People of the Raven(140)
“Warrior.” The slaves were busy rubbing Lion Girl’s body with mint leaves and crushed fir needles. “So she died, did she?”
Wind Scorpion’s lip lifted in a sneer. “I asked Cimmis to let me take the witch out into the forest.” He lifted a war club in his bony right hand. “One smack. Right in the back of the head. And she’d never kill another of our people with her potions.”
Ecan glanced at the corpse. “It does seem that everyone around her becomes ill, doesn’t it?”
“Deer Killer is complaining of a stomachache this morning.” Wind Scorpion shook his head. “Ask our chief, will you? See if you can get him to be rid of the witch before we’re all as dead as that girl.”
“And Dance Fly?”
Slaves usually cared for their own. They dared to call upon Ecan’s skills only in the direst of circumstances.
As they had yesterday for Lion Girl and Dance Fly.
When he’d entered the slave lodge, he’d been horrified by the raised wartlike lesions that covered their faces, hands, and legs. They’d been trembling spastically. He’d left willow bark tea and larkspur ointments—both very valuable because they, too, came as tribute—to relieve their pain. Now, seeing how Lion Girl had turned out, he wished he’d saved his precious ointments.
“If Dance Fly isn’t dead by midday, it’ll be a miracle. She’s lost her soul; her breathing is so fast you’d think she’d run for miles.” Anger welled in Wind Scorpion’s voice. But then, it was known that he consorted with most of the slave women.
“If she dies, the rumors about Dzoo will be flying like bats.”
“She’s doing this to scare us.” Wind Scorpion’s war club bounced in his hand. “Just mention it to the great chief, will you, Starwatcher? I’ll drag her out of here on the end of a rope. I’m not afraid.”
Ecan remembered how Wind Scorpion had been with Hunter on the trail back from War Gods Village. No, he wasn’t afraid. Not in the light of day like now. But come nightfall and Dzoo’s proximity, and well, it would be another thing.
“I’ll mention it,” Ecan agreed as he turned back to his duties.
The guard standing at the far northern end of the cliff lifted a hand to him. Ecan couldn’t tell if it was Hunter, or that bellyaching fool, Deer Killer. He lifted a hand in return and continued on his way through the palisade.
The cliff rose like a giant midnight wall. Another guard stood two hundred hands above. No, not a guard. Ecan knew White Stone’s stance. The war chief always stood with his back straight and legs spread.
White Stone had been acting strangely since Red Dog’s return. Sensing that Red Dog carried important messages, he would rightly assume that plans were being laid in secret.
Ecan shrugged it off. He hadn’t slept well. Tsauz had wakened him several times in the night, calling out as though he was hurt and needed Ecan. The visions had left him drained and anxious.
He reached the trail that led to the top of the lava cliff and climbed. Footprints disturbed the frost. Anger warmed his veins. He’d given strict orders that no one should ever disturb his morning prayers … .
Dzoo leaned over the edge of the cliff above him.
Ecan froze. How had she managed to pass the guard at the palisade gate? Cimmis had ordered her death if she even tried to pass. Now she turned to study him. Inside the frame of her hood, her beautiful face looked pale, like polished chalcedony. Her black eyes shone.
The town had gone quiet. He turned to see people staring, waiting to see what he’d do.
As he stepped off onto the rimrock, her gaze followed him. Just her gaze. She stood three paces away, tall and willowy, silhouetted against the pink sunrise like a dark Earth Spirit.
“A pleasant morning to you, Dzoo,” he greeted, and went to stand at the southern point of the rim, where he always offered his prayers. “They were supposed to kill you if you tried to leave the palisade.”
“My guard said he was sick this morning.”
“Yes. Lion Girl died last night.”
“He’s good, isn’t he?”
Ecan turned his head. “He? Who?”
“The man who killed them.”
“People think you killed them.”
“Yes. They are supposed to.”
He ignored it as another of her ploys. As he loosened the laces of his prayer bag, she moved up behind him, her steps silken.
Ecan’s back muscles crawled. He said, “I’m glad you’re here. It will give us a chance to speak.”
He pulled four small leather pouches—each a different color—from his prayer bag.
As he opened the yellow pouch; he said, “It is considered ordinary courtesy to talk back when—”