what that is?”
She hesitated. “All right. But go slowly.”
Browser eased over the deadfall into the aspen grove. Wind cooled his face as he slid forward on his belly through the frost-encrusted old leaves toward the tiny explosions.
To his right, across the canyon gorge, moonlight painted the meadows and washed the sky like a fine paint made of ground azure and quartz crystals. A glowing wall of Cloud People marched up from the south. He lifted his nose and scented the wind. He could smell snow on Wind Baby’s breath; it gave him a bellyache. By morning, they’d be out in the flats and wading through ankle-deep mud, soaked to the bone.
Browser saw movement to his left and caught sight of Catkin, a flickering ghost slipping between the trees toward the “hand.”
A whistle piped, then the leaves rustled and a low growl rolled through the darkness.
Browser got on his hands and knees and crawled toward the sound. Leaves crunched beneath his palms.
“ … gods.”
He tensed at the word and searched for Catkin in the trees. He didn’t see her.
He murmured, “What is it?”
Catkin’s voice resembled mist rising from warm trees on a cold morning, soft, barely there. “Don’t … see it?”
Browser dropped to his belly and looked around. Her tone told him that what she saw horrified her, and he’d better prepare himself for the worst.
Which means there’s an enemy war party out there.
But if that were the case, Catkin wouldn’t be speaking at all, would she? He’d fought many battles at her side. In the past, she’d always grown unnaturally silent when she sensed danger.
He saw her. Ahead to his left. Her face flashed as she dodged between two trees.
Browser pulled his war club from his belt and slid forward on his belly.
“Browser … see … ?”
“No. Where?” he whispered, frantic to know what she saw.
“ … must see it! Right there in front …”
Browser’s fist tightened on his club. His throat had gone tight; he could barely swallow. Right there in front of me? Where? Why can’t I see it?
And why would Catkin risk herself to tell him about it? She knew that every time she spoke, she might be giving away her position to the enemy. A sudden wave of fear flooded him. Gods, if anything happened to her, especially if she died trying to warn him …
He lifted his head.
Faces stared back at him.
They couldn’t be more than ten paces ahead. He hadn’t seen them because, in the moonlight, they shone with the same iridescence as the frosty leaves. Thirty, maybe even forty.
The moans returned, this time more like the squeals of wet leather being wrung out.
Leaves fluttered down over the faces, and he wondered how many
bodies lay beneath the glittering autumn blanket. Though the nights had been cold, the days had been warm. Sunshine melted flesh. In the summer, he had seen a man killed at noon swell to twice his size by sunset.
That’s what the explosions were. Fetid air escaping from rotted muscles and hideously bloated bellies.
Browser longed to slam his club into something.
He got to his feet and walked forward through the moonlit shadows to the killing ground.
He veered wide around the piles of leaves and went directly to the “hand.” It turned out to be someone’s windpipe. The white corrugated tube looked stark against the black roots.
Browser’s nostrils flared. Urine. Human. But not from the dead. The pungent aroma came from the tree trunks. That’s why the bodies had not been torn apart by animals. The enemy warriors had urinated around the killing ground. Wolves did the same thing, marking their territory, warning off scavengers. In a few more days the scent would weaken, and predators would fearlessly trot into the circle to savage the corpses. That meant the bodies had only been here a few days at the most.
Browser turned to the line of decapitated heads. They’d been arranged in four concentric circles. A thin layer of frozen leaves filled the center of the
Learning to Kill: Stories