Out in the marsh, calls go up. Two men materialize from the mist, slogging through the reeds, their bows held over their heads. Then more … and more. Hundreds. Several carry ladders. Others hold pots, probably filled with pine pitch. As the warriors on the palisade sling arrows at them, they continue coming, unconcerned, wave upon wave. An incredible sight, dreamlike.
An arrow slices the air over my left shoulder. I dive for the catwalk. More arrows clatter. I watch one skip down the catwalk before it cuts a bright furrow in the planks and snaps in two. I roll to my back and lie for a time blinking up at the arrows as they pass overhead. They make different sounds. Depending upon how they are fletched, some whisper, others hum. I most hate the thin breathless shrieks made by the arrows fletched with crow feathers. For the first time, I become aware of the different notes that make up the roar. It’s composed of thousands of gasps, barks, war clubs cracking together, fragments of Songs, the flat splats of war axes striking bone, curses of the warriors trying to cross the marsh. Children sobbing. Like a great dying beast, the battle keens through the morning mist.
Several of the warriors standing near me on the palisade cry out and collapse. Two topple from the catwalk and crash to the plaza below. People dash to get to them, then carry them in their arms to the council house.
A dropped bow and quiver gleams not two paces from me. Actually gleams—the polished wood shines as though coated with liquid sunlight. Beads of mist sparkle on the red cardinal feathers tied to the bowstring. Just below my hearing, as though calling to my soul, the weapon’s quiet voice urges: Pick me up. Fight.
As though competing for my loyalty, Shago-niyoh whispers, “You are no longer a warrior.”
Skenandoah crouches with his back to me. Black. Unmoving. Speaking softly to a dying youth huddling against the wall. The young warrior has seen perhaps fifteen summers.
A wail erupts just before the enemy horde strikes the palisade. As though an earthquake has heaved the world sideways, the catwalk trembles. I get to my feet, leap over the bow and quiver, and run to look.
Below, Hills warriors slam ladders against the walls. In less than ten heartbeats, several have vaulted over the palisade and landed upon the catwalk. Eyes gleaming wildly, they whoop and charge. People rush by me. As they kill the invaders, they shove their bodies back over the palisade and push the ladders away. I look down. Gray shapes, boulder-like, scatter the edge of the marsh. More pile against the base of the palisade. Bodies. The snow is gone, beaten away by desperate feet. Blood soaks the earth.
In Yellowtail Village, thirty paces distant, melody lofts into the roar. Musicians play drums and flutes. A conch-shell trumpet blows. The haunting sound wavers through the death cries like fluttering ribbons.
As though I have stepped into another world, the chaos suddenly increases, drowning out everything but my own hammering heartbeat.
Out across the misty forest, the enemy is closing in. Warriors plant the spears sporting their clan colors, claiming this territory. The flags hang limp. No wind at all now. Just shining mist and sickly sunlight.
Only the far northern line still holds. And it can’t last for long.
Fifty-three
“Take him away,” Kittle said with an impatient wave of her hand.
“Yes, High Matron.”
The two warriors spun the Hills prisoner around and shoved him through the door curtain back out into the chaos of the plaza.
Kittle looked around at the other five matrons. Their dire expressions seemed frozen. They sat so still their white hair caught the firelight and became threads of gold. The warm air felt suddenly hot. Kittle pulled her cape open beneath her chin. “I say we do it.”
Sihata, matron of the Hawk Clan, shifted on the floor mat. “You would risk your granddaughter’s life on the word of a terrified prisoner?”
“Someone must do it, Grandmother!” Taya insisted. Her young face looked older. Her jaw was set, and her eyes blazed with certainty.
Kittle rubbed a hand over her face. The captured Hills warrior had been so frightened, his teeth had chattered incessantly. He’d have told them anything he thought they wanted to hear, but she suspected he’d been telling the truth about this. “Yes.”
Taya, who stood to her right behind the circle of matrons, heaved a breath. Gitchi lay at her feet, guarding her as Sky Messenger had instructed. Taya gazed fearlessly at Kittle, but she had her fists clenched, clearly annoyed the deliberations were taking so long.
She said, “Grandmother, please, if I’m going, I must go now, before they’ve completely surrounded the village.”
Matron Dehot murmured, “She’s right. Send her. At this point, what harm could she do?”