The wind changes. The mist blows back across the field to chill my face. The clan calls are easing off as warriors receive new orders and realign. The world goes soft and still.
My hands shake. I don’t know what this has cost Hiyawento—I may never know—but the fact that he and Zateri have managed to pull the disaffected Hills villages into an alliance to fight against Atotarho …
After all my words about standing up for peace, this is where we are—locked in a death struggle.
From my right, a voice calls, “Sky Messenger!”
Father trots around the palisade with thirty or so warriors behind him. His wet cape sleeks down over his thin wiry body. His round face is haggard, his short black hair matted.
“Father! You’re alive.”
We throw our arms around each other in a bear hug. He laughs. “So far. Don’t get your hopes up. I’m certain the Hills People would like to change that.”
War Chief Deru comes to stand at my side. His eyes narrow at the sight of the wounded Hills warrior. Unceremoniously, he crushes the man’s skull, then turns back to the battlefield. “What’s going on out there?”
“Civil war, I think.”
“They’re fighting each other?” he asks in disbelief.
“So it seems.”
Father’s expression goes tight and sad. He says nothing for a long time, then whispers, “Warriors are asked to bear too much.”
Neither Deru nor I have to ask what he means. Along with exhaustion, hunger, and the rage that leaves the heart a barren wasteland, these men and women will also have to live with the knowledge that they killed their loved ones with their own hands.
As the war fever begins to drain from muscles and sinew, my skin tingles. Those are my cherished friends out there, willing to fight their own people to save me and the entire Standing Stone nation.
My grip tightens on the bloody club in my fingers.
From out of nowhere, Gitchi glides along my leg and looks up at me with soft yellow eyes. He limps, but his tail wags, ready to follow as soon as I give the order. I don’t know where he came from. One of the longhouses. Where’s Taya? I turn to look, but I do not see her. High Matron Kittle must have ordered her lineage to remain within the walls of the longhouses.
I gaze down at Gitchi. “Hello, old friend. I missed you.” I gently stroke his head. He leans against my hand and sighs, as though being with me is all he’s ever wanted in his life.
“Well, what are we doing standing here?” Father looks around, searching each warrior’s face. “If they’re fighting Atotarho, they’re on our side. We should join them. War Chief, what do you think?”
Deru inhales a breath and exhales it slowly; then he nods. “It seems we have just joined a new alliance—a strange one. Us and Hills People? Who would have ever thought? But Gonda is right. If these new allies are willing to die for us, we owe them no less.”
A ragged, exhausted cheer goes up from his warriors. They shake bows and clubs in the air.
Father turns to a young man. “Risto, run to Matron Jigonsaseh. Tell her we join the fight on Hiyawento’s side.”
The warrior bows and runs as hard as he can toward Yellowtail Village.
“All right, let’s go.” Deru waves his warriors forward and leads them out onto the battlefield.
Father says, “Are you coming?”
I breathe, “Yes. Soon.”
He frowns, then nods, understanding there is something I must do before I can follow him. “Don’t be long.” He trots away.
I crouch before Gitchi. The old wolf licks my face, and his tail wags. “I know you want to go, Gitchi. You are a great warrior. But I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you. I want you to stay here. Don’t follow me.”
Gitchi’s ears droop. He drops to his haunches and whimpers as he watches me pound away into the cold swirling fog.
Sixty
Where he stood in front of Chief Atotarho, Negano rubbed a hand over his face. In all his thirty-two summers, he had never imagined that a day like this would come. He had many cousins in Riverbank Village, men and women he’d loved his entire life. He could barely stand to watch. Blessed Spirits. He had to come to terms with this, or he would …
Atotarho vented a low laugh.
Negano turned around to stare at him. The old man had braided so many rattlesnake skins into his gray hair that it gave his skeletal face a serpentine quality. Granted, they were symbols of war victories, but this was garish.
Atotarho maneuvered his crooked body forward, carefully placing his walking stick, until he stood less than one pace from Negano. His eyes had a cold inhuman gleam. “Find a runner for me.”
“Yes, my chief.” Negano lifted a hand, calling, “Qonde?”