People of the River(16)

Badgertail recognized Mallow's burning eyes. They struggled, kicking, rolling over and over. When they reached the edge of the raised altar, Badgertail gripped Mallow by the shoulders and shoved him over the short drop with all his might, pitching headfirst after him. He landed a knee in Mallow's face, pulverizing his nose. A jagged scream erupted. Badgertail clenched his fists together and hammered Mallow's skull again and again until the warrior stopped flailing. He reared back, preparing to thrust his fist into Mallow's vulnerable throat . . . but his arms went weak.

A wrenching sob diverted his attention.

Across the room, Bobcat writhed weakly in a pool of blood. A blazing golden light glimmered from the copper shaft of the lance that pierced Bobcat's stomach, pinioning him to the dirt floor. Two warriors stood over him, laughing, their lances poised for thrusting.

Oh, Blessed Sun, no. "Bobcat!" Badgertail screamed as he lunged away from Mallow, racing across the floor.

As he jumped over a hideously sprawled corpse, the two warriors spun, re-aiming their lances at his chest. Heedless, he threw himself at them, howling his rage like a wounded wolf. "Leave my brother alone! Get away! Get back or I'll kill you!"

The sharp point of a lance sank into his right forearm. A haze of arms and legs flashed around him. Then he vaguely glimpsed one of the men pull his club and felt the first blow strike low on his spine. His legs went numb. Before he knew what was happening, he collapsed, landing hard on the floor. The warrior beat him unmercifully. Badgertail writhed, trying to shield his head with his arms. When he struggled to twist sideways to get away, a stunning blow landed at the base of his skull.

"No!" he heard Jenos scream. "Don't kill him. We need him!"

Just before he blanked out, he heard Jenos scream something else, and he made out the rising clamor of terrified voices in the village below.

Dimly, he heard the war cries of his own warriors coming closer.





Three


Nightshade moved silently, sensually, on her bed of dried may grass, oblivious to the wails that carried on the morning wind. Her own whimpers barely penetrated her dream.

She smoothed her hands over Bulrush's muscular back, reveling in the corded sinew, gently touching each well-known scar. His hand crept slowly down her bare side, massaging enticingly. She laced her fingers behind his neck and pulled his face down to stare into the warm depths of his dark eyes. He smiled.

Inexplicably, she longed to sob into the curtain of his hair as it tumbled around her face.

"Bukush, I'm frightened."

Don't be. I'm here. Do you feel me?

He traced a finger down the smooth line of her jaw and pressed his mouth against hers, kissing her with all of the passion she knew so well. His tongue explored, moving over hers, thrusting deeper.

The maygrass beneath Nightshade crackled softly as she wrapped her arms forcefully around his back and crushed his tall body against her. Fear lay behind her hurry, as if some monster lurked, waiting to pounce on them. She whimpered, unknowingly sending a cry through the brush hut she had constructed on the bluff above the Father Water. Bands of golden light shot through the structure, falling over her thick blankets and dancing in the long feathers of black hair that spread in a halo around her beautiful face. Nightshade opened her legs and felt Bulrush there . . .

From somewhere far, far away, the shrill cacophony of screams eddied.

Nightshade jerked involuntarily, shattering the dream. She felt her soul being pulled up through layers of sleep and became aware that a wash of sunlight shone greenish-gold against her closed Uds. No! She fought, struggling to force herself back into the dream—^back into Bulrush's arms.

But the light grew more brilliant, and Bulrush slipped away into the haunted shadows of her soul.

Nightshade's heart pounded sickeningly.

She opened her eyes and peered at the blurry patches of Father Sun's Ught visible through the rents in the rounded dome of her hut. She had erected a pole frame and then woven handfuls of red hay into the lattice for protection against the elements. But she had been so weary from despair that she'd done a poor job.

"Thank you, Winter Boy," she murmured softly, "for holding back the snow and rain while I've lain here sleeping twenty hours a day."

Her breath misted in front of her. She studied the shimmers of silver as they wafted upward, then let her gaze drift over the rest of the hut. It spread about twelve hands in diameter. At the foot of her bed, her painted Power Bundle and water jar sat silhouetted in the shadows. A few tufts of grass spiked from the wall above them, ready to fall at the first gust of wind.

How long had she been here? Six days? Her thoughts rambled over the sunrises and sunsets she'd witnessed. Yes, six. A sacred number, that. A healing number. Bulrush should have finished his journey down the Dark River of the Underworld and arrived at the Land of the Ancestors by now.