Had the villagers seen them coming? Or had they gotten word from traitors like Wrenwing that Black Birch was recruiting warriors and they knew what would happen to them if they refused to join him?
Black Birch grunted to himself as he strode through a maze of warriors, many of whom he didn't know, toward Wasp and Beehive. They waited at the edge of camp like score sticks at a chunkey game, arms folded, eyes roving the Hghtening heavens.
Wasp turned when Black Birch strode up. He smiled at her, but she did not smile back. Her beautiful face showed her Sunbom heritage in its triangular shape, high cheekbones, and pointed chin—all framed within a thick tumble of silky, raven hair. The seriousness in her mahogany eyes punctured his confidence. He stopped smiling.
"Have you noticed that none of our lookouts have moved since we've had light this morning?" she asked.
Black Birch looked again. The dark forms still stood vigilantly against the pastel backdrop of morning. "So?"
Beehive shifted uneasily. Medium-sized, he possessed a moony face with soft eyes and a sensuous, heart-shaped mouth. "Maybe nothing," he said. "But it doesn’t feel right."
Black Birch laughed. "You've got the jitters. Relax. We're going north today to connect up with Elkhom and the other party leaders. If we meet more of Petaga's forces, we'll kill them, just like we did those yesterday."
Wasp said, "Doesn't it strike you as odd that three of our parties wound up here, in the same place, each chasing different—"
"They're coming! Get your weapons!" old Bucktooth shouted, racing down from the north as fast as his ancient legs would carry him.
"Who?"
Bucktooth's response was drowned out as Black Birch's shouting warriors raced from the camp like a terrified herd of deer, careening between people, stumbling over packs, as they fled from the onslaught.
Black Birch grabbed the arm of the lead warrior and swung him around. "What's happening? How many are chasing you?"
The man panted, "Hundreds—I don't know."" He shook off Black Birch's hand and dashed for the drainage that led south.
War whoops shredded the peaceful morning as enemy warriors burst over the hill, their bows aimed. Arrows hissed through the air around Black Birch. He heard Beehive grunt and turned to see the man sink slowly to the ground, a brightly feathered shaft sticking out of his chest. Blood frothed at his quivering lips.
Wasp yelled "Get down!" as Black Birch dove for the ground and scrambled on his stomach to an uptilted slab of limestone, where he could pull his bow and nock an arrow. He fired into the oncoming enemy. A man whirled and fell, writhing on the ground. There were so many of them! Black Birch nocked another arrow.
On his left side, Pipestone's war party rushed into the screaming horde, working their bows, striking with their war clubs.
A choking curtain of dust rose, curling into the scarlet wash of sunrise. Men and women fell like flies at the first heavy frost, sprawling across the ground or creeping spiderlike while they held their wounds. Cries of pain rang out above the tumult of groans and grunts.
Wasp led a group of seven warriors northward, then came racing back. "Black Birch! We're surrounded! There are more warriors streaming down out of the hills. Petaga must have organized the battle in two stages. We've got to find a place and make a stand. How about those rocks at the head of the southern drainage?"
"Yes, go!"
Black Birch lunged to his feet and led the retreat.
Thirty-seven
Lichen stopped in a field on the bank of Cahokia Creek to watch the crimson ball of the sun rise over the eastern bluff. Streamers of orange light fanned out across the clear blue sky before spilling into the floodplain in a deluge of amber. In the field, ancient tree stumps stood amidst the thistles and may grass.
Lichen wearily sank down on the bones of an old cypress. For as far as she could see, stumps dotted the expanse of land. She wondered idly how many of those trees had been maples. She had heard about maple sap. A trader had let her cousin Clay coil, who lived in Pretty Mounds, taste it once. Claycoil said it was like the dew of melted sunshine, sweet and warm, and golden brown.
Why did you let people cut down all the trees, Mother Earth? Couldn't you stop them?
As she gazed at the jagged guUies that cut the parched land. Wanderer's words echoed through her mind: "It is only through our death that she lives. Our bodies provide sustenance."
Was that what this war meant to Mother Earth? Hunting?
Lichen turned. Southward, shadows clung to the lee side of the mounds in the great village of the Sun Chief. So many mounds. Over a hundred. The vague shapes of people moved around the bases. Stunted cornfields covered nearly every hand of tillable ground within one day's walking distance. The leaves on the stalks drooped like long, thin fingers reaching down to Mother Earth in desperation.