Read Online Time of the Eagle by Sherryl Jordan - Free Book Online

his hand toward his home. I noticed four horses approaching us fromthe camp, three of them bearing riders. We stopped, and I wanted Ramakoda to sit and rest while we waited, but he insisted on standing to greet his people. He moved apart from me a little and leaned only on his stick. I wished his arm was across my shoulders still, for I felt separated and alone, and fear gnawed at me while I waited for my enemies.
    At last the horses stopped in front of us, and the three men dismounted. I realized that the fourth horse had been brought for Ramakoda. I studied the men as they greeted him. The oldest of them was gray haired, with a wide necklace of animal teeth. The riders were all fiercely tattooed across their foreheads and down their noses, though the old man’s markings were the most elaborate, and in the center of the tattoos on his brow was a symbol of an elk. Each man wore a coat of light leather that reached almost to his knees. The coats were not laced up as our Shinali garments were, but crossed over in the front and held closed with wide belts. Their shoes were of animal skin, very finely stitched. The gray-haired man limped to Ramakoda and placed his hands on his shoulders. He touched his forehead to Ramakoda’s in greeting, then drew back a little and looked at him. They both had tears in their eyes.
    â€œYou are in time for many funerals, my son,” said the old man. “We were attacked by Navoran soldiers, and there was a hard battle. Many were wounded. But in the end the soldiers won, and took a great number of us for slaves.” His voice was cracked and broken, and he could barely speak for emotion. Ramakoda just looked at him, and the old father told him that nine and twenty had died in the battle, and he spoke several names. Ramakoda made no response. Then the old man said, “Andthose taken in captivity are forty and two. They are Chetobuh, Nambur, Olikodi, Tanju—”
    Ramakoda gave a low cry, and fell into his father’s arms. The other two riders stepped forward, and somehow the three of them got Ramakoda onto a horse. He was still conscious, though he slumped forward over the horse’s neck, his breath ragged and agonized. I thought that, in his anguish and grief, he had forgotten me; but he said, “The Shinali woman, she was healer and helper to me. She is nazdar .”
    I had no knowing of the last word he said, but I supposed it had a meaning good for me, since one of the men reached down and hauled me up onto his horse in front of him. I had not been on a horse before, and I leaned forward over the animal’s neck and clung to its mane, terribly afraid of falling. Yet we went slowly, for Ramakoda was near to fainting, and his father rode close by him, talking to him to keep him aware.
    Then we reached the camp, and the man I was with gripped my arm and swung me down from the horse. Staying close to Ramakoda, I looked at the enemy people who had gathered about us, silent, staring, their tattooed faces streaked with tears. Behind them were tents beyond numbering, stretching for many arrow flights beside the river. Beyond them, out on the level grasslands, were a large herd of goats and many horses. On a flat piece of ground by the riverbank the carrion birds flapped and screamed as they fought over chunks of flesh on the stones. I realized what flesh it was, and horror swept over me.
    Ramakoda’s father said something to an old woman, and she came and led me away to one of the tents. At the door she told me to remove my shoes, then we went in. It was cool inside, forthere was no central fire, and the tent was deserted. I was led across soft carpets to a place near the back wall, where the old woman rolled out bedding for me, and indicated that I was to lie down and rest. She went away, and I sat on the bed and looked about me at the tent walls, at woven hangings strange and wonderful, with jagged patterns that wove about one another, and colors bold like