Shadow on the Sun (20 page)

Finley felt himself becoming increasingly rigid with anxiety.
He'd been wrong. The shaman
did
intend to destroy the son of Vandaih—and the ceremony was approaching its climax. He felt himself leaning forward tensely, eyes fixed on the old man as he danced and chanted in the dim, smoky light, his frail voice more and more agitated.

“O, Usen, who created the night and the day! O, Usen, who created the earth and the skies! O, Usen, who created the darkness and the light! I plead with you to come now and destroy this vile abomination!

“O, Usen, drive away this evil one like dust before the wind! You have the power to crush all things beneath your might! Crush this, my enemy, the son of Vandaih!

“O, Usen, come at once and do what I desire! Let your terrible presence shake the air and destroy the evil that I ask you to destroy! The son of Vandaih, O, Usen! The cursed and murderous son of Vandaih!

“Curse this demon, O, Usen! Hurl him to the bottom of the pit into a lake of fire! First, his foul head, then his foul body, down into the fiery waters of the center of the earth!”

The old man stopped in his tracks and threw up his arms.

“Be gone, son of Vandaih! Be cursed by Usen! Cursed by the earth! Cursed by the sun and the moon and the stars! Cursed—”

He broke off with a gagging sound, face wrenched by sudden mindless terror.

A rush of great wings could be heard outside the cave, a hideous screech, the same screech they had heard while Boutelle's horse was being slaughtered.

“Complete the ceremony!” Lean Bear shouted at the shaman.

But the old man had slumped back onto the cave floor, eyes wide, lips spread, spittle running from his open mouth.

It seemed to Boutelle that everything happened at once. Lean
Bear and Finley were on their feet, lunging for the shaman, both crying out at once. The rush of wings became deafening, the ghastly shriek of the creature almost to the opening of the cave. Lean Bear reaching the old man first and clutching at his shoulder, shouting again: Finley repeating the same words.

Lean Bear recoiling in shock and Finley groaning loudly as the old man fell back, dead from fear.

Then the robe across the opening was ripped away, and the huge, winged creature stood before them, face unseen in the shadows. Boutelle had the fleeting impression of a curved beak on its face and talons where its feet should be.

Then all was lost in movement, smoke, and noise as Lean Bear whirled and drew his knife and, with a cry that Boutelle knew was one of hopeless fury, hurled himself at the creature. Abruptly, they were one, a thrashing huge-winged, double-bodied figure, Lean Bear driving his knife into the creature's chest, then screaming out in agony as the creature's head darted forward, its curved beak tearing off the Apache's face.

Twisting around, the creature hurled the dying Indian through the cave opening, and Lean Bear disappeared in darkness, pitched into space and falling to his death without another sound.

Boutelle stiffened, seeing Finley leap toward the creature while its back was turned, the obsidian knife extended in his hand. The agent drove it as hard as he could into the creature's back. But the wings were too thick with heavy feathers and it glanced off a bony rib, barely breaking the creature's skin.

With a cry of pain at the stab of the obsidian blade, the creature twisted back, its left wing smashing across Finley's outstretched arm, knocking the knife from his grip.

Finley tried to lunge for it, but with a movement so rapid Boutelle
could not follow it, one of the creature's taloned feet lashed out and clamped around Finley's right ankle, stopping him abruptly.

The creature started dragging Finley back, its maddened yellow eyes glinting in the firelight.

“
Boutelle!
” Finley cried.

Boutelle moved before his mind could summon the command. Mindlessly, without considering what the pain might be, he grabbed up the fire dish and jumping toward the son of Vandaih, hurled the glowing, smoking contents into the creature's face, seeing at the last moment its huge beak opening to tear off Finley's face.

The creature shrieked in pain as red-hot wood coals sprayed across its head, burning its eyes and setting fire to the dark gray plumage on its face. It staggered back and bumped against the cave opening, only the spread of its wings preventing it from falling through.

In backing off, the creature had been forced to lose its grip on Finley's ankle. Diving across the cave, the agent snatched up the obsidian knife, and before the creature could recover, he leapt up and flung himself at it, driving the black blade deep into its chest until he felt it pierce the creature's heart.

The cave rang with the deafening screech of the creature's death.

Boutelle stumbled back and fell against the cave wall as he saw what happened. He and Finley stared in openmouthed astonishment as they watched the giant wings retracting slowly, saw them thin and disappear into the arm flesh closing up. Saw the creature's beak move slowly into the face and vanish with the plumage. Saw the talons withdraw and change back into human feet.

With that, the son of Vandaih was a man again, the man they'd seen in Picture City, lying dead on the floor of the cave, the obsidian knife buried in his stilled heart, dark blood running down his chest.

Finley slumped down clumsily, and he and Boutelle looked at one another. He felt unable to speak. All he could think of was what he had to do.

But that would have to wait. He couldn't move right now.

At last he spoke.

“You saved my life,” he said.

“You saved both of ours,” Boutelle responded hoarsely. Not to mention the Pinal Spring band and God knew how many others, he thought. He sat down weakly, closing his eyes. My God, he thought. My dear God.

Several minutes later, Finley struggled to his knees and crawled to the Night Doctor's body. Reaching across him, he picked up the dead Apache's knife and turned back to Boutelle.

“Are you up to this?” he said.

“Do I have any choice?” Boutelle asked.

Finley shook his head slowly. “No,” he answered, “I need your help.”

“All right.” Boutelle nodded. “One thing though.”

“What's that?”

“I'll deny, to the end of my life, that I ever did this.”

“Don't worry,” Finley reassured him with a grim smile, “I'll never mention it, believe me.”

Boutelle labored to his feet and moved to the spot where the son of Vandaih lay in motionless silence. He sank to his knees beside the agent.

“All right,” he muttered. He filled his lungs with a long, deep breath. “I'm ready,” he said.

Finley made the first cut.