People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past) (35 page)

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

BOOK: People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past)
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“Maybe I’m foolish enough to believe in old friendships.”
“You’re going to let him work his poison? Just like he did at Walking Seal Village?”
His control crumbled. She’d done that deliberately, taking charge of the conversation.
“Careful,” he advised. “Be very careful. What are you getting at?”
He saw the change in her eyes, as though she’d come to a difficult decision. When she lifted her head, her tanned skin gleamed in the firelight. “At Walking Seal Village, you knew he was off plotting behind your back, didn’t you? Surely someone tried to tell you that your best friend—”
“Bramble tried to tell me. Didn’t matter. I trusted him.”
“Like now? If you lose this gamble, they’ll
kill
you!”
His gaze drifted slowly from his cup to her piercing eyes.
Blessed gods, does she know what I’m doing?
She was a shrewd warrior. Had he misread her motives? The possibility struck him like a blow to the belly. “What are you trying to say?”
She rubbed both hands over her delicate face as though in disbelief. “Nothing, I—I’ve lost my wits.”
“Are … are you trying to help me, Deputy?”
She stared down at her hands, slowly shaking her head. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what you’re doing. If you think that because you and Goodeagle were friends once … well, don’t! There is no redemption. Not in his worthless soul.”
She looked suddenly weary, weary beyond exhaustion. After peering interminably at the floor, she lifted her right hand—her throwing hand—and opened the palm to the soft light. A somber expression came over her face. She stared at it, then slowly closed it to a tight fist and shook it at some inner foe. He understood that gesture better than any of her spoken words. Tens of times in battles, he’d cursed fate with that same soundless ferocity.
She said, “I hated you for summers. You killed so many of my friends.”
A familiar ache swelled in his chest. He stared at the fire, letting her finish.
“But as I watched what you did, I came to grudgingly admire you. You were so perfect. Every move was clean, precise, no emotion.”
“That’s how it looked from the outside?”
“Yes, and I suggest you continue the practice. You’re in an impossible situation. What are you going to do? Nashat may already know
what’s happened here. He will combine Karigi’s and Blackta’s war parties, and together they will overrun these caves.” She thrust her arm out. “All of those faithful camps out there are going to be destroyed, the people murdered. And you’re just sitting here like …”
She closed her eyes, a look of defeat on her face.
“Then, what would you suggest?”
“If you wish to stop these attacks, you have to do it at the source: our Elders. But you’ll have tens of warriors waiting for you at the Nightland Caves. You can’t—”
“Maybe I can.”
“Windwolf, think! No matter how well these children fight, they’ll never be good enough to match Nightland warriors. And you sent all of the other warriors away, didn’t you? All of the adults? So they’re waiting, expecting orders to attack the Nightland Caves. But what if Karigi locates them in the meantime?”
He blinked at the question. “Shall I tell you all the details of my plan?”
She met his gaze with a severity that stopped him short. “I’ll know soon enough. Your best friend, Goodeagle—if he’s alive—will undoubtedly tell Kakala exactly what he expects you to do. And here you are—”
“Being
far
too honest with a woman I like far too much.”
Their gazes held, and he noticed how hers softened. He shook his head sternly. “You should go. Otherwise we’ll both make fools of ourselves.”
“Don’t hate me for asking about your strategy. I figured you needed help.”
He chuckled softly, unsure now if she really cared, or if they were still sparring for advantage. “As a matter of fact, I do. Tell me how Kakala plans to escape.”
His heart pounded at the look on her face. She paused almost as if she wanted to. A ploy? It was a good one. He would do anything to help her step across that silken bridge of loyalty to his side.
Her voice was little more than a whisper. “Were I to stay with you, help you, would there be a way that Kakala and my warriors could leave in peace?”
“Could they promise me that none of them would ever lift a weapon against my people again?” His heart began to pound. Was this the way?
“I don’t …” She shook her head. “They fear the Council too much. Doing that would mean a worse punishment than the cages.”
“Keresa, just tell me …”
She shook her head miserably. “You’re right. I have to leave.”
She rose and walked toward the door, a defeated slump in her shoulders.
“Keresa?” He saw her turn, eyes moist. “There has to be a way out of this. Help stop the killing. Some way, any way, that turns good people like you, me, and Kakala back from being the monsters we’ve become.”
He stepped toward her, taking her hand in his. He rubbed his fingers over the smooth skin, his desperate gaze boring into hers. “If we follow the same old path, there will be nothing left for any of us.”
She pulled hard against his grip. He refused to let go. They stood eye to eye for ten heartbeats, and he could feel her pulse increasing until it raced as rapidly as his own.
He reached up with his other hand, gently running it down her long hair. What had she done to him? How had she worked her way into his heart?
Her lips parted, eyes widening. The telltale pulse in her neck was throbbing. Abruptly she seemed to melt against him, her body conforming to the hollows of his. She tightened her hold, as though he were the last thing she had left to cling to. A surge of warmth flooded Windwolf’s veins.
In the back of his mind a voice whispered:
A game. This is all a game. We’ll both use whatever leverage we can … but what harm is there in soothing each other for a few moments? What harm … ?
He slowly disengaged himself and backed away. She was watching him, tears rimming her large dark eyes. Her breasts rose and fell with each rapid breath.
“Keresa,” he said in a strained voice, “tell Kakala that Goodeagle’s right about one thing: If I can’t find a way out of this, I won’t leave anything alive in the Nightland Caves.”
She hesitated for an excruciating amount of time.
“Windwolf, if I …”
He balled his fists. “I need you, Keresa.”
Without a word she ducked beneath the door curtain and disappeared. He caught a glimpse of Fish Hawk’s curious face before the curtain fell closed again.
 
 
K
eresa walked down the trail with Fish Hawk at her heels. The warrior followed a good pace behind her.
The sensation of Windwolf’s strong arms around her had stirred feelings that terrified her.
Too deep, she’d gotten in too deep. How had that happened? How had she let it happen?
The game was going awry … .
 
 
A
fter Keresa and Fish Hawk had passed into the darkness, Silvertip emerged from the cleft between two rocks. The shadow had been deep, black, and the crack that led under an overlying boulder had allowed him to slip close enough to hear most of what had been said in the war chief’s quarters.
Now he cradled the Wolf Bundle, and stared after the dark forms. “We all have our parts to play. I hope that you have bargained well, Wolf Dreamer. If we all Dreamed the future, would any of us find the will to live?”
He ducked back into the shadows as Windwolf emerged to stalk down the trail like a man with a purpose.
As the man’s footsteps faded Silvertip looked up into the night sky. He could hear Raven wings gliding through the dark air overhead.
K
akala slept soundly, dreaming of the pleasant lazy days of his youth … .
The sweet pungent scent of tundra blossoms drifted on the warm wind. Hako was stretched out at his side beneath a huge boulder. From their vantage overlooking the Thunder Sea, they could hear the soft singing of the Ice Giants. Gulls flew overhead screaming. Pilot whales, six of them, were coursing among the bergs just off shore. A warm southern breeze was blowing across the land, driving the black flies to cover. The rock’s soft shadow smoothed Hako’s triangular face, and jet black hair hung like a cape around her shoulders. She gave him a reproachful look.
“Kakala, you’re the best warrior in the village. You can throw a dart farther than anyone else … swing a war club harder. But when it comes to finding your way back from Little Lake, you get lost.”
He chuckled in amusement. “I’m only good at useless accomplishments. Killing people and—”
“Someday, when you’re the high war chief, you’re going to regret that your deputy has to lead every war party.”
“Then I’d better pick you as my deputy. You can always find your way. I don’t understand it.”
Her laughter reminded him of warm winds through autumn-brittle leaves. He cherished it, engraving it in his memory to hear again and again. When he thought he could bear no more of the horrors of war, or the futility of command, recalling her laughter soothed him.
Somewhere, down deep in his soul, scenes of her death struggled to rise, flitting like butterfly wings through the Dream. Desperate to avoid them, he looked into her mischievous eyes.
“Hako,” he said. “I love you. I wish we could—”
Faintly, he heard the boulder above him being rolled away. Hako’s face began to fade. He fought against it, not wanting to wake up. The ladder thudded as it struck the floor, and all around him warriors leaped to their feet cursing.
Kakala rolled to his back and grimaced at everything in the chamber: the warriors backed against the walls; silver streaks of moonlight painted the floor; the hated ladder was like a lance through the heart of his domain.
He noted Keresa’s strained expression as she dropped to the floor. He knew that stiff posture, and the thunder reflected on her lined brow. Something had her terribly upset.
His spine went stiff when a deep voice called from above, “Kakala? It’s Windwolf.”
Kakala pulled himself to his feet. “What do you want?”
Windwolf stepped into the gap and looked down. Behind him, Sister Moon’s face gleamed, giving the air a silver sheen.
From the corner of Kakala’s eye, he saw Keresa hug herself.
Windwolf coldly said, “I need to speak with you, War Chief.”
“I have nothing to say.”
They held each other’s gaze like two bull mammoths during the rut. Windwolf yielded first, shifting his attention to one of the warriors who stood guard. Windwolf said something that Kakala couldn’t hear, but he understood when two armed warriors climbed down the ladder. Six others stood over the opening with their darts aimed down.
The tall warrior said, “Climb up. Now.”
Kakala looked at his own warriors. None of them seemed to be breathing.
Keresa said, “Just go, Kakala. Find out what he wants.”
Kakala muttered a curse and climbed. When he stepped onto the boulders, two men took particular pleasure in searching him.
Windwolf said, “Tie his hands.”
One of the warriors pulled out a twisted hide rope and tied Kakala’s hands in front of him.
“Do you see that flat boulder up the slope?” Windwolf pointed.
Kakala turned to look. It was perhaps three body lengths long and two wide. “I can see it just fine, thank you.”
“Walk toward it.”
Is it my time to die?
He smiled grimly. For days, he’d been trying to figure out why he was still alive—now he wished he’d enjoyed them more.
When he reached the flat rock, Windwolf ordered, “Sit down.”
Four warriors surrounded him, taking up positions eight body lengths away—which he found interesting. Windwolf must have told them he wanted privacy. Another warrior placed a basket on the rock, then trotted back toward the village.
Kakala took a moment to appreciate the stunning view. To the north, the peaks of the Ice Giants glowed in the moonlight as though lit from within. Thunder Sea looked liquid silver. A fringe of dark spruce trees rimmed his high perch, resembling a buffalo’s beard curving beneath a pristine stone face.
“If I have to tell you to sit down again, you’ll be standing up for the rest of the night,” Windwolf said.
Kakala eased down onto the rock. In the moonlight, Windwolf looked haggard, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep, but he wore a clean blue war shirt, painted with red buffalo, and he’d bathed recently. His short black hair shone.
For that alone, Kakala detested him.
He’d actually been dreaming of taking baths in rivers, pools, waterfalls, even the icy Thunder Sea. Anywhere to wash away the blood, grime, and stink that clung to his body.
Windwolf spread his legs; the weapons clattered on his belt. “That basket contains food and water. The Healer, Flathead, said you needed to eat.”
Kakala studied the basket, and his mouth started to water. For two days, he’d felt like his navel had melted into his spine.
He held up his bound hands. “How am I supposed to eat with my hands tied?”
“A clever man like you? I’m sure you’ll discover a way.”
Kakala slid over, grabbed the basket, and brought it back to his lap. As he unfolded the hide inside, the smell of roasted arctic hare rose. He pulled it out, delighted with an entire rabbit roasted on a skewer.
He lifted it to take a big bite, but stopped, letting the hare hover right in front of his teeth. By Raven Hunter’s breath, that would be a cruel twist, wouldn’t it?
“Oh, I see,” Windwolf said irritably. He walked up, pulled off a strip of meat, and ate it. “Feel better?”
“I will in another six tens of heartbeats. I’m sure you’d only use the best poison.”
“Of course I would. Why would I want you to suffer for days? After everything you’ve done for my people, I’d want your death to be quick and painless, wouldn’t I?”
The irony in his voice made Kakala’s skin creep. “Your cunning in war is legendary. Your sense of humor needs work.”
Kakala took a big bite of the juicy white meat and swallowed it whole, barely chewing. Then he attacked the carcass.
Windwolf squared his shoulders, standing rigid as a wooden statue.
With a greasy hand, Kakala gestured to the far side of the flat rock. “Why don’t you sit down? You look like you need to.”
Windwolf just stared at him.
While Kakala ate, Windwolf meandered around the boulders, glancing frequently back to make sure Kakala still sat eating his hare. The night breeze was sharp with the scent of spruce needles.
Kakala asked, “Have you already sent warriors to the Nightland Caves?”
“No.”
Kakala laughed condescendingly. “You should run there right now and throw yourself at the feet of the Guide to beg for mercy. If you surrender, he might spare your life.”
“And after two botched attacks on Headswift Village, maybe Nashat would show the same leniency to you. Why don’t we go together?” He paused. “Or we could ask Karigi what punishment he would prefer.”
At the thought of Karigi—and the disaster at Walking Seal Village—Kakala’s belly soured. He took another bite, but it didn’t taste nearly as good.
Windwolf wandered to the far side of the flat rock, and his gaze
settled on Kakala’s cape, the red war shirt visible through the open front. A strange expression tensed his face. He pointed to the painted sash that belted Kakala’s waist. “That’s from the Star Tree band, isn’t it? It looks like their painting style.”
Kakala took another big bite of his hare and, as he chewed, looked down at his sash. “The Star Tree painters were some of the best anywhere. I always appreciated their work.”
Windwolf studied the sash. “Just when did you develop this appreciation? Before or after you killed every living thing in Star Tree Village?”
A chilling tingle filled Kakala’s breast, like icy ants crawling around inside him. “Insults between us are useless at this point, Windwolf. Why did you wish to speak with me?”
Windwolf inhaled a deep breath, as though preparing himself for a lengthy conversation. “Your warriors are holding up better than I’d have thought.You trained them well.”
Kakala wiped his mouth on his sleeve and eyed Windwolf speculatively. The compliment sounded honest—a gesture from one war chief to another. It made him even more uneasy. “Keresa kept them together while I was ill. She deserves the credit.”
“We could all wish for so talented a deputy.”
Kakala gently rested the hare bones on the rock beside him. A curious light gleamed in Windwolf’s eyes at the mention of Keresa’s name. Kakala noted it, then pulled out the gut water bag that rested in the basket and took a long drink.
“Come and sit down, Windwolf. You make me nervous pacing around.”
He continued standing. “How are you feeling?”
“Concerned about your skill with a war club?”
“A bit. You should be dead.”
“I’ve had a great deal of practice fighting with you. It’s made me fast on my feet.”
Windwolf actually chuckled. “Me, too.”
“Flathead is a good Healer. I’m doing better. How are your refugees?”
For several painfully quiet moments, Windwolf bowed his head. “Several are dying. Some with agonizing slowness. Others too swiftly for their families to mourn. Why do you care? Worried about your skill with an atlatl?”
From some crack in Kakala’s soul, hysterical voices rose, pleading with him not to kill them. “I’ve never liked attacking defenseless people.”
“No? You’ve certainly done it often enough. When did you decide you didn’t like it? Somewhere between ten children and ten tens? Perhaps it was the women who bothered you? Not enough of them to rape and mutilate?”
“Let me know when it’s my turn. I have a few things I’d like to tell you, too.”
“Yes, I’m sure you do.”
Windwolf walked back and forth in front of the rock with his brow furrowed. “You’ve never enjoyed murdering my people, or trying to take our lands? I’m glad to hear it. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind, then, telling me what other orders you’ve received lately regarding Sunpath bands?”
Kakala laughed incredulously. “You’re bold.”
With unsettling silence, Windwolf walked over and seated himself. He stared hard into Kakala’s eyes. “Let’s discuss your last couple of days in the cage.”
Kakala barely moved. “Why?”
“I assume it’s bothering you.”
His gut tried to tie itself in knots. “And?”
“I’d rather it didn’t.”
Kakala stared his disbelief. “Why would
you
care?”
“How can I keep that from happening to you and your warriors?”
Kakala shook his head as though he hadn’t heard right. This had to be some ploy to gain leverage. “What’s this? Don’t tell me you’ve started to believe the rumors circulating among broken Sunpath refugees that you’re the promised Dreamer sent to save the world from the coming cataclysm?”
“If I let you go, Elder Nashat will certainly order you captured and hauled off to cages—”
“Not … ! Not … certainly.” Blood had started to surge deafeningly in his ears. “Why are we discussing this?”
Windwolf’s face fell into stiff lines. “Because I thought if we could solve that problem you would be able to make decisions more clearly.”
“Which decisions did you have in mind?”
Windwolf looked up without moving a muscle. “Decisions regarding the Sunpath People and the Lame Bull People.”

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