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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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Thirty-two

K
eresa’s shout—
“Kakala! Look out!”
—was his only warning. Windwolf dropped from a rock, feet impacting with a thud. Kakala spun, shoving the woman, Dipper, away. As she sprawled on the ground, Kakala tried to pull his dart back, only to lock eyes with Windwolf as the man recovered his balance, braced himself, and swung with a stone-headed ax. At the last instant Kakala threw himself backward, the deadly blow glancing across his temple.

Lightning flashed as his head snapped sideways.

“Dart him! Degan!”
Keresa’s shout seemed distant, as though heard from the bottom of a pond.

Kakala stumbled, careening forward, before he toppled face-first to the ground. In his wavering vision he glimpsed Dipper pulling her son off to the side. Windwolf was trading blows with Pega, their war clubs swinging.

The hills came alive. The Sunpath People ran from their hiding places carrying branches, throwing rocks, using sharpened sticks as stilettos. At the same time, the Lame Bull villagers flooded out of their rockshelters with weapons.

As though from a great distance, he heard Keresa shout, “Into
those holes, hurry!” Then he felt her strong arm slide beneath his shoulders, and drag him to his feet. “Kakala? Kakala, hold onto me! We have to get out of here!”

His knees buckled beneath him.

Keresa dragged him; then other arms lifted his spinning body. He remembered rubbing against stone, then sagging heavily.

More and more warriors scrambled through the opening behind Keresa, bodies blocking the light. Each time it was as if someone drove a wedge through his numb head. And then he was falling in an endless spiral, the world turning gray.

He barely felt his gut heave, vomit spewing. His body was so distant, airy, floating …

And then the grayness faded to black.

K
eresa had watched Windwolf strike Kakala down. Before he could strike again, Pega had charged forward, swinging a club. As Keresa tended to Kakala, she had glimpses of Windwolf and Pega trading blows, the clack of wood loud. Seeing Washani and Klah bear Kakala safely into the rock, she grabbed for her atlatl and one of the scattered darts where she’d dropped them. The boy’s mother was tugging frantically at the boy’s arm. No time for that now.

Keresa nocked a dart just as Windwolf struck Pega down. Her arm whipped back. From this distance, she couldn’t miss. Their eyes met—an instant of mutual understanding.

I am going to kill you now.

His slight smile was as eloquent as if he’d shouted,
No, you’re not!

She threw her weight behind the cast. The dart flashed forward, the shaft flexing. Windwolf twisted to the side, her stone-tipped dart cutting through his war shirt, vanishing harmlessly behind him.

Corre and Degan rushed up, arms back, but even as they launched their darts Windwolf threw himself behind the rocks.

The hissing of a dart brought her back to the moment. Keresa heard its impact: a muffled slap as it drove itself into Corre’s chest. He wavered on his feet, took a step back, and sank to the ground, staring in disbelief at the shaft quivering in his breastbone.

“Keresa!”
Degan shouted. “Into the hole! Now!”

She looked for the dead boy, seeing drag marks.

No, he’s no good to us now.
She spun on her heel, a dart slicing through her cloak, and ducked into the rock as a volley of darts shattered on the stone behind her. Inside, back pressed to the wall, she panted, struggling for breath. Kakala lay on the gravel like a lump, blood running down the side of his head.

Goodeagle dove through on all fours, looked around, and lunged to pick up an abandoned war club. “Keresa! It’s up to you! What are you going to do?”

Keresa, panting from exertion, hauled Kakala into a sitting position, looked into his vacant, half-lidded eyes, and propped him against the wall. Blood streaked his face and had soaked his war shirt until it clung to his muscular body in wet folds.

“Is it true?” Goodeagle demanded, and stared wild-eyed. “Did Windwolf escape?”

Keresa could only pant, staring out at the narrow opening. She could hear the screams and pleas of her wounded warriors. Despite clamping her eyes shut, she could see too clearly with the eye of her soul: They were writhing, bleeding, staring in horror at the wooden shafts sticking from their flesh.

One by one, the screams stopped. The Lame Bull were repaying blood with blood.

Goodeagle spun around, frantic eyes rising from Kakala to Keresa. “He’s killed your
entire
war party. They’re all dead. You fool! You let him kill your people! I tried to tell you—”

Keresa rose, drew back, and slammed a fist into Goodeagle’s mouth.

Goodeagle staggered backward, sobbing as he hit the floor.

“Deputy?” Degan called. “There’s a hole in the rear of this shelter.”

She shook herself, gathering her scattered wits, and worked her way back along the narrow passage. In places she had to drop to her hands and knees. Then the tunnel opened, and she saw the high crevice. Bishka and Degan were staring up, their faces illuminated by diffused daylight.

Tell me it’s a way out.
“Degan, you and Klah carry the war chief. Follow me!”

It took all of her strength as she levered her body up the narrow crack, then poked her head up into the light. Some premonition warned her; a shadow moved on the rock. She loosened her hold as an
adz whistled down to shatter on stone. She felt the wind of it, stone splinters pattering on her hair.

Keresa slid, her body bouncing off the rocks to land in a heap at the bottom. She winced, raising her hands to find raw and bleeding palms.

Feet shuffled behind her. She turned to see her frightened warriors emerge into the chamber. They manhandled the limp Kakala between them. Each was looking to her, desperation in their eyes.

She climbed painfully to her feet, turning her attention to where the tunnel forked. She glanced warily around the right bend. Up ahead, sunlight lit the tunnel.

Raven, let this be it!

Wiser now, she proceeded warily, her warriors creeping along behind her. The tunnel narrowed until barely wide enough to pass her shoulders. Looking up, she could see a wide, funnel-like opening, impossible to climb.

Pray no warrior is up there. He could drive a dart down through the top of my head and clear to my foot.

Once through, she turned, grabbed Kakala’s arms, and hauled him forward to allow the warriors behind him to get through.

Kakala’s eyes rolled. That much, at least, was an improvement. He reeled in her arms, disoriented. He kept saying, “What … what … what …”

Keresa called back, “There’s sunlight up ahead. We’re going to try to climb out!”

Warriors followed along after her, eyes wide as they stared at the forbidding stone around her.

She grabbed hold of the rocks, planted her feet, and started to climb. The hole at the top consisted of a gap between three boulders. This time, she peered around carefully, easing her way up, fearing an ambush.

She found it—saw the faces of tens of warriors above her, grinning. She jerked back as a stone-tipped dart snapped against the stone where her head had been. The shattered dart dropped past her.

The clattering sound of falling rock echoed through the tunnel. She slid back to the cavern floor, staring with the rest as Degan hurried back they way they had come.

“Oh, gods, Keresa!”
Degan shouted, throwing himself back before a cloud of rock dust. The tunnel had been collapsed to seal them in.

The choking wall of dust continued to billow out as rocks and debris thundered down.

Above her, the Lame Bull warriors were rolling boulders into place, sealing the opening.

She breathed, “Blessed Raven Hunter, we’re trapped.”

Thirty-three

G
oodeagle hunched in the rear of a chamber, surrounded by five other warriors. When the tunnel collapsed ahead of them, they’d been forced to turn around and go back. Somewhere in another tunnel, he heard shouts, but the voices were muted, as though coming from beneath a deep layer of earth and stone. He coughed and squinted at the veil of dust that filled the chamber.

The opening through which they’d entered mocked them. When Mong had eased up to the opening, a long dart had sailed in, opened a cut along his ribs, and clattered off the wall.

As long as warriors were out there, there would be no escape.

A loud thump gave them a start. Owl-eyed, they stared as yet another large rock hit the ground with a thud.

“What are they doing?” Mong asked.

“Sealing us in,” Goodeagle said breathlessly.

Rana, who sat against the wall to his right, asked, “What happened to us?”

“Windwolf just destroyed your war party.”

“We’re still alive,” Washani growled.

Goodeagle laughed; it was a low threatening sound, filled with self-loathing. “Not for long.”

“Do you think the others survived? Keresa and the war chief?”

“Pray they’re dead, Washani. If they lived, right now they’re being sealed up in rock tombs.”

The end would be long and difficult. They’d die from thirst first, but not before desperate men began killing their friends to drink their blood for the moisture it contained. Then they’d eat the meat … until only one man remained.

W
indwolf found Dipper kneeling by Silvertip’s side. She used a piece of damp hide to sponge the bulging lump on the side of the boy’s head.

“You had a close call,” he told her, kneeling opposite. “When I saw you running toward the fighting, my heart almost stopped.”

“It was Silvertip,” she said, sniffing. Her round face was tear-streaked, panic in her eyes. “I don’t know what possessed him. He knew the orders. He was supposed to stay safe!”

Windwolf carefully turned the boy’s head, pressing gently with his fingers. “There’s a lot of swelling, but I don’t think the skull is crushed.”

“Will he live?”

He winced at the pain and worry in her voice.

“Dipper, I honestly don’t know. Head wounds, well, they’re hard to judge. For now, the best you can do is keep him quiet. Make sure that his body is warm, and use that cold compress on the wound.”

She nodded, her hands shaking. “Thank you,” she whispered. “But for you, they would have had us both.”

“You and Silvertip were very brave.”

Another tear slipped down her cheek. “I don’t feel brave.”

“That is generally the way of it.”

A worried voice called, “Windwolf?”

He turned, seeing Ashes, some terrible distress behind her large brown eyes.

“What’s wrong, Ashes?”

“It’s Mother,” she said, on the point of tears. “She’s gone.”

S
kimmer bent under the weight of her pack, keeping to the low ground. She stopped when the sound of the fighting grew. Windwolf was springing his trap.

“May you win, War Chief.”
And keep Ashes safe!

She blinked back tears as she remembered her daughter’s stunned expression.

Ashes’ desperate pleading still rang in her ears.
“No! Mother, don’t leave me!”

“I had to, baby. This is the only way to ensure your future.”

If she could do this thing, kill Ti-Bish, the heart would fade from the Nightland People. Their warriors would slip away, and her people could return to their lands once again.

It will all be over. And I will have saved us all.

She cast one last wistful glance over her shoulder. Then she turned her head back to the route. As she hurried along, her heart felt as if it were breaking. Ashes’ face filled her thoughts. Every instinct told her to run back, to gather her daughter into her arms and never let her go.

But Ashes would be safe in Headswift Village. As safe as she would be anywhere. Windwolf would see to that. The man took his obligations seriously.

Now it’s up to me.
When she completed her task, if she lived, she would find her way back to Ashes.

She repeated the words she had told the girl. “I’ll be back. I promise you. And then it will all be over. We can bury our dead, and grieve, and build ourselves a new life.”

The way led along a drainage that wound through rocks. Stands of spruce and willows provided additional cover. From her calculations, if she continued, she should cross the trail that led back toward the Nightland villages.

You didn’t trust me, Windwolf. Well, the decision is no longer yours to make.
As she hurried along, memories of Hookmaker’s body, of Blue Wing crying after the traitor Goodeagle had tired of her, and of the women in the pen fueled her anger.

She could imagine Ti-Bish’s face as if it had been yesterday. She could see his large round eyes, the thin and pinched expression. He
had looked up at her with a worship-filled gratitude, as if her kindness touched his very soul.

She would see him again, and look into his eyes as she drove some sharp pointed weapon between his ribs and through his foul heart.

What turned you into a monster?

She might even find that answer before she was finished.

A dead Guide is a false Prophet.
Lookingbill’s words drove her forward.

She wound through a stand of spruce, smelling the sweet scent of the trees, and turned onto the trail. Making better time, she continued at a fast walk.

The sounds of the fighting had vanished behind her, sealed by distance and the breeze in the trees.

“You there!” a sharp voice called.

She turned, fear leaping within, and saw four winded warriors trotting down the trail; two were already fanning out, ready to cut off her escape.

She focused her frightened eyes on the lead warrior. Yes, she knew him: one of Kakala’s warriors. He had marched with them on that long walk up from the Nine Pipes camp.

“I am Skimmer,” she called, trying to muster courage. “The Guide wishes to see me.”

The warrior approached warily. He carried only one dart, and it was nocked, ready to be cast. Then, unexpectedly, he glanced worriedly over his shoulder.

He’s as scared as I am!

“I take it the fight didn’t go well?” she asked, trying to ignore the frightened beating of her heart.

He turned his attention back to her, making a hand signal to the other warriors. “No, it didn’t go well at all.”

The second warrior muttered, “I say we just kill her. After what we just survived, I’m ready to pay them back any way I can.”

“No,” the first replied. “I was in the Council chamber with Kakala and the Guide. He asked about Skimmer.”

“So?” the second demanded.

Skimmer watched the remaining warriors close in from the sides; like the first man, each had only one dart left to him. They looked like they were more than eager to use them on her. She tensed every muscle in her body to keep from shivering.

“Are you a fool?” the first demanded. “If we go back to report Kakala’s destruction, just who do you think is going into the cages? After what just happened at Headswift Village, Brookwood is nothing!”

“That’s right,” Skimmer said, fighting to think clearly. “But, well, say that you captured me before the fight. Say that Kakala sent you back with me.You’d have no part in what happened later, would you?”

The lead warrior tilted his head, running the idea through his soul. He rolled the long war dart in his fingers. “You would agree to that story?”

She nodded, hoping they didn’t hear her dry swallow. “Let’s just say that it has a certain appeal when the other option is being raped by four warriors, and then having my throat cut.”

The warriors looked back and forth. Then the first nodded. “You’re a smart woman.”

She smiled, trying to keep her voice from breaking. “And you four would be even smarter by delivering me directly to the Guide. Last time, that fool Nashat almost killed me.” The whistling sound of clubs shattering bone lived in her memory.

The warrior took a deep breath, shooting another worried look over his shoulder. “You may not be so glad you found us, woman. I have no idea how many warriors are following our trail. You’re going to have to run like you never have before.”

“I—I’ll do my best.” Then, in what she hoped was a firm voice, she added, “But the four of you had better remember that without me, you’re headed for a miserable couple of moons in the cages.”

“Oh, you can bet on that,” the leader replied. “Now, let’s see how fast you can run, woman.”

Skimmer looked down. Her hands were trembling.

Come, Skimmer. You can do this.

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

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