Spirits Collide, page 18
part #2 of Evil Awakened Series
“First, you need to calm down,” Powaw said, approaching from behind.
“Calm down,” Pamoon yelled, “a war for the mount is taking place and you want me to calm down?”
“Eha.” Powaw exclaimed. “No battle has ever been won when its leader is panicked. Like it or not, you—Kiche—are the leader and must stay level-headed.”
Pamoon rolled her eyes, grabbed Celia by her shirt and started toward the woods.
“Wait,” Tihk yelled.
“Pamoon stopped and faced her friend. “For what?”
“For me,” Tihk said, strapping on his gunstock-war club and long-knife.
Pamoon’s pulse slowed a bit. Having Tihk along would be a big help in the battle. She breathed deep and waited for him to tighten the strap that held his warclub. From the corner of her eye, she saw White Eagle gearing up for battle, and her throat constricted as if she’d been strangled.
“Chief—uncle,” she said, pleading on his sympathies, “you are needed here.”
“I am a warrior,” he responded. “I am needed where there is a battle that concerns my people.”
Pamoon looked to Powaw for help, but he was stone-faced. “I will stay and gather our people. We will pray to Kisemanito that you all come home safe.”
Pamoon nodded but knew this was her fight, not Kise’s.
Following Scout’s lead, the four ran through the woods as fast as they could until they neared the Y-shaped tree. Pamoon felt the cold air even before she saw the mist. The fog had spilled from the Misty Woods and began spreading through the woods, killing everything it touched.
“This isn’t a good sign,” White Eagle mumbled.
“We need to hurry,” Pamoon said, running up to the bent tree. About to step through the eye, Celia pulled her back.
“The words cut into the tree,” Celia pointed. “They don’t look the same. What do they say?”
Pamoon held out her left hand, a burning shock shot through her arm and into her neck. It felt as if her entire body was on fire. She gritted her teeth as she read what was etched in the trunk. Dropping her hand, the pain subsided, but she still felt the heat deep in her body. Pamoon turned towards the others and repeated what she read. “The spirit of the flame is two-faced. It can cleanse as well as kill.”
“What does that mean?” Celia said.
“Only one way to find out,” Tihk answered, pointing at where the Y-shaped branches intersected.
“Eha,” White Eagle nodded as he lifted his leg, grabbed the branches, and jumped into the mist.
Tihk jumped in right behind him, followed by Scout. Celia was about to do the same when Pamoon stopped her. “Remember when you yelled at the Water Panther back in the cave.” Celia nodded. “You said this was your life, your destiny, and no one would choose for you, remember that?”
Celia nodded, again.
“I don’t know what awaits us in the mist and certainly not in the valley. I’ll still love you if you choose not to be a part of . . . whatever. This is your choice. Are you sure you want to do this?”
A smile flashed across Celia’s lips just before her expression hardened. “This is the first time in a long time I’ve been this sure about anything.”
Pamoon matched her intensity. “Then grab my hand. We jump together.”
On the other side of the tree, the Misty Woods had evolved. The woods were so cold, everything had frosted over. Icicles hung from the branches of the trees like daggers, the thorny-vines were withered and limp. Pamoon could see her breath, yet didn’t feel cold. That’s weird, she thought. Taking a chance, Pamoon kicked one of the vines with her boot. She jerked back, expecting the thorns to attack, but the vine lay dead.
Pamoon tried to make sense of what she saw, but her thoughts were broken by a vision of Ayas. She blinked trying to erase it but couldn’t. She trembled at the sight. Ayas’ face was covered in blood. Hurry, Kiche. Run. Looking at the others, Pamoon knew they had heard him, too. She unsheathed her knife, squeezed Celia’s hand, and ran from the path into the woods towards his voice. As she ran, the Tree People moaned. Burn us. It’s the only way. The ferocity of their tone stopped her in her tracks.
Again, she heard Ayas’ voice. Hurry, Kiche. Run. Bring an army.
His words confused her. She looked to the others for help, but they waited for her to lead them. Even White Eagle. “What army?” she breathed.
Burn us. It’s the only way, the trees moaned, louder than before.
Pamoon closed her eyes and inhaled. Help me, Kise.
Listen to the spirits.
Pamoon’s eyes snapped open, the words etched into the tree bubbled from her lips. “The spirit of the flame is two-faced. It can cleanse as well as kill.” Without hesitation, she returned her knife to her belt and reached over her shoulder, her sword finding her hand. She drew it from its sheath and pointed it towards the trees. Calling the flame forth, the blade burned white-hot. She touched the tip of the blade to the nearest tree and watched the trunk catch fire.
Pamoon sheathed the sword, once again gripping her knife, and glanced behind her at the others. “Get ready! I don’t know what’s about to happen.” Celia, White Eagle, and Tihk drew their long-knives in anticipation. The fire jumped from tree to tree, as if it had a mind of its own. The trunks lit up like sparklers on the fourth-of-July. The trees burned to ash in minutes and in their places stood braves. Some with smiles of gratitude, others with snarls of hate. Before Pamoon could react, they faced each other in battle. The words of the Kwanokasha reverberated in her head. Spirits will collide in a great battle. Demons will choose sides and battle their own.
Pamoon didn’t have time to see who won. She knew whichever braves were victorious, she would see them again in the Valley of Blood. She raised her head toward the furthest recesses of the mist and yelled. “Jim. Now!”
Running through the smoke and ash, Pamoon led her small band in the direction of Ayas’ voice. It was hard to see through the ocean of fog and smoke, but the cries of warriors and the clash of weapons told her she was headed in the right direction.
Up ahead, Pamoon spotted a clearing in the mist. Just as she and the others were about to break from the mist, she pulled up. “Holy shit,” she mouthed, as she gaped at the valley. Death littered the valley floor, blood speckled the entire basin as if someone took a paintbrush and flicked red paint, drops dripping over the canvas.
Her heart pounded as she searched the dead franticly looking for Ayas. Squinting, she peered at the carnage, sweat dripping from her hair, burning her eyes. There were so many bodies, she couldn’t tell one from another.
Ayas, where are you?
Fear rose in her gut, but the fire, burning in her core, squelched it before it could grow.
“Should I shift?” Celia breathed, looking over the battlefield.
Pamoon shook her head, gripping her knife in one hand, her staff in the other. “We fight side-by-side until we have no other choice. Our fire is our last resort.”
She watched as Celia white-knuckled her blade. Pamoon handed Celia her staff. “Use this in your other hand.”
“But—”
“No buts,” Pamoon said, reaching for her warclub.” She looked at White Eagle and Tihk, their eyes glued to the scene in front of them. Squatting down, Pamoon held Scout’s face in front of her. “I need you to stay here and guard the woods. Don’t let anyone past.”
Scout pawed the ground and growled, gouging the dirt with his claws. She knew he understood and would do as she commanded. She stood, nodded to the others and was about to step from the mist when she heard a battle cry from behind. She turned, her right arm drawn back with her warclub, her other fisting her knife. Her left foot slid forward in a fighting stance.
Hundreds of braves ran through the mist.
About to attack, Pamoon saw Ayas leading the war party. She dropped her weapons and ran towards him, wrapping her arms around his bare torso, his sweat soaking her dress. Their embrace was quick but intense. She felt his arms around her waist, his lips pressed against hers as he kissed her as if his life depended on it. She kissed him back, not wanting it to end.
The screech of an owl pulled her back to the reality of war.
“How did you find the tree-people, I mean the braves?” she said, wiping the blood from his face.
“I ran into the valley to help Kwanokasha. As I made it back to this ridge, I heard the battle cry of the braves. The braves you freed from the mist,” he chin-pointed over his shoulder at all the braves gathered behind him, “were lost in the smoke and fire. I helped them find their way.” Pamoon saw his eyes light up as he looked at her. “I knew you would bring an army.”
She saw his eyes wander down her frame. “Nice dress,” he said, his pitch rising in confusion.
Pamoon eyed him with the same expression. “Nice sword.”
“I was about to say the same thing.”
Another screech from an owl drew her attention as she saw the owl shift and Opa materialize. “It’s about time you got here,” Opa said. “We’re out-numbered and out-weaponed, not to mention, our magic is inferior to the ghost-witches and the Pukwudgie. The fairies control the skies, the witches are more adept at battle than I realized.”
Ayas stepped forward. The blades the ghost-witches wield are poison-tipped. One cut from the blade weakens their enemies. Multiple cuts, even those that would normally be non-lethal, will kill.”
Pamoon eyed the battle that raged in the valley. The tribal little people fought valiantly but were no match for the witches. “You mentioned Kwanokasha,” she said, addressing Ayas, “where is he?”
“He was hurt, but he’s okay. A young Choctaw named Mantema has seen to his wounds.”
White Eagle stepped forward. “You must lead us, Pamoon. You must rally your people.”
Pamoon’s heart felt as if it would explode through her ribs as she stood, motionless, and stared at the bloodshed. Not sure what to do, she eyed all those around and behind her—all waiting for her to lead them. As she stared, open-mouthed, at everything, she felt inadequate and small. She turned to Ayas to ask what she should do when she heard the caw of a raven.
Her head snapped skyward as the ravens, thousands, led by her friend, Achak, surrounded her in a cloud of black feathers. Achak descended and landed on her shoulder. Thank you for coming, she said with a light kiss to the raven’s beak. In return, Achak pecked her on the cheek.
Pamoon lifted her knife toward the sky and commanded the ravens to disperse. Take down the fairies, she ordered, we’ll take care of the witches. As the birds flew up and around the valley, she nodded to White Eagle and Tihk. “Take the braves and flank the witches. If you are cut, even once, retreat from the field of battle.” Eyeing Opa, she said. “I need you and the other owl-women to do what you do best. Any of the enemy you find wounded or unconscious, take their beating hearts and put them in a pile by the edge of the mist.”
Everyone ran into the valley as ordered, leaving her with Ayas and Celia. She looked toward the mist and thought, Where are you, Jim? Are you coming?
Do you trust me?
I do, she smiled, her fear once again squelched by the fire in her gut. A blood oath cannot be broken.
And won’t be.
She hoped he arrived in time as she clenched Celia’s hand in hers. “We fight side-by-side until we have no choice. Then we fight as one.”
Celia nodded. “Let’s go.”
Pamoon mouthed, “I love you,” to Ayas, whose face lit up.
“I’m going to make you repeat that for the rest of your long life, Goddess,” he said.” Now, go.”
Pamoon and Celia two-fisted their weapons and ran towards the largest group of witches.
41
Wendigo
Jim. Now!
Although he had been waiting for it, the sound of Pamoon’s cry startled the wendigo. The cawing and fluttering of wings coming from the trees jolted him even more. The creature waited for the birds to take flight, but they remained perched in the trees, flapping their wings and causing a ruckus. The wendigo’s keen sense of hearing picked up another caw coming from within the mist. He snapped his head around as a lone raven—one whose eyes looked like stars—flew from the mist, swept from branch to branch, gathering the ravens as it flew. The murder of ravens, led by the newcomer, darted around his massive frame and took flight into the mist.
The wendigo clenched its monstrous hands into fists, cracking its knuckles, and lifted his head towards the sky letting out a howl fierce enough to empty the trees of their ice and snow. With agility in opposition to its size, the wendigo ran into the mist, dodging trees and rocks, as it kept an eye on the feathered cloud.
The wendigo knew the flock was leading him south, but the temperatures dipped the further they traveled. The woods, alive when he first entered, became void of life as he continued to follow the ravens. Smoke and ash along with the thick curtain of fog made it hard for him to see. Taking his eyes off the birds for a second, the wendigo saw a window of light up ahead.
His heart thundered in his chest as his heightened sense of smell caught the scent of blood. The scent, thick as syrup, made his head spin as he ran towards the light. As the ravens broke through the mist into the growing light, he ran faster not wanting to lose them, but a voice, more vibration than sound, stopped him in his tracks.
You belong to me. I woke you, and you will do my bidding!
The wendigo felt a rush of adrenaline as it looked around for the source of the hiss. Turning back in the direction the ravens just flew, the light was blocked by a huge black cat. The wendigo blinked and shook his head, thinking it must be seeing a mirage, but the cat never wavered. Jim, now continued to resonate but it was harder to hold onto the words.
As the cat slinked closer, its purr became intoxicating. A small piece of the wendigo wanted to move away from the cat, but he was cemented in place by an unnatural force. The wendigo never moved, barely breathed, as felt the cat rub its muscular frame against his torso, its purr resonating in his body.
Follow my lead and take your place on the Mount next to me and witch-queen.
The wendigo, defenseless, nodded in agreement.
Enter the valley from the opposite side and fight alongside the ghost-witches. Defeat the Kiche and bring me her body and I will give you what you long for.
The wendigo’s heart skipped a beat as he listened to the words of his master. Words he didn’t expect. Words that caused him to salivate. Could the panther really give him what he longed for? he wondered.
Where are you, Jim? Are you coming? The wendigo’s thoughts were broken by the sound of Pamoon’s voice.
The cat continued to rub up against him and purr. The wendigo looked down at the cat who looked back up at him and snarled. I will give you power, the panther hissed.
That small piece inside him, that small seed began to grow. Do you trust me?
I do. A blood oath cannot be broken.
And won’t be.
The wendigo eyed the panther, snarled in agreement with its commands and ran. Not towards the light, but to the left in an effort to circle the valley.
42
Fire
Pamoon fought by Celia’s side against the ghost-witches. They had killed every one that came up against them, but everywhere she and Celia looked, ten more seemed to take the place of every one they’d killed.
Pamoon could tell her friend was tiring; Celia’s movements were slowing with each jab of her blade. From the corner of her eye, Pamoon saw a witch attack Celia from her blind side. “Watch out!” she yelled.
Celia spun in the witch’s direction, her staff spinning even faster and cut the witch down. Pamoon breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short lived as she saw a crimson blotch start to spread across Celia’s chest. Pamoon froze as her friend touched her chest and brought her hand up to her face. Celia’s reddened cheeks blanched at the sight of her own blood.
Pamoon didn’t think or hesitate. She dropped her warclub, pulled the staff from Celia’s hand, and slung her friend over her shoulder. With a renewed fervor, Pamoon killed all that stood between her and the mist. The closer she got, the more witches emerged. She had no choice but to lay Celia down. “Play dead,” Pamoon whispered as she shrugged Celia off her shoulder.
Pamoon eyed the enemy who flanked her from all sides. She spun her staff in her right hand and gripped her knife in her left, waiting to counterattack the first of the witches that tried to kill her. The coven in front of her shook their beads. Pamoon readied herself for a frontal attack, but the witches behind her stuck first. She turned in their direction, keeping Celia by her feet and spun as she attacked. Her dress and cape twirled around her, continually changing colors, camouflaging her from the witches. The twin blades on her staff sliced through the demons faster than they could attack.
As she defeated that flank of witches, Pamoon expected the others to attack. Her attention now on the demons closest to the mist, she was stunned to find them dead. Arrows sticking out of the fallen witches. Ayas, she mouthed.
Using the small pocket of time before the next coven attacked, Pamoon helped Celia up, threw her over her shoulder, and ran toward the mist. Reaching the relative safety of the woods, Pamoon yelled for a healer. “Mantema! I need your help!” Seconds later the Choctaw brave was kneeling next to Celia, his hands hovering over her chest. “Do something,” Pamoon cried. “She’s dying.”
Mantema looked up at Pamoon, his eyes red with tears. “Her wounds are beyond my help.”
“Then who—”
“You.”
Pamoon looked up from Celia to see Kwanokasha standing next to her. “What do you mean, me?”
“Your friend’s wound can only be sealed with fire. It’s the only way to stop the bleeding.”
