A Whisper of Wings (59 page)

The refugees from River-Bend had staggered into Marsh-Stump only three days before - half a dozen shepherds, a few tired men and the village children were all that remained. A single nobleman had flown grimly at their head with a wounded girl borne up in his arms. Their leader had kept his people all together, tending to their needs in dour silence.

Slowly the word had spread. Almost eleven hundred people had died. The border villages were no more; their people were butchered and their houses burned.

After a thousand years, war had risen from its grave.

Every village had heard the news; every nobleman had scoffed, and messengers had flown to River-Bend to see the disaster for themselves. Each group had undergone the same terrifying ritual; black demons had surrounded them and lead them into the village, and the horrified plainsmen had been forced to view a parade of butchered corpses. News of River-Bend’s fate had spread; a horror so overwhelming that it numbed the very soul.

The Ochitzli tribal council had convened in panic, and now the High Speakers milled about the sacred grove wondering what to do. Disgusted by their inactivity, the Speaker for Flint Wash slammed his shepherds staff against the ground.

“Does this-this Zhukora think us mad? Why should we give in to a few hundred savages?”

Namïlii jerked forward.

“No! The spirit, he-he gave me a vision. I saw them! The skies black with demons! Spears numbering like the stars up in the sky! The mountains are alive with savages!”

“Honoured Speakers, revered Chairman, I ask the indulgence of the house. I propose the motion that we accede to the savages’ demands.”

“A motion is before the house. According to custom, the aggrieved party must speak in public before any vote is taken. Is there a spokesman here for the village of River-Bend?”

“Yes! Keketál speaks for River-Bend!”

The whole assembly craned towards the door. A single tall figure stood silhouetted by the portal; a heavy, savage male with his fur all scarred by fire. The nobleman glared at the council through hard young eyes.

“Keketál will speak for his home! What nonsense iss this about surrender?”

It was him; the river gift! Men stood for a better glance as Keketál marched ever deeper through the room. The Speaker for Silver-Leaf mopped his neck and pointed a finger down at Keketál.

“We found him wandering mad in the fields after the slaughter. If you wanting to speak with him, you will get no sense.” Keketál sneered up at his foe. “You should make him Chairman!”

There was an explosion of outrage. Some laughed, some swore; Speakers shouted and shrieked across the hall. The Chairman leapt to his feet and shook with indignation.

“Lord Keketál, you have no right to mock this house!”

“If it deserves mocking, then Keketál will mock! I am listening to you squeak and squeal like mice! You want to surrender to the demon-bitch? You want to grovel at her feet and plead for your miserable lives?”

Another man threw up his hands.

“What else can we do? How can we stand against such evil?”

“Can there be any doubt? We fight!” Keketál clenched his fist and roared. “We take a life for a life! We show them we are free! They kill our blood, I say we pay them back with sling bullets, fists and fire!”

The Speaker for Silverleaf tugged regally at his robes. Where Keketál raged in anger, his own voice blew rich and cool.

“Lord Keketál, you are a stranger among us. We are a people of peace. It takes two sides to create a war. There shall be no death and slaughter if we all behave with reason.”

“The moment you give in, you are lost!” Keketál pounded his points home with his fist. “Once you bow, she will grind in her heel. You will be hers forever!”

“But if it avoids a war…”

“Some things are worth a war!” Keketál snarled and bared his fangs. “Your homes are worth a war! The lives of your children and your wives. Your people’s freedom to live the way they want to live. Yes, these things are worth dying for!”

The other speaker whirled to face the house.

“Exactly! We have seen her power, and so we must give in.” He contrasted Keketál’s passion against his own sweet reason. “In troubled times, hasty decisions can be damaging. What does this Zhukora ask? Is it so much? Is a tiny loss of pride too much to ask for everlasting peace? We should take this as an opportunity for growth and friendship. A joining of hands as two peoples come together.” The fat nobleman opened out his arms and gave a smile. “Gentlemen, we face a time of change. Keketál calls for war, but I say let us call for peace! Let us grow and prosper, my brothers. Let us do service to our people.”

All around the room heads nodded wisely as they heard the words of peace. Keketál’s supporters leapt up to their feet, waving their staves to snatch the attention of the Chair. The Chairman stood and hammered with his staff, swiftly taking advantage of the pause.

“We shall take the vote! The motion will be judged. All those in favour…”

“Mister Chairman! We insist that Keketál…”

“NOW! The motion will be put to the vote!” The Chairman stood and lifted up his hands. “All those opposed to declaring war, raise your staves!”

Staves flashed. All around the council hall the Chiefs thrust up their rods of office. A mere handful of men kept their arms proudly folded. The old Chief of Flint-Wash stared at those who voted ‘yea’ and spat upon the ground, then resolutely made his way to stand by Keketál.

The Chairman made a great show of counting votes, his sparse antennae wagging in the air.

“Forty six to four. The will of the tribe is cooperation with the savages!”

A relieved storm of applause swept the hall as cowards slapped each other on the back. Keketál gazed about the room and then simply turned to go, and a flock of jubilant nobles hooted at him from the upper seats.

“Lord Keketál! And what will you do now, stranger?”

The cry rippled triumphantly through the crowd, but Keketál seemed utterly uninterested in answering. The Chairman angrily rose up to his feet.

The house erupted into mayhem. Speakers struggled from the press to stand with Keketál while other nobles gave a vengeful roar. The Chairman held out his hands to silence the crowd, and one hand sank slowly down to point damnation at Lord Keketál.

***

Sheep bleated as two hundred people grimly turned their backs upon their homes. Flint-Wash village was dead and gone; It’s people snatched up their belongings and filed in behind their chief. Not a single villager deigned to spare their homes a parting glance.

Keketál held Harïsh warmly in his arms and brushed his lips against her hair. The girl looked up at him with a lover’s adoration in her eyes, then watched Flint-Wash village empty out into the plains.

Old Kotekh the Speaker leaned upon his staff and spoke to Keketál.

“Watch, boy, watch. The Ochitzli tribe is gone; they don’t know it yet, but the cowards killed it yesterday. A thousand years of tradition struck dead in a single afternoon.”

“I am one hundred and thirty seven years of age! A proud noble. Too old to bow and scrape before some stinking forest savage. I have seventeen children living. Sixty seven grand children scattered through three different tribes. My seed numbers three hundred and ninety three! There’s our army. There’s the claws to keep our people safe!”

Harïsh held tight to Keketál’s arm and looked at the ancient Chief in shock.

“My lord! So-so many?”

“Eh? What of it girl? Not much to show for a hundred and thirty years of age. I’ve bounced in the sack a few more times than that, I’ll tell ‘e! My youngest is six months old. There’s life beneath the old kilt yet! Never disappoint a lady - there’s my motto.”

Harïsh’s ears blushed red.

“But-but my Lord! So many children - it’s against the law!”

“Laws are for fools. This is my village. My clan! These are my people. No one tells us how many young we bear - how many sheep we breed. Our lives are our own.”

The old man nodded as his people struggled past him with their herds. They bowed grimly to their chief, their packs already strapped tight across their bellies.

“My people. Born and bred meself!” The old man slapped his pouch. “Got my first wife in my pocket. My father’s ghost goes in the staff. I explained it all to ‘em. Flint-Wash goes with us. We’ll not leave even our dead to the likes of savages.”

Seance singers¹ began to gather beside Speaker Kotekh. He jerked a gourd from one mans hands and thrust it at Harïsh. She blinked down at the liquid, her antennae flaring high with shock.

“Milk-mead. For you. Marry the dozy idiot tonight and be done. You’re going to do it anyway. We could do with some cheer tonight beside the campfire.”

“M-Married? My Lord!”

“Dear spirits girl! The way he keeps gazin’ at ye almost makes me whiskers curl. I’ve a sleeping robe that should fit the two of you. Call it a wedding gift. Anyway - new beginnings are a good time for weddings.”

“Torch ‘em! Every house - every barn! Bind the household spirits and keep them safe against your hearts. Flint-Wash travels with us. We leave no ties behind.”

Thatch crackled as the villagers gave their houses to the flames. Harïsh stared down into the fires, the death of River-Bend still etched within her eyes.

“Do you really want to marry me, Keketál? I’m happy as I am. I will love you as long as you will let me. I ask for nothing in return.”