Miraculously, Farkas had not been dazed by his throw from the horse, and he was scrambling to his feet to hack at Wolf Tongue, who was about to dash by.
Pyke seized the opportunity.
With a running start, he hurled himself through the air, unloaded pistol in one hand and blood-red sword in the other. Farkas must have seen him coming out of the corner of his eye, because the giant gave up on clubbing Wolf Tongue. At the last possible moment, Farkas blocked Pyke’s sword with his war club. Then, with a monstrous boot, kicked Pyke back.
Pyke stumbled, and the giant rose with incredible agility. Farkas brought his axe up and swung it down.
Pyke didn’t have his feet under him, so he tumbled backward. He hit the ground hard, then allowed his momentum to carry him, so he avoided Farkas’s axe, which thudded into the now muddy earth.
Pyke rolled to his feet and stood before the giant, sword ready. “I told you what I’d do to you, Farkas.”
The man snarled and charged.
***
Wolf Tongue finally saw him. Storm-of-Villages’ sword flashed over his head again and again as he wheeled his horse through the mire of men. His sleeves and legs were soaked with blood. His eyes had gone wide and his mouth opened to a gleeful rictus, as if frozen in a silent scream of anger and delight.
Wolf Tongue snarled the man’s name and darted forward. He was vaguely aware of a half-hearted attack from the side before he caught a glimpse of Pyke’s disheveled hair and his sword. Wolf Tongue danced to the side, but kept his eyes locked on his quarry.
One of his men fought against Storm-of-Villages now. He dodged as the horse charged and struck low. The horse tumbled forward, pitching its rider to the mud.
Wolf Tongue spun as another man came at him. He slammed the man with his shoulder and drove him back from his path. Another of his village engaged him and Wolf Tongue whirled back without seeing their fight.
Storm-of-Villages stood on his feet now as his horse flailed and danced away. The Susquehannock who’d dismounted him knelt now, both hands clawing at the mud as he slumped to his side. Storm-of-Villages stood over him, his curved sword wet and his eyes mad and searching.
A gritty howl erupted from Wolf Tongue as he leapt into a run. Storm-of-Villages’ grin grew wider.
Wolf Tongue did not stop until tomahawk and knife clanged against sword and his momentum carried him past Storm-of-Villages. Then, the two were locked. Their weapons screamed their own war cries in rapid succession of clanging metal. Wolf Tongue fought with a fury that made his arms burn. He hammered with his tomahawk again and again, stabbed and slashed with his knife.
But Storm-of-Villages met each attack with a deft twist of his sword.
Wolf Tongue pushed harder. He screamed as he drove forward, hoping to slip inside the blade’s arc. Storm-of-Villages spun, his feet kicking up a spray of water, just as his steel sliced along Wolf Tongue’s arm.
The Susquehannock clenched his teeth against the pain and righted himself just in time for another barrage of attacks. Storm-of-Villages pushed forward. His sword, now nicked from the battle, caught on Wolf Tongue’s leggings like a saw, though it did not cut skin. The moment’s pause in the thrust gave Wolf Tongue an opening. He swung his tomahawk with all his strength.
Storm-of-Villages somehow regained his weapon enough to block. The haft of the tomahawk smacked against the sword with a crack and its head broke away to slap harmlessly against Storm-of-Villages before plopping into the water.
Storm-of-Villages staggered from the shock of the blow, but righted himself. “The mighty Wolf Tongue hits me, and yet I am unwounded!” he screamed.
Wolf Tongue hesitated only a heartbeat to shove away the question of how this man knew his name. Then, he snarled and surged forward. Water splashed as he charged through the river bed. He saw Storm-of-Villages grin like a madman as he brought his sword to bear, but Wolf Tongue batted it away with his knife and slammed against him.
One hand fought with Wolf Tongue’s knife hand as he tried to slip its point into the man’s guts. His free arm pinned his foe’s to his side. He could feel the weak slaps of a sword blade against his back, but Storm-of-Villages had no leverage.
Storm-of-Villages stopped fighting with his sword and squeezed Wolf Tongue tight. The sudden movement forced air from his lungs and pinned his knife. He wriggled to free it, even as he fought to draw another breath.
Storm-of-Villages’ grip loosened suddenly. Wolf Tongue took a raspy breath and in that moment, saw his enemy’s hand move for a knife at his belt.
Wolf Tongue shoved on the man’s chest with one hand. He still held Storm-of-Villages’ sword-arm in check with his left hand as he tried to distance himself. It wasn’t fast enough and he felt a searing tear in his abdomen.
He wrenched his body away and as he spun, he brought his own knife across, slicing the length of Storm-of-Villages’ forearm. The man, now at Wolf Tongue’s back, bellowed in pain and jerked his arm, his grip on his sword loosening.
Wolf Tongue yanked the sword free and spun, swinging the sword in an arc with all his strength. His body moved to complete a full circle, but the sword slowed, pulling his arm behind him as it cut bone with a sudden, wet crackling. The force of the blow pushed Storm-of-Villages’ body sideways for a half step, his head falling to the water with a splash a breath before the rest of him toppled to bleed his lifeblood into the river.
Wolf Tongue’s momentum carried him in a twist to his knees and he watched Storm-of-Villages fall over his shoulder. He reached for his wounded stomach with one hand as he watched the last twitches of his enemy’s body. The battle around him suddenly began to thin even more quickly. Storm-of-Villages’ quhanstrono had begun to flee with the first push of the Susquehannock, and now with their leader dead, they scrambled over the black ahonesee and the mix of iomwhen, Seneca and Algonquian blood, all running for safety. Even the Oneida, likely seeing all their allies bounding their way home, had begun to retreat along the river.
Wolf Tongue watched the last moments of fighting play out with his chest heaving in short, painful gasps. Then, with his teeth bared, he thrust Storm-of-Villages’ sword into the air and screamed so that Hahgwehdiyu knew Wolf Tongue of the Wolf Clan had fulfilled his oath.
***
Pyke gritted his teeth as he tried to conjure up some hidden reserve of energy. The battle had not been long so far, but it had been fierce, both sides trying to end it as quickly as possible.
Farkas, finally showing some exhaustion, lunged for him again with the war club. It cracked against Pyke’s pistol, causing him to lose his grip. The giant closed for the kill, but Pyke bounded to the side and slashed with his sword. It was a blind, desperate swipe, but the blade caught and Pyke ripped it the rest of the way through its arc.
Farkas jumped back and cursed, his breath heavy. With his huge paw, he clutched his flank and pulled a blood-stained palm away from his side.
Pyke got back to his feet. It was all he could to do stand. He readied himself for another charge of the seemingly tireless giant, but Farkas was backing away, his eyes darting this way and that.
Around him, the enemy Indians and Azariah’s forces were turning and bolting the way they had come. The wearied Susquehannock gave chase, but they too were deeply exhausted, so most of them allowed their enemy to get away.
Looking wildly about him, Farkas cursed his warriors for their cowardice and for leaving him unguarded. Pyke stabbed forward with the sword, but Farkas saw it coming and swiped the weak thrust away.
“You’re a lucky bastard,” Farkas said. Then he took two great strides to his right, grabbed the reins of some riderless horse that had been frozen in panic, and swung atop it.
Pyke went for him with the last of his strength. His blade missed Farkas entirely and instead scratched the animal. The cut was weak, though, and instead of laming the horse caused the beast to stir and bolt away even more quickly.
Chest heaving, shoulder throbbing like the arm was going to fall off, Pyk
e could barely muster the strength to hurl one last insult at the giant. “I’ll come for you, Farkas!”
But the man paid his parting words no heed and spurred the tiny horse forward. In a few moments, he’d disappeared over the hill.
Pyke caught his breath and looked for his friend. Two dozen paces away, Wolf Tongue stood over an inert, headless body. From the Susquehannock’s triumphant posture alone, Pyke knew who the corpse was.
Azariah Bennett.
Pyke broke into a smile, and the sight of Wolf Tongue standing over their vanquished foe gave him a sudden burst of energy. He broke into a tired run and met his friend.
For a moment, they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, looking down at the corpse of Azariah Bennett. The man’s head lay in the sloshing water of the shore next to the body, its eyes frozen in a wild, agonizing stare. Perhaps they had seen the Fires of Hell awaiting his blackened soul before his spirit had been taken.
Then, Pyke and Wolf Tongue met eyes. The Susquehannock warrior broke into his familiar grin, and Pyke’s spirit soared. They had won the day against a superior force. They had completed their mission together.
Words failed him, and surprisingly, they failed his friend, who’d never been at a loss before.
Slowly, Pyke turned to survey the field of battle. Dozens of men lay scattered, dead or dying. All his training had prepared him well enough for battle, but all the training in the world could be no substitute for the real thing, he now realized. There was glory in the victory but also a strange sadness. It was as if he looked on the world with new eyes, seeing it as something else entirely.
“Who were they?” Pyke said.
Wolf Tongue knew who he was talking about without his explaining it. “The Oneida. Storm-of-Villages was wise to recruit them for this. They probably needed very little convincing to kill some of our people.”
In the distance, Pyke spotted the dissolute surgeon, Blackstone. The man was tending the wounded and appeared to be giving the last rites to the dying. Pyke’s anger flared at the turncoat traitor and his rage urged him to confront the doctor.
But as much as he wanted to arrest the surgeon, he was too tired and decided to round the man up later. Pyke would let the surgeon tend to the wounded for now. He wasn’t going anywhere.
“Kicks-the-Oneida!” Wolf Tongue suddenly shouted.
The man, eyes filled with murderous rage, stalked over. Pyke knew he shouldn’t interfere, but he couldn’t help it.
“You insubordinate bastard!” Pyke cursed at Kicks-the-Oneida, who barely seemed to notice him. The man’s eyes were on Wolf Tongue and Wolf Tongue alone.
“I was the leader of this war party,” Wolf Tongue said.
The man snarled. “The leader! Ha!”
Wolf Tongue’s eyes narrowed to slits. Pyke balled his fists. He wanted to pummel the man for nearly costing them the fight.
Kicks-the-Oneida raised his voice, loud enough for the rest of the tribe to hear, but now he spoke in his own tongue.
Wolf Tongue and he exchanged heated words. Pyke wished he understood what was being said so he could come to Wolf Tongue’s defense. He surveyed the rest of the tribe, who watched the argument with interested eyes. Pyke could not tell who had the upper hand in the argument.
They bickered for less than a minute when Kicks-the-Oneida suddenly paused and shook his head dismissively. He uttered one more disgusted sentence, and without waiting for a reply, stalked away. His followers peeled themselves away from the rest of the men and trailed him.
Wolf Tongue blew out a frustrated breath.
“What did he say?” Pyke asked.
“That it was my fault we almost lost this battle.”
“But how—”
“Because we said there were only thirty warriors.”
“We told that bastard that …”
But Wolf Tongue wasn’t listening. The Susquehannock put his head down and went to the river. Pyke wanted to reassure his friend that he had won the battle, not that damned bloody fool, but for once the Susquehannock seemed to want no company. Pyke watched him put his ankles in the river as if to cool his rage.
Pyke turned back to Azariah. It was probably pointless now, as word of this battle would spread, but he wanted no problems back in Jenkins Town with the Colonel. So he put his sword down and stooped and pulled open Azariah’s bloodied shirt at the collar. Despite the beheading, the locket the Colonel had asked for as proof of the deed still wrapped around the man’s neck. Pyke grabbed the tiny, ancient heirloom and pulled it away from the body.
He held the locket in his palm for a moment. Still kneeling, the first touches of the sheer immensity of what they’d accomplished began to grow inside him. This had been no easy mission, as the Colonel had suggested. They had faced a dangerous enemy and death and warred and still had seized the day.
He was about to stand when he heard a hammer cock into place. Someone had approached him quietly from behind. Carefully, he gripped his sword and prepared to whirl on his silent assassin.
“Why?”
The voice, so full of hurt and incomprehension, cut through him more sharply than any bullet or blade could. At the sound of it, he forgot about defending himself. He let go of the sword, stood, and faced Damaris.
Her dress, the one she’d been wearing the day he’d left Jenkins Town, was in tatters. Her hair flew wildly about her. Tears streamed her dirt-blackened face. One eye was blackened. Pyke imagined Azariah’s fist hitting her when he’d discovered she’d let him go.
And a pistol filled her delicate hands.
“Damaris—”
She was ten feet away.
“WHY!?!”
She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled the trigger, and Pyke knew he was dead.
The pistol boomed in the quiet afternoon air.
Twenty-Two – A True Return
Wolf Tongue stalked into the water and stood feeling the chill of it around his calves. He looked south, watching brown and watery red swirl in the current towards his home. He had bested Kicks-the-Oneida to become a war chief. And despite that idiot’s refusal to listen, Wolf Tongue managed to defeat Storm-of-Villages. He had won and saved much of his tribe and he should be jubilant.
But he wasn’t. Around him, many of his kin lay wounded or dead. And Kicks-the-Oneida still denied him his right as a war chief.
But Kicks-the-Oneida was only one man, and Wolf Tongue had certainly proven himself. The rest of the village knew what had happened, or would soon. Fox’s Smile would know her husband for a hero.
It struck him then, that it was not for honor from the tribe or even for Lifting Smoke’s respect he’d begun his journey. It was for him and Fox’s Smile.
She had offered to go away to be married. And her mother had always approved, at least tacitly, of their romance. Lifting Smoke had little say in her future, though Fox’s Smile had certainly wanted to maintain a happy family.
No, he never needed their acceptance. And only now that he had survived the fire, though singed, he saw what he needed. He needed to prove his worth to himself so he might feel worthy of Fox’s Smile.
He looked to his right where Kicks-the-Oneida looted the men he’d killed. He was a capable war chief, but Wolf Tongue had proven better. Doubtless he would continue to be a burr in Wolf Tongue’s moccasin, but it did not matter, not really.
A sudden scream nearby made Wolf Tongue flinch and whirl around. A woman stood on the shore in front of Pyke with a pistol in her hands. Her face was scrunched up, eyes closed, pistol angled awkwardly in her hands, aimed at Pyke.
Wolf Tongue charged through the water toward her with Storm-of-Villages’ sword still in hand.
Before he could reach her, she fired. A blast of smoke belched from the weapon not more than three strides from Pyke.
Wolf Tongue glanced once at Pyke, who seemed suddenly frozen, though no worse than he had been moments ago. She had missed.
The woman opened her eyes to see Wolf Tongue rushing toward her. With tears clearing clean
swaths down her grimy face, she screamed in fury and swung the pistol with her whole body.
Wolf Tongue easily sidestepped the clumsy strike and the woman tumbled forward to her knees.
“Hold!”
Pyke’s voice was hard as steel. Wolf Tongue glanced to his friend who looked not at him, but at the woman. She turned her face up to the soldier and then her shoulders slumped as if her spirit were ready to flee.
“She is under my care,” said Pyke in a pained voice. “And I would take her prisoner.”
Wolf Tongue pulled the pistol from her grip with little resistance. She simply sat on her knees, shoulders slumped, hands splayed. Her shoulders shook with soft crying.
He handed the pistol to Pyke. “I don’t think she’s ever fired one of these before. You’re lucky she was aiming at you.”
Pyke nodded but did not return the smile. Instead, he stepped forward to the woman. He wrenched her arms out and trussed her wrists together. He said nothing, and the woman made no protests but the wet breathing of her weeping.
Wolf Tongue watched them for a moment, wondering. The way Pyke moved and the woman accepted his touch made it seem as if they already knew one another. A sister or cousin, perhaps? Or could this even be the woman Pyke had planned to marry?
No, Wolf Tongue decided with a shake of his head and a tiny chuckle. No sane man would marry a woman who would try to kill him.
He moved toward the body of Storm-of-Villages. He had earned his spoils this day and he planned to reap them in full. He rolled the corpse over to rid him of what was valuable. Then he would take the scalp as a trophy.
***
The war party moved slowly back to their village. Many of the men were wounded, and those who weren’t carried the others and the dead. A few men, Bone Snake included, had disarmed and captured some of their enemies and now marched them back as slaves. Those who’d seen the lightest fighting Wolf Tongue sent as scouts to guard their party in case the Oneida decided for one more coup.
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