THE BROKEN COUNTRY AROUND ANHAICA LITERALLY TEEMED WITH Apalachee warriors. In ones and twos, fours and sixes, they riddled the country like worms in a sack of acorn flour. Patches of timber, the sinuous but brushy stream banks, and shrubby thickets hid them from the Kristianos. Like cunning foxes they slipped through the understory, ghosted along deer trails, and peered out from beneath the hanging vines of grape, honeysuckle, and greenbrier. Individuals perched in tall trees, their forms obscured by streamers of hanging moss and patterns of branches. They waded up streams, leaving no tracks.
But let a Kristiano drop his guard—perhaps stepping behind a bush to lower his pants and squat—and an arrow would seemingly fly out of nowhere. More than one ran screaming, trying to hold up his pants, a feathered shaft protruding from his pale white bottom.
Often they’d lose track of themselves while plucking fruits. A man need only wander from his companions’ sight for a moment. In that instant he might have the slightest warning as an arrow hissed in his direction. Most weren’t aware until a sharp Apalachee point sliced through their skin or thunked into their armor.
Even the large, heavily armored columns, moving where they would with impunity, suffered a constant irritation of arrows. They need but pass a screen of brush, a tangle of wood, or a copse of trees, and an Apalachee or two would take his time, pick his target, and loose an arrow. Most shots were completely ineffective, stopped cold by armor, clanging off a helmet, or rattling off a shield.
But we could see it: a subtle change in the Kristianos’ expressions. After Napetuca, unbridled arrogance had burned behind their eyes. A smirk had hovered around their lips. They’d half slouched in the saddle, disdainful of the crushed and scattered Uzachile. Thus, too, had they clumped their way into Apalachee.
But that had been months ago.
The change was in the furtive darting of their eyes as they tried to mask anxiety. Now their mouths were drawn thin, lines deepening in faces pulled tight. They rode warily, backs straight, shields close against their bodies, heads swiveling as they searched for the ever-present threat.
For Pearl Hand and me, seeing them so brought the tingling sense of hope. Here, for the first time, we could see proof that perhaps in the end we might actually win. Assuming they stayed in Apalachee and tried to fight it out.
Come spring, their dwindling supply of slaves would have to take to the fields, clearing, hoeing, and planting. When they did, the Apalachee would be there. They’d free those they could, kill those they couldn’t. And in the end, unless the Kristianos patrolled field after field, come the fall harvest, they’d have no crop.
At least, it would be that way assuming that another couple of thousand Kristianos didn’t arrive in their floating palaces. Were that to happen, the end might be just as sure, but the time needed to achieve it might well stretch into years.
I considered this as we—and the hilishaya—were led to Tastanaki Fire Falcon’s camp deep inside a briar patch of raspberry, thorny walking stick, and rosebushes. The place was a tumble of old, rotting trees uprooted by either a tornado or a hurricane and completely impassible to a cabayo. Nor could soldados storm the dense thicket with its narrow winding trails. Their armor and weapons would snag on the brush, the stickers catching their cloth garments. By the time they blundered their way into the depths, Fire Falcon’s stealthy warriors would have ample notice to melt away.
To our amusement, Back-from-the-Dead’s porters were unable to bear his elevated chair into the mess. Despite numerous attempts, the hilishaya finally gave up in despair, ordered the thing hidden, and began the ticklish passage of snags and thorns on his own two feet.
We followed behind the rest, stepping over logs, enduring scratches on our bare arms and legs. The dogs panted as they clambered over deadfall, crashed through branches, and ducked beneath vines.
In a central area—no more than a bow-shot across—Fire Falcon’s warriors had erected lean-tos and ramadas. Fire pits were dug deeply into the ground to mask their glow. A single trail led down to the creek three bow-shots distant where water could be procured. And in the rear a towering beech tree provided scouts with an unimpeded view of the approaches—and best of all, Anhaica in the distance.
As we emerged, warriors rose, touching their foreheads respectfully and dropping to their knees, palms out. Back-from-the-Dead strode forward, head up, as though he were the high mikko himself. Fire Falcon waited under one of the ramadas. As the tishu mikko, he made no obeisance, but met Back-from-the-Dead as an equal.
The area had been beaten down, and while it was crisscrossed with logs, cramped camping space was available.
We watched as Back-from-the-Dead was received, given a seat in the warm winter sun, and offered food and drink.
Meanwhile we unpacked the dogs, chopped out some of the more offensive prickly bits, and raided the food packs. Blood Thorn immediately began to excavate a fire pit, following the example of the nearby Apalachee.
Of course the arrival of the Orphans created a sensation. Pearl Hand and I were continually translating as different warriors introduced themselves to the Orphans. Most had never even seen a living Uzachile warrior before, let alone one admitted to a war camp.
More than a hand of time later, Fire Falcon picked his way to our corner of the camp and squatted, hands resting on his knees. Whatever his actual thoughts concerning the Uzachile, his expression remained controlled.
“Welcome to our camp. I am pleased to see that you made it without trouble.” He glanced around. “The accommodations are nowhere near as pleasant as Cane Place town’s, but it’s the best we can do.”
I gave a polite nod. “We’ll take security over comfort any day, Tishu Mikko. What is the situation with the Kristianos? Any new developments?”
He smiled thinly. “I heard that Iniha Blood Thorn killed a couple of cabayos the other day. For that we honor him.” He touched his chin in a sign of homage.
I translated to Blood Thorn.
“I was honored to do so,” Blood Thorn replied, touching his forehead in a sign of even greater respect.
Fire Falcon stood, hands on hips, looking off toward Anhaica. “As to the Kristianos, there’s not much to report. Several of their scouting columns have returned; others are still beyond our borders to the west and north. The pile of dead slaves is taller, and the puercos that feed on them even fatter. Oddly, however, the Kristianos are stacking up strange piles of wood here and there outside the city. We can’t make sense of it. They erect a single wooden pole, and around it the wood is piled. Have you ever seen that before?”
I glanced at Pearl Hand and she shook her head. “New construction?”
Fire Falcon looked perplexed. “Some of our people have slipped up at night and inspected the wood. Much of it is old, pithy, not much good for anything. The rest seems to be the charred wreckage cleared out from the structures we’ve managed to burn inside the palisade.”
“Signal fires?” I guessed.
“To whom?”
I glanced at the towering beech tree. “Can we see them from up there?”
He followed my gaze. “Please take a look. See if you can figure it out.”
Pearl Hand and I followed the trail to the smooth-barked trunk. A pole ladder had been placed to allow access to the lowest branches. It was a one-at-a-time affair and wobbled and bobbed as I climbed to the first of the limbs. Then I waited as Pearl Hand followed.
From there we worked up branch by branch, careful of slipping on the shiny-smooth silver-gray bark. Near the top we encountered a young warrior perched atop a pole platform spanning a vee in the branches. Hanging moss had been draped to camouflage the location, the poles tied securely to keep them from shifting.
“Greetings,” he called softly. “Welcome to the land of the eagles. I’m Sharp Nose, of the Deer Clan, White Moiety.”
“Black Shell, of the Chicaza. This is my wife, Pearl Hand, of the Chicora.”
He studied us curiously. “From the Orphans?”
“That’s us,” Pearl Hand told him with a smile. “The tishu mikko asked us to take a look at Anhaica, perhaps to figure out what the Kristianos are doing.”
He squinted off into the distance. “So far today they are staying pretty close to home. I’ve seen slaves guarded by other slaves go for water. The cabayos are being herded over on the other side of the palisade. For a while, when the wind was right, I could hear someone chopping wood and caught a whiff of smoke. I think they’re cooking deer. That or my wishful stomach is making up things.”
I chuckled and turned. Bracing myself on the branch, I took a moment to orient myself. The country spread out like a map. Fire Falcon’s briar patch lay at the confluence of three brush-choked streams, the channel they formed draining off to the southwest. Most of the uplands consisted of cleared farmland with patches of brush and nut-bearing trees around scattered farmsteads. These were obviously abandoned and looked forlorn. Many had been pulled down, possibly for building materials to use in the city.
And there, a couple of hands’ run to the northwest, lay Anhaica. The surrounding fields had been burned off, leaving the approaches cleared of cover. Behind the char, Anhaica’s bastioned palisade appeared like a rickety stick fence. Over the distance I could make out the tiny shapes of guards atop the bastions. Their helmets winked silver in the afternoon light.
“Where are the woodpiles?” Pearl Hand said. “Wait, I see.”
She pointed and I followed her finger to what looked like a little dimple across the distance. Then I located another, and another. Four of them, equidistant, perhaps a bow-shot from the palisade. “Some kind of shelter?”
She shook her head. “What kind of shelter would you make with a single standing pole? Even a lean-to needs two uprights and a crosspiece.”
Sharp Nose added, “Not a shelter. And the wood’s all mixed up, including crooked pieces, broken and half-burned poles. It’s just junk if you ask me. I’ve sneaked close at night to see.”
“That takes us back to a signal fire,” I muttered, half to myself.
“Then they are signaling in all directions,” Sharp Nose said. “There are two more that you can’t see on the other side of Anhaica.”
Pearl Hand looked thoughtful. “Maybe they’re to provide defensive light in case of night attacks. Archers and thunder-stick men have to see their targets. The woodpiles are just in range of the palisades.”
“Then who’s going to light them?” Sharp Nose asked. “They don’t leave guards on them at night. And yes, there’s kindling there, so they wouldn’t be that hard to light. But when we make a night attack, we don’t exactly shout out that we’re coming beforehand. The whole idea is to catch them by surprise.”
Pearl Hand frowned. “So they’d have to be manned from sunset to sunrise every night.”
“And if they were,” Sharp Nose replied, “one of us would sneak up close in the dark. A lone Kristiano is a dead one. It’s just a matter of time.”
“Wait, what’s this?” I pointed.
Ten cabayos, walking side by side, emerged from Anhaica’s eastern gate. Behind them marched parallel ranks of soldados: some spear-ax men, a couple of thunder-stick shooters, and a single captive. This poor individual was bound at the wrists, a chain running from the collar on his neck to one of the cabayos. If the cabayero put spurs to his beast, the collar would snap the man’s neck when he hit the end.
For a hand’s time we watched as they wound their way in our general direction. For a time they would disappear behind trees or into a swale, only to reappear that much closer. No effort was made to hide their travel, nor did they venture anywhere close to cover, but seemed to pick their path along the high ground.
Finally, atop one of the hills—completely visible from all directions—they stopped. The clear sound of a horn could be heard, the sweet note rising and falling on the cool winter air.
The sound of a Kristiano horn couldn’t be mistaken. No conch horn could approach that tone. But why blow it? Obviously it was a signal; but to whom? Scanning the country, I could see no formation of Kristianos waiting to spring a trap as they had at Napetuca. Nor was a single Apalachee warrior visible anywhere.
The soldados formed a hollow box, facing out. The captive remained inside. Two of the cabayeros dismounted; one removed an ax from his saddle, and I stiffened. Even across the distance I knew that thin build, the way he moved in that oversized armor. I could imagine his hatchet face, the straggles of beard around his pursed lips, the anger buried behind his eyes.
“Blood and pus!” I growled.
“Antonio,” Pearl Hand said in agreement. “Even from this distance you can’t mistake him.”
“Makes you wish we were closer, doesn’t it?”
“You’d never get past the cabayos before they skewered you and sliced your hide into thongs.”
“Maybe he’ll do something stupid again.”
Sharp Nose sounded skeptical. “You know that Kristiano?”
“Captured him once down in the peninsula,” Pearl Hand replied. “He’s not much to look at, but he has a particularly brutal approach to life.”
“We killed his father in an ambush just south of Uzachile town last fall. Antonio turned tail and ran, but Pearl Hand managed to send him off with an arrow protruding from his belly.”
“We were hoping it had gone deep enough to pink his gut and kill him when his juice turned rotten. Apparently it didn’t.”
“No matter how noble the cause, a bit of hail falls on us all,” I said sourly. “What’s he doing?”
As the eight mounted cabayeros rode sweeps around the box of watchful soldados, Antonio and his companion approached the captive. Across the distance, it was hard to tell, but it seemed like Antonio struck the man, knocking him down. Again the horn sounded, a portent of something terrible.
One of the soldados stepped forward and, at a signal from Antonio, tied something around the man’s right leg, then the left. He did something similar with both arms above the elbows.
Puzzled, I watched as Antonio lifted the ax, swinging it in an arc that intersected the captive’s leg. Then he cocked his head, as if studying his handiwork.
A bloodcurdling scream carried faintly to us.
“What are they doing?” Sharp Nose asked, rising warily on his perch.
In the distance, Antonio’s ax rose and fell again. A breath later, a second scream came. And then again, and again, each a gut-twisting shriek of agony.
Antonio gestured to the soldado. The man wrenched the captive’s arms over his head, pinning the bound wrists to the ground. The ax flashed once, twice, and then Antonio stepped back, the ax crosswise before him. It was hard to tell, given the distance, but he seemed to look right at us.
A faintly barked command carried to our high perch, and we watched as Antonio and his partner mounted. The lilting call of the horn came again. Tugging on the control straps, Antonio and his companion circled their cabayos around the square of soldados and rejoined the other riders.
The soldados re-formed their ranks, tramping off in pursuit, not a one of them looking back at the remains of the man lying on his back.
Yes, it was far away. And it could have been a trick of the slanting pale winter light, but even so, I could see the legs and arms. They’d been severed at the knees and elbows.
All that remained were the wrenching screams, wavering in the afternoon air.
Just after dusk we were cooking our evening meal and discussing what we’d seen. No one had any idea about the odd woodpiles that concerned Fire Falcon. Nor did the mutilation of the captive make sense. Surely he would have immediately bled out—dead before Antonio could reform his ranks.
“Why march him all the way out to a lonely hilltop?” Blood Thorn mused. “When I was captive and anyone did anything, they assembled us to watch the person’s execution. It’s not like the Kristianos to waste a death. Especially if there’s no one to see it.”
“But we did see it,” Pearl Hand replied. “After they blew that horn, every set of eyes in the country was fixed on that hilltop.”
“What do they want to teach us?” Bear Paw asked. “We’re already dedicated to killing every last one of them.”
“Is it a warning?” Blood Thorn wondered. “‘This will happen to you if we catch you’?”
“They certainly won’t get me alive.” Wide Antler’s gleaming dark eyes fixed on the glowing walls of the fire pit.
“I hadn’t planned on being taken alive either,” Blood Thorn said dryly. “Sometimes it doesn’t work out the way you planned.”
“For me either,” I added, shooting a grateful glance at Pearl Hand. “It’s a risk we take.”
Blood Thorn nodded, absently rubbing his hands together. “I’ve been thinking of obtaining a small gourd of water hemlock. Something to be hung around the neck so that if capture seemed certain I could pull the plug out and gulp it down.”
“Not a good way to die.” Pearl Hand’s expression went grim. “I’ve seen it. And what if you don’t get enough of a dose?”
“They’d kill me anyway.” Blood Thorn’s calloused and dry hands made a soft shushing as he rubbed them. “As soon as the convulsions began, they’d chop my head off.”
He continued rubbing his hands. “Twice while I was with them I saw women go into fits. Both times the Kristianos panicked. They started calling out ‘diablo’ and ‘bruja.’ You should have seen the fear in their eyes. I’ll tell you, they didn’t waste any time killing those poor women. They had other slaves carry their corpses out of camp. And I mean right now. Then their priests came and splashed water around. They carried those long-stemmed crosses and muttered some chant under their breath as they did.”
“So, water hemlock might be a good idea,” Wide Antler mused. “We’ll have to find the right kind of healer, that or a medicine elder.” He looked at me. “Peliqua? Do you ever carry it in your trade?”
“No!” I told him flatly. “I won’t take chances with the stuff. If even a little spilled in the packs . . .” I sighed, giving it up. “What you do is up to you. But if you make that decision, be very careful about the container you put it in.”
“A gourd?” Blood Thorn asked.
“Better than any kind of ceramic jar,” I said in agreement. “And even then I’d seal the insides with a thick coating of wax first.”
“And glue the stopper fast with pine pitch,” Pearl Hand added. “Lots of it. Just so there are no accidents.”
At that moment a low call—“Mikko! We’re here”—sounded from the brush. Apalachee warriors rose from their fires, glancing toward the western trail.
Fire Falcon rose from where he sat in conversation with Back-from-the-Dead and a couple of nicoquadca. He made his way to the trail head and greeted men as they emerged from the brush.
In the gloom I could make out something heavy and long swaying from poles they carried between them. Their burden might have been a deer carcass suspended in netting.
Fire Falcon directed the men toward his fire, and I gestured for the Orphans to stay as I followed the crowd of warriors in their wake.
With utmost care the burden was lowered before Fire Falcon’s hearth. As it touched the ground, a pain-filled whimpering could be heard.
As the netting parted my stomach cramped, a sick sensation at the back of my throat. To ward it off, I gritted my teeth in frustration.
In the faint light I could see the thick ropes, sunk deep in the flesh, that had been tied above the elbows and bit deeply into the thighs just above the knees. The limbs ended in bloody stumps.
So, you didn’t die. They’d tied off his arms and legs so tightly he couldn’t bleed out.
The image of Antonio and the swinging ax replayed in the eye of my souls. If only it were possible to go back in time. I’d had Antonio but a pace away as I stared down my drawn arrow. My beloved dog Fetch lay dying beside me. And I’d allowed Pearl Hand to stay my release.
If I’d known then, Antonio, you’d be long gone to your accursed paraíso. And so many others would have avoided the misery you inflicted upon them.
“Tastanaki?” the maimed man rasped.
“I’m here.” Fire Falcon knelt on the spread netting. “Do not strain yourself. The great hilishaya himself is here and will heal you.”
“No, Tastanaki. With respect, I ask that you simply carry me out and leave me somewhere, perhaps for a bear to find, or float me into an alligator’s pool.”
“Make no such choices when newly wounded.”
“I will not live like this. I am Fine Shell, of the Wind Clan, White Moiety. A tascaia. My Power is obviously broken. Otherwise they would not have captured me. They would not have placed a metal collar about my neck and worked me like a common slave. I would not have been chosen to be ruined and bear you this one last message.”
“What message is that, Tascaia?”
Fine Shell swallowed hard. “I was told to tell you: Stop the attacks. You have been warned before. The attacks did not stop. Now the Adelantado says that you have forced him to do something. He says it is your fault, the fault of all those who continue to resist.”
“What is?”
“At high sun tomorrow”—Fine Shell took a deep breath—“he will do something terrible.”
“What?”
“I couldn’t understand what those filthy beasts were saying. A man can make more sense out of the cooing of pigeons. But they are laughing about it. I know they are hoping that you will be so outraged that you will attack.”
“Did they tell you that? That they wanted us to attack?”
“No. They talk through a line of translators. One of the Kristianos speaks to one called Ortiz, who speaks to a Timucua, who speaks to an Uzachile, who speaks to me in the Apalachee tongue. The Timucua, a man from far down south, he told the Uzachile to tell me.”
“He had a wooden cross upon his chest?” I asked from the side. “A tall man, with starburst tattoos on his chest?”
“Yes.”
All eyes turned my direction. “But Ortiz didn’t tell him to say we should attack?”
“No.” Fine Shell’s eyes flickered, as if his focus was growing fuzzy. “It’s as though the Timucua wanted me to get mad. He told the Uzachile to tell me that all Apalachee are weak as children and that tomorrow we would watch, and then we would run cowering. To tell my chief that.”
“But Ortiz didn’t,” I mused.
“What does that mean?” Fire Falcon asked. “You know this Ortiz?”
“He’s de Soto’s translator. The Southern Timucua we know as ‘Ears’ because he used to have a trophy necklace made of them. When he was given to de Soto by his chief, he adopted the Kristiano religion and became their servant.”
“Then why is he trying to goad us into an attack?” Fire Falcon asked.
“Because he’s a fool,” Pearl Hand said from behind me. “Understand this: Whatever de Soto is planning for tomorrow, he’s hoping that you will attack and that he can unleash his forces to achieve a decisive victory and replenish his slaves.”
“How do you know this?” Fire Falcon demanded.
I replied, “Because Ears is so desperate to make it happen that he dared to bait Fine Shell in defiance of Ortiz. Ears thinks that by insulting the Apalachee you will lose all sense and do something stupid.”
“He is mistaken.” Fire Falcon sank back on his haunches. “Fine Shell, what is going to happen tomorrow?”
The ruined warrior swallowed hard, the stubs of his severed limbs twitching. “I don’t know, Tastanaki. Something bad. Before I was chosen to give you the message, they were separating the slaves, taking the sickest and the troublemakers and chaining them together. I was to tell you that if you do not leave in peace, what you see tomorrow will be repeated over and over.” His expression twisted in pain. “And as they did to me, they shall continue to do to any warrior they capture. They say it is your decision.”
Fire Falcon pursed his lips, thinking. I could see Back-from-the-Dead standing just under the ramada, listening carefully. Now he stepped out, saying, “You need not worry, Tishu Mikko. After tomorrow the Kristianos will no longer be a threat.”
I was taking a breath to object when my wife laid a hand on my shoulder, whispering, “Forget it, husband. You will be wasting air in a useless dispute. Come, let’s go eat and consider.”
I let her lead me away, my thoughts on Singing Tail, Fine Shell, and all the others who would follow. Hernando de Soto had no concept of how Apalachee thought, how their sense of honor worked. He assumed that by maiming captives, he would frighten anyone from making an attack. Instead, all he did was encourage warriors to test their Power, to see if they were the blessed ones who could carry the battle to the enemy.
Like Back-from-the-Dead, who sincerely believed that he was going to marshal Power into his hands and use it to blast the very soul right out of each Kristiano’s breast.
And what are you going to do about it, Black Shell? Just let the arrogant fool march out and be killed? And if you let their hilishaya die, the Apalachee will erode away like sand in a hard rain.