The Broken Land (47 page)

Fifty-one

S
kenandoah disentangled his wrist from her fingers and dragged an arrow from his quiver. “Please find a safe place, High Matron.”

Kittle inhaled a steadying breath and marched away down the catwalk. As each warrior saw the enemy, sharp calls went up, and arms flung out to point. A breathless sort of anticipation filled the cold morning air. The prayers being Sung up and down the line sounded for all the world like the sweet notes of flutes.

Just as Kittle reached the ladder and started to climb down, Skenandoah called, “High Matron! Sky Messenger and Taya just rounded the Yellowtail palisade. They’re running for our gates!”

“Thank you, War Chief.” Kittle descended the ladder with forced dignity and walked to meet them.

Warriors opened the outer gates, and Sky Messenger shoved Taya through first, then backed in and spun around. “Utz, Hannock, there are two war parties less than one finger of time behind me. Bring more planks to barricade these gates!”

“Yes, Sky Messenger!” Utz ran to grab another plank from the pile inside the second palisade ring.

His voice had been commanding, that of a deputy war chief, and Utz and Hannock had obeyed him as they always had. It surprised Kittle, but if he wished to command in this current situation, she had no objections.

Sky Messenger strode for her granddaughter and with soft urgency said, “Taya, I must get to a high point where I can see over the fog to judge the battlefield.”

“Go. I’ll speak with Grandmother.”

Sky Messenger touched her shoulder, a tender touch. “One last thing. Please take Gitchi with you? Make sure he stays in the longhouse. He’s old. He—”

Taya nodded. “I’ll take care of him, Sky Messenger. Don’t worry.”

Sky Messenger knelt and ruffled the fur at Gitchi’s neck; then he hugged the wolf fiercely and said, “Go with Taya. Guard her. Do what she says.”

Gitchi gave him an uncertain look, but loped to stand at Taya’s side.

Sky Messenger trotted for the ladder that led to the catwalk.

Kittle studied her granddaughter. Taya’s eyes had a gleam. Her serious expression was that of a woman far older than her fourteen summers. “Speak with me about what?”

“An alliance to end this battle and destroy Atotarho.”

Kittle’s laugh had a desperate ring to it. “What would you know of such things?”

Taya stared confidently into her eyes, which startled Kittle. “We just came from Coldspring Village. Many of the other Hills villages were outraged by Atotarho’s attack on White Dog Village. They were not involved, and would not have approved the attack if they had been. The Hills nation is on the verge of civil war over it. I believe the time is ripe to make alliances with those opposing Atotarho. If we can, we may be able to destroy the chief on this very battlefield.”

Taya spoke like a leader. Pride filled Kittle. “I fear it is too late for that, my granddaughter, but I will hear you out. Come to my chamber. I must dress for the battle. No matter what else happens, if I am captured I’m going to look splendid for my execution.”

Fifty-two

Sky Messenger

W
here I stand upon the catwalk, I grip the palisade and gaze out at what is surely oblivion. Past the marsh the ground slowly tips up, gently rolling until it collides with the rocky ridge to the west—the crest where Taya and I stood less than one hand of time ago. Despite the cloud cover and mist, the morning light grows brighter, revealing the enemy’s lines. Thousands of Hills warriors, row upon row, march over the ridge and head down into the valley. The mist moves with the lines, slithering back and forth like a din of serpents. Clan flags drape uplifted spears, creating a panorama of red, blue, yellow, green, white, and black. In the shifting fog, the flags have an odd fluttering iridescence that resembles the disembodied wings of a thousand songbirds beating in unison.

Skenandoah comes to stand beside me. As his grip tightens on his bow, his fingernails go white, but that anxiety never reaches the calm of the war chief’s face. He is a tactician and probably already four or five steps into the battle that has yet to begin. The only outward sign of worry is the short black hair that has glued itself to his sweating brow.

“When you were out there, could you count them? How many do you think there are?” he asks without taking his eyes from the battlefield.

“My guess is around six thousand, but there could be more in reserve.”

Skenandoah’s head dips in a barely discernible nod. “That is my guess as well.”

“How many warriors do we have?”

“All of the surrounding villages sent warriors. They know if we fall it’s over. We have three thousand two hundred, if we count every boy with a toy bow. But one thousand of those are inside the villages, five hundred in Yellowtail and five hundred here. So there are only a little over two thousand out there.”

I can’t help but glance down at the crowded plaza where warriors huddle, waiting for the time when they will be called to the palisade to replace a man or woman who’s been killed or wounded. Boys and girls clump awkwardly around the warriors, their childish war clubs clutched in small fists, or plucking slack bowstrings like musical instruments. A few girls race around the plaza with dogs chasing them, laughing. Though they have endured attacks upon their villages, these children had never been called upon to help defend them. They have no idea what is coming.

But their parents do. Men and women stand before the central bonfire, their arms around each other’s waists, watching their sons and daughters with glassy eyes, memorizing their faces. Huge pots of cornmeal mush bubble beside the fire, warm food for starving warriors with just enough time to gobble a few bites and race back to defend the walls. A low hum of frightened voices rides the wind.

Then … from the distance, a long drawn-out howl. The distinctive call of the Wolf Clan.

I look back over the palisade. The enemy line breaks apart and re-forms into three lines, one to the north, one trotting east, the other coming straight at them from the west. Those warriors will greatly regret it when they encounter the sucking mud of the marsh.

Unconsciously, I turn to the south, wondering who is out there. They must already be in place. I can’t see them, just the pale glimmers of campfires sparkling amid the trees on the horizon.

Shouts go up. I turn back to look westward. Far away, I can identify the clan factions. As they run forward, the symbols on the darkest war shirts crystallize, stark against the dead grass, and I smell the salty stench of fear on the breeze.

Another wolf cry … then the long roar as every clan joins in and the small valley rumbles. The Hills warriors outnumber the Standing Stone by at least three to one. It is an awful sight.

The Standing Stone warriors let fly. As the arrows slice through the mist, it shreds and seems to boil.

Sharp surprised cries ring out, the yips of warriors who’ve just taken an arrow in the belly or chest but don’t know yet that they are dead on their feet.

As the enemy runs forward, the archers who’ve just fired sling their bows and charge out to meet them with war clubs in their fists. A grunting, gasping bellow rises, followed by the mushy thuds of clubs smacking skulls. I’ve given and taken such blows often enough that I can see the expressions of the wounded right behind my eyes and feel the momentary relief of the attacker in my heart.

“Hold,” Skenandoah whispers through gritted teeth. One of his hands, propped on the palisade, clenches.
“Hold.”

The Hills warriors shove them back, slowly at first. The lines surge and withdraw, as though breathing the death of the world, and it is a labored death. My lungs work with them. The wounded stagger away, trying to get back, looking toward home. Some of the Standing Stone warriors reach out to Bur Oak and Yellowtail villages, as though begging their relatives for help.

The first line breaks. As Standing Stone warriors race back, the second line of archers lets fly into the screaming horde chasing them; then they charge out to meet them. The whooping, grunting struggle begins again. The line holds long enough for the wounded to flee. A new sound grows—the sound of limbs ripping from trees, feet scrambling through deadfall, and finally, the hopeful cries of people rushing toward the gates of the villages.

Skenandoah cups a hand to his mouth and calls, “Utz, don’t open the gates until the wounded are plastered against them. Do you understand?”

Utz lifts a hand and runs to press his eye to the crack between the plank gates, waiting. When the crashes of people hitting the gates drive him backward, he shouts, “Hannock, help me!”

It takes both of them to shove the locking planks aside and open the gates. The panicked group of warriors who rush through supporting their injured friends stuns me. There are so many. Blood drenches war shirts, stripes faces, clots on broken skulls. A few shove captives before them.

“Get them to the council house!” Skenandoah orders. “Bahna and Genonsgwa will care for them there!”

The arms and legs of the hardest hit dangle as their friends struggle to carry them across the plaza.

“Blessed Spirits,” Skenandoah whispers. “We don’t have long.”

I turn back to the battlefield. The second line has broken. Warriors flee. Arrows from the third wave of archers glisten as they puncture the mist and arc downward toward their targets. Despite the numbers of Hills warriors that fall, the onslaught roars forward, barely slowed as it crashes through the third wave and lunges for the last line of Standing Stone archers.

“Gods,” Skenandoah says. “They’ll be here in less than one thousand heartbeats.” He spins and calls, “Yonto, inform High Matron Kittle that our first three lines have broken, and the last is wavering. The enemy will hit the village
soon
.”

The young woman warrior runs for the ladder, climbs down three rungs at a time, and dashes for the Deer longhouse.

Skenandoah faces me. “I need every experienced warrior I have. Will you serve as my deputy war chief?”

I throw out my hands as though to push him away. “I—I can’t.”

As Skenandoah strides toward me, he says, “Then get out of my way.”

He shoves me hard against the palisade and continues down the catwalk, speaking to his warriors, probably selecting another for the job he offered me.

A numb sensation of helplessness fills me. My nerves hum. All down the catwalk, warriors stare at me. The revulsion is close to hatred. At this moment, many of my old and dear friends wish to crush my skull with their war clubs.

Their focus quickly changes when the first arrows rain down in the marsh to the west. The enemy archers can’t see across the thick reeds; they don’t have the distance yet. But they get it quickly. The next arrows slam the palisade and sail over the walls, where they drop into the plaza. People shriek and scatter like a school of fish at a thrown rock, running for cover. Many do not make it. By ones and twos, they fall. People race back, trying to drag them to safety. When another barrage of arrows flickers through the fog over Bur Oak Village, there is nothing for them to do but lie flat and hold the ground. Arrows lance the plaza, thudding on longhouse roofs, sending up puffs of snow when they don’t strike flesh. A dog howls. I see it struggling toward the central fire with an arrow all the way through its right hind leg.

The shouting and screams go on and on. I lose all sense of time. Arrows fall like the endless rains at the dawn of creation when the hero twins fought the monsters. Fight the monsters. Fight …

More arrows zizz as they cut the air over my head. Down the catwalk, Skenandoah walks through the mist. Unbelievable. He walks slowly, slowly along through the hail of arrows, chatting with his warriors, bending to talk to men who’d hunched down, hiding behind the wall, convincing them to stand up again, to nock their bows. To fight.

Out in the marsh, calls go up. Two men materialize from the mist, slogging through the reeds, their bows held over their heads. Then more … and more. Hundreds. Several carry ladders. Others hold pots, probably filled with pine pitch. As the warriors on the palisade sling arrows at them, they continue coming, unconcerned, wave upon wave. An incredible sight, dreamlike.

An arrow slices the air over my left shoulder. I dive for the catwalk. More arrows clatter. I watch one skip down the catwalk before it cuts a bright furrow in the planks and snaps in two. I roll to my back and lie for a time blinking up at the arrows as they pass overhead. They make different sounds. Depending upon how they are fletched, some whisper, others hum. I most hate the thin breathless shrieks made by the arrows fletched with crow feathers. For the first time, I become aware of the different notes that make up the roar. It’s composed of thousands of gasps, barks, war clubs cracking together, fragments of Songs, the flat splats of war axes striking bone, curses of the warriors trying to cross the marsh. Children sobbing. Like a great dying beast, the battle keens through the morning mist.