The Broken Land(135)

My quiver is empty. I toss it aside, scoop a war club from the ground, and lead my young warriors into the fight of their lives. My skills with a club were honed by the best: my father, Gonda, and my mother, the legendary war chief Koracoo. They taught me every nuance of the weapon.

A filthy warrior with rotten teeth charges me, roaring, his war club swinging for my shoulder. I parry the blow, shove him back, and level my club at his side. When it connects, a massive gush of air explodes from his crushed rib cage. He drops to his knees. Two more rush me.

I fight like a man possessed by an evil Earth Spirit, insanely twisting, dancing in to deliver blows, and leaping out beyond my opponents’ range. They both come at me at once. I cave in the closest man’s forehead and spin on one foot, ducking low, avoiding the blow that cuts the air over my head, to hammer the knees out from under my attacker. Bones crack. He falls, tries to drag himself away. He’ll never walk again. But he won’t have to. I crush his skull and move on.

“Sky Messenger!” someone behind me screams.

I glance back and see the youth I forced into the fight, young Pato, being beaten to the ground by a muscular Hills warrior with a triumphant grin on his face.

I’m there in three bounds. My club whispers through the mist as it slices for the man’s arm. He dives, rolls, and jabs his club at me, forcing me back until he can get to his feet again.

“You pathetic worm!” the man shouts. “Do you think you can defeat the greatest warrior in the entire Hills nation? I am Ponkol of the Snipe Clan!”

When he starts to stand, there is an instant when he’s off balance. I use it to rush him, hit him hard with my shoulder, and send him stumbling backward. Before he can regain his footing, young Pato slams him in the side of the head and staggers back. Pato looks dazed, stares at the dead man on the ground.

I shout, “Keep moving, Pato! Don’t slow down.”

As he turns to face his next opponent, an arrow rips the hide war shirt near my knees. I turn to …

Outside the walls, a horn trumpet blows three times. The blasts seem muffled by the fog, muted and haunting. The Hills warriors in the plaza jerk around in unison to stare. They look confused. Then there is a rush, an onslaught, dashing for the holes in the palisade. Yaweth’s people kill as many as they can, but the warriors push outside.

I blink. A few are fighting a retreating action, covering their friends as they escape, but most are gone. My young warriors stagger, staring at dead friends. Disbelieving looks carve their faces.

I shout, “Stop looking at your fallen friends. We can’t let anyone escape! Follow me!”

I pound toward the last four warriors who are covering their friends’ escape. By the time I arrive, Yaweth’s people have killed two. Two left.

With a single blow, I snap the spine of one man, then launch myself at the last Hills warrior standing in Bur Oak Village. He looks horrified. He knows what’s coming. Before I can crack his skull, someone on the catwalk shoots an arrow through his belly. The man cries out in shock, throws down his bow, and charges through the charred hole in the palisade, trying to make it to his friends.

I chase after him. Just as he lurches through the last palisade, I crush his shoulder. He staggers back against the wall, calling desperately to his friends who are far out ahead, charging away. When he turns, his gaze flashes over me and fixes on something over my shoulder.

“No,” the man hisses. “No. They’re doing it!” He collapses to his knees. “I don’t believe it!”

I turn to look toward the southern hills, following his gaze. A slight breeze has kicked up, swirling the fog into wavelike patterns that seem to ebb and flow. As it shifts, gaps open in the mist, revealing a sight that leaves me shaking my head, trying to decipher what’s going on. Two sides are lining out. To the north, I see Sindak stalking down the lines, waving his war club. Atotarho is to the north.

I glare down at the wounded Hills warrior. “What’s happening? Who is that to the south?”

He rocks back and forth, his hands clutching the arrow protruding from his belly. “Treasonous dogs! They deserve to die for this!”

“Who is that?” I draw back my war club to kill him if he doesn’t answer quickly.

In a pathetic whimper, the man responds, “Chief Atotarho pulled three villages out of the battle because he thought they might refuse to fight. He ordered them to remain in camp! But they didn’t. You can see that! They’re marching out to face him down. The filthy traitors! Civil war is inevitable now!”

“Which villages?”

He lifted a trembling arm to point. “See there? That’s War Chief Hiyawento. He’s leading warriors from Coldspring, Riverbank, and Canassatego villages!”