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

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Nine

W
ar Chief Kakala was an unhappy man. He peered through a tangle of rosebushes and counted the Lame Bull warriors. His black-painted beaverhide shirt and pants—the hair turned in for warmth—blended perfectly with the darkness. Seven guards stood in front of the cave. Worse, tens of villagers moved up and down the trails. They wore their finest capes. For them—as it had been for him in his youth—this was a holy day. But that had been before the coming of the Guide.

Jewelry flashed, catching the moonlight as the Lame Bull People passed up and down the trails that laced their rocky warren together. He could hear the pleasant clicking of shell bracelets and anklets, and see the sparkle of buffalo-horn earpins, and mammoth-ivory pendants.

“You will take your warriors and run south to Headswift Village.”
Nashat’s order still rang in his ears.
“Rumors among the Sunpath say that Windwolf is headed there. No matter what, War Chief, you find him. Either bring me Windwolf, or bring me his head.”

Kakala had stared in disbelief, pointing at his exhausted warriors, explaining how half had already gone to their families’ lodges.

“Take what you have. And go now!
” The order had been explicit.

So here he was, with a handful of exhausted warriors, staring at a bristling village.

“Keresa?” he called softly. “How long has he been in there?”

She sprawled on a boulder to his left, having a better view of the warriors who guarded the hole where the man they thought was Windwolf had gone to ground.

Her soft voice was little more than a whisper. “It’s been a hand of time since Maga and Goodeagle saw him enter. Chief Lookingbill just came down to meet him.”

“Maga?” he called softly.

“Over here, War Chief.” The youth lifted his head.

“Keep an eye on him.” Kakala wriggled back through the prickly roses, trying to keep the thorns from rasping on his clothing. He caught Keresa’s eye and motioned her back.

Together they crouched, winding down through the boulders to where the rest of their warriors waited in the bottom of a spruce-lined gully. Exhausted, they had gratefully accepted the opportunity to throw themselves on the rocky bottom of the drainage. Most, he noted, were already fast asleep, heedless of the uncomfortable rocks they lay on. That they could sleep so, and just out of dart range of an enemy village, was proof enough of their fatigue.

“What do you think?” Keresa asked as they crouched in the darkness.

“I think I don’t like it,” Kakala muttered. He tensed his muscles, rolling his shoulders, fighting the lethargy that sucked at his very bones. “Nashat was out of his mind to send us. We were tired before we were ordered on this raid. We’ve covered a seven-day trip in four.”

Keresa gave him a weary smile. “Would you rather he’d sent Karigi?”

“I remember the last time Karigi tried to trap Windwolf. No, but he could have sent either Blackta or Hawhak.”

“They weren’t there. We were.” Keresa glanced back in the direction where the man they thought was Windwolf had hidden in the rocks.

“And it was just luck we arrived when we did,” Kakala muttered. “If that’s Windwolf, and he’s talking to Lookingbill, it doesn’t bode well for us.”

“Neither does attacking the Lame Bull with a small party of warriors who are asleep on their feet!” she reminded. “Goodeagle swears it was Windwolf. I could hear the truth of it in his voice.”

“Yes, I know.” Goodeagle had sounded like a man condemned when he confirmed the stranger’s identity.

She was watching him with concerned eyes. “Nashat meant it when he said, ‘Don’t fail me, War Chief.’ If this doesn’t happen just right, he’s more than capable of putting you in a cage again.”

Kakala swallowed hard, nodding. His people could inflict no greater punishment. The miscreant was locked into a small wooden cage and left there for a moon or two. During that time, he was the object of derision and insults, and was often pelted with feces, urine, and trash. Kakala’s back and pride had ached for moons after his eventual release. Overcoming the stigma had taken half his life.

“I would really like to believe that Lookingbill has concocted some sort of trap. That he believes Nashat’s offer of protection for anyone who surrenders Windwolf to him.”

Keresa grunted.

“What? You don’t believe our clan leader, either?”

Keresa glanced at the sleeping warriors. Caution still guarded her tongue. “You know what I think of Nashat.”

Kakala couldn’t help but grin, weary as he was. “It’s not too late. You could still accept his offer.” He yawned. “Who knows? Sharing his blanket might not be that bad. You wouldn’t have to run yourself sick with fatigue. No one would drive a dart through your guts in some raid, and, well, given the number of women Nashat takes to his bed, he must have developed some little skill at pleasuring a woman.”

Her disgusted glare should have been answer enough, but she added, “The women who have been in Nashat’s bed say that the only pleasure is Nashat’s.” She shivered at the thought. “I’ll take a dart through the guts any day.”

They had watched too many of their warriors die that way for Keresa to have said such a thing in jest. She really hated the man.

He said, “It boils down to this: That’s probably Windwolf hiding in that hole. Nashat said to take him, no matter what. He’s there, guarded by seven Lame Bull warriors. We’ll never get a chance like this again.”

Keresa studied the sleeping warriors. “If we attack, it means war with the Lame Bull. There will be no going back.”

He nodded, a sick sensation in his guts. Nashat hadn’t told him to incite hostilities with the Lame Bull. If he did, and it went wrong, he’d be back in the cage. “As I see it, we have three choices. First, we could
go back and say that we couldn’t be sure Windwolf was here. The problem is that neither Maga nor Goodeagle would keep silent about it. Second, we can pull back, wait, see if Windwolf leaves alone.”

“Assuming we see him leave,” she countered. “But all bets are off if Windwolf’s warriors are out there in the trees somewhere, waiting on word from their war chief. We could find ourselves caught between two forces.” She looked at the sleeping warriors. “And in our condition, even if we fought our way out, they could run us down.”

“The third option is to take him now, tonight, and hope the Lame Bull don’t follow and kill us.”

She nodded, drawing a weary breath. “I know.” She hung her head. “We need a diversion. Something to draw off the Lame Bull. No matter what, we have to distract them long enough to kill Windwolf, cut off his head for proof … .”

He raised an eyebrow at the reluctance in her voice. “Yes?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

He sighed, staring up at the full moon. “I know. We should hate him for the pain he’s caused us. But by Raven Hunter’s black cloak, he’s fought brilliantly and bravely.”

She stiffened, giving him a stony gaze. “Let’s be about it. The sooner we’re back home, the sooner we can sleep for a week.”

Kakala drew a line in the air with his finger. “You and I will take three warriors and capture Windwolf. I want Maga and the remaining ten warriors to make a feint at the main village. His job is to keep them occupied. We will rush that hole, kill as many of the guards as possible, and chase the rest off. After Windwolf is dispatched, you hold off the Lame Bull until I cut his head—”

“War Chief?” Maga hissed from above.

He and Keresa scuttled up the slope, slipping around the patch of forlorn roses to the boulder Maga hid behind. Keeping low, they peered over the rock.

“What?”

“There.” Maga pointed.

Kakala’s eyes narrowed as a white-haired elder trotted down the trail and ducked into the rockshelter. “Blessed Spirits, who is he?”

“Just another old man,” Maga decided. “Doesn’t matter.”

Keresa muttered a curse. “Killing Lame Bull elders will add to their wrath.”

“Impress on the warriors that this is a raid to get Windwolf,” Kakala
added. “Remind them that the fewer Lame Bull People we kill, the less likely the others will be to pursue us.”

Keresa shot him a glance from the corner of her eye. “Aren’t you the one who insists that accidents happen when darts fly?”

He whispered, “Don’t remind me, remind the warriors. If we can just get Windwolf, nothing else matters.”

Ten

W
indwolf watched the single flame on the oil lamp flicker. “Chief Lookingbill, I have to ask: I know that you turned down Skimmer’s request for an alliance. Why now?”

Lookingbill spread his old hands wide. “Because for the first time, my people will agree. Like yours, they firmly believed that the Prophet had no reason to attack them. This idea of raid after raid, in endless succession, was beyond their comprehension.”

“But not beyond yours?” Windwolf asked.

“In the beginning, yes.” Lookingbill stared sadly at the lamp. “But Ti-Bish has changed the world. The miracle is that it worked. We have acted as if the old ways would eventually be respected. That everything would return to the way it was.”

“I understand.” Windwolf sighed. “Like you, I have finally come to the realization that our world is dying, Chief.” He lifted his eyes. “Take a close look when you leave here tonight. Enjoy the rest of the full-moon ceremony. You, and your people, will never see another.”

Lookingbill’s eyes widened. “You mean that, don’t you?”

Windwolf nodded. “For two years my people have fought the Nightland warriors. Among their ranks, I have even seen Sunpath warriors.
Like Goodeagle, they have come to believe Raven Hunter’s Dream, and have willingly joined to fight beside Kakala, Karigi, and the rest. They believe the Prophet is going to lead them to the paradise of the Long Dark.”

Lookingbill sat silently, his dark eyes fixed on a distance within. Then he asked, “What do you think, War Chief?”

Windwolf ran his fingers down the smooth shaft of his war dart. “I think Raven Hunter is back.”

“Then were we wrong all these years?”

Windwolf shook his head. “Only half right.” He shifted. “Remember the stories. In the beginning, before Wolf Dreamer led the people through the hole in the ice, he and Raven Hunter battled for the souls of the people. Wolf Dreamer won. Ever since, our Dreamers have sought the One. Going off, secreting themselves, fasting, sweating, purifying their souls to escape to the Dream.

“In the process, we have forgotten that the Dark Twin has his own Power.” Windwolf met Lookingbill’s eyes. “Now I wonder if Raven Hunter hasn’t been biding his time, waiting for us to grow weak. I recall my grandfather telling me how in his grandfather’s time, everyone sought Wolf Dreamer’s vision. But today? How many of your people dedicate themselves to finding the One?”

Lookingbill nodded. “I can think of a handful.” He smiled slightly. “Like my grandson.”

“Silvertip?”

“You’ve heard of him?”

“The rumor is that he will find Power.”

“If it doesn’t kill him first. He’s obsessed with the Wolf Bundle.” Lookingbill patted the large pouch at his belt. Then he looked up. “We have forgotten that we are all One. Instead we are Sunpath, Lame Bull, Southwind, Nightland, and so many others. The Prophet is now making us pay for forgetting that single truth.”

“Or Nashat is.”

Lookingbill studied him. “But Nashat only follows the Prophet’s orders.”

Windwolf shrugged. “You haven’t crept up close to Nightland warriors in their camps. They may say they follow the Guide’s orders, but listen through their words and it is Nashat who directs them. When you piece together different conversations, you learn that Nashat may have given an order in the Prophet’s name but a few days past, while
others insist the Prophet has been in the caves for over a moon.” A pause. “To me, this does not make sense.”

Lookingbill leaned back, a frown on his face. “Then perhaps it is Nashat that we should kill.”

Windwolf shook his head. “Nashat may be the cunning soul behind the war, but his authority derives from Ti-Bish. If we chop off the lion’s head, the rest of the beast will cease to claw at us.”

“And how do we chop off the beast’s head?”

“A massed attack.” Windwolf leaned forward. “Part of the brilliance of this war against us is the quickness with which it moves. We are forever disorganized, fighting defensively while four different war parties attack in different directions.”

“Which means?”

“Who defends the Nightland villages?”

Lookingbill frowned. “But to strip warriors from protecting our villages is to leave them defenseless.”

“I never promised that doing this thing would be without risk.” Windwolf leaned back. “If I join my warriors with yours, it must be done quickly, and with as much strength as we can muster. So, you must ask yourself: Is it worth the risk to strike at the heart of the Nightland? Is it worth the destruction of your home and family to kill the Prophet?”

Lookingbill sighed, his shoulders slumping. “That I do not know. Are you sure there isn’t another way?”

“Name it, and I will consider anything.”

“Chief?” old Trembler called from outside.

“Enter,” Lookingbill called.

The old man ducked inside, bowed to Windwolf, and glanced at Lookingbill. His white hair gleamed in the faint lamplight.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Dipper wanted me to tell you that the ceremonial is over and the feast has begun.”

Lookingbill nodded. “Tell Dipper I will be there shortly.”

“I should be going, too,” Windwolf said as he rose and checked his weapons. “Should you decide to do this, I need to send word to my warriors.”

Lookingbill grunted as he got to his feet. The lamp cast his shadow on the rear wall like a black ghost. “You should stay for the night. I have many extra hides in my chamber. You are welcome to—”

“No, Chief, though I appreciate your generosity. My presence here only endangers you and your people. I must go.”

Trembler said, “Please, come to my chamber first. I will fill your pack with food for the trip back.”

“That’s not necessary, but I thank you.”

Trembler shrugged, stepped out into the darkness, and Windwolf heard the old man’s steps move away up the trail.

Lookingbill walked out after him.

Windwolf stood at the opening for a few moments, listening to the sounds of the village. Many voices carried on the night; most were light and happy. One woman laughed. How long had it been since he had heard such carefree sounds?

Lookingbill turned back. “Is everything all right?” His deeply wrinkled face had turned somber.

“I was only remembering what peace sounded like.”

War Chief Fish Hawk and his warriors formed a crescent around the shelter entrance, dark forms in the gleaming moonlight.

Windwolf looked beyond them, to the shadows, and a shiver played along his spine.

Lookingbill noticed. “Don’t tell me you feel it too?”

“Feel what?”

“I don’t know.” He frowned out at the night. “It’s a—a darkness that watches … listens.” He frowned. “Something is wrong here.”

Shadows played over the trees at the base of the boulders. Windwolf caught movement. A hint of buckskin where there should have been only black tree trunks. He reached down and nocked a dart in his atlatl. Very quietly, he said, “War Chief Fish Hawk, we are about to be attacked. Chief Lookingbill, do whatever it takes to protect yourself.”

Lookingbill’s eyes widened, and he swung around to peer at the trees.

“Someone’s out there? Are you sure?” Fish Hawk asked uncertainly.

Lookingbill sternly added, “Whatever you do, War Chief, ensure that Windwolf is safe! I want it made perfectly clear that—”

Windwolf lifted his atlatl to cast. “Lookingbill,
run! Now!
”

War cries split the night as warriors burst from the darkness. Windwolf knew that dark form: Kakala! The big man ran out front, his muscular legs pumping.

Windwolf whipped his arm back, cast at the elusive shadow, and
saw Kakala stumble. A hit? His heart soared. Before he could determine Lookingbill jumped in front of him and shouted, “Go to the ceremonial cave! Tell my daughter Dipper to take you to the Deep Cave. She’ll know—”

A dart drove half its length through the old man’s shoulder. Lookingbill staggered at the impact. He gave Windwolf a terrified glance and shouted, “Save yourselves!”

Fish Hawk’s warriors cast at the charging forms.

Windwolf hesitated only long enough to snap the dart in two and shove Lookingbill into the hole behind him. “Stay there!” He turned. “Fish Hawk! The rest of you! Stop standing like stupid ground sloths! Fall back to the rocks! Take defensive positions!
Move!
”

A voice from the village cried, “We are attacked!”

As Fish Hawk’s warriors sprinted up the trail, Windwolf nocked his atlatl and drove a dart through a charging warrior. He could hear shouts, whoops, and screams from the slopes below Headswift Village.

Through instinct, Windwolf ducked a whistling dart. Then he turned and ran, pounding along behind Fish Hawk’s dark figure.

Kakala! Where is Kakala?

BOOK: People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past)

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