The Dawn Country(7)

“Dzadi, listen,” Cord said quietly. “I have nothing to go home to. If we have to sacrifice someone, I—”

“One man can’t do it, old friend. You know that. You and I will stay together.”

“I can do it. Not for long, but for long enough that the rest of you can get away.”

Dzadi smiled, and the taut, shiny skin of his burn scars reflected the starlight. “Our people need you. I’m the expendable one, Cord. I’ll stay.”

The walls of black rock that created the switchbacks seemed to be leaning down to listen better, and Cord wondered how many desperate men had stood on this very spot and spoken these very words. How much blood had these rocks absorbed? Cord swore he could hear the land itself laughing at him, laughing with the deep ageless wisdom that comes from watching thousands of puny men toil and die, crushed by the weight of their own fears.

“I’ve seen you fight, Dzadi. I know you’ll kill half of them before it’s over, but—”

Dzadi pointed down the mountain. “There they are.”

Cord swung around. Dark shapes moved through the shadows at the base of the switchbacks. More appeared. Two, three, four, then too many.

Dzadi lowered his arm. Occasionally, fangs flashed and pricked ears swayed against the frost-lit background. Headdresses?

“Wolf Clan warriors,” Dzadi whispered, shaken for the first time. “May the Spirits of the Dead help us.”

Shadows spread out among the tree trunks. Shapes appeared, then vanished, then moved again higher up the trail.

“How many do you count?” Dzadi whispered.

“Maybe twenty. Maybe more.” Cord exhaled a long tense breath.

“They’re persistent. Surely they don’t think we have captives with us?”

“They may.”

After the battle, the women and children captured at Bog Willow had been rounded up and herded into the victorious warriors’ camp. Many were sold to the highest bidder. Cord remembered seeing two Traders who specialized in child slaves—though in the commotion, some of the captive children had escaped. Most were caught and dragged back within a few hundred heartbeats, but it had caused quite a stir for a time, briefly interrupting the feasting, dancing, and general revelry.

Dzadi hissed, “This is not looking good.”

Cord filled his lungs and bellowed, “Come on, you lazy dogs! Hurry it up. Move! I said, move!”

His three men staggered and stumbled up the steep trail with agonizing slowness. The human wolves below them darted back and forth around the switchbacks. Cry after cry erupted and echoed through the trees.

Cord’s men betrayed their fear by scrambling up the slope, panting as they ran for their lives.





Four

Is this what it feels like to die?

Wrass eased to his side on the packs in a birch-bark canoe. The violent pain in his broken skull blurred his vision, leaving him dizzy and nauseated. Vomit continually tickled the bottom of his throat, and his bowels squirmed like shivering eels.

But the blows had been worth it.

Some of the others got away: Odion, Baji, Tutelo. Even Hehaka.

Too bad Zateri had been recaptured. In that, he’d failed. He would have gratefully given up his life to save Zateri. Like him, she had been Gannajero’s captive for too long. Unlike him, she’d been sold to a lot of different men. Perhaps sold was the wrong word. They’d bought her for a hand of time to use in ways that would have earned the men death if their relatives ever learned of it. Gannajero, however, specialized in ensuring that no one ever found out about her children, or what happened to them.

The farther south Wrass’ captors paddled, the thinner the clouds became until they drifted through the night sky like translucent veils of charcoal silk. He watched them pass. Sometimes they looked like feathers slowly falling to earth. Two canoes bore Gannajero, her captive children, accomplices, and packs south from Bog Willow Village. Gannajero’s canoe, where he lay, was in the lead.

He tried to concentrate on the river’s tangy smells. Old leaves had piled along the shores, creating moldering borders that suffused the air with the musty scents of just-past autumn.

The only sounds on this cold night were the soft swishing of oars and the whimpering of the new children who lay beside Zateri in the canoe that followed them.

For a time, he let himself drift on the waves and think of home—which he rarely did, because it hurt too much. Yellowtail Village had been burned to the ground in the attack, but by now the survivors would have found a new place to rebuild and would already have cut hundreds of logs for the palisade. They might even have the palisade finished, and had perhaps begun building longhouses. He remembered Grandmother Sayeno telling the clan elders, two moons before the attack, that if they were smart they would ally themselves with a larger Standing Stone village. That way they could help protect each other. He wondered where the survivors had gone. Bur Oak Village was the closest large Standing Stone village. Perhaps they’d gone there to rebuild Yellowtail. If they …