Hunter circled her. Snow coated her hood and cape and shimmered in the firelight. “Woman? Are you alive? Or just off somewhere Soul Flying? Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
Red Dog hissed, “See, I told you. She’s dead.”
Hunter used the tip of his stiletto to poke the woman in the shoulder. She might have been clay.
Hunter bent down, whispering, “Hey, camp bitch, you want a man to share his heat with you? I could be talked into warming you up.”
Red Dog warned, “I wouldn’t be doing that!”
Hunter grinned at Red Dog, jabbed her again with his stiletto, and cooed, “I could warm you with something a lot stiffer than—”
She moved.
Red Dog leaped to his feet and shouted, “Blessed Ancestors, she’s alive!”
Hunter spun too quickly, tripped over his own feet, and tumbled to the ground a handsbreadth from her feet.
Dzoo fixed Hunter with shimmering black eyes that seemed to burn out of the blackness inside her hood.
“Careful, warrior,” she said in a soft deadly voice. “Or I’ll take you with me the next time I visit the Land of the Dead.”
Hunter was so busy scrambling away in terror that he didn’t see the triumphant gaze Red Dog was giving him.
Twenty-one
Night lay cold upon the tree-timbered slopes. The breeze blowing in off the ocean carried the cool moist air of a coming storm. A spotted owl hooted in the shadows, its call wavering among the dark branches of fir and hemlock.
“There’s someone out there,” Chert whispered, and tiptoed to one side of the tree he hid behind. He glanced over the brow of the low hill to examine the starlit slope. The old burn was grassed over, dotted with saplings and brambles. From his vantage, Chert could just see Ecan’s camp. Hide-wrapped warriors lay among the trees far below, their shapes dark and quiet. “Did you hear it?”
“What?” Split Head whispered as he came up behind Chert. He’d gotten his name two summers ago when a thrown war ax had glanced off his skull. A long, hairless gash marked the spot. “I don’t hear anything.”
Chert put a finger to his lips and listened. No sounds came from the enemy camp. War Chief Sleeper maintained strict rules as they shadowed Ecan’s party. They couldn’t speak above a whisper, couldn’t move about unnecessarily. Instead, they slipped along quietly, seeking some opportunity that would allow their small party to strike, to rescue Dzoo, or perhaps kill Ecan himself. To date, no such opportunity had presented itself.
Curiously shaped rock outcrops fringed Ecan’s camp. They resembled crouching monsters. The only sound Chert could hear was his own shallow breathing.
Split Head used a bone stiletto to poke Chert’s shoulder. “What did you hear? Someone talking?”
“No, it was rocks.” He shook his head. “Or maybe gravel rolling. As though beneath a foot.”
“Pack rat?”
“Maybe, but it sounded heavier.”
“Probably a badger.”
They both stood listening for a while longer, then Split Head whispered, “I’d better return to my post on the hilltop. If you see anything? If one of the guards nods off …”
“I’ll send immediate word.” Chert watched as Split Head started back up the rocky slope.
In the past three moons Sleeper had personally killed four warriors for disobeying orders. Two of those had left their posts for brief periods.
No one argued with Sleeper’s punishments. According to the story, a sentinel had fallen asleep, and three tens of Ecan’s warriors had sneaked in, burned Deer Meadow Village to the ground, and killed scores. When Sleeper had been elected war chief, he had vowed such a thing would never happen to his people again.
Vigilance had to be maintained.
As Chert returned his attention to the camp below, he heard Split Head stumble and hissed over his shoulder, “Watch your step. All of these rocks are loose. If you—”
The impact sent Chert reeling forward. For a moment he couldn’t comprehend. Had Split Head struck him from behind? In that instant, the jarring of the impact became a violent pain that burned through his chest. He could feel the thing wiggling, vibrating inside him. When he looked down, a dark point jutted from his chest. He grasped the spearhead with his hands, feeling the slick blood. The force of his grip sent a shiver through the spear that his punctured lungs and heart could feel.
With one hand, he tried to grab on to a boulder to steady himself, missed the rock, and fell. He landed on his side with his arms flailing. Down the slope, Split Head’s body lay like a twisted bark doll.
He tried to fill his lungs to scream, but his mouth only gasped emptily for air.