Kittle’s laugh had a desperate ring to it. “What would you know of such things?”
Taya stared confidently into her eyes, which startled Kittle. “We just came from Coldspring Village. Many of the other Hills villages were outraged by Atotarho’s attack on White Dog Village. They were not involved, and would not have approved the attack if they had been. The Hills nation is on the verge of civil war over it. I believe the time is ripe to make alliances with those opposing Atotarho. If we can, we may be able to destroy the chief on this very battlefield.”
Taya spoke like a leader. Pride filled Kittle. “I fear it is too late for that, my granddaughter, but I will hear you out. Come to my chamber. I must dress for the battle. No matter what else happens, if I am captured I’m going to look splendid for my execution.”
Fifty-two
Sky Messenger
Where I stand upon the catwalk, I grip the palisade and gaze out at what is surely oblivion. Past the marsh the ground slowly tips up, gently rolling until it collides with the rocky ridge to the west—the crest where Taya and I stood less than one hand of time ago. Despite the cloud cover and mist, the morning light grows brighter, revealing the enemy’s lines. Thousands of Hills warriors, row upon row, march over the ridge and head down into the valley. The mist moves with the lines, slithering back and forth like a din of serpents. Clan flags drape uplifted spears, creating a panorama of red, blue, yellow, green, white, and black. In the shifting fog, the flags have an odd fluttering iridescence that resembles the disembodied wings of a thousand songbirds beating in unison.
Skenandoah comes to stand beside me. As his grip tightens on his bow, his fingernails go white, but that anxiety never reaches the calm of the war chief’s face. He is a tactician and probably already four or five steps into the battle that has yet to begin. The only outward sign of worry is the short black hair that has glued itself to his sweating brow.
“When you were out there, could you count them? How many do you think there are?” he asks without taking his eyes from the battlefield.
“My guess is around six thousand, but there could be more in reserve.”
Skenandoah’s head dips in a barely discernible nod. “That is my guess as well.”
“How many warriors do we have?”
“All of the surrounding villages sent warriors. They know if we fall it’s over. We have three thousand two hundred, if we count every boy with a toy bow. But one thousand of those are inside the villages, five hundred in Yellowtail and five hundred here. So there are only a little over two thousand out there.”
I can’t help but glance down at the crowded plaza where warriors huddle, waiting for the time when they will be called to the palisade to replace a man or woman who’s been killed or wounded. Boys and girls clump awkwardly around the warriors, their childish war clubs clutched in small fists, or plucking slack bowstrings like musical instruments. A few girls race around the plaza with dogs chasing them, laughing. Though they have endured attacks upon their villages, these children had never been called upon to help defend them. They have no idea what is coming.
But their parents do. Men and women stand before the central bonfire, their arms around each other’s waists, watching their sons and daughters with glassy eyes, memorizing their faces. Huge pots of cornmeal mush bubble beside the fire, warm food for starving warriors with just enough time to gobble a few bites and race back to defend the walls. A low hum of frightened voices rides the wind.
Then … from the distance, a long drawn-out howl. The distinctive call of the Wolf Clan.
I look back over the palisade. The enemy line breaks apart and re-forms into three lines, one to the north, one trotting east, the other coming straight at them from the west. Those warriors will greatly regret it when they encounter the sucking mud of the marsh.
Unconsciously, I turn to the south, wondering who is out there. They must already be in place. I can’t see them, just the pale glimmers of campfires sparkling amid the trees on the horizon.
Shouts go up. I turn back to look westward. Far away, I can identify the clan factions. As they run forward, the symbols on the darkest war shirts crystallize, stark against the dead grass, and I smell the salty stench of fear on the breeze.
Another wolf cry … then the long roar as every clan joins in and the small valley rumbles. The Hills warriors outnumber the Standing Stone by at least three to one. It is an awful sight.
The Standing Stone warriors let fly. As the arrows slice through the mist, it shreds and seems to boil.
Sharp surprised cries ring out, the yips of warriors who’ve just taken an arrow in the belly or chest but don’t know yet that they are dead on their feet.