Little Stone was asleep when Morning Dew checked him. He had his blanket tucked up under his chin. She had sat with him, holding his hand, Singing a lullaby about squirrels and acorns she had heard as a child. Now she disentangled her fingers, folded in the edges of his blanket, and turned to attend the fire.
As she added two pieces of wood, she glanced at Heron Wing, sitting to the side, the raccoon bowl clutched to her breast. For most of the afternoon, she had sat thus, asking Morning Dew to turn away the steady stream of visitors coming to discuss clan business, to ask advice about the suitability of certain marriages, or any of the other problems that Heron Wing was constantly consulted about.
During that time, Morning Dew had finished processing her hickory oil, and now had four jars of the precious liquid sealed and stowed under the sleeping benches. She had cooked supper, fed Stone, and entertained him with stories of how Wind lost his four sons and killed a monster by blowing through a bullfrog pipe.
Now, her chores at end, she replaced the last of the supper plates and made up Heron Wing’s bed. Then she walked over and seated herself next to the woman.
“Do you want to tell me the story?”
“About Green Snake?” Heron Wing asked softly.
“I remember something about Smoke Shield’s brother. You and Wide Leaf were talking about him once. Green Snake is that man, isn’t he?”
Heron Wing nodded. “We never even knew if he was alive or not. The night he struck down Smoke Shield, he ran away. No one ever heard of him again. The name Green Snake might have blown away with the wind. He never came back, never sent word.”
Green Snake. He may have been aptly named. The thin, bright green snake of the forest was a special Spirit helper to both the Sky Hand and the Chahta. The delicate little creature was known to be filled with Power, and to harm one was considered the worst of bad luck. Any act against the little green serpent could ruin a man’s Power for the rest of his life.
“I loved him.” Heron Wing glanced at Stone, sleeping in his bed. “He should have been the father of my children.”
Morning Dew sighed. “And now he is reportedly traveling in the company of the Seeker and a Contrary? Coming here? Why?”
Heron Wing shook her head. “I don’t know. Breath Giver help me, I can’t even imagine it.” She turned frantic eyes toward Morning Dew. “For years, I have told myself that he’s dead to me. I have Dreamed of him, hoped that he was with some far-off people, that he had found peace and happiness. It was better than thinking he was dead.” She paused. “More than one person wondered if he had been killed in the fight with Smoke Shield. Even I have often wondered if Smoke Shield hid his body somewhere.”
“Did you ever ask Smoke Shield?”
“Green Snake’s blow had knocked the souls out of his body for four days. They were going to carry him to the charnel house, but he woke up first.” Heron Wing paused. “Years later, I only asked once. At the mere mention of Green Snake’s name, Smoke Shield flew into a rage. He gave me a backhanded slap and told me never to mention him again. Said that if I did, he’d kill me. Then he ripped my clothes off and took me, hard. When he came, he looked into my eyes, telling me at the same time that I was his. And his alone.”
“Too bad that blow to the head didn’t finish him off. It would have saved all of us a difficult time.”
“But why, after all these years, would Green Snake come back now?”
“I don’t know.”
Morning Dew sat silently, staring at the fire. What would this new twist mean? She glanced at Heron Wing, seeing her desperate longing. The woman looked as if someone had wound her guts around a stick and was pulling them from her body.
“This isn’t the time to let your concentration falter, Heron Wing. If you’ll recall, something happened among the Albaamaha. Someone is trying to blame the Chahta for this raid. Red Awl’s widow is missing. This whole country is about to erupt, and Smoke Shield is in the middle of it. You need all of your wits about you. The people need you.”
“Yes, yes, I know.” Heron Wing pinched her eyes shut. “That’s how I got into this mess. The people needed me. The clans needed me. So I married Smoke Shield. I have given everything to the people.” She laughed brittlely. “You know, if Green Snake had just come to me, I would have run off with him. All he needed to do was ask.”
“Perhaps that is why he is coming now? What if he has finally learned that his brother lived?”
“A Trader,” she said softly. “All these years. Do you think he Traded here, camped right down there on the landing, telling no one who he was? He would have been so close. But I never knew. Do you think he ever walked up, saw me from a distance?”
“Maybe.”
She stared down at the bowl she caressed. “If he asked about me, people would have said, ‘That’s Smoke Shield’s wife.’ That would have driven a stake into his heart. Nothing would have hurt him more. That’s why he never came to me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Oh, yes, I do.”
“Were I him, believing I’d killed my brother, I would never have come back.”
Heron Wing looked at her. “I would like to believe that.”
“It makes more sense,” Morning Dew said positively, unsure herself.
“If he does come here, what will I say to him? How can I look him in the eyes?”
“You will do it. And you will do it well.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“No, that’s just the way it is, Heron Wing. No matter what might lie between the two of you, you are a clan leader. Your brother is Hopaye. Your aunt is the Panther Clan chief. You will be who you must be.”
“Is that my own medicine turned against me?” The faintest smile crossed Heron Wing’s lips.
“What do you think?”
“I think somehow, some way, you have become my finest friend, Morning Dew.” Then she shook her head. “When he left, my souls went with him.”
“Then perhaps it’s time you got them back.”
Heron Wing stared down at the raccoon bowl. “No one must know.” She stiffened. “Do you think that Thunder Town Trader will tell?”
“By morning, he’ll be gone upriver again. I don’t think he had any idea who you were. It wasn’t like you were dressed like a clan leader. Your skirt is stained with hickory oil. To him, it was just a Sky Hand woman and her slave come down to Trade. Nothing more.”
A hard day’s travel had taken Old White’s party to the confluence of the Horned Serpent and Black Warrior Rivers. Most of the route lay through hilly country where the Horned Serpent flowed quickly, allowing them to make good time. At the confluence they had camped with a party of Pensacoloa Traders for the night. The place was a levee that rose above the swampy ground.
After an active Trade, in which they divested most of their Chahta goods and several prized northern pieces for quality shell, yaupon, stingray spines, sharks’ teeth, and several packs of pelican feathers, they started up the Black Warrior River.
At first travel was easy, the broad current lazy, but as they entered the hills, the current that had helped them on the descent of the Horned Serpent fought against them. The route consisted of crisscrossing the channel, forever searching for the slower backwaters and shallows. Progress dropped to a snail’s pace.
Good camping spots, however, were abundant. They had pulled up on one such—a low terrace covered with sweet gum, bitter acorn, and cottonwoods.
Paunch, who could at least cook, had made them an excellent meal of catfish and freshwater mussels he had harvested from shallows along the river. Old White had carefully laid his wooden pack and the fabric bag with its hidden contents by his side. He now kept them close, ready at hand for reasons of his own.
At the fire that night, Trader spoke in Trade Tongue so the Albaamo couldn’t understand. “Something doesn’t make sense.” He glanced at Old Woman Fox’s ornate box where it rested among the Trade.
“A great many things don’t make sense,” Old White agreed, packing his pipe and lighting it. “Like trying to have a normal conversation with Two Petals.” He puffed reflectively, blowing the blue smoke up to annoy the hovering cloud of mosquitoes. For the most part, the little beasts were discouraged by an unguent rubbed on their skin. A few brave insects, however, were foolish enough to land, bite, and then be slapped flat.
“Let’s lay this all out in sequence.” Trader filled his own pipe. “First, we land at Feathered Snake Town, and Great Cougar, though skeptical, makes us welcome. He acts as the perfect host, even urges us to stay longer. Then, as we travel downriver, people are nice, but firm in keeping us away from the towns.”
“And why do you think that is?”
Trader smiled warily as he reached down and ran his fingers through Swimmer’s long black hair. “He was giving his messengers time to alert the other chiefs, to assemble their Trade, and then get us back on the river as soon as possible.”
“All but at White Arrow.”
“Correct.” Trader glanced at Two Petals, who listened and smiled, as if amused. Curse it all, life would be so much easier if she’d just come out and tell them what her visions had shown her.
Old White arched an eyebrow. “And we are allowed into White Arrow Town to Trade because Old Woman Fox wants to have some private time with us. She does this to ask us to get her granddaughter back.”
“She is obsessed by that,” Trader agreed. “Meanwhile, we learn that Great Cougar was supposedly raiding the Sky Hand at the same time he was feasting us and being a good host.”
Swimmer flopped over on his side, stretching so that Trader could scratch his belly.
“All the while, he’s letting us believe he’s making defensive preparations for a Sky Hand attack.”
Trader sucked at his pipe. “Which we both agree is the smartest way to handle any Sky Hand retaliation. With warning, he can fortify his villages, position his warriors, and hopefully break up the raiding party before destroying it piecemeal.”
“But the men were missing at White Arrow Town,” Old White mused. “Sure, they might have been out hunting and fishing, but during the whole day we were there, did you see any men coming in with game? Did you see loads of fish being carried up from the river?”
“I saw some women unload a basket of fish from a canoe as we were leaving,” Trader said. “But no, you’d think with that many people, some man would have come in with a deer, opossum, turkeys, or what have you.”
“So, where are the men?” Old White blew another cloud of smoke up at the mosquitoes.
“And why is Old Woman Fox so insistent that we get her granddaughter out of Split Sky City before the first new moon after the equinox?” Trader shot him a clever look, answering his own question. “Because Great Cougar did his cunning best to mislead us. But the Sky Hand have scouts everywhere, enough so that they are exchanging jabs with the Chahta scouts. Each side knows the other is watching vigilantly.”
“My guess,” Old White mused, “is that Great Cougar is somehow counting on that.”
“He plans to use the large number of Chikosi scouts against the Sky Hand?” Trader looked up at the sky, now clouded over. Around them, the forest was dark. Somewhere in the river, a fish splashed, and an owl hooted in the trees behind them. “He could make a feint. Display a mass of warriors in the south, draw the Sky Hand strength in that direction.”
“Possible.”
“Or he could send a large band through the forest, looping around the rough country to the north, bypassing most of the scouts.”
“Also possible.”
Trader looked at Two Petals. “What is our future, Contrary? Are we the deciding factor? What does Power want us to do?”
Her hands were fluttering in that odd way of hers. “The current is strong, isn’t it? Traveling like this, paddle, paddle. This is your river, Trader; only you can ascend it.” She paused before adding, “She knows you’re coming. Her heart is torn.”
“Who knows? She who?” Trader asked. Gods, you ask her one question, only to receive a different answer.
“Why, both of them, of course,” Two Petals stated positively, as if only a fool wouldn’t understand what she was talking about.
“Well,” Old White mused as he knocked his pipe out and pulled his fabric bag close, “we’ve time to think about it.” He glanced at Paunch. “I just wish he was younger. It would be nice if he could paddle like a youth instead of just splashing water about.”
Trader knocked out his own pipe. “Maybe that’s all any of us are doing, Seeker. Just splashing aimlessly toward something we can’t even imagine.”
“Finally,” Two Petals said with relief. “I wondered why it was taking you so long.”
Trader rolled out his bedding, climbing beneath the thick blanket into relative protection from the swarm of mosquitoes. He lay there, aware of the dying fire and the night sounds in the forest. A fox yipped and squealed somewhere. He could hear a beaver gnawing on one of the cottonwoods at the water’s edge.
Ever since nosing into the Black Warrior’s waters, he’d been on edge, his nerves pulled tight. I am going home. For the first time it was real.
He tried to imagine what it would be like to land below the city. A disturbing mixture of anticipation mixed with dread in his breast. Images replayed of that last night, of running from the Men’s House in a blind panic, how he’d stolen a canoe, pushing it off into the waters of this same river. That time he’d gone north; now he returned from the south: full circle. Headed back to the place his Dreams had died.
I am not the youth who fled. I return a different man. But was he? Had all those years on the rivers made him into someone he hadn’t been that night when he struck down his brother?
He swallowed hard, clamping his eyes shut at the wheeling images. After losing everything, what kind of fool ever believed he could get any of it back? Would he have to look into Flying Hawk’s eyes, see the censure for becoming what his uncle had insisted that he not be?
And Heron Wing? What would her reaction be? How did he tell her what he had gone through? How did he tell another man’s wife that he was sorry?
He heard the rustle of fabric and looked up. Two Petals stood over his bed, her face turned down, hair spilling around her. She dropped to her knees, pulling her dress up over her head.
“What are you doing?” Trader whispered, uncomfortably aware of her naked body as she reached for his blanket.
“I don’t understand,” she said, sliding in beside him and tugging on his shirt. “This would feel better sleeping by itself tonight.”
He grudgingly pulled his shirt off, feeling her cool skin next to his. “Two Petals, are you sure this is a good idea?”
She ran her hands over his chest, tracing the lines of rib and muscle. One by one, she rolled his nipples under her fingers. The effect was electric. “There is no such thing as a good idea. They fly like birds, lighting here and there.” Her fingers slipped down across the ripple of his belly, twining in his pubic hair before tracing around his tightening scrotum. He drew a deep breath, tensing.
“Two Petals, you don’t have to—”
“We’ve Dreamed this. Both of us. Over and over. This time we don’t have to. You can help me learn what I need to know.” She gripped his hard shaft, tightening her hold until he gasped. “Is this distracting?”
“Gods, yes!”
“I have to learn.”
“Learn . . . what?” His concentration was shredding.
“What they know.”
“Who?”
“All those distracting women.” She bent down, taking his nipple in her teeth, teasing it gently.
Distracting women? What women?
Then his thoughts fluttered off—as lost as Two Petals’ rhetorical birds.
In the dim morning light, Old White looked into his fabric sack. He let his gaze rest on the smooth lines of the object inside; then he laced the sack tightly closed again. Soon, he thought. And what would the reaction be when he removed it for the final time? He turned his gaze to the war medicine box, hidden in its bag. So many things were coming together, a convergence of Power that he could but imperfectly comprehend.
He laid his bag aside and stirred the fire, having coaxed some of last night’s coals to life, and added kindling. As the flames leapt up and snapped at him, he caught movement from Trader’s bed, and saw him slip naked from the covers. Swimmer rose from where he’d bedded down on Trader’s shirt, stretched, and waved his tail. Trader shooed the dog off and pulled the wadded shirt over his broad shoulders. Two Petals’ face was obscured by the dark swirl of her black hair where it spilled over the blanket.
Trader turned, saw Old White watching, and stiffened. Mortification filled the man’s face as he fled down the slope to relieve himself. Moments later, he walked uncertainly up the slope; Swimmer, taking time to pee on grass stems, followed behind. Trader glanced at the sleeping Paunch, and continued awkwardly to squat on the other side of the fire.
“Two Petals came to my bed last night.”
Old White cocked his head, using his stick to stir the fire again. He reached out and gave Swimmer his customary morning petting. “I wonder, when a Contrary cries, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ does it mean ‘No, no, no’?”
“She did?” Trader looked like he’d just swallowed a live frog.
“Um-hum.”
“Oh.”
“She wasn’t the only one.”
“Sorry.”
Old White gave him a curious look. “Then you are a lesser man than I would have been.”
“Look, she came to me. Talking some nonsense about learning about distraction.”
“Don’t be so defensive. She’s a woman. You’re a man. I’ve seen the way you look at each other; I’m just surprised it has taken this long.”
“It was her choice,” Trader said lamely.
“Could I give you a word of advice?”
“Of course.”
“She’s not a normal woman.”
“I discovered that last night.”
“Believe me, I’m well aware,” Old White said dryly. “But I’m not referring to repeated athletics.”
Old White met Trader’s nervous eyes. “I would warn you not to expect any change between the two of you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well”—he prodded the fire—“generally when a man and woman couple, it changes the way they regard each other. The act serves to alter their relationship . . . a shared intimacy that comes across in looks, in how they behave toward each other.”
“I am fully aware of that.” He shot a sidelong look at Two Petals. “You think she’ll be different?”
“She’s already different. What I’m saying is that I wouldn’t be upset if she acts like she always has. Last night may have changed the way you feel about her, but don’t expect her to reciprocate. Do you see where my canoe floats? I’m betting she won’t have the same emotional reaction you do. Last night wasn’t about love, or a bonding between a husband and wife. It was something else, something Power led her to.”
“Oh.”
Old White watched Swimmer scratch after a flea. “In short, don’t expect her to wake up beaming with affection for you, ready to hold hands and smile into your eyes. Expect her to wake up as a Contrary, that same distance in her eyes, uttering the same confounding statements.” He paused. “That’s a guess, of course, but I’m willing to bet it’s a good one.”
Trader frowned down at the fire, nodding. “Yes. I think I already knew that.”
“But you hadn’t really thought it all through?”
“No.” He glanced up, a shy smile on his lips. “Thank you, Seeker. I would have ended up there eventually, but you probably saved me some discomfort.”
Old White nodded, thinking about the times he’d dealt with Power, how it had affected his relationships with the women it haunted.
Trader glanced out at the river, the water silvered with the dawn. “What about when we arrive at Split Sky City? Have you given that thought as well?”
“We land, act like Traders, and see what the situation is.” He smiled. “I must confess, the noise wasn’t the only reason I didn’t sleep last night.”
“Me either.” He flinched. “Well, I mean until Two Petals showed up.” He shook his head. “Setting foot in Split Sky City is going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I was lost in that, all knotted up.” He glanced again at Two Petals. “You think that’s why she came to me?”
“Perhaps. Contrary ways have their own logic. She knows things we don’t.” He paused. “Thinking about turning back, were you?”
“The notion of going down to Bottle Town and spending this spring with the Pensacola has a certain appeal.” He hesitated. “Like staying as far away from the Sky Hand as possible.”
“And never having to face ourselves,” Old White agreed. “But that’s what Power is insisting on.”
“Why?” Trader asked the familiar old question.
“We’ll find out when we reach home.” His lips curled evilly. “Assuming anyone but me has the energy left to paddle a canoe against the current.”
Smoke Shield stared at the map he’d drawn on the palace great room floor. He had pulled back all the mats, then used a pointed stick to draw in the rivers. Each Chahta town was represented by a bowl, cup, or jar.
Flying Hawk perched on his cougar-hide stool, staring down thoughtfully. The firelight cast a golden glow across the floor, and dark shadows wavered behind the bowls. He looked up thoughtfully at the carving that hung on the wall across from him, of a warrior bearing a head. It had been taken from the Yuchi years before he was born and incorporated into the legends of his people. The story his people had started to tell was that in the beginning times, Morning Star had killed his own father and finally carried the head up to the stars where it now rested, a constellation.
But the Yuchi, from whom we obtained it, don’t believe a word of it. So how many other stories that people now believed had been born just that way, adopted as an explanation? Just like Smoke Shield’s imaginary Chahta raid?
What surprised him was that the Council had swallowed the whole thing. All but Blood Skull, Pale Cat, and Night Star, who had just listened, skepticism easy to read on their faces. Not that that surprised him; if he or Smoke Shield claimed the sun rose in the east, they would insist on believing it was a Chief Clan plot.
And now I am part of it. That knowledge bothered him. Why it should was no mystery: Smoke Shield had plotted it. The man had always had a facile way with the truth, and that it seemed to work for him made Flying Hawk wonder.
Power has always favored him. But perhaps that was part of the problem. All of his life, Flying Hawk, too, had leaned toward the red, the tumultuous and creative side of life. His violent rage had led him to kill his brother. Subduing that passion had taken most of his life.
When he looked at Smoke Shield—still scowling down at his map—he wondered if the man ever would, or even should, for that matter.
“The problem is the number of warriors we must use,” Smoke Shield said absently. “By my best figures, we can take nearly a thousand. With a force that size, moving rapidly, we can overwhelm their eastern villages.”
“But you have to feed them, keep them together.”
“Food is the problem,” Smoke Shield agreed. “Unless we can rope the Albaamaha into a caravan to pack food for us.”
“Too risky. They’ll melt away into the forest unless you have nearly as large a force to guard them.”
Smoke Shield nodded absently. “How did the lords of Cahokia do it?”
“They didn’t have to travel cross-country. They could use the rivers, especially when traveling south. They could load large Trade canoes to carry their provisions. In our country, war must be conducted across ridges, mountains, and valleys. East to west. Warriors can only carry so much on their backs. An army’s movement is curtailed by the food supply each man can carry. If you add an additional slave per warrior, you can extend the range, but only by another couple of days’ travel. The slaves have to eat, too.”
Smoke Shield traced the route of the rivers with his stick. “It would take too long to send canoes down the Black Warrior and then back up the Horned Serpent. The Chahta would have fair warning of our movement.” He shook his head. “No, it’s too easy to ambush canoes on the rivers. Down in the narrows, where travel upriver is slow, they’d be spread out, easy to pick off one by one.”
“So we are restricted to striking overland.” Flying Hawk pointed with his stone mace. “Your only chance is to take the first town by surprise and raid its food supplies. In early spring, there will be little extra available in the countryside. Even the isolated farmsteads will have emptied their granaries.”
“Hunting during travel is out.” Smoke Shield stated the obvious. “It’s much too time-consuming, and with that many men combing the landscape, someone will see them. The alarm will be raised.”
“So you are back to striking fast and quickly to take a town. But realistically, you can only do that once. Someone will escape and raise the alarm.”
Smoke Shield twirled his stick in his fingers. “What if the Chahta were already weakened and looking the other way?”
“Meaning?”
“We let the Yuchi strike first.”
“I see,” Flying Hawk added dryly. “Of course. You’ll send a runner to Born-of-Sun asking him to kindly raid the Chahta in order to further your war plans?”
“Don’t be flippant, Uncle.” Smoke Shield grinned. “You know how cunning Great Cougar is. He’s just killed a bunch of Albaamaha and escaped our pursuit. What would happen if he attacked a Yuchi town? How would Born-of-Sun react to an unprovoked Chahta raid? Especially if a couple of captives managed to overhear Great Cougar planning to make even more attacks, then ‘escaped’ to bear the news to Born-of-Sun?”
“He’d immediately mass his warriors and attack Feathered Serpent Town.” Flying Hawk felt a cold rush along his spine. “But it wouldn’t be the Chahta. It would be your picked warriors, the ones who faked the Chahta raid on the Albaamaha.”
“You begin to understand.” Smoke Shield gave him an oily smile. “Great Cougar, knowing nothing of the raid, would still have the majority of his scouts watching us. His north will be relatively unprotected. He won’t be expecting a blow to come from the Yuchi. There is a good chance that Born-of-Sun will achieve success and break Great Cougar’s back. The Yuchi will go home feeling vindicated, having restored the balance of Power. The Chahta will feel obliged to strike back as soon as possible to avenge their dead, their honor, and to restore the balance of Power. If they do, that many more warriors will be sent north.”
“And what does this gain us?”
“The Chahta will be reeling.” Smoke Shield smiled. “What if I sent a warrior to Great Cougar, someone—perhaps Blood Skull—with a white arrow. It could be a secret mission to tell the Chahta that we will not attack. That we have only recently learned the Albaamaha raid was done by the Yuchi. The Chahta will believe that, knowing full well that they didn’t raid us; and they will have just been struck by the Yuchi. Reassured, Great Cougar will recall all but a handful of his scouts on our border. A few of those remaining can be eliminated, just enough to make a hole. Then a thousand of our warriors pour through and descend on Feathered Serpent Town.”
“Using a white arrow to mislead an enemy—”
“Forget the white Power, Uncle. I serve the red.”
Uneasy with that, Flying Hawk fingered his chin. “How do you feed these thousand warriors? Any grain stores the Yuchi don’t burn will be stripped to feed the Chahta warriors heading north in a counterstrike. You can only carry enough food to reach Feathered Serpent Town. Your warriors will be running on empty bellies.”
“Not if we pre-position food,” Smoke Shield replied. He pointed to a place on his map. “This is three days’ travel northwest. There’s a large meadow where a fire cleared a ridgetop. A good spring lies just below. I’ve hunted there; the place draws buffalo as well as elk and deer. Two hundred Albaamaha could leave Bowl Town, travel three days to the meadow, drop their packs to be left under guard, and hurry back to Bowl Town. We can tell them that we’re building a town up there, or some such lie. Clear Water Creek Crossing lies just below the ridge, and the channel down to the Horned Serpent is almost passable by a small dugout canoe. The Albaamaha might even believe it.” He shrugged. “If their bellies are empty by the time they make it back to Bowl Town, what do we care?”
Flying Hawk nodded. The plan was brilliant. Why hadn’t he thought of it years ago? Because he would never have thought of dressing Sky Hand warriors up as Chahta. Even now the notion bothered him. It reeked of abusing Power and angering the Ancestors.
Flying Hawk asked, “So, you arrive on Great Cougar’s doorstep and take the town. What next?”
“We clean out the local Chahta, kill everyone we find, and burn every farmstead in the area. We are there to destroy, Uncle. To weaken their eastern settlements. The planting season is coming; we want to disrupt it as much as we can.”
“You still have to deal with the fortified towns farther to the west along the Pearl River.”
“No, I don’t. They will only be thinking of defense, and reluctant to act. If you were a chief, and the Yuchi had just raided your neighbor, would you be willing to weaken your defenses by sending warriors off to fight in the west?” He seemed to be seeing the future reflected in his map. “The important thing is to burn Feathered Serpent Town, destroy the farms in every direction, and fight until we have used up the food reserves. Then we withdraw across the Horned Serpent.” He tossed his pointed stick at the bowl representing his objective. “I need to leave that country in ruins. And then we have to look like we’re falling apart, disorganized. Perhaps let the counterattacking Chahta warriors win some small victories.”
Fascinated, Flying Hawk leaned forward. “And just what does that gain you?”
“If I’m lucky, a pursuit that I can ambush and destroy. I want the few terrified survivors running back, telling anyone who will listen that the Chahta are defeated. I want them sowing panic.” He walked over and picked up his stick. “Meanwhile, I need you to continue sending me food, here, at the Clear Water Creek Crossing. As many Albaamaha as you can find, all carrying the heaviest packs they can.”
Flying Hawk shook his head. “But you will already have won.”
Smoke Shield continued to study his map. “We pursue the panicked survivors back west and take the next town to the south. For the most part the country will be defenseless. There we restock and move to the next town. In a matter of days, we can destroy every farm and town in the northeast. Any war parties from the south or west will be coming in disorganized groups. We can destroy them, or choose not to fight. The thing is we will have food and they won’t. When the time is right we retreat across the river, have a cooked meal at Clear Water Creek Crossing, and come home to a triumphant greeting.”
“Just what will this accomplish in the end?”
“Two things. First, we will have dealt the Chahta a terrible blow, killed a great many of their warriors, and burned some of their most important towns. Second, the survivors of the ambushes will flee, beaten, starved, and terrified. They will spread that terror among the other towns off to the west.” He looked up. “Uncle, if we can continue this, support raid after raid, we can drive the Chahta out of the Horned Serpent Valley and take it for our own.”
Flying Hawk nodded. “As long as we don’t pull too many Albaamaha from the land, they can farm while we fight. Assuming, that is, they don’t pick that moment to revolt.”
Smoke Shield tapped his stick. “Would you rise up against a people whose warriors were winning victory after victory?”
“Perhaps not.” But he wasn’t sure.
“We could take some of the Albaamaha mikkos with us. Hostages. The reason given, of course, will be that we wanted to honor them for their people’s support of the war. We could give them enough gifts looted from the Chahta to even make the pretense seem real.”
Flying Hawk considered the plan as Smoke Shield had laid it out. The whole thing was intricate, well thought-out, and workable. He could see flaws, of course—no war party ever functioned according to the plan—but Smoke Shield, if anyone, could make this thing work.
I could be high minko over half the world. The notion startled him.
Smoke Shield’s half-lidded eyes were fixed on his. “Think of it, Uncle. If we can trick other peoples into destroying each other, we can move in when they are at their weakest. Split Sky City could become the new Cahokia.”
Flying Hawk turned his attention to the map, seeing all that country, imagining the wealth and prestige that would accrue to the Sky Hand, and to himself. Gods, it was tempting. He could imagine his brother—see him staring worriedly at Smoke Shield.
No, you would never have seen through his arrogance to the brilliance. But if this could be done, if the Chahta could be finally broken, Flying Hawk’s actions that long-ago day would be vindicated. People would speak of him and Smoke Shield in turn as the greatest high minkos to have ever lived. The disaster of that long-ago fire would be forgotten, seen as a blessing instead of a curse.
They will finally understand that there was a reason why I survived and none of the rest did.
“You have two problems,” Flying Hawk noted.
“And that is?”
“Gaining the Council’s support is your first problem.”
Smoke Shield snorted. “For the moment they are incensed by the Alligator Town and Albaamaha raids. There is no love for the Chahta. Why would they turn down the chance to obtain the Horned Serpent Valley? We will lose some warriors, obviously. If I plan this right, it will be from among our enemies here. For example, I think the Chahta will take their wrath out on Blood Skull and his white arrow. But the others will be thinking of establishing new chiefdoms in the Horned Serpent farmlands.”
“Then there is only the second to worry about.”
Smoke Shield gave him a sloe-eyed look. “And what would that be?”
“Power.”
“Power?” Smoke Shield laughed, tossing his stick into the air. “I am the Power! It hovers around me, red and beautiful. Watch me. I’m going to carry it with me and let it wash all over the Chahta!”
“You will be sending a white arrow to Great Cougar.”
“A white arrow? That’s what you are worried about? What threat could white Power have for me? In all my life, it’s never hindered me. Not once.”
Yes, I know.
But then, when had it ever hindered him, either?
