‘It means we know who the warrior is,’ I said. ‘And he’s not a monster after all, just a man.’ Yet I felt no relief. Inside me a voice was shrieking hysterically: What do you mean ‘just a man’? This is the otomi you’re talking about!
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of screaming from outside.
There was a rapid serious of wet slaps, as of feet running over mud. Someone called out and the shout was followed by the crash and rustle of reeds being shoved roughly aside.
‘It’s Spotted Eagle,’ Kite said, ‘doing what he was told – yelling and running away!’ He paused, his head on one side, listening, and then I realised the sounds were not receding.
‘He’s not running away,’ I said slowly. I still had my sword. Now I found I was gripping it so tightly my knuckles hurt.
‘Idiot!’ snapped the policeman. ‘He’s trying to divert him, to draw him off! Come on, we have to get out there!’
‘No, wait...’
I was too late. Kite bounded through the doorway.
There was a sound like someone chopping wood, and then another scream, much closer.
I had no time to think. I just ran, hurling myself after Kite, swinging the sword in a wild, undisciplined arc and bellowing at the top of my voice – not a war cry, but a sound of pure panic.
The weapon connected with something. The impact jarred my arm all the way up to the shoulder. An indignant roar sounded in my right ear, and then a terrific force wrenched the sword away from me.
I held on to the handle for a moment too long. I was dragged forward after it, stumbling helplessly until a sandalled foot lashed out and caught me behind the right knee. Then I crashed face down into stinking mud.
8
Large, rough hands seized my shoulders and yanked me onto my knees. My right leg was weak and numb. It collapsed under me, sending me toppling sideways. My fall was checked by a savage cuff to the side of the head that knocked my teeth together hard enough to send a spasm of pain up through my cheeks. Then the hands were dragging me backwards, with my heels leaving broad tracks in the mud. When my back struck the side of the hut, the whole structure shook, showering me with dead leaves and pieces of reed thatch.
I stared anxiously at my right leg, which was beginning to throb. It lay stretched out before me, looking no more scrawny and twisted than usual, even if the knee was starting to look slightly swollen. I hoped it was not broken.
The policeman had been less lucky.
He had been put against the wall too, in the same position, although he had slipped downwards so that his head was jammed against the crumbling adobe and his neck bent awkwardly beneath it. His face had an ugly yellow hue, his eyes were hollow, and his breath came in shallow gasps.
‘Kite!’ I cried. His eyeballs swivelled at the sound of my voice, as Red Macaw’s had done. They were bloodshot with pain and shock. The flesh at his hip had been torn open and a splinter of white bone jutted from the red, pulpy mass in the wound.
‘Don’t waste your breath on him,’ a harsh, slurred voice rasped. ‘He was lucky.’
I turned towards the speaker. ‘You,’ I said. It scarcely seemed worth the effort needed to come up with anything more original than that, since I was about to be killed anyway.
My enemy, the otomi captain, stood over me. He would have looked down upon me if I had been standing, but from where I sat now he seemed as tall as a full-grown cypress tree. He wore only a breechcloth, and that none too clean, and his hair had not long ago been cut short, but he was no less terrifying for that. His face was split by the lopsided grin I had learned to dread and hate so much. Mirth wrinkled half his features only; the rest was an immobile slab of dead flesh, left that way by some fight long ago. For some reason it occurred to me then that I had never found out who had inflicted that wound on him, or what had become of him. I hoped he had died quickly.
‘What’s so funny?’ I asked.
‘He is!’ He jabbed Kite with the end of the weapon he was holding. ‘If I’d used an ordinary sword instead of this, he’d have been cut in half! He’s lucky he met me!’
I felt sick. I knew the captain’s weapon of choice well, a long wooden club with four rows of obsidian blades set into it at right angles. He had obviously caught Kite with it as the policeman ran out of the shelter. If he had struck his victim with a sword, the force of the blow would probably have taken both his legs off.
‘I’m sure he’s grateful,’ I said bleakly.
Then Kite spoke. With obvious effort he turned his head to face the captain. ‘What happened to the boy?’ he asked in a voice so thick and guttural I could barely make out the words.
‘Don’t worry about him. He’s being taken care of!’
‘Not by you, though,’ I said. ‘So the sorcerer came too.’ In what guise? I wondered, with a chill. Was the captain’s ally wading through the marshes on human feet or on an animal’s; or even soaring overhead on wings? I remembered the large bird we had heard taking off from the lake’s surface and wondered whether that had been as innocent as it sounded. ‘Does he do your killing for you, these days? I’m not surprised. It can’t be easy recruiting followers, after what happened to the last lot!’
The otomi stiffened. I tensed myself for a lacerating blow, wondering what had made me speak like that: why did
