Obsidian Tears (Apparition Lake Book 2)

by Daniel D. Lamoreux

  Somehow, Glenn was no expert on emotions, Lew had gotten a hold of Stanton's heart and, short of murder, the guy was going to do anything the seismologist asked of him. He couldn't authorize any of their requests. He couldn't, wouldn't, give them permission. But he turned to stare out his window at the steaming tiers of the Mammoth mineral springs and said, “I'm not responsible for what you do behind my back.”

  ”But by God,” he told them all as they left his office, “you'd better be right!”

  Glenn had flashed back in an instant; Abeque had been right. But that was then and there was no more time to think about how they'd gotten to where they were. Smiling Monty laid dead on the ground a few feet away. The battle for the Stinking Country and the Great Basin was on.

  As the flare from the first burning Nimerigar died out, three more painted screaming creatures appeared out of the darkness running toward the box Monty had been guarding. Instinctively Glenn raised his shotgun and fired, once, twice. No ordinary buckshot would have got the job done and the chief ranger knew it. He'd loaded the weapon with homemade shells. Shards of obsidian now ripped through two of their attackers' diminutive bodies. Flaming demon flesh exploded in all directions. The third creature escaped the blast only to be hit by arrows released simultaneously by Two Ravens and an older Panamint brave nearby. Again the shrieks as the hubs of Hell came loose and the burning tiny people eaters careened into eternity.

  As the little corpses rolled, and dissolved to nothingness, the flames they left behind ignited the patches of sagebrush in their paths. The spot fires illuminated that portion of their protected circle. Seeing it, Maltby hurried to stamp them out.

  “Hold up!” the chief ranger yelled. “Let it burn. They already know we're here. We need the light!”

  The Bannock Indians were long known for their horse culture. The Ute warriors, too, specialized in horse mounted combat. A Bannock and a Ute brave, riding side-by-side on horseback, saw the attack atop Legend Rock from their patrol near the abyss. They also saw more Nimerigar emerging from the split in the earth before them. Two riders with a single thought, the braves galloped to the ridge created by the nearside of the chasm, and took the fight to the enemy.

  They raced along the edge of that bottomless gorge, using their clubs like polo mallets, swinging at still-emerging demons, slicing into the monsters with in-laid obsidian spikes, and sending their flaming bodies airborne and back into the blackness of the depths of the Underworld.

  The Ute warrior reached the far end of the rift first, reined up his appaloosa mount, and turned to make another pass. He dug his heels into the horse's flanks to spur him on and the animal responded. But slowing for the turn made the rider vulnerable. A half dozen demons leapt up onto the horse before it regained speed. Tearing, stabbing, and biting at the horse's flank and neck, with two of the monsters reaching the rider, the appaloosa scrambled in fear. The horse lost its footing and its way. It regained itself and vaulted into the night air… and into the abyss. As the animal, its brave rider, and its cannibal cargo disappeared into the lightless depths, the screams of the Ute warrior, the shrieking Nimerigar, and high pitched whinny of the tumbling horse faded into one horrific echo from below.

  More Nimerigar climbed up and out of the abyss and raced down the slope toward the creek. In turns they reached the edge of the water then, without slowing, hurled themselves into the air like long jumpers. Amazingly, and in what seemed defiance of natural law, the small heavily built demons landed on the opposite bank at a full run without missing a step.

  A curtain of obsidian arrows rained down in their path. A second volley, fired in rapid succession from the base of the escarpment, showered the far side of the creek. Struck creatures on both sides of the water burst into flames beneath the defense. Others, their path lit by their flaming brethren, closed their ears to the screams and skittered through the carnage headed for their prize. Indian warriors from every tribe, armed with shields, battle axes, and tomahawks raced out to meet the blitzing demons and courageously engaged them hand-to-hand and face-to-face.

  Demon shrieks and human cries emanated from all across the hills and draws of the battlefield. Flashing razor fangs, gritted teeth, life blood, and bloody golden eyes. It was a battle unlike any the world had seen. The clash of arms, the hollow thud of weapons on shields, the calls for help, and the battle cries of responding warriors echoed across the landscape. From one side of Legend Rock to another, spot fires erupted in the dark, burned fast and bright, then faded as the demons' bodies were consumed. Behind them, in a record of their passing, sagebrush and grasses caught fire in clumps spreading a macabre glow across the plain of death. All who danced on this unearthly stage understood it was a dance of finality. There would be no ceasefire, no truce, no negotiations, and no peace. One army or the other must cease to exist.

  Lew made her way up the drive from the tank trench headed for Legend Rock. She'd been ordered to stay behind the lines. To be precise, she and Glenn had argued heatedly about the subject. An argument which, according to him, she'd lost. So she'd been ordered to stay with their vehicles by the road. And she'd stayed, until she had enough. Watching helplessly, with the screams and cries in the distance, and bursts of flame, and fires rising and falling all over the black prairie, she'd had more than enough. Finally, Lew couldn't stand not being a help to anyone any longer.

  She'd forded the monstrous ditch, come up and out alive on the other side, and was headed for the battlefield. She wasn't sure what she'd do when she got there but she'd cross that bridge when…

  A Nimerigar appeared in the moonlight on the trail before her. It was everything the others had described and more. An inch or two over a foot high, wearing a dirty animal skin, carrying some kind of stone club, and growling like a vicious dog. It said, “You die!” in a guttural voice but in perfectly clear English and stepped toward her.

  Lew was terrified. Then she was startled by a flash on her left as something ran out of the dark.

  Abeque, on the run, dove for the demon. She hit it rolling, swiped it out of the seismologist's path, and landed on it on the ground. The Ghost Dancer screamed. The creature's eyes blazed. It snapped with a mouth of razor teeth. It howled fury in her face. It yelled, “You die!” in Arapaho. Abeque pulled a knife from a scabbard on her belt, its keen obsidian blade all but invisible in the night, and drove it down and into the demon.

  The moon again vanished behind a cloud and, in the deep Wyoming dark, the resulting flash of fire blinded the women.

  One of the decoy boxes atop Legend Rock was in flames. The creatures had, by sheer number, overrun the braves detailed to guard it. The box had been broken into and the frustrated Nimerigar that had gained access stood screaming atop the useless rock inside. It was still screaming its head off when Two Ravens shot a keen black arrow through its ribs. Now the box was burning.

  Most of the manpower on the ridge had hustled to back Two Ravens up. And, for a moment, Glenn was left alone guarding the third box; the box that only he and the Indian outfitter knew contained the real Pedro mummy. Distracted by the action across the table top of the escarpment, the ranger failed at first to hear the rustle behind him. When he did it was too late.

  Glenn spun on his heels, saw the flash of gold eyes, heard a growl, and felt the point of a Nimerigar spear as it entered the right side of his chest.

  Chapter 44

  In all quarters the battle raged. Nimerigar went up in brilliant explosions of heat and light. Native Americans fell in gory pools of their own blood.

  In the tumult it took a long while but word arrived below that Monty had been killed on the table top above. When it finally did, panic struck Fred Livingston and he all but killed himself scaling the petroglyphs to the top of the escarpment. He rolled over the top lip and reached his feet in time to see – not Monty but the white chief ranger supine on the ground. One of the tiny people eaters stood beside him, flexing a long stick of some kind above his head, and making ready to slam the weapon h
ome.

  Now Fred saw Monty's kind face. His friend's eternal, sometimes infernal, smile flashed across Fred's mind. And with it came the reason the Nuwa were there, the reason they were all there. Fred instantly regretted the harsh words he'd thrown, been throwing all-along, in the ranger's direction. He wanted to take them back but knew he couldn't. Then it dawned that he could do far more than that.

  What in the name of all that was sacred, he suddenly asked himself, was he doing just standing there? Fred jumped into the air, let fly with a war whoop for the ages, and ran for Glenn and the demon warrior standing over him.

  The Nimerigar smashed Glenn across the chest with its long club. The unconscious ranger took the blow like a defenseless sack of sand. The creature screamed, “You die!” Fred heard it clearly, shouted in Tehachapi of all things, the language of the Kawaiisu. The monster lifted the stick to repeat the blow. Then Fred's war whoop split the air. The creature looked up, snarled a mouthful of fangs at the charging Nuwa, and turned to run.

  Fred leapt over Glenn's body, swung his obsidian headed hand axe with every ounce of strength he possessed, and cleaved the demon in half from behind. Its torso spun away bursting into flames like fireworks in the sky. Its legs cartwheeled twice, flopped to the ground, and set the dry grass on fire.

  Fred turned back to Glenn and, as was his nature, frowned in anger and disgust.

  The night dragged endlessly on; the battle raged fiercely on.

  The Shivwits chief, a seed salesman in Arizona, died protecting the head of the Western Numic Tribal Council, a school teacher from Oregon, a man he had never met or even spoken to. He stood over him, fending off Nimerigar arrows, finally taking his fatal share, until the injured man could be gathered up and carried from the field by several of his own braves.

  Many Native Americans went to be with their ancestors that night. But all around them, in every corner of the Legend Rock arena, demon warriors returned to the Underworld in balls of flame.

  Glenn returned to consciousness. He hurt like crazy and, disoriented as he was, couldn't figure out why. The red light of dawn began its appearance as his situation dawned on him. He was laying in the bed of a pickup truck. He couldn't breathe. And, despite the pain and the gasping discomfort, he was ready to laugh because he simply couldn't believe he was alive.

  Lew was there kneeling on the truck bed beside him. He tried to speak. She shushed him though, it turned out, it wasn't necessary. He hadn't the breath to produce words. She busied her hands with… something. He realized his shirt was torn open when she pressed her palm flat against him just below his right nipple. He felt cold and pressure then, almost instantly, the pain ebbed. She held her hand in place and, just that quickly, Glenn found he could breathe again. Genuine cool morning air flooded his lungs. It was bliss; it was heaven.

  “Feel better?” Lew asked.

  With speech still beyond him, Glenn nodded and forced a smile.

  “Abeque said it would. I'm doctoring you by proxy. Ain't that a kick?” Lew wiped the sweat from Glenn's forehead. “Looks like even a chief ranger can break, huh?”

  “I thought you were stabbed.”

  Glenn didn't recognize the voice at first. He blinked, turned his head to escape the glare of the bright new sun, and recognized Frowning Fred beside the truck. But he wasn't frowning. His eyes were red as if he'd been crying but he wore a smile on his face.

  “Everyone thought you were stabbed. Turned out it was some kind of club.”

  “You… saved my life,” Glenn told the Nuwa. “Thank you.”

  “Monty wouldn't have had it no other way,” Fred said. He sniffed, blew his nose into a big blue handkerchief, then tightened his jaw. “It don't mean that I like you any better.”

  “I… didn't imagine… it did.” Glenn would have joined Fred in a laugh, but the ribs said no.

  “You caught a solid blow,” Lew said. “Abeque says you have a compound fracture. Your ribs stabbed you.” She nodded at her hand holding pressure on his chest. “That make it easier to breathe?”

  “It does,” Glenn managed.

  “Save your strength. Just practice breathing. There are a couple of helicopters on their way.”

  “A couple?”

  “I know you think you're the belle of the ball,” the seismologist said with a twisted smile. “But there are other folks around here hurting, too.”

  The bodies of Native Americans dotted the field from the valley floor, to the heights of the Legend Rock escarpment, to the prairie leading to the creek and the great split in the Earth beyond. The tribes had suffered a good many casualties. But it was nothing compared to the devastation that they, and their obsidian weapons, had leveled upon the tiny people eaters.

  The last few surviving Nimerigar had slipped back into the abyss or were attempting to and, gripping the rock and dirt walls of its interior, were trying desperately to disappear below. Archers from a dozen tribes stood along the rim firing arrows into them as they tried to get away. One by one they fell screaming into the depths.

  Two Ravens and Abeque, the outfitter carrying the genuine Pedro box, walked to the edge of the vast opening in the ground. They watched the Indian bowmen finish their work, then turned to their own. Two Ravens opened the box letting morning light flood in on the tiny mummy inside. Abeque drew her knife, the same that had saved Lew's life in the night, and plunged the sleek black blade through the body of the long dead chief pinning it in place. Two Ravens slammed the lid closed as the creature erupted. With smoke and flames pouring from the cracks in the wood, Two Ravens lifted the box above his head and threw it into the abyss.

  A linen bandage wrapped tightly around his chest, under and over an ice pouch to ease the swelling, held the broken section of Glenn's ribs in place. Both physically and psychologically he could breathe easier now as it seemed he was going to live. But, just to remind him of the night they'd had, his pain had caught a second wind as well. Pence and Maltby had their chief ranger between them on a stretcher and were hustling him toward a loudly idling medical helicopter.

  Shouting and waving their arms, Two Ravens and Abeque arrived on the run before he was loaded aboard. Bending low to hear him and be heard beneath the chopper's whirling blades each took one of Glenn's hands.

  “How… are we doing?” Glenn breathlessly asked.

  “It's done, Ranger Glenn,” Abeque said.

  Two Ravens squeezed his friend's hand. “We are victorious.” Glenn wasn't born yesterday and they'd both been through Apparition Lake. He stared the question. Two Ravens nodded sadly and rephrased his declaration. “We are victorious… for today.”

  Never one to butt out, Lew was suddenly there, butting in. “What does that mean?”

  “The Ninimbe,” Two Ravens said solemnly. “The Nimerigar… they feed on the flesh of animals and of men but their strength, their life force, comes from man's evil. As long as man harbors darkness in his heart, I fear these creatures may someday return. The Underworld still exists and they are still down there… somewhere.”

  Chapter 45

  Lew pulled Glenn's war-torn Suburban up on the shoulder of the road and parked. She turned the engine off then turned to the equally war-torn chief ranger in the passenger's seat.

  Glenn, sitting stiffly, taking in air in short shallow breaths, wore a fresh khaki uniform shirt over a nearly-as-fresh bandage wrapped tightly around his chest. His doctor had absolutely refused his request to leave the hospital on a short sortie but had had to reverse himself when Glenn threatened to simply check out Against Medical Advice. Bowing to the extortion rather than lose a long-time patient and friend, the doc agreed to an excursion of “a few hours, no more,” told the nurse to take the AMA form away, and détente was achieved. “But,” he warned. “If you start bleeding again, it's your fault not mine, and if you have trouble breathing you'd better get back here pronto.” Bandaged, braced, with a much appreciated pain killer on board, and still wearing his plastic hospital 'ID bracelet', Glenn was released to answ
er a very special invitation.

  “Are you ready for this?” Lew asked.

  Glenn gazed out the window and drew the deepest breath he'd taken since the Nimerigar had knocked a chunk out of his ribs and nearly killed him. What he saw, even without the injury, would have taken his breath away. How, Glenn wondered, staring in wide-eyed awe, could anyone make themselves ready for such an amazing spectacle?

  The crowd exploded from the road, at the edge of the town of Crowheart, into the surrounding prairie like a 19th century herd of buffalo. American Indians as far as the eye could see; the residents of the Wind River Reservation and their guests, the survivors, the leaders and braves, and their families, from all of the tribes of the Great Basin that had contributed sweat and blood in the battle and tears in the aftermath had gathered in celebration. This was a real Pow Wow, not a money making endeavor, not a show for tourists. The white and blue tents were nowhere to be seen. Nobody sold snacks or t-shirts. No one sold anything. There were no microphones, loud speakers, or Masters of Ceremony. William Shakespeare and Running River were both there, Glenn imagined, but only as brothers, two among the many. A huge fire burned at center and there were dozens of beautifully erected lodges dotting the field around and rising above the crowd. But the Indians were the attention grabbers, more colorful now than they had been in battle, less threatening, but as impressive and worthy of awe. Drum beats filled the air, and the smell of roasted meats, and the jubilant sounds of chanting, singing, and laughter.

  Searching the near side of the crowd, Lew was startled to see Two Ravens with rangers Pence and Maltby, and the Nuwa Indian, Fred Livingston. They had all been watching and waiting for her. Waves went up as the four hurried for the vehicle. Two Ravens beat the others around the truck and, gingerly, with Lew offering needless suggestions and the others ready to lend a hand, assisted the chief ranger out of the cab and onto his feet. “How is it?” Two Ravens asked.