People of the Thunder(44)
Weary, he blinked, wishing desperately for a drink of water, knowing the futility of asking. His leg had been turned into a repulsive thing, fragments of bone lancing out through bloody and bruised flesh. It had swollen hideously, and pus leaked from the punctures. The smell of it had caused him to throw up.
Now, he tried to remember it as it had been, whole and muscled, the smooth skin intact. No matter what, he would never walk again, never run like the wind.
I am a dead man. The knowledge did little to soothe him. Even if he survived this terrible hut, the evil infection that had slipped into his leg would finally kill him. He would die, fevered, crying out as his souls slipped in and out of his body.
“Just kill me,” he whispered again.
“When the time is right,” the big Albaamo told him. “Red Awl was my brother. You foul weasel, he tried to work with you. For that, I will make you suffer until the end.” He raised an eyebrow. “Of course, if you promise to tell your story to the mikkos, we will be happy to tend to your wounds. We have potions, things you can drink to deaden the pain.”
Fast Legs drew another breath. Gods, he couldn’t take this much longer.
“All right.” His voice sounded like something far away, the hoarse rasping from another throat than his. “I’ll tell you everything.”
“Smoke Shield planned this?”
“Yes. The whole thing.”
“Why?”
“To find the Albaamo who killed his captives. He knows you sent Crabapple to betray us to the White Arrow Chahta.”
“And if he fights us, the Chikosi will unite behind him?”
The second Albaamo, a small wiry man, had crouched beside him. The man grinned as the big one spoke.
Fast Legs jerked a quick nod.
“And where is Red Awl’s body?” the first asked.
“In a backwater.”
“You will show us where?”
“Yes.”
The man straightened, saying, “You will tell the mikkos everything?”
“Yes.” What did it matter? He was dead anyway. No matter what he said, the Albaamaha would suffer in the end. Sky Hand warriors would put them down, hunt every last one of them to earth and kill them.
The man chuckled to himself before saying to his companion, “You see? They’re not so tough. A man hanging in the square has the crowd to play to, but out here, alone, deep in the forest, there is no one to impress.”
He turned, made a half step, and grunted, bending slightly.
Fast Legs stared in amazement at the bloody arrow that protruded from the man’s gut. He watched the Albaamo reach down and wrap his fingers around the feathered shaft. The man stared in disbelief. Then a second arrow drove deeply into his chest. He turned, dazed, and toppled. Fast Legs screamed as the man’s body landed on his broken leg.
Unable to see, Fast Legs heard the thin Albaamo shriek as he ran for the door. The fellow’s shadow darkened the entrance; then a meaty snap—the impact of a war club—could be heard.
The dying Albaamo lying on Fast Legs kicked, whimpered, and writhed. Fast Legs blinked in the half-light, still trying to understand. He froze, staring at the silhouette that loomed over him. He knew that hairstyle: Chahta.
Then the impossible happened: The enemy warrior spoke in Smoke Shield’s voice. “So, old friend, you would tell them everything?”
Fast Legs swallowed down his dry throat. He could feel the dying Albaamo’s warm blood leaking onto his body, trickling down his naked sides.
“I’m sorry,” Fast Legs gasped.
“So am I,” Smoke Shield said, straightening.
Fast Legs tried to gather enough breath to scream as the war chief’s club rose, hanging for a moment against the patterns of light cast by the ceiling. Then it arced down, blasting lightning through Fast Legs’ brain.
Ten
The sound of laughter brought Lotus Root to a sudden stop. She glanced around at the narrow ravine, looking this way and that up the steep, tree-choked slopes. The forest lay dormant around her, the only patches of green being the holly that eked out an existence on the forest floor.
She had been in the Albaamaha Council House until just before dawn, listening as the men planned their attack on Bowl Town. It would come the following morning, leaving her just enough time to make the journey up to the hut, and then back before the attack. Once they had the town, Fast Legs could be dragged back, presented to the entire village as proof of Chikosi treachery.
Laughter? Her people knew better. They had been schooled in the need for silence.
She stepped off the trail, wary now, mindful of the fact she had already been stalked by at least one Chikosi warrior. She picked a path off to the side, stepping over roots, bending low so the food sack that hung from her shoulder slipped down.