The Broken Land(132)

“Do you know her?” Zateri asked. She was beautiful, with an oval face, large dark eyes, and … “Blessed gods, that’s High Matron Kittle’s granddaughter, isn’t it? She looks just like her.”

“Yes. And Sky Messenger’s betrothed. Her name is Taya.” Hiyawento ran down the hill to meet her, took her arm, and led her to the fire.

Taya was crying. Tears traced lines through the dust on her face. “I’m sorry, I—I didn’t know how else to get here without being killed. I told the guards I needed to see you, that I knew you.”

Gently, Hiyawento said, “That was the right thing to do. You do know me. Why are you here, Taya?”

She wiped her face with her hands, sniffed her nose, and stiffened her spine. After a few heartbeats, when she’d controlled herself, she said, “The Ruling Council of the Standing Stone nation wishes to make you an offer.”





Fifty-seven

“You may go.” Atotarho waved an impatient hand at the messenger who had just returned and gazed to the south, to the hilltop where the Wolf Clan matrons stood around a small fire. A chuckle rumbled his chest. They must be furious, plotting against him, but it didn’t matter. It was almost over. After he’d destroyed the Standing Stone people, there’d be nothing to stop him from conquering every other paltry contender. Within two or three summers there would be only the People of the Hills. All other nations would have been conquered, their women and children absorbed into new Hills villages, their men killed or enslaved.

Negano’s long black hair swayed wetly as he strode up to Atotarho and subtly jerked his head toward the war lodge. “While you were busy with battle … ,” he said cryptically.

Atotarho turned to look. The lodge stood fourteen hands tall and spread twenty hands in diameter. Painted deer hides, decorated with symbols from each of the six clans, covered the pole structure. “Thank you, Negano.”

He careened to his feet, wobbled, and had to brace his walking stick to keep standing. “Inform me when the battle begins again. I need to rest.”

“Yes, Chief.” Negano bowed.

Atotarho slowly, painfully, made his way to his war lodge, drew back the hide over the door, and stepped into the darkness. In the rear, shapes moved. The blackness seemed to fold in upon itself, then unfold.

“So,” he said as he let the door curtain drop. “You finally got here. I was beginning to wonder.”

The man didn’t answer. Instead, like oil oozing from a midnight ocean, Ohsinoh arose. His bluebird-feather hood had been pulled so far forward it was difficult to make out any of his features, though he’d painted his triangular face; the lower half was red, the top half white.

As Atotarho’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw an eight-summers-old girl on her knees in the rear. Eyes huge and wet. Tiny whimpers eddied through her gag. Though she was not struggling now, she had been. Blood caked the cords that bound her hands and feet.

Ohsinoh leaned forward. When his face was less than one hand’s-breadth from Atotarho’s, he whispered, “Kahn-Tineta has seen the Crow. She will be ready when the time comes.” As he straightened, he began making soft cawing sounds. He danced like a demented stork around Kahn-Tineta. The girl tried to scream through her gag.

Atotarho lowered himself to the stack of hides that had been prepared for him, and replied, “Good.”





Fifty-eight

Sky Messenger





When I deliver warm bowls of cornmeal mush to the exhausted warriors leaning against the palisade, they murmur soft thanks. I move on. There’s no need to rush; everyone who was hungry has been fed. Every wound has been tended. I have seen to that. My cape is soaked with the tears of the dying, but they did not die alone. I thank the Spirits for the lull in the battle, but the calm is almost over. Far out in the dense fog, clan yells erupt. Orders are shouted. Deputy war chiefs are moving their people into position. War clubs smack against palms. Laughter trails away. We’ll be hit again at any moment.

I have not seen Taya since just after dawn. I’m worried about her. Where is she? She must be safe. She has to be safe.

I wipe my sweating brow on my sleeve and gaze down into the plaza. The council house was long ago filled to bursting. There is no choice now but to place the injured outside in the cold. As space is opened in the council house, the injured will be moved in. The dead rest in mounds along the walls. Loved ones refuse to leave them. They bring blankets to keep their husbands and daughters warm. They hug them and whisper in their ears. The wails are terrible.

I turn. Out to the east, thousands of feet crunch snow. Voices call. Too much fog. They are translucent ghosts swimming in a vast gray ocean, ceaselessly moving, riding waves up and down as they dip into the main trail and soar up the bank, coming on. Flat out.