An arrow slams my arm, spinning me sideways. I look down at the blood seeping from the torn muscle of my upper arm. It’s nothing. Keep moving. A man sags, almost falls over the palisade, catches himself. He sinks to the catwalk with agonizing slowness. I hurry toward him. He has blood all over his chest, blood bubbling from around the arrow shaft. I kneel beside him.
“You’re not dying, Idos,” I say confidently as I snap off the tip of the arrow and hurl it away. “The arrow struck too high. You will get well.”
He stares up at me fixedly, straining to see my face. As he slides toward the dark, I must be fading. I can’t imagine what he’s thinking. He gasps a breath and with difficulty says, “Tell … Tutelo I love her.”
My souls go numb. I hesitate, not sure of the best course; then I grip the slick shaft and jerk it from his chest. I’m sure it struck his heart, but maybe … maybe. He writhes, cries out. When the enemy hits the palisade, the misty world shatters and becomes one long scream.
Down in the plaza, people run in all directions.
Idos stops struggling. I feel his body relax beneath my hands. He’s still staring at me, but he doesn’t see me now. Sodowego has leaned over him. I whisper, “I’ll tell her, Idos.”
I rise to my feet. The smell of pine pitch is strong, rising from the base of the palisade. Skenandoah marches along the catwalk with arrows flying all around him, giving orders, always steady. And lucky. Lucky.
I throw up an arm to shield my face and run to look over the edge. Five warriors arrived before me. They’ve been loosing arrows, ducking behind the palisade, loosing more arrows for ten heartbeats. A bloody tangle of bodies sprawls below, but they succeeded in setting fire to the pitch before they fell. Bright flames lick along the wall. In the mist, they resemble gauzy orange flags. Fluttering. Climbing. The warriors must have managed to splash the pitch high. Down the palisade, more fires. They’ve probably been set all around. That was the point of that first shuddering volley, to allow the fire teams to get in close enough. Some of the fires will burn through. Then more teams will dart in, splash the second palisade, and fire it. Finally, they will fire the third palisade … and be through. On the fabric of my souls, I can already imagine enemy warriors racing through Bur Oak Village, killing anything in their path. I remember Yellowtail Village … burning … twelve summers ago.
A cold whisper of air brushes my face. I dive for the catwalk. I’m not hit. Close, though. Right beside me, a young woman goes down with a sharp cry. I scramble toward her on my hands and knees. The arrow cut the big artery in her throat; it’s pumping ferociously. She shivers, suddenly freezing. “How … how bad? Tell me the truth!”
I gently smooth black hair away from her face. I would want to know the truth. “It’ll be over soon. What’s your name?”
“I am … Londal.” She squeezes her eyes closed for a moment, then opens them and gazes up at the sky. “Thank you, thank you … for telling me.”
She seems not to hear the ululating cries of oncoming warriors or feel the palisade shudder when they hit it and their axes crack against the logs, hacking their way through the charred patches left by the fires.
I sit down and pull her head into my lap, cushioning it as I stroke her hair.
She says, “I’m feeling … weaker.”
“It won’t last long. Just a little while. Is there any pain?”
Her lips move. She mouths the word no. A brown autumn leaf flutters through the fog and alights on the catwalk.
She whispers, “Pretty.”
I pick it up and twirl it before her eyes. “Yes, it’s still veined with red.”
Just beyond the palisade the world is dying, she’s dying, and we’re talking about leaves.
“I—I’m falling.” She struggles.
“Don’t be afraid. I’ve heard it’s a long slow fall, that it comes quietly and peacefully.”
“ … falling fast.”
“Yes, but you won’t hit bottom. Soon you’ll be walking the Path of Souls with people you once loved. Their campfires will be warm and bright.”
The blood is jetting rapidly now, but there isn’t much of it. Her heart is failing. It can’t keep up. Then it’s over.
I rise, mindful of the hail of arrows slicing overhead. Dead bodies crowd the catwalk. Warriors trip over them, walk on their backs. Some are crying, trying to be gentle. Most of the seasoned war veterans inside the palisade are dead. Young inexperienced warriors have replaced them. Their faces are twisted into stunned masks. What happened to the two men assigned to carry the wounded and dying into the plaza?