Beyond the Great River (People of the Longhouse Book 1)

  “I saw them on my way here. They were sneaking in and out of the bushes that seemed to be adjacent to the poles of their fence.”

  The mounting anger helped. He straightened his gaze and did not let it drop before the direful frown that made the leader’s eyes narrow into slits.

  “How many?”

  “About ten. Maybe more. It was difficult to count them in the darkness and the way they came in and out.”

  “Ohonte, Raeks, Onyare.” The leader was on his feet, waving at the nearest warriors. “Bring the others.” The gaze shot at Okwaho held much suspicion, but no more disdain. “Take us there!”

  Chapter 11

  The sounds of people fighting were familiar by now; still, as it pounced on her from the darkness, she froze, unable to breath, her fear sudden and paralyzing, making her heart stop, only to resume its beating with a mad rush.

  It was bad enough before, falling into the enemy’s hands, with the wolf man being so rude and fierce, impossible to shoot down or to best in any other way, seeing through her and her lies, cursing, angry with her and his wounded friend, promising unreasonable things. Oh, but he truly believed they would be able to take her village, pillaging it and burning it to the ground.

  But oh no, they won’t, she had promised herself, relaxing as soon as he was gone, heading back up the hill. The other youth was no match for her, all pale and exhausted, unable to walk, his leg in bad shape, propped against the cliff, lying listlessly, of no use to him. Still, she remained where she was for some time, wishing her captor to gain a respectable distance before heading for the same destination he did, but by a better way of shortcuts the stupid invaders would not know about.

  “You won’t stay here, will you?” The wounded sounded calm, not accusing, slumbering where he was, evidently in pain.

  She just shrugged.

  “Your people will be in no condition to send warriors down here with you.” He shifted, trying to gain a better position, but the attempt left him breathless, with no more color to his face than that of a dead person. Even in the silvery moonlight, it was easy to see how badly he suffered. “Your tale about us… down here… won’t make any difference.”

  “I no care,” she said, trying to gather the remnants of her previous anger. Somehow, with no other man around, she felt none of it. “I go home. Maybe sleep, eh? And eat. And feel…” she searched for an appropriate word. “Feel good, soft, good mats, no hard earth and no cold. And no wound. Good night, not like yours.”

  He rolled his eyes, curiously not angered either. The wolf youth would be cursing by now, she knew, saying sharp things back at her. She thought about him making his way up in the darkness, nimble and forceful, like a real wolf. But he wasn’t that good, not if he had gotten himself entangled in this mess, stuck with a wounded friend that far away from his fellow warriors, himself quite battered on top of it. Maybe he’d fall and break his neck on his way through the dark woods. If only there could be such a good turn!

  “Yes, I could use a soft mat now, and some fire and food, yes,” mused the wounded youth, paying no attention to her barbs. “And a healer, too.”

  His face twisted and lost its relatively tranquil expression. Following his troubled gaze, she fought the temptation to come closer in order to examine his wound.

  “My brother good, good at healing,” she related instead, for what reason she didn’t know. “He would have known, known what ointments. He loves healing.”

  “Maybe you bring him here?” His eyes returned to her, amused, but only partly. “Make him inspect my wound. Healers should be above our squabbles, eh? They help anyone in trouble.”

  “Anyone but the enemy,” she said firmly, not sure if he was talking nonsense to pass the time. “Your fire arrows cause damage, much. And they kill people, too. I saw, many. I was to help, help with wounded, but I went out, shoot at your people.” The mere memory made her chest tighten, the screams of the hurt villagers and the terrible smell some of them had. And the burning houses and patches of earth. “Your people beasts. They terrible, they no people at all. They evil spirit that Malsum bring here, but he will not, not win. He never does.”

  “Who is Malsum?” There was no more amusement in his voice, and his frown was deep as he eyed her through his narrowed eyes.

  “Malsum the Wolf is evil, evil spirit. He is twin of Glooskap, but Glooskap is good. He is the light and the…” Another frantic search for words. Why couldn’t they speak normal peoples’ tongue? “He made all good, plants and animals and people. But Malsum, Malsum made bad plants, bad things, bad animals and people. People like you. People like your friend. No wonder… it is no wonder he has wolf tattoo. He is messenger, you see. Messenger of bad spirit.”

  His smile was fleeting, sudden in its warmth. “Okwaho is a wolf, yes. His name means that, and he is a wolf, for sure. His guiding spirit is that magnificent animal.” He frowned. “But wolves are good, local girl. They aren’t bad like your people think they are. They are courageous and strong and loyal. They are great hunters. Your people are silly to badmouth such magnificent creatures.”

  He licked his lips and fell silent, obviously tortured with thirst. Shrugging, she looked around, eyeing the dark silhouettes of the logs and other smaller objects that were strewn about, looking for something hollow enough to carry water in.

  “We do not… do not think wolves bad,” she said, getting to her feet. “Only Malsum, Wolf the Younger. He is bad. Not courageous, not loyal.” A quick search through the firewood her captor had brought earlier produced a good enough piece of bark. “Like your friend, he is bad. Like your people. But yes, other wolves are good, many of them, but not all.” Picking her find up, she shrugged again. “I bring you water, then I go.”

  He was gazing at her, as though mesmerized. “You are kind,” she heard him saying as she turned to go. “I didn’t expect…”

  And now, clinging to the nearest tree, trying to catch her breath, with the sounds of fighting coming from the only place she needed to reach, the safety, she wondered briefly if this youth was all right. The woods were no place to spend one’s night, especially with no fire, no company, barely any weapons, wounded and alone. And enemy or not, he seemed to be a nice, thoughtful sort of a person. It would not be right for him to just die out there all alone.

  Shutting her eyes, she listened to the muffled sounds, refocusing her thoughts on her current predicament. What was going on up there, near her favorite hole in the fence? Were people fighting there? But why would they? When she had slipped out earlier, well before dusk, the mutual shooting had almost been over, with no burning arrows trying to set the fence and the houses on fire. The attackers and the defenders were ready to retire for the night, as was the custom. Even she knew that no fighting was done in the darkness. Father told enough stories of battles to learn that. And yet, here it was, well after darkness, and there were obviously some people trying to harm each other out there, with no light and no direction. Why would they do that?

  She hesitated, then went on silently, familiar with the woods to the point of not needing her eyes to guide her at all. The silence prevailed, deep, ethereal. No gust of wind disturbed the stillness, no stirring of an animal, nor the screech of a night bird. The world went dead as unexpectedly as it had come to life before.

  Against her will, she froze, afraid to make a move, the wide trunk of a giant tree providing her with sense of security, even if a false one.

  “Are there any more of them out there?” The footsteps broke the darkness even before the voices did, making her almost jump out of her skin. They rasped on the other side of her tree as it seemed, the enemy words difficult to understand, unlike the youth’s down there by the river. “Filthy pieces of rotten meat.”

  “Where are the others?” The second voice seemed to be more in control, not bursting with rage. “Were any of our people hurt?”

  “I don’t know. I got cut on the arm, but not badly.” The first man seemed to be regaining his calmness as we
ll. “Where is the leader? And where is the young scout? He saw them, so he would know how many of them might be out there.”

  More rustling accompanied their words as they began fading into the darkness again, heading in the direction they came from. Kentika let out a held breath. Yet, before she could decide what to do, whether it was safe to try to sneak toward her destination now, more breaking branches erupted. Panted breaths filled the dark air, followed by urgent whispering, then shouts. Something swished; a thud of a fallen body came. A muffled groan followed it, then another.

  Pressing against her tree, she did not dare to breathe, understanding too well. People were fighting, right next to her this time. Her people and the enemy. Who was winning? She tried to suppress the choking wave of panic.

  More silhouettes darted around, slipping like shadows, dark, ominous spirits. She bit her lips wildly, but the cry still erupted as something clashed against someone with a revoltingly wet sound, and one of the forms came crashing against her tree, making it nearly shake.

  The shriek of the man was awful. It washed over her, making her insides shrink. In panic, she leaped backwards, only to collide with a warrior, who cursed and stumbled, before shoving her away with his elbow. Stumbling in her turn, she waved her hands in order to keep her balance, then calmed down all at once, recognizing the words. The man who pushed her away was not speaking like the enemy.

  Her thoughts clearing at once, she backed away, knowing at once who it was. Schikan! Oh, how could she not recognize him, even though in darkness and in the middle of a battle!

  The brief moment of confidence didn’t last, as a dark form of a club tore the air and the silhouette of her friend uttered a funny sound before collapsing like a cut-down tree. The club owner swung his weapon again, victorious, but another hiss interrupted his movement, and he ducked, then straightened up, reassured, concentrating once again on his victim, who was trying to get up, moving clumsily, ridiculously slow.

  It was a nightmare!

  In disbelief, she watched Schikan struggling on the ground, his panted breath tearing the darkness, while the enemy hurried to bring his club high again. To deliver the final blow, she realized. He was going to kill him!

  “No!”

  Her feet brought her forward, acting of their own accord. One moment she was pressing against the tree, not safe anymore but still out of lethal weapons’ range; the other, she was colliding against the man with a club, grabbing his arm, clinging to it desperately, making it slow its descent.

  The smell struck her nostrils, sweat mixed with the sharp odor of blood. He was struggling to shake her off, both his arms clenching the club, unable to just push her away, or to strike her down.

  Her grip was slipping, his sweaty skin difficult to cling to. In desperation, she kicked and felt more than heard the enemy groaning, then doubling his effort to push her away. His kick was more hurtful, and as she squirmed out of his knee’s reach, her grip on his arm loosened, and the muddy ground met her with a soft thud.

  It was a nightmare. Terrified, she tried to make her mind work, her limbs paralyzed with fear, refusing to move, the terror too great, the expectation of the deadly blow the only thought permeating her mind, the vivid pictures of splattering blood, her blood, bursting out along with other smelly things.

  The world seemed to slow down, withdraw, the sounds and the scents, coming from far away. It was as though she was under the water again. A familiar feeling. When did it happen?

  Someone’s elbow, or maybe it was a leg, hit her painfully, and she rolled away out of instinct, clenching her teeth to stifle a cry. Beside her, people were wriggling upon the ground. Their rasping breaths reached her, irritating rather than frightening. The sounds were back. And the awareness.

  Blinking, she stared at the dark forms, one pinning down another, the enemy winning again. It was impossible to see clearly, but she knew she was right.

  It was easier to grab the man’s arm now, to fall upon his back, easier to make the progress of the knife stop; a child’s play really, compared to the necessity to battle the strength of a standing man. In another heartbeat, the body underneath her tensed, then shuddered, Schikan’s knife making a quick work out of it, she surmised.

  Fighting the urge to just roll away, she put the remnants of her strength into the attempt to push the now-limp body away from Schikan, struggling with both hands, using her shoulder to reinforce the effort. It left her gasping for breath, powerless for a moment, this entire night too much. Her body was shaking, her hands and knees, and she knew that if she would fall she would vomit and vomit and maybe even faint, because the earth was just too revolting, reeking and warm with terrible things.

  Schikan was panting, struggling to get to his feet, unbearably clumsy.

  “We need t-to go, go away… from here. Go home.” She hated the way her words came out, vibrating, difficult to understand.

  “Yes, yes.” His voice was steady but hoarse, strident. Full of pain, she realized.

  “You’re wounded?”

  “Yes.”

  He was on his knees by now, swaying, one hand propped against the ground, supporting, the other useless, pressed against the dark form of his body. It didn’t seem as though he could make it any farther in his struggle to get up. The realization helped to lessen the trembling.

  “I’ll help you up.” Pleased that the attempt to get to her feet came easily to her, she leaned closer, careful to approach his unwounded side. “Just grab my arm. Or something.”

  He was heavy, clumsy, impossible to pull up. Near tears, she struggled on, until another dark form pounced on them, so very close her heart jumped.

  “What is going on?”

  Limp with relief, she recognized the voice easily. “Schikan… he is… he is wounded.” Again, her voice trembled in the most annoying of ways, causing her to clench her teeth tight.

  The man was already pulling Schikan on. “Can you walk?”

  “Yes.” It seemed that Schikan was able to say only that and nothing else, his voice too hoarse to recognize even, trembling with pain.

  The man hesitated. “Take him back there, toward that grove. There is an opening in the fence. Right behind—”

  “I know where it is.”

  Another pause, and even though she could not see in the darkness, she knew he was scrutinizing her with his gaze, puzzled. “Well, then, go. There should be no enemies there, although those lowlifes seem to be popping out of nowhere.” His voice dropped as more noises came from the direction of the woods. “Go now.”

  Schikan’s rasping breathing tore the silence as they staggered on, barely making any progress. He was swaying, leaning on her so heavily that she had to fight for every step, sure they would never reach as much as the fence itself, let alone the opening in it. The moment he made them both fall it would be over.

  “It’s not long now, not long at all,” she panted out, not daring to shift her grip or change their position, her shoulder numb from the pressure of his weight.

  “How… how long?” His groan seemed to belong to someone else. She could feel his body stiff with pain, barely reacting.

  “Not long now, truly. They’ll help us, help us there.”

  The moonlight poured over them more generously now, the darkness not as thick as back in the grove. She squinted, trying to recognize the landmarks. Oh, yes, the tree with a split trunk. It swayed not far away, inviting, promising safety.

  She breathed with relief, but the good feeling did not last. The cracking of branches and the noises of fighting, familiar by now, erupted from behind the same cluster of trees. What was the enemy doing so near the opening in the fence? The thought that never occurred to her before suddenly grew, gaining power. How did they know?

  “We need to hurry,” she breathed, and felt him reacting, trying to straighten up, unsuccessfully so. He could barely walk the way they progressed before.

  The figure that pounced from behind the trees looked familiar, reaching the clear ground
in one forceful leap. In an obvious hurry to cross the open space, the man almost bumped into them, halting abruptly, the spear in his hands balanced and ready, the polished flint tip glittering darkly, promising no good. It stared at them, ready to launch, but all she could do was to stare at the owner of the lethal weapon, recognizing the wide cheekbones, the strong jaw, the bruises, and above all, the dark form of the tattoo. The wolf man!

  He was gaping at her too, his eyes widening in perfect proportion to his deepening frown. It was a ridiculous combination. She wanted to laugh, in a hysterical way.

  “You again,” he breathed. “What in the name—”

  His eyes left her face, leaping to her companion, narrowing rapidly. There was nothing funny about his expression anymore.

  “Please!”

  The short word surprised her as much as it probably surprised him and maybe Schikan too, who seemed to be straining to stand more upright now. It was strange, out of place, but as it came out, she knew she must give it a try.

  “Please. He wound, wounded. You no kill wounded man.”

  A new outburst of shouts and breaking branches came from behind the same cluster of trees. He turned away abruptly, balancing the spear.

  “Go,” he tossed out curtly, without looking back. “Go away, fast.”

  Chapter 12

  The short plank fashioned to his satisfaction, Migisso eased his shoulders, eyeing his work, pleased. It was wide enough to hold his friend’s broken arm in place, to allow it to heal properly, but not to hinder his movement more than necessary, not like some cruder splints did. There would be no trouble moving around with such a thing, even to work to some extent. That is, when Schikan regained the ability to do any of those things. Which would not be happening too soon, not with that addition of broken ribs. But if they didn’t manage to harm the enemy as much as they hoped they did, neither Schikan, nor other wounded, would enjoy proper rest or healing.