Or had the fires been lit as some sort of lure? To pull Badgertail's parties out of the north? A decoy? That would mean Petaga had calculated the most advantageous point from which to ambush Badgertail's forces—and figured a way of getting all of them there.
Fear congealed in the pit of his stomach. Such maneuvering could be done through subde ways, given a master strategist's hand; but would Black Birch, Elkhom, and the other experienced war leaders fall for it? Badgertail tightened his fingers around a cool stalk of cane. Yes, they might. Even he himself would have trouble in distinguishing between genuine hit-and-run raids and raids timed and arranged to lead several groups into a clever trap. Only good swift runners relaying information to a central point could prevent such a disaster.
And he'd had but few runners come in . . .
The pieces began to fall into place. Badgertail's gut knotted. How could you have let this happen?
His gaze searched the black length of the eastern bluff before returning to the tangle of underbrush that surrounded him. If Petaga had set up an ambush, the best place for it would be somewhere around One Mound Village. There the ravines and rocks provided ideal cover. But Badgertail would never make it in time to warn his warriors.
You walked right into Petaga's arms when you split your forces. Blessed First Woman . . .
He pulled out his deerbone stiletto and clutched it tightly before he crept forward another ten hands through the cane. One of the leaves caught in his warshirt with a soft, tearing sound. Badgertail stopped instantly, but not before he saw movement to his right.
From the shadows, a low voice called, "Very carefully, throw out your weapon and show me your empty hands—or I'll shoot an arrow through you this instant."
Badgertail swallowed down his dry throat and tossed out his stiletto. He heard it land softly in the grass as he raised his hands.
"Good. Now stand up. I want to get a good look at you.**
Slowly, Badgertail got to his feet. The camp fires lit his face with an orange glow. He saw his foe rise from behind a bush and stand silhouetted against the sable cloak of night.
Teeth glinted as the man edged closer. Maybe twenty-one or twenty-two, he had shaved his head in the manner of a seasoned warrior. Shells hung from his braided forelocks, swaying with each cautious step he took. Fear was evident in the man's shallow breathing and in the way his arms shook while holding up his bow. He was tall, but gangly. Badger-tail's shoulders packed twice the muscle. If he could just get his hands on the man . . .
"You're—Badgertail. Aren't you?"
"Badgertail? Are you joking? I came here to join Hail-cloud! Who are you?"
"Come closer. I want to see your face better."
As Badgertail walked forward, his opponent sucked in a breath and stared at him through terrified eyes. "You are
Badgertail. I saw you once. When I was a boy. You attacked my village."
A familiar ache swelled in Badgertail's chest. There had been so many villages over the past twenty cycles. He could barely keep the battle-walks straight anymore. Oh, here and there a child's weeping face had stuck in his mind, or a man's final screams. But for the most part, all had blurred into a vast din of garbled voices and acrid pools of blood drying in the sun. **Which village was that?”
"Bear Cub Village."
Badgertail shook his head. He didn't remember that one at all. Not even the name cued his memory. Had all of those deaths meant so little to him that he couldn't even recall their location? He lifted his chin to peer at the twinkling Star Ogres. "What's your name?"
"Flaxseed. But you wouldn't remember that. You just killed, pillaged, and ran—^though your warriors lingered to rape my mother." Hatred hardened his face.
"Supposing I really am Badgertail? What are you going to do with me?"
Flaxseed pulled back on his bowstring, and Badgertail inhaled in preparation for the impact of the arrow. The muscles beneath his right nipple began to twitch with anticipation. Sixty heartbeats passed, and Badgertail shifted his weight to his other foot. Flaxseed stood like that, poised to shoot, for what seemed an eternity, until sweat rolled down Badgertail's neck. Finally Badgertail demanded, "Well?"
"I . . . I'd probably get in trouble for killing you," Flaxseed said as he lowered his bow. "Most likely Hailcloud wants to torture you for information . . . just like he's doing with Locust."
Oh, Locust, forgive me.
“No," Flaxseed said with certainty, "I'd better not kill you. Not yet." He pointed southward with a tip of his head. "Turn around and walk. There's a good place to cross the creek a couple thousand hands down."
Badgertail chuckled. "Well, good. Since I'm not your infamous Badgertail, Fll happily accept your escort into camp. Saves me from taking an arrow by mistake." He turned and made his way through the dark cane while he examined Hailcloud's camp. The war leader had selected a small knoll that jutted up along the eastern side of the creek. Knots of warriors eddied around a central foe. Their laughter carried . . . along with something else. The triumphant jeer of warriors was underlaid by a frail sound that made Badgertail's soul recoil, even ttiough his ears couldn't quite hear it.