People of the Weeping Eye(123)

“This cousin of yours, he must have heard something?” Smoke Shield asked.

“I asked the same thing,” Blood Skull replied. “He said he often heard groans, gasps, and cries. What do you expect? The men hung in the squares. Some had been burned, others cut.”

“And the sudden silence?” Flying Hawk asked.

Blood Skull shook his head. “Sometimes there are periods of it. Men faint. Sometimes they nap.” He raised his eyes to Flying Hawk’s. “In the end we can say that they are dead, that’s all.”

“Gods,” Smoke Shield muttered, drawing his breath. “First the Albaamaha send a runner to warn the White Arrow, and then they do this to us?”

“If it was the Albaamaha,” Blood Skull reminded.

“Oh, it was them,” Smoke Shield said firmly. “You can bet on it. This is a provocation. They are pushing us, testing our limits.”

Boiling with anger, he turned, stomping toward his room. At the door hanging he ran full into Morning Dew on her way out. In the collision, the bowl she carried sloshed, spilling his urine down her front and over his arm. Shaking droplets in every direction, he glared at her, grabbed her by the collar of her dress, and tossed her rudely out into the hallway. The chamber pot shattered into fragments that bounced and pattered. Morning Dew slammed facefirst into the far wall, bounced off the matting, and sprawled atop the potsherds and urine.

Smoke Shield whirled as a frightened Thin Branch gaped, eyes wide. Smoke Shield jabbed a finger at him. “Bring my war club!” Then he stalked into his room to throw things as he searched for his bearhide cape and slung it around his shoulders. As he burst out into the hallway, Thin Branch was helping Morning Dew to her feet; the slave woman had a bloody nose. She was dabbing at it, crimson smearing her fingers. Thin Branch was staring at the urine stains and broken pottery. “Clean up this gods-cursed mess! And someone get this woman out of my way!”

“Where should I put her?” Thin Branch asked meekly.

“Send her to my wife, for all I care!”

Then he bulled his way out into the fog-shrouded morning to make his own inspection of the dead captives.





Flying Hawk watched Smoke Shield’s actions through narrowed eyes. Gods, would he act that way when he was finally confirmed as high minko? His own anger was stewing like an overcooked broth. He ground the few teeth he had left and flexed the muscles in his arms. Then he shot a glance at Blood Skull, who stood, gaze averted in embarrassment.

After Smoke Shield’s exit, Flying Hawk took a breath to calm himself and stated, “You would think Screaming Falcon was his captive, wouldn’t you?”

“The war chief is distraught, High Minko.”

“So are we all.” Flying Hawk walked over and retrieved his cougarhide cape. “Come, let us see for ourselves what has transpired. And perhaps together we can calm Smoke Shield before he breaks something more important than a chamber pot.”





As Heron Wing walked through the cold white haze toward her house, her son at her side, she considered what she had seen. The captives had been killed with a single deep thrust to the heart. The act had been simple execution. What perplexed her wasn’t the why of it, but that each of the captives had been castrated, apparently after the fact since the guard had heard none of the men screaming. And men—no matter how battered, cold, and weak—screamed when their male parts were sliced off.

Even more surprising, the missing pieces were nowhere to be found. Usually they were stuffed in the man’s mouth, stomped on the ground, or somehow publicly mutilated. The bodies had shown none of the usual signs of such degradation.

What sort of person would take the genitals from all five men? That single fact would seem to indicate that the killer had sought some sort of revenge, but for what? The rape of a wife or daughter by a Chahta sometime in the past?

Warriors, when raiding, studiously avoided any sexual activity while on the war trail, fearing it would diminish their war medicine. Once a captive woman was taken, however, she was considered property. Everyone accepted that she would be used sexually. No, this was more serious—it pointed to a soul sickness, a surrender to the forces of chaos.

Or witchcraft. And that thought sent a shiver down her spine. She glanced uneasily at the surrounding fog as she left the plaza and approached her house. Witches liked fog. They could travel about in secret and work their evil without fear of discovery.

She glanced down at her son, thinking about what he had seen. She had wanted him to view the bloody bodies. One day he would be a warrior, and knowing the realities of war and death at an early age left a child with no illusions about life and the ways of Power.