But it’s a punishment I deserve. Sternlight did not.
An odd burning filled his chest. He lifted his eyes and tried to find Night Sun through the blur of shapes and colors. There. Standing tall and straight. Jay Bird stood on one side and Dune on the other. Two guards flanked them. She must know he did not have much time left, yet she made no sound. She would not shame the Straight Path people by begging for Ironwood’s life when she knew already it was lost. Nor would she give the Fire Dogs the satisfaction of seeing her weep.
Pride welled inside Ironwood. Though he could barely see her, he gave her a smile.
Ironwood heard the guards coming, closing in around him, their sandals scuffing the ground. Blurry figures loomed against the blue sky.
He cocked his head. “What now?”
They didn’t understand his language, and wouldn’t have answered if they had. Their gazes were riveted on Jay Bird. The Chief slowly walked through the crowd, his black shirt with white designs swaying around his legs. Jay Bird knelt and gripped Ironwood’s chin, twisting his mutilated face up so that he could peer into his eyes. Ironwood could make out the Chief’s thin face and black splotches of eyes. The elder’s hair resembled a fuzzy gray halo.
“Are you seeing better?” Jay Bird asked.
“A little.”
“Good.”
“Why?” Ironwood asked hoarsely. “What is it you wish me to see?”
Jay Bird got to his feet and stood over Ironwood like a wrathful god. “I wish you to know the moment the world goes completely dark.”
Ironwood braced himself. “Is it time to die?”
“No, my old enemy. It is time for you to walk the lances.”
“The…” Ironwood swallowed. He had heard of it from warriors who’d been forced to watch their comrades do it. The Mogollon formed two parallel lines. Each person lifted an obsidian-tipped lance and held it poised to strike as the enemy captive was shoved down the corridor. The game was to see who could blind the prisoner first.
“Let’s get it over with,” Ironwood said, and struggled to rise, but he couldn’t seem to get his feet under him.
The guards dragged him up. Ironwood saw people moving across the plaza, getting into position. His legs trembled badly. A pang of fear went through him, fear that he might not be able to meet this last challenge. The Fire Dogs would roar with laughter if he failed, and then they would treat him as a coward. So far he had been accorded the torture worthy of a great warrior, but if he weakened, they would stuff his mouth with dry dung, force it down his throat, then heap it around him and set it afire.
It will be said that War Chief Ironwood died screaming like a frightened child. The Traders will carry the story everywhere. The men and women who fought at my side will hate me for humiliating them and all Straight Path warriors.
Ironwood fixed his blurry eyes on Night Sun, locked his knees, and lifted his head. I can do this. Just a little longer. If I stay on my feet for another hand of time, they will reward me with death.
The guards cut Ironwood’s bonds and he spread his shaking legs to brace himself up. Jay Bird turned and marched away, going to the head of the two lines of warriors.
“Walk!” one of the guards ordered, and shoved Ironwood into a shambling trot.
As he entered the gauntlet, he heard Night Sun let out a small cry, and glimpsed the lance from the corner of his left eye. Ironwood instinctively flung up his arm to deflect the blow, and the onlookers exploded with shouts and cheers. The crowd surged forward, laughing and stamping their feet. The acrid odor of their sweat filled the air. Ironwood stumbled on down the line, desperately trying to pick out lances in the gyrating multicolored smear …
The game had begun.
* * *
Poor Singer stopped on the winding mountain trail, panting, his legs rubbery. Exhaustion weighted his limbs. What should have been a three-day trip had taken them only a day and a half—and he felt it in every strained muscle. Propping his hands on his hips, he gazed out across the basin. It looked almost flat, like a smooth green blanket rumpled around the edges. Jagged blue peaks hovered above the ground in the east, but the Thlatsina Mountains in the west had vanished. Poor Singer frowned. A hazy band of smoke stretched across the northern sky. It had grown darker and even more ominous since yesterday.
Cornsilk came up beside him, her pretty face stained with perspiration. “Do you think it’s a forest fire?”
“Maybe. But it’s early for a fire so large. The grass is still green. Snow covers the mountains. What could be burning?”
Wind Baby sighed through the trees around them, carrying the scents of juniper and sage buttercup. A small herd of deer trotted through a meadow below, white tails up, signaling danger.