People of the Weeping Eye(25)

“We must retaliate,” Flying Hawk said wearily, as if he could feel the shifting of Power. The balance had been changed by the ferocity of the attack. He could feel the gods watching him, asking, “What are you going to do about this?”

“It is late fall, Uncle,” Smoke Shield said, his gaze turning to the southern sky, where the sun was even now low in the horizon. “Most of our men are in hunting camps in the highlands. Our people are dispersed. No one expected a raid this late in the year. Not of this scope.”

“I heard his name,” one of the Albaamaha called out as he pushed past some of the outlying warriors. “He was young, this war chief. Little more than a youth. He wore a medicine box on his back. They called him Screaming Falcon.”

Smoke Shield glanced curiously at the man. “He wore the medicine box? You’re sure of this? It wasn’t just wooden armor tied to his body for protection against arrows?”

The man stepped closer. He might have passed forty winters, his hair going gray; the few remaining teeth in his mouth stuck up as brown stubs. A terrible wound had left a deep scar across his forehead, as if it had stopped an ax sometime in the past. As he came close he dropped to one knee, palms up in the supplicant’s pose. “Great War Chief, I know a shield when I see one. I also know a medicine box. These White Arrow People would not send a mere youth out with such a thing unless they set great store in his Power. I watched, War Chief. His warriors—many of them much older—never hesitated when he gave orders. He might have been young, but he commanded and received their immediate obedience.”

Smoke Shield shot Flying Hawk a thoughtful glance. Yes, he’s thinking the same thing I am. Screaming Falcon is no doubt a newly taken man’s name. Who would this young war chief be? There had been talk about a young man of uncommon promise. He was a friend of Biloxi Mankiller, the White Arrows’ young high minko. Flying Hawk tried to remember the boy. It had been years since he had seen him. Bow Mankiller, of the Badger Clan, had been the lad’s uncle, as well as the acclaimed tishu minko at White Arrow Town. The boy’s mother had been Red Hair, an intelligent and attractive woman. But the boy … All Flying Hawk could remember was a scruffy-looking little urchin. Brown face, large eyes, skinny arms. Little boys all pretty much looked the same.

“Rise, good man.” Flying Hawk made a gesture with his hand. The Albaamo man did, unease in his movement. Not many of his people liked being the subject of such close scrutiny by a high minko of the Sky Hand. “Do not fear,” Flying Hawk added, his voice loud so that all could hear. “More than anything, we need the truth. If we do not know how this was done, we can’t stop it from happening again.”

“They will be saying that even their children can beat us at war,” Smoke Shield groused, his jaw muscles flexing and jumping as his hot gaze cataloged the ruins.

“Screaming Falcon?” Flying Hawk repeated the name. “A very young man, recently named, which is why we have never heard of him. The White Arrows were grooming a boy for the chieftainship. Amber Stone? Was that his name?”

“That’s it,” Smoke Shield agreed. “From one of the White Arrow Moiety clans, as I recall. I remember him from when I was there last summer. The White Arrow brag about the sort of war chief he will be. It is said that this Amber Stone will marry the Chief Clan girl, Morning Dew, when she finally comes of age. Morning Dew is Matron Sweet Smoke’s daughter.” A thoughtful look cloaked his eyes. “The engagement has existed for some years.”

One of the Albaamaha called out, “They bragged, High Minko! I heard them cry out that this was a wedding gift! That they would kill the last of their captives in celebration of Screaming Falcon’s marriage!”

Smoke Shield stiffened, thunder behind his eyes. The tightening of his jaw made the scar on the side of his head twist into a terrible shape.

Flying Hawk said, “Sweet Smoke’s son, Biloxi Mankiller, was made high minko last year, wasn’t he?”

Smoke Shield appeared to get hold of himself. “I was there for his confirmation last summer. Remember? I thought him young, fat, and stupid. To get a man’s name, it is said that he killed an old Biloxi slave. He reminds me of a dead fish.”

“How’s that?”

“Bloated with hot and stinky gas.”

“It appears that he may have blown some of it our way.” Flying Hawk pursed his lips as he considered the implications. He hadn’t been paying as close attention as he should have been during these last moons. Instead his time had been taken up with the always-treacherous politics of the Albaamaha–Sky Hand alliance. It was a quagmire of factionalism, gamesmanship, and strategy that could easily consume a man.