Gonda hadn’t even looked at Cord. But he would. By the end of the day, he’d be strutting around Cord like a stiff-legged dog. It was the way of men.
Koracoo walked out of the trees carrying CorpseEye in both hands, as though ready to bash anything that annoyed her.
Sindak’s brows lifted. As Koracoo came across the sand, he said, “Gonda seemed a little upset.”
She replied, “War Chief Cord is my new deputy. We’re leaving.” She stalked past him, climbed to the rear, and grabbed an oar.
Odion and Baji watched her with wide eyes. They knew better than to say anything. Odion clutched his puppy tighter, and Gitchi wriggled unhappily.
Sindak turned to Cord. “Do you want to ride in the rear with her … or am I the condemned man?”
Cord smiled. “You’re the condemned man.”
Sindak heaved a sigh and got in.
Just as Cord started to shove the bow away from the shore, he heard something.
A soft suffocating cry.
Koracoo heard it, too. She straightened and shipped her paddle. “What was that?”
Odion got on his knees, listened for a few instants, and pointed to the larches to the south. “There, Mother.” He swung around to make sure she’d heard him.
Koracoo nodded. “Cord, go east and come up behind the larches. I’ll approach from the shore. Sindak, stay and guard the children.”
“But Mother,” Odion said. “It sounds like a child. Can I—?”
“No.”
The boy sank back to the packs with a disappointed expression.
Cord unslung his bow, pulled an arrow from his quiver, and slipped silently to the edge of the trees before he nocked it. The larches were in the process of shedding their needles, but enough remained to create a fuzzy yellow halo that extended back indefinitely into the forest. As he entered the grove, the cry came again.
Gently, so that he made no sound, Cord eased aside the branch blocking his path and stepped by. He carefully returned the branch to its former position. It made only the slightest shishing as a handful of needles pattered the duff.
He studied the dense undergrowth of dogwoods to his left. The weeping penetrated the thicket, but just barely, as though the person had his face buried in a heavy blanket to muffle his cries.
Birds hopped through the branches above him, chirping, which helped to cover the crackling of the old larch needles as Cord edged toward the thicket.
When he reached the outermost edge of the dogwoods, he saw movement and stood perfectly still, studying the shape until he made out what seemed to be four arms. Then eyes opened and stared at him.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said in the Dawnland tongue. By now the child would have assessed his hairstyle and fitted wolfhide coat as those of a Flint warrior. He might even suspect that Cord had been involved in the attack on Bog Willow Village. Assuming the boy knew about it. They were far south of traditional Dawnland country. The news may not have reached here yet.
The boy lifted his head. He wore a ratty cape made from woven strips of weasel hide, and had a narrow face with a thin bladelike nose. Tears glued stringy black hair to his cheeks. Amid the dogwood limbs, he appeared to be perhaps eight or nine summers old. The boy’s breathing sounded labored.
Cord struggled to decipher what he was seeing. When the boy shifted to sit up, his two arms became visible, but something wasn’t right about the shapes. The body parts didn’t seem to connect.
Cord released the tension on his bowstring and called, “Are you hungry? I have food I’ll share with you.”
Dark eyes blinked.
Nearby, Koracoo moved stealthily across the larch duff. If he hadn’t known she was coming, he might have assumed the sound was nothing more than birds scratching through the fallen needles. She stopped. Perhaps because she’d seen the boy.
Cord slung his bow and crouched down where he could see beneath the dogwood branches. The boy was scared witless, trembling. Tears ran down his cheeks.
Cord extended a hand. “You’re safe with us. Why don’t you come out where we can talk?”
A shaking little-boy voice said, “I—I’m lost.”
“It’s all right. We’ll help you. What’s your name?”
The boy licked his lips nervously. “Toksus.”
Koracoo slipped through the undergrowth and came to kneel beside Cord. “Toksus,” she called, “I give you my oath that you are safe. I am War Chief Koracoo of Yellowtail Village. I—”
“Yellowtail?” Toksus scrambled from beneath the dogwoods. Old leaves and needles covered his hair. He stood with his fists clenched. “Wrass’ village?”
In an unnaturally calm voice, Koracoo said, “Do you know Wrass?”