"I will. . . . Badgertail?"
Locust sprinted up beside him so she could look him in the eyes. Dirt had sloughed off the bank and formed a pointed mound that they had to step around. Locust took the time to inhale a deep breath. "Badgertail, what should I ... If Redweed Village did join Petaga, the only people who will be left there are the very old, the sick, and a few women and children."
Badgertail stopped so suddenly that he forced Locust to sidestep. "I already told you. Locust. The Sun Chief wants the village wiped clean—as a sign to others who might have treasonous notions. Make it clear."
"I know you picked these warriors carefully, Badgertail, but most of them have human hearts. They won't like it. You know how they feel about—"
"I don't like it either!" Badgertail's face contorted.
Locust's stomach tried to tie itself in knots. He had not been thinking well during the past several hours; he'd been making mistakes, misjudging the difficulty of the terrain, had even gotten lost once—a thing unheard of for the great Badgertail on a battle-walk.
Now he laid a hand on Locust's shoulder and for the first time in years, gently caressed her skin. "Sorry if I sounded harsh. I—I'm worried about Petaga. Tell the warriors to . . ." Breath went out of his lungs. "Just tell them to do their duty."
"I'll tell them."
But she stood watching Badgertail plod forward, walking as though he wanted to be out of earshot when Locust relayed the order to the men. Badgertail came to a curve in the bank, where a thick slab of rock protruded over the creek. Locust watched him lean against the stone, bracing himself with a hand.
Under her breath, she whispered, "Seeing the faces of the dead, Badgertail?"
All night and through today, when she least expected it, voices from past battles would eddy up through her soul: a woman begging her not to kill her husband, the sudden silencing of a child's laughter, a dying warrior cursing her with his last breath. Images flared and died, and Locust recoiled from the charred skeletons of houses wrapped in pale, smoky haze, the corpses staring up in hatred.
Oh, Badgertail, what are we doing? Why aren't we trying to talk to Petaga? Why . . . Don't. Don't even think it!
Locust expelled a breath. Useless.
At dawn Badgertail had split their forces, dispatching several scouts, then separating the remainder into war parties of about seventy-five each and sending them as emissaries to the major villages in the north. He had ordered them to stay under cover, to creep along the drainages.
But Locust knew that it would not be enough. Even if they managed to escape Petaga's lookouts, day after tomorrow the foundations of everything Locust and Badgertail held precious would be rent asunder.
Badgertail's strategy seemed solid. If the northern villages joined them, they would incorporate new warriors into their ranks, and the war parties would link up south of Bladdemut Village and form an unbreakable chain a half-day's walk in length—then sweep southward to confront Petaga.
Locust's eyes narrowed. Badgertail's hand slipped from the rock and fell limply to his side. It looked as if he had to force his reluctant feet to walk forward.
Twenty-two
Meadow Vole knelt on a mat outside her house, rubbing a handful of milkweed against her bare thigh, separating out the inner fibrous material for thread. Children shrilled happily in the plaza, while their parents labored over fires where evening stews of turkey, spring-beauty corms, and tubers of pepperroot bubbled in pots over the flames. Dogs barked in joyous accompaniment. A feathery draft eased up the creek bottom, tugging at Vole's hair.
She smiled. Across the endless blue above, clouds swirled into massive thunderheads that gleamed violet in the last rays of sunset.
Her eyes kept straying to the trail. They're coming. One thing you can say about Wanderer, he keeps his promises. He's bringing Lichen home right now . . . providing he's not lost. She tossed the milkweed fibers into the basket at her side.
All day she had been fighting her desire to run up the trail and meet them halfway. She had missed Lichen more than she'd ever thought possible. In the ten days since her daughter had been gone, Vole had felt empty and purposeless, as though without Lichen, nothing meant very much.
Now she rose, stretched her tired back muscles, and walked out into the plaza. Flycatcher and Screechowl were involved in a wrestling match near the central firepit. Screechowl's bulk kept Flycatcher pinned to the ground, although his arms flailed wildly. A huddle of old people clustered around the fire, watching the match in delight while they placed bets.
"Screechowl, get off me!" Rycatcher yelped breathlessly. "This isn't fun anymore."
"Not fun for you." Screechowl chuckled. "But lots of fun for me." He gripped one of Flycatcher's arms and wrenched it hard.