The Dawn Country(18)

“Are you all right?” Gonda whispered, barely audible.

Cord shook his head, and Gonda nodded in understanding. Gonda was a warrior. At some point in his life, he’d probably been in similar circumstances, so exhausted his brain seemed to have gone to sleep with his eyes wide open.

“Do you want to sleep for a few moments?” Gonda asked. “You don’t have to be awake until we see them. It might help.”

Cord shook his head. “No. I’m not sure I’d wake quickly enough. I have the feeling that when I can finally sleep, I won’t awaken for days.”

“All right. But we can’t afford to have you dozing off in the middle of the fight.”

“I won’t.” Blessed gods, let it be so.

Gonda turned to watch the trail again. He was a thin, wiry man with a round face. His short black hair had been chopped off with a knife, and he had a heavy brow that resembled a shelf over his brown eyes. Unlike the Flint People, who sewed finely tailored coats, he wore a plain buckskin cape that blended perfectly with the forest shadows—as was the way of the Standing Stone People. Dark splotches of blood spattered the cape’s front. Recently, he’d been in a deadly battle.

With whom?

Cord’s thoughts wandered, imagining the fight, and his head started to fall forward. He jerked upright and shook himself. It took an act of will to keep his eyes open. Whether he wanted to or not, very soon, sleep would claim him. His body would simply be unable to stave it off.

“What are you doing in Dawnland country with four children, Gonda?” he asked softly. “Are you uncommonly brave, or dim-witted?”

Gonda answered without taking his gaze from the trail. “Well, it’s a long story.”

“Tell me, if you can. It will help me keep my eyes open.”

Gonda glanced at him and smiled faintly. “Twenty days ago, our village was attacked and destroyed by Mountain warriors. They stole several of our children. Koracoo and I went after them. In the process, we had occasion to stop at a Hills People village, Atotarho Village—”

“Why would you stop there? Atotarho is an evil old sorcerer, and he hates all Standing Stone People. As well as Flint People, for that matter.”

“Well, that’s another tale. Let’s just say that Atotarho’s daughter had been captured in a raid, and he believed she was with our children.”

“Why did he think they were together? That makes no sense.”

Gonda braced his elbows on the boulder, supporting his bow and whispered, “Do you know the name Gannajero?”

Cord’s heart seemed to stop. He pinned Gonda with cold eyes. “Gannajero the Crow. She’s a Trader. But what she Trades in is so abominable, men have been trying to kill her for more than twenty summers. If she weren’t so cunning, none of us would ever mention her name again.”

“Soon, I will personally make certain her name is forgotten.”

Names were clan property. Immediately after birth, a child was given a name that had belonged to a revered ancestor. After the deaths of evil people, names were retired forever and no one mentioned them again.

Somberly, Gonda said, “Gannajero purchased our children, as well as Atotarho’s daughter.”

Cord bowed his head for a long moment, trying to blot out the horrors he was seeing on the fabric of his souls. Gannajero bought and sold children to satisfy the unnatural appetites of men who deserved to be dead. He wondered if Gonda and Koracoo had reached their children before anything bad had happened to them. “How long ago did you rescue your children?”

“Last night. Gannajero was in your victory camp, buying and selling children.”

Cord licked his dry, cracked lips. “I don’t recall seeing a woman Trader.”

“Nonetheless, she was there, with our children.”

That meant they’d been Gannajero’s slaves for more than half a moon. Too long to have gone unharmed. “Sindak and Towa are Hills warriors. Atotarho’s?”

“Yes. He sent them with us to help rescue his daughter—or so he said.”

“You doubt it?”

In a low, seething voice, Gonda replied, “I doubt every word that came out of Atotarho’s mouth.”

“You are wise, Gonda. He has a reputation for deceit that is unrivaled—except perhaps by Gannajero’s.”

As Grandmother Moon rose like a glowing ball over the treetops, she painted the forest with seashell opalescence. Every twig appeared to have been hand-polished to an unearthly shine.

Gonda said, “Gannajero still has one of our village children, a brave boy named Wrass.”

“Why do you say he’s brave?”

“He sacrificed his own freedom last night to make sure the other children got away. Every moment that we are delayed here, our chances of saving him grow slimmer.”