Authors: Chad Oliver
It
was
morning
when
Mark
and
Tlaxcan,
with
the happily
barking
Fang,
emerged
from
the
dank
cave into
the
clean
air
and
sunlight
of
a
new
day.
Tlaxcan’s strategy
of
coming
out
by
way
of
another
exit
proved successful,
the
half-men
were
nowhere
to
be
seen. They
threw
away
the
smoking
remnants
of
their
last torch
and
worked
their
way
down
out
of
the
hills
to the
plains
below.
There
was
no
sign
of
danger,
and they
struck
out
for
the
valley
of
the
Danequa
with their
spirits
once
more
free
and
high
under
the
rising sun.
The
news
they
carried,
of
the
massacre
of
the
three
Danequa
guards
by
the
Neanderthals,
could
not dampen
their
spirits
too
much.
They
were
too
glad just
to
be
alive
themselves.
Their
underground
maneuvering
had
carried
them back
toward
the
valley
home
of
the
Danequa,
and their
trip
across
the
plains
proved
uneventful.
They walked
all
day,
pausing
only
to
cook
and
eat
a
deer that
Tlaxcan
brought
down
with
a
well-placed
arrow, and
they
pushed
onward
through
most
of
the
night. They
arrived
in
the
valley
of
the
Danequa
early
the next
morning,
just
as
the
Danequa
were
rising
for
another
day.
The
tumbling
cascades
of
the
sparkling waterfall,
the
wonderful
green
of
the
grass,
the
smell of
the
clean
pine
trees—all
of
it
was
more
beautiful
and delightful
than
it
had
ever
been
before.
The
two
men drank
it
in
with
their
eyes,
and
listened
to
the
happy shouts
of
the
Danequa
with
new-found
warmth
in
their tired
hearts.
It
was
good
to
be
home.
Mark
and
Tlaxcan
reported
the
details
of
what
they had
seen
to
the
warriors
of
the
Danequa,
greeted
their friends,
and
then
both
hurried
on
up
to
Tlaxcan’s
cave. Tlaxcal
shooed
little
Tlax
away,
and
the
two
men
were asleep
in
an
instant
as
outraged
nature
took
its
toll. Fang
trotted
obediently
off
to
what
he
doubtless
considered
his
own
cave
and
promptly
went
to
sleep himself.
When
Mark
and
Tlaxcan
awoke,
night
had
come again.
The
cold
wind
whispered
through
the
valley grasses
and
sighed
through
the
branches
of
the
lonely pines,
and
the
stars
sprinkled
the
heavens
with
clusters
of
frosted
diamonds.
In
the
distance,
they
could hear
the
pleasant
muted
roar
of
the
great
waterfall, now
a
familiar
backdrop
against
which
they
enacted the
drama
of
their
lives.
And
they
could
hear
something
else
as
well. Drums.
Mark
and
Tlaxcan
got
up,
feeling
much
refreshed, and
walked
across
the
valley
floor
to
where
they
saw the
leaping
flames
of
the
Danequa
fires
and
heard the
rhythmic
throbbing
of
the
brooding
drums.
The cold
wind
was
fresh
in
their
faces
and
the
tall
grasses brushed
softly
against
their
legs
as
they
walked.
“Those
are
the
council
drums,”
Tlaxcan
said
quietly. “My
people
are
holding
a
council
of
war.”
Mark
raised
his
eyebrows.
“The
Mroxor?”
he
asked.
Tlaxcan
nodded.
“They
have
dared
too
much,”
he said.
“They
have
killed
our
warriors
and
they
have stolen
the
quaro
which
we
fought
to
bring
down.
This cannot
go
on.
We
have
fought
them
before,
and
now we
must
fight
them
again.”
A
great
shout
went
up
when
the
Danequa
caught sight
of
Mark
and
Tlaxcan,
and
they
were
escorted
to the
center
of
a
circle
of
council
members.
There
Tlaxcan
repeated
the
story
of
what
they
had
seen,
and told
of
how
Mark
had
destroyed
the
Dweller
under the
earth
with
his
magic.
The
story
lost
nothing
in the
telling,
and
Mark
could
sense
the
murmur
of
respect
which
ran
around
the
seated
figures
about
the council
fires.
Qualxen,
the
shaman,
all
painted
up
and looking
very
impressive
for
the
occasion,
eyed
Mark with
a
rather
worried
look
on
his
face.
Mark
was
getting
altogether
too
powerful,
and
if
it
came
to
a
contest
of
supernatural
skills
Qualxen
feared
that
he
might be
out
of
a
job.
Mark
smiled
at
him
in
a
reassuring way,
however,
and
the
shaman
relaxed
visibly.