People of the River(91)

"But if he surrounds them with a full force of a thousand, how can they flee?**

Hailcloud's fist tightened. "I don't . . . Vm not sure, but I don't think Badgertail will approach it that way. If he really does want them on his side—and he does—he'll send less-threatening emissaries. It would be more like him to split his forces into smaller groups. That way, he can discern very quickly which villages are friends and which are foes."

Petaga exhaled wearily. "Then we must stop him."

"Yes . . . if we can. He'll make it easier for us if he does split his forces."

"How do you mean?"

"Small war parties are easier to confuse than large ones. If we use quick hit-and-run tactics . . . well, I'll have to think about it more. But the first thing we must do is to cut off his lines of communication."

"So we'll need to station lookouts on every possible trail, you mean?"

Hailcloud nodded. "And in groups of three or four . . . just in case Badgertail decides to send guards with his runners."

Petaga stared out into the cool darkness where the spark-flies twinkled. The distant muttering of wind in the valley below sounded ominous, like demons whispering secrets to each other. His father's smile, knowing, reassuring, lurked bittersweet in the back of his memory. He heard Jenos' words: "No one can lead without risk, boy. The difference between a great leader and a fool is knowing when to act and when not to."

But how do I know. Father?

Jenos' gentle eyes had gone sad, shrinking blackly into hollow orbits from a sun-bleached skull that stared out over an empty land. Tattered strips of desiccated flesh clung to the bone here and there. They quivered and trembled in a hot breeze that gurgled like his mother's throat had on the day Hailcloud strangled her.

Petaga rubbed his brow, dropping his hand to his temples to mask his troubled eyes. "Let's get the lookout parties organized first thing tomorrow, Hailcloud. If what you say is true, Badgertail will be on the move soon."

"As you wish, my Chief."

"Is there a way out, Hailcloud? Or was Aioda right? Are we all trapped in the end?"

Hailcloud filled his lungs and exhaled, a vacant smile on his lips. "I am only a warrior, my Chief."

Petaga nodded. A warrior always had a way out . . .in the end. The acrid smoke of Spiral Mounds—so many days behind them—still burned in Petaga's nose. Would he ever be free of that stench?





Nineteen


Lichen blinked herself awake in the warmth of her blankets. A cool breeze meandered through the window and sniffed at the colorful baskets along the back wall. The Power symbols, particularly the black crescent moons, observed it with a detached bemusement, as though intrigued by the curious habits of Wind Mother.

Outside, Hanged Woman shone dimly above the cloud-puffed horizon. Lichen stretched while she stared at the eight twinkling points of light sewn on the lilac canvas of predawn.

Wanderer's bed lay empty. Where could he be? Lichen studied the shadows that flowed into the folds of his tumbled blankets, then rose and slipped on her dress and sandals.

She took the trail that wound over the top of the rock shelter, considering all the places Wanderer might have gone. The waking sun sent shafts of light to pierce the drifting clouds. Far down on the western horizon where Hanged Woman's feet had disappeared, the irregular skyline of the bluffs glimmered purplish. Shadows lengthened in the flood-plain below, blurring the bristly outlines of goosefoot and starwort.

Lichen yawned as she walked. The fragrance of blossoming gayfeather clung to the air. Delicate stems heavy with purple flowers survived undaunted along the sun-blasted knoll tops. Lichen wished she had brought along a digging stick. She could have pried out two of the long roots and roasted them over a fire for breakfast. This early in the spring, gayfeather had a sweet, earthy flavor, but in another moon, it would have gone pithy and unpalatable.

She squinted at the trail. Moccasin prints dimpled the sand. Lichen called, "Wanderer?"

Caws punctured the morning stillness, and Lichen tipped her face to watch the ravens. They flirted with the ragged edge of the bluff, diving close, hovering on the updrafts, then canting their wings to soar away.

She cupped a hand to her mouth and yelled, "Crossed Beak, is that you?"

One of the ravens swooped over her head, and she could tell that it was indeed Crossed Beak. He thocked at her.

"Where's Wanderer? Have you seen him?"

The voice that eased up over the edge of the precipice made her jump. "I'm over here."

Lichen trotted forward and peered out into near nothingness. The limestone dropped away in a cliff that plunged to the ground two hundred hands below. Six hands down. Wanderer sat cross-legged on a narrow ledge that perched over thin air. He had wrapped a red-and-brown blanket around his shoulders to fend off dawn's chill.