The Broken Land(137)

When the guard trotted over, Atotarho said, “Grab a white arrow. I wish you to deliver a message to my daughter, Matron Zateri. Tell her I wish a short truce to speak with her.”

Qonde gave Negano a relieved look, bowed, and trotted away.

Negano turned to Atotarho, hopefully asking, “Will we make peace, Chief?”

“Oh,” Atotarho nodded fervently, “they will make peace.” Atotarho gripped his walking stick as though to strangle the life from it. “The arrogant fools. Did they think I would not foresee this treachery?”

From within the war lodge, a deep-throated laugh rumbled.





From where he stood on the tree-covered eastern hill, Sonon could look down across the misty battlefield. He watched his brother’s messenger trot toward Matron Zateri’s camp, weaving through thousands of warriors, men and women preparing for the final confrontation. The fog-shrouded field echoed with their efforts: damp bowstrings whined as they were drawn back; arrows rattled in leather quivers; wooden-slat body armor clacked. The low, dreadful groan of the battlefield hung over everything like the death wails of soon-to-be-forgotten nations.

Ohsinoh laughed, and it made Sonon go still. It was like the hiss of a poisonous serpent, quiet with the promise of death. It made the skin creep.

Sonon’s gaze moved to the war lodge where his brother, Atotarho, stood.

He granted himself a moment to wonder what if …

What if Atotarho’s afterlife soul had not been chased from his body? What if the stream of their lives had not been broken? That boy, his brother’s son, would have been a greatly beloved member of Sonon’s family. Sonon would have helped raise him, would have taught him to fish and hunt, would have comforted Hehaka’s tears. If he’d had the chance, Sonon would have done everything in his power to keep that boy from harm.

But Atotarho’s soul had been shaken loose. The stream of their lives had been sundered. Sonon and his twin sister were sold into slavery at the age of eight, and Hehaka at the age of four. Their three lives had become a diabolical monument to Atotarho’s loose soul—a soul that continued to wander shadow-like through the forests.

Sonon’s soft exhale frosted and blended with the eddying fog.

Behind him, coming up the main trail, hundreds of moccasins thumped the frozen ground. Weapons jangled with their quickstep. They must have run all the way to get here, for the salty scent of their sweat wafted on the light breeze.

He didn’t turn. Soon, it would all begin again.

He wanted to look for a time longer.

Sonon kept his gaze on Atotarho’s crooked, misshapen body. Strands of Atotarho’s gray hair had come loose from his bun and stuck wetly to his wrinkled cheeks. The war lodge shadowed most of his expression.

Sonon cocked his head.

How strange that the most important lessons lived in shadows. To see anything important, a man had to be willing to stare full-face into the living darkness.

As he stared at his brother, Atotarho turned, and Sonon found his own living darkness staring back. He was looking into the black abyss that had swallowed him when he’d seen eight summers.

Someday, someday soon, he would have to confront his brother … but not today.

The warriors coming up behind him veered off the main trail and trotted toward the hilltop where Sonon stood. Their breathing was coming hard. Their clan flags flapped as they ran.

Sonon tore his gaze from his brother and swiveled to watch their approach.





Sixty-one

The mist moved as a great white ocean, waves surging and retreating, leaving lacy patterns like sea foam in their wake. Tree branches dripped incessantly. Chief Cord shivered. The damp cold ate at a man’s bones.

“I don’t understand this,” War Chief Baji said.

Cord rubbed the back of his neck. “I doubt anyone does. Especially the warriors on that battlefield.”

Where they stood upon the hilltop to the east of Bur Oak and Yellowtail villages, they could look out across the misty battlefield. The dilemma was clear. Both sides were Hills people.

“Ah. Maybe I do understand.” Baji’s gaze scanned the principal figures, men and women standing out in front of their forces, preparing to give orders.

“Well, explain it to me.”

His adopted daughter had grown into a strong muscular woman, broad-shouldered with long legs, and the face of a Sky Spirit. Oval, with large black eyes, high cheekbones, her face would have been perfect were it not for the white knife scar that slashed across her pointed chin. She did not wear a cape, just a knee-length buckskin war shirt and high-topped black moccasins. Weapons dangled from her belt. She carried a bow and quiver over her left shoulder.

She tipped her chin. “To the south, do you see the tall man with the war ax? That’s Hiyawento. The short slender woman to his right is Zateri.”