People of the Thunder(15)

Onward she pounded, avoiding knots of spectators who had come to share the festive event. Among the crowd were Natchez chiefs or their representatives, renowned Traders, Priests, and the greatest chiefs among the Chahta: the noted high minkos. She barely glimpsed the joy in their eyes as she raced past, felt the pulsing emotion they exuded.

Screaming Falcon and I will remake the Chahta world! Had he not just sacked the Sky Hand’s Alligator Town? Had he not burned their southernmost holding and taken its chief and his relatives captive to hang in White Arrow Town’s wooden squares? Power favored the Chahta, and with it, she and Screaming Falcon would lead her people to new vigor, prestige, and influence throughout the land. Morning Dew would one day be the matron of White Arrow Chahta, and—with her warrior husband at her side—the world would kneel before her.

The very thought of it made her breast swell, her souls tingling in giddy anticipation.

Onward she flew, rounding the houses and granaries, sprinting down narrow gaps between the buildings, slipping left and right, trying to throw off Screaming Falcon’s pursuit. This day would mark the beginning of greatness.

Morning Dew rounded the base of the palace mound, scarcely throwing a glance at the high building atop the earthwork. Then she turned, running headlong down the center of the plaza. As Morning Dew passed the tall pole that represented the Tree of Life, she allowed her fingers to graze its wood, painted in red and white stripes. Arms pumping, she bolted straight across the stickball grounds.

She heard Screaming Falcon as he closed; his breath was blowing like a buffalo’s as his feet matched the cadence of her own. And then, as his hand dropped on her shoulder, she experienced a tingling rush that jolted her entire body.

Slowing, smiling her joy, she turned, intending to gaze into his face . . . and recoiled in horror.

The world went dark, as though a blanket had been thrown across the sun. She was but vaguely aware that White Arrow Town lay abandoned around her, the buildings nothing more than blackened posts jutting up from rectangles of gray ash. Her mother’s body lay to her right, arms and legs sprawled, hair spread over the blood-soaked ground. The ugly wound in Mother’s head gaped, seemingly alive with maggots.

Corpses littered the earth, broken, blackened with dried blood. Baskets were upturned, pots shattered, pestles and mortars lay on their sides. Dark oily smoke hung low over her head.

Her gaze fixed on Screaming Falcon’s face; a cry choked in her throat. He was staring at her, a hollow pleading in his wounded eyes. The swollen deformity of his broken jaw made his head oddly out of proportion. Filth and dried blood matted his hair, and his skin had a pale and sunken look where it wasn’t blistered from burning, or scabbed with dried blood.

She blinked, following his arms and legs to the corners of the heavy wooden square where they had been tightly bound with layers of thick rope so that he hung, sagging and spread-eagled like wild meat ready for butcher. Old bruises mixed with new, and trickles of blood leaked from long shallow slices on his naked body. Blistered flesh mottled with gray and red marked the places that burning torches had been thrust against his body. Where they’d burned the pubic hair from his crotch, the skin was puffed and weeping pus.

She took a faltering step, reaching out, her fingers seeking reassurance that this was no specter. Her eyes locked with his as she touched him. His pain and desperation flowed into her like a cold wave, staggering her on her feet.

“I am so sorry,” he croaked from a thirst-dried throat.

“Screaming Falcon?” she pleaded, aware of the chill where her hands rested on his chest. Then there was warmth, sliding down her fingers, trickling over her palms. She looked down, stunned by the blood that coated her hands with sticky darkness.

She was clutching something, a thing alive, that pulsed, spasmed, and then went still. No woman raised in a society of hunters could fail to recognize it. She clutched a human heart.

When she raised her eyes, it was to find Screaming Falcon staring at her through dead eyes, a look of disbelief reflecting from his damaged face. In a slurred voice, he said, “You and your pride brought us to this.”

Morning Dew threw her head back. The anguished howl started deep in her lungs, swelling, bursting from her throat with a hideous shriek. . . .

“Morning Dew!”

The harsh voice brought Morning Dew awake. She jerked upright, aware of the blanket falling from her shoulders. She sat on a pole bed built into a wall. “What . . . I was . . . Where are we?” Blinking to clear her souls of the images shredding her mind, she stared around the darkened interior of Heron Wing’s house. She knew this place: Split Sky City. She was a slave. Screaming Falcon was long dead.