Mists of Dawn (53 page)

Once
more,
Tlaxcan
came
to
his
aid.
He
touched Mark
on
the
arm
to
reassure
him
and
smiled
his
quick and
ready
smile.

“Orn,”
whispered
Tlaxcan.
“Do
not
be
afraid.”

Mark
smiled
back,
but
his
smile
was
a
little
shaky. That
word
“orn”
was
apt
to
be
used
pretty
loosely from
his
point
of
view.
The
painted
man
coming
toward
him
might
be
lots
of
things,
but
if
the
expression in
his
eyes
was
friendship,
then
Mark
wanted
no
part of
it.
It
looked
like
the
sort
of
friendship
a
vampire might
feel
for
its
victim.

The
painted
man
stopped.
Tlaxcan
at
once
began
to talk,
speaking
too
rapidly
for
Mark
to
follow
him.
The shaman
talked
back,
his
voice
a
trifle
high
for
a
man’s, although
not
abnormally
so.
Then
Tlaxcan
started
in again,
and
now
Mark
was
able
to
catch
enough
of
the words
to
understand
the
general
drift
of
the
conversation.
Tlaxcan
elaborated
the
details
of
how
Mark
had saved
his
life,
and
then
recounted
the
story
of
how
he had
first
come
upon
Mark
on
the
plains.
He
spoke
in awed
tones
of
the
reindeer
that
Mark
had
killed
without
any
weapons
except
a
small
knife,
and
Mark
realized
that
Tlaxcan
was
speaking
the
literal
truth
so
far as
he
knew
it—he
probably
regarded
the
.45
as
a
magic charm
of
some
sort,
or
at
most
as
a
clumsy
fist-ax. Tlaxcan
told
about
the
amazing
knife
that
was
not made
of
stone,
and
he
spoke
of
the
red
flower—fire-that
Mark
had
kindled
by
magic.

The
shaman
was
visibly
impressed,
although
he
tried not
to
show
it
and
muttered
something
to
the
effect that
all
that
was
old
stuff
to
him
and
he
could
do
it himself
if
he
really
wanted
to.
Tlaxcan
did
not
contradict
him,
but
he
was
plainly
skeptical.

The
shaman
turned
to
Mark.
“Come,”
he
said,
and his
voice
was
not
entirely
without
fear.
Mark
suddenly realized
that
this
shaman
was
doing
a
very
brave
thing, from
his
own
point
of
view.
To
him,
Mark
had
just been
represented
as
no
mean
witch
doctor
himself,
and for
all
he
knew
he
might
be
out
looking
for
trouble. Mark
relaxed
a
little,
and
after
another
reassuring
smile from
Tlaxcan
he
followed
the
shaman
back
across
the ledge
toward
the
cave.

The
waterfall
moaned
and
boomed
in
the
distance, and
night
had
fallen
like
black
snow
in
the
valley. Despite
Mark’s
realization
that
the
shaman
was
uneasy, he
was
none
too
confident
himself.
As
he
followed
the painted
man
into
the
dark
cavern,
Mark
could
not
help wondering
whether
or
not
he
would
ever
come
out
of the
cave
again—alive.

The
cave
was
large,
roomy,
and
dry.
They
turned one
corner,
and
then
proceeded
down
a
long,
straight tunnel
to
where
a
small
fire
burned
in
a
tiny
chamber. The
fire,
Mark
noticed,
fed
on
dry
bones,
not
wood— a
logical
enough
fuel
source
in
a
land
that
was
somewhat
short
on
wood.
The
painted
man
did
not
stop,
but continued
on
into
a
larger
chamber
beyond.
It
was dark,
with
only
enough
light
coming
in
from
the
flickering
fire
outside
to
gray
the
air
and
throw
great
twisting shadows
on
the
walls.