The Dawn Country(95)

“Yes,” he answered in a sad voice. “She has always been the ‘problem. ’ But there are many who have claims on her life. You are not one of them.”

Cord shook his head. The obsidian eyes held his. The man did not blink, or look away. No expression lined his face, only a strange serenity far more frightening than anger.

“And if I do kill her?” Cord asked.

Black Cape moved his pale hands, reclasping them. It was a sort of weightless gesture, as quiet as the light snowfall, and Cord had the distinct impression that he was not flesh and blood. The man said, “You must help me with this one thing. It is not your right to kill her.” The desperation in his voice never touched the glassy stillness of his face. He remained oddly immobile, as if centuries had taught him that, like the serpent in the leaves, survival rested in stillness.

As the voices in the camp rose to a crescendo, Cord became acutely conscious of the blood surging in his veins. It was now or never. “Very well,” he said, “but I can’t speak for anyone else.”

Black Cape’s head moved faintly, a dip of gratitude that seemed stripped to bare bones, a far-off echo of a human gesture. The man’s gaze shifted to Gannajero. There was an instant of terrible silence where Cord had the feeling he was gazing upon a starving monster biding its time, motionless, waiting to strike until the prey came close enough.

Cord drew back his bow, aimed, and released. Before the arrow had even struck Kotin, he had another arrow nocked and aimed at Waswan.

He let fly, and glanced at Black Cape. The creature seemed frozen in time.

Cord nocked his bow and drew back again, but a hail of arrows began striking the trees around him. Cord flattened himself behind the hill as shouts went up and men started running for cover.

“Get down!” Cord yelled.

Black Cape just stood serenely staring at Gannajero, as though oblivious to the rain of death.





Forty-three

Sindak’s muscles hardened and swelled against his leather shirt as he waited for Cord. What was taking him so long? Sindak’s hand ached where he was gripping CorpseEye, hiding the club behind his back. To make things more interesting, CorpseEye had started to warm his fingers, and it terrified him. Was the club trying to tell him something? What was he supposed to do about it?

Gannajero and Kotin’s argument had grown violent. The old woman was shoving Kotin with both hands while he waved his war club. He must have been weighing the momentary pleasure of beating her to bloody pulp for humiliating him in front of his warriors against the next twenty summers of untold wealth, and perhaps even status as the matron’s personal guard—

An arrow flashed in the firelight, the chert point glinting as it drove into Kotin’s back with enough force to send him staggering drunkenly across the ground.

One of the warriors shouted, “We’re being attacked! Kill them!”

“No!” Gannajero yelled. “If you kill them, I lose everything!”

Before anyone could react, another arrow shish-thumped into Waswan, and the man let out a hideous cry. Then a melee broke out. Shouts and screams rose. Men started running in all directions. Two men launched themselves at Gonda and knocked him to the ground, while several others wildly fired arrows into the darkness, trying to stop their attacker.

Sindak lunged into the clearing, shouting, “War Chief!” and when Koracoo turned, he tossed her CorpseEye.

As it spun through the air toward her, her eyes lit with a feral gleam. Koracoo snatched the weapon out of the air, pivoted on one foot, and charged into the fight spinning and leaping like some Spirit creature from the old stories. Two men sprang at her, grinning and whooping. She used a side-handed swing to crush the shoulder of the first and send him stumbling for the forest; then she spun on her toes and knocked the feet out from under the second man. Before he had time to roll, she brought her club down on his skull and moved on, running deeper into the fight.

A big warrior with missing front teeth shrieked a war cry and barreled toward Sindak, his club up. Sindak had just enough time to pull his own club from his belt and parry a blow meant to crush his skull, but the force of the assault toppled him. As he scrambled to get up, the warrior hissed, “Die, Hills dog!” and swung his club down hard, aimed for Sindak’s spine.

Sindak rolled. The club whomped the ground less than a hand’s breadth from his body. Gasping for breath, Sindak clawed his way to his feet, and they circled each other like buffalo bulls, growling and panting.

“Are all your men so slow?” Sindak taunted with a grin. “Or are your knees just weak from rutting with your sisters?”

“You filth!”