People of the Silence (80 page)

If it kills me, I’ll find Jay Bird.
That, at least, he could do with the same dedication Ironwood would have shown. But then, Ironwood would never have allowed Snake Head to strip Talon Town of adequate defenses.

But I’m not Ironwood. I never have been. I only fooled myself into thinking I could do his job.
One disaster had piled on another, until Webworm worried his senses had gone as rubbery as his legs.

Flickering images appeared in his fevered mind: Beargrass’ innocent eyes … the fear in young Fledgling’s expression … Cloud Playing’s dead body sagging in his arms, her half-open eyes staring into his … Night Sun’s face when Crow Beard accused her of bearing a child in secret and hiding it away … the blood dripping from Cornsilk’s nose and mouth … Snake Head’s shock at being shot … Cone’s weary relief as eternal night drifted down …

Blessed thlatsinas, it all haunted him, goaded him ever onward toward the rising blue mountains beyond the southern horizon.

You should regroup your warriors. They’re too strung out.
Yes, yes, he should. But out here on the flats, he’d have plenty of warning before the Mogollon could counterattack. He blinked, trying to clear his fuzzy vision. To close up ranks, he’d have to slow down. Slowing meant the Fire Dogs would be that much further ahead.
And, if I lose them … if I don’t get the prisoners back, or punish the raiders … I’ll live the rest of my life in disgrace.

Better to run himself into the ground in pursuit than see the loathing gaze of his family and clan.

White Stone had slowed as the trail led between two low sandstone buttes. Webworm reeled forward, legs shaking almost too badly to hold him up. He steadied himself by grabbing White Stone’s arm.

“You’re ready to drop flat on your face, War Chief,” White Stone said. He glanced uneasily behind them. “And the others need time to catch up. We should rest.”

“What … what have you found?” Webworm asked.

White Stone pointed to the headlands. “I was afraid they’d come this way. This valley narrows to the south. The way this caprock overhangs the valley, we can’t scale it. Anyone headed south must pass through this defile—and I don’t like the looks of it.”

“Can we go around?”

“It’ll take at least a day, maybe two.” White Stone shook his head. “If the Fire Dogs set up an ambush here…”

Webworm squinted southward. The valley was like a large funnel, and the weathered sandstone caprock dominated the heights. For a long time, he just stared.

“Here, War Chief, drink some water. You need it.”

White Stone lifted the skin bag to his lips. The first rush of water was like a blessing from the thlatsinas. It burned down his raw throat and lanced a cold stream into his hot gut. Webworm sucked down another greedy swallow, and then another, until White Stone pulled the nearly empty water bag away.

Webworm wiped his lips, finally able to take a deep breath. Several of his warriors had caught up and stood bent over, panting. “Thank you, White Stone.”

“You are pushing too hard, War Chief,” White Stone murmured, and turned to study the caprock again.

“Tell me, old friend,” Webworm asked, “were you running in my sandals, what would you be doing?”

“Pushing just as hard.” White Stone’s lips twitched. “I thank my ancestors that I’m only a scout.”

The water, with the power of lightning, had given his rubbery muscles another charge. Webworm scowled at the string of staggering warriors coming across the plain. Had he truly run so hard they couldn’t keep up?

“All right, let’s move. Stay close. White Stone, you go ahead. At the first sign of a trap, call out.”

They moved forward, slowly entering the valley. Anxious eyes searched the caprock for a bobbing head, a startled bird, anything out of the ordinary.

Webworm glanced back across the flats at his straggling warriors. How could the Fire Dogs, with their captives, have covered such a distance so quickly?

Because they were rested, well fed, and hadn’t run for a day south with the funeral procession, and a day due west to catch their enemy’s trail, and finally headed south for another two days.

Webworm prayed the Fire Dogs hadn’t anticipated their rapid pursuit, and that they’d pushed ahead for the sanctuary of the distant mountains rather than lingering here at the gap.

From the tracks, it looked as if the Fire Dogs had fifty or sixty warriors, and perhaps thirty more people taken from Talon Town. The distinctive prints of Straight Path–made moccasins and sandals made it easy to separate out the tracks. He could only guess that about twenty of the Straight Path prints belonged to freed slaves. The rest had to be captives.

Webworm halted, staring at the way ahead. It became a rock-lined slit. The perfect place for an ambush.

I can’t make a mistake.…

“White Stone? Wait.” Webworm trotted up to where his scout gazed anxiously at the rocks and brush. Around him were no more than fifteen of his best warriors. The others would take half a hand of time to catch up. “I need a volunteer. Someone must go through alone, see if the way is clear, and shout it out.”

“I will.” Twinstar came forward. He, too, looked to be on his last legs, but he grinned. Short and skinny, his two front teeth were gone, and the others, yellow and worn, likely to be so in the near future. “No Fire Dog has made an arrow yet that can find my flesh.”

“May the thlatsinas go with you, my friend.” Webworm patted him on the back. As Twinstar darted into the gap, the rest of his warriors dropped into weary squats, just out of bowshot of the high canyon walls.

Webworm lowered himself to a half-buried rock and rested. One by one, stragglers caught up and flopped down to rest.

A finger of time later, young Twinstar came trotting out of the narrow defile. With a groan, Webworm rose to his feet and plodded forward.

“They’re gone,” Twinstar told him. “I went through the narrows, climbed the sandstone steps beyond, and saw a body out in the basin. They killed a captive. Red Spark, a youngster from the Ant Clan.”

“How long has she been dead?”

Twinstar shrugged. “A day at least. Her eyes are dried out, and she’s started to swell.”

Webworm sighed, relieved no ambush awaited them, but ever more frustrated at learning the Mogollon were even further ahead than he’d feared. How could they make such rapid progress? Were they being carried by eagles? “But if they made it this far, this fast,” he thought aloud, “they might slow down, believe themselves safe, and camp at the Cottonwood Springs just this side of the mountains.”

“They’re carrying at least two people on litters,” White Stone pointed out. “And the captives can’t travel that fast. Red Spark must have been slowing them down too much. She’s the first they killed, and the only one, so far. The others will be on their last legs.”

“Yes, they will. Come on. Let’s go. I’ll feel better when we’re on the other side of this gap.”

He followed White Stone and Twinstar into the cool confines of the defile, glancing up nervously. Sheer rock walls topped with brush closed in around them. Anyone caught down here would be unable to fight back. What a place for a massacre. Webworm’s eyes darted about like a man walking through a ghost-filled room, expecting invisible hands to attack him.

Past the narrows, he scrambled up the humpbacked layers of sandstone, all worn smooth by the endless torrents of water during the rainy season, and crouched down over Red Spark’s body. She’d been shot in the back with an arrow—no doubt as she broke and ran in an attempt to escape. Webworm prodded her body and sniffed. Definitely dead for over a day.

Something nagged at him, and not just the revulsion of seeing the flies crawling on the girl’s dried skin. Shot in the back … through the lung. Just like Cloud Playing.

The flashback of her limp body in his arms, the sodden weight of her cold flesh, the blood draining out of her and onto …

Red Spark was shot through the lung … so, where’s the blood?
The sand beneath her was dry, unstained.

Perplexed, he rose to his feet …

And the first deadly arrow cut the air, slicing through Twinstar’s body. He screamed and fell, and a second arrow ripped through Webworm’s sleeve, then one pierced White Stone’s shoulder, the force throwing him to the ground.

Webworm screamed,
“Run!”

Shouts and whoops rose on the still air as the Fire Dogs leapt up from behind the low sagebrush.

His warriors dashed by as Webworm clawed for his bow with one hand and tried to drag White Stone to his feet with the other. The scout was losing blood fast. Too fast! It drenched the front of his shirt and flowed down his legs. Hideous shrieks split the air as men went down around Webworm, wounded or dying, some shot through with as many as three arrows.

Horror ran like fire through his veins.

“Come on, White Stone! You have to run. I can’t carry you! Go!”

His face a mask of pain, White Stone stumbled forward.

Mogollon warriors seemed to be rising right out of the ground. Some raced around the sides, heading for the high points controlling the defile. Webworm’s only escape was back that way—and if any of them were going to survive, they had to run for it
now.

“Hurry! Back! Run for your lives!” Webworm shouted, shoving White Stone before him as he charged for the gap. Already he could see Fire Dogs taking position.

With a curious detachment, he considered his certain death.

Thank the thlatsinas the other warriors didn’t catch up.…

He leaped down the sandstone ripples and half dragged the stumbling White Stone into the defile. The feathered shafts of the Mogollon arrows clattered on the rocks around him and thudded into the soft sand of the wash.

“Go back!” he shouted at the warriors coming up the defile. “It’s a trap! Go back!
Run!
”

Forty-Seven

Hands and feet bound, Poor Singer sat in front of the fire. High overhead, sullen clouds blotted the afternoon sky and piled over the peaks behind them. Lightning flashed silently in the distance. Raindrops made an eerie hiss on the burning logs. It had been raining for about one hand of time, long enough to soak his tired body to the bones. His every muscle ached. He feared that if he had to stand on his wobbly legs anytime soon, they might just snap in two. The desperate run had siphoned his strength and shredded his brown shirt. The sleeves had big rips, and the hem hung in pieces.

On all sides, his fellows sat, tied with thongs around their necks, heads down, hair plastered against their skulls, and looking every bit as miserable as he felt. Beyond them, the ever vigilant warriors kept watch, arrows nocked in bows.

Gila Monster Cliffs Village sat in the flats at the base of a fragrant pine-whiskered mountain. What a beautiful place: to his right, a shallow river gurgled, the water crystal clear and delicious. Large smooth cobbles filled the channel, but sandy gravel spread over the banks. Enormous bare-branched cottonwoods and oaks crowded the river bottom. They swayed and whispered in the cool storm winds.

Poor Singer glanced around. Guards stood about a hundred hands away, six of them, equally spaced around the fire. Closer, to Poor Singer’s right, Cornsilk lay, her head pillowed in Thistle’s lap, her black hair spreading over her mother’s legs. She’d awakened earlier, but the instant they’d stopped she’d gone right back to sleep. Poor Singer’s gut wrenched when he looked at her. The bruise had turned a hideous shade of purplish yellow, and a thick ridge of scar tissue had begun to form. But the swelling had gone down.

What will Jay Bird do to her when he discovers she isn’t his granddaughter?
And Poor Singer was almost certain she wasn’t. Would he kill her in rage? Enslave her? Perhaps return her to Thistle as a reward for Thistle’s help in the Talon Town raid?

Night Sun and Ironwood sat side by side, next to Thistle, whispering intimately to each other—though Ironwood had been forbidden to speak to any of them on the run, the guards made no moves to stop him now. Every so often, Ironwood reached out and stroked Cornsilk’s hair, then briefly talked with Thistle. Sternlight and Dune sat to Poor Singer’s left. Their white shirts had turned a grimy brown in the past eight days. The other captives had immediately been taken to the village, where they would begin serving Mogollon families.

Poor Singer blinked against the windblown raindrops. The village was smaller than he’d expected. Perhaps one hundred people lived here. The houses had been built on the first terrace above the river, the walls constructed from round river cobbles, cemented with mud mortar. A long time ago, they’d been plastered with gray clay, but most of that had cracked off, revealing the crude masonry beneath. The village looked dingy and primitive in comparison to the glorious towns of the Straight Path nation.

He gazed back at the river. Water purled over rocks and about green tufts of moss. Head-high berry and currant brambles choked the banks. Poor Singer squeezed the fingers of his bound hands. It was very beautiful here. If he had to be a slave, this would be better than many other places.

When the breeze blew, spatters of silver light flitted across the dark river bottom like disembodied moth wings. Poor Singer bit his lip and watched them while he contemplated his fate.

The warriors had been chuckling about defeating the war party of Straight Path dogs … but could it be true? Did that mean they would never be rescued and would spend their lives as slaves? He’d asked Ironwood, and the big man had smiled faintly and answered, “The rest of you might. I once raided this village, Poor Singer. I killed people, took captives, including Jay Bird’s daughter. I doubt he will show me the kindness of slavery.” At that point, Night Sun had leaned her shoulder against Ironwood’s and they’d stared into each other’s eyes for several moments.

They’d had almost no time to talk on the run. The Mogollon had kicked them awake before dawn and forced them to run until long after dusk. They’d eaten and drunk whatever their captors saw fit to give them, then collapsed into dead sleeps.