The Next Skywatcher: Prequel to The Last Skywatcher Triple Trilogy Series (The Last Skywatcher, Anasazi Historical Thrillers with a Hint of Romance Book 1) (19 page)

But it didn’t last long. The first of a herd of dusty human animals appeared at the canyon entrance and boiled with energy as stragglers joined them and one inspected the tracks. Tuwa lay on his stomach peering down with one eye. He counted twenty. They milled about, calling into the canyon for their scouts. When the notes of flute floated down the canyon, they began to yell and rant, and they finally surged in.

When the first one got to Choovio, the last one had crowded into the narrow opening. Sowi, Natwani, and their two archers stood and rushed forward, firing into the huddled warriors. Tuwa saw Choovio swing and connect with a warrior’s head, just as three more ran past him. They turned to attack, and Kopavi and her archers got them in their backs.

Tuwa glanced back to see The Pochtéca with Peelay on an overlook up the canyon. Peelay danced and played and twirled. Tuwa picked up the biggest rock he could lift and dropped it onto the heads of the warriors below him. Two went down instantly, and others were knocked aside. Tuwa pounded them with every rock he could send over until he noticed Sowi and Natwani had stopped shooting, as had Kopavi and her archers. Choovio stood holding his club. When Tuwa looked down, he saw the narrow canyon opening choked with the dead bodies of warriors, two and three deep in places.

Sowi and Natwani and the other two archers scrambled over the dead to get back up as if in a panic. Tuwa craned his neck down the canyon to see what might have spooked them. He saw a lone man running away who looked different than the untrained warriors, but he didn’t wear the headdress of an official runner. He looked like a regular warrior, not one of the elites. And he didn’t run toward the palace, but toward New Star Town. He ran to report to Pók, Tuwa realized. By the time he climbed down from his perch, all the Pochtécans had gathered near Choovio.

Tuwa’s ears rang from the excitement of battle and their faces said their ears rang, too. The sound in his eardrums was so loud he couldn’t think, almost as if he’d been hit in the head again. Never had they killed so many in such a frenzy. The legs and arms of Sowi, Natwani, and their two archers were drenched with blood. Pieces of flesh and splashes of crimson stained Choovio. Kopavi and her archers were clean, but dazed. It had happened so fast.

Tootsa appeared, followed by a tall, lanky boy, and many other boys behind them, craning their necks to see the dead warriors and the bloodstained Pochtécans.

“Wow,” Tootsa said. “I’ve never seen anybody do that before. To warriors.” The Pochtéca and Peelay came up behind the Wild Boys.

“A runner escaped,” Tuwa said, his body still ringing. “Toward New Star Town. To tell Pók.”

The Pochtéca stepped forward. He looked at the boy Tuwa assumed must be Lightfoot. “We have two hands of sunlight left. Where is a good place to hide that we can defend?”

Lightfoot shuffled his feet. “We don’t usually defend. We just hide.”

“And run,” said Tootsa.

“I like that,” said Sowi.

“We need a high place, where we can shoot down from all sides,” said Kopavi. “And that has an open back way to escape.”

Lightfoot turned and pointed up the steep wall of the side canyon. It could be climbed like a stair with highly irregular steps. “Up there,” he said. “Two back ways out. But foot patrols come there every day when the sun is halfway.”

“But overnight, you think we would be safe there?” The Pochtéca asked.

Lightfoot signed
yes
. He cut his eyes among the Pochtécans. He didn’t trust them yet, Tuwa thought. Hard to blame him.

“What should we do with all these bodies?” Sowi asked.

The Pochtéca looked at the slaughtered warriors. “What would frighten Pók’s warriors most?” he asked.

“Pile them up out there to make a warning,” said Tootsa. “And Peelay can make flute music. They won’t even come in here if we do that.”

“Flute music didn’t bother these,” Tuwa said. “They didn’t even seem to notice.”

“Of course not,” said Tootsa. “They’re new recruits. They’re too stupid to know how bad flute music is for them.”

Tuwa looked at Lightfoot, who gave Tootsa a funny look. The ones who feared the flute music were the stupid ones, even though Tuwa had yet to see proof of that.

“I get all the pointed teeth!” Tootsa called, running to the closest dead warrior. He pried open the lips and cheeks with his fingers to see the teeth. “What?” he said. “Not a pointed one in there.”

With the approval of everyone but Sowi, who wanted to run west or south at top speed, they agreed to arrange the bodies of the slain warriors sitting up against the canyon wall on either side of the opening into the Canyon of Last Trees. Then they climbed the cliff and dug into their defensive positions for the night. After dark they took turns resting and drinking thin, hot cornmeal gruel made at a small fire in a hidden depression. Tuwa wanted to question Lightfoot, but he didn’t see him, and soon, only the sentries were fully awake. Tuwa closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the running form of Pók plagued his dreams. Pók chased him. Tuwa ran, but couldn’t get away. Pók kept getting closer and closer, a leer on his face, a stain of red on his chin, his mouth filled with bloody pointed teeth.

Grimy and exhausted
from leading his guard in the long run from The Builder’s palace, Pók followed the young servant assigned to escort him. He thought the boy would lead him to his quarters in Tókotsi’s sprawling big house. The midnight stars had already passed overhead. He would be lucky to get any sleep before first light. But the boy led him in a different direction.

“Where are you taking me?” he demanded.

“The Chief wishes to see you.” If he had seen the boy on the canyon floor between here and the palace, he would have slit his throat. He and his guard had managed to collect twenty-seven children along their march. He left them with a half-dozen old-women cooks with instructions on how to prepare them. They looked at him with such horror he wanted to slap them. But they weren’t his responsibility. He would tell Tókotsi he left a bounty of free meat in the kitchens, and he could instruct his cooks as he wished.

At the moment, he felt in no mood to deal with the arrogant old man, though he did relish the thought of informing him of the death of his pathetic grandson, Ráana. He would have preferred a hot bath, the pleasure of a new woman followed by a good sleep, then a breakfast of tender child stew before he delivered the news. But the old man had to throw his weight around in the middle of the night.

Outside the Chief’s chamber, the servant boy stepped aside and motioned for Pók to enter. He stooped through the low door and went inside. The room was unlike anything The Builder had made for himself. Countless bear-fat lamps burned brightly all around the room, filling it with a wonderful scent that Pók inhaled deeply, and red and purple fabric draped from the ceiling and walls. Naked women with strands of bluestone beads around their necks danced to the sound of rattles and drums played by other naked women, and the Chief lounged on a pile of cotton blankets, a woman feeding him what looked like sweet corncakes.

When he saw Pók, Tókotsi sat up and clapped his hands. The women reacted immediately, lowered their heads as if they’d been beaten for not being quick enough, and scurried from the room. Pók admired their subservience and their beautiful bodies as they brushed past.

“Ah, look who has finally arrived, the little man from the big palace.” Tókotsi laughed and rocked forward. He slapped the backside of a man sleeping on another pile of blankets with his back turned. “Wake up and acknowledge our special guest, my grandson,” Tókotsi said.

The man rolled over, half his head wrapped in bloody bandages.

After a few moments of uncertainty, Pók recognized Ráana and stepped backward in surprise. His mouth opened and wouldn’t close.

“Ah, I thought so,” said Tókotsi. “He thought you were dead, Ráana. Why is that, Pók? Why did you think my grandson had been murdered? And who did you order to murder him?”

Pók’s mind reeled. He considered rushing forward and killing Ráana right there. Tókotsi had already accused him of it, and he had indeed ordered it done. But if he killed Ráana now, he would have to kill Tókotsi too, and that wouldn’t be wise. Not just yet. Even though he did have thirty-six warriors outside who would do anything he told them. Then he realized that what The Builder had said—what that imposter fortuneteller had told him—was not true. That proved she did not truly see events. She must have an underground network of spies and merely pretended to have mystical powers. That stopped his murderous impulse against Ráana. Destroying the myth of the Goddess of the Future would be far more useful to him than merely squashing the bullfrog Ráana. In fact, now Ráana had more value to him alive, to testify in The Builder’s chamber and watch the demise of that woman.

“The Builder believes you are dead,” said Pók, with the lilt of a smile in his voice. “He will be pleased to see you.”

“So The Builder told you Ráana is dead?” asked Tókotsi. “You didn’t know from any other source?”

“No.” Pók considered telling him of the slain runner, but decided to keep that to himself for the moment. “His fortuneteller saw a vision of Ráana’s death. It is fortunate,” he admired his own choice of words, “that she was mistaken.”

“That woman behind the bluestone mask,” said Tókotsi with distaste. “I don’t know what he sees in her.”

Pók didn’t know Tókotsi thought that about her. Maybe these two were more useful as allies than enemies. At least for a short time.

Tókotsi turned to Ráana. “Tell him what the captain of the regulars said to you.”

Ráana struggled to speak, his mouth and voice not working correctly. He slurred his words so badly Pók could barely understand. “He cawwed me twaitor. Then twied knock off mah head.”

Tókotsi looked at Pók. “Did you order your captain to do that?”

“Just the opposite,” said Pók, again with a flickering smile inside because no one alive could prove differently. If, that is, the captain were truly dead. He decided to take the risk. “I sent a runner with instructions for him to report to Ráana. And to take his orders in Black Stone from Ráana while they found the children murderers.”

Tókotsi thrummed his fingers on his thigh. “What kind of magic would make a patrol of regulars turn on Ráana’s guard and fight to the death?”

“Witchcraft?” asked Pók. He wondered if children were involved, if Ráana had seen children. And the red-hat trader.

“Tell him, Ráana.”

Ráana glared at Pók with his one unbandaged eye. “When I woke up, awl dead, chiwdren standing awound. Man in wed hat. I wan away. They not shtop me.”

Tókotsi watched Pók’s face. “He arrived this afternoon.” He thrummed his fingers on his thigh harder and faster. “It seems every warrior who goes anywhere near Black Stone Town winds up being killed. By children. First under Ihu’s command. Now a full patrol of Ráana’s guard and your regulars. Who is this red-hat man? You must know things we do not, Pók. I’m not as gullible and foolish as our Builder. We can help each other, you and I. We have more sense than the rest of the world put together.”

Pók’s mind reeled again. How could he make the best of this? How far could he use Tókotsi? Could he pit him against The Builder? Don’t reach too far, he cautioned himself. Just a few steps at a time.

“The Builder and his fortuneteller do not know about the red-hat man,” said Pók. “They believe children are put under a spell by the flute player’s music. The Builder ordered me to send men into the side canyons to find the flute player so he can sacrifice him on the altar for the opening ceremony of the Summer Council. I’ve scattered raw recruits into all the side canyons of Center Place to capture him because they have no fear of the witchcraft of flute music.” Pók calculated what to tell Tókotsi as he went. He didn’t want to waste information.

“Interesting,” said Tókotsi. “What else?”

“The Builder ordered me to eliminate all children from the canyon. On the way here, we killed twenty-seven. I left them with your cooks should you desire to make use of the tender meat. I stationed a ring of regulars around the Builder’s palace with instructions to kill every child they find.”

“The Builder ordered that?” Tókotsi put his fingers together and studied Pók. “I didn’t think he had it in him. What else?”

Pók squirmed inside. How much did Tókotsi know? Could he know, for instance, about the murdered runner surrounded by the footprints of children? He couldn’t. Should Pók tell him? What advantage would he gain by leaving it out? He decided to risk it. “We found the runner assigned to report from Black Stone Town murdered on the road just above Center Place the day before yesterday. The dust around his body showed the footprints of children.”

Pók paused to let that sink in, and to think. So far, he had adhered mostly to the truth, which was always the best policy in lying effectively. Could he add anything to enhance his position in all this?

Tókotsi frowned and nodded a few times. “So whatever is happening at Black Stone is spreading out from there. Is that all?”

“One thing more. The red-hat trader comes from far to the south and brings, I am told, a shirt sewn with countless tiny bells. The sound of the tinkling bells is supposed to have magical powers. Perhaps Ihu wanted the bells for himself and he thought he could easily take them from an unarmed man wearing a red hat and traveling with children.” Stop there, he told himself. Pók himself had suggested to Ihu that capturing the goods of the trader might not be a bad idea. Only Ihu could refute that. And because Ihu was under the command of Ráana at the time, it implied a lack of control of his own men. When Pók had the chance, he would kill Ihu before he could contradict him. For defecting to Ráana’s command alone, Pók owed him that.