Obsidian and Stars (Ivory and Bone #2)(78)

It hits the High Elder’s back, slipping through his body like a knife sliding through water. I see him grasp at something at his waist and I realize it’s the point of the harpoon. It has come straight through.

He drops his paddle, slumping forward. Kol turns, looking for Morsk. But instead of Morsk, a Tama fighter is right beside him. Too far away to help, I watch as the Tama raises a hand and brings it down. He raises it again and I see the dart in his hand. Another stabbing cut down through the air and he raises it again. This time I’m close enough to see that it drips with Kol’s blood.

I paddle harder, digging at the water as fast as I can, but Morsk is closer. He glides across the water like a bird through the air, a sudden burst of strength carrying him to Kol. He reaches him, ramming the Tama boat and sending it over. The hull of the boat turns up, and the tumult of the struggle all at once goes still.

Morsk paddles a short distance away, waiting and watching for the boat to right on the waves. Even the other Tama, paddling to the side of their High Elder, slow, waiting for the boat to flip.

The longer it stays capsized, the more I suspect this Tama will never surface. All the other fighters from his clan have retreated, dragging the boat holding Noni’s father into shore. A red wake trails his kayak. There is no doubt Noni’s father is dead.

Finally, when this last remaining Tama kayak has stayed inverted for so long, Morsk turns to look at Kol. He calls to him, asking if he’s too injured to paddle back.

I wait for Kol’s reply, my heart skipping nervously in my chest at the thought of how badly Kol might be hurt. Wishing to be able to check his injuries, to see for myself if any would threaten his life.

“I can row,” Kol calls. “I have plenty of wounds, but none of them is deep.”

I am almost to Morsk, almost to the overturned kayak, when a figure springs up out of the sea. The man from the inverted boat, holding a knife. He climbs the side of Morsk’s kayak and plunges the knife down. I see a flick of his wrist, the knife drawn across Morsk’s throat.

Everything changes—the wind blows harder, the waves crash higher. Blood runs down from Morsk’s neck, coating his shoulders and chest. I load my atlatl, take aim. The dart flies, lands in the Tama man’s chest. Once. Twice. Three times.

My eyes sweep from boat to boat to boat, and I see that Kol and Pek both hold empty atlatls. They both shot just as I did. Three darts stick deep into the Tama fighter’s chest.

Pulling one free, he tips backward. His balance is lost. He slides from the side of Morsk’s kayak, painting three stripes of blood on the deck as he disappears into the sea.

Paddling, climbing—I’ve taken the Tama man’s place on the deck of Morsk’s boat before I know how I got there. His blood smears on my hands and on my tunic. I grab Morsk’s shoulders, call his name, slide him back in the seat.

But he won’t answer me, won’t open his eyes.





THIRTY-ONE


I hover over Morsk, talking to him, repeating his name, as Kol paddles closer, pulling his kayak alongside us. I don’t need to hear Kol’s voice to know what he will say. Maybe I hear him, maybe I hear only the waves and the wind and the thrumming beat of a drum in my temples.

It doesn’t matter what I hear. I already know Morsk is dead.

I want to stay slumped over Morsk’s body, but I know I cannot. The Tama may have killed Morsk, but we killed their High Elder. We killed Dora and others of their own clan. They’ve retreated for now, but they may return. We need to head back to our camp before they can follow us.

I raise my head. Kol’s heavy gaze rests on my face. Blood flows from two gashes in his shoulder and seeps from a smaller wound in his lower arm. “Can you row?” I call.

He doesn’t answer, except to nod. His blood-smeared face wears an expression like a shattered blade. Sharp, but no longer lethal.

I turn around, still sitting on top of Morsk’s kayak. It’s a larger boat than mine, and it handles the extra weight of my body well enough. Snatching Morsk’s paddle from the sea, I turn the boat in a slow circle.

Each member of the Olen, Manu, and Bosha who came with us is watching me. Many are injured—blood smears across tunics, hands, faces—but they are all here. Morsk is the only one we lost.

When we row into our bay, our clan is waiting. Lookouts standing along the cliffs must have seen us while we were still out to sea, because when we reach the beach, the clan is there, ready to come to our aid. They crash into the shallow water to pull us from the boats and help us to shore. Mala runs to Kol, then Kesh, before her eyes fall on me. When she sees Morsk, his body slumped in the seat, she splashes through the waves and comes to my side. Two cold hands wipe blood from my cheeks before reaching around me and pulling my head to her shoulder.

I don’t remember ever being more grateful for a mother’s embrace.

It’s late, but the clan will not rest tonight. Everyone stays up, sitting in the meeting place around a fire in the hearth, talking about Morsk and his great deeds. For once, I don’t want to hide in my hut. Instead, I need to take part in the storytelling, to make sure that everyone knows of the heroism of Morsk and how he died saving the High Elder of the Manu.

Kol and I take Noni aside. “He’s dead,” Kol tells her. “Your father died in the battle.”

Her eyes squeeze shut, and she covers them briefly with her hands. Yet when she opens them again they are dry. She lifts her narrow chin—a child’s chin in a child’s face. Only her eyes are old. “Good,” she says. “Thank you.” And then, “Was he the one who killed Morsk?”