People of the River(170)

"Yes, my Chief."

Petaga rose, laid an affectionate hand on Hailcloud's shoulder, and climbed back up over the terrace.

Hailcloud steepled his fingers over his mouth while he listened to Petaga's retreating steps. Bitter bile rose in his throat. For days he had been reliving battle-walks he'd taken with Badgertail, and he could barely stand the thought of the next few hands of time. In the depths of his soul, pain welled. I know you ve just been obeying orders, Badgertail. As we all have. None of this is your fault.

Petaga would want to make an example of his father's murderer, and the people would love it. In the past cycle, thousands had witnessed their families brutally killed and their villages burned to ashes around them. They would probably start gathering the night before to get good viewing places for the torture ritual.

Two tall poles would be sunk into the ground the width of Badgertail's reach. Next, crosspieces would be lashed on to the poles to make a hollow square. Bound hand and foot,

Badgertail would be stripped, fed a final meal, and his scalp would be cut from his head. After that humiliation, he would be tied, one hand to each upper comer of the square, one foot to each of the lower, so that he hung in the shape of an X. For as long as he lived thereafter—days for a man as strong as Badgertail—they would sear his flesh with cane bundles, peel bits of hide from his limbs and belly, bum out his eyes, ears, and nostrils, roast his penis and testicles . . .

Hailcloud closed his eyes, remembering the times that he and Badgertail had laughed together.





Forty-two


Badgertail stepped out of the temple into the morning breeze and watched the rising sun blush pink into the shimmering mist that coated the floodplain, creeping across the ground like a wind-mmpled blanket. Its uppermost tendrils curled in intimate wisps around the sharpened tips of the palisade poles, eighty feet below where Badgertail stood on the crest of the mound. Long before dawn, the warriors on the platforms had started grumbling. Everyone knew that Petaga would use this mist as cover to move his warriors closer.

Uneasy emotions scurried through Badgertail's chest, lunging at his soul as viciously as weasels in a death fight. Fatigue lay upon him like a sodden blanket. All night the Commonbom had been packing up and moving out of the sprawling settlements beyond the palisades. Redhaw, and even Checkerberry, had accepted Badgertail's offer of protection and moved their clan councils within the wails. But Sandbar had refused. She had promised him that none of her people would join Petaga, but she could not support the Sun Chief.

What will happen when I have to tell them that Tharon is dead? Will Redhaw's clan revolt, try to tear us apart from within? Or just try to tear me apart?

The news of Tharon's death would have caused too much commotion and mistrust. He couldn't risk it. Had his warriors known of the sacrilege committed by Tharon on the eve of battle, they would have run like scared mice, believing the Power broken and defeat a certainty.

And poor Orenda. Tainted by incest and murder. The clans would have wanted to kill her immediately. There was no telling what Nightshade would have done to prevent that.

Mindlessly he walked across the courtyard to the upper palisade—the final stronghold. The gaping hole just inside the baked clay marked the location where the pole bearing Jenos' head had been raised. On Badgertail's orders, warriors had removed the pole and placed the Moon Chief's head in an ornate red cedar chest found inside the temple; it was a fitting container in which to take a good man's skull back to his body.

Badgertail rubbed his fingers together, remembering the sticky warmth of Jenos' blood.. . . everywhere. My soul drips of it.

He passed the gate and trotted nervously down the steps. On the first terrace of the Temple Mound, Nettle and Green Ash stood with Checkerberry and Redhaw, Singing the Beginning Time stories of Father Sun's marriage to Mother Earth. Within the circle of spectators, Dancers moved in serpentine lines, shaking gourd rattles, beating drums.

Badgertail strode to the edge of the crowd and asked the first person he came to, "Have you seen Nightshade?"

The old man lifted an arm and pointed. "She went to the burial mound. She took those . . . those babies. I don't know why."

Badgertail nodded and backed away, wondering at the awe in the elder's voice. He finished trotting down the steps and broke into a run across the plaza, down the length of the chunkey field toward the conical mound where his brother Bobcat rested. He hadn't been to the mound since the burial. The very sight of it dredged up Bobcat's voice from the depths of his memories. "W^ could do it, Badgertail. We could run away. . . . Badgertail, this is madness!"

"I know that, brother," he whispered, and the agony of that day at River Mounds struck him all over again.