“Before you came to us the first time, Mat-huwa,” Tewanias said, “our prophets warned us that we would have to leave the home of our ancestors and find another place far from the reach of the Yan-kees. So we left our village for a new home, in Atirú:taks, the hunting grounds of the Kanien’kehá:ka, where we knew the whites would be afraid to enter, where you lived with us. We were happy there, but when the war between the whites ended, when we learned that our leaders had sold the last of the Kanien’kehá:ka land to the Yan-kees, we knew the Nations were broken beyond mending.”

“That was when the Yan-kees told all Kanien’kehá:ka that those who did not want to join our brothers in Canada could remain, but it had to be in a place of the Yan-kees’ choosing. I have seen such places,” Cageaga said bitterly, his face twisting. “The whites call them …” he paused, trying to fold his tongue around the word he was searching for “… reservations. I did not know that word, but I saw what it means. The Kanien’kehá:ka cannot live in such places. So we came here, to the last stronghold of our people. If the Yan-kees want to take this land, they will have to fight us for it. We will defend it against them and they will know our anger.”

Here. Hawkwood realized he had no idea where “here” was.

“The Kanien’kehá:ka know it as Kanièn:keh,” Tewanias said, reading his confusion. “After the homeland of our fathers.”

Land of the Flint. Hawkwood understood then.

“This village is named Gaanundata.”

Flattened Mountain. As he pondered upon the significance of that name, Hawkwood’s wound began to throb again. It felt as if a small mallet was beating time against the inside of his skull. The smoke wasn’t helping, either. It was catching at the back of his throat, though it could also have been the after-effects of the bark tea. He heard a low grunt from behind him. Tewanias and Cageaga looked towards the sound. Hawkwood turned.

Lawrence was on his feet.

Hawkwood rose quickly. “How are you feeling?”

The major gazed about him, frowning at the strange artefacts strung around the walls, wrinkling his nose at the combination of smells contained within the longhouse’s dim-lit interior. “What is this place? Where are we?”

“Safe,” Hawkwood said.

Lawrence considered that. “How did we get here?”

“By a miracle,” Hawkwood said, as he wasn’t sure in his own mind about the exact sequence of events that had taken place following the bloody run-in with the Oneida.