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You stare in absolute disbelief as Talons-on-the-Tree races off into the treachery girdling P’oilkat,
“RED MAN WHAT THE HELL’RE YOU DOIN’?!”
Thoughts unbidden of the young boy intercept any rationale of retreat, no matter what effort you expend on them. You find yourself volleying questions of his sanity without realizing your legs have begun to churn you out into the dark of their own volition. The both of you suck in gulps of crystal cold as you blow past and circle around the remaining five Braves straining for the great village.
Out in the murk you can only see about twenty feet in any direction, you hear the loping things running down the Indians graze past you, but whatever slaughterous instinct propels them on seems limited to one victim at a time. You feel more than you see of them, quaking earth, oily feathers, a waft of rotten stench. Craning back for a better view provides nothing, but draws your attention to the fact that P’oilkat is lit like a beacon in the absolute shadow prevailing in the mountains.
A grand pyre rises higher than even the substantial wooden walls. You can make out the scurries of ant-like Maidu attending it, you can’t make out what it is they hope to accomplish, since the enormous flame is seemingly unable to chase away even one lone thread of the onyx loom at P’oilkat’s bounds.
You turn your head back and almost run right into Talons-on-the-Tree. The air has cleared somewhat, the oily tang in the air sieving through the snow. Your face is hot and numb, and you lock eyes with the young chief as he taps your chest, motioning in the vague direction you all started running. You exchange your dead sprint for measured steps, and begin your slow search for the boy.
