People of the River(174)

But Petaga dreaded the time until then.

All around him, wilted cornfields lay untended, the stalks barely tall enough to reach his knees. The harvest would be dismal. How would he feed the people this winter? They would have to conserve, to ration food very carefully. So many people had fled. He could send teams to collect from their now untended fields, but he would have to move fast to keep the crops from the raccoons, mice, and crows. Yes, it could be done.

As if to mock him, a new sound rose, shrill, tumultuous. Petaga spun around and stared at the palisades. Flaming arrows lit fiery paths through the sky before they landed in the dry vegetation above the creek and burst into flame.

"No," Hailcloud murmured. "I hadn't thought he'd resort to this so early in the battle. Why—"

Petaga cursed. "Tharon ordered it! He's trying to drive us mad so we'll make a mistake. Well, he can't!"

The fire crackled into an orange monster that drove his warriors back from the creek in a screaming horde. Men and women flooded wildly into the cornfields, watching in horror as the flames rose higher.

"The fool!" Petaga spat. "Tharon is destroying himself. Surely he knows I'll flay him for this!"

Hailcloud shook his head. "It's not Tharon. It's Badgertail. And he knows exactly what he's doing. The more he hurts us, the more time he can buy, and the longer he holds out, the more we'll want the battle over. He's driving a harder bargain for his survivors."

"Well, he won't get it!"

Hailcloud pressed a fist to his lips for a moment, then said, "My Chief, I think we've found a use for the Horn Spoon Clan. If we don't put out those fires before they reach the fields—"

Petaga gasped. "Yes, Blessed Father Sun. Order them to dig a fire line with their hoes and start water baskets moving from the creek to the fields. Hurry. Hurry!"

Hailcloud dashed down the knoll to speak to one of his warriors, and Petaga shook his fists in rage.

Black smoke billowed into the blue sky. Moments later. Father Sun's yellow face had changed to a dark, glaring crimson.



The blood thudding in Wanderer's ears all but drowned out the wretched pandemonium of battle outside: the yells, the dull rumbling of feet as they pounded around the shooting platforms, the screams of women, the wailing of terrified children.

He blinked the stinging sweat out of his eyes and forced himself to concentrate as he began to lift the circlet of bone out of Lichen's skull. He had barely moved it before the underlying tissue tugged back. "Quickly, Vole, hand me that knife."

Vole fumbled before her trembling hand could place the blade in Wanderer's bloody fingers. Her round face was pale and drawn.

Wanderer exchanged a confident look with her and paused, mustering strength. Kettle and Thrushsong had grown so weary that their voices moaned the sacred words more than they sang them. The two priestesses sat on either side of the entry, where they could look down two different spokes of firebowls to the altar where Wanderer and Vole worked. Kettle shook her gourd rattle with a weak-wristed action.

Chips of marrow-pink bone scattered the area around

Wanderer, along with gore-encrusted knives, strips of cough-grass root, cactus blossoms, and the crimson-filled bowl in which he had been rinsing out his cloths.

The murky smells of herbs and blood mixed cloyingly with the smoke that rode the wings of the hot wind. Wanderer's nostrils flared as he lowered the knife and slipped the tip beneath the circlet of skull. Exhaustion made his hands shake so badly that he had to brace the base of his palms on Lichen's head to steady them. With the delicacy of a shell-gorget artist, he carved the bone away a bit at a time.

When at last it came loose, the bloody tissue bulged through the hole like a swelling bubble. Vole put a hand to her trembling lips in an effort to still them, but tears rose in her eyes. Wanderer sagged forward and heaved a relieved breath.

"They're leaving," he whispered. "Can you feel it? The evil Spirits are going."

"Yes," Vole said hoarsely. "1 can feel it."

Wanderer leaned back and stretched his aching muscles. His shoulders had been on fire for three hands of time. Sweat trickled in cold drops down the middle of his back, gluing his red shirt to his flesh.

"What should we do now?" Vole inquired. "Sew the flap of skin back over the hole?"

"Not yet. Let's give the Spirits a little longer to escape."

Wanderer's gaze drifted over Lichen's pale face, and his ribs seemed to shrink like wet rawhide strips, constricting painfully around his heart. She looked so frail and helpless. How^ are you doing in the Underworld, my daughter? I pray that Bird-Man is helping you.

Lichen's lips parted slightly. As though she had heard him, she groaned. Wanderer laid a hand on her arm and closed his eyes. He gathered every shred of strength that remained in his body and concentrated on pouring it into Lichen.