The People of the Black Sun (3 page)

Jigonsaseh let out a slow breath. As it condensed in the icy air, Wind Woman gently swirled it into firelit spirals. Tomorrow, the bodies would be prepared. The strongest souls would be Requickened in living bodies, their confusion and agony ended. They would live again. Then, ten days from now, the main burial feast would be held. When completed, the souls that had not been Requickened could be on their way to the Path of Souls in the sky, and the bridge that led to the Land of the Dead beyond.

I must see Chief Cord.

She shoved away from the palisade and headed for the closest ladder, where she climbed down, and tiredly walked toward the wooden plank gates.

The guard, short and burly, swung them open. “Matron Jigonsaseh, you should not be out alone. Shall I assign you guards?”

“I appreciate your concern, but it's not necessary. Return to your duties.” Her hand, however, instinctively dropped to CorpseEye where he rested in her belt.

“As you wish, Matron.”

The gates swung closed behind her without another word.

She walked eastward across the battlefield, weaving through the corpses, and down the long littered slope toward the Flint People's camp. Dropped bows, water bags, weapons belts torn free by desperate hands, and severed body parts lay tumbled across the ground. All around her, people with torches wandered through the blowing smoke, searching faces, clothing, jewelry, trying to recognize bodies. Their expressions were haunted. The shock was just setting in, turning their hands shaky.

Jigonsaseh rubbed her burning eyes.

Before war cries had split the day, it had been a splendid clean morning, filled with the laughter of children dashing across the plaza, and the happy barking of dogs. It was hard to believe that their world had been obliterated in such a short time.

She marched out of the killing field and straight for the sentries who ringed Chief Cord's camp. Any other chief would have placed his camp in the middle of his warriors, where he'd be better protected, but Cord had been a war chief for most of his life. He preferred to have his back against a small moonlit pond. The water glittered and cast reflections over the faces of the five people seated on logs around his fire. On the far side of the circle, she could see him clearly. Tall and muscular, he had a long pointed nose and piercing brown eyes. He'd seen forty-one summers pass. A black roach of hair ran down the middle of his shaved head. Turtle shell carvings decorated his black cape. The snake tattoos on his cheeks seemed to coil and strike as he spoke.

“Halt!” one of the sentries shouted at her. “Identify yourself.”

He boldly stepped in front of her.

Jigonsaseh tiredly braced her feet. “I am Jigonsaseh, Village Matron of Yellowtail Village, and a friend to Chief Cord. I request a meeting with him, if he is not too tired.”

At the sound of her deep voice, Cord instantly rose and walked toward her, his long legs stretching out, covering the distance in mere heartbeats.

She called, “May I speak with you?”

“Of course. Let her pass, Deputy War Chief,” he ordered.

The sentry leaped to obey, and Jigonsaseh walked to meet Cord. They stood eye-to-eye for what seemed like an eternity.

… reflections off snow dancing over his tattooed face … the strength in his dark eyes enough to convince me we could achieve anything … slim rations eaten at the same fire … his closeness a physical torment …

Cord said, “Will you join me?”

“I would, thank you.”

As she neared the fire, the other warriors rose and bowed to her.

Cord said, “That will be all for tonight. We will reconvene tomorrow morning when War Chief Baji is better.”

Men wandered away, muttering to one another, casting glances over their shoulders at Jigonsaseh.

“Baji is hurt?”

“Nothing dramatic. Her left arm is swollen. A glancing blow from a war club.”

Jigonsaseh relaxed a little. She'd known Baji since she was a girl of barely twelve summers. The tie between them went beyond clans or nations. “Please tell her I am concerned about her.”

“I will.”

Cord gestured to the log where he'd been sitting. “Please, sit. May I dip you a cup of tea?”

“No, but I thank you for the offer.”

She lowered herself to the log, pulled CorpseEye from her belt, and rested him across her lap. Unconsciously her hands smoothed the well-oiled wooden shaft. The club had been in her family for generations, passed from warrior to warrior. He had an ancient presence, like a great old war chief who has seen too much, and longs only to rest until the next battle begins. The carvings on the shaft added to his presence. The antlered wolves seemed to be trotting after the winged tortoises, who were in turn being hunted by prancing buffalo. The red quartzite cobble tied to the club's head glinted in the firelight. It had two black spots that resembled staring eyes. She had no idea how much blood the club had absorbed over the long summers, but more than she could imagine.

Cord sat beside her, four hands away, and shifted to face her. His black roach glittered with firelight.

She began, “I don't know what to say to you.”

He smiled. “Then tell me what you think of this strange alliance between the Flint, Hills, and Standing Stone nations. Will it last?”

“It must,” she said firmly. “For all our sakes. I plan to work very hard to assure that it does.”

She looked at the superb snake tattoos in the frame of his oval face and noticed for the first time how deeply the lines cut his forehead. Others ran down his cheeks like careless chisel scratches, broken only by the prominent knife scar that slashed across his square jaw. When she lifted her gaze, his mouth tightened slightly. While she'd been studying his face, his gaze had been locked on her eyes, probably assessing the emotions he saw there.

Very softly, he asked, “Are you well? I know this was a terrible day for the Standing Stone nation. You lost so many.”

She jerked a nod. “Ninety percent of our army.”

“How many trained warriors do you have left?”

“We will count tomorrow, but my guess is around three hundred. Plus another forty-one warriors from Atotarho's army that joined our side this afternoon, including War Chief Sindak.”

His face slackened. “Three hundred out of how many?”

“When the morning began, we had over three thousand.”

He seemed to be holding his breath, then he slowly exhaled the words: “What will you do?”

“One thing is certain: Atotarho will be back. High Matron Kittle is still in council with the other elders. It's an informal meeting. Tomorrow, the Ruling Council will officially meet to decide our course of action.”

He hesitated, opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it for several moments, before he finally said, “May I be so bold as to offer you advice?”

“I have always greatly valued your advice.”

He dipped his head respectfully and shifted to stare at the flames dancing around the logs in the fire. As always, the attraction between them was like lightning about to strike, almost unbearable.

“I would like to suggest that the Standing Stone nation abandon these last two villages and come with us to the Flint nation. We will adopt every member of your clans. We are stronger as one nation, than as two.”

Stunned, she didn't respond.

More softly, he added, “Last summer, when your son thought he would wed Baji, he allowed himself to be adopted into the Flint People. We Requickened in him the soul of one of our greatest ancestors, Dekanawida. Is it so hard to imagine being adopted by us?”

She gave him a faint smile. “Well, Cord, I think maybe my son, whom we still call Sky Messenger, belongs to all clans and all peoples. My nation, however, that is something else.”

“Believe me, I know the import of my suggestion, but if you do not accept, I greatly fear—”

“Cord…” She gripped his hand where it rested on the log between them. “You are very generous to offer, but I can't recommend that to the Ruling Council. You're talking about the death of the Standing Stone nation.”

He flipped his hand over, twined his fingers with hers, and matched her grip. “Listen to me. You have three hundred trained warriors left, plus another forty-one that you don't know if you can trust, and you do not know that Chief Atotarho is gone.”

“No, but it seems—”

“Yes, he and his faction of the Hills People fled the battlefield in the monster storm today, but by now they are regrouping, assessing damage, and making decisions that may wipe the Standing Stone nation from the earth anyway. Please”—he lowered his voice—“consider fleeing to join another nation. It doesn't have to be the Flint People. If you'd prefer, I suspect the People of the Landing would take you. They've been hit hard by the Mountain People in recent moons. They would probably be glad to renew the spiritual strength of the clans by adopting—”

“I can't,” she repeated, and the lines at the corners of his brown eyes deepened. “We're desperate, old friend, but not that desperate. Not yet.”

With trepidation, he disentangled his hand from hers before gently stroking her hair and anxiously studying her face. “When the time comes … if the time comes … remember my offer.”

She had the overwhelming urge to hold him. But that would complicate both of their lives. “Thank you. I…” Her voice dwindled when she noted how attentively his warriors were watching them. She scanned the closest fires. Warriors either stared blatantly, or pretended to be looking into their supper bowls and water cups, while casting furtive glances their way. An awkward silence had descended. “My visit seems to have caused a disruption.”

“Well, frankly, it isn't every day that a member of the Ruling Council of the Standing Stone nation appears, walking alone, in the middle of a Flint war camp. You startled them.”

“If so, they are exceptionally well trained. Not a single one attempted to bash my brains out before he checked with you.”

“Fortunately for him.” Cord smiled and removed his hand from her hair.

Conversations instantly began to return to normal, and were eventually replaced by laughter and war songs.

Jigonsaseh said, “Cord, as you well know, I'm not given to small talk. I must thank you for what you did today. I don't know how, but—”

“It's not necessary. Truly.”

“It is for me. You are an old ally, but you were under no obligation to come to our aid. Our Peoples have been at war, off and on, for generations. It could not have been easy for you to convince your Ruling Council to send warriors to support us, and I have no words for the gratitude in my heart.”

His handsome face showed no emotion, but his dark eyes probed hers. “I'm just sorry it took so long. If we'd arrived a few hands of time earlier, more of your people would have survived.”

“Would they?” Jigonsaseh tilted her head uncertainly. “It seems to me you arrived at exactly the instant Power demanded.”

“Yes,” he mused, his eyes suddenly distant, seeing the battle again. “That was odd, wasn't it? We had been in the fight for only a short time when the freak storm swept over the horizon. I've never witnessed anything like it before.”

“Nor have I.”

On the fabric of her souls, she saw Sky Messenger turn to face Elder Brother Sun, lift his hands, and felt the air sucked from the battlefield. A deep-throated rumble echoed to the east, then a black wall of clouds roared over the horizon. Only Sky Messenger dared to face the storm. He'd clutched his best friend's, War Chief Hiyawento's, daughter to his chest, protecting her … and the storm had passed over them, leaving them, untouched.

Cord said, “Dekanawida has become a living legend.” He gestured to something behind her. “I noticed he has spent the past hand of time walking the battlefield alone. Is he as stunned as everyone else by the rumors racing through the war camps?”

She glanced over her shoulder, and spotted her son, Sky Messenger, on the far eastern edge of the forest with his head down. He must be lonely and, she suspected, confused, trying to make sense of the day. “I suspect so.”

“Has he said anything to you about the miracle?”

“What could he say, Cord? I don't think he knows yet how to interpret the storm.”

Cord made an airy gesture with his hand. “I'm sure my warriors add to his difficulty. They are awestruck. They believe he called the storm, and say he is the legendary human False Face prophesied to don the cape of white clouds and ride the winds of destruction at the end of the world.” He looked back at her with slightly narrowed eyes, as though it hurt to look at her. “Do you believe it?”

She hesitated. “I believe his Dream. As to the source of the storm, I fear to offer an opinion. The implications…”

Blood-scented wind swept over them, flapping Cord's black cape around his long legs, and jingling the turtle shell ornaments. For two old war chiefs, bloody wind was as familiar as the feel of a war club in their hands. Nonetheless, she saw his fingers clench, and she knew he was holding on to life, cherishing the breath moving in his lungs.

Unwisely, she reached out to place a hand upon his shoulder. Something about the softness of his expression built a warmth in her heart. She longed to stay, to sip a cup of tea and talk of old times with him, but feared where it would lead. “I have duties to attend to. I must go, Cord. I thank you for your kindness.”

As she rose to her feet, she tucked CorpseEye back into her belt.

His jaw clamped, as though making some decision.

“Wait. Please?” he said.

He stood up and swiftly pulled her into his embrace. For a time, she let herself drown in the sensation of being held. It had been a long time since she'd allowed a man to hold her. She was aware of the softness of his worn cape and the rhythmic pulse of his breath against her throat.