People of the Morning Star (33 page)

She nodded, as if seeing it in her head.

“It was last fall, just before harvest. They were coming up the main trail from the south where the forest gives way to the corn, bean, and squash fields south of town. The corn was head-high on either side, and the trail drops off a low terrace that gives a good view of Red Wing town maybe ten bow-shots in the distance.

“I let the Morning Star’s commanders see just what they wanted to in the distance: Red Wing town’s squadrons pulled up in formation around the town walls. It was the logical way to fight a defensive action. Right there on the flat before the walls so that if Red Wing were to be outfought, we could retreat behind the fortifications and carry on the defense.”

She’d shifted her attention from the chunkey stone to him, listening intently.

Fire Cat spread his hands sympathetically. “Emerging from the trail that way, they were clustered in a thick column and streaming along between the cornfields. They were perfectly massed, trotting six deep, shields to the fore. They didn’t even have their bows strung. At sight of the squadrons before the town, they began singing, clacking their bow staves against their shields.

“That’s when I ordered the pot drum to beat the attack. At that first boom my squadrons rose from the corn and a first volley was on the way. We caught them from both sides, pouring arrows into them like a dense hail. And through it all, the squadrons advancing from the rear just kept coming, spilling out into the confusion, screams, dying men, and raining arrows.”

“And my husband?” she asked softly, another tear trickling down her cheek.

“Three times he almost managed to get them organized, though to do so he literally had to clamber over the bodies of the dead and dying.” He narrowed an eye. “I couldn’t let him do that. You do understand. He was much too talented.”

She gave him a slight nod, and he continued, “I signaled the drum again, and we charged forward to overwhelm them. He was calling orders to his seconds, and they to their thirds. He was desperately trying to establish a shield line to allow his men to reform. I waited until he raised his arm. When he did I had a clear shot and drove an arrow under his armpit where it wasn’t protected.”

Her expression began to crumble, her swallow loud.

“The squadrons he’d seen before the town? They were a ruse, far enough away that he couldn’t tell they were composed of women and children, old men, anyone capable of holding a piece of matting that would look like a shield, or a stick or hammer that might be mistaken for bows or war clubs over the distance.”

“Did he die well?”

“Yes, Lady,” he lied, wondering why he’d spare her. “He died well.”

For long moments she stared down at the chunkey stone. Then, stroking it reverently, she turned away, walking toward her private quarters. She hesitated, back toward him, and said, “I need you to go to the Morning Star. Tell him that I must see him tonight, after dark. You can do that?”

“I can, Lady. Assuming they’ll let me past the gate.”

“They’ll pass you, Red Wing. They know you are mine.”

“What a charming fate,” he muttered under his breath.

She must have heard because her sibilant whisper carried, ghostlike on the still air: “Piasa tells me that Power condemned both of us to this before we were even born.”

Twenty-seven

In her room, Night Shadow Star dropped the hanging back in place and collapsed onto her bed with its soft hides. In the eye of her souls, she struggled to replay her husband’s last moments, imagining him as he marched out at the head of his squadrons. His eyes would have been bright with anticipation as he emerged from the oak-and-maple forest to find cornfields spread before him. In the distance, the waiting Red Wing squadrons would have been crowded before the town walls, right where he’d hoped they’d be.

Women, children, and old men?

She could see his smile, wide and assured, as he ordered his ranks of warriors forward and down the path between the cornfields.

War Chief Makes Three’s image filled her souls with a remarkable clarity as he led them forward, his wooden battle armor jerking with every pace. In her imagination he headed down the slope from the terrace, heedless of the head-high rows of corn to either side. That familiar grim smile curled his lips. The glint of conquest had been alight in his eyes, for he’d always enjoyed a challenge. His men would have shouted their encouragement.

And then the boom of the drum.

“No, Husband. Please. Step back. Order them to retreat.”

But he wouldn’t.

He hadn’t.

In pain, she clutched the smooth chunkey stone to her breast, aware of its odd warmth against her skin. A knot of grief hardened under her tongue; her heart went hollow. A sob caught in her throat, and then another. Unstemmed the flood of hot tears burst from her eyes. Throwing herself on the bed, she cradled the chunkey stone and wept.

*   *   *

A deep-seated worry crawled around in Blue Heron’s gut like some sort of multilegged insect. She fingered the scabbed wound on her throat where Rides-the-Lightning had removed his stitches less than a hand of time before she’d been summoned to the Morning Star’s high palace. This time, she’d happily abandoned her litter at the foot of the ramp. Better to wheeze her way to the top than ride up the long stairs in the abject terror that one of her porters would slip in the darkness.

The ornate palace great room was illuminated by a leaping fire, its sparks flickering out long before the rising smoke vanished into the soaring heights of the towering ceiling.

Five people sat in a semicircle before the fire: herself and Five Fists, Night Shadow Star and her new Red Wing slave, and finally Seven Skull Shield who’d returned from his peregrinations.

Across from them and behind the fire, Sun Wing reclined on her litter where it had been placed to the right and slightly forward of the Morning Star’s raised dais. Morning Star had seated himself on a black panther hide, and now leaned forward, elbow propped on one knee, chin resting in his palm as he listened.

His eyes took them in one by one as firelight shone in the copper headdress attached to his tightly coifed hair. A wolf-hide cape was thrown back over his shoulders; a white apron clung to his narrow hips. Like always, his face was immaculately painted, the forked-eye design prominent on a light blue background. The two familiar white-shell face maskettes covered his ears.

“I’ve ordered the farmstead and bodies burned,” Blue Heron continued with her report. “Corn Seed and Chief Right Hand are ensuring that the dirt farmers are following through. You can see the fire from the bastions outside when you look off to the east and slightly north on the bluff.”

Sun Wing fiddled with the thick shell necklaces hanging at her throat; she’d been riveted as Blue Heron gave her report. Her gleaming eyes had taken on a hawkish intensity as Blue Heron described the wounds and disfigurement of the dead.

“Some sort of ritual?” Morning Star asked in an absent voice, his eyes fixed on the distance. The shell maskettes covering his ears had taken on an orange hue in the firelight.

The Red Wing slave, Fire Cat, kept his head bowed, but Blue Heron noted the man’s absolute hatred, radiating like a white-hot stone from behind those narrow-lidded eyes.

“It looked like someone tried to recall a soul from the realm of the dead,” Blue Heron finished. She glanced to the side, aware that Night Shadow Star had paled, a tension in the set of her mouth. For some odd reason her niece had brought her dead husband’s chunkey stone with her. The black stone disk was clutched tightly, Night Shadow Star’s long fingers wrapped around the curve.

She had applied no makeup or face paint, and wore a simple muskrathide cape that hung down past the unadorned fabric skirt she wore. With her thick hair worn loose, she appeared more feminine and attractive than usual.

“Does that mean anything to you, Niece?” Blue Heron asked.

Night Shadow Star’s mobile lips curled, her eyes wistful. “Only if it had worked to recall someone from the dead,” she replied.

“Apparently it didn’t,” Blue Heron growled, irritated by the desperation Night Shadow Star hid so poorly. “The way the woman lying on the floor had been brutally butchered had nothing to do with any recall ceremony I’m familiar with. The family on the bed were obviously offerings. That poor young woman’s life-soul was driven out of that tormented body by rage.”

“What purpose was served?” Morning Star wondered.

“A message.” Night Shadow Star fixed the living god with her dark gaze. “The Powers of the Underworld are disturbed. Not only by the attempt to summon a dead soul for uncertain purposes, but by the strength of the frustration and rage that ensued.”

Blue Heron added, “Not to mention that somewhere in the city, that dead woman’s life-soul is loose in the night. Enraged as it is, it will find a home in some newborn, or chase the loose souls away from someone who’s sick and possess his body.”

Sun Wing made a warding against the evil, her face echoing a sudden fear.

“Nor is the ritual pollution conjured up on the bluff just an isolated incident of witchcraft.” Blue Heron reached into her pouch and pulled out the bit of brown chert, holding it high. Her eyes fixed on the Morning Star. “He was jamming his knife into her sheath with such violence that this bit wedged between the bones. It snapped off.” She paused. “It’s the same kind of stone as the knife that almost took your life, Lord. And mine.” She saw his eyes narrow as she added, “I would imagine that if we had the knife that slashed the
tonka’tzi
’s throat, we’d find it, too, was the same translucent brown chert. Perhaps the very blade from which this snapped.” She wiggled the fragment suggestively.

Sun Wing half rose, staring at the bit of chipped stone with rabid intensity. “He was
cutting out
her sheath?”

“More like shredding it.”

“And you made a determination of witchcraft,” Morning Star mused, his eyes distant again.

She was acutely aware of Fire Cat’s balled fists, the clamped muscles knotting in his jaws. The man’s hatred for Morning Star radiated like smoldering coals.
Why did Night Shadow Star bring him here?

Blue Heron shrugged it off. “What else could I do? Too many people had seen the victims. Matron Corn Seed and Chief Right Hand have to keep order up there. I made a point of saying the witch had flown away into the sky. The last thing we need is for the ignorant dirt farmers to start murdering each other if an owl hoots outside their house some night. You know how a witch scare works. People turn on their neighbors first.”

“What of the Deer Clan?” Night Shadow Star narrowed her eyes. “Could Right Hand and Corn Seed be involved in this in any way?”

“I doubt it.” Blue Heron shook her head. “Why would they have sent a runner to me? Why not just torch the place before it could implicate them?”

Sun Wing declared, “Deer Clan is one of our strongest allies among the Earth Clans. I’ve heard the stories. Chief Right Hand once boasted he was going to marry Night Shadow Star when she came of age. I heard he used to tease her, bounce her on his knee when she was little.”

“You only heard
half
the story. His arrogance also cost him his hand.” Blue Heron cast a sidelong glance at the Morning Star. Not so long ago that body had belonged to the jealous Chunkey Boy. Losing his souls to the god hadn’t been a complete tragedy for the Four Winds Clan.

She glanced again at Fire Cat, trying to assess his place in all this, and why Night Shadow Star had cut him down from the square instead of simply slicing him up.

“They still bear watching,” Night Shadow Star insisted as she monitored Morning Star’s response. Whatever she was looking for, he remained oblivious.

“You should have seen the horror in Matron Corn Seed’s eyes when she saw this bit of the knife.” Blue Heron studied the finely flaked fragment, aware that even now the edge remained sharp enough to cut. “It might have been a rattlesnake poised to strike.”

“Do she and Right Hand know of the other knives?” Night Shadow Star asked.

Blue Heron arched an eyebrow. “With the exception of the assassin himself, or assassins as the case may be, only the people in this room and Matron Wind know. If we hear anyone else mention the blades … Well, it will prove to be a most interesting interrogation when we find out
how
they know.”

Morning Star now watched Sun Wing from the corner of his eye, as though intrigued that she stared so raptly at the bit of broken knife.

On impulse, Blue Heron tossed it to her, saying, “You find the magnificent stone knife that is missing that piece, and whoever is carrying it will turn out to be our assassin.”

Sun Wing caught it with a snapping twist of her hand, and lifted it, a rapt look on her face as she inspected the keen edge.

Blue Heron added, “Cut String’s uncle, Pond Water, has been hung in a square. He’s crying, pleading, insisting that it’s all his fault. He says some stone Trader gave him the knife, told him that if he couldn’t talk Cut String into the assassination attempt, he’d disclose Pond Water’s incest. My belief is that he’s telling the truth. Someone, very cleverly, used him as a tool.”