“Ironwood,” Dune said in his reedy old voice. “Is that a runner?”
“Where?” He straightened and peered down the road. At this time of morning, the surface of crushed potsherds glittered with blinding intensity.
Dune lifted his thin arm and pointed. “There.”
Ironwood squinted. “I see nothing.”
“Well, he’ll be here soon enough. It will give me time to rest.”
He hobbled off the road and sat on a gnarled old tree stump. It had once been a huge ponderosa pine, but like so many of the tall trees, it had been taken for building and firewood. The early morning sunlight struck Dune’s face on the right side, shadowing his deep wrinkles and accentuating the age spots on his scalp. “I can’t see well up close, but I can see with the clarity of an antelope at a distance.” He gestured with his walking stick. “That runner is a boy.”
In frustration, Ironwood looked again. Two ravens flapped overhead, cawing, but he saw no other movement. He shook his head. “My eyesight is not what it once was.”
Dune tipped his ancient face to the warming sun and sighed. “You have seen forty-five summers now, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
Dune grunted softly. “That is not so very old, War Chief—though it’s true most people are dead by your age. And I fear they will die much earlier, and with greater frequency, after Crow Beard’s death.”
“You mean because Snake Head will take his father’s place.”
“The boy’s a fool.”
“Well … he does have a passion for battle,” Ironwood said noncommittally. He had taken Snake Head on four raids, and prayed he’d seen the last. The youth’s black eyes gleamed with an inhuman light at the first glimpse of blood. He wasn’t much for the actual fighting, hanging back until the battle was won before charging in. Then he seemed to lose himself in the killing of the wounded. Ironwood had witnessed many horrors, but on several occasions Snake Head had sickened him.
But he will be the new Blessed Sun.
Dune’s expression went sour, as if he’d bitten into something bitter. “Unfortunate. Violent raiding is on the increase. Villages no longer fight for women and food, but out of sheer hatred. I fear Snake Head’s arrogance may fan the flames to outright war.”
Ironwood whittled on his juniper stick. “I expect it, Dune.”
He could not serve Snake Head. Would not. Considering Ironwood’s age, the boy might even dismiss him. His forty-five summers had indeed taken a toll, and on more than just his eyesight. On cold nights—like the one just past—Ironwood’s bones ached miserably, and he admitted he had trouble breathing on long runs. His strength had begun to fail.
Dune’s bushy white brows lowered. “You won’t continue as War Chief, will you?”
A faint smile came to Ironwood’s lips. He looked down at his stiletto-in-the-making. “There are younger men whom Snake Head will wish to be at his side.”
“Like Webworm?”
“Yes. He’s a fine warrior—brave, thoughtful. And he’s one of the First People.” He sighed. “It’s odd how life works out. I’d assumed Wraps-His-Tail would follow me. Or perhaps Cone. Now, one is dead, the other likely so.”
“Webworm is only four summers younger than you, Ironwood.”
“But he is still strong. I—I am not.” Ironwood examined the road again. The fog had begun to dissipate as the sun warmed, shredding into patches, floating upward to cling to the canyon rim. “Webworm has served me well. I believe he deserves my position.”
“But he doesn’t have your head for things. He doesn’t think his actions through.” Dune kicked at an old sun-bleached pine cone that had rolled against the stump where he sat. The cone bounced off the low masonry wall bordering the west side of the road. “He used to pull the feathers out of baby birds when he was a boy. Did you know that? In the spring, when the babies were just learning to fly, he would run after them as they bounced about trying to escape. When he caught them, he carried the birds back to Talon Town, called all his playmates, and plucked the babies’ feathers out one-by-one. The birds died, of course. Webworm has a cruel streak. I’ve never liked him.”
“Then you and Sternlight have something in common.” Ironwood lifted a shoulder. “Priests judge men differently than warriors.”
“If Snake Head dismisses you, where will you go? What will you do?”
Visions of the forested canyons in the north flitted through Ironwood’s mind. Deer and grouse flourished in the foothills under the high mountains. The creeks ran clear, fed by the melting snows in the high country. He had gone there as a boy, but few people would remember him. He might be able to live in peace.