The Dawn Country (17 page)

Zateri turned to face the camp, searching for the man amid the blanket-wrapped bodies near the fire. She subtly shook her head. “Just before we left on the Trading mission where I was captured, I heard my father whispering to our war chief, Nesi, that he feared there was a traitor in the village. I’m afraid—”

“Zateri, are you saying that you th-think Akio is the man who sold you to Gannajero?”

Zateri stared at her moccasins, as though tormented that one of her own had done something so terrible, but she replied, “He’s not here to help us. I can tell by the way he looks at me.”

“How does he look at you?”

“I don’t know … .” She shrugged. “It’s a kind of gleeful pride, as though he knows something I don’t, something he would really like to tell me.”

“Like the fact that he betrayed your father?”

One of the guards glanced at them, clearly listening, trying to hear what they were saying. He must have caught a few words. Among the trees behind him, firelight flashed and danced. The scents of cooking food wafted on the cold night wind.

Wrass leaned forward until his mouth almost touched Zateri’s ear. “If he is the traitor your father suspected …” He hesitated, suddenly not sure he should finish that sentence.

Zateri pulled away slightly to look at him. “It’s all right, Wrass. I know. If he’s the traitor, he can’t let me escape.”

They both knew it would be to Akio’s advantage to get rid of the evidence—to have her dead. The man’s only stumbling block was that she was now Gannajero’s property, and the punishment for killing one of the old woman’s slaves was a very unpleasant death. But if there was an opportunity, he’d probably do it anyway.

“From now on, you need to stay as far away from him as you can.”

“I will. I just wish I could ride in the same canoe as you, but she’ll never allow it.”

“No.” The distant hooting of owls penetrated the trees. “We’re troublemakers. Which means she’s probably going to sell one or both of us at the first opportunity.”

Tears blurred her brown eyes. “Wrass, if she sells you, I don’t know if I can … do this … without you.”

He reached out to clutch her hand. “You won’t have any choice. You can’t l-let the other children down.”

Zateri clenched her teeth to hold back sobs. When she could, she said, “I hope that she sells me first. You’re better at saving people than I am.”

He shook his head. “No. You’re smarter than I am. Without you and your knowledge of Spirit plants, I’d have never been able to help Odion and the others escape.
We
did that, not me.”

Zateri wiped her tears with her hands, and some of the struggle seemed to go out of her face. It was replaced by resolve. “Sleep, Wrass. I’ll be back to check on you later. If they let me.”

Eighteen

R
ed and angry, Elder Brother Sun climbed above the mountains, but his gleam barely penetrated the smoky miasma that stretched for as far as Sindak could see. The haze-choked forest had a dull crimson glow.

Sindak shook his head, and Towa, who marched beside him, said, “What’s wrong? You look like you ate something crawling with maggots.”

Towa’s long braid and oval face bore a coating of ash, as did the rest of him. He’d tried to wipe it from his forehead and cheeks so often that black streaks slashed across his skin.

At the sight of the abandoned warriors’ camp, a sensation of panic filtered through Sindak. “Finding Gannajero’s trail is going to be even harder than I thought. I hadn’t anticipated this layer of ash.”

All night long, the black blizzard had drifted over the forest, blown from the smoldering ruins of Bog Willow Village. The breeze had obviously been coming from the east, because the western sides of the spruces and pines were green, while the eastern sides bore a thick coating of gray. Worse, every time the branches swayed, ash wafted down over the trail.

A whimper sounded, very faint. Sindak cocked his head. It seemed to be coming from somewhere ahead. “Do you hear that?”

“What?”

“That whimpering. It sounds like a lost child.”

Towa stopped and listened. “It’s just the frozen trees creaking in the breeze.”

Sindak shook his head, doubtful. “Are you sure?”

“No, but I think so.”

The rest of their party continued up the trail into a copse of white cedars that seemed to pulse orange in the dusty surreal gleam.

Sindak took a moment to pull his water bag from his belt. As he drank, he studied the line of people. Koracoo and Cord led the way, followed by the children, then Wakdanek, then Gonda. He handed his water bag to Towa.

Towa took a long drink and handed it back. He squinted at the blowing ash. “You’re right. The ash is going to make tracking very difficult. And our chances are dropping by the instant.”

Sindak irritably jerked the bag’s laces closed again and retied it to his belt. “It doesn’t help that we’ve just clasped two snakes to our bosoms and are almost certain to be killed by them in our sleep.” He tipped his chin to Cord and Wakdanek.

“Yes, I’m surprised we haven’t been shot in the backs yet.”

“Give it time.”

Towa nodded. “I just hope they don’t cut us apart and leave the chunks scattered through the forest. If they do, our families will never find our bodies, and our souls will be doomed to wander the earth forever as homeless ghosts.”

“You mean because no one will requicken our souls in new bodies?”

“Not if your grandmother has her way. She—”

Sindak broke in. “You are not cheering me up.”

“Sorry. I’m in a bad mood. I’ve spent all morning planning my funeral.”

“Ah. You’ve been thinking of Chief Atotarho and his secret orders.”

“Of course.”

If they failed in their duty, Atotarho would make certain they were disgraced, perhaps even killed.

“Am I invited?” Sindak asked.

“What?”

“To your funeral?”

“I don’t think you’ll be around to attend. If I know your clan matron, she’ll demand the right to sacrifice you first; then she’ll give your heart to Puksu as a gift.”

Sindak grimaced. “Impossible. Puksu ate that while we were married.”

“Then maybe your brain, as an apology.”

Sindak’s mouth quirked. He stared at his friend. “You
are
in a bad mood.”

“Well, you know I’m right. Matron Tila has never liked you.”

“True. Even as a boy, the old witch used to hunt me down and force me to wash her bedding hides.”

“Her bedding hides? That’s odd. Why would she do that?”

“I used to urinate on them when she wasn’t looking. I didn’t like her either.”

Towa squinted at the flame-colored ball that seemed half buried in the murky sky. “We should catch up.”

Towa trotted away, and Sindak fell into line behind him. They passed through the white cedars and emerged into a grove of enormous chestnuts and white pines. As Elder Brother Sun rose higher, wan sunlight fell through the branches and warmed the frosty ground. Where it touched, steam rose. Throughout the forest thin misty streamers coiled into the cold morning air.

When Gonda heard their steps, he turned around to give them a threatening glare. “I thought perhaps you’d been captured by Dawnland refugees.”

“Were you coming to look for us?” Sindak asked.

“No,” Gonda answered. “I figured it was your own fault for falling behind.”

Sindak smiled. “I’ll remember that if you’re ever captured.”

“If I’m ever captured, it will be in a fight where I was outnumbered ten to one, not because I was a dimwit.”

War Chief Cord propped his hands on his hips and studied them through narrowed eyes before he said, “Our fire was on the far eastern side of the camp last night, on the river. Where did you find the children?”

Koracoo aimed her war club. “There. On that deer trail that runs back through the trees to the west.” She must have gotten hot on the run. She’d rolled her cape and tied it around her waist. Her knee-length war shirt clung to her body like a second skin. Sindak’s gaze traced the line of her full breasts, down around the curve of her hip, and followed one long muscular leg.

Gonda asked, “Do you value those eyes, Sindak?”

He started to respond, but Koracoo ordered, “Let’s move out.”

They marched ahead in silence, being vigilant. Last night the laughter and singing of warriors had filled the air. This morning the sound of grieving people rode the wind.

Koracoo called, “Wakdanek? You might want to trot ahead to prepare your people for our arrival.”

The big Healer trotted past her and vanished into the trees.

Koracoo gave him a short head start, then followed, leading them out to the edge of the clearing that marked the boundaries of the camp. “Let’s wait here.”

The party halted.

The ash-covered frosty ground was littered with crushed pots, torn baskets, and the refuse cast off by warriors glutted with victory. Several Dawnland survivors moved through the chaos, collecting old blankets, threadbare capes, seedbead bracelets, cracked wooden cups, and other things of small value. Things that had undoubtedly been replaced during the looting of Bog Willow Village. Wakdanek stood talking with an old man in the center of the camp. The elder propped himself up with a walking stick and threw hateful glances at their party.

“No arrows are flying,” Sindak noted. “That’s a good sign.”

Wakdanek trotted back to Koracoo and said, “You’re safe. For now. My relatives just want to collect their belongings and care for their relatives. They found several dead children lying in a row along the riverbank. They’re preparing them for the journey to the afterlife.”

Koracoo studied him uncertainly. When she turned to face the party, she looked directly at Cord. “What is your opinion, War Chief? Are we safe?”

Gonda jerked around to stare at her, obviously angry that she’d asked Cord’s opinion and not his.

Cord studiously ignored Gonda and appeared to think about his answer before he responded. “We should all stay fairly close together. We don’t want to tempt the grieving relatives. They’ve probably already declared blood oaths against their attackers.”

“They have,” Wakdanek said, and eyed Cord coldly.

For a long uncomfortable moment, their gazes locked.

Koracoo broke the staring contest by saying, “All right. Let’s stay no more than twenty paces from each other. And search every pack you find for food. We may have a long journey ahead us. We’ll need every moment to paddle. Hunting will be a luxury.”

The smell of death permeated the cold air. Even through the smoky gloom, Sindak counted fifty or sixty corpses across the camp. Most had perished from arrow wounds—the shafts still protruded from the bodies—but a few had been clubbed to death. Some recently. He could tell because red blood covered their faces. They’d probably been wounded in the Bog Willow Village battle, and had their pain ended at dawn by friends who could no longer stand their cries.

Odion called, “Mother? That’s where we were held.” In his fist, he clutched the stiletto Sindak had given him.

Sindak followed the boy’s arm to a small clearing surrounded by scrub bladdernut trees. Another dead body sprawled there.
The guard killed by Wrass?

He took a moment to watch Odion. The boy kept licking his lips and breathing hard, as though he were straining against an overpowering desire to run away. He was walking practically on top of Gonda’s heels. Baji wasn’t doing much better. She had a deerbone stiletto in her fist, holding it before her. Rage twisted her pretty face, which Sindak understood perfectly. He had often smothered fear with rage. Perhaps all living creatures did. He’d watched terrified dogs go into snarling enraged frenzies when cornered. Little Tutelo seemed to be the only one who was not petrified to be back here. She appeared cautious, studying the forest carefully as they walked, but no panic shone in her eyes.

And then there was Hehaka. Sindak didn’t know what to make of the boy. He kept sniffing the air like a dog searching for its pack—as though desperate to scent Gannajero or one of her men.

“Where did Baji get the stiletto?” Sindak asked.

Cord turned. The ugly scar that slashed across his square jaw had collected ash. It resembled a line of black paint. “I gave it to her.”

Sindak nodded. “Good idea.”

Koracoo shoved aside a clump of brush and cut through the forest, heading directly for the clearing Odion had pointed out.

Sindak brought up the rear, proceeding at a snail’s pace, his gaze searching the haze as though his very life depended upon it. Which it might. Though warriors traditionally left their camps just before dawn, there were often men who remained behind to stay with dying friends or ransack the packs of the dead. There could be fifty men hiding in the trees.

By the time he reached the clearing, the others had created a semicircle around the dead body. Wooden bowls, freshwater clamshells, and a half-eaten dog leg scattered the ground. The sleeping places of the children were clear. The grass had been mashed flat, then dusted with ash. The dead warrior lay to the east, facing toward the river. His last sight must have been the hundreds of warriors camped just a few paces away.