Storm of Locusts

Chapter 47

The thin layer of ice covering Black Mesa cracks under his moccasins. The winter wind blows feral, tossing his long raven hair around his shoulders. Snow whirls in the air, chilling him beneath his flint armor, but he is not deterred. He has been searching for weeks, chasing every rumor, every whisper.

He finds the spot. A stretch of earth like any other. Unmarked, unremarkable. He slings the pack off his back. Pulls the shovel free and begins to dig.

The day stretches long, the sun wheels across the winter sky.

He is about to give up, concede another story proven false, when he sees it. A feathered hoop. Mica glittering in the harsh light like flakes of shattered rainbow. He grasps it in his muscled hands. Pulls. At first it won’t come. But then it loosens, and he sees it is tied around a man’s neck. He gently clears the dirt away. Gets down on his knees in the hole he’s dug and wrenches the hoop wide. Slips it from the buried man’s head.

The earth begins to bubble and roil. He scrambles back as the sand collapses around him, rushing in to fill the space as the man rises from the earth. There are other hoops holding him, and he hurries to clear those, too. Until the man stands before him, finally free.

“Brother?” he whispers, hopeful.

Neizghání’s eyes open. “Brother,” he echoes. And then, “Where is she?”

“She has used the sword.”

“How?”

“She had help. The Water-sprinkler, Tó Neinilí.”

Neizghání’s face darkens. “Meddling old man. Then it is as we feared.”

His brother Tóbájíshchíní’s face is grim.

“The world is out of balance. We must prepare for war.”