People of the Mist (22 page)

 
          
Nine
Killer felt around on the shore, his fingers tracing the smooth tracks in the
mud where the boats had been pushed out into the inlet.

 
          
And
now, Nine Killer, how are you going to get out of this mess?

 
          
As
he straightened, the first shout came to his ears. A man called, “We’ve got
them cut off in the trees!”

 
          
Nine
Killer and his warriors spun as another voice to their south cried, “We’re ready
if they come in this direction.” “Nine Killer!” The voice was hauntingly
familiar to the War Chief’s ears. “This is Black Spike! You are cut off. You
may surrender, and take your chances, or die like a warrior should!”

 
          
Nine
Killer muscled his way through his crowding knot of warriors, cupping his mouth
to shout, “You come get me, you miserable excuse for a worm!” Then to his men,
Nine Killer ordered, “Fan out. We’ve got until daylight to create some sort of
defensive fortifications.”

 
          
“And
you think you can save us?” Flying Weir demanded too loudly.

 
          
“Of
course. Oh, come. We’ve been in tighter fixes than this. We’ve nearly four tens
of stout warriors, and one way or another, I’m going to get us out of this
mess, and take High Fox for good measure.” Despite the hearty tone of voice, he
knew a lot of good men were going to die.

 
          
The
Panther wasn’t prepared for people. After watching ten Comings of the Leaves on
his island, the thought of a village full of strangers took him somewhat’
aback. He’d done well with Sun Conch and High Fox, of course. They were two
impressionable young people—but, bat dung and curses, he’d be surrounded by
tens of people he didn’t know!

 
          
That
thought circled around his soul like a predatory hawk as High Fox and Sun Conch
rhythmically paddled their way into Three Myrtle Inlet. Through the screen of
trees, Panther could see irregular plots of land cleared from the forest.
Little pickets, all in nice lines, protruded from the water to mark the
location of fish weirs. No doubt about it, this was a place where humans lived.

 
          
Panther’s
stomach fluttered. To himself, he whispered, “Oh, come now, why are you afraid?
These are just men and women like everyone else. No better, and no worse.”

 
          
Sun
Conch turned from her position in the bow. “Did you say something, Elder?”
“No,” he replied, and scowled.

 
          
She
blinked and returned to paddling, but he noticed that her shoulders had gone
stiff.

 
          
After
so long in exile, his nerves kept drawing tighter. They’d stare at him with
horror in their eyes. He could see it just as in the past. That was the worst
part, the suspicion and distrust. People thought him a witch, a night traveler,
a baleful spirit that communed with dark Power.

 
          
“Face
it, old man, you’ll never sit around a fire again and laugh with others. You
knew that when you left the haunts of men.”

 
          
Sun
Conch started to turn, but apparently thought better of it, and paddled harder.
Shouts carried on the eddies of wind.

 
          
“What’s
that?” Sun Conch asked. High Fox shrugged, but Panther saw the tension building
in the boy’s muscular arms.

 
          
“That
high-pitched wolf sound,” Sun Conch observed. “I know that call. It’s … a war
cry.”

 
          
“Big
Noise,” High Fox agreed, placing the voice. “He only makes that cry in battle.”

 
          
“Hurry!”
Sun Conch cried, her paddle taking a full bite of the murky water.

 
          
Hands
braced on the gunwales, Panther swallowed hard. What would he find? And what
would he do when he got there? As the Three Myrtle Village warriors drew
themselves into line and charged forward, Nine Killer drew his famous bow,
figured the distance and drop, and shot. He watched the arrow rush up against
the graying dawn, arch, and lance down toward the prancing figure at the head
of the line. Perhaps Black Spike wasn’t paying attention. At that range, he
should have seen the arrow coming, would have had plenty of time to skip out of
the way. He held his wicker shield high on his left arm, gesturing his warriors
forward with his right as he checked his lines for the attack.

 
          
Thus
it was that Nine Killer’s arrow slanted out of the sky and drove itself through
Black Spike’s shield.

 
          
The
Weroance staggered under the impact, stared stupidly at the bloody shaft that
had driven through his shield and now protruded from his forearm. More from
surprise than pain, he dropped to his knees and screamed.

 
          
At
that, the line wavered in confusion.

 
          
Nine
Killer smiled grimly to himself. He’d bought a little more time for his
warriors. If he could delay the inevitable attack through the day and until
dark, he and his men could attempt to swim the inlet. Perhaps then, at’ least,
some of them might escape the death trap he’d led them into. But not me, Nine
Killer consoled himself. Someone had to pay for this debacle, and no matter
what, his reputation was ruined. Better to die here, bravely fighting a
rear-guard action. At least that will save some shred of honor for my family
and clan.

 
          
“No!”
Black Spike cried, refocusing Nine Killer’s attention. The Weroance was
struggling to his feet and waving his warriors onward. “Go on! Rush them! Kill
them to the last man!”

 
          
Big
Noise, to Black Spike’s right, leapt and screamed his cougar cry, shaking his
wicker shield and waving his war club over his head. “Onward! Kill them!”

 
          
Nine
Killer glanced to each side, noting with satisfaction that his warriors were
standing fast, bows strung, arrows ready. Some had boosted their fellows up
into the trees, where they could shoot down on the attackers. Others had broken
off branches, piled earth into crude breastworks, and used the trees to the
best advantage for defense.

 
          
Three
Myrtle
Village
could take them—would take them before the
day was out—but they’d pay dearly for the effort.

 
          
“Do
you see!” Nine Killer called as he stepped from the trees to face the ragged
line of warriors. “Do you see what happened to Black Spike? Come on! Who will
be next?”

 
          
Nine
Killer paced back and forth. “Who will die?”

 
          
The
sullen line of attacking warriors had halted again.

 
          
That’s
it, buy time. Prolong the inevitable. “I am Nine Killerl I have shot the first
arrow, and drawn the blood of your Weroance. I didn’t mean to kill him.” A lie
wouldn’t hurt a thing here. “But you must know that we will kill you if we have
to!”

 
          
“You
can’t escape!” Black Spike cried. Two warriors were working on the arrow in his
arm. One snapped off the stone-tipped point, the other drawing the slim shaft
back through the arm and woven willow. Black Spike’s shield dropped to the
ground as the Weroance cradled his bleeding arm.

 
          
“We
don’t want to escape!” Nine Killer thumped his chest proudly. “We came for High
Fox! Give him to us, and we will leave!”

 
          
“How?”
Big Noise demanded. “Walk on water?”

 
          
Hoots
of derision rose from the Three Myrtle warriors.

 
          
Nine
Killer raised a fist. “You know me! Give me the boy, and we’ll leave! We don’t
want a war. We don’t want to kill anyone. But Red Knot, daughter of Shell Comb,
has been murdered!”

 
          
Black
Spike struggled to his feet, one of the warriors binding a strip of hide
tightly about the wound. “You came to kill, you worthless Flat Pearl dogs! Now,
you’ll reap the rewards.”

 
          
Nine
Killer rocked on his heels, seeing the resolve stiffening in the line of
attackers. If only his arrow had cut through Black Spike’s heart instead of his
arm! With Black Spike dead, he might have been able to garner enough time to
figure out a way to escape.

 
          
“Forward!”
Black Spike cried, pointing at Nine Killer’s warriors. “Nine Killer has taken
his best shot! Yet here I stand, barely scratched! Okeus has granted his Power
to our side! Go! Take them, and let no man live! You will be forever remembered
for this day! Generations yet unborn will sing of your courage and bravery!”

 
          
A
mighty shout broke from the lungs of Black Spike’s warriors. Nine Killer
swallowed hard. He’d seen that stiffening of spines, that raising of heads, and
that hardening glint of proud eyes. Only an act of the gods would turn them
back now.

 
          
“Here
they come!” Nine Killer called, retreating to the edge of the trees. “Let’s
show them what we’re made of, and we’ll get out of this yet!”

 
          
But
when he met Flying Weir’s eyes, he could see the truth there.

 
          
“Within
a hand of time we’ll be overrun, wiped out to the last man. You know that,
don’t you?” Flying Weir asked quietly so the others wouldn’t hear. Nine Killer
grinned humorlessly. “No one lives forever.”

 
          
“No—but
I curse Hunting Hawk for sending us on this fool’s errand.”

 
          
Across
the flats, Black Spike called the fatal order. His unbroken ranks of warriors
let out a wild whoop, then started forward.

 
          
Nine
Killer pulled another arrow from his quiver, shouted, “Hold your shots until
they close,” and prepared himself to die.

 
          
Here
they came, breaking into a trot. He could see the bright feathers woven into
their hair. Painted and decorated loincloths swung with each step. Their skin
was shiny with grease, each body painted dark red with puccoon root.

 
          
Glancing
from the corner of his eye, he felt pride swell within him. His own warriors
waited stoically, tense but resolute. None would run in these last fragile
moments.

 
          
Shouts
rang out from ahead, and to Nine Killer’s surprise, the ranks of Three Myrtle
warriors slowed, looking back toward the canoe landing. Like fibers fraying
from a cord, the attack faltered as the enemy warriors stopped short to mumble
among themselves. Word worked up the line until even Black Spike hesitated.
Across the distance, Nine Killer could hear him calling out in disbelief.

 
          
“What’s
this?” Flying Weir asked warily, his bow clutched in a tight fist.

 
          
“I
don’t know.” Nine Killer stepped out from the trees, looking south. A young
warrior and a girl escorted an old man up from the landing.

 
          
“High
Fox!” The name carried across the distance. Nine Killer craned his neck, his
gaze hardening on his target. Yes, and the girl was Sun Conch, High Fox’s
faithful friend. But who on earth was that old man?

 
          
No
sooner had the trio approached the first of the Three Myrtle warriors than the
men recoiled as if from a rattlesnake.

 
          
Nine
Killer’s blood froze at the words that passed from lip to lip: “It’s The
Pantherl”

 
          
Nine
Killer instinctively made the warding gesture with his fingers.

 
          
“The
Panther?” Flying Weir wondered as he stepped out beside Nine Killer. “The
witch? What’s he doing here?”

 
          
“I
have no idea.” Nine Killer’s mouth had gone dry. “But look who he’s with.
That’s High Fox. You see a witch walking with a murderer. How much worse do you
think it could be?”