People of the Morning Star by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O’Neal Gear Page A

He nodded, then repaired to his place behind her, rolling it up.
    “Anything else, Tonka’tzi?”
    “No.” He smiled at the messenger, and added, “I shall convey this report straight to the Morning Star.”
    Matron Wind added, “Please express our thanks to your chief and his clansmen.” She gestured again, and one of the attendants stepped forward with a smoothly polished chunkey stone. Bowing, the attendant offered it to the messenger. The Fox Clan man received it, hands almost shaking, and promptly bowed his forehead to the matting in obeisance.
    Matron Wind explained, “That is a token of the Morning Star’s affection and appreciation for the hard work and deprivation your people are experiencing. It is a gift to your chief and clan, to be passed down from generation to generation.” She gave him just enough time to absorb the enormity of the gift, then added, “May the Sky Beings protect you on your journey home.”
    Still shaking, the young man crawled backward, the chunkey stone pressed to his chest. Rising to his feet, he managed a wide-eyed, awe-filled last glance and hurried out past the guards.
    Red Warrior handed the map to the recorder. “At least he didn’t come weeping and asking for more warriors.”
    “The Tenasee isn’t as dangerous as it was ten winters ago,” the Matron replied. “The colony at Reed Bottom covers a strategic section of river. It’s the eastern colonies that worry me. The ones beyond the great mountains. We’ve heard nothing for two years.”
    “And if we don’t by summer solstice, we should send a party to discover their fate,” Red Warrior said pensively. He’d thought the Morning Star half-mad when he ordered the massive expedition to colonize the far side of the eastern mountains. He’d known little about the country, other than it was said by Traders to be a fertile plain drained by great rivers that ran down to swampland and finally the eastern ocean.
    “Next,” he called.
    The guard admitted a mud-spattered runner. The young man, wearing nothing more than a breechcloth and holding the painted rod of office that allowed him to pass, dropped respectfully on his belly, face down to the matting.
    “Rise,” Matron Wind ordered. “What news?”
    He never raised his head. “Great Sky, the Red Wing Clan captives will land at River Mound City this afternoon. I am sent to ask what disposition to make of the prisoners.”
    Tonka’tzi Red Warrior fingered his chin and leaned forward in his litter. “They are to be bound to poles and carried here straightaway.” Turning, he asked, “Dead Bird? Inform the Morning Star. See to the construction of squares.” He turned back to the runner. “How many of them?”
    “Four, Tonka’tzi . Three women including the matron and two of her daughters. One man. The war chief, Fire Cat.”
    Red Warrior grunted to himself. Red Wing town had been a constant thorn in his side: a reminder of the great wars before the resurrection of Morning Star. Worse, the place had been a weeping pustule of heresy. Not only had the leaders and people of Red Wing town scoffed at the resurrection, but they’d incited the wild northern tribes against Cahokia. Red Wing squadrons had even joined the forest tribes in the raiding of Cahokian colonies along the northern frontier.
    “And the town itself?” Matron Wind asked.
    “Completely ours, Matron. Spotted Wrist executed everyone he captured who belonged to Red Wing Clan. The bodies of the heretics were then cut into pieces and thrown into the river as an offering to the Spirit Beings of the Underworld. The war chief immediately burned the old temple to purify the taint. A new layer of earth will cover the old, and he will engage the surviving townspeople in the construction of a new temple to Morning Star. Those members of the Four Winds Clan who accompanied him have already been installed as rulers.”
    Red Warrior exhaled in relief and allowed himself to share a victorious glance with his