People of the River(131)

"Wait! Wanderer . . . ?" She lunged for the knife on the man's belt, pulling it out with her teeth before whirling to drop it in front of Wanderer's nose. "Hurry! Cut me loose."

She extended her hands. When Wanderer had sawed the rope enough that she could pull it apart, Vole jerked her hands free, snatched the knife from his hand and cut his bonds, then tucked the knife in her belt.

Her eyes darted from warriors who sprinted in from the south to those who scrambled up out of the creek bed. The moans of the dying mixed hauntingly with cries of triumph.

"Which way? Where can we go that they won't—"

"This way!" Wanderer got down on his stomach and slid through the wilted grass a hand at a time, going so slowly that it seemed to take forever to get beyond the fighting. Ahead lay the shade of taller plants.

When Vole could stand it no longer, she whispered, "Will you hurry up!"

"I don't think that's wise. Vole. The only way Snail stays hidden from Bluebird is by moving slowly. I learned that when I had Bluebird's soul. He was always annoyed by the stealth of Snail. We—"

"Tell me later, Wanderer! Mover

"They'll see us if I go too fast, Vole. That's what I was trying to tell you. We ate a lot of flies and mosquitoes when Bluebird and I were together, because their glittering wings attracted our attention. But snails? Only rarely."

A rush of warriors swerved around the rocks in pursuit of several of Badgertail's retreating men. They shot arrows as they vaulted brush. "Blessed Father Sun," Vole hissed in panic. "They're coming right at us!"

Wanderer changed course, angling sharply to the left into a dense growth of thistles. The thorns slashed at Vole's arms and face as she followed. She lay panting, praying that the evening had grown murky enough to hide them. Though the sun had sunk below the horizon, its brightness lingered on the hilltops in luminous smudges of gray.

War cries rent the air as the warriors approached. Vole held her breath. They sprinted by, one pounding past within six hands of her prone body.

"Let's getout of here!"

"No!" Wanderer flung his arm across her back and flattened her on the ground. Vole stared at him in shock. His wide eyes were fixed on the rocks, where a stocky warrior was dragging out a youth of no more than fourteen summers. Four men and one woman followed, swinging deadly war clubs. The stocky warrior threw the youth to the dirt about thirty hands from where Vole and Wanderer lay hidden.

"Where's Badgertail?" the stocky warrior demanded. "Tell me, boy! Is he here?"

"I don't know," the youth answered in terror. "I swear, I—I haven't seen him!"

"You're lying!"

"No! No, truly, I—"

"We haven't time for this." The stocky one turned to his warriors. "Kill him. Then search every inch of the brush. I want Badgertail!" He strode away, heading back toward the rocks.

The five warriors fell on the youth with their clubs, first bashing his spine, then beating his head until his face was a spongy mass of red. Soon after they trotted away, another warrior sprinted by and slammed his club into the dead boy's skull. Sickness churned in Vole's stomach.

Hailcloud organized a group of his warriors to search for wounded enemies. They fanned out in a long line and began beating the brush beyond the body, killing anyone who still breathed. As the darkness deepened, the heat of the battle died down and warriors trotted back to the stone slabs to regroup.

Wanderer nudged Vole with his elbow. "Now. Let's go. But we have to crawl. If we stand up, they'll be all over us."

They crawled out of the thistles, heading in an easterly direction.





Thirty


As the evening coolness settled on the land, mist rose from the ponds, twining phantom arms into the twilit sky. The somber shadows of rocks and brush melted under the deepening blanket of darkness, smoothing until they pooled with the night, the croaking of the frogs, and the hum of insect wings.



Lichen lay curled on her side in the entrance of the cave, her head pillowed on her arm, her back to the small fire she had built in the rear. The wood she had gathered at dawn had been damp with dew, and it smoked badly, forcing her to stay near the opening of the cave so she could breathe.

Oh, Wanderer. Where are you?

Would no one ever come looking for her? She had been watching the trails from sunup to sunset, but no one had walked them.

Almost all of the people who fled along Pumpkin Creek had been caught and killed. She had witnessed the entire battle, and had cried when the screams of the dying rang with ghostly resonance from the hills.

What's happening out there. Wolf Slayer? Is the whole world going to die in this war?

To the north, vultures soared above Redweed Village, their black shapes flapping against a gray, sickly sky. The brief battle had forced them to retreat to their hidden perches. But they had returned—dozens of them. Lichen whimpered. She had barely slept in the past two days for watching the birds and listening to their squawks while they feasted on her friends.