He lifted his spear and nocked it in his atlatl—a throwing stick about as long as his forearm. Dawn was breaking. If they were going to try to kill him, it would be now.
“You’re sure they won’t harm you?”
“Coyote would cook their livers inside their gutted bodies if any harm came to me.” A pause. “So don’t let your masculine pride goad you into doing something foolish. You are an important piece in the game to come. We need you alive.”
“What game? You speak in riddles, Dzoo.”
“Riddles are everything and nothing. Circles within circles, round and round without end.”
Far away, farther than could be real, he caught a glimmer of dawn light on a wind-stirred hide cloak, and a strange scent filled the air.
“Dzoo?” Pitch whispered urgently. “Is that the smell you spoke of?”
“We’re a half hand’s walk from Sandy Point Village. Keep the pace.”
“Maybe that’s what he’s waiting for! He wants to kill us close to camp so people will find our bodies. The villagers would panic. You know how it would affect them. Let me fishhook back, I might be able to ambush—”
“They’re watching every move you make. Obey me and walk.”
He marched around a wide curve in the trail with his heart pounding. By the time they emerged into a small snowy meadow, his hand ached from clutching his spear.
The forest was dim, quiet. Empty. His gaze darted over the snow-sheathed rocks and brush, searching for a glimpse of skin or hide clothing. Somewhere behind them, snow fell in a white shower from a high fir branch.
“Where did he go? Do you see him?”
For a time only the melodic sounds of the dawn answered him, the trill of a gray jay from the top of a fir, the strange cooing of Wind Woman playing in the trees.
“He’s still there, Pitch.”
“How can you be sure? We’re only a stone’s throw from the cutoff to Sandy Point Village. Maybe he grew frightened. As soon as it’s light, our scouts will see him.”
Dzoo lifted the hem of her cloak to step over a log that had fallen across the trail. As she continued up the path, she said, “That just means Coyote has to be more careful.”
She said his name softly, as though along this snowy trail, covered with coyote tracks, the animals who bore his name might awaken and join him in the hunt.
“Do you think he’s circling around us?”
“Probably. He wants me very badly.”
Pitch frowned. “Who does?”
“He’s there!”
Pitch jerked his spear up and saw the shadowy figure approaching through the trees to his left. “Dzoo, run!”
Dzoo’s talonlike grip tightened on his arm. “No. Back up. Let him come to us.”
Dzoo loosed the war club from her belt and backed into a grove of alders. Pitch took cover behind one of the wet trunks. As he waited, sweat trickled down his face.
A man moved no more than two tens of paces from Pitch’s position, weaving silently between the trunks, taking his time.
Pitch slid his arm back, took aim, waiting for a clear shot—
Then he heard it and spun. “There’s another one behind us!”
Instinctively his arm slid back, muscles rolling as he cast. He lost the flashing dart in the dim dawn light. The man staggered away, into the forest, and Pitch pulled his stiletto from his belt.
A second warrior ran out of the trees screaming and jabbing his spear at Pitch. Pitch dodged sideways, thrust his stiletto into the man’s belly, and ripped upward.
He heard the long dart as it cut the air and sliced into his left arm. The force of the impact spun him around and knocked him off his feet. He sat down hard in the cold snow, staring at the bloody length of dart point that stuck out through his arm above the elbow. “Dzoo, for the sake of the gods, run!”
But she just stood there, tall and straight, her haunting gaze on the forest. After several heartbeats she said, “They’re gone.”
“What?” Pitch cradled his wounded arm, dazzled by the pain each time he moved and the long shaft pulled at his flesh. “Where did they go?”
Dzoo knelt and examined the spear that pinned his cape to his arm. Without a moment’s hesitation, she reached into her healer’s pack and rummaged for a long obsidian blade.
Pitch blinked, feeling light-headed, seeing the world start to spin around him. His stomach lurched, tickling the bottom of his throat with the need to vomit.
Dzoo gripped the blood-slick shaft and began sawing at the binding that held it to the stemmed point. Even those faint vibrations sent waves of sickness into his soul. He cried out when the point came free. Dzoo stepped behind him, grasped the shaft, and pulled it slowly from his flesh.