As she passed, an old woman with a missing eye spat at her, crying, “Nightland filth! You killed my family. You killed my whole family!”
Keresa’s heart skipped. Had she been on that raid? There had been so many.
Memories rose of a Hunting Horse camp they’d attacked in the early days. After they’d burned it to the ground, they’d gone down to inspect what remained, and she remembered too clearly the multitudes of orphaned children wandering among the ruins, crying, searching for family they’d never find again. Kakala’s eyes had possessed a haunted gleam for days.
She said, “You have many more refugees.”
Fish Hawk replied stiffly, “Karigi and Blackta are still attacking Sunpath camps. The people who can make it here, do.”
With this many mouths to feed, they’ll be running short of food soon.
Fish Hawk led her around the boulders and onto the path in front of the rockshelters.
They had placed the dead Nightland warriors in a pile at the bottom of the hill. Looking down she could see they were naked. Had they stolen even the clothing? Many of the bodies had been brutalized—objects of the hatred these people lived. Two guards now stood to protect the dead. Blood trails marked the paths where they’d dragged the bodies. The Lame Bull dead must be in the ceremonial cave, being ritually prepared for the journey to the afterlife.
Fish Hawk stopped. “Wait here.” He ducked through a low oblong opening.
She leaned against the stone wall, pressing her hot cheek against the cool rock while she fought the overwhelming urge to vomit. The two warriors stared at her with cold eyes.
Pull yourself together. You can’t let Windwolf see you like this.
Arranging this meeting had been nearly impossible. Through two long days, she’d begged every person who’d stood guard to let her speak with Windwolf.
Think, rot you!You don’t have time to feel sorry for yourself. Look, learn, plan.
As she forced herself to study the village, something struck her as odd. The two guards at the corpse pile were barely more than boys. Eight men guarded her people. Where were the rest of the warriors? Surely some of the Sunpath refugees had been warriors? When mixed with the Headswift Village warriors, there should be many men and women with atlatls and darts walking around. She tallied a total of ten. Then she noted an eleventh, down working with a group of older boys and girls, training them how to use a war club. Children?
Fish Hawk ducked out and held the door curtain aside. “Go in. He’s waiting for you.”
She rubbed her sweaty palms on her cape, called on all of her courage, and ducked beneath the leather curtain.
Inside she stood face-to-face with the one man she’d feared for most of her adult life. Their eyes met: that same challenge crackling between them as it had when they’d tried to kill each other just a few days past.
He wore a clean blue war shirt painted with red buffalo on either breast. Then she looked closer. His eyes might have struck fire, but his face was haggard, lined with fatigue. His muscular legs were locked the way a man did to fight exhaustion. Black hair clung to his forehead in clean wisps, as though he’d just bathed.
“Deputy, please sit down.” He gestured to the hides around the fire hearth where a small blaze burned.
She walked to the hides, but remained standing. The firelight cast a pale amber glow over bare rock walls. The chamber spread about four paces across. He apparently had few belongings. His atlatl and a stack of darts—many of them belonging to her warriors—leaned against the wall. Beside the fire a tripod with a hide bag stood. Wooden cups rested near the hearthstones. A rolled buffalo hide had been shoved against the wall to her right.
Windwolf went to stand in the middle of the chamber, and the heavy weapons belt he wore clattered. He gestured to the bag hanging on the tripod. “You must be thirsty. Please fill yourself a cup of tea.”
She crouched, picked up a cup, and dipped it into the tea bag. The tea, made of rosehips and dried berries, smelled sweet and warm.
She straightened and studied the knives, stilettos, and two war clubs he carried. “I assure you, War Chief, I’m in no position to be dangerous. They forced me to leave my weapons in the chamber.”
“I don’t meet any Nightland warrior unarmed. You in particular. You’re dangerous no matter what.”
Her stomach cramped threateningly. She tipped her cup up, drained it dry, and dipped it into the bag again. She might not get anything else to drink for days—or forever.
Through the laces of his shirt, she could see his chest was streaked with deep cuts. Hurt and tired. Could she find a way to use that? Wring information from him he wouldn’t ordinarily reveal?