Badgertail's dreams had been haunted, filled with images of Nightshade. The feel of his arms around her had stirred feelings he'd thought his body had long forgotten.
His gaze lifted to where Locust knelt, playing a game of dice with Flute. She had been the only woman in his dreams for over twenty cycles. Guilt filled him. Dressed in a thin warshirt made of woven bulrush threads, the curves of her perfectly toned body riveted Badgertail's attention. Like all vigilant warriors, she had tied her war club to her belt—just in case—^though her bow and quiver leaned beside her rolled blanket next to the closest rock. She had washed her hair and left it loose to dry. Sable curls caressed her ears.
Stop it. Badgertail exhaled impatiently. You can't control your dreams.
And they had been so vivid. He'd awakened himself several times in the night, always after a bout of desperate lovemaking with Nightshade. They'd been happy, laughing while they chased each other through juniper and pinon-pine forests in the Forbidden Lands. No war tore the countryside in his dreams.
He drew his stiletto tip across the piece of sandstone, honing it back to a lethal point. Around the camp, groups of warriors talked quietly, while others slept in preparation for the long night march ahead. At dusk, not long now, they would angle northward to join forces with Black Birch, Woodchuck, Elkhom, and the other war-party leaders just south of Bladdemut Village. Then, day after tomorrow, they would start the sweep southward to Challenge Petaga.
Badgertail's skin crawled at the thought. The fires in the south had begun to die down, but what did that mean? Had Petaga taken out his rage on everyone who wouldn't join him? Was he even now positioning his forces to repel Badgertail's coming attack?
Of course he is. No matter how carefully Badgertail's war parties had clung to the drainages, someone would have made a mistake by now. Petaga would know that Badgertail was on the move in the north and would be making preparations for their eventual clash.
But where were the scouts Badgertail had sent out? Almost none of them had returned. That fact nagged at him like a festering wound. Had they been killed? If so, Petaga had dispatched scouting parties long before Badgertail had left Cahokia. Why would he do that? Fear of the villagers whose homes he'd destroyed? Or knowledge that Tharon had taken dramatic action?
Too many things didn't fit.
He looked over at Wanderer and Vole, who still sat with their backs propped against an eroded rock. Vole had braced her forehead on her drawn-up knees to sleep. Wanderer gazed around the camp with remarkable mildness, given his circumstances. As Badgertail studied that thin, expressive face with its mop of gray hair, the old shaman turned to look directly at him. Badgertail gazed for a long time into those faded brown eyes, then strode through the weave of shadows to stand over his captive.
"Is there something you need, Badgertail?" Wanderer asked politely, as though addressing a dinner guest rather than his captor.
"Yes, if you don't mind. 1 was wondering if you knew whether or not Hailcloud is in charge of Petaga's forces."
"Oh, I would think so." Wanderer nonchalantly picked dried mud from his red shirt and dropped the bits at his side. With his hands bound, the effort was awkward at best. "I doubt there's anyone in the world Petaga trusts as much. And Hailcloud's loyalty is certainly beyond question. Crossed Beak told me that Hailcloud himself strangled Petaga's mother."
"Crossed Beak? Is this some relation of Petaga's?"
Wanderer's brow lined, then he shook his head. "No. Petaga isn't related to any ravens that 1 know of, so I suppose he's not related to Crossed Beak either."
"Crossed Beak is a raven?"
"Last time I talked to him, yes. But you know, these things change. Did I tell you I was having trouble with a weasel? It all started when I was Pack Rat and stuck my nose into—"
"Wanderer, you don't doubt that Hailcloud is leading Petaga's warriors?"
"Not at all."
Badgertail folded his arms and hugged himself. His feelings of friendship for Hailcloud had grown over the cycles, as well as his respect and admiration. Hailcloud had an unnatural ability to second-guess his enemy's war plans. Ten cycles ago they had been on a battle-walk in the south, working together to reopen a closed trade route, when Hailcloud had suddenly refused to take his warriors any farther. Badgertail had demanded reasons and was told only that Hailcloud sensed something amiss. Badgertail, angry, had finally agreed to send out scouts, and the scouts had surprised the enemy in a narrow defile where they had set up an ambush. Three had lived to make it back to camp and shout a warning. Hailcloud's battle sense had saved Badgertail hundreds of warriors that day. How many would it cost him over the next week?