Long past midnight Horn Lance crept up the steep slope behind Blue Heron’s palace. On bare feet he eased forward, one hand tracing the plaster, the other clutching a war club. His left arm ached, and he’d barely been up to the struggle; nevertheless, he’d managed to strangle the hapless Four Winds Clan warrior guarding the rear of the mound. Horn Lance had used an old piece of rope, then stole the guard’s clothing and weapon after quietly lowering the body to the ground.
Taking a deep breath, he sniffed at the southerly breeze, smelling smoke, humans, thatch, and the ever-present humid tang of mud and wetlands. Cahokia’s soul lay in the river, in the curving lakes along old channels, and her wet, rich, and fertile soil. Those were the true wealth and source of her strength.
He understood it viscerally—and perhaps in a way the Cahokians themselves didn’t. Nor could they until they’d stood in his sandals at old Tikal, at Yaxchilan, and Dzibilchaltun.
But even with that hard-gained knowledge, he’d underestimated Cahokia. Dazzled by the mighty Mayan stone monuments, the elevated sacbeob, the sprawling cities and the gaudy costumes of their rulers, he hadn’t understood Cahokia’s resilient underlying bone and muscle.
The Itza—and all the legendary Nations of Maya before them—existed on a foundation built from their ancestors’ bones. Their world and its gods were prescribed and uncompromising. The holy books, the jun, dictated the meets and bounds of belief as exactly as the sacred surveyors with their strings, sighting devices, and leveling pots measured land and space. Death, suffering, and blood—as recounted in the jun—balanced joy, happiness, and prosperity. The formula was rigid and fatalistic. One lacking in imagination and hope. Stagnant.
In Cahokia he had briefly known a fresh and liberating sense of wonder. Did it matter if the Morning Star were really the incarnate soul of the mythical Hero Twin from the Beginning Times? Or was he merely Chunkey Boy playing a pretend role, as the ahau had concluded to his own satisfaction?
What mattered was that the people marveled as they built their city. They Dreamed, and hoped, and played chunkey. All of them. Not just the high lords’ groomed players in their elite subterranean Mayan ball courts. Nor were Cahokians slave to the perpetual ritual warfare he’d grown accustomed to. What a relief to be free of the constant anxiety that came with each cycle of raiding for sacrificial captives. Gone were the worries that not enough bodies had been accumulated, not enough souls dispatched, not enough itz or ch’ulel offered—each measure of blood accurately counted and credited against the desperate hope for a bit of joy, relief, and contentment.
He checked the heft and balance of the dead guard’s war club. It would do. He needed only to sneak past the guard out front, charge in, and make it to Blue Heron’s door. Despite the stiff pain in his arm and shoulder joints, he could do that. Even if he didn’t kill her in the darkness of her bed, he’d break enough bones, cripple her with pain. And that might be the better outcome. She’d have plenty of time to live with what he’d done to her.
He rounded the stuccoed corner, peering through the night. A warrior slumped with his back to the wall, head down. Even from where he stood, Horn Lance could hear the man’s deep breathing.
On cat feet, Horn Lance eased past the sentry, lifted the plank door quietly to one side, and crept into the great room.
The glowing coals in the fire pit barely illuminated the room. The door to Blue Heron’s personal quarters would be through that black square in the rear wall.
He stopped short, halfway across the mat-covered floor. Was that a low growl shushed by human lips?
He glanced warily around, war club at the ready. Nothing moved among the shadows cast by the faint reddish glow. Anyone looking up would see the familiar silhouette of one of Blue Heron’s guards.
Reassured by the silence, he hurried forward.
The clack of a kicked pot warned him. Spinning, he raised the war club, striking out at the dark form rushing toward him.
The club smacked flesh, eliciting a grunt.
Horn Lance ducked and evaded the grasping hands. Wheeling, he slammed the club into the assailant’s side. The shadowy figure bellowed in pain, then roared, “You piece of maggot meat! Hit me? Sneak into the Keeper’s in the middle of the night? You pus-dripping penis! Gonna grab you! Gonna rip your balls off! You piece of shit-chewing, piss-drinking—”
Horn Lance backhanded the club into the man’s middle. The big man’s breath exploded from his lungs, and he bent double, trapping the war club. The handle was ripped out of Horn Lance’s grip.
Whirling, he turned and ran, only to have a dog land on his back. The impact knocked him to the floor. The beast had sunk its teeth into the stolen warrior’s cloak. As the dog’s full weight came to bear, the beast tore the cloak from Horn Lance’s shoulders, growling and savaging the fabric.
Freed, Horn Lance scrambled to his feet. Fueled by panic and terror, he was out, pounding down the walk past the eagle guardians.
“The Keeper is attacked!” he cried. “Quickly! A big man and a dog! They’re going to kill her!”
Somehow he made it down the steps without breaking his neck, and as the guard pounded up in his wake, he was running for all that he was worth.
But where to? What sanctuary could he find now?
A slow smile bent his lips. Of course. But just for a day or two until the furor died. And then he’d have to be gone. Downriver. Perhaps to the Natchez. There at least, he could be an advisor, a valued and honored man.
All Cahokia now promised was a slow and agonizing death in a square.