the darkness and let the fighting pass by.
He wanted to shout: I didn’t mean it.
But the Dream from which he had just awakened had been explicit. The black wolf had looked at him with glowing yellow eyes, and said, “It is time for you to die.”
He had stared in terror at the Spirit animal.
“Do not be afraid,” Wolf had told him. “Death is the only passage from this world to the next.”
He had just shaken his head.
“But you must,” Wolf had told him. “You cannot find your future until you lose your past. You must give up this body for the One. Only then will you Dream.”
He did want to Dream. For the moment, however, fear lay locked in his guts. His muscles were shaking, and all of his courage could barely keep him from throwing up.
Goodeagle used all of his skill to worm his way up the slope. He kept low, sometimes crawling between the rocks. There, to his surprise, he found a small shrine. Laid out on a piece of weathered hide, he discovered a collection of shiny pebbles, a long fluted point of sacred white chert, and several twists of mammoth hair. The leather on which they lay had once been painted in the image of a wolf.
A worthless offering, for an imaginary Spirit. He had a sudden urge to rip it up and throw it down the rocks behind him, but some impulse stayed his hand. Instead, he crawled wide around it, and wriggled up under the crest.
His gaze drifted over the jumble of rocks. The Thunder Sea came into view off to the northeast, glimmering, filled with icebergs. The white swell of the Ice Giants rode like a snowy range of mountains above the salt water.
Looking closer, he caught a glimpse of Kakala’s warriors sneaking around the perimeter of the village.
No one seemed to notice them. Far down at the base of the slope, the Sunpath villagers went about their tasks, gathering wood, feeding the dogs, playing with their children.
It seemed odd, though, that there were so few Lame Bull People out. And, looking more closely at the Sunpath, he thought something was wrong. Their postures, the way they acted, was almost wooden.
Goodeagle untied his water bag from his belt and took a long swallow. Though food had been offered, he hadn’t eaten in four days, and much of his pain had receded into a blessed haze. It was, perhaps, strange that going without food left a man’s soul clear and calm. All the way here, he’d run at the rear of the war party with his two guards. While they’d eaten their daily rations, he’d watched and listened to the warriors boast about what honors they would win when they arrived at Headswift Village.