TO MY SURPRISE WE WEREN’T CALLED UNTIL THAT EVENING, PERHAPS because the old mico was good at playing her own game. We were eating supper, discussing plans in Timucua—much to the continuing irritation of our servant spies. I wondered what they were reporting back to the ynahaes. Surrounded by sad-eyed, drooling dogs, I was chewing the meat off a turkey leg when the yatika announced himself and requested our presence.
Blood Thorn and I donned our fancy dress and took our own sweet time getting ready as the yatika shifted nervously from foot to foot. I knew better than to try to weasel any information from the man. If I had to have a yatika, I would have wanted him.
When we were ready, we dispensed with the chairs, told the dogs to stay, and trotted the short distance to the palace.
The yatika announced us with fanfare, and we entered the main room, only to find it filled with thirty-some warriors. These weren’t the ones we’d been talking to in the plaza but hard men, kneeling in rows. They carried shields, bows, and quivers full of arrows. A single sniff of the normally perfumed air told me they’d been on the river; its scents mingled with long-stale sweat. From the looks of them, they’d come hard and fast to get here.
They looked up, eyes widening at the sight of our fancy dress. Well disciplined, their murmurs of curiosity were muted.
The yatika led us around them, past the fire to where several ynahaes—including our chunkey partners—stood to the right of the mico’s chair. On the left I found a burly man, midtwenties, tattooed, with a stunning cloak made of overlapping falcon wings hanging down his back. His hair was roached, a warrior’s beaded forelock hanging down almost to his nose. The war club dangling from his belt was old and well used.
At the man’s feet lay a map drawn with charcoal on tanned buckskin. The quick glance I stole showed rivers, Xs, and black dots.
“Greetings, High Minko.” The old mico gave me a sour look. “Your Kristianos have arrived.”
I dropped to one knee, palms up. “Bad news, great Sun Ruler. For once in my life, I would have delighted in being wrong.”
The burly warrior was giving Blood Thorn and me a thorough inspection—nothing friendly in his eyes. I didn’t blame him. We must have made quite a sight, dressed as we were.
“High Minko, rise.” As Blood Thorn and I got to our feet she added, “The man before you is my tastanicce. He will direct our defenses and has just arrived from the northern towns, where he has been watching the trails out of the Catawba provinces.”
“Tastanicce, I am honored. I am Black Shell, of the Chief Clan, of the Hickory Moiety, of the Chicaza Nation.”
Blood Thorn, his language improved, introduced himself, elevating his chin as if he were an Uzachile great holata.
“I am Wind Cat, of the Falcon Clan, tastanicce of the Cofitachequi Nation.” He took another look at our expensive dress, skepticism in his eyes. “The Cofitachequi mico tells me you have fought the Kristianos. And won.”
“At times, Tastanicce. And at other times we have suffered grievously.” I paused. “With hundreds of dead to show for it.”
“You don’t inspire confidence.”
I met his hard eyes. “Against this enemy confidence can be had, but only with the greatest of cunning, discretion, and superior tactics. What is their condition?”
It was the mico who said, “As you anticipated. They are in poor shape, their cabayos weak.” She was watching me with worried eyes. “A hunter came from Aboyaca, a village paying tribute to Guiomae—our southernmost talwa. All he saw was an advance party, but he knew more Kristianos were strung out in the woods. Watching from a tree, the man claims the Kristianos burned some captives alive, demanding to know the direction here.”
“And this information is how old?” I asked.
“Several days, at least,” Wind Cat said. “The hunter ran to Guiomae, where he told his story to Guiomae Mico, who told the Cofitachequi mico’s runner. The runner then had to make his way here.”
I took a deep breath. “Is there any way to get your warriors south? Harass his line of march, slow them down?”
Wind Cat shot a glance at his men. “We have come as quickly as we could; my men are weary. We were unaware of the seriousness of the situation. My warriors need at least a day of rest and food. Once refreshed, we require another long day’s travel to reach there.”
I said, “There are additional warriors in Telemico, perhaps fifty. Meanwhile you need to order the Guiomae mico to evacuate his people, remove—or burn—the food stored there.”
“There’s not much,” the old mico growled. “Fortunately, those granaries are about empty.”
“Assuming de Soto’s still at Aboyaca, how long would it take him to reach Guiomae?”
Wind Cat bent down, pointing at the map. “Guiomae is on the north side of the river, at least two days’ march from the village. Once the invader arrives, he must cross the river. It’s up to the banks with spring runoff. To cross hundreds of soldados, cabayos, and his supplies? Four days, perhaps, as he builds rafts or seeks to find canoes.”
“That or he’ll have to build a bridge,” I replied. “Figure six days, and we’ve already lost two while the message was brought here. Meanwhile, you have time enough to get your people out of Guiomae, burn the food you can’t carry with you, and pick the best places to ambush his march on Telemico. But hear my words, Tastanicce: Any direct assault across open ground, in traditional formations, will be a disaster. Do you understand?”
The look he gave me would have frozen water. “We are warriors of Cofitachequi.”
I glared back. “And I am Chicaza. But as good as my Chicaza are I would never throw them against a massed formation of Kristianos. Even half-starved, their cabayeros will break your formations and butcher your warriors to the last man.”
At the fury building behind his eyes, I gestured my sincerity. “Tastanicce, your courage, your valor, and the skill of your warriors are not at question here. The fact is that the Kristianos have a better army, superior weapons, and those accursed cabayos. Once they are organized, fed, and in battle order, they can’t be broken by direct assault. They can, however, be defeated. It’s just that, as a wise paracusi once said, you don’t eat a buffalo in one gulp. Just a bite at a time.”
For the first time, Wind Cat smiled. “I think I understand, Chicaza.”
“All right, what’s at Guiomae that de Soto could use?”
“The town is only partially occupied,” the old mico replied. “White Rose should be there by now. She can give us a report.”
I shot her an incredulous look. “Call her back, Mico. Immediately.”
The old woman gave me a sour glare. “I’ve already ordered her to evacuate the town, burn anything left in the granaries. As to the temple there, well, surely he has no use for the dead?”
“We can’t move the ancestors anyway,” Wind Cat said. “And if he desecrates the graves, it will certainly bring the wrath of the Spirit World down on his head.”
“Any other source of food for him?” I asked.
“Ylasi,” she said. “I’ve been keeping emergency stores there. But it’s a hard two-day march overland, and way off to the north. From what you’ve said, the Kristianos would have no reason to go there.”
“No, my guess is that having built his bridge and found Guiomae empty, the granaries burned, the monster’s going to come here. In every instance, he’s marched on the capital first thing—and always found food. He’ll have no reason to think this time is different. Meanwhile, traveling on empty bellies, his men are going to have to scavenge, pick mulberries, roots, anything else they can find. That means they’re going to be straying into the brush by ones and twos. His columns will be disordered, perfect for hit-and-run raids.”
“And Telemico?” Wind Cat asked.
“Evacuate. Remove all the food you can; burn the rest. Do the same anywhere in advance of his route.”
“Do you know what you’re asking?” Wind Cat looked incredulous. “Burn our capital?”
“I do, Tastanecci. The food is lost. One way, you burn it. The other, de Soto’s army eats it. And if the monster finds food, he will stop right here to devour every last kernel. He’ll use the time to sweep the surrounding country for slaves. Better that your people experience empty bellies, rebuild a burned house or two, than suffer being worked to death under a Kristiano lash.”
Wind Cat was silent for a moment. “What gain comes of our suffering?”
“A weaker monster. When he heads north, it will be with hungry and very dissatisfied soldados. Discipline will crumble, his formations collapsing. Then the Tuscarora, the Coosa, or whoever can finally finish the job.” I straightened. “It hinges on you, Tastanicce. If you can keep him hungry, moving, harassed, Cofitachequi might be able to do what even the Apalachee couldn’t.”
Wind Cat was about to object with great vehemence when the mico said, “Power indeed works in strange ways.” She snorted in wry amusement. “Their own Death—by killing so many of our people—might just have created the very circumstances to destroy them. Isn’t that a bitter irony?”
“We have a chance, Mico,” I told her.
“And where will you be during all this, Chicaza?” Wind Cat asked.
“The iniha and I will be with you, Tastanicce, killing Kristianos as we have been since the beginning.” I looked at the old woman. “Provided we have our translator, Evening Breeze Mankiller.”
“And if you don’t have her?” the mico asked mildly.
“We will leave and hope for better cooperation in the next Nation.”
She grunted to herself, the corners of her lips twitching. “My choice is not made yet, High Minko. Instead I will wait, see how long it takes the monster to reach Guiomae. Who knows? Finding it burned and abandoned, he might simply turn downriver, return to the coast. Follow that accursed Ayllόn’s people back to wherever they came from.”
“They might. But they won’t.”
“Why not?” Wind Cat asked, perplexed by the layers of hidden meaning between his mico and me.
“Because he still thinks you have gold.”