James Axler – Demons of Eden

Only a few of the man-size targets that had been erected in a clearing showed lethal hits. Many of the targets showed no hits at all.

Touch-the-Sky had railed at the men, demonstrated the proper way to fix target acquisition and over and over he had shouted at them to squeeze the triggers, not to pull them.

By midafternoon, the warriors had fired a lot of the outlanders’ ammunition and were milling about in a disheartened circle, muttering to one another, complaining and criticizing.

Touch-the-Sky spoke bitterly to Little Mountain about the lack of aptitude and enthusiasm displayed by the warriors. “Are they fighting men or children?”

Little Mountain shook his head mournfully. “You came here from outside and you do not yet fully understand our people. We have followed you against our traditions because you have proved yourself a strong warrior and have said you hold a power to make the world whole again.”

The men with the blasters overheard Little Mountain’s words and stepped closer.

“My words are true,” Touch-the-Sky said. “The power within the cavern is the legacy of our forefathers. It is kept from us.”

A warrior holding the Colt Python shook his head. “The First People reared our city in the dawn of the beginnings of day. We have lived according to their ancient ways, and Ti-Ra’-Wa was spared the purification. Even if what you say is true, our actions violate those traditions. You brought outlanders here, and you want us to fight in the outland way against our own people. The valley is no longer the Ti-Ra’-Wa we knew.”

“We may bring forth the anger of the Grandmother from the cavern,” another man said. “She may purify Ti-Ra’-Wa so it will be as it once was.”

The warriors shuddered involuntarily.

“Why did the Grandmother not come forth when the outlanders first entered the valley?” Touch-the-Sky asked. “If I have broken her laws, why has she not expressed her anger?”

“We have not entered the Cavern of Creation,” Little Mountain answered. “Yet.”

Touch-the-Sky started to speak, gazed at the stubborn, uneasy faces and realized the futility of further argument. He raised his rifle to waist level, but he didn’t point it at anyone.

“I am war chief here,” he snapped. “You all agreed to it. I have not suffered and bled for all of you to be balked at last by groundless fears!”

He faced them, his eyes bright, and the warriors shuffled away, cowed by the force of his fanaticism. “We have gone too far to turn back,” he said tightly. “We will follow through on our path. Even if it leads to the Grandmother Herself.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The pony galloped across the grasslands toward the forest city. Ryan kept a close watch for Blood-sniffer, who had slipped on ahead, scouting for guard outposts or patrols. So far the wolf had brought them safely to within a mile of the city.

Blood-sniffer appeared a hundred yards ahead, like a wisp of gray smoke blown on the wind. The wolf tilted its snout skyward and snapped at the air, signaling the way was clear.

The sun had sunk behind the highest peaks by the time Ryan reached the outer perimeter of the city. He dismounted, leaving the pony to graze in a stand of cottonwood trees. He wasn’t concerned about the animal wandering away, since if he couldn’t steal mounts for his friends, one horse wouldn’t do him much good, anyway.

Blood-sniffer joined him and they crept forward, threading their way through the high grass, taking advantage of every fold, rise and depression of the ground. Even so, they were almost discovered by a warrior on horseback, trotting less than an arm’s length away.

As man and wolf slipped into the shelter of the first line of massive tree trunks, the sun disappeared completely. As silent as shadows, they followed the winding forest ways.

The long avenues were deserted and silent. Only dust and dry leaves blew lonely on the wind. Ryan detected the acrid odor of cordite, as did Blood-sniffer, his muzzle wrinkling.

The crystal disks glistened as cold as ice sculptures under the spreading boughs, and where the open doorways fronted the footpaths, they gaped empty and lightless. Lamplight flared in only a few of the trees, but there was no sound of talking or laughter. Ryan had been in such an atmosphere before; the city was preparing for war.