People of the Thunder(160)

Of those requested, only Flying Hawk was absent. His twisted body had been found at the foot of the Sun Stairs. From the looks of his broken bones and splotches of blood here and there on the steps, he’d fallen the entire distance from a dislodged and rotten wooden step just below the summit. When they had lifted his battered corpse, a single, midnight-black raven feather had been found beneath him.

Everything is changed.

Flying Hawk was dead. Her souls stumbled over it all: the Council session; Green Snake and Old White; shouted accusations; the revelation of the medicine box; and then the wondrous copper.

And what, in the name of Breath Maker, happened at the canoe landing?

She shook her head, remembering the swirling of rainbow colors in the water, the canoe rising bow first into the sky, and the Contrary’s graceful dive into the depths. Once she would have felt relief at Smoke Shield’s death. Now, his last scream would haunt her.

One does not abuse Power.

Shifting the long leather sheath she carried, she glanced at her hand, rubbing the tips of her fingers where they’d traced the deep grooves in the canoe’s stern. It was as if giant teeth had gouged out the hull. The gashes had been deep, exposing fresh wood. How did one explain that?

Heron Wing glanced at Green Snake. He’d remained oddly reticent about what he’d seen down there in the depths. When she asked, he’d smiled, a faint shake of the head his only answer.

As people began to slowly disperse, someone had run down calling that the high minko was dead. So they had gone, determined the cause of the accident, and watched Pale Cat supervise the removal of the body. She had found Stone in the company of Wide Leaf, and Swimmer had appeared to follow in Green Snake’s footsteps.

In the confused aftermath, one of the scouts had charged into the city, crying, “The Chahta come! It’s Great Cougar at the head of a huge body of warriors! He sends a white arrow, asking that only certain people meet with him!”

The Chahta? Asking for her? On impulse, Heron Wing had made a quick trip up the bloodstained stairway to Smoke Shield’s room. She now carried the thing she had taken, and could sense an eerie presence within the leather.

Gods, how brave you were.

Now she traveled to meet the enemy—herself, the requested chiefs, Green Snake, and Old White. Across the field she could see where Great Cougar and a few others waited less than a bow shot beyond a huge body of warriors.

Heron Wing glanced back. The river was still between them and Split Sky City. The few warriors left were scrambling to organize some sort of defense. They’d be no match for the force arrayed at the edge of the trees.

“Do we have any chance, War Chief?” she asked Blood Skull.

“Not against so many,” he answered bitterly.

His promotion sat him well, she thought. But now, glancing at the massed Chahta ranks, she wondered how long he’d have to enjoy it. The other chiefs, so animated after the morning’s events, now walked in cowed understanding of their desperate plight.

Beside her, Old White was smiling, one of his Trader’s packs on his back. He carried his Trader’s staff, the white feathers fluttering. The Seeker, at least, seemed completely at ease. To her right, Green Snake had a pensive look, as if his souls were still lost in the swirling waters of the Black Warrior River. Periodically, she could hear the click of the two crystals he carried in his hand. Ignored at his side, Swimmer coursed back and forth, nose to the ground, tail swishing.

Gods, will Stone be all right? If worse came to worst, Wide Leaf would ensure her son’s safety—even if she had to disguise him as an Albaamo boy. Heron Wing glanced again at Green Snake.

I can marry you now. But the Chahta might have other ideas about that. To herself, she murmured, “I might like being Morning Dew’s slave.”

“She would treat you well,” Old White said mildly. “But, let us see.”

“You have another trick up your sleeve, Seeker?”

He grinned. “Always.”

Great Cougar stood in front of four warriors, all with arrows nocked in their bows. A wicked-looking war club with copper blades filled his hands. He wore a gleaming copper gorget on his breast in addition to a breechcloth with a white apron, its point falling between his knees. The Chahta war chief had painted his face half in red, half in white. That, Heron Wing thought, might be prophetic: War or peace, the man could go either way. It would depend on his demands.

To her surprise, it was Old White who took a couple of quick steps to gain the lead, calling, “War Chief! Look at the sun shining on that gorget! It fits you proud.”

“Hello, Seeker.” Great Cougar smiled. “Imagine finding you here. Were the Albaamaha worth the Trade?”