People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past) (48 page)

Read People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past) Online

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

BOOK: People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past)
2.32Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Keresa said, “Come on, Windwolf, let’s get out of here before Nashat sends the whole Nightland world down on us.”
A familiar woman’s voice said, “Nashat is no longer a concern.”
Windwolf cocked his head. “Skimmer? I thought you were dead.”
“Oh yes, War Chief. Skimmer died long ago. But we have no time for talk. This world is about to be washed away.”
“What about the Guide?” Windwolf asked anxiously.
“Dead,” Skimmer told him, “by Nashat’s hand.”
“Blessed be the name of Wolf Dreamer,” Windwolf said softly.
“May he be cursed,” Skimmer spat. “But you and I can argue the Spirits later. That third warrior will make fast time back to the Nightland Caves.”
“It’s dark as pitch,” Keresa murmured. “We’re not going to make much distance getting away from here.”
“I can see fine, Deputy,” Skimmer told her. “Just follow my instructions.” Then the woman turned, stepping off into the darkness.
“Skimmer?” Kakala asked.
“Call her the Earth,” Keresa replied.
D
awn grayed the skies as Keresa climbed through boulders atop a pile of glacial rubble and looked back. In the faint gray light she could see the Ice Giants rising against the glow. Their sharp peaks seemed to saw at the sky.
On the trail below her a line of women and children, all looking haggard, walked wearily toward the south.
Windwolf climbed up beside her, breathing deeply. He’d spent most of the night encouraging, cajoling, and keeping the freed captives moving. The rest of the time he had devoted to Kakala, who had had trouble of his own keeping up.
“Everyone keeps hitting me in the head,” Kakala had muttered once when his balance had deserted him and he’d had to lean on Windwolf’s arm.
“It’s because it’s such a tempting target,” Windwolf had replied.
“Why?” Kakala had been foolish enough to ask.
“Because anything that ugly just begs to be hit.”
Kishkat had laughed, and then made himself scarce when Kakala turned his hard glare that way.
Keresa glanced at Windwolf, aware that the war chief was staring
back the way they’d come, judging the progress they had been making. “What are you thinking?”
“That one of Blackta’s warriors got away.”
Keresa pinched her lower lip and nodded. “When Karigi hears, he’ll be after us.”
Windwolf reached down and helped Kakala up the rough boulders to the high spot. The war chief looked gray, his scarred face set against an inner pain that came from more than just a bump to the head.
“Karigi’s not going to give up.” Kakala looked down at the ragged band of refugees.
“No,” Windwolf agreed, eyes on the north. “He’s already collecting warriors.”
“And how do you know that?” Kakala asked, staring down where Skimmer made her way toward them.
“I’ve got that same old feeling I used to have when you were chasing me.”
Keresa turned thoughtful eyes on Skimmer. The woman was climbing up the trail below them. “Do you really think Nashat’s dead, like she claims?”
Kakala shrugged. “That’s what Kiskhat and Tapa say. I got the whole story from them last night. Nashat killed the Guide with an antler stiletto. They say they saw it.”
“And Nashat?” Windwolf asked.
“That’s the curious part. Kishkat and Tapa swear the ghosts of the dead got him. Both of them were shivering when they told the story. They said his screams were awful to hear.”
Windwolf exhaled slowly. “Power’s loose on the land.”
Skimmer stopped on the rocks just below them. “Looking for Karigi?”
“No sign of him yet,” Keresa told her.
“Soon, Deputy.” Skimmer braced her feet. “Very soon. In the meantime, we must break up this party. Have them scatter.”
“And why is that?” Windwolf asked.
She stared up with oddly large eyes that seemed to suck at Keresa’s soul. Keresa felt a shiver go down her spine. Windwolf, too, took a sudden breath. Kakala, however, remained undisturbed.
In an eerie voice, Skimmer replied, “You know the answer to that, War Chief.”
Keresa glanced at Windwolf, seeing his expression tighten.
Windwolf gave the slightest of nods. “I will send the order.”
Kakala was already climbing down. Keresa took a final look down the backtrail, seeing only a couple of their stragglers limping along behind.
“What did she mean?” Keresa asked.
“There will be fewer to kill when Karigi finally catches up with us.” Windwolf made a face as the wind buffeted their high rocky point.
 
 
W
indwolf watched as his little band of people splintered into small groups, each winding its way through the torturous tundra with its piles of rock, holes, and boulders.
Satisfied, he trotted along the trail to where Keresa, Kakala, and his two warriors waited with Skimmer. They crouched in the lee of a boulder pile, out of the worst of the wind.
“That’s it,” Windwolf told them as he approached. “Karigi should find the trail confusing from here on out.”
“Then we should go,” Keresa added. “Silvertip was specific about crossing Lake River by the fourth day.”
“Silvertip,” Skimmer mused, a hardness in her expression, “Wolf Dreamer’s tool.” Then she sighed. “But he sees clearly. We’re in a race with the end of the world.”
Kakala ordered, “Kishkat, Tapa, take scouting positions. Ewin might still be out here someplace. We don’t want to run right down his throat and have to make uncomfortable conversation with the man.”
Windwolf gestured for the others to take the trail ahead of him and then matched his pace to Skimmer’s. They hadn’t made two tens of paces before she asked, “Questions, War Chief?” and turned her eerie eyes on him. The effect was like cold water dribbling on his soul.
“You haven’t asked about Ashes,” he said.
She smiled slightly, not even breaking her confident stride. “She is fine.”
“You know this for a fact?”
“Raven Hunter told me. Though I am a little disappointed about her attachment to this Silvertip.”
“I thought you no longer believed.”
An ironic smile bent her lips, and the too-large eyes narrowed. “Let us just say that I serve a different Power now.”
The hair at the back of Windwolf’s neck prickled. He glanced down at the leather-covered bundle at her waist. The premonition of danger worsened. “I didn’t think you had it in you to kill the Prophet.”
“He was innocent,” she said simply.
“What about the lives you could have saved?”
“Do you question the thunder, War Chief?”
“Of course not.”
“Then do not question the ways of Power.”
He gave her a thin stare. “But I do question, especially when it involves the lives of my people.”
“Then you have your answer, War Chief.” She laughed, the sound like something echoing from a deep cavern. “Perhaps, in a way, I did kill Ti-Bish. But it’s a complicated give-and-take … something in the very balance of the Spiral itself.”
He shot a sidelong glance at her, aware of her finely formed face, the skin smooth, her lips full and sensual. Rich black hair hung in long and glossy luster. She walked with a light grace that swung her hips, and the cloak she wore couldn’t hide the swell of her high breasts.
Was she this beautiful last time I saw her?
He remembered her as an attractive woman, but this magnetic allure puzzled him.
“Yes, War Chief?” she asked, shooting him a knowing glance. Her dark eyes seemed to swell, as if drawing on his very soul.
“Nothing.”
“Good. You would hate yourself if your thoughts strayed too far from Keresa.”
He frowned. “I don’t know you anymore.”
“You
never
knew me, War Chief.” Then she relented. “I shouldn’t be so harsh. You don’t know Raven Hunter’s Dream; none of us did. Not even poor Ti-Bish.”
“And just what is Raven Hunter’s Dream? Death and war?”
She smiled slightly, as if in the presence of a naïve boy. “It’s life, War Chief. All of it right down to the last spurt of blood in your veins. It’s seizing life and savoring it, milking it of every last drop of bliss.”
She lifted her hand, watching her slim fingers curl into a fist. “The goal is to struggle and win, and enjoy the fight with every step you take. In the process, we are to love and hate with all of our hearts. Don’t you understand? Life is creation, fertility, change, and curiosity. I didn’t begin to understand until I was locked away in the bowels of the Ice Giants.” She shook her head. “Only then did the terror I’d survived make sense.”
“That’s what the Nightland Prophet taught you?” He asked skeptically.
“Ti-Bish wasn’t a Prophet, Windwolf. He was a Dreamer with only half the Dream. No, he taught me just how deeply rooted love was in the soul. My days with Hookmaker were passionate, and I did love him. But not with the complete dedication of being that Ti-Bish loved. It was elemental to him, as much a part of who he was as the beating of his heart. He gave all of himself in the attempt to save our world, right down to his last dying breath.”
“But he couldn’t?” Windwolf guessed.
A wistful smile died on her lips. “Ti-Bish lacked the courage. He was only the final step along the trail to save Raven Hunter’s Dream.”
“And what is that final step?” he asked, unsure if he wanted to hear the answer. “This terrible flood that’s supposed to roar down on us?”
“I am,” she replied simply, and lightly stroked the leather bundle at her hip. “All of the death, suffering, and anguish—everything hinged on getting me to the ice caves. The terrible things we lived were the means to prepare our world for the end.” She gave him a half-lidded look that pierced his soul like a sliver of ice. “Did you really think it was happenstance that brought you to Kakala’s camp that night you discovered me in the rocks?”
Windwolf chuckled. “You’re saying
you
are Raven Hunter’s Dreamer?”
“Power is swelling on the wind, War Chief.” She raised her right hand high, clutching it into a fist. “Those with Power can call it at will.”
Windwolf heard the rasping of wings on air and ducked instinctively as a great black raven hissed through the space where his head had been. The big bird backed air, and settled on her raised fist to stare at him with a gleaming black eye.
“Blessed Spirits!” Windwolf cried, recovering. He glanced up at the bird that rode so easily on her hand.
“Welcome to the end of our world,” Skimmer told him, her eyes on the glistening black raven that clung to her hand. The bird threw its head back; the hoarse cawing seemed to shake the world.
K
arigi trotted at the head of his warriors. Looking behind, he could see four tens of his trusted men. At the distance-eating dog trot at which they traveled, they could go all day. Each man carried a handful of long darts in his left hand, his atlatl, war club, and a pack tied to his back.
They had passed several women already. Wounded or dying, they had fallen back, finally succumbing to fatigue. From them, Karigi knew that the others weren’t all that far ahead.
“Look, War Chief,” Terengi called from behind.
Karigi glanced back and followed his deputy’s pointing finger to where a great dire wolf watched them from on high.
“He won’t bother us.” Karigi chuckled. “If anything, he ought to be grateful. That last woman we killed will fill his gut for a week.”
Karigi ignored the animal, concentrating on the rough trail. Here and there, where the silt had blown in, he could see tracks. A lot of moccasined feet had passed this way.
Kakala! You always had a ridiculous soft spot in your soul. I should have known you’d turn against us.
Blackta’s warrior’s report had been succinct: High War Chief Kakala had helped to release the captives.
My captives!
Karigi reached up to run his hand along his jaw, as if he could still feel the blow Kakala had landed there that day in Walking Seal Village.
I’m coming, Kakala. And this time, you’ll wish you were only going to be locked in a cage.
 
 
T
he mountains of packs amazed Goodeagle. Some were piled as high as a man’s head. Around them, the Nightland people sat, squatted, or lingered around little fires. Children were everywhere, running, playing, calling happily. Among them he could see Sunpath children, many serving as slaves.
So this is the wreckage of my world? This is what I did?
The cramp of grief rose in his belly, swelling the sickness that lurked like a black fog around his heart.
The trail here from Headswift Village had tortured his very soul. For four long days, he’d trotted along at the back of the line, having a full view of Windwolf as he ran side by side with Keresa. At their nightly camps, Windwolf hadn’t once looked in Goodeagle’s direction.
I am dead to him.
He laughed, half-hysterically.
I am dead to myself.
Every now and then he’d nod to a warrior he knew. Most nodded back, old enmities forgotten in the excitement of the migration into the Long Dark.
He recognized Washani where he stood talking to Klah and Degan. He hesitated, unsure of his welcome, and walked over.
Washani gave him a slight nod, expression tightening.
“Have you heard the rumors?” Goodeagle asked.
“That Karigi is after Kakala and the escaped Sunpath captives?” Degan asked in a low voice.
“The same.” Goodeagle glanced around. “People are wondering about it.”
“Do you think one of us has talked?” Klah asked.
Off to the side, by a huge pile of hides, an old man cried, “How long are we going to have to wait? It’s been days!”
Grumblings of discontent followed as the closest camps picked it up.
“People are getting angry,” Degan noted.
“There’s been no word from the Council,” Washani remarked. “It’s unlike Nashat to be missing for so long.”
“Word is that Councilor Khepa sent a group of warriors into the caves, searching for the Guide.” Klah glanced around uneasily. “Something’s wrong.”
Washani nodded. “I know.” He rubbed his jaw, eyes on the piles of loot and the uneasy people who stood by them. “Tensions are rising.”
Degan crossed his arms. “My family wanted to bring a mountain of things. I told them no. It didn’t make my wife happy.”
Klah shuffled his feet uneasily. “Since I have been home, it is as if I were a stranger to my family. They have changed, grown fat and lazy.”
Goodeagle looked around. “Who’s going to carry all this?”
Washani smiled uneasily. “With the Sunpath captives gone, I’d say most of it is going to be left behind.”
Klah’s expression soured. “Think of how many good friends died to obtain this. And now it’s going to be wasted?” He shook his head. “On the war trail I longed to be home. Now, home, I long for the war trail.” He lifted a skeptical brow. “Even seeing stinking Goodeagle is a relief.”
Goodeagle gave him a weak smile. “Well, I won’t bother you with my stink.”
He turned, walking toward the great cave. The way threaded through packed people. The odor of their sweat, the smell of urine, and piles of feces almost gagged him. He could see the stewing resentment on the Nightland faces.
“When is the Guide going to
call
us!” kept echoing in his ears.
He wound through the mass, doing his best to ignore the swell of humanity. He raised his eyes, looking up at the thin arch of ice overhead. He could see boulders up there, frozen in place, but ready to fall.
What kinds of lunatics live in a place like this?
It made his skin crawl, and he had a sudden longing to be outside, in the air, where the world was still fresh.
Instead he forced himself through the crowd to where Bishka stood beside Rana, a war club in his hand. The warriors were glaring out at the crowd, who glared back at them.
“Good day,” Goodeagle greeted.
“Is it?” Bishka asked. “I’ve been on my feet keeping the people back since before dawn.” He shot Goodeagle a hard look. “Is it true that Karigi’s chasing down Kakala?”
“It is.”
Bishka glanced at Rana. “We should be out there, protecting our war chief.”
Rana muttered, nodding in agreement.
“What of your duty to the people?”
Bishka gave him a dark shrug. “The people? These same ones who are cursing us because we won’t let them go search out the Guide?”
Rana growled. “We’ve been out dying for them for moons. Now they would as soon split our heads as look at us.”
Goodeagle looked back at the crowd. The gazes were hostile, but none of the fishermen, hunters, and women had quite mustered the courage to press the warriors.
“Where’s Nashat?”
“No one knows,” Bishka whispered. “No one has seen him for three days.”
Goodeagle considered leaving, but hated to face the mass of humanity again. “I heard warriors are searching the tunnels. I’ll go see if I can learn anything, and I’ll let you know.”
Either the ruse worked, or Bishka could care less anymore. He allowed Goodeagle to pass.
Winding his way along the gravel-packed floor, Goodeagle marveled at the grandeur of the great ice caves. In his warrior’s shirt, no one bothered to ask his business.
He saw the woman first, recognizing her as she hurried down the gavel path. His first instinct was to ignore her; then, screwing up his courage, he turned to intercept her.
Blue Wing carried a pack slung over her back, a desperate expression on her face. She kept peering back over her shoulder, as if expecting a shout at any moment.
“Blue Wing,” he greeted as he stepped into her way. She glanced up, startled, and he watched her fear turn to loathing.
“Goodeagle.” A resignation filled her voice. “My life is truly cursed.”
“What’s happening back there?” He indicated the deeper caverns.
“Why should I tell you?”
He gave her a ruthless smile, remembering how soft her body had been against his when he’d taken her during the long march north from Nine Pipes territory. “Because I’m ordering you to.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m Nashat’s now.”
“And where is he?”
She gave a terse jerk of her head toward the rear. But he saw through her bravado, could sense the panic in her.
“Taking the opportunity to run?” he guessed.
The widening of her eyes betrayed her.
“Come, into this side cavern. Let’s you and I talk.”
She slumped in defeat, gave a nod, and walked slowly into the side tunnel.
Goodeagle lifted a hide flap, finding a storeroom in the ice, and motioned her in. She entered, staring about in the gloom. The place had been emptied in advance of the great journey to the Long Dark.
“What do you want?” she asked wearily.
“Where is Nashat?”
“I don’t know.”
“And the Guide?”
“I don’t know that, either. But Nashat thinks he’s a fool. All of this, it’s a great trick. There is no hole in the ice. No paradise in the Long Dark. Nashat told me that much.” She lifted her eyes. “If you ask me, Nashat’s fled.”
He reached up, fingering her long black hair. “Then it was all for nothing?”
She looked up at him with wide dark eyes. “What do I have to do? If I lie with you again, will you let me go?”
A slow smile crossed his lips. That might be just what he needed to restore his wounded soul. “I would like that.”
She lowered the pack from her shoulders, unrolled a hide, and spread it on the floor. With a flourish, she pulled her dress over her head, and flipped her long black hair back. She stood before him, letting him admire her perfect body.
Whatever Nashat did to her, this new lack of modesty serves her well.
He undid his weapons belt, letting it clatter to the floor. She sighed, stepped back, and lowered herself to the hide, saying, “Your war shirt, too. Take it off. I’m tired of being chafed.”
Goodeagle grinned, pulling his war shirt over his head, feeling the cold air prickle on his skin. He turned, selected a stone, and laid the garment there. When he turned back, Blue Wing was lying, ready for him, an odd gleam in her eyes.
Goodeagle stepped over and lowered himself, the tingle of anticipation already rising in his loins.
It annoyed him that she was dry when he forced himself into her.
How long had it been since he’d coupled with a woman who wanted him? What did it say about the quality of the life he’d come to lead?
With that knowledge, the wound in his soul opened.
You are not the only one with a cursed life, Blue Wing.
She had locked her legs around his hips, her arms clasped at his back. He could feel her fingers, pressing, as if following his ribs.
The moment began to build, the anticipation of release stirring deep in his hips.
She sensed it, tightening herself around him, her arms shifting.
He was lost in the pulsing waves of pleasure. The faint pressure against his skin barely registered … . Then a terrible pain lanced deeply into his chest.
In that instant, he stared down into her eyes, feeling the white hot agony drive into the center of his being.
“I have had the pleasure of your shaft,” she hissed, “now you have felt mine!”
He rolled off her, reaching around to finger the handle of a bone stiletto where it protruded from between his ribs just below the shoulder blade.
Numb with pain and shock, he barely registered as she grabbed up her dress and fled past the door hanging.
“By Raven Hunter,” he whispered. “No.”
He got his fingers around the handle, and with one desperate jerk, pulled it free. His scream echoed in the ice. He stared stupidly at the bloody stiletto, the ground and polished bone so familiar.
Mine!
His gaze went to the weapons belt; the stiletto’s sheath gaped empty.
When did she … ?
His war shirt lay folded on the stone. He clamped his eyes shut, remembering how he’d turned his back on her.
He blinked at the pain burning in his center, heart hammering with fear. His chest seemed to scream with searing agony, and an odd tingle began deep in his throat. He stared in disbelief at the bright red blood frothing down his side.

Other books

The Calling by Cate Tiernan
Lyttelton's Britain by Iain Pattinson
Found Wanting by Joyce Lamb
Never Broken by Hannah Campbell
The Mushroom Man by Stuart Pawson
2 Brooklyn James by James, Brooklyn