Yesterday they had discussed the possibilities of an alliance with the Natchez. With their combined warriors, they would whittle away at the Sky Hand.
“One day soon,” Screaming Falcon said, “Biloxi will place his cousin atop the palace in Split Sky City.”
She had mused, “It won’t be right, him ruling a larger town than White Arrow.”
“So,” he said, “we build a bigger city here.”
She gave him a taunting grin. “Just where will you find the labor? Surely you don’t expect our people to dig and pack all that dirt. And you’re going to kill off most of the Chikosi.”
“The Albaamaha will have to do something. Besides, the Sky Hand have already broken them to labor. They can serve us just as well.”
Considering that, they had spent more than a hand of time planning how much food would be necessary, where to set up a camp for the workers.
In Morning Dew’s mind, White Arrow Town grew, covered with huge earthworks supporting great palaces and temples. She saw herself carried to Split Sky City on a great litter, and all the way, people bowed, touching their foreheads, saying, “There goes the great matron of the Chahta.”
With those images spinning between her souls, she snuggled against Screaming Falcon, and was almost asleep when a guttural voice outside their door called softly, “War Chief? Can I see you?”
She blinked herself back to wakefulness and prodded Screaming Falcon. “Someone is outside.”
“What time is it?” Screaming Falcon said muzzily.
“Early.”
“War Chief?” the accented voice called again.
“Coming.”
Screaming Falcon slipped from the robes, his body a shadow in the dark room as he wrapped his apron around his waist. “What’s this about?”
“Message from the Natchez.”
Screaming Falcon grunted assent, then staggered to the door. He was yawning like a panther as he ducked out. Through the door hanging, Morning Dew saw the barest of gray light. Gods, whoever it was must have been running all night to get here. What could be so—
It sounded like a loud slap. Then a huffing sound was accompanied by a hollow thud.
What?
Morning Dew scuttled out of the bedding, fumbled for a dress, and dragged it over her head. She was blinking, confused, as she ducked through the door. In the gray gloom she could see Screaming Falcon lying on the hard clay. Muddled by sleep, she instinctively ran to him, crouching.
As she did, arms like hardened wood clamped around her. When she opened her mouth to scream, a dark form jammed a wad of cloth between her jaws, almost gagging her. Her screams made muffled moaning sounds through her nose. She thrashed, trying to spit the thing out, but a cord was slipped around her head and knotted, tying the gag in place. Two strong men bound her arms behind her, oblivious to her desperate attempts to break free. Pushing her to the ground, they pinned her, quickly lashing her legs together.
As she jerked on the cold clay, one of the dark figures ducked into her door, hissing, “All clear.”
“Good,” her captor whispered back. “Set fire to it, then help me.”
The attacker, a burly man, had bent over Screaming Falcon, using rope pulled from a bag to tightly bind him. Her husband only groaned, making no effort to resist.
Her nose flared as she sucked great gasps of air, her heart hammering at her chest. Though she fought the thick cord binding her, she couldn’t break free.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the first flicker of fire, leaping yellow in the predawn gloom. It came from the palace, not a bow shot away. Tongues of yellow licked up from a lower corner of the thatch. She watched, terrified, as dark figures emerged from the great doorway, several of them carrying burdens as they made their way down the stairs.
She heard a jar break inside her house. A heartbeat later, the intruder ducked through the doorway. “Hickory oil,” he said. “Broke it on the bed after I piled the firewood there. Used a bowl to scoop embers from the fire. It’s going to burn hot.”
“Good, let’s go.”
The two men bent; together they heaved Screaming Falcon’s limp body over the shoulders of the burly man. As he started off across the plaza, the second man easily hoisted Morning Dew over his shoulders. Squirm as she would, the effect was the same as if she were a sack of squash.
Later, Morning Dew would remember glimpses: fires leaping up from roofs, running figures. The first scream engraved itself on her souls. Then someone shouted, “Run!” War whoops broke out in the still air, hideous bellows of rage, torn from human throats. Then the screams grew louder.
The image of a warrior, crouching, his naked body wet and muddy, was caught in the gaudy light of the burning palace. He had his bow pulled back. She saw the release, caught the moment when the barbed shaft drove itself into a fleeing man’s back.