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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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Kakala gestured with his pipe. “But now they are no threat, and the Lame Bull have come to believe we are invincible. As I said, Nashat is a cunning and devious one.”
Keresa rubbed her shins. “So, you think the Lame Bull are next?”
“You know the Guide’s words. We are the chosen people. Those who follow the ways of Wolf Dreamer must not follow our path. They are not to bring their pollution into our world.”
She glanced out at the slaves, seeing the bowed heads of the women and older children. These had been taken from the Nine Pipes band. For some reason, the Guide had sent them specifically to take the camp. The orders were to bring back
all
of the women. Nashat had insisted that the Guide wanted a
Nine Pipes
woman. Kakala had ensured that they captured every female in the camp.
Normally they only took those who could work.
After a raid, the warriors withdrew with their captives, traveling far enough to ensure that Windwolf’s ragged warriors were not in pursuit. Then they went hunting. The slaves carried the kill back to the Nightland caverns along with precious wood.
What had been surprising was the amount of game that had moved into the territories abandoned by the nomadic Sunpath bands. Hunting had definitely improved over the last two winters.
Her people relied on the ice caves. There they carried the summer’s catch, placing it on ice to freeze for the winter. Since the beginning of the war, bellies had been full like they’d never been in the past. Back when she was little, summer had been spent hunting the snow geese, ducks, and loons. In hide-covered boats her people netted fish from among the floating bergs in the Thunder Sea. They hunted seals, walrus, and occasional pilot whales and narwhals, rendering the meat and blubber. Throughout the summer, the largess was carried back for freezing in the ice caves, stored for winter. Now her people had grown lazy, letting the slaves carry their burden for them.
“You’d think Raven Hunter really does smile on us.” She watched a branch break in the fire.
Kakala was watching her curiously. “What do you really believe? Do you think the Idiot actually had a vision?”
She cocked her head. “Have you looked into his eyes?”
Kakala nodded. “He believes it.” He knocked the dottle out of his pipe. “But then, he always believed something. I remember when he was a boy.” He studied the end of his pipe. “How does a onetime fool become a sacred Guide?”
“When people believe.” She took a deep breath, drawing in the clean scent of the trees. “In answer to your question, I don’t know what I believe anymore. I’m lost, Kakala. Nothing has turned out to be what I thought it was.”
He grunted. “The Council is swollen with itself. They act like gods themselves.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Is that doubt I hear in your voice?”
His great shoulders gave a slight shrug. “I serve my people. No more, no less.”
“If you were a Karigi, I would have nothing to do with you.”
He barely smiled. “Karigi serves only himself.”
“And his passions,” she added.
“I noticed he had his eye on you last time we had Council.”
“I would rather be Windwolf’s prisoner for the rest of my life than Karigi’s for a single night.” She paused. “He hates you, you know.”
“I know.” Kakala barely smiled. “It even goes back to before Walking Seal Village. I remember him parading before my cage when I was disgraced. His souls ooze at the notion that I am the high war chief.”
“We are Night Clan.” She shifted to relieve her cramped legs. “Nashat leads the Council, and you are the clan war chief. There’s nothing Karigi can do about it until Wolverine Clan unseats Nashat.”
“For that, at least, I can thank Nashat.”
She looked up. “But you know that someday, sometime, he’s going to repay you for striking him at Walking Seal Village. Karigi doesn’t forget.”
Kakala was silent for a while. “No, he doesn’t.”
She frowned, eyes on the fire again as she remembered Walking Seal Village. The look in Bramble’s eyes haunted her. She could still hear Windwolf’s panicked cry from the other side of the lodge.
“What are you thinking?”
“About Walking Seal Village.” She reached for another stick of wood and tossed it onto the flames. “Have you ever thought about how different it would have been if Bramble had lived? If Karigi had sent her out of the village before Windwolf attacked? A living Bramble would never have become the symbol the dead one has become.
With her alive, we could have finally trapped Windwolf. The Sunpath People would have been beaten within six moons. This has dragged on for two solid winters. They fight like madmen.”
“Windwolf does,” he admitted with grudging respect. “I swear: Wolf Dreamer protects him. How many times has he led desperate charges against us? I’ve seen an entire war party try and kill him in a fight, but the darts slip harmlessly around him.”
She added, “I’ve seen him stop a panicked flight with a word, turning his warriors, leading them against us when all sense would urge them to run.” She gave Kakala a wry smile. “And in the end, it is we who break and flee.”
“I liked him,” Kakala said sadly. “Back in the old days. He and Bramble both.” He stared down at his pipe, words dying in his throat.
“What were you going to say?”
He inspected the stone tube for a moment, then said softly, “That if I could go back, I would change what happened at Walking Seal Village.” He sighed. “Even if it meant walking into that room and driving a dart straight through Karigi’s midnight heart.”
She glanced around. “I wouldn’t say that too loudly.”
Kakala grunted. “The difference between us is that Karigi does what he does because he likes it. We do it because it is our duty to our people.”
“Is that why you have started to warn women and children before our attacks?”
He shot her a questioning look. “Do you disapprove?”
She twisted her thick hair into a rope. “When I disapprove, you will know.”
He smiled at that. “I do not know the reasons for this vision of the Guide’s. If our people are truly to travel through the ice to a paradise, well and good. But I will not become a monster for him.” A pause. “My Dreams are bad enough as it is.”
“Nightmares, you mean.”
“Oh, yes.” He reached for his pack, finding the little pouch of chopped sweet sumac and tamping the leaf into his pipe. “But that is between us.”
Soft weeping could be heard on the night. Keresa looked over, seeing a dark shape rise from the darkness just under the trees. Moments later, Goodeagle walked into the firelight, prodding a crying woman before him. Ever since Walking Seal Village, he had been a
different man, broken somehow. Not that it ever kept him from taking his pleasure from one of the slave women.
Kakala’s eyes narrowed as he watched the wretched woman walk back to a fire. Then Kakala jerked his head toward the warriors’ fires. “They don’t need to know their war chief has bad Dreams about the things he’s done.”
Keresa lifted her lip, thinking about the joy it would bring her to split the traitor’s head with an ax.
“Or their deputy, either,” she added.
L
ate-afternoon light streamed through the spruce forest, dappling War Chief Windwolf’s path like scattered amber shards. The air was heavy with odors of conifer and the scent of damp soil. At times he could hear Silt’s soft padding as the deputy followed reluctantly behind him.
Windwolf veered wide around the low-hanging spruce branches. His black hair—cut short in mourning—blew around his oval face, forcing him to squint his brown eyes. Wind Woman’s cold breath had begun to eat through his finely tailored buffalo coat and pants, and nibble at his bones. He tugged the laces tighter, shivered, and kept walking.
He carried a pack on his back; long war darts hung from his left hand. A battered war club dangled down his back from a thong, and an atlatl was easily at hand, laced to his belt.
To the north, a full seven-day walk away, the Ice Giants rose like massive snow-covered peaks. He caught periodic glimpses of them as he crested the high places. A windblown haze of white haloed the Giants. Even from this distance he could hear the faint Singing of the supernatural beings. No other sound like it existed in the world.
A rich harmonic of different notes Sung at the same time, it was unearthly, and frighteningly beautiful.
Behind him, his deputy, Silt, said, “Forgive me, War Chief, but this is a bad idea.”
Windwolf turned. “Then why have you come this far?”
A medium-sized man with bark-colored eyes and shoulder-length black hair, Silt had a straight nose and full lips. His mammoth-hide cape bore evidence of many campfires. Soot and grease stained the front.
“I’m hoping I can turn you around. We can’t afford to be captured by Kakala’s Nightland warriors.”
“This may be our last chance to save our people, Silt.”
Silt gave Windwolf a disbelieving look. “You’re on your way to offer yourself up like a sacrificial moose!”
“I don’t want you dying with me. You’re my best warrior.”
Windwolf sucked in a deep breath and let the tangy scents of coming evening, damp earth, and spruce needles soothe his wounded soul. Over the two winters since Bramble’s death, he’d watched helplessly as band after band was destroyed. No one had understood until too late. People just didn’t think in terms of this kind of warfare. It hadn’t been part of their understanding until the Prophet’s warriors had made believers of them. By then, it had been too late.
He glanced back at Silt. Silt had been one of the first. A peace chief. He’d insisted that whatever the Prophet’s warriors had been incited by, they had nothing against either him or the Flower band of the Sunpath People.
… Until Kakala burned his village to the ground, killed the men, and drove off the women and children they hadn’t murdered outright.
Silt had miraculously escaped with his life and a handful of warriors. Now they knew. But, by the wind, what a terrible way to learn.
Silt said, “I don’t understand why you’re doing this. A chief from the Lame Bull People summons you, and you run to meet him? You’ve lost your wits.”
“Maybe.”
Silt sounded irritated: “Three moons ago you’d have never taken such chances. You’d have sent in a trusted warrior first, to scout the village, before you—”
“After you turn back, I’ll scout the village myself.”
“After I turn back? What if it’s a trap?”
“I’ve been in traps before.”
“Yes, of course, but you had ten tens of warriors crouching in the forest to get you out. This is different.”
“I have to do this, Silt. Alone.”
And if the Lame Bull offer is a trap, perhaps I’m better off dead.
He flinched at the pain in his soul. What was the point of living when all a man had to look forward to was the destruction of his world?
Silt made a deep-throated utterance of disgust and bowed his head. “Why? Explain it to me.”
Windwolf watched him with numb patience. It got harder every day to teeter around the edges of that chasm that had grown in his soul. Part of him longed to lose itself in that inner pit of darkness. At least then the agony would end. “I’ve explained it tens of times.”
“Do it again.”
Windwolf heaved a sigh and stopped short as his keen eyes detected movement. He ducked down, slowly easing under the prickly cover of a spruce. Silent as a ghost, Silt had followed.
Windwolf parted the branches with his hand. A short distance away, a giant sloth, the size of a buffalo cow, snuffled the dirt while it used its huge claws to dig for roots. Covered with coarse, shaggy hair, the slow-moving animal made an easy target for supper.
“I can slip off to the left,” Silt barely whispered.
Windwolf considered, then exhaled. “No, let him go. Our packs carry enough for now. Why should we ruin his day, take his life, when all we could carry away is a couple of steaks?” He glanced up. “I’m tired of everything having to do with ravens. And that’s who’d have a feast here.”
Slowly they backed to the trail. Once again on their way, Silt asked, “Is that what this is all about? You’re tired of killing?”
Was it?
For two winters now, his rage over Bramble’s death had preoccupied him, driven him, and caused him to take reckless risks. Each time, however, Wolf Dreamer seemed to favor him. No matter how audacious his plan, somehow, he had always managed to pull it off.
Have I begun to think I’m invincible?
He said, “Chief Lookingbill asked me to meet with him. I’m fairly certain he understands what our own people did not … until it was too late. He’s afraid of the Nightland, Silt. He has perhaps three tens of warriors in Headswift Village. Kakala has ten tens. Lookingbill doesn’t know if the Lame Bull are next. And he certainly doesn’t
want word getting back to the Nightland that a group of our warriors was camping with him. That would ensure an immediate Nightland response.”
“Let the Lame Bull fend for themselves!” Silt gripped Windwolf’s shoulder. “For the sake of the Ancestors, do you think Bramble was the only one who needed you? If old Lookingbill kills you, what will we do? Kakala’s warriors have destroyed five bands since last summer! Our women and children spend every day running. If you die, who will lead us?”
“You will, Silt.” Windwolf stared into the man’s worried eyes. “You, more than anyone, understand what has changed.”
Silt stabbed a finger toward the southern pine forests. “There are nine Sunpath bands left—and everyone is sick with fear that they will be attacked next.” He paused. “Windwolf, you’re the only man who has ever been able to create an alliance to protect them.You—”
“You’re as good a war chief as I am, Silt. Better, probably.”
Silt’s gaze turned compassionate. “Bramble’s been dead for two winters.You have mourned her enough.”
Bramble … what did I do to you?
Silt glared at Windwolf through eyes as hard and glittering as stone. “I know you’re hurting, Windwolf. Everyone knows it. Time after time, you have tried to get yourself killed. The warriors who serve you believe in one fact:
Power has kept you alive in spite of the risks you take!
”
Windwolf waved it away.
Silt shook his head. “Our alliance is a fragile thing. Without your leadership, the warriors will lose hope, drift away. If that happens, what’s left of our people will melt away like a ball of mud dropped into a stream.”
Windwolf closed his eyes for a moment and let his soul drift.
Is that why I’m still alive? Power wills it? For what?
When he opened them again, he found Silt standing with his shoulders squared, as though ready for a fight. The long reddish hair on his mammoth-hide cape glinted in the sunlight.
“Lookingbill is the most respected chief among the Lame Bull People,” Windwolf said. “I don’t know why he called me, but perhaps he wishes to join us in our fight against the Nightland People. I must find out.”
In a low voice, Silt said, “You never answer me honestly. Don’t you think I know what this is really about?”
Bramble. It always came back to Bramble.
Tiredly, Windwolf said, “Please, Silt. Just … let me go.”
“Only if I can go with you, to guard your back. You need—”
“No.”
Silt stared at him, eyes measuring, worried. “Why don’t you let me take you somewhere else? You could rest at Sky Dog Village. It’s far to the west, on the border of Southwind lands. They’ll never find us there. I’ll send a message to Blade that we’ll be gone for ten days. She can handle any trouble—”
He shook his head. “No. With me gone, our people need you. That is your responsibility. My duty is to find out what Lookingbill wants, and we both know …” He forced himself to continue. “We both know the time away will do me good. I won’t have to walk the same trails I walked with Bram …” His grief welled, dark and empty.
“The anger has run out, War Chief.” Silt reached out, as if to grasp some elusive concept. “And with it, so has hope.”
“It’s not a matter of hope.”
Silt’s expression twisted. “All the more reason you need me to go with you. After Goodeagle, you’ve had enough traitorous—”
“Don’t,”
Windwolf shouted as his inner chasm widened. “I don’t want to talk about it, Silt. Leave it
alone
!”
Silt massaged his forehead. “All right.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Please, I can help you with negotiations with Chief Lookingbill.”
Angry despair stirred in Windwolf. “I appreciate your concern. But I must go alone. It’s what Lookingbill requested … and I’ve no reason to deny him.”
“No reason? The Nightland clan Elders have offered safe haven in return for your dead body! Half the world would turn on their own brothers in return for the promise of safety.” Silt paused for effect. “Do you seriously think Lookingbill wouldn’t find that a tempting reason to have you come alone?”
Somewhere deep inside, Windwolf couldn’t convince himself that it mattered. Death could be lurking around the next turn, and he didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing except a fatal mistake he’d made, and the swelling empty grief that hollowed his soul.
He is right. When I ran out of rage, even hope was dead.
“And what about War Chief Kakala?” Silt asked gruffly. “He’s out
there. If he gets a whiff of where you’ve gone, he’ll be on you like a short-faced bear on a fresh carcass.”
A prickle climbed Windwolf’s spine. Kakala! Six times since last summer, he’d almost caged Windwolf’s ragtag group of warriors. Only desperate acts on Windwolf’s part had saved them. But the day was coming, he knew, when without more warriors, Kakala would win. “It’ll be harder to find me if I’m alone than if I’m surrounded by tens of warriors.”
“Blessed Ancestors,
what
can I say to reach you?” Silt tipped his chin skyward, as though looking to the Spirits for help. Despite the chill wind, sweat glistened on his tanned skin, soaking the ends of hair that stuck to his forehead.
Windwolf exhaled the words, “I’ll send a runner if I need you.”
“Yes. I know you will. If you can. What happens when we learn Nightland warriors plan to attack another band? Do I leave them defenseless to rescue you?”
Windwolf lifted a hand. “There are always places to hide. I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Silt demanded. “Duck into some hole and pray to the Ancestors that when you have to come out to hunt nobody recognizes you? Run for Sky Dog Village where you know you have friends, worried every instant that Nightland spies are going to spot you and you’ll endanger everyone there?”
“Why can’t you let this go?” He met the hot challenge in Silt’s eyes with equanimity, feeling like an observer rather than a participant. It took only moments before Silt’s gaze softened, going from fiery to sick worry. He straightened, walked up the trail to a rise, and stared across the Lake River Valley. Beyond the braided channels weaving through the stony riverbed lay the Lame Bull lands. In another four days he would reach Headswift Village where it stood on its high point off to the east.
The Lame Bull village was a natural fortress. As the Ice Giants retreated northward, they had left massive piles of gravel and tumbled boulders behind. The Lame Bull People lived in rockshelters and hollows created by the boulders. Traders who’d visited there said the place was like a rabbit warren, tunnels twisting under the hill like tree roots, going in every direction. Many reputedly ran deep underground.
BOOK: People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past)
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