He lay on his back with the roof of branches and leaves hovering half an arm’s length from his face. The stubby needles of the spruce branches began as a watery smear of green, but after a moment, his eyes began to clear. Then the ache reappeared.
Wolf Tongue grunted as his limbs awoke as much as his mind. His muscles were sore as if he’d been beaten and a low rumble of a headache threatened at the back of his skull. He raised one hand to his face and flexed sore fingers, thinking at least he still had all his fingers.
Pyke.
With a sudden start, he twisted. The musket still lay by his head, and he took comfort in the coolness of the wooden stock. He steadied himself for a moment, one hand on the gun, his eyes closed.
He needed to find Pyke. If what the boy had said the day before was true, they’d take him back to Storm-of-Villages alive. That was, assuming he hadn’t tried to fight all four men and was dead already.
What had happened there in the surgeon’s house? Was that whole garrison town part of Storm-of-Villages’ army? Had the four men swarmed in only to find Pyke right where they’d thought? Had someone seen them and told Storm-of-Villages’ men where to go? Was that surgeon one of his men?
“I told him quhanstrono doctors would kill him,” said Wolf Tongue as he wriggled out of his bunk. He paused, seated on his haunches, to stretch his muscles and rub the cobwebs of sleep from his face.
Suddenly, his ears perked and his eyes flew open. After a moment, the wind again carried the noise that had given him pause: hooves. The sound was broken in the distance, but it was unmistakable. Someone rode with haste.
Wolf Tongue snatched up the musket and squinted. Through the stands of trees, the swaths of pine needles, and the dappling of sunlight on the forest, he could see movement. A gray horse and rider flashed at intervals between the trees. He squinted his eyes and brought his musket to his shoulder.
Then, he lowered it. At this distance, he had no chance for a shot, not through the forest. More than that, despite the hammering of his heart and the tingling in his muscles, he did not know if this rider was a threat. He rode with haste away from the garrison town and in the direction of Storm-of-Villages’ camp, but that in itself was not enough to send him back to the earth. And firing this close to the camp would alert everyone to him.
He let the musket rest on his lap as he watched the rider go. It would be different if the man carried hot trout, he thought with a grumbling stomach. It was odd to see a lone rider with such haste. Especially this far out from the quhanstrono towns. Was he perhaps one of Storm-of-Villages’ men still searching for Wolf Tongue?
He immediately rummaged into his bag and withdrew another leaf of tobacco. Perhaps it wasn’t a dream that the jogah had tickled at his eyes. It seemed the tiny people who lived in the rocks and trees and earth had indeed awoken him as the rider approached. The man was likely a scout or messenger ahead of a larger party—one who searched for trouble along a path. And who traveled this path but those who’d captured Pyke?
He dug another hole in the dirt, scraping at moist soil with his fingertips, and buried the tobacco.
“I am Wolf Tongue, of the Wolf Clan,” he whispered over it. “I thank you now, but I must be quick. Grant me the speed and strength and sight of my ancestor, and I pray I live to return to offer you a proper thanks.”
Wolf Tongue slung his bag over his shoulder and crept slowly closer to the village to where he could see a group of people standing in the clearing.
***
The sun had barely moved before the group rode out of town. They were still far away, but he could make out a few horses and five men moving at a steady pace along the road.
His heart gave a trill like a war cry of its own, and he settled into a crouch some sixty strides off the road. On his haunches, he slipped to his right for the shelter of a gnarled tangle of mountain laurel and peered through the net of bare, brown branches. From this distance he could see clearly enough to make out Pyke, a rope tied around his neck, trotting behind the men.
Wolf Tongue’s muscles tensed as a fire flared in his belly. He forced himself to take a long breath. He could not attack now. He needed to wait, watch. Wait for the right moment.
Even as he thought it, his hand tightened around his tomahawk.
No. There were four enemies there, and all alert. The thin, hawk-faced man he’d seen trailing them and again in the town rode in the lead with the rope sagging between him and Pyke. Beside him rode two others and finally came the doctor. The sight of the old man, still dressed in what seemed to be English finery, riding high as if he were a hero made Wolf Tongue’s stomach turn.
If any Susquehannock holy man turned one of his own clan over to the Iroquois, he would be hunted and dismembered in the vilest way so that his spirit would languish and never pass the tests to find the Land of the Little People. Any betrayer was cursed, but a healer’s treachery was the most foul.
Slowly, he raised his musket and eyed down the barrel. The gun he’d taken from the boy seemed serviceable, but far from the best make. Still, Wolf Tongue aimed at the surgeon’s green vest and pictured the evil old man slumping from his saddle and his spirit languishing in the mud.
He stretched his thumb to draw back the hammer and paused. He let the musket fall from his shoulder and silently cursed.
He couldn’t fire now. The other three men were all armed and the one who seemed to be the leader watched the forest with keen eyes. Wolf Tongue had secured a safe hiding spot for now, but a blast of a musket would bring lead balls down on him before he could even draw his knife and tomahawk, and they were too close to the camp. His death would do Pyke no good, and his spirit would be as crippled as the traitor’s if his oath went unfulfilled. Not to mention that Fox’s Smile would have to sleep alone.
No. He would wait. When they stopped for water or to rest, or when they faltered or found a swampy, rocky patch that demanded their attention, then he would strike.
He waited for the group to pass before he slipped farther into the forest away from the road. Far enough away that he could just see them ahead and to his left, Wolf Tongue finally set out, his eyes always on the doctor’s coat as he slipped among the shadows.
***
The men moved steadily, though none too quickly, along the road toward Storm-of-Villages’ camp. It left no doubts in Wolf Tongue’s mind that they intended to deliver Pyke back to their master, though the Susquehannock wondered what had become of the biggest of the group who seemed to have been the leader. Was he the one who’d ridden past so early in the morning?
Wolf Tongue occasionally paused in his stalking just to stand, listen, and wait. He had turned quickly enough from the hunter to the prey after their failed attempt on the cliffs. Now, he reminded himself that while he again walked the trail as a predator, there might be another waiting for him if he did not keep his eyes open.
He paused again, letting the party move ahead. He didn’t want to follow so closely to allow someone to spot him. He relaxed onto his haunches and rinsed his face from a stream. Blowing the water from his lips, he glanced backward on the road, searching for more men.
Nothing.
It was exhausting being a hunter and prey at the same time, watching his quarry and constantly glancing over his shoulder, waiting for an attack. He scooped another handful of water and rubbed it into his eyes.
He rose again and stretched his arms. He had paused long enough. He couldn’t get too close, knowing the men might spot him. But he also could not lag to far behind.
With another moment’s hesitation, Wolf Tongue again stepped off. In moments, he slowed at the sound of men shouting.
Cursing behind his teeth, Wolf Tongue settled his musket on his shoulder and crept forward toward the sound. Nearly a hundred strides through the tangle of trees were Pyke and his captors.
Something had happened. Now, the surgeon stood with a pistol while the others hauled Pyke to his feet. The way Pyke stumbled as he rose, the way the man called Artem
is yanked at the rope, the way the others glared at one another all told Wolf Tongue that he had missed some commotion. He had missed an opportunity.
He ground his teeth and tightened his muscles in silent rage. He wanted to scream in frustration and rush forward. But it was too late.
Instead, Wolf Tongue bared his teeth and clamped his grip on his musket as if he’d crush its barrel with his fingers and forced his breath to come quietly.
Then, the party moved on again. Wolf Tongue watched for another moment, and then cursing, followed just close enough to keep them in his sight.
The day felt long in its repetition. Stalk forward among the shadows, keeping to the quietest ground. Pause. Search the forest and the road behind him. Listen. Watch the distinct vest beneath a swath of white bob atop the horse for a moment. Step off for another five strides.
Pause, search, listen.
Midday came and passed. They were not moving quickly, but he didn’t know how far it was to Storm-of-Villages’ camp. Was he still atop the cliffs, or had he again slithered away to some new hiding hole? He expected to see the familiar shift in the road where it led up opposite the cliffs at any moment, and the thought made him grimace and flex his fingers on his musket. He would have to act soon, or else they would be too close to their enemies’ camp, where they would hear the fight.
Wolf Tongue’s anxiety was only sharpened by the knowledge that he had yet to form a whole-hearted plan to liberate Pyke from four armed guards. The doctor, old and thin, would be little of a threat, but the others seemed hale. With a deep breath, he wondered what his clan’s ancestor, Wolf, would do.
He would need to get close. Four men with muskets or pistols would be too much. He needed to make their firearms useless, while still managing to use his at least once. Perhaps he should slip farther ahead, out and around them, then lie in wait? He could hide in the leaves and bracken along the road ahead and spring in close. He would need to move quickly, and now.
He stopped abruptly and huddled against a tree. As he’d been lost in his thoughts, the group had stopped and dismounted, seeming to take a rest. All the men lounged on the trees beside the road. Even Pyke sat now, though Wolf Tongue could still see the rope around his neck. The men seemed absorbed in chatting or warming themselves in the splashes of sunshine.
He stepped deeper into the woods until he could no longer see the road and went as quickly as stealth would allow, circling around to the far side of where his quarry sat. Better to be ahead of them on the road, especially if they stayed the way he’d seen them. They’d mostly faced inward toward Pyke. Wolf Tongue let a grim smile widen his mouth. They were making the same mistake he had. They thought they were the only predator on the road.
He heard them before he saw them again. Voices raised in a snarl, then quiet again. Then a different voice, perhaps that of the doctor, loud, but indistinct. Wolf Tongue slowed his movements as he crept closer and closer. Now he could see the group. They had stayed where they had stopped beside a tiny gurgling stream that crossed the road. The leader seemed to be badgering Pyke about something and Wolf Tongue could hear Pyke’s resonant voice distinctly.
Wolf Tongue moved closer and eyed the men. They all seemed to be there. The doctor lay against a tree on this side of the road while most of the others also lay strewn about, flat on their backs or focused on picking at their food. One of the men sat with a musket across his lap, though the others seemed unarmed and unwary. Even the leader was not carrying a weapon, though Wolf Tongue knew any might have a pistol tucked under a belt.
Now, he was only twenty strides from the group and he pulled the hammer full-cock. He could clearly hear the argument between Pyke and the leader. Again, he felt a thrumming of excitement inside his veins. It was as if all the tribes’ war drums beat silently, but their vibrations shuddered through his blood. He did not know how much closer he could sneak before being noticed.
The group went silent and Wolf Tongue stopped, shoulders tense, ready to lift his musket and fire. He thought he saw Pyke turn his head, but the soldier’s eyes flicked away too quickly to tell. The lieutenant suddenly spoke louder and with more anger. The leader leaned in closer and hissed something back.
He’s smarter than he looks, thought Wolf Tongue as he stepped off again.
The group started to laugh, and in it, Wolf Tongue could hear Pyke’s throaty call clear among the rest. It sounded almost hysterical.
Wolf Tongue shouldered his weapon and fired. The man who’d sat with his own musket screamed, and before he’d fallen to his side, the Susquehannock howled and leapt forward into a full sprint.
Men stumbled as they tried to right themselves. Wolf Tongue threw his musket with a two-handed toss that tangled the doctor. Then he was among them, tomahawk and knife in hand. The leader spun towards Wolf Tongue with a pistol at arm’s length. Wolf Tongue reached with his tomahawk, its blade barely clanging against the barrel. The gun swung down and fired, sending a spray of mud against Wolf Tongue’s legs. He stepped forward through the smoke with a knife-stroke at the leader. The man dodged and jabbed Wolf Tongue in the neck with the muzzle of his pistol.
With a choke, Wolf Tongue spun and landed a fist against the man’s ear. He saw Pyke in a flash, his hands tied, struggling with another man and his musket. The leader, off-balance and stumbling, took a blind swipe at Wolf Tongue.
He dodged easily, only to see the doctor frantically priming the pan of his musket. Wolf Tongue vaulted past the leader toward the old man. The surgeon’s eyes widened as he looked up at the charging warrior and he took his gun in his hands like a spear. Somewhere, a gun fired, though Wolf Tongue paid it no heed. The doctor’s jab was fast and strong, surprisingly so, and Wolf Tongue only managed to dance out of harm’s way at the last minute.
A sharp crack on his shoulder made him stumble into the doctor. The old man fell back against the tree and dropped his weapon. Wolf Tongue tried to right himself, only to feel another blow land across his back.
He lunged forward and around the tree, and as he turned, he saw the man he’d shot, brandishing his musket with both hands, blood streaming from his stomach. He swung and Wolf Tongue danced out of its path. He turned a quick eye to the doctor, who’d slipped past this new assailant and ran toward the horses.
Wolf Tongue surged forward, his arms tangling with the other man’s. They wrestled for a heartbeat, each trying to pin the other’s arms. In the periphery of his vision, Wolf Tongue saw the others moving, scrambling. He saw a flash of movement and a body landing in the mud. In an instant, Wolf Tongue slipped a leg past the man’s and threw himself forward, tackling the man to the ground and landing with his weight on his enemy’s chest and groin. His left hand came down with his knife.
After two brutal strokes, Wolf Tongue was again on his feet. The man who’d struggled with Pyke ran forward, his eyes wild, screaming in fury as he led with the point of a sword. Behind him, the leader and the doctor worked at a horse, tying Pyke’s limp form across the saddle. The leader yanked at a rope and had his foot in his own stirrup before Wolf Tongue turned back to his attacker.
Wolf Tongue twisted to the side and caught a heavy swing of the sword full in the crook of his tomahawk. The force of the swing made him shuffle back a step before he could attack again with a swing of his own. The man leaned back and yanked at his weapon. Unbalanced, Wolf Tongue steadied himself with a step toward the man, only to have the sword thrust toward him again.
As the silver steel flashed toward his face, Wolf Tongue wrenched his head to the side and felt a searing pain erupt along his cheek. Something solid slammed into his ribs and his breath flew from his lips.
Instinctively, Wolf Tongue threw his body backward and twisted away. The sword hissed through the air where he’d been a heartbeat ago. The man screamed, wordless and raw. He set his shoulders for another swing. Behind him, spurts of mud flew into the air from beneath horses’ hooves.
The sword came in again, aimed at Wolf Tongue’s midriff. The Susquehannock
danced back, just out of its arc, then back in slightly, following the blade. He kicked as he stepped, slamming his foot against the man’s ankle. The man tumbled forward in an awkward split, his sword pressed firmly against Wolf Tongue’s thigh.
Wolf Tongue howled as he swung his tomahawk the full length of his arm. It came down with a wet thrack in the back of the man’s head. Wolf Tongue yanked it free from the bone and swung once more.
Wolf Tongue, his jaw clenched, spun, searching for any other threat, but there was none. The man he’d shot lay on his back, his throat torn as if attacked by a dog, and the other lay facedown.
His wounds truly announced themselves and Wolf Tongue grimaced and closed his eyes for a moment. His breath came hard beneath bruised ribs. His face burned, and when he reached to it, he found the sword had cut a long gash in front of his ear and down to his jaw. A small cut on his thigh from where he’d pinned the blade surprised him, but did not seem too grievous. His back and shoulder ached from the bludgeoning. But most painful of all seemed to be his neck. The man had jabbed him in the side of the neck with his pistol and now it throbbed and felt as if it swelled in toward his airway.
He opened his eyes and looked up the road again. Around him lay the dead that he’d sent to the mud, but the doctor, the hawk-faced man, and Pyke were gone, out of sight with their horses.
Wolf Tongue slumped to sit in the mud with a heavy breath. He stared up the road for another dozen heartbeats before a rage seized hold of him. He screamed in frustration and hammered at the ground with his tomahawk. Flecks of mud flew in the air. Wolf Tongue growled through bared teeth as he slashed as if trying to destroy his rage.
Still sitting in the muck, his breath coming in quick, painful gasps, Wolf Tongue shook his head and wiped his face with one hand. When it made the pain in his cut flare up, he pulled it away and stared at the sticky blood smeared across his fingers and palm. He hacked at the earth with one more furious swing of his tomahawk.
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