Four

The last of his clan and lineage, Fire Cat was in his early thirties. Once he had been the most renowned warrior on the upper Father Water, war chief of Red Wing Town, and son of Clan Matron Dancing Sky. Now Fire Cat, his mother, and two sisters were slaves. Conquered and captured by War Chief Spotted Wrist.

Weapon in hand, he faced one of the men who had planned and carried out his downfall.

That knowledge burned within Fire Cat as he leaped and swung his copper-bitted war club. What was supposed to be an impromptu sparring match now felt as if it had a sinister purpose.

Squadron First Blood Talon had arrived at Night Shadow Star’s palace that morning accompanied by five of his most respected warriors. Said that since they would be traveling together on such a long and dangerous journey, perhaps they might train. Get the feel of each other’s mettle.

Always anxious to hone his skill, Fire Cat had agreed. From the first trading of blows, this had been anything but a friendly bout. Fire Cat could see it in his opponent’s eyes, in the viciousness of his attack.

Nor was that fact lost on the watching warriors as the two combatants circled and clashed in the small yard before Night Shadow Star’s mound-top palace.

Blood Talon caught Fire Cat’s blow on his shield, the impact making a loud crack. Fire Cat felt the sting of it through the handle of his war club.

“I enjoyed taking both of your wives,” Blood Talon remarked as he backpedaled. “Now I know why they moaned as I drove my shaft into them. They’d never had the pleasure of being filled by a real man.”

Fire Cat feinted, fighting his rage. Somehow he managed to keep his head. Strangled the urge to charge, to beat this man down, to hammer his way through the shield and smash the brains from Blood Talon’s head.

“Your children were difficult. They screamed and bawled like deer fawns as we cut them apart. Alive. So they’d know true pain and terror. But my warriors took turns shooting their seed into your little daughters. Wanted them to know what a good hard shaft felt like. A kindness, you know, since they would be dead so soon.”

Fire Cat barely checked a mad rush at the man.

From the cunning smile on Blood Talon’s face, the squadron first was hoping for just that. Which meant he had a plan, some way of turning that reckless charge into a trap. Was it something to do with the watching warriors? So far, they had done nothing to intercede, just stood, faces stiff and eyes hot with anticipation.

I hate this man.

Fire Cat’s body ached with the need to kill. Under Spotted Wrist’s command, Blood Talon had directed the sack of Red Wing Town. Nor did Fire Cat doubt the man’s boast that he’d led the gang rape of False Dawn and New Fall Moon before they were given in slavery to some forest chieftain. Spotted Wrist’s goal had been to erase every last vestige of Red Wing heresy. Wipe it clean from the face of the earth.

They expect me to travel all the way to Cofitachequi in his company? If I kill him now …

From the way Blood Talon attacked, struck, and parried, he must have shared Fire Cat’s dislike. Every fiber of Fire Cat’s being tingled with the comprehension that something deeper was at play here.

He wants me to lose control.

Fire Cat leaped right. Landed. His balance perfect, he darted left as Blood Talon’s backhanded strike whistled through the air where Fire Cat had been but an instant before.

Fire Cat twisted right, and back, his club held before him in perfect form.

Blood Talon no longer had breath for taunts, the first flickers of doubt behind his eyes.

In unison, they crashed together, smashing shields, war clubs clashing as they struggled to throw the other off balance. Blood Talon broke first, retreating, seeking some advantage.

Fire Cat held back, biding his time. Blood Talon, if he had any fault, was weakest on the attack. A slight desire to rush his offense and overpower rather than finesse a killing blow.

But who is the sacrifice? Me? Or him?

Both men crouched, panting, each trying to anticipate his opponent’s next move. Sweat beaded on their skin. Trickled from beneath the wood-and-leather armor that encased their chests and shoulders. Arm guards protected their forearms. Heavy leather helmets covered their heads. A crowd had gathered below the flat mound top where they sparred. The watching warriors were looking nervous now, as if whatever was supposed to happen had gone awry.

If I am killed, Night Shadow Star will accede to Spotted Wrist’s demand that she marry him. If I kill him? Who stands to gain?

The morning sun pierced the last of the clouds that had hung low over Cahokia. Days of cold drizzle had finally ceased and reluctantly surrendered to a misty steam that rose where the sun warmed the sides of the mound.

Replaying the man’s moves, it came to Fire Cat that Blood Talon, while excellent at defense, did follow a peculiar pattern. Yes, that just might be the key.

“You’ve been played. Who wants you dead? What do they gain?” Fire Cat asked.

“Just sparring,” Blood Talon said past tight lips. “Wanted to know what sort you were before my back was turned.”

“Figured it out yet?”

“Pretty much.” Blood Talon charged forward, shield up, head down, as if to barrel his way right through Fire Cat. Again the shields clashed. Fire Cat skipped sideways, away from Blood Talon’s wicked right swing; the war club hissed as it cut air where Fire Cat’s head had been.

Had it connected, it would have caved in Fire Cat’s helmet, skull, and brains.

Fire Cat leaped, slashed with his club, danced to one side, and whipped the club in a backhanded strike. Blood Talon parried, ducked right, and used all the strength in his body in an attempt to knock Fire Cat’s shield to the side with an uppercut. The club head blurred up from between the man’s knees with serpent-like speed.

Fire Cat barely managed to tilt his shield in time: the blow skipped off the battered surface. Momentum carried the war club high through its arc.

Fire Cat saw it in Blood Talon’s eyes: the stark realization of his mistake, that the squadron first was defenseless, the knowledge that he was a mere heartbeat away from death.

Fire Cat was already swinging, using his excellent control to stop the keen copper edge just as it touched Blood Talon’s exposed neck. Then he let the war club settle onto the man’s armored shoulder, all the while staring into his opponent’s startled eyes.

I could have severed his neck.

A tiny measure of revenge for what had happened to his family and people at Red Wing Town.

Even better, the reality was right there in Blood Talon’s eyes. He’d not only failed at what he’d come to accomplish, but knew that had Fire Cat played for keeps, he’d be dying on the very ground he stood upon.

The watching warriors were whispering back and forth, wary and disbelieving eyes on Fire Cat. One, the squadron second, Nutcracker, was shaking his head, as if trying to convince himself of what he’d just witnessed.

“Pus and blood!” Blood Talon cried, stepping back, lowering his shield and war club. Panic filled his eyes as he gasped for breath. A violent loathing lurked there, backed by a froth of resentment and disgust.

“Let me guess. Accidents happen in training. You’d approach my lady looking remarkably contrite. ‘Sorry, Lady Night Shadow Star, my club slipped.’ Or maybe, ‘Apologies, Lady, but he stepped right into my blow before I could check my swing. So sorry. It wasn’t supposed to end this way.’”

“Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you, slave?” Blood Talon’s rising anger had him on the point of trembling. “We know you for what you are. You just got lucky.” He sneered the word: “Hero.”

“Combat is always a gamble, Squadron First. You never know how clever or fast or tenacious your opponent is going to be.”

“No, you don’t,” Blood Talon admitted reluctantly as he gasped for breath. “Today is yours. It won’t always be.”

And with that, the squadron first inclined his head in deadly promise. As he did, his beaded forelock bobbed where it hung down from under the brim of his war helmet. Turning, he gestured for the others to follow, waving away their questions and mutters of disappointment as they headed for the stairs.

Why, in Piasa’s name, would a lauded squadron first ask for a “training” match? Especially given Fire Cat’s reputation as a warrior?

But then, Spotted Wrist and his warriors never saw me fight the Itza. All they’ve heard are the wild stories.

Fire Cat watched the squadron first and his men pass between the guardian posts where Piasa stood to the right, Horned Serpent to the left. Then they descended the wooden steps that led down to the avenue below. There the crowd of pilgrims, Traders, and dirt farmers parted, all calling out, talking among themselves and pointing as Blood Talon and his warriors shoved them out of the way.

Behind Fire Cat, Night Shadow Star’s palace rose high, the plastered walls white, the steep wedge of thatched roof grayed by winter storms. From the veranda a full view of the Great Plaza could be had, as well as of the Avenue of the Sun, which served as the major east-west thoroughfare that bisected the city of Cahokia.

Immediately to the east rose the Morning Star’s Great Mound with its south-facing walled terrace upon which the Council House was built. The Morning Star’s palace dominated the heights above the Council House and was reached through a grand staircase that led up the mound’s southern face to the gated compound with its soaring thatch-roofed temple and World Tree pole.

Fire Cat squinted, seeing the lone figure up in the high bastion. Something glinted in the morning light, the reflection from a polished copper headdress. Couldn’t be anyone else but Morning Star. Not up there.

So, is Chunkey Boy part of this?

Impostor he might be, but he always played a deep game.

Finally catching his breath, Fire Cat began releasing the ties that secured his armor. Fingers of fatigue began to rob his muscles of agility as the thrill of battle drained. Without a doubt, Blood Talon was one of the finest warriors Fire Cat had ever faced. It would have been the perfect assassination. This morning, he’d won by the narrowest of margins.

Piss and spit, I hate Cahokian politics.

Letting his cuirass fall, Fire Cat walked to the southwest corner of the mound to look down on the Avenue of the Sun. A flood of people, like a relentless mixing stream of ants, traveled the great avenue. From the west and River Mounds City came Traders, dirt farmers, stone workers, and gangs of men bearing great wooden logs. Others staggered along under high-piled stacks of firewood to feed the city’s voracious need. People with baskets hanging from tumplines that held corn, goosefoot seed, bread, fabrics, dried fish, smoked meats, feathers, pottery, and goods of every kind passed below.

Among them were the foreign Traders bearing shells from the Gulf, yaupon tea, dyes, southern fabrics, northern copper, furs, and exotic foods and spices. Obsidian was imported from the far mountains in the west as were large sheets of mica from the highlands in the distant east. Stone for carving came from the four corners of the Cahokian world.

From all directions came parched corn, saplings for construction, blanks of milky gray chert for flaking, hardwood planks, quarters of venison, split cane for construction, and just about every other resource.

Cahokia flourished on sacred Trade.

Fire Cat rubbed the back of his neck, shivered as the first of the chill ate through his sweaty skin and reminded him that it was still early in the year and winter was just running the end of its course.

He looked east, down the long Avenue of the Sun toward River Mounds City, the river, and the canoe landing. Under orders from Morning Star, eight large canoes were resting on the dirty sand just above the river’s lapping water. Provisions were being collected and stored in a warehouse on the levee.

We have only days before we’re supposed to leave.

Fire Cat shivered again, noticed that the crowd was still staring up at him. Many of them pointing. He made a face, went back, collected his armor, and started for the veranda.

Of course people stared at him. He’d wrested the city back from Thirteen Sacred Jaguar, saved it for the Morning Star when he fought Itza warriors on this very mound. He’d won a fortune when he played the Natchez lord, Swirling Cloud, in a game of chunkey. More recently he was known for having gone to the Underworld to rescue Morning Star’s soul.

All of which he’d Trade at a moment’s notice for the chance to slip away to a forest farmstead with Night Shadow Star and live like a regular human being.

He climbed up on the veranda, surprised to see Night Shadow Star, her form partially obscured by shadow where she leaned in the doorway, a straight-handled cup in her hand. She watched him with her large, otherworldly eyes, lips pursed, long black hair tumbling down her back like a wave.

“That was no friendly match,” she noted.

“You saw? He was trying to kill me.”

“Curious, isn’t it?” Her gaze had gone distant, as if she were hearing Piasa’s Spirit voice whisper in her ear.

What was it about her? Not just her eerie possession by the Powers of the Underworld, but the whole of her. Beautiful, frightening, somehow fragile, and so terribly profound and knowing. She’d told him on occasion that Piasa allowed her glimpses of the future, that some terrible challenge awaited her on their journey to Cofitachequi. As if facing Walking Smoke wasn’t frightening enough.

“I wasn’t sure you’d let him live,” she noted as she made way for his entry. “I heard his boasts. He served Spotted Wrist at Red Wing Town.”

“Blood Talon is one of Spotted Wrist’s most cherished squadron leaders and friends. Killing him might complicate your relationship with your future husband.” He laid his armor and club down.

“It was an attempt to break me.” She shot him a knowing look. “The hope was that your death would leave me bereft. That in my pain and grief I’d agree to anything. They think my feeling for you fuels my refusal to marry Spotted Wrist.”

He accepted the cup of tea from her. For a moment he stared into her eyes, then said, “Power plays us as it will, Lady. We both know that its uses for us change with the moment. For now it needs us to travel to Cofitachequi. Should that change?” He shrugged. “The Powers of the Underworld might discover a need to put you in that man’s bed.”

He noted the tightening behind her eyes, the recognition of the truth behind his words.

“For everything there is a price. If there were a way that you and I…”

She chuckled at her foolishness. “I might as well wish the sky were orange and that fish could fly.”

He sipped the tea she had given him, letting the smoky taste run over his dry tongue. This was black drink, brewed from the yaupon holly leaf and imported from the distant south along the Gulf’s coastal plain. The leaves were roasted until slightly charred, boiled to a froth, and allowed to steep for several hands of time. That she shared it with him was a sign of their bond.

I would do anything to make the sky orange and fish fly.

He smiled wistfully and handed the cup back to her. Hard to believe that he had killed her husband, that she had hated him enough once to have Spotted Wrist promise to capture him alive so that she could torture him to death.

“Spotted Wrist is getting desperate. He’s running out of time. He wants that marriage before we leave for Cofitachequi.”

“That he does.” She turned, leading the way across the intricately woven floor mat to the main fire. A pot of hominy bubbled there, as did a thick stew of duck and turtle meat seasoned with dried squash blossoms.

On the sleeping benches to the rear, Green Stick, Winter Leaf, and Clay String were working on Night Shadow Star’s clothing, making sure it was ready to be packed in a long wooden box that would fit between the gunwales of one of the large Trade canoes. She was, after all, a Cahokian Lady of the first family of the Morning Star lineage. From formal ceremonial feasts with high chiefs along the river to hunkering in the canoe during snowstorms, she needed to be dressed accordingly.

The manner in which the Cofitachequi expedition was being planned left Fire Cat longing for the days when he was in charge of organizing war parties. Provisioning and supply were so simple in comparison to this major expedition. Not to mention the ritual aspects.

Across the Great Plaza, the old Earth Clans shaman, Rides-the-Lightning, had been conducting rituals for the last two weeks to ensure success.

And now, Blood Talon—who would be in charge of the expedition’s military escort—had just tried to kill him?

“Worse than that, Fire Cat,” Night Shadow Star whispered, “now that he knows you can best him in combat, he’ll come at you sideways, when you least expect it.”