The Dawn Country(5)

Dzadi—now in the lead—stopped dead in his tracks and lifted his nose to scent the wind. A tall and muscular warrior, his face was dominated by an enormous jaw that protruded outward and down until it almost seemed to rest upon his bearlike chest. Dzadi had seen thirty-four summers, most of them at war. He wore the puckered burn scars that discolored his face and arms like badges of honor. Last summer, Dzadi had been captured by the People of the Landing. Through indomitable will and cunning he’d managed to escape his captivity; the scars would be with him forever as a reminder.

The howling cry came again, piercing the darkness like a knife. Hollow, wolfish, it sliced upward to a final shrill note that seemed to hang in the night and shook a man to his souls.

Cord tilted his head, determined the direction. Directly beneath them, down the mountain, through the maples. Was it the same group of survivors? Or another? Perhaps several had merged.

“Was that a … a wolf?” Young Wado asked, locking his knees to keep his legs from trembling.

Cord’s men shifted, glancing uneasily at each other. No wolf could fill its voice with that desperate, hungry rage. Somewhere inside them, they all knew it.

Dzadi worked his way past the other warriors, touching a shoulder or confidently gripping an arm to steady a man; then he came to stand beside Cord and hoarsely whispered, “They’re still following us.”

“We have to keep moving.”

Cord took the lead again, muscles trembling, struggling toward the distant notch that marked the pass. On the other side they would strike the trail that led west: home to the People of the Flint, and safety.

When they came to a thickly forested section, he told his men, “Be careful. Watch your footing. Every time you trip over a root, it drains you that much more.”

Below, the cries rose and fell, wild with mockery, as though their pursuers knew there was no escape.

Cord lifted his gaze to the rolling mountains. High above him, hidden behind waves of peaks, was the rocky defile known as Elbow Pass. Steep switchbacks zigzagged up the mountainside. Their enemies were driving them toward it like deer into a killing pen. Once they reached the switchbacks—if they reached them—their pursuers would block the trail below. He and his men would be forced to continue climbing upward. There was no other way.

Two hands of time later, they reached the base of the switchbacks and squatted on their haunches in a copse of willows. His men were gasping for breath, and the scent of stale sweat filled the air.

“We haven’t heard them in a while,” Ogwed panted. He’d seen eighteen summers. A handsome youth with an oval face and flat nose, he’d lost three children and his wife in the battle that had destroyed Wild River Village. He turned sad eyes on Cord. “Do you think they gave up?”

Cord untied his water bag from his belt and took a long drink. Every eye was upon him, waiting for his answer. When he’d drunk his fill, he lowered the bag and tied it to his belt again. “Maybe, but I don’t think so.”

A grim smile rearranged Dzadi’s scars. “There is only one pass.” He nodded toward the Elbow above. “That’s the route home. They know it as well as we do.”

“But they might think we broke off, tried to skirt the mountain through the rough terrain,” Wado suggested hopefully. The youngest warrior in his party, Wado had only seen sixteen summers. “Maybe they just decided to go home and take care of their dead relatives?”

Cord closed his eyes, desperate for even a moment’s rest. “We hit them hard, Wado. As hard as they hit us. Would you give up?”

Wado hung his head and seemed to be considering; then he whispered a miserable, “No.”

Ogwed glanced around the circle and sheepishly asked, “Can we sleep for a while? We haven’t slept in two days, I—I’m not sure how much longer I can run.”

“Eat something,” Cord instructed. “Food will give you strength.”

Ogwed pulled a strip of elk jerky from his belt pouch and chewed it in silence. The other warriors did the same, jaws working deliberately, trying to get food in their bellies before the last brutal climb.

Cord examined their downcast faces. Two men had their eyes closed, trying to nap while they chewed. Their heads kept bobbing and jerking up. Though no one grumbled, they looked disheartened and soul-dead. Warriors pushed to the brink began to think their Power was broken, that they’d been deserted by the Spirit World. When that happened they would start to disappear, drifting away one by one.

Dzadi murmured, “Being out of arrows doesn’t help our situation. We shouldn’t have wasted them on those wild shots at our pursuers.”