That one laughed, but he stepped back, away from her; his armor clicked together at the sides, where it was laced up. “None of us is hurt,” he said, loudly. “We can’t be hurt. Tok Pakal keeps us under his protection.”
“Then you don’t need me,” she said, and walked out from between them, going back to the camp.
They let her go. She kept her pace slow, her head up, each step farther from them. Then suddenly they were after her again.
She stopped, tingling all over, knowing it would do no good to run. They surrounded her. But now it was different, now they were begging.
“Come with us. Please.” The man with the sore on his neck made a prayerful gesture with his hands. “We won’t hurt you. Please.”
She followed them down the riverbank to the south, past the edge of the camp. There some green trees still grew, and some grass was left, and these few leather men had a camp there—a fire pit, a scatter of clothes and sleeping mats.
On one mat, a wounded man.
He was lying on his back under a little tree, in the shade, one knee drawn up. She sat beside, him, and put one hand out to touch the hole in his side, blue and sunken in around the edges.
“Where is the arrow?”
“We took it out,” said the man with the sore on his neck. “It didn’t seem so bad, it glanced off his armor, it didn’t go in very deep. Now—”
The wounded man moaned, his eyelids fluttering; his skin was hot and dry under Epashti’s hand. She stroked his face a moment, trying to soothe him. He coughed, a hollow burst out of his chest, and she smelled poison in his breath.
“Bring me the arrow.”
The leather man jerked his head, and somebody else ran. The man before her gave her a pleading look. “Will he die? He’s my brother.”
“When did this happen?”
“Two days ago.”
She put her hand to the wound again, feeling the heat in him. “Does he eat?” Someone else came back, with an arrow in his hand.
“No.”
She took the arrow, a slender ash twig, like every other arrow she had ever seen. The feathers were broken and the head was fouled with blood. She sniffed at it, and smelled poison again, like a greenness in the air.
She turned back to the wounded man, and laid both hands on him, one on either side of the wound. He groaned at her touch, and his head turned toward her, and his eyes opened, sleek and dark with pain.
“Be still,” she said. “Drink water—here, you, bring me water. Don’t eat. But drink water.” She pressed her hands around the wound, so that the hole gaped. Only a thin trickle of yellowish blood came out. She stroked the edges of the hole together, whispering charms under her breath.
They brought water, and she helped the wounded man sit enough to drink. The other leather men were gathered around her, and one said suddenly, “He’s better. She healed him.”
“No,” she said. She let the sick man down again, and poured water over his wound. “There was poison on the arrow. But he’s strong. If he lives two more days he will get all well.” She turned to his brother, beside her. “Make him drink. I’m going now. But come get me if he gets worse.”
She turned and walked away, going along the riverbank again, toward the camp. The brother came after her, and walked beside her.
He said, “We aren’t allowed—if they find out one of us is hurt, it’s bad.”
She said, “I want to escape. Will you help me escape?”
He turned toward her, his eyes shocked. “No. Don’t be a fool. I’ve seen what they do.” He raised his hands, palms up, begging her again. “Thank you. You helped him. He’s all I have, nobody’s left to me but him. But don’t try to escape.” He shook his head at her, his mouth grim, and turned and went back, and she trudged on alone toward the camp.
“Ekkatsay,” Miska said. “If you want to leave, go. The Wolves will stay with me. They’re all I need.”
Ekkatsay knew this was true. He had become friends with Hasei, Yoto, Faskata, the other Wolves, he knew their valor, had seen them, again and again, fight like more than men for Miska. He licked his lips. Stubbornly, he said, “It’s almost Harvest Moon, Miska-ka. We’re a long way from home. I don’t know what’s going on here, why all these people are here, but I know no way we can fight them and hope to win, especially since we can’t kill them.”
Miska shrugged. “Certainly not the way you fight.”
Ekkatsay ground his teeth together. “We can’t fight men we can’t kill, who can kill us!”
Miska gave him a sideways look. “Get them close, you could have fought them. Like a bear fights, hah? Chest to chest?” He snorted, disdainful, and turned his head, staring away to the east, as if he could see through the hillsides between them and the great hosting on the river plain.
Like bison, Ekkatsay thought. His shoulders slumped. He was toying with the notion all these people were spirits of the bison, called out by some charm.
He felt Miska’s scorn even when the Wolf shaman wasn’t talking. He hung his head down.
His gaze drifted toward the little girl, who was certainly under some charm. She sat motionless, the strange hide around her. He had heard weird stories about her. Then his eye caught on something moving, coming toward them.
Up the little hollow of the camp, past the men sleeping in the shade of the boulders, ran Lopi, the skinny young Wolf who never stopped moving. He trotted up to Miska, his face bright with sweat and excitement.
“Something’s happening. You said I should tell you.”
Miska swung toward him. “What? Some kind of signal?”
Lopi swayed from side to side. “No—but they’re all doing something. Or a lot of them are, anyway—running toward the hill, over there. A lot of them.”
“Longnoses?” Miska said.
“I think so. They’re coming from the place of lodges.”
Miska rubbed his hand over his nose; his eyes turned toward Ekkatsay, but he spoke to Lopi.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s go down there. Get everybody moving.”
Lopi went off; Ekkatsay frowned at Miska. “What signal are you waiting for?”
Miska said, “I don’t know.” He swung his head around toward Ekkatsay, his eyes glittering. “Something will happen, soon. When it does, Ekkatsay, you had better remember how to fight like a bear.” He banged Ekkatsay’s chest with his fist and strode off, headed toward the little girl. Ekkatsay turned to summon his men, to follow. He thought, After this, though, whatever it is, I am going home.
Corban passed the hindmost of the Itzen runners only halfway to the hills; this last man walked along, his head down, grimly moving forward, but after Corban jogged by him, he sagged down on the ground and sat still. Corban stretched his legs, going faster. He unslung his skin of water and drank as he ran.
A little while later he passed two more of the Itzen, both sitting down, and then several walking slowly along in a crowd, who as he came up tried to match him. Many of them did keep up with him for several strides, but these soon dropped behind him too.
Then he met Kan Chak, coming the other way, a twig clutched in his hand, moving at a steady jog. Breathing hard, his face streaming sweat, his gaze fixed on the distance, the Itzen never saw Corban. Corban could see the little bent trees at the foot of the hills, now, and he ran hard toward the nearest one.
A hundred strides from it, Qikab was sitting on the ground, his head sunk down between his shoulders. He watched Corban go by, his head turning; Corban went on to the tree, broke off a bit of a green stem, took another drink, and started back. When he passed Qikab, the Itzen prince got to his feet and followed him
Corban began to run faster now, thinking of Epashti, of Ahanton; one of his knees began to throb. He swung the water skin around in front where he could reach it easily. Out of the side of his eye he could see Qikab falling behind him again. He passed the other Itzen sitting along the side of the track, but Kan Chak was still ahead of him, and Corban leaned into each stride, h
is arms pumping, running as fast as he could.
Kan Chak was ahead, but his lead was shrinking, and Corban saw that the halfman was down to walking. He pushed himself on. His knee buckled once and he caught himself; a surge of pain went up his thigh. He clenched the knee tight with every stride to stay upright.
Kan Chak saw him coming and began to run again, and when Corban caught up with him, with the palanquins ahead of them looking down, the dark mass of watching people shimmering in the sun around the finish line, Kan Chak groaned and pumped his arms and drove himself back into the race. They went stride for stride along the pounded grass, the tree looming up before them, the shrieks of the onlookers insect-small in the distance. Their shadows ran side by side. Corban’s lungs were burning, and with each step his knee wobbled.
Kan Chak staggered. His shadow slowly slid down behind Corban’s, and he slipped back, and Corban ran on alone. He gave a yell. He flung his arms up. Driving his legs to a last furious burst of speed he raced in under the tree and in among the watching Itzen.
He slumped down, his hands on his knees, his head hanging. His breath sawed in and out of him. Around him the Itzen stood stonily, not cheering, not even looking at him, but somewhere, in the distance, there was cheering. He straightened, his whole body trembling, and his knee like a fiery stone.
On either side of the Itzen camp, along the low rise, were gathered masses of the little people, slaves and leather men, and they were leaping up and down, yelling. He straightened up, startled, and their cheers doubled, ringing in the silence of the Itzen. Qikab and Kan Chak were walking in under the tree, the other Itzen runners strung out along the track behind them; nobody cheered them at all. Corban went quickly through the glares of the Itzen, to the great palanquin.
Tok Pakal sat there, his arms folded over his chest, and his face set in a scowl. The old counsellor sat in the shadows beside him. The chief spoke in his harsh public voice. “You don’t know your place yet, Corban. That will come. Meanwhile, stand there, and be silent.”
Corban raked his hands over his sweat-soaked hair; he was still too tired to talk much, and he thought there would be more to this anyway. His water skin was empty and he tossed it away. Tok Pakal stood up in the palanquin.
Qikab and Kan Chak moved up toward him, and the other Itzen runners, panting and sleek with sweat, trudged up to crowd around; Corban stepped back to the side, intending to inch his way out entirely—expecting not to understand what Tok Pakal was going to say. But then the chieftain began to shout, and he was using the low language. Corban straightened, realizing he was intended to hear this, and looking around he met Tok Pakal’s eyes on him, staring at him over the heads of the Itzen surrounding the palanquin.
“This is not over! Nothing has been proven yet. Certainly a bison could outrun a man. But a man has many arts! We’ll let you rest a while. Then we’ll see how well the animal-headed one can throw a spear.”
Then Qikab, standing directly before the chieftain, flung his arms up, bellowing.
“The ball! Make him throw the ball!”
Beside him the halfman prince Kan Chak lunged urgently toward Tok Pakal. “The ball is sacred. We can’t let a creature from the woods touch it.”
The other Itzen stood listening, silent, their heads hanging. They glanced continually toward Corban, but never for long, and none looked at him from the center of his face.
Qikab said, “It’s a piece of stuffed leather. But we can all throw it farther than he can. Make him throw that.”
Tok Pakal’s face looked suddenly hollow, his eyes dull, as if he saw inward. Corban remembered him saying the ball game was once sacred—the ball sacred. How nobody knew what it meant anymore. Then the chief was scowling at him again, dark, angry. pouring all his anger down on Corban.
“Throw the ball, then, Animal-Head. And I will accept your offer, that your life is mine. In olden times, the loser of the game died. We will honor this place with your blood, when you lose.”
Corban swallowed, his guts in a knot. Now, told what to think of him, they all turned to look directly at him, distant looks, as if they saw him far away. Already dead.
He turned and walked off, away by himself, his palms clammy. They would give him tests until he failed; he could not win.
He stopped thinking about that, and fixed his mind instead on the ball. He knew why Qikab thought he would not be able to throw it far: it was heavy, and too big for him to hold in one hand. Without ever picking it up he could not tell how heavy. He went off near the drum line, deserted as usual, and sat down and with his knife cut several long strips from the bottom of his deerskin shirt. Then he untied the sling from his belt, and doubled the length of the lines.
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y
The camp stank like rot and burning dung. Coming back from the river, Epashti felt her belly turning sick just walking through it, and she fought down the panicky will to run, heedless and witless, just to get away. She laid her hand on her swelling body, and deep inside felt a strong push back. Then, ahead of her, someone screamed her name.
It was Leilee, on her feet, shouting, happy for once, jumping and waving her arms. Epashti went toward her, startled at her exuberance, and then saw Pila and her little crowd of followers, slumped on the ground scowling.
Leilee danced toward her. “They said you were gone—they said you were never coming back! I have food for you—they said you wouldn’t come back—” Tears squirted from her eyes. She caught Epashti’s hand in both of hers.
Epashti hugged her, looking over her shoulder at Pila. “I am back, of course. Why do you listen to her?” She went by Leilee into their place, and sat down, staring at Pila.
“Woman, hear me. I know you are a liar. I know you are one with the leather men, and you are trying to do their work here. Stay away from me, keep your mouth shut, don’t try to harm me again, or I will see to you.”
Pila’s cheeks blazed red; her eyes glistened. She could say nothing. The women on either side of her drew away from her, their eyes round, and their mouths ajar. Slowly they turned to each other, and began to whisper. Pila hunched her shoulders up, her mouth sinking at the corners. Epashti settled herself, shaking her dress out, and began to eat the maz cakes Leilee had saved for her.
Tok Pakal had another line drawn in the dirt of the ball court, and a stick put into the ground by it, and announced that when the shadow of the stick crossed the line, then the throwing contest would start. Corban went by there to see and the shadow was still a hand’s breadth away, and anyway they would go one at a time. Then the dwarf stood in front of him.
“Corban.” Erkan gave him a wild look from the sides of his eyes. “You are in a lot of trouble now.”
“I’m always in trouble,” Corban said. “I bring it with me. They do not call me Loosestrife for nothing.”
“Tok Pakal will forgive you if you beg him for it. But you must not take part in this, not even try.”
Corban glanced around, to see who was listening. “Did he send you?”
“Yes, of course! He likes you. He needs someone to talk to—” The dwarf’s face fretted. “Smarter than me.” The little man put out his short-fingered, possum hand. “I want you to stay too.”
Corban squatted down on his heels, so that they were face to face. “Then go back to him, and remind him what he wagered with me.”
The dwarf’s eyes flashed, liquid. “You’re mad. You can’t win. You don’t know what you’re passing up. In Cibala you’ll be like a lord. No work, the best of the food, of the women. Everything.”
“In Cibala I’ll be like a slave,” Corban said. Then behind him, at the Itzen ball court, a yell rose, many-voiced.
“It’s starting,” the dwarf said, his head to one side, and his eyes mournful. “Give it up. Come with me.”
Corban reached into his sleeve, and pulled out the coiled sling. “Erkan,” he said, “I’ll free you, too.” He turned to go to the line, where the Itzen were massing for the throw.
The dwa
rf called after him, “I don’t want to be free!” Corban ignored him, and went to take his place by the line. He didn’t look in the direction of the palanquins.
Kan Chak went first, his face vivid with intensity; he palmed the ball, swung his arm behind him, took three steps and with his whole body behind his swinging arm hurled the ball out and up. The onlooking crowd gave a yell. The ball looped into the sky and fell, far down the ball court, and a slave ran down to mark the place with a stone.
Some others of the Itzen threw, none reaching as far as Kan Chak’s. Corban walked up and down the side of the ball court, unable to keep still, his knee twanging with each step. Nobody pointed and laughed at him now; they avoided him with their eyes.
Qikab came to the line, throwing out his broad chest, and when a yell went up from the onlookers he turned around, his arms above his head, drawing the cheers. He took the ball in his hands, and turned and gave a deep look at the great palanquin, on the rise above the ball court.
He held the ball easily in one hand, his arm straight; he ran toward the line, and planting one foot hurled the ball up, his body coiling around, his topknot flying. The crowd yelled, seeing a good throw, and the ball sailed across the sky and dropped down and hit the ground well past Kan Chak’s stone.
Qikab roared, flung his arms out, and spun to face the crowd, gathering in the cheers. Corban walked back toward the line through the wash of noise. There was no one left to throw; it was his turn now. As he went in among them, the Itzens’ voices stilled. He felt them all watching him now. He looked at no one; he went to the ball, which a slave had brought back, and picked it up.
It was heavier even than he had expected. Throwing it as the Itzen had he could have moved it scarcely half Qikab’s distance. He took the sling from his belt. A little murmur went through the Itzen, uncertain, alarmed. The socket of the sling was barely wide enough to keep the ball in place and he gripped the strings up close to the ball to hold it.
Then he went to the line. They hushed again, everybody watching him. He took hold of the strings, let the ball hang, and began to turn, one foot over the other. As he turned, the ball sailed out in the sling, flying around him, nearly pulling him off his feet. He spun around again, the ball hurtling around him, sailing out at the end of the sling, so heavy he had to lean against it to stay on his feet, and he whirled a third time and as he came around again forward to the line he let the lead string go.
The Serpent Dreamer Page 20