Everything changed that night.
He remembered the fog: thick and clinging, so dense a man could hardly see his hand before his face. All of his irritation had been focused on Morning Dew, on the way she lay under him, as unresponsive to his thrusting manhood as a soggy cloth. And while he was wetting his shaft in Morning Dew, someone was out here in the foggy night, sneaking past the guard to drive a stone sword into Screaming Falcon’s heart and then sever his genitals from his body.
“War Chief, I wanted to cut them off myself, just for the pleasure of watching your wife’s horrified expression as I handed them to her.” Perhaps that would have spurred some sort of violent reaction out of her. But someone had beaten him to it.
Who? That single act of murder had robbed the Sky Hand Mos’kogee of revenge on their victims. No claim had been made by any of the subservient Albaamaha. Not so much as a rumor floated among the Traders. What kind of miscreant would commit such a desperate act and then not utilize it as a means of belittling the Sky Hand?
Smoke Shield ran his finger over the deep pucker of his scar.
It had to be the Albaamaha. They still chafed under the humiliation of serving their Mos’kogee masters. He already knew they had tried to betray the White Arrow Town raid to the Chahta. They had to be behind the captives’ murders. Anyone else would have bragged about it. Such a triumph would be shouted up and down the trails.
In an effort to discover the culprits, Smoke Shield had taken Councilor Red Awl and his wife, Lotus Root, captive. In a rude shelter, up above Clay Bank Crossing, he and the warrior Fast Legs had tortured the Albaamo mikko, and learned nothing.
Then it had all gone wrong. Red Awl and Lotus Root had escaped. He and Fast Legs had found the mikko later, dead of his wounds; but the woman . . . gods, where was she?
He reached out and placed his hand on the wood, feeling the polish of years. So many bodies had been tied here. “Screaming Falcon?” he asked softly. “Who killed you?”
If he could only figure that out, he could retaliate. It had to be the Albaamaha! They’d been stewing with revolt for years. He’d caught the Albaamo traitor, Crabapple, who had been sent to warn White Arrow Town. The man had confessed—implicating an old Albaamo named Paunch as the conspirator. So could the mysterious and missing Paunch be behind the ultimate outrage of killing the captives?
“Where are you, Paunch? Wherever it is, I will find you eventually.”
He narrowed an eye, letting his finger chip some of the caked blood from the square. When he found Paunch, the man would talk. Perhaps he even had something to do with Smoke Shield’s Hickory Moiety losing the winter solstice stickball game. He had bet everything on that game—and lost it all. His wealth, clothing, shell, and copper . . . even Morning Dew.
He shot a narrow glance back at his wife’s house across the plaza. How had she known to bet against him? In collusion with the Albaamaha? No, that was ridiculous. Heron Wing was much too influential in Panther Clan politics. She’d just bet against him because she knew it would irritate him. Gods, why had he ever married that woman?
“Forget it,” he told himself. “Taking her as a wife was your first great triumph. Your attention now must be on breaking the Albaamaha.”
He took a deep breath, turning from the empty square. He would have his revenge. And somewhere, up in the north, his most trusted warrior, Fast Legs, was even now running the missing Lotus Root to ground. Fast Legs would already have disposed of Red Awl’s body. When the woman was dead—and the stolen weapons she’d taken from Smoke Shield returned—then and only then would Smoke Shield begin to wreak havoc on the Albaamaha.
Fast Legs, what is taking you so long?
Two
For two days a freezing drizzle had fallen, coating trees, logs, and the leaf mat with a thin layer of ice. The forest was silent, squirrels, jays, and other creatures waiting it out in warm nests.
Only I am foolish enough to be out here shivering. Fast Legs Mankiller knotted his muscles, seeking to warm himself against the pervading cold. The good news for him was that the weather kept the Albaamaha inside their bent-pole houses. Individuals only ventured out in search of firewood, then hurried back to their snug houses and warm fires.
From the time he was a boy, Fast Legs had always stood out from the rest of his kinsmen. He’d been large for his age, and always the fastest, strongest, and most skilled at stickball, hunting, and use of the bow. And when he had become a blooded warrior—adding the honorific of Mankiller to his name—no one was as steadfast in battle, or as relentless on the war trail. Ropy muscle corded on his body, and he’d had his face tattooed with wedges like arrow points. Despite Fast Legs having fewer than thirty winters under his belt, the high minko himself had presented him with four of the honorary little white arrows to stick through his hair. More than even the war chief had been granted.