“How many arrows are left between us?”
Dzadi rubbed his huge jaw as his gaze scanned the quivers. “Neyaw has two. That’s it. Maybe if we—”
A long shriek—mournful as a death cry—interrupted him. Dzadi listened to it before he finished. “If we can reach the pass and set up a trap, it might make them pause long enough for us to escape.”
“Perhaps.” Cord’s gaze flitted over the youngest warriors, and Dzadi knew what it meant: Maybe we can buy enough time for them to escape, but you and I will not.
Dzadi expelled a breath. “I can’t believe this. Over four hundred attacking warriors, from so many different peoples and villages, survived the attack. Why have they fixed on us? There are plenty of other war parties out in the forest trying to make it home.”
Around a mouthful of food, Wado stated the obvious: “It’s easier to slaughter a war party of five than a party of one hundred.”
Cord soberly tightened his fists. He’d already lost too many warriors in the battle—men and women he’d grown up with. People he’d loved and respected. And it looked as though he might lose the ones around him in the next hand of time. He’d been a fool to make this raid. He’d tell that to his elders when he returned—if either was alive. Both matrons had been badly wounded in the attack on Wild River Village, making decisions in haste, probably afraid they were dying.
Cord had argued against joining forces with the other Flint and Mountain People war parties to make this strike, saying they needed to bury their dead and make their way to a new village for protection before they considered any retaliatory action. The matrons had disagreed—and the rest of the village council was dead. He had never disobeyed the matrons, but he wished with all his heart that in this one instance, he had refused.
He got to his feet and looked down the mountain at the dark maples and boulders.
Ogwed said, “War Chief, maybe we should send out a scout? We don’t even know for certain that they’re enemy warriors. They could be part of the alliance. Maybe even some of our own people.”
Wado’s eyes brightened inside his frost-rimmed hood. “That must be it. They’re not after us. They’re just behind us. They’re Flint warriors. We should contact them! Let them know we’re brothers.”
Neyaw snorted in derision. He had a bulbous nose and slits for eyes and wore his long black hair coiled and pinned over his left ear. The style made his hood look lopsided. “You’re a young fool,” he commented, with the authority of a man who’d seen countless battles.
Wado glared, but did not reply. He knew better than to cross Neyaw. For the slightest provocation, Neyaw had been known to crush men’s throats with a blow from his war club, then string their teeth for a necklace.
Exhaustion pulling at his senses, Cord swayed on his feet. For several moments, he had the unearthly feeling that they were already dead—just ghosts wandering through a spectral enemy land, condemned to run forever with no hope of reaching home. The sensation was so powerful that it stunned him. He lifted a hand and rubbed his eyes. “Finish eating. Let’s go.”
He didn’t wait for them.
The steep switchbacks were filled with ice-coated rocks and gravel that rolled beneath his moccasins. Many times he lost his footing and had to claw at the rocks like a dog to keep going. His men fared no better. Grunts and curses laced the air, accompanied by the sounds of scrambling hands and feet.
When they were two-thirds of the way to the top, Cord stopped and turned. Ogwed and Wado were crawling up the slippery path on their hands and knees. Neyaw had fallen far behind. Dzadi glanced up at Cord, saw that he’d stopped, and heaved a sigh of relief as he clambered up to him.
Cord braced his wobbling legs. “What do you think?” He gestured to the men with his chin.
“Not all of them are going to make it home.”
Cord tilted his head to look up at the pass. In the pewter gleam, the deep V that resembled a bent elbow was filled with the glistening campfires of the dead. He gazed at them longingly. After the pass, for rested men, it wasn’t more than a hard two-day run back to the nearest Flint village, and home.
Home? Where was that now? His village had been burned, the familiar longhouses destroyed. Any homecoming was only going to be filled with grief as he realized how many relatives and old friends were gone.
At the thought, an almost unbearable sadness filled him. His wife and son were long dead, victims of the endless warfare. Two summers ago his daughter had been claimed by his wife’s clan—as was the way of the Flint People, who traced descent through the female. Children were clan property. Little Arum was greatly loved and cared for among the Bear Clan, and, of course, he saw her often. But his life was a husk of what it had been three summers ago.