The Dawn Country(19)

“How old is he?”

“He’s seen eleven summers. He’s four moons older than my son, Odion.”

An ache entered Cord’s chest and gradually filtered through his entire body. “My son had seen twelve summers.”

“Had?”

“Yes, he—he was killed, along with my wife, when the Mountain People attacked Wild River Village two summers ago.” Cord had been standing on the palisade catwalk when he’d heard Lazza, his wife, scream. She’d been clutching both children’s hands, dragging them through the thick smoke, trying to outrun five warriors with war clubs. It was a miracle his daughter had survived the blows to her head.

Gonda whispered, “Blessed gods, when will we stop killing each other?”

“When we all have food in our bellies. But not until then. The gods must give us back the rainfall and the warmth, or our great-grandchildren will still be fighting.”

Hunger stalked the land, and had for a long time. The elders said that the past one hundred summers had been unusually cold and dry. That’s why the corn, beans, squash, and sunflowers rarely matured. The growing seasons were too short. Meager harvests made people hunt harder, but after so many summers, the animals were mostly hunted out. When people couldn’t feed their children, they had to take what they needed from nearby villages. Stealing had become a way of life. When it failed, war became necessary. The battles had gotten particularly violent in the past twenty summers. No one was safe.

“As a boy,” Gonda said, “I remember the elders telling stories of a time when hundreds of small villages scattered the countryside. Can you believe that? People felt safe enough to live in small villages?”

“It was a different world. I do not believe we will ever see that again, not in our lifetimes.”

Gonda exhaled hard. “No, but sometimes at night, I dream of it.”

For as long as Cord could recall, smaller villages had been combining for defensive purposes. They built larger longhouses to accommodate the increased population and moved in together, then surrounded the new village with a thirty- or forty-hand-tall palisade of upright logs. Sometimes, they built two or three layers of palisades.

Cord surveyed the locations of the other warriors. On the opposite side of the ravine, Ogwed hid with Sindak behind the dogwoods. Cord could just barely see the outlines of their bodies through the dense tangle of branches. His gaze moved. Twenty paces up the slope, Dzadi and Towa were almost invisible in a pile of tumbled rocks. Just to their right, the four children had slithered into the low rock shelter; it was barely big enough for them to lie flat on their bellies. He could not see or hear them. They were as silent as the dead.

Cord did not know where Koracoo had hidden, but it was a measure of his exhaustion that he’d been content to allow her to lead the party. That and the fact that she had a powerful presence. Dangerous. Competent. And heart-stoppingly beautiful.

Without being consciously aware of it, his nocked bow sank into his lap. He heaved a breath and braced his forehead against the cold gray boulder. He needed to save his strength. Surely he could just close his eyes for an instant without …

His breathing instantly fell into deep soothing rhythms. Five heartbeats later, his dead wife knelt before him and smiled. Lazza, what are you doing here? He lifted his hand. She took it and kissed his calloused palm, then lovingly rested her cheek upon it. I know you’re tired, my husband, but you mustn’t sleep. Soon, but not yet.

A moccasined foot lightly kicked him. “Cord? They’re coming.”

Gonda’s voice had been very soft, but Cord woke breathless, rigidly still. “How far away?”

“Two hundred paces up the trail.”

“How long did I sleep?”

“Maybe sixty heartbeats. Not long.”

Cord gripped his bow, shook himself awake, and rose into position. He aimed down at the trail that ran along the base of the boulders.

A short time later, one hundred paces away, just beyond the range of their bows, a circle of dark shapes came into view, melted together, and whines and yips erupted. All around the circle, vague forms slinked through the moonlight.

“I don’t believe it,” Gonda hissed.

In the brightest patch of moonlight a boy of no more than twelve summers appeared. He moved with commingled distrust and daring, cautiously observing the shadows, then walked into the ravine. His nostrils flared and contracted, then flared again, as though he’d caught their scent but wasn’t certain where they were.

Cord studied him. He wore no cape or coat. His ribs stuck out through a threadbare shirt, and his stomach had shrunken up tight against his backbone. His lean face had the desperate alertness of a dog that hasn’t eaten in days.