Cord gave her a curious look. “We’re too far away to see their faces. How could you possibly know that?”
Her gaze moved across the battlefield and seemed to fix on some far point. Her voice turned soft. “The same way I know that that’s Dekanawida trotting out from Bur Oak Village. I know them, Cord. In ways I will never know any other human beings. The motions of their bodies live in my souls. Every tilt of their heads, every wave of their hands, the way each stands, is part of me. I might as well be looking at myself in a slate mirror. I know that sounds strange—”
“No. It doesn’t.” Cord nodded his understanding. They had gone through so much together as children it made sense that they would have a mysterious sort of connection.
He gave her a sidelong look. “Very well. Then we know a little more about what’s happening. War Chief Hiyawento’s forces are to the south.” As he said the words, Hiyawento’s archers trotted down the hillside. When they knelt with their bows aimed, waiting for the command to let fly, Cord asked, “Are you suggesting a course of action?”
She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze tracked Dekanawida’s progress across the field and up the hill toward Hiyawento. When the two men embraced, tears welled in Baji’s eyes. Pain and longing, and something Cord didn’t understand, tightened her expression. For just a moment, she seemed to be looking backward to another time, another embrace—one that had wrenched her heart.
Cord’s attention shifted to the warriors to the north. Lines slithered into position. While archers trotted out and stationed themselves fifty paces in front of Hiyawento’s line, men with war clubs snugged up behind them. An old man in a black cape drew Cord’s attention. Where the main trail cut through the flats to the east of the villages, a single war lodge stood. The man stood outside it, surrounded by warriors, probably personal guards.
Cord said, “Is that Atotarho? Standing before the war lodge?”
Baji turned. Hatred hardened her features. “Yes. It must be.”
“Then Hiyawento’s forces are standing against Atotarho’s?”
As though a plan was forming right behind her black eyes and she didn’t wish to be disturbed, she softly replied, “Yes.”
Cord noted, “Hiyawento is greatly outnumbered.”
Shouts erupted. Orders. Both sides let fly.
The mist seemed to rip apart, punctured in a thousand places by streaks of silver. The warriors with the clubs charged into the fray. The line to the south wavered, ragged now; many had fallen. Frightened warriors ran, strides eating the distance to the tree cover, shorter legs falling behind, being cut down. Long gaps appeared in the lines on both sides, leaving warriors scrambling to close them. The mixed howls of victory and anguish resembled the peculiar serenade of panicked wolves.
As though Matron Jigonsaseh had been waiting for this exact moment, warriors flooded out of Yellowtail Village and flanked Atotarho’s forces. Shrill war cries split the day. The low growl of hundreds of clashing war clubs rumbled. The Hills warriors had been surprised. Many ran in confusion. Others turned one way and then another, not sure who to fight first. Inexorably, the Yellowtail warriors pushed Atotarho’s forces toward Hiyawento’s, trapping them in the middle.
A slow smile of appreciation came to Baji’s lips. “That’s Koracoo.”
“Where?”
She pointed. “In the red war shirt, leading the Yellowtail charge.”
Cord saw her, and nodded in respect. It did not matter that she was the village matron now. She had a warrior’s heart. The situation was desperate. She knew it. She would not let her warriors go into the fight without her.
“Do we join the battle, War Chief?” Cord asked. “Or bide our time and wait to see what happens?”
Baji’s eyes narrowed. Her blood was up. The vein in her throat pulsed. She slid her bow from her shoulder. “We fight on Hiyawento’s side.”
Sixty-two
Zateri watched the battle with her heart in her throat. She couldn’t let herself lose sight of Hiyawento. She feared if she did, he would vanish like so many other friends had today. Keeping him in view wasn’t easy. The mist was like a giant undulating beast, constantly shifting, gobbling one portion of the battlefield, then twisting to swallow up another.
Someone sobbed. She did not turn.
Wounded warriors lay on the wet ground all around their camp, dragged in by their friends, who had spoken softly to them for as long as they could before they had to charge back into the fight. Some wept inconsolably.
A monstrous disgust caused Zateri’s hands to tremble. She tried to keep them hidden beneath her cape. You can’t afford to show any weakness. Not now.