Fire in the Cave (18 page)

The tribe was silent. The brothers had led the hunt together for
three years. But all knew that someday, there would be a chief.

“He must fight,” the witch-girl said, “with all our courage.”
Her eyes were fixed on Black-dog. She watched the shadows on his face, and saw him baring his
teeth. “Who here is our bravest warrior?”

White-stag looked up at his dark brother. At his feet, spread in a
combat stance. At the axe in his hand, held ready. At his steady,
dark-eyed stare.

White-stag stood, slowly, his jaw set against the pain. The blanket
fell from his shoulders as he spread his arms wide, hands empty,
chest bare, ready to receive the strike.

Black-dog stepped forward and embraced him.

The witch-girl could barely hear, over the whooping and cheering of
the tribe, what they whispered to each other.

“I take your courage, brother.”

“And my love.” White-stag’s voice was rough.
His eyes were closed to stop his tears.

Black-dog was calm, even now. “Lead them well. Care for
them.”

“Stop that. You’ll be back by morning.”

They parted. Black-dog turned, and reached out toward the
witch-girl. She took his hand. Together they walked to the entrance
of the cave, casting long, twinned shadows down the hill.

Their enemies were coming.

Ten-hands and Manala were marching up the hill, side by side, the
warriors of the gathered River-tribes moving in a dark wall behind
them.

“You can take Manala?” Black-dog asked under his breath
as their enemies approached.

“I can. She is skilled, but far from the heart of her power.
The cave and the dark, I know better than she does. You can take
Ten-hands?” The witch-girl glanced sideways, watching
Black-dog’s face.

Black-dog stared down the slope, watching Ten-hands advance. The
River-warrior was painted gray for war, stained with river-clay, the
bands on his arms painted bright white, shouting his strength to any
who saw. He was taller than any man of the Red Cave tribe, big as a
bear, and his feet struck the ground like falling stones. In his
hand, he carried his shining copper axe.

“He is dangerous.” Black-dog closed his eyes. He took
two long, slow breaths. His eyes opened. “I can kill him.”

The witch-girl frowned. “Can you do it without sacrificing
yourself?”

Black-dog was silent.

“I will beat mine quickly, and then come to help you with
yours,” the witch-girl hissed.

There was no more time to plan. The River-folk had drawn up around
them in a broad half-circle, spears held at ease. Ten-hands stepped
closer, Manala a half-pace behind him. She was painted black, with
white bones down her arms and legs, and a white skull on her face.
She smiled, her black-and-white painted lips curving eerily, as
Ten-hands began to speak.

“The greatest warrior of the Red Cave, and the greatest witch.”
He laughed, a hard, mocking bark, and spread his arms wide. “The
coward and the fake! You would have died a hundred times already,
Running-dog, if you were not always fleeing and hiding in the bushes
like a rabbit! If you had ever dared to stay and fight me, I would
have smashed your fingers and crushed your throat, for the joy of
watching you choke to death on the ground before me. And now, you
give yourself into my hands! Is this your people’s way of
surrendering? Is your coward’s heart drumming like running
feet in your chest, telling you to turn and run again?” Behind
him, the gathered warriors whooped and laughed.

Black-dog turned toward the river-witch and bowed his head politely.
“I greet you, Manala.” He turned to the warrior, and
gave him the barest hint of a nod. “I greet you, Ten-hands.
My heartbeat is as steady as the waves upon the shore. The waves
will greet the morning, but your heart will beat no more.”

The witch-girl saw Manala’s eyes open wide as the curse was
spoken. The river-witch stared at Black-dog, then snapped to the
witch-girl, searching her face. The witch-girl smiled politely.
You
brought a big one, but mine has strange gifts. Was that in your
battle-plan, river-witch?

Ten-hands was sneering. “Did you learn that from your
pale-skinned slut? Did she tell you it was magic, that it made
spirits dance or ghosts sing? It’s nothing but words, you
fool. She has no real magic. Just lies and smoke.”

“We are met for the challenge,” the witch-girl said,
ignoring the huge warrior. “Let us go into the depths. There,
in the sight of the earth and the spirits of all our ancestors, we
will settle this.”

Black-dog stepped into the entrance, keeping to the right. Ten-hands
showed his teeth, but stepped up beside him, to his left. The
witch-girl followed behind Black-dog, with Manala to her side. A
long column of River-warriors followed them as they made their way
into the cave, winding through the great high-ceilinged cavern and
down into the earth. The people of the Red Cave tribe were lined
along the right wall, and the River-warriors took positions on the
left, watching their opposites, both tribes ensuring no one passed
into the depths to interfere with the challenge.

They walked in silence, ignoring small side-passages, their route
curling and twisting downward. The torches were spaced more widely
here. The warriors and witches alike were painted with red light,
flickering shadows. The witch-girl watched Black-dog’s back,
his long hair hanging like a dark banner. Beside him was Ten-hands,
tall and broad-shouldered, with his hair in a swishing war-braid.
Beside the witch-girl, the River-witch’s black paint
disappeared in the gloom, leaving her a grinning skeleton with a
twinkling eyes and a cape of braids, hung with beads and charms.

They came at last to the deep place, the hidden lake. The edge of
the underworld. Its surface was a black mirror. The arched ceiling
above was hung with stalactites, their shadows shifting in the light
of the two fires on the shore.

They stood between the fires. They turned to face each other,
warrior to warrior, witch to witch.

Manala grinned, showing white teeth within the painted skull.

The witch-girl kept her gaze steady, thinking of how to win quickly.

Ten-hands bared his teeth in a confident sneer.

Black-dog smiled, slowly, like drawing a knife across a throat. His
eyes burned with fierce joy.

A drop of water fell from the ceiling to the lake, the sound echoing
through the chamber. The warriors sprang toward each other.
Ten-hands brought his axe upward toward Black-dog’s jaw, the
copper shining like fire, but Black-dog’s stone axe was
striking towards Ten-hands’ wrist, and the larger warrior had
to twist his swing away. Black-dog’s free hand closed around
Ten-hands’ thigh, fingers sinking in like claws to bruise and
tear muscle, but before he could press his advantage the copper axe
was coming down toward his shoulder. The warriors shoved away from
each other, panting like fighting dogs. They both stepped back, away
from the firelight, slipping into the maze of stone pillars to hunt
and ambush one another.

Manala grinned. She took a handful of dried leaves from her pouch
and tossed them in her fire, and the chamber began to fill with
scented smoke. “You will beat me quick, and then go to help
the Black-dog. Yes?”

The witch-girl passed a hand over her own fire, dropping a pinch of
dust. The flames glittered blue and green for a moment. “Perhaps
I will help him. I will surely beat you quickly.”

Manala smiled, crouching on the ground. She rolled her head back on
her shoulders, breathing in the smoke. “I have a better
story.”

“Oh?” The witch-girl felt the sting of the smoke in her
throat, sweet and calming. She raised a hand from her pouch to her
mouth, coughed a little. Not the herbs she was used to.

“A story of foolish, cruel men. Men who think they own the
stars, think their strength is greater than mountains.” Manala
stretched her arms wide, turning them slowly so that her bracelets
glittered. Shining black stones, darkly iridescent feathers.
Beautiful. “They forget that they are only little naked
animals, dancing by their little fires, so, so small, with the
mountains and the river and the sky all vast around them. They make
such trouble for their brothers. And much, much more trouble for
their sisters. Wicked little animals they are, so sure their wills
are mighty.”

The witch-girl crouched, her hands on the cool red sand of the shore.
The smoke and the River-witch’s soft voice were rolling over
her like waves, like the steady current of the river. “How
does the story end?” she mumbled.

Manala was moving toward her, hands on the sand, creeping like a cat.
The witch-girl watched her, the shine of her eyes, the sway of her
breasts, the rocking of her hips as she crept closer. “One
day, the foolish men fell down a hole in the earth, and beat at one
another with fists and stones until they were dead. And then the
clever sisters, wise sisters, ruled over the tribes instead.”

The witch-girl was sitting on the sand now, leaning back, hands
behind her. She watched the River-witch. There were shining beads
swaying in her long braids. There were muscles in her dark-painted
arms and shoulders that moved like snakes in water as she crept
closer. Her lips moved, curled, smiled, changing shape as she spoke.
Her voice was like drowning in wine. “And the pretty white
sister and the wise water-sister found each other in the dark, and
came together, and learned each other well.”

She was creeping up the witch-girl’s body, her breasts brushing
softly against pale skin. Her lips wandered slowly up the
witch-girl’s neck. They found her mouth, and black-painted
lips pressed against red, tongues flicking out.

Time to wake up.
The witch-girl called up a memory of a
hollow tree, filled with scorpions.
Danger. Fear. Focus. Act.
Under the witch-girl’s tongue was the bitter little bundle
of herbs she had palmed earlier. As the the River-witch’s lips
opened against hers, the witch-girl pushed them forward, into
Manala’s mouth.

The River-witch tried to pull away, but the witch-girl’s hand
was on her throat, tickling, stroking, triggering reflex. She
swallowed, eyes wide with terror. Manala spat, scratched, trying to
escape, but the witch-girl’s arms were around her. They rolled
on the sand, feet kicking cinders from the witch-girl’s fire,
shining sparks lighting the look of panic on Manala’s face.
She was trying to reach for her mouth, to reach her fingers back to
her throat and cough up the bitterness. The witch-girl would not let
her. The sweet smoke was a haze over the water, over both their
minds, as they struggled in the shadows and flickering light.

Finally, Manala lay limp, panting for breath, the fight gone out of
her. The witch-girl was on the River-witch’s chest, holding
her wrists pinned to the sand. This close, the witch-girl could see
the natural shape of her face through the painted skull. Manala
looked up at her sadly.

“Have you killed me?”

The witch-girl smiled. “Do you feel like you are dying?”

The River-witch closed her eyes, baring her teeth in pain. “I
feel ghosts drawing close. Angry. Hurtful. They will tear me
apart.”

The witch-girl grinned. “Surrender, and I will call them off.”

Manala’s eyes squeezed tightly, tears beading in the corners.
“Do not give me false hope. The mushroom poison is already in
my blood. You cannot save me now.”

“I am a witch. I can do much. Surrender.”

Manala opened her eyes, staring up at the witch-girl. The witch-girl
looked back at her, blue eyes into dark.

“They say that the Witch of Thorns could even raise the dead,”
the River-witch muttered. “Very well, moonrise witch, Luna,
pale light in the darkness. I surrender.”

The witch-girl leaned close and gave her a kiss. “Not poison,”
she whispered. “Just a spirit-mushroom. The ghosts are only
your fear. Calm yourself, and they will depart.”

Manala laughed, the sound echoing through the deeps. “Clever
bitch! Ohh, clever, should have known you wouldn’t hold poison
in your mouth. I think we could have been friends, moonrise witch.
It is a shame you are about to die.”

The witch-girl heard heavy footfalls sounding out behind her, like
stones falling to earth. She rolled off Manala and onto the sand,
looking up as Ten-hands charged out of the darkness, bleeding from a
dozen wounds, stone axe in one hand, copper blade shining in the
other.

He has Black-dog’s axe,
she thought, in the slender
moment before the blade came down.
It’s over.

And then Black-dog sailed over her head, leaping through the air,
swinging a length of broken stalactite like a giant stone club.
Ten-hands raised an arm to block. The weight of the rock snapped his
arm without slowing, barreling through to shatter into a thousand
sharp-edged chunks as it caved in his chest.

As Ten-hands fell, he finished his last swing. The copper blade came
down in a shining arc, ending, with a sick crunch, in Black-dog’s
face.

The warriors fell to the sand and lay motionless.

The witch-girl stood. At her feet, Manala lay with her eyes closed,
breathing steadily, calming her ghosts. Ten-hands was breathing as
well, a hissing, painful sound, his ruined chest rising and falling
unevenly.

There was no sound from Black-dog. He lay half in the pool, a dark
stain spreading on the sand beneath him, clouding the water.

The witch-girl reached into her pouch and drew out a long, braided
cord. One end was charred, where it had been held over a fire until
it burned through.

She went to Ten-hands, kneeled on his stomach, and wrapped the cord
around his throat.

Ten-hands wheezed, choking on laughter. His hands pawed at her back,
the strength draining out of them; his chest rose and fell with
tortured slowness beneath her.