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

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BOOK: People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past)
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“Do you think it will work?”
“No, but it will take them a while to figure it out.”
Skimmer and Ashes followed him, stepping into his tracks as they left the snow. A finger of time later, Windwolf found what he was looking for. Stepping from stone to stone, they left the trail. Then, well wide of their old route, he led them back north, then after crossing another couple of boulder patches, turned toward Headswift Village.
“Now we run.”
Y
oung Horehound stopped at the edge of a thick patch of trees. He’d seen smoke rising from the other side with the last light of sunset, and hoped that today he would find Deputy Silt.
Horehound rolled his shoulders and flexed his weary legs. A tall, thin youth, he had seen ten and seven summers. When Chief Lookingbill and Windwolf had picked him for this task, he hadn’t any idea it would turn into such an epic of cross-country travel.
He’d been dogging Silt’s tracks for days, but always seemed to arrive late. Deputy Silt never remained for long in any one place. Not only that, but only yesterday, Horehound had almost stumbled headlong into one of War Chief Hawhak’s Nightland war parties.
His only warning had been the sudden cry of a man in pain. Horehound had dived headfirst into a patch of sumac, and huddled among the stems as Hawhak’s warriors topped the crest of a low hill and filed past. Five of the twenty-some warriors had been limping, the others looking surly.
Horehound had overheard mutters of “ambush” and “stinking Sunpath cowards.”
Only after they were long gone had he crawled out of the sumac and grinned.
He’d had enough of walking through the blackened frames of lodges, kicking at smoking debris, and shaking his head. These people might have been Sunpath, but after the attack on Headswift Village, they were now allies.
He resumed his pace, trotting through a patch of mixed oak and pine. His wary eyes constantly swept the forest, alert for the first sign of movement. Then he caught the faint scent: smoke on the wind.
He pulled up at the edge of the trees, looking out at yet another ruined village.
Warriors walked through burned lodges … probably searching for bodies. They were obviously Sunpath, because a short distance from the village, three tens of Sunpath villagers had gathered. Not only that, none of the warriors wore Nightland garb that sported ravens, black circles, or the other symbols they had adopted after the coming of the Prophet.
Still.
As his gaze took in the clearing, searching for threats, he adjusted the twisted rabbit-fur mantle that draped his shoulders. In the distance he could count four fires that continued to smolder, and though he did not know these Sunpath lands well, he assumed they marked recently destroyed villages. He’d met several groups of refugees on the trails. All were headed north to Headswift Village.
The only thing Horehound knew for certain was that Headswift Village could neither protect nor feed them all. Worse, as more and more refugees flooded in, Headswift Village would become an increasingly alluring target for Nightland warriors.
As if we wouldn’t have been anyway, once the Prophet’s warriors finished with the Sunpath.
He trotted out from under the trees. When the men saw him, a shout of alarm went up and four warriors sprinted toward him with their nocked atlatls up and ready to cast.
Horehound spread his arms wide, showing that all of his weapons were tied to his belt, and called, “I have a message for Deputy Silt from War Chief Windwolf! Is Deputy Silt here?”
A big ugly man with shoulders as wide a buffalo’s trotted up, eyed Horehound’s weapons belt, and kept his arm back, ready to drive the wicked-looking dart into Horehound’s chest.
Horehound sighed and repeated, “Is Deputy Silt here? I carry a message for him from War Chief Windwolf.”
One of the other warriors said, “He must be telling the truth, Bot. No man would just run in here like that unless he thought he was safe.”
Bot gave Horehound a murderous look, but said, “What is your name, warrior?”
“I am Horehound, from Headswift Village. War Chief Windwolf sent me to find you. I have been on the trail many days. Mostly because you never stay in one place!”
Bot scowled. “If we did, the Nightland warriors would find us, instead of us finding them. Were that the case you’d be talking to little bits of my liver right now. Which wouldn’t do you much good, would it?”
Horehound shook his head. He didn’t want to mention that standing here talking to Bot’s face wasn’t doing him much good either. “Is Deputy Silt here? The message I carry is urgent.”
Without taking his eyes from Horehound, the big man said, “Dogwood, fetch Silt.”
The warrior ran off down the trail. A short time later, he trotted back accompanied by a medium-sized man with shoulder-length black hair and dressed in a soot-stained mammoth-hide cape.
“I am Deputy Silt.” The man eyed Horehound severely. “What is this message you claim to carry?”
“Deputy, I am to tell you that Kakala has attacked Headswift Village. The attack may have been meant to kill Windwolf, but many of our people died, including our Sacred Storyteller, Mossy. You are to know that Lookingbill considers this but the first attack to be made on our people. The Lame Bull People welcome the Sunpath People as allies in our mutual war against the Nightland warriors and their accursed Prophet.”
Shouts went up. Some of the warriors actually Danced.
“And Windwolf?” Silt asked, grinning. “Is he well?”
“Yes, Deputy. Well, and beloved by our people. It was he who spoiled the Nightland attack on Headswift Village. At no small risk to himself, he saved Chief Lookingbill’s life, and probably that of our war chief, Fish Hawk, and many others as well.”
His statement was met with grins.
Silt was beaming. He clapped a hand to Horehound’s shoulder. “You bring good news, Horehound. News beyond our hopes.”
A feeling of delight shot through his breast. “That pleases me,
Deputy. Also, you should know that Headswift Village is currently sheltering refugees. Though I do not know how long our food will hold out.”
“How are things in the north?”
Horehound spread his hands wide. “I have passed through nothing but burned camps and fleeing people. Most of the country is empty.” He took a breath. “And only yesterday I hid from a party of Northland warriors.”
“Headed which way? How many?” Bot demanded.
“Perhaps twenty, and five were badly wounded.”
Another of the warriors nodded. “We ambushed them here.” He gestured at the people beyond the village. “They were to be the slaves to carry loot and food north.”
“Twenty?” Silt mused. “Hawhak started this raid with more than fifty. Somehow, I don’t think Councilor Khepa is going to be pleased when his war chief returns home.”
“We could follow,” Bot suggested. “Hit them again. They won’t be expecting us to be so hot on their trail.”
Silt considered. “But we have no idea where Blackta, Kakala, and Karigi might be.”
Horehound interrupted. “Deputy, there is more.”
“Yes?”
“War Chief Windwolf told me this message was for your ears alone.”
Bot made a growling sound. “That doesn’t sound like Windwolf. He would never—”
“He might,” Silt corrected, “if he feared that the news would get around too quickly.”
Silt motioned for Horehound to follow him as he walked ten paces back up the trail. When Horehound glanced over his shoulder, he noticed that the warriors kept their atlatls nocked and aimed at his back. Even a poor warrior could hit such a big target from ten paces. His skin crawled.
Silt said, “What is this message?”
“Windwolf sends his regards, and an order that he wishes you to follow, though he knows you will not wish to.”
Silt spread his feet. “Why am I not surprised?”
“He orders you to gather as many Sunpath people as you can and head west to the Tills in the lands of the Southwind People. He said he will be sending more warriors to you.”
“What are you talking about? We’re not running!”
The deputy had raised his voice loud enough that his warriors could hear.
Horehound deliberately kept his words low. “He said he knew you would not wish to obey him—”
“I have
never
disobeyed one of his orders,” Silt said through gritted teeth. “But … but this … It makes no
sense
! Why would he give such an order? Did he explain?”
Horehound spread his arms. “He said you would ask. His answer to you is that the Tills are easily defensible. The rolling forested Sunpath lands are not. He asks that when you arrive, you make a study of the high points, figure out the best way to defend them so as to kill as many attackers as possible.”
“We’re going to defend the Tills? When our own lands are here?”
Horehound nodded. “Those who are not laying traps for pursuing Nightland warriors are to hunt, but in small parties. Windwolf wants you to rest, fill your bellies and packs, and be ready when he sends for you.”
“Ah!” Silt’s smile returned. “He is planning something?”
“He is. And, no, he did not tell me what. But he did say to tell you that trying it with exhausted, half-starved warriors … as he put it ‘would not be wise.’”
Silt was frowning. “And the Lame Bull People?”
Horehound took a deep breath. “Some of our warriors will be sent to join yours in the Tills. Others will come at the last moment, meeting at a place Windwolf determines.”
Silt looked at him from lowered eyes. “I’m just supposed to trust him?”
“He said I should tell you these words. He made me memorize them: ‘Tell Silt that Walking Seal Village taught me he is the only man I can trust. Tell him that I beg him to trust me in return.’”
Silt’s grave expression slackened. He looked away and his gaze drifted over the forest. Wind Woman’s touch was calm and cool today, barely stroking the pine boughs.
Finally, Silt asked, “Where is he? Still at Headswift Village?”
“He was when I left.”
Silt walked a short distance away and, more to himself than to Horehound, whispered, “The Tills lie ten
hard
days’ run to the west. Why not someplace closer?”
Since Horehound didn’t figure that question had been aimed at him, he kept silent.
Silt’s head swiveled, and the look he gave Horehound cut like a stiletto to the heart. “I have a message for Windwolf.”
“What is it?”
“Tell him I will meet him at the Tills, but if he is not there in two moons, I’ll come looking for him.”
Horehound nodded. “I’ll tell him.”
Silt gestured to the north. “We may know that Hawhak is scurrying home with his tail between his legs, but Kakala, Blackta, and Karigi are still out there somewhere. If you fall into their hands, and they make you talk … Well, it wouldn’t be pleasant.”
“War Chief Silt, by nature I’m a cowardly man. You can bet I’ll take special measures to keep my hide in one piece.”
T
he magnificent Nightland Council chamber had a spongelike quality. The walls were as porous as a wasp’s nest. Some of the cavities twisted back into the ice like wormholes, going in every direction and disappearing into blackness. And it was huge. It arched ten body lengths over Nashat’s head and spread fifty paces across.
Two of the precious pine torches, carried all the way up from the Sunpath lands, burned in the center of the chamber. The pale yellow gleam danced across the high ceiling and glittered on the black wolf hides that covered the thick gravel floor.
Nashat pulled the sleeves of his heavily painted buckskin shirt straight and glanced at Ti-Bish. The Guide stood on the far side of the Council chamber, watching War Chief Kakala from the corner of his eye. The war chief was a big, heavy-boned man who wore his long black hair in a single braid. The bloodstains on his gray bearhide cape had turned brown from age, and almost looked like painted symbols. He had a raw strength about him that women reputedly found irresistible. Nashat wondered how they got over his scarred, ugly face.
Nashat said to Ti-Bish, “Blessed Guide, Kakala has not been able to capture War Chief Windwolf. I know this will disappoint you.”
Kakala merely exhaled and shifted his gaze to Ti-Bish.
Barely audible, Ti-Bish said, “But I—I need to pray with Skimmer.”
Nashat said, “You have failed your people, War Chief. You have failed our Blessed Guide.”
Kakala’s dark eyes returned to Nashat. “Elder, your orders prevented me from finding Windwolf. And, as to Skimmer—”
“You mean,
the Guide’s orders
!” Nashat interrupted quickly, shooting him a warning look.
Kakala lifted a shoulder. “The
Guide’s
orders sent me south with sixteen warriors. Windwolf was in Headswift Village. I split my force, sending Maga with ten to feint at the rocky warrens while I took four and tried to kill Windwolf as he met with Lookingbill. I had no leverage to force them to turn him over. If I’d been allowed to take the Elders captive, I—”
“Who is Windwolf?” Ti-Bish asked.
Kakala’s brows raised enquiringly.
“A Sunpath war chief,” Nashat answered. “I
told
you about him. A very evil man. He’s killed many of our warriors.”
Kakala said, “I wouldn’t call him evil, Elder. He’s a brilliant warrior. He’s fighting for his people; he just—”
“It’s just that some of his people have been trying to
kill
our Blessed Guide.” Nashat gave Kakala a warning look and extended a hand toward Ti-Bish.
Kakala turned confused eyes on Ti-Bish, and seemed to be scrutinizing him with a new understanding.
As though he sensed the war chief’s revelation, Ti-Bish said, “The blessings of Raven Hunter be with you, War Chief,” and swiftly headed for the exit.
Nashat reached out and grabbed hold of his cape to stop him. “I realize it’s your prayer time, Guide, but please, just a little longer.”
Ti-Bish swallowed hard, gave Kakala an askance look and murmured, “All right. A little longer.”
“As to Skimmer …” Kakala began.
“You,
War Chief,
have failed me for the last time.” He gestured to one of the warriors standing by the entrance. “Take him to his justly earned punishment. He can contemplate his failures there. When Karigi returns, have him come to my chambers. I would speak to him about the position of high war chief.”
Kakala swallowed hard, seemed to sway, and stood as the guard stepped close, his hand on a war club.
“You won’t need that,” Kakala said through a strangled voice. He walked proudly from the chamber, head high, the muscles in his back stretching the travel-worn cape over his shoulders.
Nashat paced in front of Ti-Bish. “He’s a warrior. He doesn’t understand. The Nightland clan Elders made the decision to find Windwolf, capture him if possible, and if not, kill him.” He looked into Ti-Bish’s wide eyes. “You do understand, don’t you, Guide? There are people out there who would kill you before they would allow Wolf Dreamer’s heresy to be supplanted.”
“But, I—”
“There are no
but
s, Guide. Your responsibility to the people is to lead them to the hole in the ice when the time comes. Mine is to ensure you live long enough to ensure our return to the paradise of the Long Dark.”
Ti-Bish nodded, his eyes dropping.
Nashat said, “You can go and pray now.”
 
 
K
eresa didn’t look back as she trotted out onto the tundra. Moss and sedges padded her steps as she led the line of her remaining warriors. She could hear Goodeagle’s thudding moccasins behind her. That he was second in line irritated her.
I’d prefer that he ran last. Maybe he’d do us all the pleasure of simply fading away.
No, not Goodeagle. For better or worse, he’d committed himself to them.
She shook her head, worry about Kakala spinning through her soul. They had followed his orders. They’d looked for Windwolf, had even tracked some elusive fugitives, but lost their trail. A man, woman, and child, from the tracks in the snow. A fleeing family, not a hunted war chief.
To her delight, not a single warrior had looked askance at her when she’d made the decision to head back. Each and every one of them understood what Kakala had done for them.
Odd, isn’t it? Their loyalty is to Kakala, and not the Council. How did this happen to us? What have we become that our hearts beat for each other, and not the will of our people?
But then, if they found Kakala in a cage—given everything he had sacrificed for his people—the Council would have crossed some line that even she barely understood.
And if he’s in a cage, Keresa, what will you do?
She wondered. Were she to cut the bindings and free him, what then?
“It doesn’t matter,” she muttered under her breath. “We’ll deal with that future when it confronts us.”
But the deep-seated worry gnawed at her. How did nine warriors and a Sunpath traitor defy the Council and remain alive?
 
 
A
s they wound through the willows that lined Moose Creek, the sunset sky turned a livid shade of red. The bellies of the drifting Cloud People looked bloody.
Windwolf shielded his eyes to scan the heavens. “I’ve never seen the sky turn that color after Father Sun descends into the underworlds for the night. Have you?”
Skimmer shook her head. “No. But many strange things have happened since last summer.”
“I remember the day Morning Star never went to sleep,” Ashes said.
“As do I.” Windwolf lowered his hand and let his gaze drift over the massive boulders that mounded the hills. Scrubby spruce trees sprouted from the crevices.
If they’d been on the main trails, they would be less than one hand of time from Headswift Village. Slogging through the muskeg in drainage bottoms took longer, but was much safer.
Somewhere out there, Kakala had an ambush set up for him.
Skimmer came up beside him. “You look worried. Why? Do you see something?” Long strands of black hair blew around her angular face. They had finally stopped long enough for her to wash most of the matted gore away.
“I was just thinking that if I were Kakala, I’d cover every trail that led to Headswift Village, and post lookouts on all the high points for
a day’s walk.” He pointed to a mountainous pile of huge boulders. “Like that one.”
Skimmer stared at it for a long time. “I don’t see anyone there.”
“No, but he might be looking straight at us. We need to keep to the low places: meltwater channels, creeks, gullies.”
Ashes sank down on a rock and smiled. “Look,” she said and pointed to the north. “There’s a giant beaver.”
The beautiful animal, as big as a black bear, swam in a pool of water that had collected to the side of Moose Creek.
Skimmer took a few blessed moments to enjoy the sight. Over the beaver’s back, on the hills in the distance, a small herd of caribou could be seen. They resembled gray dots moving against a bloody background.
“Windwolf, before we go after Ti-Bish, there are some things I must tell you about him.”
“We?”
She rubbed her cold arms. “That was yesterday.”
Windwolf waited for her to say more. The glassy look of fear lay bright between her eyes. She reminded him of a chert nodule, ready to shatter into angular fragments at the slightest blow.
She clenched a fist and glared at the dusky heavens, the glitter of panic growing brighter.
He said, “You have done enough.”
“I’m not thinking of myself.”
Both of them looked at Ashes. The girl yawned and pulled her cape more tightly around her waist. In a few moments, she’d doze off.
Windwolf said, “I, too, have lived the pain of losing someone I loved. I’m not sure I’d take the risk either.”
She gestured to his short-shorn hair. “Who do you mourn? May I ask?”
That tender place inside him, the chasm left by Bramble, ached. “My wife. We’d been together for three and ten summers.”
“Bramble died long ago, Windwolf.”
“To me, it will always be yesterday.”
Their gazes held, his guarded, hers uncomfortably vulnerable.
Softly, she asked, “Why do you blame yourself?”
He squinted against the memories. “A runner came in. He told us that Karigi wanted to negotiate. We set up a meeting at Walking Seal
Village. Bramble went to speak with him.” He exhaled hard. “It was a trap. A friend betrayed us.”
“I’ve heard. You seem so … whole … I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“That’s good to know.” Too bad she couldn’t see beneath his skin.
Ashes curled between two rocks and closed her eyes.
Skimmer mouthed the words, “Should I wake her?”
Windwolf shook his head. “Let her nap for a few heartbeats.”
Skimmer sank back against the ledge and followed his gaze to the herd of distant caribou. They looked like they were playing, running and bucking. As dusk turned to evening, the bloody sky faded to deep purple.
“I heard you tried to rescue Bramble,” she said cautiously.
“I was too late.”
Skimmer closed her eyes and let Wind Woman’s chill breath blow across her face. “I—I couldn’t. Go back. For my husband.”
“Captives don’t have that luxury.”
Skimmer tightened her arms across her chest, barricading her heart. “No. They don’t.”
Windwolf stared at her for a long time. “Why don’t you believe it?”
“I just stood there, staring, unable to believe. I could have run. Could have—”
“No, you couldn’t. I’ve seen that look many times on the faces of warriors … watched them stare in shock at their friends on the battlefield. Even though there was nothing they could have done, they always believed if they’d just said something, called out, they could have saved them.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Tell me something: After fighting tens of battles, do you ever stop being afraid?”
“Only if you want to die.” He smiled grimly. “Somehow, Kakala’s warriors have proved incredibly inept.”
She smiled for the first time.
Windwolf looked up at the sky. “May I ask you a question?”
He saw the sudden trepidation, but she said, “Yes.”
“Have you truly lost your faith in Wolf Dreamer?”
She nodded. “There—there was a woman in the enclosure. She told me it was a test—that Wolf Dreamer and Old Man Above had to know we had faith in them. That it was like a father punishing his child: Every instant of pain had a reason. That our pain …” She
choked on the word, and had to swallow hard before she could continue. “Our pain hurt Wolf Dreamer as much as it did us.”
BOOK: People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past)
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