People of the River(112)

He broke into a run. His first three paces went unhindered, but then his golden robe caught on a currant branch and ripped. Furiously, he jerked at his hem to tug it loose.

The tearing sound rang like a shriek in the evening quiet. On the hump, he saw one of the lookouts crouch in alarm.

Unable to restrain his grief and doubt any longer, Petaga slowly sank into the shelter of the currant bushes and buried his face in his hands.



"We've gone over this five times, Wren wing! How many more times do I have to explain?" Black Birch demanded from where he squatted before the fire in the thatched house of the young chief of Bladdemut Village.

Pale moonlight spilled through the window and outlined the simple furnishings at the far end of the house with a soft, dove-colored glow. The ivory blanket draping Wrenwing's sleeping bench faded to a mottled gray, and the five baskets lining the wall above the bench were nothing more than dark shadows. A small shell contained a finger's-full of very weak white drink; it was all that Wrenwing had to offer.

"Until we understand each other," Wrenwing replied calmly. "Or would you have me deny you warriors just because I don't grasp your need? That's what will happen if you keep pushing me." He lay stretched out atop a colorful mound of blankets on the opposite side of the fire, his yeUow-and-brown robe flowing around his long legs.

To Wrenwing's right, a beautiful shield made of tanned buffalo hide stood on a tripod. Beaded fringes draped down the sides and swayed delicately in the draft through the window. The drooping white blossoms of a bladdemut plant were painted on the center of the shield—^the sole item of any value in the chief's lodge. But then, Bladdemut was one of the poorest villages in the chiefdom.

From the moment his war party had marched into the village. Black Birch's skin had been crawling. Not one person had seemed surprised to see them when they trotted up from the drainages. Had lookouts spotted them and prepared the village for possible attack? Probably. The main path that led through Bladdemut had lain empty to the streaming moonlight—and ominously silent. Too silent. No childish giggles or women's voices had wafted from the houses, though he had occasionally caught sight of frightened female eyes peering through slits in door-hangings.

Black Birch had felt as though he were running through a ghost village as he approached the chief's house, on the hilltop at the northem end of the maze of houses. Then Wrenwing had agreed to meet with Black Birch only if he came in alone and unarmed.

Black Birch felt naked without his weapons. Uneasily, he glanced around. Five guards stood at strategic points throughout the house, their arms crossed, each holding a war club and with a knife sheathed on the sash that belted his tan shirt above his breechclout.

"I'm not trying to push, Wrenwing. It's just that time is so short. We have to move south to join Badgertail day after tomorrow."

"Perhaps you should just move on now, Black Birch, and save us both this trouble. This is your fight, not ours."

In irritation. Black Birch growled, "Let me try again. You've seen the fires in the south. You're far more vulnerable than Bluebird or Paintbmsh were. Look around you." Black

Birch waved a hand toward the south and west. "Bladdemut has no palisades. You've barely enough warriors to man the high points of the rocks. A strong gale would blow down your defenses. If Petaga comes here with nine hundred warriors, you'll be wiped out to the last child.**

Firelight danced over the soot-stained walls behind Wren-wing, silhouetting his twenty-summers-old face and his long braids, fierce eyes, and pug nose. The man had become chief after his father's death last winter, and he'd had little experience in governing.

He's never even been on a battle-walk. How can he understand the importance of this war?

Wrenwing rose to sit cross-legged. Lines furrowed his brow as he tucked his robe around his ankles. "I've no doubt of the truth of that. Black Birch. But what reason would Petaga have for coming here? We've nothing he wants."

"Oh, yes you do. You have forty warriors he might be able to recruit to fight against the Sun Chief."

"So?" Wrenwing spread his hands, palms up. "Forty is a pittance. Would he kill a hundred women and children to—"

"He killed nearly four hundred at Spiral Mounds! And at least fifty at Bluebird, and seventy-five at Paintbrush!" Black Birch replied so violently that the guards shifted and eyed each other as though signaling an alert. Black Birch clenched a fist to still himself. "Look, Wrenwing, we came here in good faith, asking you to help us grind Petaga into the ground so that we might all go back to living in peace. I—"

"Peace?" Wrenwing scoffed. "Keran's Dream died when he did—^and it's buried in his mound with him and his servants and his grave goods. Gizis found the Dream convenient to adopt, since it filled his storehouses with wealth and his name with Power. And we've seen Tharon's commitment to peace. No, Black Birch, we've never lived in peace. Why do you think half of the countryside has palisades? The enemy is us! It's not Petaga. It's our way of life."