Blood Ties (48 page)

Otetian, seemingly tireless at his paddle, had told him that they were lucky, for such a hunt would usually require more protracted effort. Several hundred warriors would take part and spend the first ten days building barriers of fresh brush stretching either side of a valley for half a mile, tapering to a narrow point – the killing zone. After the slaughter there, the deer would be skinned, butchered, the meat and hide dried before fires and packed into bark barrels for transport back to the village. But this could not be the case with their hunt for they were few, a mere sixteen hunters. There was no time to build many fences, so they had fetched old ones from their usual hunting valley further inland, repaired them where necessary. The earth had provided them with this killing ground, the slopes were steep where the valley narrowed. So they had blocked off its end with their few fences. Black Snake and half the party waited down there. Otetian headed the other half, who would fire the dry brush around them, using flame and their voices to drive the deer into the ambush. And they would only bring fresh meat for this feast.

He had also told Tagay they were lucky in something else. Though this island was traditionally the hunting ground of the Tahontaenrat, more and more parties had encountered their enemy, the Nundawaono, the Great Hill People, in ever larger numbers. Many had been slain or taken captive in recent years. But today, Otetian said, Black Snake had scouted ahead and found no sign of the fierce, tattooed warriors.

‘And he should know their mark,’ Otetian had reminded him, ‘for he was once one of them, before he was reborn as one of us.’

The late afternoon sun slanted through the thick canopy of leaf. Tagay shifted, straightening his back, rolling his shoulders and neck, checking for the tenth time that his bow was strung to the right tension for him – he was using a boy’s bow and though it was still powerful it was not the huge one carried by most warriors, which needed a lifetime’s training to pull. He knew he was not yet a hunter, would just have to do his best. And he was very glad that there was no sign of the enemy. Though he had trained long hours with the sword, had even fought a few times in France, they were mere drunken brawls, entered into because of a woman and too much wine, ending in minor cuts and salvaged honour. Facing a screaming, tattooed warrior with a stone tomahawk would be somewhat different.

The file of warriors had received their fire and dispersed again. When the last was in position, Otetian swiftly dismantled his flame maker, then stood. Most could see him, as they strung out across the mouth of the valley like wampum beads on a belt. So his cry was for those at each end who could not and for those who waited up ahead.

‘Ay-ee!’ Otetian called and as he cried he tipped the contents of his bowl onto a pile of brush at his feet. Tagay did the same, as did each of the warriors. The dried grass caught, ran onto the kindling below, spread beyond. The wind fanned it, soon small bushes began to smoulder; here and there one broke into flames, scorching the lower branches of the canopy. Leaves curled, cones glowed. The breeze blew from behind them, so smoke pushed up the valley.

‘Come!’ cried Otetian. ‘The deer have it in their nostrils. Come!’

He began to run, Tagay and all the warriors following. Almost immediately, there was a crashing, a large shape leaping up from a bush a hundred paces ahead. Then there were three, five, a dozen.

‘Halloo!’ Tagay cried, giving tongue as he would have in the royal chases near Paris. Then he listened to the cries of the Tahontaenrat around him and tried to emulate them.

The ground started to descend, while slopes on either side rose, the valley narrowing swiftly. The deer were coming clearer in sight, bunching together. There had to be fifty, at least, of varying sizes. Some, seeming to sense the danger ahead, paused, half-turned back; but the cries of the hunters, the still gusting smoke, drove them on.

Tagay and Otetian, the swiftest runners, were ahead, and getting closer together as the valley tapered. They were just a few paces apart, leaping bushes at a bound, yelling with excitement.

A huge shape lurched to a halt before them, turned. It was a big buck, its spread of antlers huge above its reddish, shaggy chest. It lowered its head as they ran at it side by side. Otetian had an arrow strung, even as he ran. He let it fly and it struck the deer’s antler’s, glanced off into a tree. The buck snorted, then made off, not down the valley but to the side down a barely visible path.

‘Tagay. Follow it, it’s yours,’ Otetian cried. ‘I have hunted here before. That path leads to a stream. You can kill it as it swims. Go!’

They split apart, Otetian running straight on, driving the herd, Tagay fumbling for an arrow. The path was tiny, full of roots. Once he tripped, staggered, didn’t quite fall. He ran on, as the cries faded behind him.

The path narrowed still further, then widened again as it reached a small stream. This too grew larger and he was running along its banks, his feet slapping between the clear, fresh marks of hooves. Then the dense foliage thinned and he was in a clearing.

The stag was waiting at its centre. Ten paces behind it, there was a small waterfall into a pool below. The beast stood, its thick red coat heaving, plastered with mud, foam flecked. As Tagay emerged into the clearing, it snorted, turned toward the drop. He could see the animal hesitate. Then the magnificent antlers swung back and lowered.

He is a warrior
, Tagay thought,
and he chooses to stand and fight
.

The arrow was notched on the string. Tagay pulled it back to full stretch, feeling the power latent within even this smaller weapon. He looked at the flint head that had been narrowed down to a tapered point, ideal for the deer hunt, for the short range kill; looked beyond it to the stag. Into the stag’s eyes. It was the first deer he had seen since rejoining the Tahontaenrat, the people of the Deer. He saw now why they chose to name themselves after such a beast. He was magnificent. And trapped, his land in flames. Much like the people named for him.

He lowered his bow, let the tension in the string sag. ‘Go, brother,’ he said. ‘We will have meat enough for our feast without you.’

The stag did not move, its eyes remaining fixed on him.

‘Go!’ Tagay shouted, stepping forward, waving his arms.

The stag turned, ran, bent its legs, leapt. As Tagay moved forward, he heard the splash and by the time he reached the ledge above the pool, the deer was swimming strongly downstream, toward the open water.

The sounds of the hunt, which had faded, returned to him now. He heard the human cries, some still driving the animals on, some the shouts of triumph. He heard the whine of strings released, of arrows flying, the thud of impact, the animal squeal of agony and fear. Then he heard another sound. It was familiar to him and it should not have been there. And it changed all the other sounds in an instant.

He heard the explosion of a Spanish musket.

Gianni Rombaud laid the musket down still smoking, and reached into his crossbelt to pull out the first of his wheelock pistols. His mother had taught him how to use the larger weapon and he had inherited her thirst for a target. One of these ‘Deer People’ had just discovered that. He hoped two more would soon find that he was just as good with a pistol.

Killing savages. They were as bad, worse, than the Jews he’d hunted through the streets of Rome. At least the Christian shared some common stories with the Jew. But these were heathen, worshipping their pagan gods. The English Jesuit wanted to bring them to the cross through Christ’s love, he had even begun his mission in the short time they had spent with the tattooed ones. But Gianni knew that the cross alone was never enough. You had to wield the sword as well. Or, in his case, the pistol.

It was harder to find a target now. On the valley floor below him, it was a mass of bodies. Wounded deer, hooves flailing in the air, antlers raking the ground. Wounded men, though they did not survive their injuries for long. His native allies had shot their fire sticks to no effect, despite the days he’d spent teaching them the skill. All except Black Snake, who had found a victim for his lead ball, who seemed to have a joy in the weapon equal to Gianni’s own. Now he and his warriors were down there, with stone tomahawk and bone knife. Effective, he had to admit, at such close quarters. Plus, they outnumbered these Deer People at least three to one.

He watched Black Snake run down a fleeing warrior, knock him to the ground, stab, then bend over him. A moment later, an arm was thrust upwards, a lump of flesh and bloodied hair held aloft in triumph.

Scalps, they call them. Trophies
, Gianni thought.
Not unlike the collection of yarmulkes I left with the Grey Wolves back in Rome
.

He was content to watch the slaughter now. Black Snake had said that, in normal warfare, they might take some prisoners but they would not today. There must be no risk of any returning to the enemy camp and telling of his actions, not until the final act of betrayal when the Tattooed Nundawaono went to war in overwhelming strength. The last of their allies were gathering, it was nearly time. The morning after the full moon, they said. Until then, all prisoners would die.

All save one. When he’d slipped to their rendezvous in the night, Black Snake had confirmed that the Hunter of the Sunrise was with them as he had promised he would be, the week before at the camp. His men were under orders to take him alive. The Fire Stick Warrior wanted him. He had promised much for him.

Oh yes
, thought Gianni.
I look forward to meeting the man who stole my sister, who made her bring the mark of my family’s shame to this land. He lost me in Paris. He will not lose me here
.

Suddenly, on the fringes of the mayhem, he saw another target. This enemy had just killed the two warriors who had rushed at him. He was tall, standing proudly, waiting for more.

Pride before the fall
. Gianni smiled, raising his gun.

The closer he came, the worse the screaming of deer and men. The gunfire had ceased in the time it had taken him to run back along the stream path. He could no longer make out the song of arrows in flight. But the sound of blows, given and received, was unmistakable.

He’d come at a run at first; now, with the conflict taking place just the other side of the line of brush fence they’d erected only that morning, he slowed, made for a small gap. His bow still pulled back to full tension, he swung it to the side, leaned his face into the opening.

Into a nightmare. Deer were stampeding back down the valley, fleeing the carnage. Many had arrows protruding from them, blood streaming down their flanks. Though they tried to avoid them, hooves clashed with bodies rolling over and over on the ground. Bodies of their human brothers, the Tahontaenrat, the Deer people.

A man ran into view, two warriors with crimson lines across their bodies in close pursuit, almost on him, hands reaching for his long hair braid. The man dropped suddenly, straight down and the closest pursuer was too near to avoid him, falling hard. In an instant the crouched warrior rose up, a bone knife rising ahead of him, the second pursuer running onto it, taking it in the chest. The warrior pulled it out, turned, bent to the man who had fallen, who was struggling to his feet, jerked him up, slashed it across his throat, let him fall. Strangely, it was only when the dead man dropped away that Tagay saw the arm that held the knife, saw a distinctive ring of teeth marks on the elbow.

‘Otetian!’ Tagay screamed, stepping into the gap between the fences.

He turned. ‘Little Bear!’ he shouted, a fierce smile coming to his face. Then all time slowed as Otetian raised his knife in triumph, in greeting, before, almost languidly stumbling forward. And it was only after a hole opened slowly outwards in Otetian’s side, as if some small creature was burrowing its way out, that Tagay heard the shot. Looking up, he saw gunsmoke rising from the valley side no more than thirty paces away.

‘Otetian!’

He was moving forward then, time returning to its frantic speed. Another tattooed warrior ran toward the man now sinking to his knees and there was no time to think or aim. Tagay loosed his arrow and it took the man in the shoulder, knocking him backwards.

Then he was beside the stricken warrior, his arms under him. ‘Come! Quick!’

Otetian rose, a hand clutched to his side, blood squirting through the fingers. He half-turned back to the carnage.

‘No! Run, Otetian, run.’

He began to propel the wounded man down the valley, away, following the deer that ran and leapt before them. There was shouting behind, another pistol shot that snapped a branch by Tagay’s head. After a few paces, Otetian shook Tagay off, began to run on his own, at first weaving a little, then stronger and straighter. The two men hit a stride and fled down the valley.

They did not need to glance back. Arrows flew around them, thumped into the trunks of trees, shrieked by their ears. Soon there were less and less, though the shouting continued, they were still the quarry in a chase. But the two best runners of the Tahontaenrat were gaining ground on their enemy.

‘Hear me, Tagay …’

‘No talk! Run. We must get to the canoes.’

‘You must get to them.’ Tagay heard the bubbling in the tall warrior’s throat, saw, from the side of his vision, the redness spat out onto the ground. ‘I should have stayed and died there with my brothers. I only came with you to tell you …’

He stumbled. Tagay glanced down, saw the blood staining the warrior’s breech cloth, running down his thighs.

‘Tell me what?’

Otetian grimaced, then picked up the pace again. A ragged breath, blood at his lips. ‘Black Snake betrayed us … led us into the trap … tell them. You must live so you can tell our people.’

Otetian slowed, so Tagay did too. From behind them, the shouting increased. ‘No! Keep going. You can win this race, Little Bear … for you truly are faster than me.’ A shadow of a smile came to the red-stained lips. ‘You understand that it is only because I am about to die that I admit this.’ The smile departed. ‘Now go! I need my breath to sing my death song and this conversation tires me. Go!’