In the dream I stood at a sprawling canoe landing, the roiled surface of the Black Warrior River at my back. I knew this place, had been brought here as a boy by Uncle. He had come—accompanied by a party of Chicaza nobles—bearing the bones of his older brother, the recently deceased high minko of the Chicaza Nation. Uncle had just been confirmed—made the new high minko—and, as a gesture of respect for his dead brother, had brought his remains here, to Split Sky City, the ancient home of the Chicaza.
How old was I then? Five? Six? I had clambered out of the canoe and followed the long procession up from this very landing. The dead high minko’s bones had been carried to the top of one of the mounds, a hole dug, and there, among the emblems of his office, he’d been laid.
I remember the bed of colorful feathers they laid him on. A chipped-stone mace, a copper headpiece, and a wealth of shell necklaces had been placed beside his cleaned bones. After prayers and offerings, the earth was blessed and shoveled atop him. All the while, the hopaye had sung, sending him on to the Path of the Dead.
Now I stood alone on the landing, the river at my back. A terrible weariness weighted my souls, which were plagued by the horrors of Mabila.
I turned my steps to the trail, wondering what Split Sky City must have looked like before it was abandoned to the ghosts. Here traders would have spread their wares; thousands of people had trod this very soil. This city had housed the heroes Old White, Green Snake, and Morning Dew.
I made the long climb to the high terrace, winding past abandoned mounds where the charred remains of temples resisted the invasion of grasses that waved in the breeze.
Skirting the deep gullies, I walked to the palace mound and scrambled up the steep ramp; the rotting remains of steps turned under my feet.
At the top, I looked north, where the river made a great loop, washing at the foot of the city. At the base of the mound I could see the collapsed remains of a great earth lodge sinking back into the soil. There, my ancestors had once met in council with the Chicaza clans.
Where the high minko had been buried, goldenrod, daisies, and sunflowers sprouted. I searched for any sign of the dead minko’s ghosts, feeling only the warm wind blowing up from the gulf.
“There are no answers here, Black Shell.”
At the sound of the voice, I turned, startled by Horned Serpent’s appearance. His scaled body reflected the iridescent colors of the rainbow, and his mighty wings were folded along his back. The Spirit Beast studied me through crystalline eyes that seemed illuminated from within. Atop his scale-armored head, great red antlers forked and rose. The tip I’d broken off had regenerated.
His tongue flicked, sensing the air, and I stared at the Spirit Beast’s mouth, remembering how it had once crushed my body.
“We lost everything at Mabila,” I told him. “Maybe five thousand warriors.”
“Mabila is the turning point.”
I stared my disbelief. “Did you hear me?”
Was that a smile at the corner of that serpentine mouth?
I stepped forward, filled with a desperate anger. “We had them! The monster walked straight into the trap, only to fight his way out. Then, incredibly, he destroyed us!”
“Did anyone promise you it would be easy?” Horned Serpent’s head rose from the coil of his body, slipping silently toward me. “De Soto is a master of war, perhaps the finest in all the world. But you have wounded him. Mabila is the turning point.”
“How?” I cried. “Time after time, we are outthought, outfought, and defeated.”
“Yet you win.” The great shining eyes fixed on mine.
“Tell that to the thousands upon thousands of dead.”
“They know what they have done with greater clarity than you.”
That set me back.
“Under their armor, Black Shell, what are Kristianos?”
“Men,” I countered. “Unlike any our world has ever seen.”
“You watched their banners burn at Mabila. But in killing so many, they have destroyed themselves.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re smarter than that. The turning point has come.”
“It has? Where? In all the fighting, I saw perhaps twenty Kristianos dead. I wore the skin of one to escape.”
He actually smiled. “Pearl Hand is incredibly clever, isn’t she?”
“My souls are polluted beyond cleansing. I spoke through a dead man’s mouth, saw through his eyes.” I winced. “Skipper is dead.”
The glow behind the giant snake’s eyes increased, as if lit by the sun. “His souls romp with Fetch’s. He is honored among the dead.”
I felt a swelling within my chest, a single tear escaping my eye. “Bless him, Horned Serpent. I don’t even know if I’ll ever see any of my dogs again.”
“You will.” He paused. “Provided you choose to continue the fight. And as to the pollution of your souls, the dead cannot harm you or dilute your Power. You have been purged, protected, and given a cleansing that will remain with you forever. No hopaye, hilishaya, or minko will ever doubt you. The sepaya is proof of that.”
I felt the bit of brow tine tingle in its pouch.
“So, what will you do, Black Shell? See this to the end? Or will you rise from here and find your way to the ancestors?”
I would see my dogs again? Spend my last days with Pearl Hand? “You said Mabila was the turning point?”
“The proof lies in the fires of Mabila. In the process of destroying the Tuskaloosa, they have dealt themselves an irreparable blow.”
“How?”
“You will figure it out . . . provided you go back.” His scaled mouth seemed curved into a mocking and reptilian smile. “Or you may begin the journey that will take you home to the ancestors your people have buried here. The choice is yours, Spirit warrior.”
I frowned, thinking, They have dealt themselves an irreparable blow? The image of de Soto’s long face, his sleepy eyes and arrogant smile, hung between my souls.
What would I give to see that man dead?
Anything.
“Black Shell?” Pearl Hand called, intruding into the dream.
Pain came as I tried to stir. Blinking my eyes, I stared out at leaf mat, stems, and bushes. Birds were singing, a breeze rattling the leaves overhead. I could smell moldy leaves . . . and the stench of smoke.
“Horned Serpent?” I asked, my throat dry and rasping.
“Sorry. No,” Pearl Hand muttered caustically, “but I’m more fun to sleep with.”
I gasped as I tried to straighten, turning to see her crouched beside me. Her face was soot blackened, her singed hair in a wild tangle; the scavenged dress—covered with leaves and twigs—clung to her curves.
Bark and Gnaw were lying among the leaves, watching me with serious brown eyes. They had new wounds, but Gnaw’s white-tipped tail was patting the leaves as he wagged it. Bark was panting and looked oddly satisfied, his pink tongue lolling.
“Spirit Dream,” I whispered. “I was at Split Sky City. Horned Serpent was there.”
“And now you’re back here,” she added. “And you stink. Not only that, we’ve got to wash out those wounds. Find something to stitch them up. They’re festering.”
I glanced down at the Kristiano armor and clothing that I still wore. I reached up and prodded my face, feeling caked blood. Gods, I’d worn a dead man’s face!
But your souls are not polluted.
The cut in my arm opened and stung as I sat up. The sun hung low in the west, slanting its light through our hideout.
“Horned Serpent told me Mabila is the turning point. Something to do with the fires.”
She arched her eyebrow, studying me. “All is not lost?”
“Not according to Horned Serpent.”
She gave me a grin. “Then let’s crawl out of here. Squirm, Patches, and Blackie are out here somewhere.” She sighed. “But I’m afraid our packs burned. We’re no better off than the Kristianos when it comes to that.”
“The packs?”
“All of our trade. Our supplies. Gone.”
I grinned for the first time. “Packs, saddles, weapons and armor, clothing, bundles of crossbow arrows, lots of hierro, trade goods, leather, axes—they lost it all! Everything the slaves were carrying.”
She nodded. “All they’ve got left is what’s on their backs.”
The fires of Mabila! They’d burned all those precious supplies. Harnesses, tools, the chairs and furnishings, even the gaudy flags had been consumed. Their precious golden cup would have fallen to the flames. How much more, things beyond our comprehension, had been lost?
“There’s something else,” Pearl Hand said, eyes unfocused. “Did you see those camps we passed last night?”
“I was wearing a loosely fitted dead man’s face, remember?”
She continued, ignoring my sarcasm. “They’ve got wounded everywhere. They were lined up by the tens, moaning, their legs and arms bound with rags. I caught a glimpse of a couple of soldados trying to pull an arrow out of a man’s thigh by firelight.”
“And your point is?”
“My point, husband, is that the armor may have saved their accursed lives, but every one of those wounded men is going to realize they can die. Just like the ones we killed in Mabila.” She smiled to herself. “Their confidence is going to erode like beach sand in a hurricane.”
“The turning point,” I whispered. “Come on. I need to drink, get out of this dead man’s clothes, and wash.” I hoped I wouldn’t faint at the sight of my leg.
If there was any consolation, it was that Antonio couldn’t have been looking much better.