People of the Raven(160)

He dipped the spear and rolled it in the venom.

“Personally, I think it would be far wiser to keep both of us alive. It’s a bad decision to kill the messengers—one that, like that snake there, might turn around and bite you unexpectedly. It not only makes people reluctant to talk to you, but it invites retaliation. And someday, Great Chief, you really might want to send an important message.”

Cimmis pulled the spear from the bowl and blew on it to dry it faster. The wet tip glittered. All he had to do was plunge that into Pitch’s flesh.

Pitch tried to keep his voice reasonable as he continued, “Nor would I kill Dzoo. She is beloved by a great many people, both North Wind and Raven. Harming her might ruin your last chance for peace.”

Cimmis nodded. “From the viewpoint of the Raven People, Dzoo is probably a more valuable hostage, but you are Rain Bear’s son-in-law. Will he make more concessions to get you back, or Dzoo?”

“Rain Bear? Make concessions?” Pitch laughed.

Cimmis propped his spear on his drawn-up knee, studied the basket, and grabbed out another snake. More hissing could be heard. “I’ve seen Rain Bear risk an entire war party to rescue one warrior. One friend. He will bargain.”

“Then you are wiser to bargain for two rather than one. Any Trader can tell you that.”

He gave Pitch a measuring glance. “Here is the choice I must make: As much as I would enjoy killing Dzoo, I know how important you must be to Rain Bear. Even if he doesn’t die fighting the next few days, I want to punish him for making this alliance. Your death would do that. He would blame himself.”

Yes, he would. Pitch felt his guts sink. With all the courage he could muster, he said, “If you decide to kill one of us, kill me.”

Cimmis held the rattlesnake up level with his head. Pitch couldn’t help but note the same flat stare in their eyes. “Since you are noble enough to offer yourself in Dzoo’s place, I shall kill her. Now for the rest of your life you can blame yourself for not saving her.”

Pitch balled his fists, a sensation of panic rising within him as he blurted, “Kill her, and you’ll die for it!”

Cimmis gave him a sidelong look as he ran a finger across the writhing snake’s head. “Oh, why?”

“Because … Because she is under the protection of the witch Coyote!”

Pitch saw the color drain from Cimmis’s face. In that moment, the man was truly afraid. He almost dropped the rattlesnake as he replaced it in the basket.

“Go,” Cimmis ordered hoarsely.

As Pitch scrambled to his feet and ducked out the door, his legs were charged. The guards stepped in behind him as he blinked in the bright sunlight. A numb sensation began in his head and spread through his limbs. The shaking didn’t start until Pitch was halfway down the trail.

Then it struck him like a palsy.

Blessed gods, what have I done?





Fifty-five

Red Dog knelt in the rocks east of Salmon Village, watching people walk back and forth before the firelit palisade. Matron Kaska’s lodge stood to the south of the palisade in a nest of interconnected lodges. If he sneaked in they’d certainly assume the worst and kill him as a spy.

He climbed to the top of the lava outcrop. Cold wind stung his face. From this vantage he could see the village clearly. Rather than being circular, like Fire Village, the lodges were arranged in a large square around a central plaza. Several interconnected lodges nestled together on the south. Those were Kaska’s.

He scanned the uneven ground between his perch and the palisade and counted seven guards—three along the trail and another four scattered on high points. Which meant there were probably another twenty he couldn’t see. There would be many more inside, stationed along the path that led to the matron’s.

He stepped down into the dark shadows cast by the boulders. Fifty body lengths away, he spotted a guard on the talus slope. Short and pudgy, the man was turned away, gazing toward Salmon Village.

Voices carried on the cold night air: infants laughing, different strains of conversation, dogs growling. Deep in the belly of the village, someone played a drum. The beautiful rhythm drifted down the mountain like butterfly wings.

“Hallowed Ancestors,” he hissed to himself, “this is something only a foaming-mouth dog would do.”

He hung his atlatl on his belt and trotted up the trail toward the guard.

The warrior saw him almost immediately and yelled, “Halt! Who are you?”

“A messenger!” Red Dog spread his arms wide. “I carry important information for Matron Kaska!”

“What is your name?”

“Red Dog. From Fire Village.” He continued up the low rise to where the guard stood. The man had shoulder-length black hair. He’d seen perhaps eight and ten cycles, but had the wary look of a seasoned warrior. He gestured with his stone-headed war club. “I know you. Walk toward the village. I’ll take you to the war chief.”