The Dawn Country by W. Michael Gear Page B

He acted as their leader, scolding them for getting too far ahead, keeping them in line. Once, he’d been forced to shout at Hehaka to stop running. And told the enemy their exact whereabouts. Each time the children made a sound, Cord and his men clenched their jaws and stoically stared straight ahead.
    Gonda turned around to check on the Flint warriors. They were still there, still on their feet, staggering up the trail through a grove of gigantic sycamores. He almost couldn’t believe it. They had the endurance of starving wolves on a blood trail.
    Gonda looked ahead again. The children had started to stumble. One of them, he couldn’t tell which, was gasping hoarse breaths, as though his lungs were desperate for air. They couldn’t keep this up much longer.
    He glanced at Koracoo. The lines around her eyes were tight. She knew it, too.
    When the trail entered a narrow ravine lined with boulders, Koracoo threw an arm out in front of Gonda, and said, “Stop. We’re being foolish.”
    Gonda halted. Cord and his men staggered to a stop beside them. Sindak and Towa whirled, and Odion held the children in a group, waiting.
    “Why are we … stopping?” Cord gasped.
    “We can’t outrun them,” Koracoo said. As she turned to face him, the frost crystals on her hood winked. “The children can’t continue this pace, and you and your men will die on your feet if we try to. This is as good a place as any to make a stand.”
    “Make a stand?” Ogwed said in shock. The youth’s entire body shook. If he cracked into a thousand pieces in the next heartbeat, it would surprise no one. “They outnumber us three to one! We won’t be standing for long. We should—”
    “Let her finish,” Cord said, and stared at Koracoo with calm, utterly exhausted eyes. “What do you have in mind, War Chief?”
    She looked around, studying the terrain. The ravine was fifty paces long and, in places, twenty or thirty hands deep. Granite boulders, smoothed into egg shapes, lined the slopes. In the crevices between the boulders, trees and brush grew. Some of the trees stood two hundred hands tall.
    Koracoo said, “We have to try to talk to them. If we can—”
    “Talk to them!” Ogwed exclaimed. “Have you lost your wits, woman? They don’t want to talk, they want to kill us! We have to run until we—”
    Koracoo strode to within a hand’s width of him and with soft, implacable precision, said, “Are you prepared to fight me? If you ever challenge me again, you’ll have to.”
    Ogwed blinked as though stunned. He backed away. “I … I don’t want to fight you.”
    Cord said to Koracoo, “How do you plan to get the enemy to sling their bows long enough to exchange words?”
    “I’m still figuring out that part.” She scanned the terrain again, apparently devising her strategy. “The first thing we have to do is lure them into the drainage. That way, if they refuse to talk, we can keep them busy long enough for the children to make a run for it.”
    Cord smiled. “You realize, of course, that while they are pretending to talk with you, their warriors will be moving through the trees, surrounding us? When they’re in place, it will be a simple matter for them to push us down into the ravine and slaughter us like spring deer.”
    Koracoo smiled back, but it wasn’t pretty. Gonda had seen it before, and it made the hair on his arms stand up. Wisps of hair fell over her high cheekbones, making her eyes seem huge and impossibly black. She had one of those perfect female faces that made men stare. Koracoo replied, “Then I expect you and your men to fight to the death, War Chief. No one is to lay down his weapons. The longer we’re on our feet, the more time the children will have to escape.”
    Cord bowed his head and nodded. “Of course.”
    Gonda scanned the terrain, noting the positions of the boulders and trees. “There’s a rock shelter near that pile of boulders. I say we hide the children in there.”
    Koracoo