“No,” he said. The thought of Fox’s Smile allowing her father to choose her husband made him grin. “She’s free to choose whom she will, though mothers have an opinion for who will join their clan. But Lifting Smoke is our chief and has much to say about everything. Besides, Fox’s Smile loves him and would make him happy, though I don’t know why.”
“Filius est pars patris,” said Pyke.
Wolf Tongue crinkled his brow at the soldier, who smiled ruefully in response. “It means that the sons are like their fathers and part of them. Be careful. I imagine it holds true for daughters, as well.”
“That may be, but at least she looks better from the back than that boney old man.”
Pyke snorted with another rare smile. Then, his face sobered. It seemed as if the soldier were about to say more, but he hesitated and let out a held breath. It was so rare that he spoke even this much that Wolf Tongue held his speech, waiting to see if his companion might say something else. After another few moments, Pyke spoke again.
“So you come to English aid to earn the hand of a woman?”
Wolf Tongue shrugged. “Not solely. We trade well with the English and would keep our friendship. I have a chance to earn honor and glory. Maybe a new knife and musket. But have I told you about Fox’s Smile’s rear?”
Though it was short lived, there was no doubt this time that Pyke broke out in a genuine laugh. Then, as his hoarse chuckles faded, he sighed and seemed to look elsewhere. Then, in a voice so low Wolf Tongue barely heard him, he said, “Omnia vincit amor.”
“Is this another saying of dead people?” he asked.
“It means we just might survive.”
***
They camped without fire that night, and again took to the trail in the morning with clouds of breath that matched the coating of frost. The sun had warmed them briefly, but now slipped behind the blankets of clouds again and the chill of the forest rose with the gray light. Despite that, the night was still some hours off and their good fortune had held with smooth land, clear trails, and no hindrances. Wolf Tongue silently thanked the jogah of the area and reminded himself to offer the tiny spirits a proper thanks when they stopped.
The trail that led north was wide and meandered along the shore of the river with no more embankments or rock falls to manage. Wolf Tongue was glad for the easy walking, though at the same time he worried that they might be moving too quickly and would come upon Storm-of-Villages unprepared.
As he strode along, he turned in a circle, examining the features of the land around him. They had stayed within the shelter of the woods instead of along the open bank of the river, and from here it was often hard to see the surrounding hills. Though, the opening in the sky above the river was not far, and he could hear the constant, deep hiss of water rushing to the south.
“Wait here. I want to take another look,” he said as he slipped through the narrow space between two trees. After only a few strides and ducking beneath the mossy arm of a fallen log, Wolf Tongue stood again on the rocky bank of the river. Slowly, he turned from the south to face the north, scanning the level of the mountains. It had been years since he’d been this far north, and it took him a moment to place where he was.
The river meandered to the north until it suddenly twisted around a rise in the ground. From where he stood, it appeared like yet another hill, but Wolf Tongue thought he remembered the solitary cliffs that stood guard along the water.
He sucked in his breath abruptly and squinted his eyes. In the overcast light, it was hard to see.
“Pyke, owahe.” A moment later, the soldier crashed through the underbrush until he emerged from the line of trees. He brushed a clinging twig off his overcoat and stepped forward.
“What is it?”
Wolf Tongue gestured toward where the land was highest.
“What, that hill? That will be some church work if we need to—” he broke off. “Is that smoke?”
Wolf Tongue smiled. “Storm-of-Villages is cooking dinner for us.”
Pyke did not take his eyes off the skyline. “Is that his camp?”
“Maybe. His tracks head that way. And your friends said he took a spot on the cliffs.”
“I don’t see the cliffs.”
“They’re on the far side. The ground lifts there suddenly and is covered with brush and thorns and thick trees. One or two good trails lead up to the top, and on the other side, they drop straight to the river as if Tarhuhyiawahku cut them with his hand.”
“When will we be there?”
Wolf Tongue looked to Pyke, wondering at the man’s insistence to approach through the road. Didn’t he realize they chose their spot atop the cliffs for a reason? He sought glory and victories, and perhaps this quhanstrono would be part of it, but Wolf Tongue had no desire to die foolishly.
“We’ll be at the foot of the hill within the hour.”
“Good. Then let us go. I would use what daylight the Lord has given us.”
***
As they approached the foot of the hills, the two lapsed into another silence but for the crinkle of dead leaves underfoot, the nickering of the horse, and the creaking of trees and branches as Kaol blew through the forest.
Wolf Tongue halted as the ground first began to tilt upward and the trail they followed swerved off toward the river to where it disappeared among the loose stone and dried mud that lined the base of the cliffs. A smaller deer trail led in the opposite direction, curving around the steep parts of the hill to keep to more level ground. From where they stood, Wolf Tongue could see just a sliver of the cliff face, gray and pocked, standing over the river before it turned back to forest on its western slope.
“You should leave the horse here,” he said.
“What if we need a hasty retreat?”
“Is your horse faster than a lead ball?”
Pyke frowned, but seemed to accept the Susquehannock’s suggestion. He stripped what little gear he wanted from the saddlebags and tethered the horse with a rope to a birch tree. He smoothed a hand along the animal’s neck, patted its shoulder, and turned back.
“Where do we go now?”
“We follow this trail around the base,” said Wolf Tongue. “Not far from here it will cross another trail that leads to the top.”
“Will we be safe on that trail?”
“No,” said Wolf Tongue with a smile. “But you want to face Storm-of-Villages without surprise.”
“I believe that was why you were commissioned to guide me,” said Pyke, his face unreadable as usual.
Wolf Tongue shook his head and stepped off. “When we reach that trail, we will go slowly, follow it alongside and watch for ambush. When we are closer to the top, we can sit and wait for nightfall.”
Wolf Tongue heard Pyke grunt his assent from behind him, though even as he’d spoken the words, Wolf Tongue felt the snakes of worry in his chest at the quhanstrono’s plan. Pyke had assured him that without their leader, the rest of the group would fall away without challenge.
It was said that Storm-of-Villages promised them the Land of the Little People even before death, and that he was sacred to them like a god. Wolf Tongue wasn’t convinced that they would blithely surrender their arms.
Regardless of what strange customs the quhanstrono had, if someone killed a Susquehannock leader, there would be retribution.
Still, there were not many men with Storm-of-Villages when they’d seen him. And Wolf Tongue and Pyke had handily defeated the scalpers that had ambushed them. This time he was prepared.
As they came across the wider trail, Wolf Tongue slowed and scanned through the forest again, searching for guards. Storm-of-Villages did not seem to have many men with him, though Wolf Tongue had heard he had won the spirits of many in villages and towns, mostly of the Iroquois. That, combined with the natural advantage of sitting atop the hill with only one access made him expect to see few, if any, guards at least until they came much closer to the camp.
Still, he did not want any more surpr
ises. Unless he was the one doing the surprising.
“Go on that side of the trail. Slow, quiet. Keep so that you can see me, and I’ll stay on this side. Watch for any guards, but keep me in sight. Stop if we see anything.”
Pyke frowned, but obeyed.
The hill began as a slow, even slope before it steepened and became knotted with tangles of mountain laurel interspersed with trees leaning on one another. Leafless raspberry thorns grasped at his pants and arms as Wolf Tongue pushed his way up. He took pains to go slowly, watching ahead for danger and placing each foot carefully. To his surprise, Pyke, too, moved slowly and with only minimal noise. More than a Susquehannock would make, but surprisingly quiet, for a quhanstrono.
Wolf Tongue crept along the trail, following as it meandered around an outcropping of rock. Once, he was forced onto the trail proper for a switchback that avoided a particularly steep incline. As he walked, he kept Pyke just inside his line of sight, another five or ten strides on the far side of the trail. Occasionally, he’d see his companion pause and lean around a twist of tree trunks and they’d lock eyes for a heartbeat.
Much of the second half of the day was spent picking their way up the slope and the gray, lazy light had begun to darken as they neared the top of the ridge. It was then that Wolf Tongue saw Pyke stop suddenly and crouch low. The soldier motioned urgently toward the ground with an open hand. Wolf Tongue brought his musket before him and settled to one knee.
Just through the screen of twigs and tree trunks, he could see Pyke point up the hill. Wolf Tongue squinted and stared out through the forest, but he couldn’t see anything. His eyes strained as he searched and he could hear his own breath in his ears, loud as a wolf’s howl. The barrel of his musket was ice against his left fingertips, while the grip by the flint was warm and sweaty beneath his right hand. He leaned his head forward, trying to hear over the cold, moist air that brushed against his ears.
He heard nothing for a long while, but then there, just off the trail he saw movement at the farthest point of his vision. Partially hidden by a mossy boulder stood a man. Wolf Tongue saw an arm move, the barrel of a musket shift. The man coughed and coughed again, though Wolf Tongue would not have heard it if he weren’t listening so hard.
The quhanstrono had good eyes.
Wolf Tongue looked to Pyke and nodded that he saw the man. He motioned forward, then at his eyes, then at the man, hoping Pyke would understand that he meant to go closer for a better look. Without waiting for a reply, he picked his way forward.
One carefully chosen step at a time, Wolf Tongue slid through the forest. Again, he reminded himself to thank the spirits of the wood as the wind picked up, its whistle through the trees and the rustling of last year’s dead bracken serving to hide the sound of his footsteps. He could hear the gush of water, though he could not see the river.
The sun had sunken perceptibly by the time he’d moved thirty steps lowered himself to one knee beside a tree. He could see the guard much more clearly now—a dark-skinned man who wore a tattered, graying `shirt and dark woolen jacket. He did not seem to be Iroquois or any other iomwhen, as he dressed like a white man. Perhaps ahonesee escaped from slavery.
The man was still more than thirty strides away, but what had truly stopped Wolf Tongue was what appeared behind, and around. Not far beyond where the man stood, the ground leveled off into a clearing of flat rock that stretched out for dozens of strides. Strewn all along the edge of the forest, Wolf Tongue could see other guards, at least four more from where he crouched.
Beyond the line of trees, an open space separated the guards from a group of tents surrounding a large fire. The encampment huddled near to the edge of the cliff and overlooked the river and surrounding forest. Wolf Tongue counted at least a dozen people in the camp alone. Plus the ahonesee and other guards, and Storm-of-Villages, if he was indeed here.
He stifled a curse and fought to keep his breathing steady. There was no way they could go through with Pyke’s plan and threaten this group by pretending they had more warriors. Just as unlikely that they could sneak past the guards, across such an open space and make it to the tents unscathed.
Wolf Tongue looked to his left to be sure Pyke had stopped. The Englishman crouched low, staring up at the encampment, shaking his head slowly as if cursing his luck. He sat, watching for a very long moment before looking over. With disappointment on his face, Pyke shook his head and then, with creeping movements, began to back down the hill.
***
“Damn them,” hissed Pyke.
The two had crept slowly back the way they’d come until they were well away from the camp and the guards. Then, near the bottom of the hill, they reunited on the trail and trotted more quickly back toward Pyke’s horse.
“We need to get to him,” said the soldier.
Wolf Tongue heard the urgency in his voice, but shook his head. “There is no way. We must wait. We can hold the trail until he passes and take him then.”
“No. We know where he is, and we don’t know when or if he’ll move again. And if he does move, he’s got twenty men with him, at least!”
“I thought you said they’ll fall away without their leader.”
Pyke turned a venomous look on the Susquehannock, who shrugged it off.
“It doesn’t matter. If you wish to rush in, then that is between you and your god. I swore to see Storm-of-Villages dead, not to kill myself. We’ll find another way.”
Pyke pursed his lips as he untied his horse from the tree. He led the horse down the trail toward the river. As the horse leaned down to drink, Wolf Tongue took a moment to refill his water skin. He did swear to see this thing done, but now he needed a moment to figure how to do it.
“He has too many men, and is too protected. If there were four of them? We would be fine. But now? Would your colonel send men to aid us?”
There was a moment where the only sound was the lapping of water. Then, “The cliff.”
Wolf Tongue looked up to see Pyke staring at the cliff face. From where they stood, the cliff rose sharply up, then curved with the river so that more of its face was hidden around the bend.
“What?”
“The cliff. It’s not that high. We could scale it.”
Wolf Tongue looked back at the man. Was he insane? To climb the cliff face and then face twenty warriors?
“Are you crazy?”
“It’s not that high. We could climb it and be right in their camp without ever coming near the guards.”
“And then what? They will not let us simply walk back down.”
Pyke still stared at the rock face. “They’ll sleep soundly in their confidence. The guards won’t look for movement inside their camp, or coming at their backs. There’s no way in, but the path out is not watched. They watch for larger forces, not two men. We sneak in, then out past the guards. Stealth.”
Wolf Tongue gnawed at the inside of his cheek as he studied Pyke. The soldier stood with intent eyes fixated on cliffs like a holy man peering into the spirit world.
“What of your English honor to face him in a duel?”
His question broke Pyke’s reverie and he turned his eyes back to Wolf Tongue. He paused as he brushed a swath of wavy hair from his eyes. “It pains me to say it, but you were right. Azariah has no honor, we saw that. I, too, swore an oath that this be done, though I do not like the manner. He would not duel. So he must be dispatched like a mad dog.
“I saw Azariah and know which tent is his. We scale the cliff, sneak in, do what must be done, then if we can, we leave as quietly as we came. No one will act without his orders, at least not ably so. Even if we encounter guards, we have the surprise of coming at their backs. We can be out of the camp and safely away long before dawn.”
Then, with a confident nod that Wolf Tongue thought was meant as encouragement, Pyke continued, “I thought you sought glory, Wolf Tongue of the Wolf Clan.”
Wolf Tongue chuckled and looked back to the swirling water at his feet.
> “Then let us wait for darkness. I’ll pray to the jogah of the rock so they don’t think you’re just another stupid quhanstrono and throw you into the river.”
***
Wolf Tongue could hear the wind howling to him, though the face of the cliff blocked his body from it. Occasionally, a blast of embers would fly overhead from Storm-of-Villages’ fire, carried beyond the cliff top and out over the river, where they died. Aside from those few glimpses of sparks, he could see very little as he clung to the rock. What moon there was shed poor light through thickening clouds. He could just see Pyke as he slid a hand across the rock, searching for another handhold in the dark.
Wolf Tongue swallowed and looked down. They had climbed perhaps halfway up the cliff, but already the river below looked like a black wound across the earth. He tightened his grip and jammed his fingers deeper into the crack they’d found. The rock pushed back at him, sharp and hard at his abdomen and pressing his tomahawk and knife painfully into his hip.
Pyke was already higher than he was, and Wolf Tongue forced back a shudder as he released his left hand and searched for a grip to pull himself another hand’s length closer to the top. He found one, pulled, scrambled with his foot to find a home for it, then pushed himself with it so that he was higher now, but with his right foot dangling without a hold.
With another breath, he opened his eyes and continued his climb. Again, fingers scraped across hard rock, searching for crevices, knobs or ledges that would take any weight. His hands felt frozen and cracked as the rock scraped at his fingertips. His toes ached. He could not be sure for the cold, but he thought one hand had started to bleed.
He reached for another hold, wrapped three fingers on the tiny outcropping and pulled. His hand slipped away, making him twist and grimace. His one hand still held and his feet were planted, so he did not fall, but the slip had wrenched at his shoulder and back and he gritted his teeth in pain and frustration.
He wiped his hand against his leggings, hoping to push away the moisture, whether sweat or blood, he did not know. He reached again for the handhold and slowly tested his grip before committing to it.
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