Free People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past) by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O'Neal Gear

alleged “Guide” was an overblown story.
    He gazed up past the high boulders at the Blessed Star People. “That’s why we live here, isn’t it, Silvertip? To protect you.”
    Before the coming of the Prophet, things had been easier. Now, no one trusted the Nightland People, or their thieving warriors who would pounce on an unattended child. Some had called for war in retribution for the kidnappings, but those cries had grown faint in the wake of Nightland victories among the always-scrappy Sunpath People. Now, for the most part, they waited, unsure of which course to pursue.
    “You mean …” the boy asked in confusion, “you mean because Raven Hunter tried to kill Wolf Dreamer before he could lead our people up into the light of this world?”
    “No, I was thinking something else, but you’re right about that.”
    They rounded a corner, and a deep voice drifted on Wind Woman’s
breath, rising from the ceremonial cave like the voice of Wolf Dreamer himself.
    People milled around outside the small entrance to the chamber, laughing and talking. Lookingbill’s heart warmed. During great festivals, Lame Bull villagers came from all over to participate. Every cycle some long-lost relative appeared out of nowhere.
    “Father?” Lookingbill’s eldest daughter, Mossy, waved as she saw them approaching. She had inherited his height, a stately woman with long black hair and brown eyes. The heavily beaded dress she wore flapped around her legs. He noted her expression: Something was wrong. A tightness around her eyes betrayed it. Her husband, Night Fighter, stood at her side, a hard worry marring his wide face.
    “My pride overflows,” Lookingbill praised, striding forward to take Mossy’s hand. Then he gave her an evaluative look. What’s the trouble?
    She had risen through the ranks to the esteemed position of Storyteller by memorizing the precious ancient stories.
    She lovingly kissed his mostly bald head, then extended a hand to an old woman standing slightly behind her. “Father, do you remember Cousin Loon Spot?”
    Lookingbill squinted at her. Hunched with age, the woman had her gray hair pulled into a tight bun over her left ear. Her nose stuck out like a sharp dart point. “Scrub’s daughter from Purple Meadow Village? I thought you were dead?”
    “I tried it. Didn’t like it,” the old woman muttered.
    When Loon Spot scowled, Mossy said, “Father, forgive me for interrupting, but I need to speak you before the ceremonial. Oh, and you must Sing tonight.”
    “I’m too old to Sing.”
    “He’s too old to do anything,” Loon Spot added, and grinned toothlessly when Lookingbill’s eyes narrowed.
    Mossy said, “Pineleaf is ill. Someone must take his place.”
    “You have a lovely voice.”
    “You told me my voice sounded like dogs howling.”
    “That’s because I love you. And the last time you talked me into Singing, half the people mysteriously went home early. I’m not going to embarrass myself—”
    “I think I was at that ceremony,” Loon Spot interrupted grimly. “That’s what convinced me to try being dead for a while. Don’t make him Sing.”
    “I’m not going to Sing!” he declared.
    Mossy smiled, but it was a halfhearted expression. “All right, I’ll find someone else. Now, please, let’s talk, Father.”
    “Silvertip, wait here for me. I’ll be just a moment.”
    “Yes, Grandfather.”
    Mossy led him up the trail away from the ceremonial cave. When they reached a dark ledge, she sank down and heaved a sigh.
    “What is it, Daughter?”
    “One of our hunters just came in. He brought news that another Sunpath camp was attacked: the Nine Pipes band. The hunter said that he saw the slaves carrying more meat north.”
    Lookingbill felt like a huge hand had reached into his chest and gripped his heart. “What of Skimmer and Chief Hookmaker?”
    While Hookmaker had been one of the most strident Sunpath voices calling for peace, Skimmer had come to him less than a moon ago