The Next Skywatcher: Prequel to The Last Skywatcher Triple Trilogy Series (The Last Skywatcher, Anasazi Historical Thrillers with a Hint of Romance Book 1) (18 page)

They watched and listened as the warriors trotted up the canyon and disappeared.

“You were right about this place,” The Pochtéca said to Tuwa, his voice hoarse. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

Tuwa wanted to reach with long arms into the canyon and slice Pók’s throat with a palm knife. And all his warriors. He wanted to pound them with his fists until they were as bloody and limp as the children they’d just killed. He heard Grandfather’s voice like a strong wind.
When your will directs your anger, no man can match you
. He had to focus his will or his anger would make him do something stupid.

“Where now?” Choovio asked Tootsa. He always became practical when others lost their balance.

“I was taking you to the bean family for food,” Tootsa said. “But I don’t want to go there anymore.”

Tuwa shook himself and forced his mind to work. They needed eyes and ears in the canyon. They needed to know what was happening and where the warriors were moving. They needed a place to hide.

“How do you find your Wild Boys?” he asked.

Tootsa shrugged. “I just do. They run all over the place.”

“Don’t you have a meeting place? A hideout?”

“The Canyon of Last Trees,” Tootsa said. “When it’s protected by flute music, that’s where I usually find them.”

“Where is that? How long to get there?”

Tootsa pointed across the wide, scrub-covered floor of the canyon to a dark side canyon. “There,” he said.

“And where is The Builder’s palace?” Tuwa asked.

Tootsa pointed the direction Pók and his men had come from.

“How far?”

“You can’t see it from here. Even if you were twice as high.”

“Why did you call those children who were killed the ‘bean kids’?”

“Their father’s a farmer,” said Tootsa, “and he doesn’t grow anything but beans. So when you eat with them, it’s just beans, beans, beans.”

Tuwa looked at Choovio. “We go to the flute canyon with the last trees to find the Wild Boys.” Even The Pochtéca nodded.

“Wait,” said Tootsa. “It’s dangerous to cross over. They have watchers and sentries. We’ve got to sneak. And not follow each other. Keep hidden. Stop a lot and listen. Warriors are noisy. I’ll show you,” and he took off. Then he stopped and returned. He went to The Pochtéca. “Can I have my bell for tomorrow? In case you don’t make it?”

The Pochtéca looked angry, but then his face softened and he tousled Tootsa’s hair. He nodded and Kopavi cut a bell from The Pochtéca’s shirt and handed it to Tootsa.

Tuwa watched Tootsa scurry across the open places and then wait, hidden, in thickets of sunbaked yellow grass and brush. When Tootsa arrived at a line of greenery that marked a shallow stream halfway, Tuwa gave a younger orphan instructions to cross as Tootsa had. “Look where you’re going,” he said, pointing to the opening of the canyon where they headed. “Memorize it. Get there no matter what.”

Finally only The Pochtéca, Choovio, Sowi, Kopavi, and Natwani remained with Tuwa at the overlook.

“I want you to go now so we can watch you,” he said to The Pochtéca. He nodded and stuffed his red hat inside his jingle-bell shirt, then set out, lumbering across the open places with no grace, but a respectable speed.

“You,” Tuwa said to Natwani. “Follow him. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

Natwani nodded. “I will not see him without looking,” he said and left.

“He may as well not even try to talk, the sense he makes,” said Sowi.

“We know what he means,” said Tuwa. “Most of the time.” They watched until The Pochtéca, with Natwani not far behind, crossed the creek.

“What about us?” asked Sowi. “Who’s going to be last?”

“We’re all going at the same time,” Tuwa said. “We’ll spread out. And keep an eye out for each other.”

“Let’s get it over with then,” said Sowi. “I’m all stiffed up from the waiting of legs. I will not move without walking my feet.”

Tuwa shook his head at Sowi, and they set off together. Choovio went far to the left where Pók and his guard had disappeared. Sowi and Kopavi held to a more middle course following The Pochtéca and Natwani. And Tuwa went wide right on the palace side. Being alone felt refreshing. He kept looking to his right to catch a glimpse of the giant structure where Grandfather had been sacrificed on the public altar three summers ago by the same man who had just murdered the bean kids. Tuwa cringed and shuddered, clenching his fists so tightly his knuckles popped in pain.

He glanced often in the direction of the palace, but saw no structures or any activity, but he imagined a permanent cloud over the spot, that the darkness he felt toward the place in his heart showed itself as a physical shadow. He lingered and moved slowly, watching for movement other than his own people, but he saw nothing. He scanned the cliffs, the many places watchers might hide, but saw and heard nothing that alarmed him.

Near the entrance to the side canyon, he hid and watched. He saw Choovio, also outside the canyon in a similar hiding place. Waiting for him, he knew. Inside the canyon, he caught a glimpse of The Pochtéca as he labored up a narrow trail, followed by Natwani, Sowi, and Kopavi. He would wait a few heartbeats, and then dash in himself, Choovio behind him.

He heard something and cocked his head. Flute music. It came and went in snatches with the stirrings of the breeze. Someone inside the canyon played the flute. He remembered what Tootsa had said:
Chief Dog Poop and those warriors are afraid of the flute music. They think it casts spells over them
.

The warriors would openly kill children, in front of their mother, but they were afraid of a flute. He wanted to see and hear a flute player with that kind of magic.

A noise like a stamping of feet alarmed him. He looked up and down the canyon but saw nothing. Choovio nodded at Tuwa and pointed in the direction of the palace. Tuwa turned and saw five men trotting toward them. At first they looked like the Másaw Warriors they’d seen in Black Stone. But they weren’t the same. Their hair, rather than carefully sculpted and piled on the tops of their heads, was unkempt, matted and twisted, jutting in all directions. And their faces were caked in something black and sticky. Tuwa could see the five of them clearly now.

Before they arrived at the side canyon, a chipmunk scurried across their path. A warrior shrieked and dove after it, digging frantically in the rocks where it had hidden. He shouted in victory, pulled it out by the tail, and held it over his head. He squeezed his fist. Blood and mangled body parts dripped onto his head, a stream of liquid running down his face. Tuwa realized the black on their faces was blood. Baked and blackened by the sun. The warrior laughed, and then tied what was left of the chipmunk to his tattered vest.

Tuwa scooted back into shade to better hide, and pulled his flake-knife to hold in his left hand and a throwing stone for his right. These men must be the new, untrained Másaw Warriors. Human animals. He swallowed and felt shaky. They might be able to kill one each, unless Choovio got off a lucky arrow. But even then, not this many. He wondered if any of the Pochtécans watched from hiding places above them. He hoped Sowi and Kopavi had archers ready. But maybe they’d be lucky and the men would pass, distracted by more chipmunks.

Instead, they stopped at the mouth of the side canyon. The flute player still played, and the men obviously heard it.

“Look,” one of them said, pointing to the ground. They scattered, examining tracks. “Children have been here. And a man whose feet turn in.” The Pochtéca. His bowed legs made the tips of his toes turn in. Tuwa had stepped in his tracks countless times and knew them well. “They went in there.”

They gathered at the mouth of the side canyon where Tootsa and the others had gone. “That flute player is in there. And children and a tough old man, too.” The warrior laughed. “We’ll have a feast. And that Pók fellow will make us all captains!”

“Shouldn’t we wait on the others?” asked one.

“Do you not see the tracks? These are children and an old man. It’ll be like catching turkeys in a pen!” Even the reluctant one nodded and they ran into the side canyon.

Tuwa popped his head up and looked at Choovio, who ran to a rock at the side canyon’s entrance and peered around it. Tuwa went to his side.

“Did you hear?” whispered Tuwa.

Choovio nodded and charged up the canyon. Tuwa stayed close.

The warriors moved quickly and kept together. When they paused, Choovio and Tuwa ducked behind rocks.

“They’re up there,” said the lead warrior in a hoarse whisper, pointing over a small rise that angled across the canyon.

Tuwa heard flute music from over the ridge. And the laughter of boys. He and Choovio looked at each other in alarm. The Pochtécans had their guard down. And more warriors might arrive behind Tuwa and Choovio soon. They could be trapped.

The lead warrior sent two men to his left and two to his right. He turned with a smirk on his face and looked back down the canyon. Choovio stepped into view, club in one hand, bow and arrow in the other. Choovio’s move surprised Tuwa, but he immediately saw what he intended to do. Attack the lone warrior and drive him over the ridge so the Pochtécans would see and be alerted. Tuwa didn’t look at Choovio, but kept his eyes on the lead warrior. His expression changed when he saw Choovio, but only slightly. He motioned for Choovio to come to him, and Choovio did.

Tuwa knew he had to do something. When Choovio was halfway to the warrior, Tuwa stepped out. This time the lead warrior’s face flickered to worry. His eyes went back and forth, Tuwa to Choovio, as he slapped his war club in his open palm. Tuwa couldn’t see the other four warriors, which meant they probably couldn’t see him. They would be wondering what their leader was doing, faced the wrong direction. But they didn’t appear to be rushing back. When Choovio was close, the man raised his club to strike and Choovio charged. He slammed his head into the bottom of the warrior’s rib cage. The man clearly didn’t expect that and the swing of his club lost its power. Choovio drove him up and out of sight over the low rise. Tuwa saw the four other warriors run over the rise when their leader went over.

Tuwa ran as fast as he could. When he reached the top and looked down he saw a group of boys he didn’t know circled around a bent-over flute player as if they’d been dancing. The Pochtéca stood to one side, his red hat square on his head again, a surprised look on his face. Sowi and Kopavi and the Pochtécan archers stood on rocks around the dancing boys, arrows fitted to their bows. The warriors had stopped, staring in deadlock at the archers surrounding them. No one moved except Choovio and the lead warrior, who wrestled and grunted on the ground.

Tuwa rushed to them and swiped his knife at the man’s wrist until his club fell away. Tuwa picked it up and swung it onto the man’s head, twice, then a third hard time until he stopped moving.

Two of the warriors screamed and ran to attack the nearest orphan, but arrows zipped into their chests and stomachs, and they fell, writhing in pain. The other two turned to run away. Kopavi arched a long shot that buried into the back of one warrior, and he staggered over the rise. The other ran with his head down, changing directions like a rabbit. Tuwa ran to the top of the ridge and saw the warrior’s body fly off a natural ramp and land in a heap on a field of rock shards below. He had lost control running down the slope.

When Tuwa looked back, the boys he didn’t know had disappeared and the misshapen flute man stood on a boulder laughing and dancing. Choovio lay on his back, his face bloody.

“You okay?” Tuwa asked.

Choovio sat up, spat blood, and nodded.

The Pochtéca approached. “Where did those come from? We didn’t see anything crossing over. Were it not for Kopavi, we wouldn’t have been ready!”

“Did she hear them?”

“I don’t know. She just went to each archer and got them into position. The Wild Boys didn’t even notice.”

“More are coming,” Tuwa said.

“More like these?” The Pochtéca asked. “They didn’t care about the flute music.”

“Yes, we overhead them before they rushed up here. Others are coming. I don’t know how many or what kind. We should hide archers out in the big canyon. Trap them in the narrow neck of this canyon’s entrance.” Tuwa spoke fast. They didn’t have time for debate.

The Pochtéca nodded. “I’ll stay with the flute player. We’ll distract them if we can.” He hurried away.

With Choovio at his shoulder, Tuwa gathered Kopavi, Sowi, and Natwani. He thanked Kopavi for her good thinking. “There are more coming. We heard them say so. Sowi and Natwani—take the two eldest archers and sneak out onto the canyon floor and hide as close to the entrance as you can. When the warriors get here, let them go into the canyon. When the last ones are in, start shooting them. Don’t spare any arrows. We’ll do the same from this side.” Sowi and Natwani didn’t move, but stared at Tuwa. He didn’t blame them for their fear. They would be exposed on the canyon floor.

“No time!” said Choovio, a rare show of impatience from him. Sowi and Natwani got what he meant and rushed away.

“Kopavi, set up the archers where you think best,” Tuwa said.

He noticed she gave Choovio a worried look before she spoke. “We’ll recover every arrow we used here. We’ll be ready.”

“I’m going up there,” Tuwa pointed to a rock ledge above the narrow canyon opening, “and send rocks onto their heads.”

Choovio looked up at the place and nodded. He pointed to a boulder anyone entering the little canyon had to pass. “Behind that,” he said, hefting the club Tuwa had used to kill the warrior.

Tuwa climbed up to the ledge and for a few moments he felt peace and quiet. Up the side canyon, he saw the deep green and reddish bark of the kinds of trees he remembered from his home village. Two groves grew up the steep sides of the higher cliffs. They looked like smudges of green cloud against dark rocks. Across the sky above the trees, a falcon raced, like a fat arrow shot from one canyon wall to the next. He remembered Grandfather, standing in his circle of stones with the Twin Giants behind him as he sang chants to the falcon, the messenger from the sky gods to people on Earth.
Those who do not heed the falcon will be forever lost
. Tuwa smiled. The sun felt good, rather than harsh. For the first time, he felt the welcoming glimmer of home.