The Broken Land(129)

But they held. To his amazement. Even in the face of overwhelming odds, the remnant northern line held. They were about to be swallowed whole. But they held. Admiration filled him.

He winced when, to his right, he saw his own line breaking. Warriors too eager for blood clumped together and lunged ahead. They must have planned this, their own moment of victory. Nothing he could do about it now. They were too close. Almost upon the enemy. The northern line concentrated their fire on the men running out in front, and the heroes dropped like flies after the first hard frost.

“Come on!” Sindak shouted. “Now is the time for courage! Make your clans proud.”

The Standing Stone archers tossed aside their bows, drew their war clubs, and clan cries shredded the air as they charged out to meet Sindak’s forces.





Fifty-five

“Stay down!” Gonda ordered.

Warriors scrambled to obey, throwing themselves to the earth, covering their heads until the endless volley slicing the air overhead ceased.

He hid behind a boulder, staring for so long at the orange circles of lichen and shiny flecks of mica in the granite that when he dared lift his head and look out across the valley at the men moving among the trees, hunched, hiding, he felt too tired to move. Many warriors had covered themselves with leaves, praying the attackers would pass them by. A bloody deer thrashed through the brush to his right, three-legged, a wrenching sight. Five paces away a man with no head lay like a torn corn-husk doll. And all around him, all around, mist eddied and roiled. Fine snow filtered down everywhere, coating faces, capes, settling into unseeing eyes. The western lines had collapsed first, followed by most of the northern line. Standing Stone warriors were fleeing for their lives, trying to reach the villages before they could be cut down. The enemy formed up behind them and let fly at their backs. A new sound. Stuttering wails. Ghostly forms staggered through shifting fog, visible one instant, gone the next.

Gonda blinked. As the enemy raced by on their way to attack the villages, he breathed out. Gradually, the air softened and the battle sounds transformed into a distant roar.

Gonda stepped from behind the boulder for a better look.

A young boy, twelve maybe, crouched to Gonda’s left, sobbing without making a sound, staring out at the rows of dead that littered the foggy vista. Gonda walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right. It’s over for now.”

The boy lifted his face and gazed at him, his soft black eyes like polished jet. Stunned eyes. Uncomprehending. Gonda patted his shoulder. “Just sit here for a while. If you have any food in your belt pouch, eat. You need something in your stomach. It will help.”

The boy’s jaws worked, but no sound came out. Gonda patted his shoulder again, said, “You fought bravely today. No man could have done better.” He moved on, stepped between two dead bodies, headed for War Chief Deru.

Deru had just stood up thirty paces away. His massive shoulders bristled with old leaves. In profile, his face was dark and still, his caved-in cheek nothing more than an oddly misshapen shadow, a hole in his head. He clutched his war club in a bloody fist.

Warriors slowly moved among the thick brush and piles of boulders, getting to their feet. Their faces had flushed, their eyes gone blank with shock. Lips moved; tears ran down cheeks. Friends covered the dead grass, their arms and legs twisted at impossible angles. For as far as any of them could see … bodies. Hundreds. No, thousands. They filled the valley. Great swaths of blood had turned the snow the shade of fire.

Gonda walked to Deru. They stared at each other. Despite the fact that they faced each other from less than eight hands away, Gonda was having trouble focusing his eyes. He kept blinking, trying to clear them. Over Deru’s shoulder he saw the woman warrior, Wampa, standing with her feet braced, her shaking bow pulled back, guarding four wounded warriors, men with barely the strength to weep and stare up at her with utter devotion in their eyes. She had perhaps been the only thing that had stood between them and death.

From deep inside him, Koracoo’s long-ago voice whispered, “Like stunning beauty, true bravery has no cause, no reasons or motives. It is an offering, given without a thought.”

Gonda hung his head.

Deru looked at him with a tight expression Gonda had never seen—the expression of a man bleeding to death inside. Deru said nothing, just stared. Gonda felt an eerie turning, like a mortal wound pumping the heart dry. Then he saw Deru was crying. The war chief was crying. Gonda moved closer and said sternly, “We’re not finished. Not yet.”

Deru lightly shook his head. “No, we are not.”

“We need to form up our warriors. We’ll attack the flanks. Pick off as many as we can.”