People of the Raven (North America's Forgotten Past) (51 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear,Kathleen O'Neal Gear

BOOK: People of the Raven (North America's Forgotten Past)
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G
ispaxloats glanced uneasily at Kitselas. Their small fire had burned down to ashes, and as the first faint light of dawn sent rose colors through the thin high clouds, it was apparent that the great matron’s soul had fled. What was even worse, they were lost. He had no idea where the trail was that they were supposed to take, and without Astcat to tell them, all he could do was stumble on ahead and hope he was doing it right.
Blue Hand and Spotted Arm both sat across the fire, blankets around their waists as they yawned and rubbed their eyes. That didn’t hide the worry as they shot quick glances at the matron.
She lay in her litter just west of the fire, where the evening breezes would drift the fire’s warmth over her. This morning, however, her face was slack, her mouth hanging agape. Drool slipped silver down the side of her chin.
Gispaxloats shook his head, muttering, “What now?”
They had stopped for the night and set up camp in a shallow cove just up from a stream crossing. The location was bounded on three sides by basalt outcrops and partially screened by brush. Thick grass had made for good bedding, and enough snags had been snapped from the nearby conifers to keep the fire going all night.
“We follow our orders,” Kitselas said with resignation as he
watched the old woman’s shallow breathing. “She is the great matron. That’s all there is to it.”
“But it doesn’t make any sense!” Spotted Arm muttered as he stood, watched his frosty breath in the cold air, and then walked into the brush to relieve himself.
“Who cares if it makes sense?” Blue Hand, his younger brother, kicked his blankets off, rose, and followed. From behind the screening of brush, he added, “Kitselas is right. She’s the great matron of the North Wind People. We keep going.”
“Cimmis is going to pull our hearts out of our chests and boil them while they’re still beating.”
Gispaxloats pulled his war bag over, lifted the flap, and stared inside. “There’s enough food here for one breakfast. I say we cook it, eat it, and do as the matron told us.”
“Yes. Let’s,” Kitselas agreed. “We might as well eat it all. I’ve always wanted to die with a full stomach.”
Blue Hand stepped out of the brush and ran his fingers through his hair as he stared at the listless Astcat. “Why did she choose us for this?”
“Because we’re the best.” Gispaxloats tossed more firewood onto the coals. “Kitselas, take that bladder over there and walk down to the stream. Bring me some water. I heard that the great chief always trickles water into her mouth when her soul comes loose.”
Kitselas took the water bladder and stood. “What if the great chief catches us before we can complete the task we’ve been given?”
“Then he’d better find the matron receiving the best of care.” Gispaxloats stared hopefully at Astcat. “I just hope she brings her soul back in time to explain for us.”
Reluctantly Blue Hand said, “Well, let’s get about it. We have the matron’s orders. I’ll build up the fire. You go cut green branches. If she wants a big smoke, we’ll make it so that the whole country can see.”
“Yeah,” Spotted Arm muttered as he stepped out of the bushes. “It’s a toss-up as to who is going to find us and kill us first.”
 
 
D
o you see the smoke, my Chief?” Young Thunder Boy called.
“What smoke?” Cimmis asked.
Over ten tens of people twisted at once to look back at Cimmis. He felt like he was gazing into a writhing sea of disembodied faces. The North Wind procession resembled a snake with a chipmunk in its belly as it wound down the ridgetop trail. The triangular head of the snake was composed of three people. Immediately behind them, a group of around five tens of warriors marched. A bulbous circle of spear throwers encircled the Four Old Women’s litters. Another group of warriors brought up the rear, and the tail of the snake slithered out behind.
Just ahead of him, the Four Old Women shifted on their litters to see what the commotion was.
Thunder Boy said, “Someone is sending a signal down along the base of the mountain.” He swung around and pointed to the south-west. “You can still see the column of white smoke where the wind has blown it back into the trees.”
Cimmis stepped away from his guards to get a good look at the location. He knew this terrain; every groove and bump was familiar. If Rain Bear was sending the message, he couldn’t be too far from the spire. Probably … there. Less than two hand’s run from Water Storage Plateau.
“Are you sure that was a message and not just some hunter drowning a campfire?”
Thunder Boy swallowed hard. “It was a white plume of smoke, Great Chief. We thought you should know.”
Cimmis turned, beckoning to Wind Scorpion, who walked several paces back. The grizzled old warrior trotted forward.
“Yes, Great Chief?” When Cimmis pointed, the cunning old eyes turned to where the faint white plume of smoke rose over the distant trees.
“Do you know what that might be?”
Wind Scorpion’s eyes narrowed. “A signal of some sort, I suppose. The first thing that comes to mind is that Rain Bear has split his forces. One group is signaling to another. He surely wouldn’t attack here. This ground is too open.”
He gestured down the slope. A fire five summers ago had denuded the slope where the trail followed the ridge down toward patches of trees.
As they walked, Cimmis couldn’t help but glance periodically at the plume of white. It seemed to strengthen, and then diminish, only to be replenished again. It looked to him more like a beacon than a signal smoke. Beacon? For what? For whom?
As if he had overheard Cimmis’s thoughts, Wind Scorpion said, “The threads of Power are being drawn tight.”
 
 
A
s the sun rose ever higher in the sky, Hunter kept shooting wary glances at the witch, as did Deer Killer; but Dzoo had her unblinking eyes focused on Ecan. She seemed possessed of an absolute stillness. With her dark hood flapping around her beautiful face, she looked almost godlike.
“Witch!” Hunter called. “Are you sleepwalking?”
She didn’t appear to hear him.
“I asked you a—”
“Red Dog’s soul is stalking yours.” She said it so calmly.
Deer Killer cried, “Red Dog? No one’s even seen him for days. Word is he ran off to Rain Bear.”
Hunter glanced warily around; the very notion of something stalking his soul chilled his blood. “What makes you think he’s dead?”
“A witch whispered it to me last night.”
“We were guarding you all night. No one came close.” Deer Killer thumped his chest in emphasis.
“I shall miss the two of you,” she said simply. “Give my regards to Red Dog’s spirit when you see it. Tell him I will always honor his memory.”
“That makes no sense,” Hunter muttered, but he kept glancing over his shoulder to see if a ghost was there.
 
 
A
s Dzoo walked, a heaviness lay in her heart. She had liked Red Dog. When Coyote had whispered that he’d killed him outside of Salmon Village, her heart had deadened. She had known that Red Dog cared for her, had seen it grow in his eyes while he healed under her care.
Scoundrel that he was, she would miss his wit, the dogged persistence of his character. He would never have filled the hole left by her Pearl Oyster: She had had one husband, one love of her life.
She could feel Ecan’s presence long before she was aware of him marching up to her.
“Hunter, Deer Killer, leave us.” The Starwatcher made a gesture with his hand.
The guards faded off to each side, leaving a bubble of space around them. Dzoo sniffed, catching the subtle odor of damp moss. “You are tainted, Starwatcher.” She glanced at his pinched expression. “What was his reaction when he laid hands on his fetishes again?”
Ecan missed a step. And recovered, one hand to his breast. “What … what are you talking about?”
She let the faintest of smiles bend her lips. “I’m talking about the bargain you struck with Coyote. Was Red Dog part of it, or was killing him Cimmis’s idea?”
“Cimmis deals with Coyote?” Ecan seemed genuinely surprised.
“Of course. But for a thread of Power, Coyote would have already killed Tsauz and removed him from the complex web we find ourselves in. Curious, isn’t it, that he didn’t kill Matron Evening Star that night in her lodge?”
Ecan was watching her as if she could spin miracles. “Coyote was sent to kill both Evening Star
and
Tsauz?”
“You owe your son’s life to the Soul Keeper, Rides-the-Wind. Why do you think the old man went to Rain Bear in the first place? It was to save the boy.”
“For which I shall reward him when the time comes.” Ecan seemed suddenly reserved, as if putting new pieces into an old puzzle. “As to Evening Star, I would prefer to deal with her on my own.”
“If
he
will let you.”
“I control—”
“Is that what you think?” She laughed at the man’s temerity. “What makes you think he would
serve
you?” She lowered her voice to a hiss. “You’re no doubt congratulating yourself on having drawn him away from Cimmis. Do you really think Coyote would choose to ally himself with a dead man?”
He barked a sharp if unsettled laugh. “You keep calling me that, and my heart keeps beating.”
She shrugged. “Even without your prompting, he would have killed Cimmis and Astcat sooner or later.”
Ecan’s face went ashen. “I would
never
—”
“You still don’t understand, do you?” She searched his eyes, seeing all the vainglorious arrogance welling behind them.
“Understand what?”
“The reason he took your payment, the reason he’ll kill Astcat and Cimmis in the end. You see the reason he left Evening Star alive is because he needs her to be his matron. When this is all over,
he will be great chief
!”
F
rom his place in the line of march, White Stone watched as Ecan staggered away from Dzoo. The Starwatcher stopped in the middle of the trail, his eyes focused on something in the distance. White Stone gazed curiously that way, but could only see Raven Bay, Gull Inlet, and the distant islands.
Dzoo, meanwhile, was looking down the slope ahead of them, where patches of firs grew. He followed her gaze first to the low rise to his left—at which she smiled for a time—then down to the grove of firs. Dzoo’s face turned stoic enough to have been carved from some pale hardwood.
White Stone lifted his war ax and called, “Hunter! Close up on the prisoner.” She wouldn’t think of trying to escape into those trees, would she?
As the procession continued plodding down the winding trail toward the trees, the ocean breeze mixed with scents of mud and damp firs to form a heady fragrance. The Four Old Women on their litters hissed questions to each other. Everything was going as planned, and they were ahead of schedule.
He watched his two lead scouts trot into the trees. He had almost forgotten Dzoo’s interest in the trees when two warriors in mangy hide capes charged out from the timber. A half heartbeat later, a screaming horde broke from cover. Keen obsidian points glinted on the tips of their spears.
White Stone shouted, “Get into position!”
Just as Cimmis had planned, three tens of spear throwers separated from the circle around the Four Old Women, and the men behind moved forward to take their places. The first group ran downhill to form a solid wall against the attackers.
The litter bearers quickly set their burdens down and huddled around the Council and the matrons accompanying the party.
All except Kaska, who stepped off her litter, shoved through the ring of guards, and looked down the slope at the Raven People. White Stone smiled at the thought of her confusion. By now, according to her plan, Sand Wasp should have been looking to her for orders.
Instead, the Salmon Village war chief stood tall, his jaw set, not two paces from White Stone. White Stone said, “Sand Wasp, have your warriors form a second line behind the first!”
“Yes, War Chief!”
For a moment, when he turned around, Sand Wasp’s gaze touched Kaska’s. The man seemed to freeze; then he motioned to his warriors. “You heard White Stone, form a second line!”
Three tens of Kaska’s warriors ran down the slope and knelt behind the first row of defenders.
“Ready!” White Stone called as the Raven People dashed up the slope, their spears over their heads. Casting uphill was risky at best, but on the run?
As they neared casting range, the Raven People split in half in a clumsy pincer movement.
Blessed gods, they’re fools!
White Stone watched the ineffective tactic develop. The attacking warriors were panting from their long run up the hill. Worse, their formation was disintegrating as they scrambled over the rough hillside.
White Stone filled his lungs. “First line, cast!”
Sunlight flashed down the polished shafts as the spears arced into the sky, seemed to hover like birds for a few eternal instants, then plunged down.
The lethal missiles met flesh; the screams began—ragged, breathless. At least half of the Raven People fell. Most writhed on the ground, trying to jerk the shafts of wood and stone from their bodies. Some stood dumbfounded, staring at the carnage. Others threw down their weapons and ran, but a few kept coming.
The few enemy spears gleamed as though afire as they lanced through the sky. Three of the throwers in the first line went down. Then two more.
“Second line, cast!” White Stone ordered.
Kaska’s warriors took aim and threw.
White Stone turned to look at Dzoo. She stood tall, utterly unafraid, watching the battle. Cimmis had hoped that by leaving Dzoo out front, it might stem the ardor of the enemy spear throwers. The great chief had apparently miscalculated.
“Ready!” White Stone’s remaining warriors nocked spears in their atlatl hooks.
“Let them get closer, closer …” When the Raven People were less than two tens of paces away, he shouted, “Cast!”
Several went down instantly, but the others charged forward, screaming like gutted birds.
“Use your clubs!” he shouted, and as his men rushed to obey, tens of spears clattered onto the ground.
The war chief who led the enemy warriors headed straight for White Stone. He was stocky, with a scarred face and granite-headed war club.
White Stone lifted his ax, braced his feet, and waited for the man to come to him.
“Meet your death!” The Raven warrior swung his club at White Stone’s head.
White Stone sidestepped, pivoted, and drove his ax into the panting man’s back as momentum carried him around. The Raven warrior let out a surprised yip as the blow severed his spine. He tumbled to the ground, screaming, his upper body flopping helplessly. Several others went down around White Stone as Sand Wasp waded into the onslaught.
Then, abruptly, the few remaining Raven warriors broke and ran.
“Hold!” White Stone bellowed to keep his warriors from dashing in pursuit. Nevertheless, a handful did, carried away by the moment. He ground his teeth. Better if they were killed by the fleeing Raven warriors than if they had to face his wrath for disobeying orders. At the calls of their fellows a couple turned back, glancing sheepishly in his direction.
Cimmis came striding down the line. His gray bun had come unpinned and hung around his wrinkled face. White Stone watched as Matron Kaska lifted the hem of her cape and fell into step behind Cimmis.
As Cimmis passed the Four Old Women, he ordered, “Lift these litters! Be ready to move at my command!”
In less than five heartbeats they’d hoisted the litters and stood stiffly waiting.
“Where is Rain Bear?” Cimmis demanded when he arrived. His
sharp old gaze darted over the dead and wounded that scattered the slope.
“I didn’t see him, my Chief.”
“Where could he be? Still in the trees?”
White Stone shook his head. “It isn’t like Rain Bear to hide in the trees while his men go out to meet the enemy. He usually leads the charge.”
“Hunter?” Cimmis sharply called. “Go and search the bodies for Rain Bear.”
“Yes, my Chief!”
White Stone turned to watch Hunter kick over the first body and barely heard the soft grunt behind him.
He turned back in time to see Sand Wasp stagger as Kaska repeatedly drove a stiletto into his back. The war chief didn’t even try to fight back, but wavered as his knees buckled and he collapsed at her feet.
Sand Wasp gasped, “Forgive me, Matron. I did not wish to … to do it, but …” His gaze flickered to Cimmis, as if caressing his face.
White Stone clutched his ax a little more tightly and noticed the two new shiny copper nuggets that gleamed on the dying war chief’s throat.
Kaska shouted at her warriors, “You obey my orders now, and mine alone! Return to your positions. We must make it to Wasp Village as soon as possible!”
White Stone glanced at Cimmis and raised a questioning eyebrow.
Kill her now?
The great chief shook his head.
White Stone wasn’t sure he agreed, but perhaps this really wasn’t the time.
Cimmis whispered, “I’ll have my special agent attend to it tonight. When everyone else is asleep.”
White Stone nodded.
Kaska’s warriors muttered, stared forlornly at Sand Wasp, then started back to regroup in front of the litters.
Kaska had turned her hard glare on Cimmis, knowing full well he was going to kill her, and calmly went back to climb onto her litter.
“That’s a brave woman,” White Stone said softly.
Cimmis ground his teeth. “Yes, much too brave. I want her separated from her warriors.”
“But my chief, we need every—”
“It would demoralize our men to have to kill their own people, War Chief. Do as I say.”
He bowed stiffly. “Of course.”
Occasional screams still rose from the firs down the slope, but White Stone had no way of knowing if they were torn from his men, or from Raven warriors.
Hunter trotted back up the slope and said, “My chief, I have looked into the eyes of everyone lying on this slope, alive or dead. Rain Bear is not here.”
Cimmis wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Then who are these people? They are Raven warriors, aren’t they?”
“They are Raven warriors,” White Stone said. “It took me a few moments, but I recognized the man who attacked me. He was the war chief of Shell Maiden village.”
Cimmis seemed to be considering that. “I may have underestimated Rain Bear.”
“I hope not. He is the one man in the world I would not wish to underestimate. Especially not now when we are tired from marching all night. Our quivers are half empty, my chief. If this was some kind of diversion, it did work to weaken us.”
Cimmis rubbed his chin. “Tell our warriors to pick up every spear that can be thrown, even if the point’s broken. Then we’ll go. We won’t be safe until we’re in Wasp Village.”
White Stone lifted his ax and shouted, “Move through the meadow. Collect every spear!”
People ran through the grass, picking up spears, pulling stilettos from the bodies of dead warriors.
He turned, looking down the mountain’s flank to where a green thumb of land protruded into Raven Bay. A faint blue haze of smoke could be seen.
Their haven still lay a hard march away.
And somewhere out there, Rain Bear and his warriors were waiting.

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