People of the Nightland(92)

“You are the Spirit Wolf.”

“Sometimes, yes.” A pause. “But you will never see me as a Raven.”

“Wolf Dreamer!”

“Come, try your wings. I have something to show you.”

The eagle flapped great wings, the white tail correcting its flight into a turn.





Goodeagle leaned against the wall, desperately thirsty, trying to catch some sleep. A hornet’s nest of emotions hummed inside him. He dropped his face in his hands and watched the memories that ran across his soul.

His thoughts kept returning to the firelit rockshelter near Walking Seal Village.

He and Windwolf had been sitting in the mouth of the overhang, gazing up at the magnificent pines that seemed to pierce Sister Moon’s heart. Light penetrated the soughing trees, carelessly throwing moonglow like silver nuggets over the valley. He remembered so clearly, so very clearly, the forest-scented winds that had ruffled their sleeves, the strong handclasps they’d shared.

When had it all gone wrong?

He couldn’t quite place the exact moment, but sometime, somewhere, they had stopped defending Sunpath villages, and started attacking Nightland warriors. Blind. Desperate. Hitting hard and running fast.

He’d pleaded with Windwolf to stop and take a good look at what they’d become. But he never did—couldn’t, he said. Even now, he could hear Windwolf’s deep voice: “The whirlwind has caught us up and twisted us around so much, Goodeagle, the only way out I can see is to fly into the storm.”

“But Windwolf …”

The hands pressing against Goodeagle’s face trembled. He dug his fingers into his flesh to still the nervous attack. How many innocent people had died while they’d been out attacking Kakala’s camps? They’d kept Kakala busy, but that had freed Karigi to wipe out one band after another. If they’d divided their warriors and sent them to guard vulnerable bands, perhaps those people would have been spared.

For a while Windwolf had been satisfied with a life for a life; then it had escalated to two Nightland warriors for every Sunpath killed. Making up for the past murders, he’d said. Then three to one, because they’d lost so many pregnant women and little girls … .

“All we have to do is find out what they want!” he’d pleaded. “If we go on this way, there will be no one left!”

“They want our destruction!” Windwolf had insisted.

“But how can we even ask if all we do is kill each other over revenge?”

Goodeagle couldn’t bear it any longer. When they’d been planning the defense of Walking Seal Village, he’d shriveled in upon himself, so staggered by the anticipated bloodbath he could no longer turn his head.

“You will go to Karigi?” Windwolf had asked. “Tell him we wish to meet in Walking Seal Village?”

“Yes,” he’d whispered hoarsely, knowing he’d planted the seeds of the ambush in Windwolf’s mind.

“Good. Bring him here in six days. It will take me four to get our warriors assembled and in position. I will arrive on the fifth, ensuring we have plenty of time to prepare for Karigi’s arrival. If we do this right, only a few will ever see their families again.”

He’d gotten up from the Council meeting and been sick, sick to death with the horror, the screams that filled his dreams, the terrified faces of little children running, running along trails filled with corpses.

“Windwolf,” he’d begged, “let’s go talk somewhere alone. I need to talk to you. Let me talk to you!”

Windwolf had frowned, his eyes distant—already lost in springing the great trap, mind weaving the strategy he devised so well. He’d warmly grabbed Goodeagle’s shoulder and murmured, “I promised to have dinner with Bramble. We have so little time together anymore. Later? Maybe tomorrow after we’ve …”

But there’d been no tomorrow.

He whispered, “Why wouldn’t you listen, Windwolf? I begged you.”

Tendrils of the friendship he’d tried so desperately to kill wrapped around his heart. He hurt as though he’d been bludgeoned.

He brought up his knees and rested his forehead on them.

Why didn’t you talk to me?





Thirty-nine

As night fell, Skimmer followed Kishkat around the last curve in the trail. To her left, the jagged peaks of the Ice Giants rose so high they disappeared into the bellies of the Cloud People. Their mournful groans and squeals echoed, sounding like lost ghosts.

“We’re almost home,” tall Homaldo called, and gestured toward the orange campfires that bordered the ice. The fires seemed to blink, and Skimmer realized that tens of people must be walking back and forth in front of them.