Beyond the Great River (People of the Longhouse Book 1)

by Zoe Saadia

  The silence lasted for less than a heartbeat. Interrupted by the thundering crack of a breaking branch, it brought the warriors back to life all at once, sent them darting into the shadowy grove. Shouts followed, and the muffled sounds of a struggle. In a few more heartbeats, two of the men were back, dragging a crumbled form, bloodied and stunned, bumping against protruding roots.

  This time he held his tongue, even though his heart jumped all the way to his throat, for he didn’t need to come closer to recognize the healer who had saved Akweks, the man’s long limbs dangling listlessly, offering no worthwhile resistance. The warriors who brought him dropped their cargo, disdainful, not hurrying to finish him off or make sure their charge wasn’t about to do something harmful.

  “Useless piece of meat couldn’t even move quietly, let alone fight.”

  One look at the barely animated form made Tsitenha shrug with indifference. “Must be a stupid manure-eater who fell behind. Finish him off.”

  “Wait!” Again, the dark stares. Okwaho rushed forward, paying them enough attention to make sure no one brought his club up yet. “Don’t kill him.” The two warriors stared as though he had just sprouted another head. “This man can tell us things. About the ambushers. Or anything else. No need to kill him before we make him talk.”

  Eyeing the bushes that separated them from the edge of the cliff, the leader snorted. “And how do you propose to ask, or understand his replies?” The tip of his moccasin, smeared with mud and still dripping with water, jolted the groaning man with enough force to make him roll over, revealing the terrified face, bruised and plastered with fresh earth. “Unless the few days in their woods made you learn how to speak their tongue.”

  “I can ask him with signs.” He tried to catch the healer’s gaze, to reassure him somehow, but under the coat of the mud, it was difficult to do that. “He must have…”

  The memory of this man’s ashen face, tired and sweaty, concentrated, determined to help Akweks, and later on, to allow him, Okwaho, to take his wounded friend away before this man’s people found them, brought another, making him gasp. The people who were looking for him back upon the first shore. They must have been here by now. Otherwise, why would the healer run all over this place?

  “They are here, the people who were after me, they are here now, too.” More faces turned to stare at him. He tried to concentrate on his hearing, to listen to the woods.

  “Those who were shooting at us?” Tsitenha spent no time on demanding explanations and clarifications. His entire pose screaming the highest of alerts, he was obviously probing with his senses, as tense as an overstretched bowstring.

  “No, other people. Those who were chasing me here.”

  “Are they here now?”

  “Yes.”

  Again, no questions as to how he came by this knowledge. His appreciation of the man grew.

  “Spread out. Check this part of the cliff again.” These words addressed no one in particular, yet the warriors reacted all at once, wondrously coordinated, like many parts of one body.

  Okwaho stayed near the prisoner, just in case, wishing he had her command of foreign tongues, to question the man, or to reassure him, or both. He had a fair guess why the other party had stopped shooting, leaving its position the moment his people began climbing that cliff. Clearly, they did not have enough men to invite a face-to-face battle. Yet, where were the healer’s companions, those who combed the first shore? Why was he wandering here all alone?

  The commotion coming from the river answered the last question, even if partially. There was an obvious fighting there, but if the leader didn’t worry about it, he decided not to pay too much attention to it either. They had enough warriors left to deal with the ill-organized locals. And yet, he owed her much, her brother’s life being only one of the ways to repay them both.

  The man groaned again, this time actually squirming, trying to sit up. Okwaho knelt beside him. But for the ability to use at least a few words of their tongue!

  “I’ll make sure you are not killed,” he whispered, trying to relay a confidence he didn’t feel. Had the man been in better condition and maybe only tied, he would have cut the ropes, helping the captive slip into the safety of his native woods, setting him free, repaying the debt. As it was, he needed to do more, to reassure that one, somehow, until able to do something. “Can you walk?” Even the gesturing was impossible as by doing so he would attract his fellow warriors’ attention.

  The sanity flowed into the gaping eyes all at once, as though the man actually understood. Frowning painfully, he whispered back, a long, hectic phrase. Okwaho shrugged, then patted the wide shoulder and got up.

  In time, as it turned out, just as the air exploded with war cries and branches cracking under many running feet, with the familiar hissing of arrows adorning the bedlam. Ready, his fellow warriors did not need to coordinate their actions, spreading in the direction of the noise while diving for the plenty of cover the trees and bushes provided.

  Thanking the spirits for making him drag the healer’s bow along, although back upon the accursed shore, it had been tempting to leave it behind, to carry nothing but his wounded friend, Okwaho darted toward the group next to Tsitenha, adjusting one of the arrows as he did.

  Diving into the safety of their bushes, he listened rather than looked, trying to determine the direction the danger was coming from. From behind, his senses told him, but as he turned carefully, pressing close to the damp earth, another volley of arrows came from his left, unexpectedly so. Were they surrounded?

  “The five of you, go there. Circumvent the shooters from the direction of the rising sun. Signal the moment your first arrow is about to fly out.” Tsitenha’s whisper rasped by his ear, welcome in its unperturbed confidence, calming. “You stay.” Another curt whisper made Okwaho stop in mid-turn. “Those are more of your pursuers, to our left, aren’t there?”

  “Yes, I think so.” He forced his mind off the healer he had left behind, hoping that by now, the man had enough sense to pick himself up and scamper away into the woods. “And the ambushers who returned for some reason.”

  “You seem to understand the enemy surprisingly well.” The thread of animosity in the leader’s voice was unmistakable. And unsettling. Until now, the man was unperturbed, no matter what news, in perfect control. Okwaho swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth. Would he be accused of treason, cowardice, or suspect loyalties by this man as well? “Why did they return?”

  “I suppose … I suppose they managed to communicate with their people down there by the river, those who were chasing me.” He swallowed again. “I suppose they think they are now a large enough group to stand up to us.” He licked his lips, staring into the momentarily calm clusters of trees, with no one shooting, or moving for that matter. It was safer to study the lay of the land instead of standing the leader’s dark gaze. “But I think they are wrong. We are still more numerous and much better organized.”

  He felt more than saw the man nodding curtly.

  “The moment our men start shooting, we’ll run out and close the distance between the enemy ahead of us. Go and tell this to the rest of our men.”

  Crawling the length of their bushes and then running low, zigzagging between the trees, refreshed him a little, the solitude of this errand welcome, helping to organize his thoughts. Tsitenha might have grown angry with him, as they all would, but he was attentive to his words, not about to toss them aside without due consideration. The man was wise and experienced, not above listening to younger people if what they said made sense. But had his words, indeed, made sense? And what to do about the village? How could he prevent his people from harming it, while not coming to harm themselves? Was there a way to do that? No, of course there wasn’t. They came here to raid, to punish the enemy for similar raids, to go back carrying valuables and supplies of food. There was no other way of dealing with the enemy. And yet… Yet, it was up to him to make sure her village wasn’t harmed.

  On the
other side, their men were split equally, in pairs and trios, crouching behind their various covers, watching intently.

  “Tsitenha says to run in the direction of the shooters when our men give the signal.”

  He was about to crawl on when a hand grabbed his shoulder. “No need to rub your stomach more than necessary. I’ll signal the rest of our men.” The warrior who said that grinned good-naturedly. “See this grove up there? There are some dung eaters that sneaked in a short while ago. We are keeping them in sight. Go back and tell our leader we will be taking care of those upon a signal.”

  Okwaho shielded his eyes against the midday glow, trying to see the pointed hill. “Where did they come from?”

  “From up there, opposite to our location.” This time, the squinting gaze looked at him with a measure of seriousness. “To the right of the rising sun.”

  “Did you see them?”

  “No, but had they come from any other direction we would have.”

  “They came from the village.” He heard himself muttering the words, still not sure how this conclusion was to help them. “They must have been sent for, the reinforcements.”

  “By the dung eaters who tried to ambush us?” All eyes were upon him now, narrow and thoughtful.

  “Yes. And if so…”

  He shut his eyes to make his mind clear of irrelevant thoughts. The ambushes had sent for more people when they saw their canoes nearing. Then they started shooting, disrupting the progress of the fleet, forcing the invaders to get out and fight away from the village and not on the ground of their choosing. But why did they leave, if they expected reinforcements? Unless…

  “They didn’t sneak away,” he breathed. “They tried to deceive us into chasing them!”

  The warriors around him just stared, with no disapproval marring their gazes, not this time. “Where is that village?” asked the man who detained him.

  “Up there, behind the hill.”

  Several heads nodded. “It makes sense.”

  “You better go back and tell the leader of our observations and your conclusions. He would know what to do with it.”

  The sincerity of their gazes made him feel better. So not everyone thought him to be nothing but an argumentative nuisance, or worse. There were those who were prepared to listen, despite his young age and the dubious circumstances of his survival.

  Yet, it would not last, he knew, crawling away, cursing the rocks and branches and pinecones that covered this ground, making it their business to get in his way, to tear at his bruises and scratches. His solution would not be acceptable, not by even the most open-minded of the warriors.

  “Our people are ready. They’ll wait for the signal.” Back next to Tsitenha, he felt his tension welling, threatening to get the better of him. He would have to bring the matter up soon now. “But there are enemy warriors lurking up there, in that grove. Our people saw them.”

  The leader’s lips pressed tighter. “Who saw them?”

  “Ahsen and his people. He said they’ll take care of them upon the signal.”

  “Good.” The man nodded stiffly. “You two,” he said, addressing a pair of warriors, “go there, but return and join our attack if they can take care of them by themselves. The rest of you, be ready to attack the manure eaters who were shooting from the woods.”

  “And the enemy at the riverside?” asked someone.

  “We’ll take care of them after we have finished the main group. Attacked from both sides, they’ll be surprised, thrown out of balance, easier to deal with.” A brief glance in the direction Okwaho returned from. “Especially if Ahsen takes care of his grove quickly and joins us from yet another direction.”

  “So they are surrounding us, and we are surrounding them,” muttered Okwaho, knowing that it was time now, struggling against the temptation to keep quiet. It was different back with Kayeri, whose decisions were plain stupid. He didn’t need to summon special courage to argue, the words of protest coming up all by themselves, plain logic pushing him into suggesting all sorts of better solutions.

  Yet now, oh, now it was an entirely different situation. Tsitenha was a good leader, wise, experienced, enterprising. He was making all the right choices, taking all the correct steps, doing what needed to be done, and but for the obligation to save the village, her village, he, Okwaho, would never have dreamed of arguing or making trouble.

  “Surrounding us won’t help them,” said someone. “We are stronger and more numerous than they are. Not to mention our fighting skills and our spirit. They are nothing but rats who have gathered enough courage to shoot from a great distance, scampering away as soon as we left our boats. Filthy rats!”

  “They didn’t scatter. They tried to ambush us again.”

  This time, even Tsitenha turned to watch him. “What are you trying to say?”

  “The people who are facing Ahsen came from the village. They must have coordinated their actions, or maybe sent for reinforcements while preparing the first ambush.” Using his elbow, he shoved away a pinecone that was jutting against his side. “By pretending to run away, their War Chief tried to lure us into following them, exposing ourselves, making an easy target.”

  This time, the measuring gaze was accompanied by one arching eyebrow.

  “They have a war chief?”

  Before he could mumble something to explain how he came by this knowledge, a loud cry that sounded like a giant bird from the underworld of the Evil Twin made them all nearly jump, although they had expected it, of course.

  “Follow me!” Not making sure if his words were obeyed or not, Tsitenha burst out in a low run, as the sounds of yet another developing battle reached them.

  Okwaho jumped to his feet together with the rest of them, forgetting his qualms for a moment. The foreigner’s club was lighter, not as sturdy or long as his original one, but he didn’t feel like complaining, glad to have a good fighting weapon, something to rely upon. No bow or knife could rival this; or the pure satisfaction of the attack. No more defensive maneuvering, or running away. He had had enough of these.

  The small clearing greeted them with a volley of arrows, forcing those who had yet to cross to duck for cover. Panting behind a cluster of bushes, Okwaho scanned the shadowy trees. A man beside him was struggling with a feathered shaft in his side, trying to get up, making much noise. Glancing at the fallen bow, its arrow still pointed, Okwaho crawled next to the wounded.

  “Stay where you are, Brother,” he gasped, taking hold of the twitching shoulders. “Let me see.”

  The arrow was buried deep in the man’s lower torso, in a most unpromising way.

  “We’ll make you comfortable here for now.” Wrestling to pull the fallen warrior into a sitting position without hurting him more than necessary, he heard the others running past them, some pausing, but only for a heartbeat. “Sit here. We’ll be back shortly.”

  A blood-smeared palm clasped his arm in a surprisingly crushing grip. “Don’t forget to come back.” The colorless lips moved with an effort, cracked and fading already. “Don’t forget.”

  “I won’t.”

  More arrows flew, in every direction now, theirs and the enemies’, difficult to tell apart. Trying to spot their prey among shadows darting between the trees, Okwaho straightened up, only to halt as abruptly. His club leaping high, in a perfect accord with his lurching heart, he peered at the man who pressed against the nearby trunk, staring back, aghast. It was easy to recognize the haunted form, yet not as easy to make his hands stop their progress. His club jerked aside at the last moment, to strike the nearest cluster of bushes, instead.

  “Why are you still here?” he cried out, then drew a deep breath, trying to calm the frantic pounding of his heart. The healer seemed to be in a passable shape, beaten yes, yet not hurt. But for his fright, he might have already made it back to his people.

  “Go away. Go to your people.” Reinforcing his words with appropriate gesturing, he readied at the sound of more footsteps, but these belonged
to his fellow warriors, as he was quick to discover, with Tsitenha in their lead. A quick glance that clearly took in the entire picture, the wounded, the captive, and Okwaho, did not interfere with the leader’s vigorous gesturing, as he sent some of the men to circumvent the clearing ahead, their bows pointed and ready.

  Another wave of a hand with a club indicated Okwaho. Finish that one off and follow. The message was unmistakable.

  With the renewed outburst of arrows forcing them to duck, or to press against the nearest trees, the gasps and groans of those who were hit while running around the clearing reached their ears. The enemy was clearly able to guess their intentions, not about to give up.

  Tsitenha cursed softly. Kneeling between the branches, he shot arrow after arrow, as did some of his followers, drawing the cries of the hit enemy in their turn. Okwaho wished he had picked up the bow of the wounded man. Wondering if he might make it if darting between the thick trunks, he saw that the owner of the desired weapon was already listless, dead without being seen into his Sky Journey, all alone, with no one to calm him and help him into his new beginning.

  His chest tightened. Was this the fate that awaited all of them? No, not with so many warriors and an able leader, but still, many would be on their way to the Sky World tonight. Too many. Them and the enemy. But for what purpose? Was this village that important to sacrifice so many lives in order to take some of its goods?

  “The damn locals!” muttered Tsitenha. “We must finish this quickly. Can’t stay in these accursed woods for the entire day.”

  The accursed woods, indeed, reflected Okwaho, clutching his club tightly. But for the girl…

  The thought hit him again, made him curse his own stupidity. She must be somewhere around, having led her people here in the first place in order to save him. No, she was not the type to leave once the fighting had begun. She would be in the thickest of it, judging by the night of the battle with the villagers. She would be around, trusting him still, most likely, able to speak both of their tongues …