The People of the Black Sun by W. Michael Gear Page A

hands reached high into the air, as if pleading with the sky gods—or perhaps cursing them. Necks had twisted grotesquely. Mouths gaped in silent cries. Eyes, frozen in frosty pits, seemed to strain to see a familiar face, waiting for their loved ones to find them.
    She glanced expectantly at the gates of Bur Oak Village. The snow had stopped, but a dusting still frosted the shoulders of the guards who stood there.
    He’s coming. I know he is.
    Thin streamers of smoke rose from the charred palisades. Through the gaps, she saw people gathered, engaged in a village council meeting, trying to decide what to do next. Their forces had been devastated by Chief Atotarho’s attack, leaving them more vulnerable than they’d ever been. Baji and her forces could not stay to help them. She felt hollow and guilty, but she and her People had their own problems at home, not the least being that they feared Chief Atotarho would take out his vengeance on the Flint nation for supporting the Standing Stone nation against him.
    Behind Baji, wooden bowls clacked against horn spoons as men and women finished their simple breakfasts of cornmeal mush, spiced with whatever variety of jerky they’d had left in their packs. Coughing and laughter carried, as well as the deep groans and fever-laced cries of the wounded. Weapons clattered as war belts were tied around waists and quivers and packs were slung over shoulders.
    Baji slipped her hand beneath her buckskin cape and massaged her left arm just above the elbow where she’d sustained a blow from a war club wielded by one of the Hills People warriors. The purple lump was the size of a balled fist. Fortunately, she was right-handed. It would not impair her ability to swing her own club, though it would scream when she drew back her bow.
    Her gaze returned to the gates. She tried to force her thoughts to other subjects but, as always, Dekanawida—the man others called Sky Messenger—was there.
    â€¦ beneath me, smiling, staring upward through the veil of my hair, his brown eyes filled with a dreamy warmth. Rocking, sweat-soaked, pine pollen cascading from the trees, sheathing our nakedness in pale yellow that resembles the glitter of sunlight.
    Memories from last summer.
    As the light strengthened, burial teams with litters began to trickle out from the villages and course through the corpses, identifying and loading relatives.
    Her adopted father, Chief Cord, also dispatched two teams for the same purpose. As he led the teams onto the battlefield, Baji watched him. His black cape decorated with turtle shell carvings, symbols of his clan, waffled around his long legs.
    As though he sensed her gaze, Cord turned to look at her. He had a long pointed nose and a square jaw. The black roach of hair down the middle of his head gleamed.
    To avoid his eyes, she picked up her rolled blanket, woven from twisted strips of rabbithide, and tied it around her waist, over her cape, then knotted her weapons’ belt just above it. The bone stilettos clacked against the chert knives. She was tall and muscular, with a small nose and large dark eyes. Her long black hair hung to her hips when it wasn’t braided. She’d heard men call her beautiful. Were it not for the ugly knife scar that cut across her chin, she might have been.
    She looked back at Bur Oak Village again. The gates were still closed.
    â€¦ his deep voice singing lullabies to me in the middle of the night, holding me as though I am the only thing that stands between him and oblivion. Enough love in his eyes to sustain me for the rest of my life.
    Cord frowned, broke away from the burial teams and walked toward her. When he got to within two paces, he said, “After yesterday’s miracle, he must be overwhelmed with requests for audiences. Why don’t you go to him?”
    Baji jerked the laces of her cape tight beneath her chin, and reached down to pick up her war club. As she tucked it into her belt,