People of the Weeping Eye(77)
As her captor pounded past her mother’s house, Morning Dew gaped at the flames crackling through the roof. Then her eyes fixed on her mother’s sprawled body. She lay with her arms akimbo, her long hair spread across the ground. A dark stain had spread from the base of her skull. The firelight glinted from her wide fixed eyes.
It’s not true. A Dream. Just a Dream.
Chaos, it was all chaos. From her bouncing perch, vision upside down, it could be only a malignant and vicious Dream. She lived an impossible nightmare as she was carried down the path to the canoe landing. There, she was dumped like a log onto the ground. The impact drove the breath from her body, but didn’t loosen the tight cords.
“Guard them,” came a harsh order. “Check the ropes, over and over. If one escapes, it will be on your head.”
Sky Hand! The accent was Sky Hand! A cry knotted itself in her throat. She twisted, seeing Screaming Falcon’s limp body. And then others. All bound, gagged, and under the scrutiny of two men who carried war clubs in the twilight.
The roar that had been building finally caught her attention. It even drowned the pitiful screams of the dying, and overwhelmed the whoops of the attackers. She bent her neck, staring from the corner of her eyes as an eruption of fire streaked into the sky, belching thick black smoke. The palace. Her palace.
Gods, where was Biloxi? Where was Mother? Not that dead corpse she’d seen. No! Impossible! Tears of anger, fear, and disbelief shimmered in her eyes, then ran hot across her nose, and down her cheeks.
How could this have happened?
Waking early, sleeping little, just came with advanced age. Old Woman Fox had accepted that fact gracefully. In truth, however, it surprised her that she snapped wide awake that morning. For four days previously, she had been working, cooking, entertaining guests, gossiping, and generally behaving as an ex-matron should. Most people still called her “matron,” even if she had given over the duties to Sweet Smoke.
With the household stores depleted from days of feasting, she had pulled her old dress on, lifted a basket, and trudged through the predawn darkness to the granary. There, she had raised the ladder, grumbled at her creaky bones, and climbed to unlatch the door. After filling the basket, she reversed the process, and hitched her load to her shoulders.
When the first screams broke out, she was halfway home. Stunned, she had stopped and watched the growing panic as warriors slipped between buildings, shooting arrows at anything that moved.
Knowing she was old and slow, and that she’d have no chance to flee, Old Woman Fox dropped her corn and scurried to an emptied storage pit. There, she huddled in the shadows and watched in horror. Though the sky grew brighter, the terrible scene was illuminated by burning buildings—great thatch-and-log torches that would have rivaled the sun.
“Run! Run!” The cries mingled with the whoops of the attacking warriors.
“To the forest!” The shout came from a nearby warrior. “To the forest! Hurry! Save yourselves!”
A little girl broke from one of the houses, squealing terror. The warrior turned, shifted his bow to his left hand, and grabbed a war club from his belt. In three paces, he caught the girl, barely breaking stride as he split her skull. He was still shouting, “Run!” as he disappeared around one of the houses.
In his wake, the little girl’s corpse twitched, jerked, then went still.
Old Woman Fox gaped in disbelief. The man seemed to be instilling fear, not seeking a fight. And she placed that accent: Sky Hand, as sure as rain fell.
“Oh, dear gods, do not let this happen.” She knotted her bony old fingers, wringing them. “Come on, rally! Where are my warriors?”
Then she saw Raven Mankiller pound past her hiding place, his naked body gleaming in the firelight. One of the Badger Clan’s greatest warriors, he fled like a deer before a drive. Swiveling her head, she looked back at the great fire that consumed the palace and its surrounding houses.
That’s what it was: a drive. But just the opposite of the ones her hunters used to surround deer. The tactic was to find a large meadow, generally one grown full of brush, hazelnut, and scrub. The hunters would ring it, setting fires that burned ever closer to the center. The fire, and the shouts of the hunters, would drive the deer into the ever-decreasing circle. Frantic, the animals would mill in a small knot. There, the hunters would shoot arrow after arrow into their dense ranks. Few ever escaped.
“Cunning,” Old Woman Fox said. “This time the drive is the other way. And we are the deer.”
Another warrior appeared, this one entering one of the houses, only to emerge moments later carrying a split cane torch. This he used to set fire to the roof. Peeking over the rim of her hole, Old Woman Fox watched him set fire to house after house.