The Broken Land (48 page)

Several of the warriors standing near me on the palisade cry out and collapse. Two topple from the catwalk and crash to the plaza below. People dash to get to them, then carry them in their arms to the council house.

A dropped bow and quiver gleams not two paces from me. Actually gleams—the polished wood shines as though coated with liquid sunlight. Beads of mist sparkle on the red cardinal feathers tied to the bowstring. Just below my hearing, as though calling to my soul, the weapon’s quiet voice urges:
Pick me up. Fight.

As though competing for my loyalty, Shago-niyoh whispers,
“You are no longer a warrior.”

Skenandoah crouches with his back to me. Black. Unmoving. Speaking softly to a dying youth huddling against the wall. The young warrior has seen perhaps fifteen summers.

A wail erupts just before the enemy horde strikes the palisade. As though an earthquake has heaved the world sideways, the catwalk trembles. I get to my feet, leap over the bow and quiver, and run to look.

Below, Hills warriors slam ladders against the walls. In less than ten heartbeats, several have vaulted over the palisade and landed upon the catwalk. Eyes gleaming wildly, they whoop and charge. People rush by me. As they kill the invaders, they shove their bodies back over the palisade and push the ladders away. I look down. Gray shapes, boulder-like, scatter the edge of the marsh. More pile against the base of the palisade. Bodies. The snow is gone, beaten away by desperate feet. Blood soaks the earth.

In Yellowtail Village, thirty paces distant, melody lofts into the roar. Musicians play drums and flutes. A conch-shell trumpet blows. The haunting sound wavers through the death cries like fluttering ribbons.

As though I have stepped into another world, the chaos suddenly increases, drowning out everything but my own hammering heartbeat.

Out across the misty forest, the enemy is closing in. Warriors plant the spears sporting their clan colors, claiming this territory. The flags hang limp. No wind at all now. Just shining mist and sickly sunlight.

Only the far northern line still holds. And it can’t last for long.

Fifty-three

“
T
ake him away,” Kittle said with an impatient wave of her hand.

“Yes, High Matron.”

The two warriors spun the Hills prisoner around and shoved him through the door curtain back out into the chaos of the plaza.

Kittle looked around at the other five matrons. Their dire expressions seemed frozen. They sat so still their white hair caught the firelight and became threads of gold. The warm air felt suddenly hot. Kittle pulled her cape open beneath her chin. “I say we do it.”

Sihata, matron of the Hawk Clan, shifted on the floor mat. “You would risk your granddaughter’s life on the word of a terrified prisoner?”

“Someone must do it, Grandmother!” Taya insisted. Her young face looked older. Her jaw was set, and her eyes blazed with certainty.

Kittle rubbed a hand over her face. The captured Hills warrior had been so frightened, his teeth had chattered incessantly. He’d have told them anything he thought they wanted to hear, but she suspected he’d been telling the truth about this. “Yes.”

Taya, who stood to her right behind the circle of matrons, heaved a breath. Gitchi lay at her feet, guarding her as Sky Messenger had instructed. Taya gazed fearlessly at Kittle, but she had her fists clenched, clearly annoyed the deliberations were taking so long.

She said, “Grandmother, please, if I’m going, I must go now, before they’ve completely surrounded the village.”

Matron Dehot murmured, “She’s right. Send her. At this point, what harm could she do?”

Sihata smoothed white hair from her forehead. “There is one thing.” They all turned to listen. “She is the high matron’s granddaughter. She would make a fine hostage.”

A small tremor went through Kittle, but she didn’t think anyone noticed. She looked straight at Taya. “I won’t let them use you against us. Do you understand, Taya? If we do this, as of this moment, you are dead to me. No matter what they threaten, I will do nothing to save you.”

“I understand, Grandmother.” She gave Kittle a clear-eyed stare.

Kittle held her gaze for a long time before saying, “Promise them anything you have to. Hurry.”

“Take care of Gitchi for us?”

“Yes, of course.” Kittle put her hand on the wolf’s soft back and stroked it. “Stay with me, Gitchi.”

Taya grabbed her cape from where it rested beside the fire, rushed to the door curtain, and disappeared outside.

Kittle watched the leather curtain swing. Outside, she caught glimpses of children running, dodging falling arrows, followed by shouting warriors trying to herd them to safety.

Sihata threw another branch on the fire. As sparks rose into the smoky air of the longhouse, she tipped her wrinkled face up to watch them climb toward the smoke hole. She softly said, “I think she’ll make it. She has courage for one so young.”

Kittle replied, “Yes. She’ll make it. She has to.”

Fifty-four

W
ar Chief Sindak clutched his nocked bow and turned to look back. A solid line stretched out across the valley behind him, coming on fearlessly. The other war chiefs were keeping tight control of their warriors, not an easy thing with the enemy fleeing before them. Good men and women, every one. Despite the heavy losses they were taking, they would hold it together long enough get into position around the villages. Then it would become a different fight. He wiped stinging sweat from his eyes and licked his chapped lips. Each village had three rings of palisades. Breaking through them would be even more costly in blood and time. Gods, he wished he didn’t have to do this. He wished it hadn’t come to this. War Chief Koracoo, now Matron Jigonsaseh, was an old ally. He did not wish to kill her, and that’s what would happen when they won. All of the matrons and chiefs would be lined up and their throats slit as their people watched. Atotarho had already given the order. “Leave the enemy headless. That way when we march the captives home, they will be lost, their souls too broken to cause us problems. We’ll pack their backs with every basket of food we can find, and they’ll bear their burdens without a word.”

Sindak frowned at where Chief Atotarho stood with his personal guards on the crest of the rocky ridge. He could just make them out in the shifting mist. The black flag of the Wolf Clan flew over his head.

Sindak turned back. A new roar and the clattering of war clubs rose when his forces cut through the third wave of archers and approached the last Standing Stone line waiting in the trees, their bows aimed, waiting. A roar went up. Elder Brother Sun, shining through the fog, cast an eerie diffuse light over the participants. Warriors’ faces—some painted, some tattooed—glowed bloodred as they appeared and disappeared in the mist. His forces pushed closer, closer. One of the enemy war chiefs shouted, and the archers let fly. At that range, if they could aim at all, they couldn’t miss. His stomach knotted as he watched hundreds of Hills warriors topple. They went down as though swathed by a huge flint scythe. The rest of his forces charged forward.

Most of the Standing Stone line broke and fled, but a portion of the line to the north held. Strong men and women. Good leadership to keep them in position while everyone else ran away. That wasn’t Koracoo herself out there, was it? Surely they wouldn’t let their new matron command, would they? No, he couldn’t imagine it. Gonda? A sad warmth filled Sindak. Yes, maybe. Gonda had warred with Koracoo for many summers. He knew her tactics well.

Sindak lifted a fist and turned to yell to the war chiefs behind him, “Keep your lines tight. We will strike the last of the northern line, then push for the villages.”

He yipped a shrill war cry and charged down into the battle, his warriors pounding the ground behind him.

As he ran, he gave the other war chiefs hand signals, and the whole line shifted northward, closing gaps, moving like one huge animal. It was beautifully done. Artwork. Even after the arrows began falling like a hail of stilettos, the line still moved steadily onward.

When they got closer, a few men stopped to fire back; then more stopped. Sindak shouted at their commanders. Too far. They were too far away. If they hit anything it would be sheer luck. Move. Keep them all moving. The terrifying sight of so many enemy warriors coming at them should send the Standing Stone warriors fleeing before they even arrived.

But they held. To his amazement. Even in the face of overwhelming odds, the remnant northern line held. They were about to be swallowed whole. But they held. Admiration filled him.

He winced when, to his right, he saw his own line breaking. Warriors too eager for blood clumped together and lunged ahead. They must have planned this, their own moment of victory. Nothing he could do about it now. They were too close. Almost upon the enemy. The northern line concentrated their fire on the men running out in front, and the heroes dropped like flies after the first hard frost.

“Come on!” Sindak shouted. “Now is the time for courage! Make your clans proud.”

The Standing Stone archers tossed aside their bows, drew their war clubs, and clan cries shredded the air as they charged out to meet Sindak’s forces.

Fifty-five

“
S
tay down!” Gonda ordered.

Warriors scrambled to obey, throwing themselves to the earth, covering their heads until the endless volley slicing the air overhead ceased.

He hid behind a boulder, staring for so long at the orange circles of lichen and shiny flecks of mica in the granite that when he dared lift his head and look out across the valley at the men moving among the trees, hunched, hiding, he felt too tired to move. Many warriors had covered themselves with leaves, praying the attackers would pass them by. A bloody deer thrashed through the brush to his right, three-legged, a wrenching sight. Five paces away a man with no head lay like a torn corn-husk doll. And all around him, all around, mist eddied and roiled. Fine snow filtered down everywhere, coating faces, capes, settling into unseeing eyes. The western lines had collapsed first, followed by most of the northern line. Standing Stone warriors were fleeing for their lives, trying to reach the villages before they could be cut down. The enemy formed up behind them and let fly at their backs. A new sound. Stuttering wails. Ghostly forms staggered through shifting fog, visible one instant, gone the next.

Gonda blinked. As the enemy raced by on their way to attack the villages, he breathed out. Gradually, the air softened and the battle sounds transformed into a distant roar.

Gonda stepped from behind the boulder for a better look.

A young boy, twelve maybe, crouched to Gonda’s left, sobbing without making a sound, staring out at the rows of dead that littered the foggy vista. Gonda walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right. It’s over for now.”

The boy lifted his face and gazed at him, his soft black eyes like polished jet. Stunned eyes. Uncomprehending. Gonda patted his shoulder. “Just sit here for a while. If you have any food in your belt pouch, eat. You need something in your stomach. It will help.”