Cord stared at Gonda. “They don’t want you, Gonda. You didn’t hurt them. If you’re smart, you’ll give us up to protect your children.”
“Well, frankly, I would, but my former wife stubbornly protects her allies. Even if they are Flint People.”
As though she’d heard, Koracoo called, “I am War Chief Koracoo from Yellowtail Village of the Standing Stone People. We did not attack you. Though you are correct, you did see us run away from the warriors’ camp last night.”
“You are Standing Stone,” the man replied, and sounded confused. “I can tell from your accent.”
The man carried on a brief conversation with the other members of his clan, then turned back. “My elders tell me there were no Standing Stone warriors in the attacking war party. What were you doing in their camp?”
“We weren’t in their camp. We went there to rescue our own children from the monster, Gannajero. She was in their camp. When our village was attacked and destroyed by Mountain warriors, my son and daughter were stolen and sold to Gannajero.” Koracoo walked out into the moonlight, giving them a clear shot at her. “Tell me your name.”
“I am Wakdanek, a Healer of the Dawnland People. It is my daughter, Conkesema, who is missing, as well as many other children. I saw Tagohsah buy Conkesema from one of the men who attacked us.”
“Then you and I should talk, Wakdanek. We are all being fools here tonight. Let us see if we share a common goal.”
“We may, War Chief Koracoo, but I fear—”
“Wait, Wakdanek.” A short hunchbacked woman waddled forward. Her feet slapped a clumsy rhythm as she crossed the frozen ground. She wore a conical cap that covered her ears. A frizz of white hair stuck out around the edges.
“She must be fifty summers old,” Gonda observed. “Look at that snowy hair.”
The old woman stopped beside Wakdanek and studied Koracoo, who stood on the ravine’s lip twenty hands above her. “I am Shara, an elder of the Otter Clan. Come down, War Chief. I want to hear your story of Gannajero. That is a name I have not heard in more than twenty summers, and it terrifies me to hear it now.”
Koracoo tied CorpseEye to her belt and started down the steep incline, moving with slow precision, letting them see her hands at all times.
Cord’s gaze shifted. During the conversation, the Dawnland warriors had taken the opportunity to crawl closer to their prey. He could see one youth, perhaps fourteen summers, openly lying on his belly in the moonlight. A short distance away, another boy crouched half-hidden behind an elderberry bush. While Cord watched, the boy opened his mouth, and saliva drooled down his chin. He licked his lips in anticipation.
Cord aimed his bow at the boy and struggled against the overpowering need to sleep. Even with death looking him straight in his face, his body wanted to give up. The need was like a calm pool of warm water; it kept seeping up around him and taking hold of his senses with gossamer hands, then silently dragging him down, down … .
“Stay awake!” Gonda snapped.
Cord roused with a sudden gasp. “It’s getting … difficult.”
“I understand, believe me, I do. But we need every pair of eyes right now. When this is done, you can sleep for as long as you wish.”
Cord chuckled softly. “Forever, maybe. If they have their way.”
Ten
Wrass huddled in the canoe with his cheek propped on the cold gunwale, watching the camp almost hidden in silver maples. His fever must be very high. He seemed to be trapped in a hazy sparkling bubble where nothing was quite real. The blurry warriors didn’t walk—they seemed to jerk from one place to another, shooting about like diving swallows. Nothing but fog and the great river existed beyond the camp’s boundaries. It was still night, but the warriors had risen, and went about building fires, rolling blankets, cooking breakfast. The smell of frying porcupine drifted from the warriors’ fire to his left.
Wrass lowered his eyes to the water that lazily flowed by. The warriors had dragged the canoe half out of the river onto the shore, but the stern was still in the water. He could see his reflection. At eleven summers, he was tall and thin. Normally, he had a narrow face with a beaked nose, and sharp dark eyes … but the beatings had left his face badly swollen and purpled with bruises. Dried blood matted his long black hair to his forehead and cheeks. For most of the night, he’d alternately slept and vomited.
“Get the children up. We’re going to be going soon,” Gannajero ordered. “And bring me the sick boy—and the youngest one.”
Wrass lifted his gaze. Gannajero crouched beside Kotin near a campfire. The two had been together for a long time.