AS THE SUN CLEARED THE TREETOPS TO THE SOUTHEAST, MABILA WAS a hive of activity. Darting Snake made one last tour of the town, pointing out anything that might trigger de Soto’s suspicion. Hobbling on his crutches, he issued orders to his deputies as if he were Breath Giver himself.
Pearl Hand and I had dressed in feathers, painted our faces, and donned good clothing; the jewelry we left behind. Ever tried to draw a bow with strings of beads draping your neck?
Blood Thorn had painted his face black, his expression grim. He told us, “Today I offer my life to Power. If I am alive come nightfall, it is because de Soto is dead. It’s his life or mine.”
“See that it’s his,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder.
The look he gave me—a haunted one, made piercing by his dark eyes—shook me down to my bones. “I had a dream last night. Water Frond hovered above the palisade, her body illuminated as if by a great fire. Her hair was blowing around and her dress flapping. She seemed to spread her arms wide, as though trying to draw me in.”
“Telling you that this day you will avenge her ghost,” I stated with false assurance.
“Today,” Blood Thorn repeated, “de Soto will die, or I will.”
We were placed at the side of the plaza, our house just behind us. The dogs—along with all of our weapons—were waiting just inside. When the trap was sprung, we would leap for the door, grab our bows, and unleash Bark and the rest of the pack on any Kristiano war dogs.
I took a moment, hugging each dog around the neck, petting him, telling him how brave I knew he was. When I got to Skipper, I took an extra moment, wishing he were somewhere else.
“You don’t take risks,” I told him. “You’ve too many aches, and you’ve already done your part.”
He wiggled in my arms, trying to lick my face, as if to say, “Hey, I’m good for one last fight.”
Then the sound of the war drum came from the palace. The Kristianos were coming.
Pearl Hand and I gave each other one last hug. “I’ll be making love to you tonight,” I told her, nervous like I had never been.
“And I to you, my beloved.” She tightened her hold on me, nuzzling my neck. “You be careful today.”
“You too.” I pushed her back, taking the moment to stare into her dark and magical eyes. “Kill all you can, but remember, I’d prefer that you let a couple go rather than lose you.”
“You can’t lose me,” she said, chiding me. “You’d die of boredom.”
We walked out, taking our places. A solid line of warriors, dressed in their finest, created a cordon around the now empty plaza. Excitement filled their eyes, energy near to bursting in their tense bodies. On legs as springy as saplings, they rocked back and forth, joking, uttering barks of laughter, anything to vent the rising anxiety.
“This is the hard part,” Pearl Hand told me. “Once the fighting starts, you don’t have time to worry.”
Blood Thorn nodded, his pom swaying with the motion. “Life or death. The gaming pieces are cast. My beloved Water Frond awaits.”
Assuming his ghosts could find her. But I wasn’t going to bring that up.
A conch horn sounded from the distant forest.
The Mabila minko was raised on his litter and borne down the plaza toward the gate. Wild Cat Mankiller and his Albaamaha touched their foreheads respectfully as he passed. Everything depended on that gate being closed at just the right time.
“Here we go,” I whispered, staring up at the morning sun, now a hand’s breadth above the palisade wall.
What had we forgotten? What had we done wrong?
Blessed Power, tell me that this time there is no traitor anxious to whisper into de Soto’s ear. Tell me that he suspects nothing!
Thinking back, it had to have taken at least a hand of time for the monster’s party to ride out from the forest, more time for the ritual greeting of the Mabila minko just beyond the gates. What should have been an eternity felt like the blink of an eye.
And then everyone stiffened, frozen in the moment, as the conch horn sounded, hollow and melodic.
Moments later the Mabila minko’s litter was carried in through the gate. Then came Tuskaloosa atop his litter. To my relief he wasn’t chained but looked regal, a tall feather headdress rising from a copper headpiece.
Behind him followed de Soto and his capitanes, all mounted, their cabayos prancing, sun shining off their polished armor. The warriors gasped at their first sight of men on cabayos wearing colorful cloth and shining hierro. The Kristiano banners fluttered from long poles. The invaders looked splendid and deadly as they clattered and clopped down the plaza.
De Soto rode in the lead, two war dogs trotting at his cabayo’s side. He glanced around arrogantly, and I got a good look at his thin and bearded face. Those sleepy eyes were dismissive as they took in the long line of us, standing so obediently at the sides of the plaza. A derisive smile lingered on his thin mouth.
Soon, monster. Soon.
Ten, twenty, forty, or more of the capitanes rode their beasts in. I saw Ortiz, followed by Ears, and my eyes narrowed. I owe you for Napetuca, you piece of two-legged filth. The Southern Timucua wore his big wooden cross bouncing on his chest as he strode forward in a fine Coosa-made hunting shirt.
Antonio followed in the rear, still wearing the oversized armor he’d never fully grow into. His beard seemed a little fuller, his puerco-like eyes just as mean.
De Soto, Ears, and Antonio! Perfect! Power willing, I’d kill them all.
Finally the servants, dressed in reds, yellows, whites, and blues, filed through the gate. Some of these carried packs bristling with swords and shields. I gaped in amazement: Many of the riders were unarmed; De Soto expected no ambush! The long months spent encountering submissive indios had lulled his suspicions.
I gave the Adelantado a fierce glare, fixing on the spot on his chest where I would drive my arrow.
Finally a squad of twenty additional soldados marched onto the plaza, their long spear-axes over their shoulders, and I counted four of the thunder-stick shooters mixed in among their ranks. To my delight, the long cords that set the weapons off were not smoking and would have to be lit before they could shoot.
I took the measure of our surrounding warriors, trying to read their expressions through the thick war paint. Each was identifiable by the distinctive designs on their aprons, and the way they fixed their hair. The majority had recovered from the initial shock and amazement and now looked eagerly at the packs that were being laid to the side of the plaza.
“Fools,” Pearl Hand whispered, noticing their attention. “They’ve got to kill the Kristianos before it’s theirs.”
“They can have it,” Blood Thorn growled. “I just want the monster himself.”
Both the Mabila minko and Tuskaloosa were carried up onto the palace veranda, their litters lowered. My heart hammered like hail against my chest.
De Soto gave an order and dismounted. The lesser nobles, Antonio among them, collected the cabayos and led them off to the side. The leaders climbed onto the low veranda.
“Let there be dancing!” the Mabila minko called out.
Flute music and soft drumming signaled the dancing girls. They trotted out in a line, forming up before the dismounted Kristianos. Anyone who knew women could read their discomfort and fear. Kristianos obviously knew nothing of women. They just smiled, attention fixed on the female forms. I watched the men pointing, grinning, a gleam of anticipation in their eyes.
I dared a glance at Pearl Hand and saw her eyes, half-lidded and promising mayhem.
Heaping plates of food were brought around from the fires behind the palace and placed on the edge of the veranda.
“It’s working,” Blood Thorn whispered hopefully. “They don’t look like they suspect a thing.”
“It’s early yet,” Pearl Hand muttered from the side of her mouth.
And then, unbelievably, the soldados began to remove and stack their weapons off to the side. They were laughing, gesturing at the dancers, and some even dropped their helmets onto the pile and began to undo their chest pieces.
Yes! Take it all off.
Meanwhile the warriors surrounding the plaza had begun to sing and dance in time to the music. I wondered how the Kristianos would have reacted if they’d known it was a war song calling on the red Power—a promise of death and dismemberment.
I shot a worried glance at Ortiz where he stood behind de Soto, his line of translators so busy carrying on a dialogue that they didn’t have time to so much as listen to the song.
The cabayos had been led off and tied, some to the World Tree pole, others to the stickball goals. I smiled in anticipation as most of the cabayeros began stripping the saddles from the beasts, laying them to the side. Others were even removing the animals’ armor. Giddy anticipation filled my breast.
Tuskaloosa stood beside de Soto and two of the capitanes. Ortiz—with Ears behind him—continued to dicker between the minkos and de Soto.
Kristianos flocked to the food and began serving themselves, dipping from the wooden trenchers, laughing, slapping each other on the back.
Several of the capitanes had seated themselves on the veranda. Meanwhile, other Kristianos walked over, inspecting the line of warriors, wondering, perhaps, why we were staring straight back.
Here, I realized, was where things would snap. What if they tried to push past and one of ours pushed back? The deputies interspersed along the line kept shouting “Hold!” between the words of their song, reminding the warriors to wait.
At the first opportunity, Tuskaloosa stepped off the side of the veranda and passed the line of warriors. As he ducked into one of the houses, de Soto stood thoughtfully, his sleepy stare fixed on the house. He said something to one of the capitanes and Ortiz. They, too, looked at the house.
That structure held at least eighty warriors, all crammed in the back, waiting for the horn call that would initiate the battle. I could imagine the high minko painting his face, arming himself.
Ortiz spoke to Ears, who spoke to one of his translators, who in turn trotted over to the house and peeked inside. The man lost no time hurrying back to Ortiz. Ortiz said something to de Soto, and a capitán started down off the step, his hand on his sword hilt. He shoved rudely past the line of warriors, reached the doorway, looked in, and called something to de Soto.
Pearl Hand translated, “He says Tuskaloosa refuses to leave . . . and the house is full of armed men.”
“This is it,” I murmured, and Blood Thorn tensed.
At that precise moment, Tastanaki—painted in red—appeared from behind the palace, heading for Tuskaloosa’s doorway. De Soto shouted, “Traiga le aqui! Qien es?”
Tastanaki glared insolently at the capitán, and the Kristiano grabbed the war chief’s arm.
One doesn’t offhandedly grab the Red Moiety war chief, let alone the one from Coosa. Tastanaki flung the capitán off the way a bear does a junebug. The capitán staggered, almost fell, then ripped his sword from the sheath. The blade flickered in the sunlight, arced, and I stared in amazement as Tastanaki’s severed arm dropped in the dirt.
The war chief let out a bellow that became a blood-curdling scream.
Any need for the conch horn vanished.
Arrows hissed from Tuskaloosa’s doorway and the loopholes cut in the house wall. Warriors were rushing out, screaming, bows clenched in their hands. Others held war clubs high.
“Let’s go!” Pearl Hand shouted, and we raced for our house, our weapons, and the dogs.
Those first moments of the battle of Mabila were a blur of activity as we fought our way past warriors streaming from the house. Inside, we grabbed the weapons we’d stacked by the door, Pearl Hand cocking her crossbow. The dogs were barking, bouncing around, and outside was a cacophony of screams, shrieks, and bellows.
Emerging on Blood Thorn’s heels, I saw that the plaza was a chaos of charging warriors and panicked Kristianos. Sunlight glinted from the shafts of flying arrows and gleamed off Kristiano armor. The dancing girls were scampering this way and that like quail before a bobcat.
I caught sight of de Soto; his nobles had gathered in a tight knot around him. As a unit they waded into the thick of the fight, slashing this way and that. By the time Pearl Hand and I made it to the plaza, the Kristianos were in the fight of their lives.
The dogs were right behind us. Bark wasted no time, launching himself at the first of the Kristiano war dogs. Blackie and Patches looked confused, but they came from good stock. They were on the first war dog Bark knocked off its feet.
Instinctively we ran for de Soto. He and his capitanes were surrounded by a flurry of warriors. Hate the man all you want; when it came to war, he was an awesome fighter. I could see no fear on his face, just a vicious half smile as he cut and thrust with his sword. A desperate excitement animated his eyes, as if the entire weaving of his life came down to this one final thread.
The lessons on aiming we’d taught so assiduously might have blown away with the wind. Warriors shot for the center of the chest, only to curse as their stone points shattered on hierro or their arrows thunked impotently into cloth batting. I watched a war-club-wielding warrior hammer a Kristiano repeatedly in the helmet, over and over, the force of his blows staggering the foe but never bringing him down.
Cabayos were loose, bolting this way and that in panic. As the terrified animals crashed around, warriors shot them full of arrows. The beasts screamed horribly as they toppled and died.
As if by dint of will alone, de Soto and his core group fought their way down from the palace to the center of the plaza. If I could just get close, de Soto was mine. But I’d come face-to-face with a Kristiano, blood streaming from a scalp wound. As the man lifted his sword to split my head, I shot an arrow into his open mouth. Stepping over his thrashing body, I nocked a second and found a target. One of the Kristianos had managed to mount and was slashing his way toward de Soto. The cabayero’s head and chest were armored, but his legs appeared clad only in cloth. I drove the barbed point into his hip, seeing it sink to the fletching.
Beside me, Pearl Hand’s crossbow twanged, and the iron-tipped point drove into the man’s side. He swayed, staring down at his wounds, and someone leaped up, dragging him off the beast. The man, screaming his fear, vanished under a mass of warriors.
De Soto managed to rally his men, and as a unit they fought their way toward the gate.
The gate!
I stared in disbelief. It remained open, a beacon for the trapped Kristianos. Where, in the name of bloody puss, were Wild Cat Mankiller and his Albaamaha?
“Close the gate!” I bellowed, unheard in the din of screams, whoops, and clattering weapons. Blood Thorn heard me, turning, and, cursing under his breath, charged off for the gaping portal.
Antonio had vaulted onto a cabayo’s back and was hacking his way for the gate, fleeing for his life. Unlike so many of the others, he hadn’t had time to remove his armor, and even in the brief glance I had, I could see arrows bouncing off his breastplate like twigs off a stone.
Among warriors seeking to close with de Soto, Pearl Hand and I struggled to get a shot in the jostling crowd. Arrows were flying from all directions; the man beside me stopped a shot loosed by one of our people across the way.
De Soto had so many arrows stuck in his armor, they hindered his ability to fight. I watched him curse as he broke off the stubborn shafts he couldn’t pull free.
Somehow, the Kristianos fought their way to the still-open gate, and there, dragging their wounded behind them, they spilled out into the open.
What had happened to Blood Thorn and his quest to shut it? I had no time to search for his body among the corpses and dying we stumbled and tripped over as we tumbled out in pursuit.
Had they not worn that wonderful armor, they’d have never made the gate. As it was, many looked as if they’d been slapped by a porcupine. Shafts stuck out of them like fur. As they fought their way into the field, most were limping, supported by their fellows. Blood soaked their legs or arms. Best of all was the terror shining from those once-arrogant bearded faces. Surrounded on all sides by a horde of screaming warriors, the Kristianos understood there was no escape. Eventually, despite their armor, an arrow would find a crack or exposed neck.
Shouts from behind surprised me, and I threw a glance over my shoulder. The throng of porters, slaves, and captives—their burdens laid on the ground before them—stood cheering and waving. They’d been left in long lines beneath the town walls. The guards, abandoning their charges, ran like frightened rabbits, casting whips, swords, and clubs aside. The hideous attack dogs milled, watching their masters flee, then glancing back uncertainly at the dancing, leaping, and shouting slaves.
When I looked back, the outcome was apparent. Cut off from further retreat, de Soto’s small force was faced with the inevitable. One by one the defenders were falling, the ring of hierro ever smaller.
Fate, however, can change in an instant.
A trumpet sounded, and a squad of cabayeros emerged from the distant trees, dashing across the cornfields. It looked to be about sixty of them, lances held low. As fast as cabayos ran, they’d be here in moments.