The Next Skywatcher: Prequel to The Last Skywatcher Triple Trilogy Series (The Last Skywatcher, Anasazi Historical Thrillers with a Hint of Romance Book 1) (21 page)

Pók’s running slowed as he became more and more exhausted. He noticed only about a half-dozen guardsmen trailed within view. He could see the mouth of the Canyon of Last Trees, near where they had caught five or six children the afternoon before. He stopped running and began walking when he saw a woman standing beside the road. The same woman who had screamed at him, the mother of the children he had killed. Pók walked to her with the intention of knocking her down with a hard shove. He had no pity for mothers because his mother left when he was too young to remember. He knew no mother. And the only wife he’d taken produced the most worthless excuse for a newborn he’d ever seen. When he prepared to punch her in the chest, she lashed out with a long-handled farmer’s knife. Pók felt it hit his right hand. He ripped the knife from the woman with his left hand. He started to slash her throat, but changed his mind and sliced open her belly. Her intestines gushed out. She sat hard and stared at them, steaming in the morning light.

Pók shifted the handle of the knife to his right hand, but it slipped and fell. He realized blood soaked his hand. Worse, his right thumb was dangling by the skin of the webbing. He lifted it to eye level and stared at it. In all his years as a violent man, this was his first significant injury. He couldn’t believe it had been cut off by a woman. In anger, he grabbed his dangling thumb, ripped it off the skin, and threw it into the bushes. Then he held his wounded hand to his chest.

A guardsman arrived who had a medic pouch with
ungwaputi
herb to stop the bleeding. The medic made a poultice, then tore strips of cotton cloth and wrapped Pók’s hand. By the time he finished, even the stragglers had arrived, including the captain. They’d lost too much time, but he felt a wave of weakness, his life energy flowing out through his throbbing thumb. No, not his thumb, he realized. He no longer had a thumb on that hand. He glanced at the woman, wishing he could kill her again, but she merely stared into space, and slumped backward as he watched.

Pók struggled to stand and grabbed the captain by his vest with his left hand to pull himself up. “Go to that canyon,” he pointed with his good hand, “and attack and kill anyone who is in it. Except for the red-hat man. Capture him. No matter what. Do it
now
! Do you understand? Now!”

The captain nodded and said yes. Pók released his grip and the captain quickly organized his men and set off at a run. Pók tried to follow, but felt dizzy and staggered. He stayed on his feet, but couldn’t make his legs go as fast as he wanted. He felt light-headed, a sheen of sweat covered him and the dry breeze chilled him and he shivered. When he arrived at the canyon, he saw the captain and his guard standing at the entrance doing nothing.

“What!” he shouted, pushing himself forward. Then he saw the arrangement of dead raw recruits along the canyon walls, sitting side by side, their heads hanging onto their chests. Pók heard the unmistakable sound of flute music floating from the canyon. He looked at the faces of his captain and guard.

“Charge in there and surprise them,” Pók hissed. “Captain! Attack! Now!”

The captain didn’t move. Pók pulled a knife from his vest with his left hand and raised it to slice it at the captain, who held his club in defense.

“I’ll go in,” said a warrior. He ducked and darted into the canyon. Before he went out of sight, Pók saw him plug his ears with his fingers.

“We should all go,” another warrior said, and went in. Others began to follow. Even the captain pulled away from Pók and went into the opening. All plugged their ears.

“You fools!” Pók shouted. He detested their ignorance. “Unplug your ears! Use your weapons!” But then he suddenly calmed. They couldn’t hear him. There was nothing he could do but watch. So he went into the side canyon and found a boulder that gave him a good view and climbed atop it, the effort making him gasp. His hand throbbed, so he held it high. The warriors climbed slowly up a steep canyon wall toward where a man wearing a red hat stood and a misshapen flute player danced. Pók stared at the red-hat man, his first time to see him. “Were I you,” he narrowed his eyes and muttered, “I’d roll rocks onto my foolish guardsmen.”

A few moments later, Pók saw young archers, children, pop up among the rocks above his oblivious guardsmen. They began firing, and guardsmen began falling. The crooked flute player danced wildly and Pók listened to his music. Falling guardsmen knocked down other guardsmen below them. Just like all the stories he had been hearing, children were killing his warriors. And that red-hat man calmly watched from above, as if he directed everything without saying a word. If his eyes weren’t seeing it this instant, Pók would have refused to believe this could happen.

A rock crashed and pieces skittered near him. He looked where he thought it had come from, but saw nothing. A moment later, another rock landed close enough to him to make him jump to his feet and stand unsteadily on the boulder. This time he saw the source. An older boy, a young man really, stood on a high overlook and stared down at Pók. The boy had an intensity in his gaze, almost a serenity. It felt familiar to Pók. Did he know this boy? He shook his head. Surely not. The boy hurled another rock that Pók had to dodge. He jumped from the boulder and landed hard, banging his injured hand on a rock. The pain shot through him like lightning. He lost his balance and fell, clenching his teeth in pain. Another stone landed close to him, then another even closer. He clawed with his good hand and crawled under an overhang.

Pók fumed. Who did these children think they were? No one had ever attacked his warriors in this way. No one had ever so much as dared send even a hard glance in Pók’s direction, much less try to crash a rock onto his head.

Guardsmen began to stream past him in retreat, running back out the mouth of the side canyon. They gave him frightened glances as they went by. He merely watched. Wounded guardsmen began to struggle by, some not even noticing Pók they were so dazed. When no more came, Pók climbed back onto his boulder and looked up, poised to jump aside. The stone-throwing boy seemed to be gone. And all the children archers had disappeared. But at the top of the rim, he saw the red-hat man looking at him, and the flute player danced and played his endless tunes. Down the slope below the red-hat man, Pók saw the scattered bodies of his guard. Some moved, a few groans and sobs rose from among the rocks, but most lay still. Pók estimated half the guardsmen who had stormed the canyon were now gone. About eighteen men. Unbelievable.

He staggered out onto the canyon floor where his remaining men gathered in ragged defeat. They cringed from him, expecting the worst of his wrath. But instead of anger, he felt nothing. He instructed them to make camp on a low rise on the canyon floor, a place where they could easily see anyone approach.

Pók forced himself to drink and nibble parched corn, then lay on his back, the pain in his hand beating with his heart. First Black Stone Town. Then the red-hat man and his army of children fighters followed and killed his runner before he could make his report. Then they came into the Canyon of Last Trees. Now they would go where? To the palace! Of course that would be their destination.

He imagined what he would do if he were a trader. With a fearless band of young warriors and wearing a red hat. He’d find the Fat Man. Pók nodded. That’s it. The Fat Man would attract the trader. And he would hide them, at least for a while. He might even join them in trying to topple The Builder and take the bluestone riches. For a share of that, the Fat Man would be willing to do almost anything.

Pók chewed his lip and tried to ignore the agony of his lost thumb. Later, after a day of rest for his men, he would march to the palace. He knew The Builder would demand to see him, but he would ignore it. Instead, he would do nothing until he talked to the Fat Man.

Nuva’s plan to
sneak out a warning to the children of the canyon failed. Once the two girls showed themselves, the warrior regulars trapped the girls in a room with an outer door at which a constantly long line of men waited their turn.

Nuva pulled two handfuls of white hair out of her head and sat on her sleeping mat facing the wall, her mind racing. Her watery eyes scanned back and forth, looking for a way, another option, an opportunity, a solution. She didn’t notice Chumana rubbing her back until she spoke.

“The usual guardsmen would have let them go back to the Fat Man,” said Chumana. “The regulars have never guarded this place before. We couldn’t have guessed they would behave any differently.”

“No, I should have known,” said Nuva. “We knew the regulars were less well-trained. We should have thought of another way.”

“We still can. Cook says supplies are starting to come in again already, in spite of Pók’s orders. We can send a message out with one of the burden women.”

“Yes. We can.” She forced herself to focus on something positive.

At that moment, she heard a cough in the hall. Nuva and Chumana looked toward the door, and Cook stood there holding a heavy cotton-wrapped bundle in her arms.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I must come in.” She glanced behind her, and then hurried to the corner and lay the bundle gently on the ground. “You-know-who from the Top-Left House brought this.”

“How did it get through?” asked Nuva.

“The regulars aren’t very disciplined,” said Cook. “The woman just showed up with this and left. Nobody challenged her. But it’s not the kind of delivery we’re used to, I’m afraid, even from her.” She gave an alarmed look at both Nuva and Chumana, shook her head wildly and raised her hands, and then rushed from the room.

“Cook’s losing her nerve,” said Chumana.

“Open it,” Nuva said, wondering what else could go wrong. The crazy woman from the Top-Left House sent the most unusual and useless things. Once she sent a mummified coyote head. Another time a stick like an arrow, with a flake-stone blade snug in one end, but shorter and much fatter, as smoothly polished as the skin of a baby. Nuva liked that gift and kept it handy. For close self-defense, it could be lethal, the ultimate sharp stick.

Chumana unwrapped the package, and gasped.

“What?” asked Nuva, getting to her feet. She looked over Chumana’s shoulder and saw a stick-thin girl whose eyes were enormous. Nuva pushed Chumana aside and scooped the girl into her arms. She examined the end of her fingers, saw the three dots, and then hugged the girl to her chest. “It’s okay, my dear. It’s all okay now. Chumana. Warm soup for the girl. And douse the lamp.” Not many people walked past, but occasionally The Builder himself would stand in the door and look in, or one of the sentries or an Owl Man would creep by.

Chumana began blowing on the coals of the fire, while Nuva rocked the girl in her lap. She was so thin she felt like a bundle of bones. After they got most of a bowl of hot soup inside of her, Nuva cradled her on the sleeping mat. “You’re safe here, little one,” she cooed. “We will take care of you. Everything is going to be fine now.”

The girl licked her lips and looked at Nuva with eyes welled with tears.

“What do you want to tell me, my dear?” Nuva asked.

The girl shook her head.

“You can tell me.” Nuva showed the girl the tattooed tips of her three fingers. “One each for Mother Earth, Father Sun, Sister Moon.
Find fingers like these and you will find a friend
. We have the same spirit. We are women of great power. You have been sent to me with a message, haven’t you?”

The girl nodded.

“There. That’s good. But you’ve had a frightful journey, haven’t you?”

The girl nodded again, not taking her wide eyes from Nuva’s face. Chumana sat on her sleeping mat, her hands clenched, waiting.

“You can tell me now.”

The girl shook her head and pointed at her throat.

Nuva wrinkled her brow. “Your throat hurts?”

The girl shook her head. She touched her mouth and signed
no
with her other hand.

“You can’t speak?”

The girl nodded.

Nuva felt her eyes widen in a moment of panic. “But you must, my dear. You must. Too much depends on it. Please try. Try to speak.”

The girl looked as if she would burst into tears. She worked her mouth and made a sound like “Mah.”

“Mother?”

“Mah,” said the girl.

“Yes, mother,” said Nuva, nodding to encourage her to keep trying.

“Mah-ther,” the girl said. She seemed surprise that the word escaped her lips.

“Very good!” said Nuva. “What about mother?”

“Grah,” the girl said. “Grah mah-ther.”

“Grandmother!” Nuva said, looking at Chumana with a smile.

The girl began to sob, and Nuva rocked her again, patting her back. Finally the girl stopped and sat up straight. “Mah-ther,” she said. “My mah-ther.” She looked at Chumana, then back to Nuva. “My mother. My mother killed.”

Nuva pulled the girl into her chest again. “I’m so sorry, my baby. I’m so sorry. It’s awful to lose your mother. I’m so sorry.”

After a while the girl sat up again. “I not speak since.”

Nuva nodded. “I didn’t speak for many moons after my mother died.”