“In Abba Mikko’s name! Where have you been, girl?” he exploded.
She cocked her head, as if nonplussed. “Communing with the victims of the Chikosi. Among other things.”
He looked her up and down, seeing the dew in her straight black hair. By the Ancestors, she’d been down in the fog for sure.
“What’s that on your hands?”
“Blood, Grandfather.”
He started toward her, a terrible fear brewing inside him.
“Stop where you are,” she told him. “You don’t want to get near me until I can wash. There is woman’s Power in this.” She lifted her hands, staring thoughtfully at the red stains.
Did she just go away to spend her moon … or is there more to that blood on her hands? He backed away, wary of her.
“Come,” she said, passing wide of him. “We have only been delayed a little while.”
Paunch picked up his pack to follow her and shot a final glance back at the Black Warrior Valley. What on earth happened back there?
Loud voices brought Smoke Shield to wakefulness. He pried his eyes open and glanced around. Lazy smoke rose from the fire pit, and Morning Dew, in a gray dress, sat in her corner. She stared listlessly at her hands, turning them this way and that, as though transfixed.
Gods, he was growing tired of her. For moons he had looked forward to beating her down, breaking her. Instead, she’d simply been compliant. Nothing he did brought more than a nod and submission. In the face of threats, she had numbly accepted that she was his to do with as he pleased. What a disappointment. Even his troublesome wives were more entertaining.
He tossed to his back, flipping the thin hide from his body. The voices down the hall were louder now.
“What is all that?” he growled. But Morning Dew remained oblivious. Well, he’d relieve himself and provide her with a reason to be animated. Then, later, he’d bring her Screaming Falcon’s male parts—see if that final humiliation provoked some response. He wanted her in tears, or perhaps rage—anything but this emotionless obedience. Mulling his dissatisfaction, he had just stepped to the chamber pot when Thin Branch called, “War Chief? We need you.”
“Coming,” he barked, lifting the bowl to take his hot urine. He finished, grabbed up his apron, and ordered, “Empty that.” He cast one final glance at her wooden expression, growled to himself, and ducked into the hallway. A pile of cloth would have been more responsive.
In the main room, Flying Hawk was listening to a distraught Blood Skull. From the high minko’s posture, whatever had happened wasn’t good.
“What is it? The Albaamaha?” Smoke Shield demanded as he stalked into the room.
“Perhaps, War Chief.” Blood Skull shot him a glance, his face livid. “The prisoners … they’re all dead!”
“What?” Smoke Shield came to a sudden stop. “How?”
“Stabbed in the heart.” Blood Skull’s fists were knotted into hard balls. “It looks like an angry warrior did it. Someone with vengeance on his mind.”
“The Albaamaha wouldn’t dare!” Flying Hawk sputtered.
“What about the guard?” Smoke Shield demanded.
Blood Skull worked his fists. “He saw nothing but fog, War Chief. You still can’t see more than a man’s length in any direction.”
“Tracks?” Flying Hawk demanded.
Blood Skull shook his head. “By now so many people have tracked through the blood that you can’t see anything.”
“When I find out who did this, they will pay!” Smoke Shield roared.
Flying Hawk sighed. “Perhaps some Chahta sneaked in to rob us of our victory.”
Smoke Shield shook his head. “No, they would have cut the bonds, tried to rescue their leaders.” He glared at Blood Skull. “Five of them! And the guard didn’t see a thing?”
“He did not, War Chief.” Blood Skull’s jaw muscles had bunched like angry mice. “He swears that he walked back and forth all night long, but that he couldn’t see a thing. He only became suspicious when he noticed the blood with the first faint light. Then he checked each of the captives and came running to me.”
“You know this man?” Flying Hawk asked.
“My cousin. He’s a good man. Not given to laziness or sloth.”
“I’ll take a piece of his hide for this!” Smoke Shield roared.
“With all respect, War Chief,” Blood Skull shot back, “discipline is mine. He’s of my clan. We will attend to it.”
Before Smoke Shield could draw breath, Flying Hawk had lifted a hand, stilling any further outburst. “We do not need this. Someone has played the fox to our rabbit. We need not turn on ourselves.”