People of the Nightland(83)

“Condor,” Silvertip said at last.

“Condor,” Wolf agreed. “The great bird of the dead.” Then he added, “Do not be afraid. You must watch to understand.”

Silvertip nodded. He’d never heard of a condor hurting anyone. They were shy things, awkward when taking flight from the ground. They much preferred roosting in high places where they could leap out and let the air fill their great wings.

The giant bird circled closer, cocking its ugly head, the brown eye glinting as it studied Silvertip’s body.

In that instant, Silvertip understood. “It’s coming to eat me.”

“Oh, yes.” Wolf’s great yellow eyes were fixed on him. “And you must fulfill your role in the way of the world. Until you have experienced it, you will never understand.”

Silvertip watched wide-eyed as the great bird backed air, and settled lightly to the rock. Cocking its head from side to side, it inspected the corpse. Then, with a tentative peck, it looked for any reaction.

Silvertip swallowed hard as his body remained inert.

He wanted to scream, “No!” but his voice was mute with horror.

The great curved beak shot down, neatly plucking one of the eyes from the socket, twisting and pulling to sever the resisting tissue before it gulped the prize.

Silvertip jerked, reaching up, aware that half of his vision had vanished.

“Do not fight it,” Wolf cautioned. “You must only be.”

Silvertip gasped as the great beak shot down, and then his world was black. All that remained was feeling. He tried to stand, to run, to escape from the sharp beak that now sliced into his skin.

But all he could do was sit there, feeling with exquisite sensation as his body was picked apart, piece by piece. Then the beak sliced into his belly, and he could feel his intestines being pulled, severed, and pulled some more.

Silvertip threw his head back, screaming. But no sound issued from his hollow throat.





Skimmer ran in the middle, with two warriors in front and two behind. They followed the beach trail that led around the western finger of the Thunder Sea. In Sister Moon’s half-light, the dark surface of the salt water glimmered as though sprinkled with silver dust. Great bergs glistened with ethereal white where they had grounded off the littoral, stranded by low tide. The smell of the salty shore lingered, exotic in her nose.

She let the soft lapping of the waves soothe her.

Conversations had been brief, to the point. The previous night’s camp had been a dreary affair, the warriors splitting up the rations in her pack. When the topic of her escape came up, she’d said, “Sleep. I’m not running away.”

“And we are to believe that?” Kishkat had asked.

“My destiny lies with the Guide.” Something in her voice had convinced them.

The two warriors in front, Homaldo and Tibo, kept up a steady distance-eating pace that was beginning to wear her down. Soon, she’d be stumbling.

Bless the Lame Bull for several days of rest and good food. She mouthed a silent hope that Lookingbill and the rest had survived.

She wondered about the battle. What had happened to Windwolf? Had he won? Was Ashes all right? Skimmer imagined her daughter eating supper with Dipper and Silvertip, pretending to be brave while worrying about her mother. Skimmer’s heart ached. Ashes had just lost her father, her family, her clan, and village. Now her mother, too, was gone.

I am doing this for you, beloved daughter.

They hit a rocky section of the trail where waves had washed high. Skimmer’s steps hammered the ground. She kept gazing out at the waters, looking so peaceful now, but few people lived along the strand. When great sections of ice were undercut by the warm tidal waters, they collapsed. Literal mountains of ice would slam down, sending giant waves to wash up, carrying everything before them.

As she looked out, she could see the cleanly scrubbed land, devoid of trees, with rocks piled here and there; deeply incised drainages had cut where the great waves drained away.

What would it be like? She imagined what a wall of water would look like, tall, its crest glistening in the sun as it swept forward. According to the tales from the few survivors, seeing such a thing was the most terrifying sight in the world.

They never survived anything like I did. The thought gave her a curious kind of courage.

As they reached a creek, Homaldo lifted a hand and called, “Time to drink.”

They came to a halt, breathing hard, and Skimmer dropped to her knees. She dipped the cool stream water up in her hands and drank it greedily.

The warriors knelt, bending down to suck up the cold fresh water.

When Skimmer had drunk her fill, she sat down hard in the sand and heaved a sigh of relief. To the north, Sister Moon’s gleam shadowed the trail. It resembled a gigantic black serpent winding along the shore.