I’D AS SOON FORGET THE WAY PEARL HAND TREATED MY WOUNDS. Suffice it to say that her “thorough cleansing” made enough sweat pop out on my forehead that it trickled down in rivers. I sank my teeth into a chokecherry stick against the pain.
She made sympathetic cooing noises.
I made whimpering sounds that would have shamed a five-year-old. Then I made worse ones while she used a thorn and flax thread to sew the gaping edges of the wounds together.
She said she was taking her time to do a good job. I said she was as heartless as a Kristiano in search of a gold nugget.
Over the next couple of days, the stitches held, though the cuts oozed pus and turned red.
At night we hobbled as close to Mabila as we could, and I whistled for Squirm, a stony anxiety in the pit of my gut. The second night he appeared, ghosting out of the dark forest to leap onto my chest. A small melee burst out as Bark and Gnaw pounced on him in sheer delight.
Patches and Blackie—to our surprise—were waiting in our hidden camp one morning when we returned, having sniffed us out. That they were smart enough to avoid the hungry Kristianos was a fortuitous surprise.
Perhaps it was the Power of the sepaya, but I healed quickly, and one evening, I managed to climb one of the tall oaks in order to spy on the Kristianos.
They remained camped on the Mabila plain, though in the distance, we could see columns of smoke rising where the surrounding towns had been. Talking to a couple of local Albaamaha who sneaked through, we learned that the Kristianos had burned every standing structure they could find in the area.
And it was true: The fires of Mabila had destroyed their valuables, including medicines for the wounded. As a cure, they’d even used fat cut from the bodies of our dead warriors as a poultice. How disgusting and inhuman can they get?
The difference in their demeanor could be seen, even from the distance over which we watched. They no longer swaggered. The laughter and smiles had been replaced by a sullen weariness, and the lines of wounded were long. But even better, nearly to a man, they wore a bandage, had an arm in a sling, or hobbled along on crutches.
Their little herd of puercos had feasted on the dead and were swarming around like the vermin they were. I’d offer good riddance when the last one died.
But even more to the point, I could count no more than a hundred cabayos left of the three hundred that had landed at Uzita.
One of the dancing girls—who managed to escape after a week—informed us that Blood Thorn had fought bravely to the end. We prayed for his souls. She also said the Kristiano médicos had tallied up over seven hundred wounds among the soldados and cabayeros. De Soto himself had taken an arrow to the hip that left him disabled for weeks.
She related these things with a dullness behind her eyes. And I could only guess at what she’d endured, given the anger and anxiety in the Kristiano camp.
“They are eating up what is left of the food,” she told us. “And they have heard that Pensacola warriors are waiting in the south to ambush their travel should they try to reach the sea.”
“What else have you heard?” Pearl Hand asked, a sympathy in her eyes.
“That they will try to head north,” the broken young woman replied. “They have heard that the northern Albaamaha have stores of food at Talicpacana, Mosulixa, and Zabusta towns.”
“I know those towns,” I said. “The Albaamaha might feed them for a moon, maybe more. They don’t have enough surplus to feed his army through the winter.”
Pearl Hand turned her eyes on me. “Then where would they head?”
I gave her a humorless smile. “The Albaamaha will send them to Chicaza. Or at least—given their long history of abuse at Chicaza hands—that’s what I’d do if I were one of their mikkos.”
Pearl Hand gave me a level stare. “Chicaza? Do you want to go there?”
I kept my humorless smile. “After what we experienced in Mabila? No. But if any nation can finish this, I would like for it to be my own.”
I reached up, fingering the sepaya. Eleven long years had passed since I’d fled in disgrace. That Black Shell had been a frightened and angry youth. I wasn’t really sure who this man who called himself Black Shell had become.
A Spirit warrior? The chosen of Horned Serpent? Or the reincarnation of the Orphan—the Wild One of legend? Where I went, death would follow.
The Kristianos feared my name.
The Chicaza despised it.
So, brother, you are the Chicaza high minko now. This will be a most interesting homecoming.
And if Mabila had truly been the turning point, the monster would rue the day that he even considered turning his feet toward Chicaza.
I smiled in anticipation.