The elder turns to the woman next to her. She does not have to ask. The woman swallows hard and whispers, “Of course.”
The elder turns back and gives me a barely discernible nod.
Two
War Chief Deru stalked through the firelit camp like a confident bear. A big, muscular man with massive shoulders, he had a square jaw and a squashed nose, crushed by the same enemy war club that had caved in his left cheek. Across the meadow, most of the men ate with their heads down, their gazes focused on what lurked inside them. Deru was a master at assessing the mood of his war parties, and he knew many of these men were angry and disheartened. They had just slaughtered relatives of men and women who only a short time ago had saved their lives, and the lives of their loved ones. Later, he expected fights to break out. They had to relieve their frustration some way.
He halted by the fire of five warriors. Each had his cape pulled tight against the cold. Their dirt-streaked faces wore hollow expressions.
He lightly slapped a man on the back. “Jonsoc, how is your arm?” Though they’d bandaged the arrow wound, it continued to seep blood through the thick leather binding.
Jonsoc, a stoutly built youth of sixteen summers, flexed his muscles and winced. He always kept his black hair cut very short, in mourning for friends lost in battle. “I can still fight, War Chief. Don’t worry.” His dark deeply set eyes appeared haunted.
Deru propped his hands on his hips, and it made his red-painted leather cape flare outward. “There will be no more fighting for a few days, at least I hope not. We’ll be headed straight back to Bur Oak and Yellowtail villages tomorrow.”
For defensive purposes, villages had been moving closer together, combining warriors to mount larger war parties. It seemed to be working. They’d had many successes of late. Though tonight’s triumph was a hollow mimicry of true victory. It had not been a battle of skilled, passionate warriors fighting for the honor of their clans, but a slaughter of sick people who could barely lift their heads from their bedding hides. An unknown fever stalked the land, making enemy villages easy targets. That’s what was eating at his men. They felt like murderers, instead of warriors.
Both Deru and Sky Messenger had spoken out against the orders, arguing that it was more honorable to wait until the Flint People were well, then attack. High Matron Kittle had barely listened. In a bored voice, she’d informed them, “The council wishes to keep our losses low. Which should be obvious to you two, since you claim to be warriors. Surely you know it’s easier to kill people when they are sick and can’t fight. We are also, all of us, obligated to gather enough captives to restore the numbers of clan members lost in the last battle with the Mountain People. How do you propose we do that if we do not attack someone? Get out of my sight. Both of you make me ill.”
A stinking wave of smoke gusted out of the burning village, scattering the embers in the fire and flinging them about. Warriors cursed and lunged to get out of the way. Deru pulled up his cape and covered his nose until it passed. Ashes spun across the meadow like tiny tornadoes, then thrashed through a copse of leafless plum trees before vanishing into the forest.
“I wish Wind Mother would calm herself,” Jonsoc said. “Her constant whining has a sickly quality that shreds my nerves.”
“You’re such a girl.” Hannock chuckled.
Wampa’s brow lifted. She shoved shoulder-length black hair away from her irritated face. She had seen twenty-four summers and distinguished herself in battle many times. Her twin sister, Yaweth, sat beside her, smiling as Wampa’s hand dropped suggestively to her belted war club. “Perhaps you would like to rephrase that before I crush your skull.”
Hannock grinned sheepishly. “What I meant to say is, Jonsoc, you are such an infant.”
Jonsoc sighed. “Oh, yes, I like that much better than being called a girl. Thank you, Wampa.”
Smiles replaced the hollow expressions. Warriors shoveled more cornmeal mush into their jaws and laughed as they chewed.
Deru glanced around the camp, searching for his deputy. “Has anyone seen Sky Messenger? I’ve been looking for him for over one hand of time.”
Between bites, Hannock said, “He relieved us so we could eat. He’s guarding the captives.”
“Ah, good for him, always thinking of his warriors before himself.”
Deru turned and saw Sky Messenger standing before the captives with his war club propped on his shoulder. Strangely, the children had stopped crying. He studied their firelit faces. They sat like small statues, still and quiet. Some must by lying down in the grass. He saw only a handful of children and two women.