People of the Wolf (61 page)

Ice Fire fingered his chin, brow furrowed.

"Then what do we do?" Walrus asked uncertainly, still hurting from the stigma of being the man who lost the White Hide. "All this talk isn't getting us closer to the White Hide:"

Ice Fire turned on his heel, keen eyes on Broken Shaft. "You can find this ambush place again?"

"Of course."

"I've been trying to forget it," Smoke growled.

Ice Fire smiled faintly, eyeing the man askance. "I want you to take the whole camp there."

"The whole camp?"
Red Flint cried, shocked. "Are you crazy?"

"No, and I'm wagering Dancing Fox isn't either. When we march up the trail, we march with our women and children first."

Red Flint gasped. "You're out of your mind! They'll ambush—"

"Either trust me, Singer," Ice Fire whispered painfully, "or take my robe and outcast me from the clan."

Red Flint's jaw trembled as he met Ice Fire's hard eyes.

Raven Hunter beat his way up the slope, hunger tormenting his belly. At the top of the ridge, he looked down, crestfallen to see the empty valley below. Not even the obscuring steam of Heron's geyser could hide the reality of an empty camp. From where he stood, he could see the rings where the shelters had been.

He puffed a heavy sigh and lowered the weight of the Hide from his shoulders. He looked out over the plain he'd crossed. From his pack, he took the last of the berries he'd found clinging to a snow-packed bush. One by one, he ate them, legs trembling.

Snow whipped out of the heavy sky, flakes drifting past, borne on Wind Woman's chilling breath. A thin brown line marked the Big River to the east. Where would . . . The hole in the ice. They'd left for the south, following his foolish brother.

Drained, he could barely fuel his anger. So, Runs In Light would have the honor of taking the People through the ice.

He'd gain status by that. Raven Hunter slitted his eyes in the cold breeze, looking to the south, the white mass of the ice hidden by curling mists and low clouds. To have missed the opportunity to lead them with the White Hide hurt—but not terribly. Its Power would bear him through, would wrest Runs In Light's authority away on the other side.

He blinked somberly at the Hide, knowing what it meant to the future. He stroked it with loving fingers, tracing the texture of the carefully tanned leather. So soft. Whoever had worked it had been a master. Even through the tips of his half-frozen fingers, he could feel the Power, charging—like the static found in rubbed fox fur.

"With you," he promised the Hide, "I shall become the greatest man among the People. No one will have more wives than Raven Hunter. No one will be stronger. No one will disagree when I speak. You will give me all this—and more."

The wind picked up, and he pulled himself to his weary feet. His stomach pulled tight around the berries, gurgling in the cold wind. From where it drifted around the rocks, Raven Hunter scooped a handful of snow, chewing and swallowing the cold lump. He shivered as it traced down his throat, chilling his hunger-haunted belly.

Grunting, he lifted the heavy Hide. Did a man weigh less? Turning his steps toward the river, he staggered off along the rim of the valley. The muscles in his thighs and calves strained and knotted, sapped by the eternal weight of the Hide. Couldn't the four-times-cursed Mammoth People have found a lighter totem? He barely cast a sideways glance as he passed Crow Caller's bones, scattered across the rocks now, half-hidden in snow. The skull lay on its side, empty orbits reflecting weirdly from the skift of snow that had blown in. Rodents had chewed the arches of the cheekbones. Maggot casings lay in the nasal passage. A bit of scalp had desiccated and curled up around the vault of the skull, gray-shot hair blowing across the snow in brittle strands.

Raven Hunter shuddered, curiously riveted by the hollow-eyed stare. In a dark corner of his mind, he could hear a dry laughter: Crow Caller's laughter, haunting, mocking.

He stumbled away.

Their tracks were partially drifted over, but that many people left a trail even a blind man could follow. Raven Hunter

chuckled to himself, panting under the weight. Was it his imagination, or did the White Hide grow heavier and heavier? Where he'd rested only three or four times a day after leaving Ice Fire's camp, now he could stumble along for an hour before sagging wearily to the snow, lungs heaving, belly wailing. His reserves had gone, leaving him famished, thirsty.

"But the Power's mine," he reminded himself, feeling the flush of energy surge through him as he stroked the White Hide. "My Power!"

A deep dusty laugh erupted as he thought of how Runs In Light's expression would change as he strode into camp with this magnificent prize. With fumbling fingers, he pulled a core from the pouch, striking a sharp flake from it with a hammerstone. Using the flake, he cut a strip from around his pouch. Dropping the flake and core inside, he began chewing the resistant leather. Food. It would keep him going. All he had to do was make the camp of the People. From there, his destiny would be evident. They'd feast him with the best cuts of meat, lay warm liver at his feet. For him, they'd share fat-soaked berries, hand him horns full of strong black-moss tea to wash it all down.

Chewing the rubbery stuff, he stood, shouldering his burden, and followed in the tracks of the People. The breeze stiffened as Wind Woman's breath rolled across the land from the far north. Raven Hunter paused, sniffing. Caribou! He laid the Hide to the side, settling it carefully on clean snow. His stomach growled and twisted at the thought of fresh meat, his mouth flooding with anticipation.

Without weapons, he'd have to be canny, careful. Sniffing the wind, he circled, a snow-blown moraine to his side, the land dropping away to the broad braided channels of the Big River to the east. Behind him, the White Hide rested on the drift, oddly white against the dirty snow.

On silent feet, Raven Hunter ghosted along the rock to peer over the top of a boulder. An old bull stood below, one eye white with blindness. The animal's head hung and it walked with a limp, the left front quarter lamed.

Raven Hunter's belly cried out.

The old caribou, exiled by the younger bulls, had been pursuing its path alone, missed by the People's hunters in its

solitude. Now, it only waited for the wolves . . . and Raven Hunter.

He slipped around the rock, eyes on the animal. He'd have to act judiciously. Even an old caribou like this one could kick a man's ribs to jelly.

Raven Hunter crawled up over the rock, trying to get above the animal, keeping downwind on the blind side.

The caribou grunted softly, a puff of condensed breath twisted and blown away in Wind Woman's growing fury. The animal shifted, back to the wind, looking around with its good eye. Raven Hunter froze, noting for the first time that the blind eye, like Grow Caller's, was on the left side of the head. He started, carelessly knocking a rock loose to rattle and tumble down.

The old bull's head snapped up, ears swiveling. Nervously, the animal trotted off, nose to the wind, sniffing anxiously.

Cursing himself under his breath for such superstition, Raven Hunter followed, sneaking through the falling light. The old caribou hobbled ahead, always just out of reach. Still, it drifted into rougher country, the glacial rubble piled ever higher, a perfect place for a man to ambush the old beast, bash it to death with a dropped rock.

Raven Hunter licked his lips, the lure of the hunt driving him. With a full belly, the White Hide wouldn't be so ...
The White Hide!
Raven Hunter looked over his shoulder, back at the way he'd come.

The old caribou hobbled along on its lame leg, pausing every so often to scent the breeze and stare around with its one good eye. An animal near death, its ribs stuck out, pelvic bones visible through the thin hide.

Food. Easily had for a short stalk, the right ambush. Food that a man without weapons couldn't have hoped for.

Behind, the lure of the White Hide tugged at him.
And what if I'm not worthy?
Raven Hunter wondered.
What if some wolf comes along and chews it? Or a mouse strips the hair to make a nest? What if the White Hide thinks I've left it?

Frantic, he looked at the old caribou where it followed a rocky drainage up into the boulder piles. Raven Hunter worked his cold fingers together, knowing the chances were excellent that he could circle, drop a heavy rock, and the old

deer would be trapped. Generally, the washouts led to dead ends, blocked by huge boulders undercut and tumbled by the melt.

And if the White Hide were damaged by his negligence? The Power would evaporate—leave him. Dancing Fox would never be his. The People would never be his. They'd laugh that he'd let his stomach stand in the way of leadership!

For a long moment, he watched the old caribou walk into the certain trap. A wrenching agony possessed him. He imagined the thick steaks, the warm liver and heart blood.

Worry over the White Hide grew. What if—as he stood here thinking of food—a wolf was already ravaging the soft leather of the White Hide? What if some bear had found it-was rending the Sacred Hide to shreds? He winced, looking longingly back at the old caribou as its rump disappeared in a bend in the washout.

Raven Hunter turned heavy steps back down his trail.

"The Hide will keep me," he whispered. "The White Hide is my Power. The White Hide won't let anything happen to me. It's Power—it's my destiny!"

He ran on wobbly legs, frantic to assure himself that the Hide remained safe. On uneven footing, he tripped, falling, pain lancing up his arm as he bruised his elbow. For a moment, he lay half-stunned.

"The White Hide . . ."He gritted his teeth, staggering to his feet despite the thrumming agony in his arm. The feeling came back as he bulled along, anxious eyes seeking his tracks. He practically fell over the trail left by the People, turning, running on rickety legs.

He cried out as he found the Hide, resting where he'd left it on the stained snow. Whispering to himself, he caressed it, heedless of the numbness in his arm. A surge of relief washed through him with the power of sexual release.

"You're safe," he repeated in an undertone. "Safe. See? I 'm worthy of you.''

His arm wouldn't work to lift the burden. Pain flashed white in his mind, leaving him dizzy, disoriented. His empty stomach rebelled, causing him to retch. Breathing deeply, he controlled his spinning senses, backing under the Hide. With his good arm, he managed to roll it over one shoulder. He grunted, lifting, almost falling under the burden.

"Power," he whispered, cheek against the soft leather. "The heart and soul of the Mammoth People. My destiny. The greatest warrior of the People. The leader. No one is stronger than Raven Hunter—the half-Other! No one!"

The next morning, haggard, tripping, eyes glazed, he located the entrance to the Big Ice. The chill wind caressed his face as snow drifted down around him. His hurt arm had swollen, the joint throbbing violently. His stomach churned. He chewed stoically on another strip of leather from his battered clothing.

"Close now," he grunted to the Hide. "So close. Just through the ice ... through the ice." Wearily, he hefted the White Hide again and wandered into the blackness.

One Who Cries joked in the dark, patting shoulders, telling stories on himself. Occasionally a knotty willow root would smolder and die, causing mild confusion until it was rekindled. For the most part, they conserved the fuel, eyes adjusted to the blackness.

Time stretched. So many people moved so slowly. "I thought you said
two
days?" Four Teeth muttered nervously under his breath.

"With a small party, that's all. With this many people?" One Who Cries lifted his shoulder. "We're in good shape. We haven't used half the fire yet. The People are growing used to it. Now that the first fear is gone, it's not so bad.''

And the ghosts had been mysteriously, forebodingly quiet-just as Wolf Dreamer promised.

"For you maybe. You've been through before. But the rest of us—"

"Don't worry. We're protected."

As they continued on, he noticed people veering to the side to step around some obstacle; he eased forward.

Wolf Dreamer sat silently before an oil lamp, the moss wick fed by a preciously hoarded lump of fat. He stared at nothing, unseeing despite the activity around him. One Who Cries patted Four Teeth on the shoulder and went to crouch by Wolf Dreamer.

"Wolf Dreamer? Can you come back from the One and talk to me?"

The youth's eyes flickered slightly and slowly cleared. The Dreamer looked over, questioning. "Wh . . . what?"

"It's going pretty well. Everyone's happy. But we're moving a lot slower than I thought. Might take four days to get everyone out."

"It doesn't matter." He smiled. "Look at them, you can see their souls are healthy. I feel sorry for Four Teeth, though, he's dying."