TWENTY-EIGHT

MICHAELSON CROUCHED OVER HIS ARSENAL, TAKING INVENTORY of his weapons: One collapsible rifle, a snubnosed AK-47, two pistols, and four boxes of.34-caliber shells. Why hadn't he requisitioned a grenade launcher for this mission? He shook his head.

Frowning, he realized that they didn't have a chance in hell of getting out of here alive if a fight was necessary. He sat back on his haunches, wincing as his injured ankle protested.

Behind him a couple were copulating in full view of the other hunters, their grunting and moans interrupting the silence of the chamber. Having spent last night here with Harry, he had almost grown accustomed to their openness. During the night, the same open passion had been abundantly displayed. Still he kept his back to them and studied one of the warriors working in a corner.

The creature seemed old, graying at the temples, thin, but with piercing eyes. He clutched a crude diamond spearhead in his hand and smeared a gray paste over its surface. Even in the dim fungal light, a reddish glow could be seen developing in the spearhead. Clucking his tongue in satisfaction, he spread a thicker layer of paste to the edge of the rough blade. The edges now began glowing a deeper, fiery red.

Fascinated, Michaelson watched as the craftsman now used another tool to grind at the spearhead, filing the edge of the now-soft diamond. The paste seemed to have weakened the surface of the crystal into a malleable consistency. Though judging from the corded muscles of the creature's forearms, it was still stiff, resistant, almost like softened lead. Michaelson watched as he tooled the diamond into a wicked blade.

So that's how the fuckers did it, he thought. Sculpting chunks of diamond with the aid of some crystal-softening mold. As a final step, the old creature dipped his handiwork into a bowl of water. Removing the dripping spearhead, he tapped it with a bone tool. It rang like a struck goblet. Solid once again.

Awed, Michaelson stood up and stretched his legs. The passionate couple had finished their sexual dalliance and now lay napping in each other's arms. He worked the kinks out of his legs, but the low roof kept him from being able to straighten his back.

A sudden flurry of raised voices near the entrance to the hunter's warren of caves drew his attention. The garbled speech had a keening edge of panic in it. Thinking that the ruckus might be Ashley's group trying to beat a hurried retreat, Michaelson grabbed a loaded pistol. He elbowed his way through the small crowd to the center of the commotion. Shoving past the last onlooker, he froze as he saw the source of the agitation.

Four hunters carried the body in a rough woven sling. They laid the limp form at his feet, the SEAL's torn uniform bloodier than the last time he had seen him. From his cyanotic pallor and fixed glassy eyes, he knew there was no use checking for a pulse. "Villanueva," he said. "Goddamn it." Michaelson holstered his gun and knelt down. He picked up the limp hand of his friend. "Fuck," he spat out. He stared at the two bullet holes in the SEAL's forehead. Two. This was obviously no suicide. Someone murdered him. But who?

Ashley bit back a scream of frustration. It was bad enough that they had wasted a day in this council meeting. Now Mo'amba, their only ally, had betrayed them. She clenched her fists, and her shoulders trembled. Jason could be in danger right now. She closed her eyes. He has to be okay…

Ben spoke up beside her, poking a finger into Harry's chest. "You couldn't have heard Mo'amba correctly. He said he'd help."

"Shhh!" Harry said, waving Ben's hand away. "I'm trying to listen."

Mo'amba had started to talk again after his accusation. Probably cinching the noose tighter around our necks, Ashley thought. She studied the council chamber, eyeing the exits and counting the guards.

Harry began translating again, haltingly, but with gaining confidence as he concentrated.

Mo'amba spoke calmly, "These newcomers to our world caused the death of the tin'ai'fori. This I have read in the whispered words of our ancestors."

There was much stamping of staffs from Bo'roda's group of lackeys, echoing painfully across the chamber. Ashley noticed, however, that Sin'jari, the leader's right-hand man, refrained from stamping his approval but simply wore a thin smile of triumph.

Mo'amba held up a hand for silence before continuing. "But these newcomers are not demons. They are flesh and blood, tendon and bone. Like us. It is not their evil that is harming us. Only their ignorance."

Sin'jari, whose smile had deflated into a wary sneer, spoke up. "It does not matter. Our tribesmen die and the law is clear. The responsible must die. And even you agree that they are responsible. I say we vote."

Harry stopped his translating, licking his dry lips. He glanced over to Ashley. "I told you that guy's a bastard."

Ashley nodded, not taking her eyes from Mo'amba. The heri'huti wore a shadow of a grimace. He held up a hand. "Our esteemed Sin'jari states that our laws are clear in this matter. And again I must bow to the expertise of our colleague here. He is right. Those responsible for the death of another must die. It is the law." Mo'amba paused. When Sin'jari tried to speak again, Mo'amba frowned at him, silencing his outburst.

Mo'amba then leaned heavily on his staff, as if the meeting exhausted him. He spoke slowly, giving Harry plenty of time to translate: "The key word in our law is responsible. I did not say these newcomers were responsible. I said they were to blame. It was their ignorance of us and our ways that caused them to blunder and inadvertently harm us. We cannot hold someone responsible for actions they were not aware of."

Bo'rada spoke up this time. "These are just words. The result is the same."

"Words?" Mo'amba answered, focusing his eyes on the tribe's leader. "It was these words that kept your right hand attached to your wrist. I seem to remember a small boy who let a herd of trefer'oshi loose from their pens. They destroyed almost a tenth of that year's crop. The law states that a hand who harms the well-being of the tribe should be cut off."

"I was only a boy then," Bo'rada blurted. "I didn't know what I was doing. You couldn't hold me responsible for-"

Sin'jari reached over and clutched the leader's knee, stopping him from speaking anymore, attempting to limit the damage.

Mo'amba turned to the other village elders, leaning even harder on his staff now, his back bent. "I am an old man. Older by far than all of you. I have seen each and every one of you blunder while growing up. Yet all of you still have your hands, feet"-he pointed a finger at Sin'jari-"and noses. Blundering is a process of learning. These newcomers are learning too. We must teach them, not destroy them."

A murmur spread through the cavern. Sin'jari fidgeted in his seat. One of his underlings leaned down and whispered something in his ear. Sin'jari nodded, then cleared his throat.

Harry gave Ashley a glance that seemed to say, Here we go again. Harry translated Sin'jari's words as if they left a foul taste in his mouth: "Mo'amba is wise as always and has given us much to ponder. But how does he know the harm done to our protective tin'ai'fori was accidental? How did the newcomers cause this damage? How?"

Great, thought Ashley. How is the old man supposed to answer that?

Mo'amba spoke up. "I have prayed upon this matter for many days, and an answer has come to me. Through their blundering, they have created an imbalance between ohna, the female spirit, and umbo, the male spirit. An imbalance that is tearing apart the weaving of our world."

A hushed murmur spread throughout the room. Even Sin'jari remained silent.