FOLLOWING BACK-FROM-THE-DEAD—HIS ASSISTANTS AND CARRIERS still stumbling along behind—I tried to make sense of why I was doing this. We’d walked down into a swale, paralleling a thick patch of berry bushes, plum trees, and rosebushes in the creek bed to our left. From its midst rose chinquapins and persimmons. Since all the plants were fruit producing, it was no doubt one of Cafakke’s groves.
As we climbed up out of the swale, I realized that we’d strayed, our path taking us toward the southeastern corner of the palisade. And directly before us, illuminated in the midday sun, stood a party of Kristianos. Through the knot of them I could make out one of the ragged piles of wood with its upright post.
In that instant, the post’s purpose became horrifyingly clear. Two soldados were tying three women to the post, their feet perched awkwardly on the pile of wood. I caught just a glimpse of a long-haired woman who faced our direction. She might have passed twenty summers, her hair filthy and matted, her bare breasts full. Once she might have been attractive, but a dark bruise mottled her left cheek; a badly cut lip was swollen. Her haunted eyes echoed with hopeless defeat.
And as quickly a Kristiano stepped in the way, blocking my view. Unconsciously I began to count, coming up with nearly thirty Kristianos. An assortment of soldados—most with spear-axes—crowded in a ring around the woodpile with its bound women. Other slaves sat on the ground to the side, their necks chained, heads bowed in either exhaustion or defeat. Perhaps five shooters had their thunder sticks grounded by the butt. And there, in the middle, stood one of their priests, wearing long robes belted at the hip. He supported a slim pole that ended in a Kristiano cross that he raised high, his voice carrying as he addressed the women.
Over the distance the words “jesucristo,” “dios,” and “paraíso” could be heard. At this, the soldados dropped to their knees, touching their foreheads and stomachs and crisscrossing their breasts.
As they did, I watched a man advance and thrust a burning branch into the kindling at the base of the woodpile.
They remained so engrossed with the process they never looked our way. I could hear the women weeping, one of them making a piteous mewing sound.
At that moment the sepaya began to bounce on its thong. I snapped to my senses. “Hilishaya, whatever you’re going to do, do it now. The one in the middle wearing the robes is one of their priests. He’s calling on their god right now.”
Back-from-the-Dead stopped, raising his hands, head tilted back. From where I stood, I could see his face, blissful, almost shining in the midday sun. He immediately raised his voice, singing in beautiful tones.
I felt the Power rising around me and, despite the circumstance, looked up at the cloud-speckled winter sky. What did I expect to see? Eagle Man? Horned Serpent? Perhaps one of the thunderers? I didn’t know, but the sun’s warmth bathed my face.
Something made me look back. The Kristianos had turned, staring in surprise. As one they began scrambling to their feet, accompanied by the clatter of armor and shouted amazement.
Is it working? I watched, desperate for Back-from-the-Dead’s dreaded Power to be unleashed. The sepaya had grown still in its leather pouch.
“Alto!” The Kristiano priest’s voice thundered.
I watched him step forward through the ranks, his golden cross held high.
Perhaps two bow-shots of distance separated us. In that instant the air went still, an unearthly quiet surrounding us. Back-from-the-Dead’s melodic voice continued to call to the heavens. Then the invader priest’s voice rose in competition, chanting vigorously in his sonorous language.
Time seemed to cease, though I felt the anxious beat of my heart.
I could see sweat beading on the faces of Back-from-the-Dead’s bearers, their feet shifting nervously. Among the Kristianos, the soldados were doing the same, glancing at the priest as they fingered their weapons.
One of the thunder-stick men opened a little metal pot hanging from his belt. I could see him insert the ropy cord that fixed to his thunder stick. He blew and withdrew the smoldering cord. I watched as he raised the long tube, could see his anxious eyes as he leveled the thing, aiming at Back-from-the-Dead.
In my hand, the thong began to vibrate, and I could feel the heat as the sepaya shivered in its pouch.
Back-from-the-Dead and the Kristiano priest continued to throw their Power at each other. I swear the air began to shimmer. We waited, each side expecting lightning, thunder, something.
The tension—the Power—had my skin prickling. Even the listless slaves had looked up, hope shining in their eyes as they discovered us. Behind the Kristianos, flames were climbing through the wood. The stalemate continued to hold. Then one of the bound women screamed in abject terror.
The priest shot a look over his shoulder. Back-from-the-Dead hesitated in his song, startled. The shooter touched his burning cord to the thunder stick.
“Duck!”
The weapon’s boom rang out, gray smoke belching. Though the shooter aimed at Back-from-the-Dead, it was his assistant, standing just to my left, who spasmed in time to a loud popping sound. His knees gave, and he flopped backward onto the grass, eyes wide, mouth in a disbelieving O.
The women’s screams grew louder.
“Run!” I bellowed, reaching around for my bow, pulling an arrow from the quiver in one smooth motion. Even as I drew, the other thunder-stick men were scrambling for the pots at their belts. Orders were being shouted, the soldados readying their spear-axes.
I set my feet, drew, and—taking aim at the robed priest—released. Given the distance, they had plenty of time. One of the soldados violently shoved the Kristiano priest to the side, my arrow slicing air where he’d stood but a moment before. The priest staggered, snared a foot in his long robe, and tumbled to the ground, his gold cross flying.
Back-from-the-Dead just stood there, gaping like an idiot, his copper mace in his hand.
I grabbed him by the shoulder, spinning him around, bellowing into his stunned face. “Run! The cabayos will be here any moment!” Then I gave him a mighty shove.
Another of the thunder sticks popped. I knew that meaty snap, and the head of one of Back-from-the-Dead’s assistants exploded with a pop, bits of skull, brain, and blood pattering us.
I yanked another arrow, turning and drawing. I watched it arc through the sky, Kristianos leaping from its path. Others, entranced, were watching as yellow flames rose around the screaming women’s legs.
“Run!” I yelled like a wild man. “Blood and guts, man, don’t you understand? They’re going to kill us!”
I gave the uncomprehending Back-from-the-Dead another angry shove, literally propelling him back toward the hollow. Finally, he and the others seemed to catch on. They started slowly, like men in a dream, only to pick up their feet as another thunder stick boomed and something cut the air beside us with an angry hiss.
Then we were running full out, tearing back the way we’d come.
“Stay next to the brush!” I ordered. “If they follow, it’s the only way to escape.”
“Can’t we outrun them?” one of the carriers asked.
“The soldados, yes. But not if they come on cabayos.” I shot a last look over my shoulder, and the image was seared into my souls. Half the soldados were charging after us. The others had bent, attending to the priest.
But behind them? The women were jerking like fish on a stringer, writhing in the heat. The screams had stopped, the expression on the one woman’s face terrifying as she burned alive. The last I saw her disheveled hair was bursting into flames.
Then I was over the crest of the rise, my heels hammering the grass. The sound of a horn could be heard behind us. Summoning cabayeros, I was sure of it.
I thundered, “Hilishaya, whatever happens, don’t you dare stop! If they capture you, it will destroy the Apalachee. Do you understand?”
Back-from-the-Dead shot me a quick glimpse, his eyes like those of a scared rabbit’s. “What?”
“When we get there, you dive into that brush along the creek. Wiggle through it like a fish if you have to, but keep going. No matter what you hear, you go. Understand?”
“Why?” he almost cried. “Why are you doing this?”
“To save your sacred hide,” I puffed. “The rest of you, if we’re caught, you stay with me.”
Terror filled their eyes. Would they give themselves up to save Back-from-the-Dead?
I’d have had better odds betting the sun would rise black in the west.
On we ran, my orders keeping them on a line to the thicket when they would have cut straight across the open fields in a more direct route.
The assistants were lagging, falling behind one by one, and I could see that Back-from-the-Dead was fading, his lungs sucking, sweat gleaming on his skin.
Ahead of us, just past a looted farmstead, lay the brushy creek bottom. If we could only make that, the cover might allow us to catch our breath, then sneak along the creek bed, slowly, but invisible.
Invisible. That’s what Back-from-the-Dead’s Power was supposed to keep us. I made a face. Actually, could I say that it hadn’t? Until he began to sing, no Kristiano spotted us. Had it kept us safe? How long had we stood facing each other as the two holy men called upon their Power? Only when the woman screamed, and Back-from-the-Dead hesitated in his song, did a Kristiano dare take a shot.
We were pelting past the jumble of the destroyed farmstead, the fastest of us already hammering his way beyond into the dimpled corn and bean field. Here footing became tenuous due to not only the irregular surface but the occasional squash vines that ensnared our feet.
I kept my pace even with Back-from-the-Dead’s, reading the hilishaya’s growing exhaustion. He was stumbling now, his mouth open, arms flying. Somewhere he’d lost both the ancient copper mace and the headpiece. I felt a twinge of sorrow at that.
I shot a glance over my shoulder, horrified as the first cabayeros came flying over the crest behind us. Slender lances were extended, the riders bent low over the animals’ necks.
Most of Back-from-the-Dead’s assistants and one of the carriers were behind us, strung out in a long line. They were soft and used to loafing around the temple, not running for their lives. Many were older, with flabby muscles.
Shifting my bow, I grabbed Back-from-the-Dead’s hand, pulling him staggering and stumbling behind me.
One by one, the more fit carriers threw themselves into the brushy bottom. I didn’t dare spare even a moment to see how close the cabayeros were, but a ragged cry told me they’d caught the last straggler.
At the brush line, I literally threw Back-from-the-Dead into the vegetation before whirling, clawing for an arrow.
“Follow the stream bottom!” I ordered through ragged panting. “To the right! Downstream.”
Then I turned, nocking my arrow. No more than ten paces away, the closest assistant shot a look over his shoulder just as a cabayo ran him down. The great beast hit the man with an armored shoulder, knocking him head over heels.
I drew as the cabayero turned his attention to me. He was grinning down his long lance, turning his horse. Behind him, others circled the Apalachee they’d run down, shouting in glee.
Careful, Black Shell.
I held my draw, let the cabayero get close. It had to be just right. Too soon, and he’d recover and skewer me. Too late, and I’d have no time to dodge.
Now! The order seemed to come of empty air.
I released, my shaft a streak in the sunlight. At the last minute, he seemed to comprehend. His eyes had begun to widen, but the jerk of his head came too late. He screamed as my arrow impacted just right of his nose, the lance point slipping off to the side. I threw myself right, ducking. Even as I scuttled away, the cabayo plunged straight into the brush, lost its footing where the bank dropped off, and somersaulted onto its back amid a crackle of stems and branches.
I had time to shoot a quick look at the remaining cabayeros. The smiles died on their bearded faces. And to my horror, I realized one was Antonio.
No sooner did our eyes meet than I saw recognition.
Then I was diving through the broken branches, literally scrambling over a sumac to avoid the upside-down cabayo’s lashing hooves. I landed hard on my shoulder, rolled, and came up in the creek bottom. The cabayo was wedged on its back in splintered brush, legs pumping, the broken rider crushed beneath.
Downstream! It took a moment to get my bearings, then I started off, ducking willow and bending branches. Gaudy red feathers marked Back-from-the-Dead’s route where they’d been torn from his cape.
“Black Shell?” Back-from-the-Dead called from ahead.
“Quiet. They’ll hear,” I hissed.
Pushing past an overhanging plum, I found him crouching, still gasping for breath. I grabbed his hand, dragged him after me down the ankle-deep stream.
“What . . . ?” He seemed in a daze.
“Shh!”
Behind me I could hear the blowing of cabayos, and voices called in español. Brush snapped and someone cursed. I heard the trapped cabayo scream its fear and pain. An angry voice bellowed, “Mierda!”
“Concho Negro?” Antonio’s voice demanded from beyond the screen of brush. “Dόnde estás?”
I could translate: “Black Shell, where are you?”
I bit my lips, quietly leading Back-from-the-Dead through the mucky water. Only when I looked down did I jump. The current was red with blood. And it just kept coming.
Back-from-the-Dead, too, stared down in fascinated horror. At his questioning glance, I whispered, “The cabayo was badly hurt. They probably cut its throat.”
Confusion grew in his dark brown eyes.
My lips to his ear, I whispered, “They’ll show mercy to a cabayo. But never to us.”
Working as stealthily as we could, we eased down the creek bottom. Behind us I could hear Kristianos arguing. Antonio’s shrill voice was demanding. I kept hearing the words “Indio sucio” over and over and “Él matado mi padre.” “Filthy indio.” He must have meant me. And the other, oh yes. “He killed my father.”
It was all I could do to keep from throwing caution to the winds, stomping out, and doing my best to drive an arrow through his skull. Memories of him wielding an ax and the warrior he’d maimed were too close to my souls.
Somewhere ahead of us I could hear brush crackling as a heavy body pushed through it. One of the carriers? I could see their tracks in the mud along the bank.
I realized that I still carried the sepaya in its bag, the thong wrapped around my left hand where it grasped the bow. I paused long enough to slip it over my head, then, leading the way, crept forward. Using my bow, I held the branches back, but in places Back-from-the-Dead and I had to literally drop to our bellies and wriggle through the bloody water to pass low-hanging branches.
In one such place, I heard someone force his way through the brush where he’d tried to bypass it by going around. A Kristiano called, one of the crossbow arrows hissed, and a man screamed in pain. More brush snapped as he fell and thrashed. The gurgling sound could have come only from pierced lungs as they filled with blood.
Back-from-the-Dead’s eyes were wide with fright, his face smudged and filthy, his red and black face paint smeared into a travesty. I yanked on his crimson-feathered cape, breaking the ties, and left it behind.
I eased onward, knowing that within moments Antonio’s men would be searching to see who they’d killed.
Pus and blood, Black Shell, how’d you get yourself trapped like this?
I shot a mean-spirited glance at the hilishaya. I could have blamed him, but deep down it was my own bullheaded fault. I’d allowed myself to be seduced by his Power and that stubbornly deep-seated belief that no matter what Old-Woman-Who-Never-Dies had told me, our Spirit Power would win.
We crabbed around a gum tree bole and hurried as fast as we could without splashing too loudly. The thick brush was as threatening as it was reassuring. As well as it hid us, it could hide a Kristiano with a crossbow.
If anything was working for us, it was that cabayeros hated to get off their beasts for any purpose. I prayed fervently that not even Antonio’s desperation could induce them into the brush on foot.
Time wore on, endless moments of terror spiked by occasional calls as our hunters rode along the brush, searching for us.
Back-from-the-Dead was trembling, partially from fear but mostly from exhaustion. He’d been up for more than a day, praying, fasting, sweating, and making himself ready for his great Spirit battle. Now, looking at him, I could see that the toll was mounting. The man was at the end of his reserves, and being a priest, while fit, he wasn’t going to make it for any great distance.
Behind us, a horn sounded, and I winced, wondering what new allies were being called.
“Come on,” I growled curtly when he tripped and fell, splashing loudly. “Call on Power. It will keep you going.”
The look he gave me was that of a lost man. “Leave me. Let me die. I failed.”
I squatted down in the mud, face-to-face with him. “Had you failed, they would have seen us the moment we emerged from the swale. Or their priest would have killed you with his own Power. Instead, you were matched—one for one—until the women screamed. Their priest turned away. You hesitated. Both of your Powers wavered. That doesn’t mean you failed.”
My gaze bored into his. Breath and thorns, I had to convince him. Otherwise, he’d go back a broken man. And then what? The Apalachee would believe Power had deserted them.
He read my burning insistence, nodded, and clambered up. Pace by pace we continued on our way.
“Where are the others?” he asked, panting.
“Ahead . . . somewhere.” I gestured past a screen of willows. “They’ll be waiting, looking to you for direction.”
He swallowed hard, easing through the willows. But I could see terror just under the tenuous hold he struggled to maintain.
The creak of leather followed by a stomping as a cabayo stood impatiently could be heard just above us. I straightened, slowly raising my head until I could see that a cabayero waited no more than ten paces above us. A tall hickory had created an open space that ran down to the stream.
I signaled for silence, reached back, and pulled an arrow. I motioned for Back-from-the-Dead to go first. He’d frozen, fear burning bright in his eyes. I gave him a shove, refusing to mask my anger.
Back-from-the-Dead began to shiver, took a breath, and with trembling hands, parted the willows. I followed, easing my bow through the stems, concentrating so the arrow didn’t snag.
Then we ran out of cover.
Back-from-the-Dead stopped short. I peered over his shoulder. A trail crossing left an open space no more than two paces across. And there, blocking the stream and making a little dam, lay one of the carriers, facedown in the water, dead.
I gestured for Back-from-the-Dead to wait; he nodded too quickly, more than willing.
Like a snake, I wiggled through the willows, doing everything to keep the tops from swaying and giving away my position. To my disgust, I realized that this grove had been a major source of cuttings where people had come to collect staves for matting and baskets. My cover thinned into nothingness and the cabayero was sitting just eight paces away. Worse, his cabayo was staring right at my hiding place; the Kristiano, no fool, was following the animal’s alert gaze, a crossbow at his shoulder.
Wait, Black Shell. One wrong move and you’re a dead man.
He’d drive an arrow through my guts before I could manage to even rise and nock my own.
We waited: He—ready to shoot—was unsure of his target; I, knowing just where to shoot, couldn’t get in position.
I’m a trader, used to patience. Neither Back-from-the-Dead nor the Kristiano shared that virtue. Terror proved too much for the hilishaya. He broke, rising to his feet, charging across the open space.
The Kristiano and his cabayo, surprised, turned their attention to the crossing. I pulled up a knee, rising and nocking my bow.
At my movement, the Kristiano hesitated. It was just enough time for me to draw. He was swinging his crossbow back my way as I released. Then I was on my feet, crashing through the willows.
I leaped the dead carrier, pounded across the trail crossing, and crashed into the brush, hard on Back-from-the-Dead’s heels. Behind me I could hear angry cursing. But no Kristiano arrow had pierced my hide. Shouts drew pursuit our way.
I could hear Back-from-the-Dead bumbling through the brush ahead of me. Nor did it take long to catch him. When I clamped a hand on his shoulder the man almost jumped out of his skin.
I dragged him down, both of us squatting under a raspberry bush, heedless of the thorns.
“You’ve got to be quiet.”
“I thought you’d left me back there.” He was frantically searching my face. “Did you kill him?”
“I’m not leaving you. And no, I’m sure his armor stopped the shot. I didn’t have time for a good aim. If we gained anything, it was to keep them mindful that we’re still dangerous.”
As if to prove my point, additional shouting could be heard behind us. Then we heard the thundering of cabayo hooves as several riders passed just beyond the brush screening our little creek. The clank of armor, glimpses of cabayos, and the creak of leather sent shivers through me.
“Come on.” I took the lead, resuming the careful and slow progress through the nearly impenetrable brush.
“We’re not going to get out of this, are we?”
I gave him a smile I didn’t feel. “All we have to do is avoid them until dark. Then we go home.”
He almost smiled in return. “Is there anything I can do to repay you?”
“You owe me a copper piece,” I growled. “Now be quiet.”
Brush began crashing ahead of us, and I knew someone was forcing a cabayo through the thicket.
Similar sounds came from behind. Shouts came from all sides. My heart began to pound.