Fire in the Cave (17 page)

The witch-girl strained her eyes. The bright daylight stung them.
“If the River-warriors had already won, they would be all be
dancing, looting. But they mill about like ants, with their weapons
ready. Our people still live.” Relief rose within her, and
she forced it back down. They might still be dead by nightfall if
she didn’t find a way to save them. “Is the hidden
entrance still blocked? Is there any way to sneak them out?”

“We tried to clear the cave-in last month, but more stones
fell.” Black-dog muttered, focused on the distant warriors.
“There are passages deep below that may lead away, but they are
full of bad air and ghosts. All would die, wandering beneath the
earth. But I think we will not run. Look.”

The witch-girl watched. On the distant hillside, the crowd of
river-warriors was pulling back from the cave entrance. Two figures
separated from the mass and approached the cave. One was tall, a
head above all the tiny figures around him. The other had long hair,
dark locks to her waist.

“Ten-hands,” the witch-girl muttered. “And Manala,
the witch.”

The tall figure faced the cave and spread his arms wide. He spoke,
shouted. They could hear the faint echo of his voice across the
lake, over the distant barking of the dogs.

Black-dog grinned like a wolf. “He challenges. Their greatest
warrior and witch, against ours. With you gone, he thinks his
river-witch can defeat whatever woman is brave enough to stand. And
if Ten-hands is doing this, my brother must already be injured. Not
dead, or they would be celebrating.”

The witch-girl nodded, watching the distant figure raise his copper
axe, letting it shine in the sun. “Ten-hands will delay the
challenge until night, when White-stag is weak from lost blood and
darkness. He thinks he can win easily, without having to gather his
warriors and half-loyal cousins and ask them all to bleed fighting
their way into the cave.” The smell of smoke was in the air.
The witch-girl bared her teeth. “Ten-hands will be dead by
dawn.”

*********

White-stag lay near the fire, head cushioned on a pile of rabbit
furs. The wound in his side was stitched closed, but slow drops of
blood still leaked onto the sand below him. His eyes were closed,
his breathing slow. Flakes of ash were caught in his golden hair.
Nearby, the people of the tribe rested, or conversed in low voices.

“We cannot win that way,” Highhawk hissed. “If I
stand as the warrior and you stand as the witch, we will both die. I
cannot defeat Ten-hands. You cannot defeat the river-witch. Strong
Bors will stand as the warrior, and I will stand as the witch. I
will slay Manala with my spear and then go to his aid.”

Mother Mara shook her head sadly. “You know no witchcraft,
child. Do you think spears are stronger than spirits? Do you think
you could defeat our witch-girl? You do not know what the
River-witch will do, or how to defend against it. I am not the
witch-girl, I am not Grandmother Rattlebones, but I am not as
helpless as you would be. Bors is strong, and good-hearted, but not
fast enough to have a chance. Be our warrior, be our strength.”
She closed her eyes. “You are right. Without a miracle, we
will both die. But we must stand. There is no one else who can.”

White-stag groaned. Mother Mara went to him quickly, knelt beside
him to check his forehead for fever.

“Brother,” White-stag groaned.

Mother Mara sighed. “No, child. He is gone.” She
stroked his hair, her face falling with sorrow. “He has
finally left us. Run off into the far forests, to be with the other
wolves.”

“Brother,” White-stag muttered again. “Careful,
brother.”

There was a shout from the entrance. Highhawk grabbed her spear and
hurried outward, pushing through the tribe’s pack of growling,
anxious dogs.

She found Nim and Redheart guarding the opening, clutching spears,
holding hands. They were watching the massed warband of
River-warriors, who were hurrying down toward the burning village.
There were distant shouts. A man screamed.

“What happened?” Highhawk asked.

“Not sure,” Nim said, worry creasing her brow. “Are
the river-folk fighting among themselves, arguing over our
treasures?”

Redheart scowled. “I hope they tear each other’s throats
out.”

“Catch me,” the witch-girl said.

They looked up in astonishment. Highhawk dropped her spear and
jumped forward as the witch-girl dropped from above the entrance,
falling into Highhawk’s arms. Highhawk went sprawling as Nim
and Redheart rushed forward, raising their spears to fend off any
River-folk who thought of coming close. “Inside! Quickly!”
Nim hissed as Redheart stabbed at the air, shaking his spear and
daring the River-folk to attack. Highhawk and the witch-girl
scrambled to their feet and sprinted for the cover of the cave.

They ducked into shade, into safety. Highhawk was laughing, pulling
the witch-girl along by the hand. “I am a fool! I actually
thought you might be dead, witch-girl! My wisest, cleverest,
prettiest friend, I should have known!” People were rising
around them, looking at the witch-girl in astonishment, whispering to
each other in hopeful voices. Highhawk was crowing with delight.
“You only went to face down the whole River tribe by yourself!
I should have known you’re more likely to appear like lightning
out of the sky than be dead!” She pulled the witch-girl toward
her, wrapped her arms around her, and gave her a full, lingering kiss
on the mouth.

As the kiss parted, the witch-girl grinned. “Such a warm
welcome. I should wander off more often.”

Highhawk smiled. Eyes closed, she pressed her forehead against the
witch-girl’s. “It was bad,” the tall girl sighed.
“But you gave us a chance.”

“I will give us more than that.” The witch-girl frowned.
“But first, how is White-stag’s injury? Show me to
him.”

A murmur went through the gathered tribe. Highhawk blinked. “How
did you know… bah. Magic tricks.” She rolled her eyes.
The witch-girl tried not to look smug.

Highhawk led her further in, to where Mother Mara sat by the wounded
brother. The witch-girl knelt, examining him.

“He took a knife in the side, while he was wrestling with that
giant they have,” said Mara. “Washed it out with boiled
water. Washed the fishbone needle and the gut-thread in the boiling
pot, then closed him up tight. He’s still leaking a bit,
though.”

“Well-stitched, Mother.” The witch-girl frowned at the
wound. “We should bandage this with whiteleaf, to keep out
infection. Most of my herbs are in my hut, and my hut is burning,
but I packed a little of everything I might need.” She bit her
lip, pulling what she had out of her bag. Barely enough, and there
would be other wounded.

She folded the leaves together carefully, mashing them in her hands
to bring out the healing sap. She kept an eye on White-stag’s
slow breathing, the rise and fall of his broad chest.
He’s
beautiful like this,
she thought as she worked.. She could see
Black-dog in her mind, wounded, lying in her hut, waiting for her
hands to heal him.
They look so much alike, when they sleep. But
when they wake, when they speak, they are like the sun and the night.

Mother Mara passed a leather strap around White-stag’s waist to
hold the bandage in place. The witch-girl secured it carefully,
tying the knot tight to keep pressure on the wound. The dripping
blood slowed, then finally stopped. The witch-girl sighed, sat back,
and then froze in surprise.

White-stag was awake, and watching her.

“Hello, witch-girl.” His voice was rough. He smiled
awkwardly. “It’s good to see you are well. Do you have
news of my brother? Where has he gone?”

The golden-haired warrior was looking up at her, smile full of pain
and hope. Highhawk was watching her closely. Mother Mara and a
half-dozen other members of the tribe were nearby, listening.

The witch-girl took a slow breath, steadied herself.

“In the forest, Black-dog saw a terrible spirit of misfortune
and death. Knowing it might kill him, he hunted it, chasing it away
from the village to keep us safe. He hunted it to the top of White
Mountain.”
It’s true,
she thought.
It wasn’t
last night. But it is true, and it is the part of the truth they
need to know.
“He and I worked magic there, so that he
would not go mad. He is well. He is strong. And he is close.”

Murmurs rippled through the cave, from the healing alcove out toward
the entrance. They seemed to grow louder, there, and then swept back
toward the witch-girl, a chorus of surprise and joy.

Black-dog was striding through the cave, back straight, ashes and
soot on his arms. In his left hand he carried a bag, and in his
right, a heavy staff.

White-stag was grinning, weary and relieved. “Brother. I see
you heard of all the glory Highhawk and Bors have been earning, and
came back to beg them to teach you.”

Black-dog smiled, leaning on his staff. “No. I heard the
witch-girl had abandoned me for you, and came back to fight you for
her. But how can I fight a sickly man, on the verge of death? Heal
faster.”

The witch-girl pouted. “How can you complain, Black-dog, when
you were gone so long? You were supposed to make a distraction so I
could sneak in, and then circle right around after me. What were you
doing out there?”

Black-dog nodded, then kneeled and opened his bag. “Whiteleaf
for wounds,” he said, passing a bundle of leaves to Mother
Mara. “Willow for fever, mortar and pestle,” the
witch-girl recognized her own tools, “And… I am sorry.”
From the bag he took three pieces of soot-stained, painted, dry old
bone.

Grandmother’s skull.

Gently, tenderly, the witch-girl took the shattered bones from his
hands. She arranged the pieces carefully, matching break to break,
holding them together with the slight pressure of her fingers. She
slowed her breathing and opened herself, listening, hoping. She
listened for the wind, for the cries of distant birds. She focused
on the sounds of the cave, the tribe’s breathing and quiet
movements. She reached out for an echo of a whispering, laughing
voice, for the warmth of the old woman’s presence.

Nothing. She was gone.

“You knew,” the witch-girl whispered. “That’s
why you said so much, gave me so much guidance. You were saying
goodbye.”

She felt warmth around her shoulders, and to either side.
Black-dog’s arm was around her, and Highhawk was leaning
against her. For a moment, the three of them sat together in
silence, sharing their warmth.

The witch-girl sighed. “I thought we might get through this
without any funerals. Well. Let’s keep it down to one.”
She raised her head. “The challenge is at dusk, yes?”

“How in the empty night did you know about that?”
Highhawk sighed. “Witchcraft. Right. Yes, it’s at
first dark. In the cave depths, for the right to the Red Cave, the
lake, and all the land around.”

“Then let’s get a few hours of rest,” the
witch-girl said, “before we go down to the underworld.”

*********

Black-dog stood by the fire, casting a long, black shadow out of the
mouth of the cave and down the hill. In the ruined village below,
the River-folk were gathered around their own bonfire. The
witch-girl could see the distant figure of Ten-hands, towering over
his kin, and the dark-haired River-witch with him. The sun was
setting over the lake.

Black-dog turned, looking slowly around the cave. The full tribe was
assembled, watching him, whispering to each other in worried voices.

The witch-girl stood. She raised her hands and shook them, bracelets rattling. The cave went silent, save for the crackling of the fire, as all eyes turned towards her.

“Our champion fights for the Red Cave tribe,” she said.
“They must fight with all our strength. Who here is our strongest
warrior?”

Great, slow Bors got to his feet, barrel-chested, with shoulders like
smooth river-stones. “I am strongest!”

Black-dog faced him. “Then throw me down, or give me your
strength!”

Bors charged like an avalanche. Black-dog met him shoulder-to
shoulder, and they strained against each other, the tribe cheering as
their feet dug into the sand, as they gritted their teeth and groaned
with effort. Then Black-dog slipped sideways, and Bors was falling,
plowing into the sand with Black-dog’s knee landing on his
back.

Bors laughed as Black-dog pulled him to his feet. Black-dog gave him
a firm nod. “I take your strength.”

Bors returned to his seat, friends patting him on the back, as
Black-dog turned his gaze around the circle again.

The witch-girl rattled her charms. “Our champion must fight
with all our skill and speed. Who here is our swiftest warrior?”

Highhawk waited as Black-dog turned, until his back was toward her.
Then she stood, grinning. She pulled a handaxe from her belt and
threw it at the back of Black-dog’s head, whirring through the
air.

It stopped with a slap, as the haft hit the palm of Black-dog’s
hand. He held the axe, smiling thinly. “I take your speed.”
Highhawk grinned and bowed as the tribe cheered.

Black-dog turned again, sweeping his gaze over the assembled tribe.
He stopped, facing one figure. A golden-haired warrior, sitting
huddled under a blanket, holding the wound in his side.

Black-dog stepped toward him, looming over him. White-stag raised
his eyes, looking up at his brother. Black-dog’s back was to
the fire. His face was hidden in shadow.

White-stag was wounded. Weak. Night was falling. He stared up at
his brother. The witch-girl watched, heart beating fast. She
remembered how they once had fought, trying strength against
strength. Going from play to vicious combat, and finally to
desperation, each one trapped by a helpless need to break the other.