Wolf Tongue blinked once as he absorbed the news. Pyke, here? He was still alive? Or was this another trick of Storm-of-Villages?
He set off at a jog toward the entrance to the village with Fox’s Smile running beside him. As he neared the east edge of the village, he could see a collection of people just beyond the wall of trees, though he could not see through them. He slowed to a brisk walk to force his way through the crowd, which soon parted for him when they saw who he was.
The people had formed an impromptu circle, the faces of its inner wall included that of Lifting Smoke and Kicks-the-Oneida, both of whom looked up at Wolf Tongue’s approach. Before them, in the center of the circle stood a man holding the reins of a horse. As if startled, the man looked back over one shoulder and reached at his hip, though the sword he’d carried was no longer with him.
Pyke smiled a tiny crooked smile as his light eyes recognized him. Wolf Tongue did not slow in his walk, but strode forward and wrapped his friend in an embrace. Pyke hesitated for a moment, seemingly shocked, then returned the hug.
Wolf Tongue stepped back, his hands on Pyke’s arms. He looked up and down the soldier, noting the purple discolorations on his arms, the black circles under his eyes, and the grime that smeared his face and clothes.
“You look like your horse rode you all the way here,” he said.
Pyke shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”
“How are you here?” asked Wolf Tongue.
“I escaped,” said Pyke. Then, with another shake of his head and a grim smile, he added, “I’ll tell you about it later. But your people are in danger.”
“You said that before,” interrupted Kicks-the-Oneida. “You came to us and bring war with you. We asked for no war with this man. Wolf Tongue brings it here, and so do you.”
Pyke looked over. “You know?”
Wolf Tongue pursed his lips. “I know Storm-of-Villages will not be happy with me. Nor with you now.”
Pyke nodded, his light eyes urgent and more serious than Wolf Tongue remembered. “He’s coming. I was in their camp, and he knows everything. He knows the Colonel sent me and he knows you are Susquehannock and of your village. He cannot stand against the British army, and he knows this. But he can mount an attack here, and he plans to. You must prepare, or he will sweep through here like the Archangel’s sword.”
“How do you know?” interrupted Kicks-the-Oneida.
Pyke turned to him. “I was wounded and captured. They took me to his camp and I learned of his plans of vengeance before I escaped. He will come to fight. I promise you.”
Kicks-the-Oneida made a disgusted sound at the back of his throat. “This half-blood of the Mohawk and little quhanstrono is no threat to us. If we go to war, we wait for him to come and I will face him.”
“You don’t understand,” said Wolf Tongue, feeling the heat rise in his face. “Storm-of-Villages does not come to parlay and trade and fight in the circle for his honor. He will not come to take a payment for his dead and leave.”
“How many warriors?” asked one of the elder men behind Wolf Tongue.
“I saw thirty. Perhaps forty in their camp,” said Pyke over his shoulder.
“Thirty quhanstrono?” asked Kicks-the-Oneida with incredulity. “Against the Susquehannock? Why do we even debate this any more?” The anger in him was evident now as he glared at Wolf Tongue.
“He is crafty,” said Pyke. “And because I saw only thirty men does not mean that there are not many more.”
Kicks-the-Oneida waved his hand in the air. “Enough. I am our war chief. If this man does come for us, he will attack up the hill in a straight line, relying on his muskets like all quhanstrono. We will crush him like we always have. The Susquehannock are warriors.”
“Then be a warrior!” screamed Wolf Tongue, taking a step forward. “Our people once ruled this entire land because our ancestors gloried in war. Because we stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the battlefield to the last man. We did not wait for the Lenape to attack us or hide behind our palisade waiting for the Iroquois to reload their muskets. The arrow never loosed kills no rabbits. And the rabbits who wait get trapped in their holes.”
Kicks-the-Oneida stepped closer and stabbed one hand toward Pyke. “You two bring this down on us! He comes for vengeance against you, not me. I saw to that!”
Wolf Tongue’s teeth clacked together. So it was true. He had been fooled.
The older man snorted and shook his head as he spoke in Susquehannock now. “You did not think we would let the quhanstrono take our best warrior. You never even hit me in the head, and yet I bled. I saw to it that our tribe was protected while fooling that soldier. Perhaps it would be better if I had gone because now Storm-of-Villages would be dead.”
Wolf Tongue forced words to come past the tightness in his throat. “Then we were all told lies. The Colonel knew not of what he spoke. His messenger dragged us, our whole tribe, into something bigger than he thought. And now Storm-of-Villages comes. Whether it’s my fault or no, he comes. And he tricked me in the past and I nearly died for it. I will not let that happen again.”
Kicks-the-Oneida jabbed his hand at Pyke again. “He follows your quhanstrono pet. He comes but for vengeance, so let him take the English and he will leave.”
Wolf Tongue’s eyes widened again, but Fox’s Smile spoke before he could.
“That’s unwise,” she said. Wolf Tongue heard the hidden tension in her voice. “The English are our allies and if we anger them, we cannot go to the French. Giving an English officer over to his death would only bring down the English on us instead of Storm-of-Villages.”
Kicks-the-Oneida straightened his shoulders and looked at Pyke. Switching back to English, he said, “It’s you Storm-of-Villages comes for. If we give you to him, the English will never know.”
Pyke’s face grew dark with a sneer. “I escaped once. If you hand me over, I’ll do it again just so I can return for you.”
Kicks-the-Oneida stepped toward Pyke and Wolf Tongue lashed out with one hand. He slapped his palm against Kicks-the-Oneida’s chest. “No,” he said. “This man is a friend and you are a fool. If you won’t lead in war like a Susquehannock, then I will.”
Kicks-the-Oneida turned a grimace back to Wolf Tongue and brushed his hand away. “You challenge me? Again?”
Wolf Tongue shifted the war club in his hand. “This time maybe you’ll actually fight like a Susquehannock.”
Kicks-the-Oneida growled and yanked his tunic from his back and tossed it to the ground. Wolf Tongue stepped back and disrobed the same while someone herded Pyke and his horse back to give the combatants room.
Wolf Tongue caught himself beginning to turn to Fox’s Smile, then stopped. He remembered the painful concern he’d seen in her eyes last time. He did not want to see it again.
He would need to end this quickly. Use his anger before his wounds wore him down.
Kicks-the-Oneida stepped forward with his club ready. Wolf Tongue matched his step and abruptly leaned back as the ball-head of the club hissed past his face. Wolf Tongue stumbled backward and spun, surprised by the vehemence and anger in the strike. Kicks-the-Oneida was indeed fighting like a Susquehannock.
He came in again with a quick swing. Wolf Tongue blocked with his club and surged forward, slamming elbow against jaw. A knee slammed against his thigh. He swung his club, trying to force some space. It hit Kicks-the-Oneida’s shoulder as he raised his hand for another strike, putting him off balance.
Wolf Tongue lashed out, throwing his body weight in a punch to his opponent’s sternum. Kicks-the-Oneida reeled from the hit while Wolf Tongue pitched forward with the momentum. He landed on his knees, his fist clenched around the club in the dirt.
Kicks-the-Oneida, still standing, pulled one foot back as if readying for a kick.
Wolf Tongue punched again, knuckles cracking against Kicks-the-Oneida’s shin, sending the kick in the other direction.
Wolf Tongue scrambled to his feet and attacked. Again and again, he
swung the club, searching for an opening and screaming his war cry. Kicks-the-Oneida was ready for each and roared like the bear of his people. Wood thracked against wood like sharp thunder or hissed through the air like angry wind.
Kicks-the-Oneida’s punch turned Wolf Tongue’s face. Though the blow made his eyes swim in a flash of white, he instinctively raised his club. It blocked a another swing of Kicks-the-Oneida’s weapon, but the force twisted it from his hand and yanked Wolf Tongue’s arm wide. He twisted, turning his back to his opponent. He continued his spin and blindly swung his other hand in a mad backhand that crashed into Kicks-the-Oneida’s temple.
The older man staggered to the side, but came rushing back to meet Wolf Tongue. The two clashed together with a slap of skin on skin. Wolf Tongue fought to tie down Kicks-the-Oneida’s weapon, struggling against the bigger man’s bulk. Another punch landed on his jaw, though less harsh than the first. His feet struggled in the mud, tangling with Kicks-the-Oneida’s.
He was vaguely aware of shouts, of encouragement, but for whom he did not know. His world was all the fight, hands prying at fingers and jaws, feet scrabbling for purchase and leverage. Wolf Tongue slipped one hand free to land a series of punches to the ribs before he was again struggling for free movement.
Kicks-the-Oneida yanked his club free and raised it up over his head, a look of rage and hunger on his face. Wolf Tongue snapped his head forward as hard as he could, slamming his forehead against the other man’s nose. Kicks-the-Oneida stumbled only for an instant, but it was enough. Wolf Tongue slipped a leg behind his opponent and swept him from his feet. Kicks-the-Oneida plummeted to the mud with Wolf Tongue diving down on top.
Wolf Tongue drove punch after punch at the older man, who weaved his club before his face to deflect the heaviest. Wolf Tongue wrenched the weapon from his hands and in that instant, he felt the details of the handle. The cross-hatching in the wood that touched his palm before it turned to the knotted leather, the feather fetish tied to the haft brushing the back of his hand, the hard boniness and solid muscle of Kicks-the-Oneida’s shoulder pinned under his knee.
And in that instant, Wolf Tongue raised the captured war club high in the air, his heart thundering like his clan’s ancestor ready for the kill, ready to pull down the heavens on top of his enemy.
But he held his hand, club still raised as he stared at Kicks-the-Oneida. The older man bled from the face and nose. His eyes had trouble focusing. Wolf Tongue stared, suddenly aware of his own heaving, rasping breaths and of the blood that dripped from his face onto his chest.
Still holding the war club extended into the air, he stood. Then, he tossed it to the ground beside Kicks-the-Oneida with a faint plop.
With a look to Lifting Smoke, Wolf Tongue said, “I will lead the war party.”
Twenty – The War Council
Pyke grimaced in pain while the healer finished his work. The ancient Indian applied some foul-smelling paste to the shoulder wound, which had reopened from all the travel and rough riding of the last few days.
Wolf Tongue entered the longhouse and padded over. “Here,” he said holding out Pyke’s sword. “I don’t want it. It nearly sliced my face off.”
Pyke took the blade and touched its cold steel. He felt whole again with his sword. It had been his father’s. “Does the council begin soon?”
Wolf Tongue nodded. “And remember: speak only when spoken to.”
Pyke felt the sharp sting of pain as new dressings were wound tightly around him. “That’s a rule you don’t seem to care for too much,” he said through gritted teeth.
The Susquehannock grinned. “The rules are different for you and me here. Your points will be better taken if you abide the customs.”
The healer hadn’t spoken to Pyke at all and now he merely offered a broad smile that revealed a toothless mouth. Pyke took that as a gesture that the man was finished his work, so he carefully wrapped himself up in the cloak Fox’s Smile had scrounged up for him.
“How did you find this village without your Indian guide?” Wolf Tongue said with that irrepressible smirk of his. They left the longhouse where the healer lived with his extended family and padded along the soft earth of the village.
Pyke was about to answer in earnest, but thought better of it. “I followed the stench.”
Wolf Tongue guffawed and led him on.
The roughness of his last frenzied journey stayed with Pyke. The bruises and soreness in his legs and back reminded him. After Damaris had let him go, he had set out in the general direction of the village. Through the night he rode, going as hard as he could in the scarce light until he broke for an hour or two before dawn. When he grew thirsty, he kneeled to drink from the same stream as the horse. When his belly ached with hunger, he ignored it because he didn’t have time to hunt and eat. He’d been without proper food for two days and was dizzy from it, but he’d pressed on.
All the time wondering what had happened to Wolf Tongue after his attempted rescue on the road.
Then, Pyke had climbed to his feet and made for Artemis to stir confusion and fear in his captors. But after that, his recollection was vague. He’d scuffled with someone and then there was a gap in memory and the next thing he recalled was waking up tied over a horse as they galloped toward Azariah’s camp. The entire time, he had figured Wolf Tongue for dead and was mourning the loss of his friend.
Not that there had been much time to mourn for others, because soon Azariah’s men were upon him, then Azariah, and then Damaris had …
He cleared her from his mind like the Prussians cleared the fields of Penn’s Woods to cultivate their fields. He had thought enough about Miss Bennett the last two days, and haunting visions of her and imagined changes in their last conversation would not help him now.
By the end of his first day of riding, his horse was deathly exhausted, so he permitted the animal three hours rest. Then he walked beside it for another couple of hours before remounting and pressing on through the cold darkness of the night.
Along the road, he’d spotted a wagon transporting a Prussian family somewhere. He asked the man leading it where the Susquehannock village was. With halting English, the man pointed him to the south-east. Pyke rode on. At times, he worried that he’d passed it or missed a turn in the dingy roads.
But then he had come upon it suddenly. A hill, a palisade, a great curtain of smoke rising into the clear blue air of late winter. It had almost felt like coming home.
“Remember what I told you,” Wolf Tongue said as they neared the roaring fire.
The entire village had come out for this council. It reminded Pyke of the few town hall meetings he’d attended in Jenkins Town. Lifting Smoke, the apparent chief, sat on the other side of the fire. Pyke watched as Fox’s Smile did not take her place beside her father, as he would have expected, but rather came over to sit beside Wolf Tongue. And to think: the two were not even married!
He found himself envying their affection and so he put his mind back to important things.
As if some hidden signal that Pyke could not see were passed, all grew silent. Lifting Smoke, with a little girl in his lap, spoke in his own language. Most of the words were incomprehensible to Pyke, the few he picked up from Wolf Tongue not enough to make sense of a grave discussion. Fox’s Smile sensed his confusion and translated for him. “Wolf Tongue will lead the war party. It has been decided. And a great honor for him.”
Pyke watched the strange ceremony with fascination. Lifting Smoke’s tone did not match his words, as if he weren’t happy at all that Wolf Tongue would be honored.
“He is also young to lead, and so we must help him,” Lifting Smoke said.
Pyke glanced at his friend, noting the smallest change of expression in his face: a slight tightening of the lips. He caught Fox’s Smile brushing her hand against Wolf Tongue’s, anticipating her man’s reaction.
Fox’s Smile continued to translate for Pyke.
“We know how to war. How to stand shoulder-to-shoulder.
But this time we fight a strange enemy. We must discuss the best way to confront him,” Lifting Smoke said.
In that moment, Pyke knew Lifting Smoke for what he was. A politician. The man had said a lot but committed to nothing, deferring to others to speak their minds no doubt to gauge the tribe’s overall reaction to each proposal. Then he would deftly swoop in to support the most popular decision and steer everyone toward it. Pyke had seen the charade before, and it was one of the reasons why he detested politics so much. And politicians. Men like Thornwood. And Colonel Bennett.
“We should fight like Susquehannock,” Kicks-the-Oneida said. “There is no other way worthy of a warrior.”
There was a whooping, supportive chorus that died quickly. Though Kicks-the-Oneida had answered Lifting Smoke, his dark eyes were on Wolf Tongue.
Wolf Tongue then surprised everyone, Pyke included. “I agree with you.”
Kicks-the-Oneida was taken aback, having expected dissent. Pyke wondered what lay at the heart of the two Indians’ enmity. Was it just his friend’s sharp tongue, always needling and antagonizing? Or did the other man truly feel threatened by Wolf Tongue?
Wolf Tongue continued, “The Susquehannock way is to outfight and outthink the enemy.” He looked to Pyke and switched to English. “Storm-of-Villages will not face us as we are used to. It will not be the same as fighting the Oneida. He will use stealth and cunning and deceit.”
“He will be coward, like all English,” Kicks-the-Oneida said with a sneer in thickly accented English.
Pyke knew he hadn’t been addressed, but he didn’t care. “Storm-of-Villages has openly defied the Crown. He is mad, but not a coward. Quite the opposite. And I would have words with any man who challenges the courage of the English.”
Kicks-the-Oneida ignored him, but Pyke controlled his rage at the insult. He felt Wolf Tongue’s disapproving eyes on him. He had spoken when not addressed.
“How many with Storm-of-Villages?” Lifting Smoke said in his own tongue, looking directly at him.
Language of the Bear Page 26