The Next Skywatcher: Prequel to The Last Skywatcher Triple Trilogy Series (The Last Skywatcher, Anasazi Historical Thrillers with a Hint of Romance Book 1) (17 page)

The Builder lifted his hands as if to say,
What else can I do?

“This is war,” said Pók. “As you and your Goddess pointed out, the poison head of the snake could be among us. Could be inside the canyon. But because we don’t know, our only option is to take the tools away from the enemy. And their biggest tool, right now, is children. And that flute player. We have no choice but to eliminate the threat.”

The Builder turned his back on the lady in bluestone and paced away from her. “We must continue to build, or the gods will destroy us, as happened to our ancestors in the South. Each time they stopped building, they were struck by drought or outsiders or floods. Only the shadow gods can protect us, and only by building as high as we possibly can.” The Builder spun on his heel to face Pók. “The children and the flute player are your problem. Do what you must.”

“Excellent,” Pók said. “Anything else?”

The Builder sighed. “Spare as many children as you can.”

“I’ll have the heart of the Plumed Serpent,” said Pók, citing the water god of the weak. A god so mild in his manners that, according to legend, butterflies could land on his eyes and obscure his vision and he would do nothing because he did not wish to destroy their beauty.

“You have the black heart of Másaw,” said The Builder, “and you know it.”

“If I did not, no one would help you lift a single stone to your shadow gods, Másaw among them,” said Pók.

“Leave us!” The Builder shouted. “I do not like your ways! Do not come here again until you have
good
news to report.”

Pók bowed from the waist but kept his eyes on the woman behind the mask. Once again, he had turned her words. And whatever her methods, she had verified the elimination of Ráana. Soon, very soon now, he would either own her or destroy her. He turned and walked out into the glaring sun that baked everything in the canyon. He gave the order for a captain to stay with a dozen regulars he promoted on the spot to stand as Palace Guard. The Builder would never know the difference, and Pók didn’t want to go into Tókotsi’s lair without his full strength.

He shut down supply deliveries to the kitchen, and gave orders to cleanse the canyon of all children in any way necessary that didn’t waste them as food. Then he sent two runners to the camps of the new recruits with orders to send them into the side canyons to take every child they saw and capture the flute player. Pók wanted him alive so he could be part of a show for the opening ceremony of the Summer Council. He dreamed of spilling the blood not only of the flute player on the altar, but of the red-hat man, and even the woman behind the mask and her albino keeper. He would prepare something shocking for all of them. He smiled. The more shocking, the better. Maybe something extra special for the Goddess of the Future. She must be shown to be utterly powerless, which would make Pók all the more powerful.

With Ráana out of the way, Tókotsi and the Southern Alliance would be weak and out of balance. And Pók would be strengthened—especially if he captured the flute player and eliminated the threat of these children and that red-hat trader. Even Tókotsi couldn’t trump that, no matter how much he threatened. Then only The Builder would stand in Pók’s way. But that would be easy. All he wanted to do is build. He would back completely away from power as long as he could continue his mission.

He wanted to laugh out loud. Once again, without even having to make plans, he had turned the information of the fortuneteller to his favor. She probably didn’t even realize how her “fortune” had strengthened him.

Remembering his warrior master at the orphanage, who taught him to take ruthless advantage of every opportunity, Pók raised his arm and gave the order to begin the trot-march to Tókotsi’s New Star Town. He couldn’t wait to deliver news of Ráana’s death.

Chumana pulled the mask
off her face and threw it across the room, shattering it.

Nuva looked at the broken pieces, wondering how long it would take to repair it. She shared the girl’s frustration.

“Did you hear?” asked Chumana, pacing in their small space, fists clenched.

“Yes.” Nuva knew to let Chumana’s anger play out before she tried to reason with her, just as she knew to do that with herself.

“We just condemned all the children in the canyon to death. What were we
think
ing?” Chumana fell to her knees on her sleeping mat and pulled her hair. “We’ll be surrounded by regular warriors, with just a few guardsmen around The Builder. And those awful new recruits will be loose in the side canyons. Pók even shut down deliveries to the kitchen. We’re trapped. We can’t do
any
thing.”

Nuva picked up pieces of Chumana’s bluestone mask and placed them on a reed mat. Chumana pulled off the rest of her costume and slipped on a simple dress. She sat against the wall hugging her knees.

“I don’t deserve to live. If this is the best we can do.” She sobbed. “I hate this place.”

“We will get out of here. Soon. This cannot last. It must not last,” said Nuva.

“Please tell me you have ideas,” said Chumana, wiping tears with her fingers.

“I have ideas,” said Nuva. “But first, we’ll have tea.”

“We drink tea while children are hunted and murdered.”

“We drink tea while we plan how to prevent children from being hunted and murdered.” Nuva prepared two mugs of steaming, fragrant
kaphe
tea and watched as Chumana sipped a few swallows.

Chumana nodded. “This is good. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” said Nuva. She sipped a few swallows herself.

“I didn’t expect The Builder to go along,” said Chumana. “He played right into Pók’s hands. He does that every time. We should start telling him the opposite of what we want.”

“Perhaps. We must always remember that we control nothing. Even The Builder controls little. Even the sharp-stick order I sent out. We’ve heard nothing. Maybe it did not get through. We can push, but we never know what will happen from our push. Pók is a master at reacting to opportunities. We must do the same.”

“What opportunities! They’re killing children! New recruits are tracking down the last flute player! Ráana is dead. Pók is more powerful than he’s ever been.” Chumana shook in rage.

“Finish your tea and I’ll make more,” said Nuva.

Chumana drained her mug and handed it to Nuva. “Tell me your opportunities.”

Nuva prepared
kaphe
trying not to feel despair. Chumana had enough of that for both of them. There had to be something they could do. She handed the full mug to Chumana.

“The regular warriors are men, right?” asked Nuva. “And like all men, they are weak for beautiful young women. Like the two beautiful young women we have in the cotton storage room.”

“We can’t do that to them,” said Chumana. “They want to be finished with that.”

“To save children, they will do it. You would do it yourself if you had to.”

Chumana gripped her mug and rocked as Nuva continued.

“Because we have two beautiful young women in the cotton storage room, and because regular warriors are mere men, we can send them out with messages. We are
not
stuck. We
can
make things happen.” Nuva leaned over Chumana’s mask and began separating the broken pieces.

“I’m sorry I broke it,” said Chumana.

“It’s just bluestone, my dear. There is plenty in the rooms below.” She smiled and stood. Chumana’s anger and despair had finally dissipated. “Before the regulars set their noose around this place, we will visit our girls and figure out how they can carry an urgent message to the Sisterhood—get all children out of the canyon, and gather all members here for the Summer Council with their sharpened sacred sticks.”

“What if it’s too late?”

“We can only do what we can do.”

“What about the flute player? And the red-hat man?” Chumana whispered.

Nuva prepared to go down to where the two girls were hidden in the cotton room. “They’re on their own, I’m afraid,” said Nuva. “For now.”

At the top of a ridge
, Tootsa slapped a smooth-worn boulder with both hands as he passed. Tuwa smiled and also slapped the stone. Choovio did the same, followed by every orphan, all the way down the line, even The Pochtéca. The younger children laughed. Twenty-two hands, Tuwa thought, plus Tootsa’s and The Pochtéca’s. That’s twenty-six total hands. Against an army of warriors that counted as many bells as The Pochtéca’s shirt. Maybe double. Maybe even more. That made Tuwa chew his lip.

He bumped into Tootsa when he stopped near the canyon edge. Tuwa held up his hand and the orphans behind him stopped with their heads down, exhausted from running at a slow trot for half the night and half the day. The sun had moved two hands past high.

Tuwa crept forward to peer into the canyon. The Pochtéca removed his red hat and crawled to the rim to look down. Choovio, Sowi, Kopavi, Natwani, and some of the eldest boys scooted to the edge and joined them.

“What is that?” Tuwa asked.

“Pók’s guard,” said Tootsa. “Three patrols. That’s Chief Dog Poop in front.”

A single man trotted ahead of three groups of warriors, each wearing breechcloths that hung below their knees, hide shields and long bows bouncing on their backs, clubs swinging from their waistbands. They ran in lockstep, the pounding of their feet echoing off the canyon walls like low thunder that rose from the ground, like Másaw grumbling.

So that’s Pók, thought Tuwa, squinting at the man. An eerie feeling crept into him as he watched the distant figure, who ran with his hands low at his waist. Just like Tuwa ran. He shook his aching head to tell himself no. The way the man ran didn’t prove anything.

“Where are they going?” asked Tuwa, hoping no one else noticed the similarity.

“New Star Town I guess,” said Tootsa.

“Why?”

“Summer Council I guess.”

Annoyed, Tuwa looked at Tootsa. “Do you guess about everything?”

Tootsa shrugged. “I guess.”

“Where is the Summer Council held? And don’t guess,” said Tuwa.

“At The Builder’s giant house.”

“Then why are they going to New Star Town?”

“To get Tókotsi and all the little chiefs that make the Southern Alliance. They like to come marching through the canyon so everybody sees how important they are.”

The Pochtéca cleared his throat. “So does this mean The Builder’s palace is unguarded now? And is that where they store their bluestone?”

Tootsa squinted at him. “I haven’t seen any bluestone, except on the lady with the mask. Can I have my bell for today?”

“If this is their Palace Guard, then it must be unguarded, right?” The Pochtéca leaned close to Tootsa.

“These are just the flashy ones,” said Tootsa, sliding down onto his back and blinking at the sky. “There are still the regulars and the new recruits. They’re worse than these ones. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near the giant house now. Can I have my bell?”

The Pochtéca nodded curtly and Kopavi cut a bell off his shirt and gave it to Tootsa, who put it into his pouch that bulged with pointed teeth he’d pulled from the mouths of the warriors the evening before.

“So how many of those stupid pointy teeth you have now?” asked Sowi.

“Fifty-seven last I counted. I’ll count ’em again tonight and see how many there are then.”

“Won’t it be the same?” asked Sowi, looking around for others to join in making fun of Tootsa.

Tootsa shook his head. “Of course not. It’s different every time.”

Tuwa whispered for them to be quiet. “They’ve stopped,” he said.

Dust rose among the warriors as they stood restlessly in their ranks. The leader, Pók, dashed off the trail into the brush and pulled a small boy out of hiding by his hair. Other warriors ran into the brush searching, and they dragged another four children back to Pók.

“Are those your Wild Boys?” asked Tuwa.

“Oh no,” said Tootsa. “They’d never hide that close. And even if they did, Pók would never see them. He never sees us.”

“Are you sure?”

Tootsa watched as Pók marched back and forth in front of the children as if he lectured them. Warriors held the children’s hands and hair from behind as they squirmed. “That’s the bean kids,” Tootsa said

Pók raised his hand and then swiped it at a child’s throat, who collapsed. Kopavi gasped. Pók had cut his throat. He went down the line and killed each child. Tuwa’s mouth hung open. That man must die. As soon as possible.

“Why?” asked The Pochtéca. His face trembled.

Tuwa looked at Tootsa. He couldn’t believe it. “Why would he do that? Has he ever done that before?”

Tootsa shook his head, his eyes wide and watery.

A woman appeared and grabbed frantically at the warriors. They pushed her down and kicked her. Five warriors picked up the dead children and carried them on their backs, holding their ankles, the children’s knees bent over their shoulders. The bodies flopped and blood soaked the backs of the warriors’ legs.

Tuwa looked at Tootsa. “You knew them?”

Tootsa nodded.

“But they’re not your Wild Boys.”

Tootsa shook his head.