Father Sun dipped lower in the sky. Only a sliver of crimson peeked above the gray wall of the western bluffs. Night would drape the land soon. Perhaps if they could find a place to hide until darkness . . .
A flock of grouse squawked and exploded into flight on the creek bank ahead, causing Badgertail to stumble. "South-wind, wrap your arm around my shoulders."
Southwind tried to, but Badgertail had to take the warrior's hand and slide it across his back before quickly beginning the climb up the steeply eroded bank. Dirt sloughed off beneath their thrashing feet, forcing them to work twice as hard.
They had almost reached the top when Southwind sagged against Badgertail, muttering, "Sorry, can't . . . sorry ..." Southwind's fingers clutched at Badgertail's shoulder as weakly as a newbom's while he sank to his knees in the glittering sand.
"Southwind? Southwind, hold on to me!"
"Can't . . . shouldn't have called. Sorry ..."
"Come on! You can do it! Live!"
Badgertail lifted Southwind in his arms and climbed over the lip of the creek, where he laid him down in a tall, aromatic bed of golden ragwort. The yellow flowers stood six hands tall, high enough to cloak them temporarily. Badgertail moved Southwind's hand away from his side so he could get a look at the injury. He felt his stomach rise into his throat. The enemy warrior must have used the chert studs on his war club like a saw to carve such a deep wound. The gash extended from just under Southwind's ribs down to his groin. Gray intestines wormed through the opening, green-brown, and oozing where they had been ruptured. The stench forced Badgertail to turn his head.
"I didn't know how bad ..." Southwind blinked lazily at the purple-rimmed clouds that hovered overhead, as if his vision had started to fade. "Sorry . . . Badgertail. Leave. No use ..."
Voices came from across the creek, and Badgertail flattened himself in the weeds. Through the fragrant curtain of flowers, he spied warriors flitting past the shadow-dappled stone slabs.
The tallest of the warriors stepped into a patch of wan sunlight, and Badgertail involuntarily dug his fingers into the sand. Hailcloud! Was that burly warrior beside him Bass-wood? Probably, though Badgertail could not be certain from this angle. He concentrated on stilling his frantic breathing so he could hear their quiet words.
"... says no, but he's still checking the dead."
"How many did we lose?"
"Nineteen. But they easily lost thirty. Bull Tine is still pursuing those who fled. If he can catch them before it gets dark, no one will be alive to report our location."
Badgertail braced his forehead on his fist. Thirty? A sick dread gripped him. Which friends? What was Hailcloud doing so far north? Had this been simply a scouting party that had accidentally stumbled onto Badgertail's camp? Or were they part of a larger force? Had Hailcloud known that Badgertail would make a play for the northern villages, and convinced Petaga to move his warriors up?
A woman's shout tore the evening, and he jerked.
Hailcloud trotted out of the rocks and shielded his eyes, gazing southward. Two warriors were dragging Locust up from the creek bed. Horror numbed Badgertail. She fought wildly, kicking, wrenching against their iron-fisted grip while she cursed them.
"Locust ..." His fingers knotted in the golden ragwort. "Why didn't you run?"
What had she been doing there? It wasn't like her to . . . She was waiting for you.
Desperately, Locust yanked away from her captors and dashed across the grass-rich terrace, her hair flying. She took barely ten paces before the warriors tackled her and knocked her to the ground. Her enraged scream rang out in the twilit stillness.
Badgertail's gut twisted as he watched the warriors haul Locust through the mauve shadows of dusk toward the rocks where Hailcloud waited.
Vole started squirming for cover when the battle exploded and men and women went wild, careening for weapons, scrambling up the rocks to spy on their attackers, shooting back in desperation.
Wanderer landed beside her with sweat beading on his nose. "This way. Vole. Follow me."
"Do you know where you're going?"
"I certainly do," he answered curtly. "Away from here."
Wanderer half-slithered, half-crawled through a narrow opening between the slabs to get out onto the grassy plain. Vole followed him, her blistered leg hurting unbearably. Tattooed warriors raced everywhere, their beaded forelocks glinting as they ran. Lavender light fell in a woolly blur across the fields of sunflowers, thistle, and grass.
Her hands tied, Vole crawled clumsily. Wanderer's frantic feet kicked dirt into her face, forcing her to turn her head. A few hands away, she saw a dead warrior—coagulated blood jelled in his mouth and nostrils—sprawled on his stomach, an arrow protruding from his back. He watched her with wide, sightless eyes.