The shadows of the tall pines lurched and danced to the silent music of the camp fires, giving the scene a strange, dreamlike atmosphere. Around each fire relaxed the members of a Warrior Nation scout party, speaking quietly and laughing behind raised hands. They were young men and women, the best the tribes of the Nation could spare from the ongoing battles in the east, and White Tree smiled at the sense of calm confidence they projected.
It had been many seasons since White Tree had taken to the trails with a war party. Apart from the great migration itself, when Sitting Bull and the assembled chiefs had led the united Warrior Nation into the west, he had not stirred from the comfort of a camp or long hall since before most of these warriors were born. Far more than his arm, his mind had been his weapon of choice in defense of the tribe.
However, the new age dawning over the lands of the People was drenched in crimson, and every man, woman, and child was called upon to serve in any way they could. When the existence of the ancient relics first came to the attention of the council of chiefs, there was a great deal of skepticism. The Nation was flush with the powers of the Great Spirit, resurgent after an age of dormancy, but in a succession of horrors erupting out of the east, the dreaded European and his nightmare legions had established strongholds across the plains and deserts. The soldiers pursuing the mad Doctor Carpathian cared nothing for the land or the People in the prosecution of their war, and braves were taxed beyond exhaustion trying to defend their newly-taken land. The elder council knew that behind the European, behind his implacable enemies from the north and even the chaotic lawless men of the west, stalked the ruby-eyed minions of an ancient enemy far greater than any other.
White Tree glanced back into the shadows; the scouts crouching out in the darkness should be relieved, but young Chatan was a good war leader despite his age, and White Tree knew the boy would be replacing his sentries soon. The white-haired elder looked back into the leaping flames, his mind once more wandering along dark, familiar paths.
Each generation of medicine men, for ages beyond counting, had lived with the knowledge of the ancient foe. Each had lived in the hope that the next great battle would not take place in his lifetime. White Tree sighed, for that hope, in his case, had proven fruitless. The red-eyed demons, twisting the hearts and lives of men to suit their dark purposes, were moving across the earth once more, and the elders of the Warrior Nation knew the only hope of combating them was to reclaim the ancient relics of the elder days, secreted throughout this western region in the times before living memory. Faith in the old stories was all they had; that these tales were correct, and that the relics, once united, could destroy a rising darkness that had stalked the Earth since the dawning of memory.
White Tree pulled his blanket more tightly across his stooped shoulders as a chill swept down his back. Sitting Bull and the other chiefs had pried open the Nation’s eyes, and there was no denying the truth any longer. They were living in the final days of this age, with the ancient enemy rising up around them, and they were alone.
“Chatan, do you not think it time to relieve the scouts?” White Tree cursed himself even as he spoke, remembering the resentment of youth. The boy was doing fine and did not need the meddling of stodgy old men. The medicine man knew he was letting the shadows in his mind color his judgment.
Chatan looked up from the largest, central circle, the fire throwing harsh shadows across his proud face. A flash of annoyance flared in his eyes, but he mastered it quickly enough and nodded. Further proof of his strength and maturity, the elder thought.
The young war leader stood and gestured for the braves around one of the outlying fires. “Enapay, Gray Horse, gather your warriors. It is your turn to watch the forest.”
The young warriors stood without question and moved off among the towering pines. Each disappeared into the shadows in a different direction. When they were gone, Chatan cocked an eyebrow at White Tree and then sank back to the ground, a shared laugh rippling quietly around the central fire.
White Tree smiled and shook his head, bending back to his own flame and the dark thoughts that haunted him. Chatan was a good man; he had listened well. The chiefs could have made a far worse choice to lead the party searching for the lost valley of Teetonka.
The first cry, tearing out of the shadows, brought White Tree’s head jerking up. Around him the warriors were rising, reaching for weapons and calling out into the darkness. Chatan gestured for two groups to move into the forest while he drew two long knives already glowing with a faint blue warmth. Fat sparks of spirit energy snapped off the blades and onto the damp earth while a similar gleam erupted deep within the young warrior’s eyes as he squinted out into the darkness.
“Enapay! Gray Horse! Red Leaf! What is wrong?” His voice was strong and steady, carrying none of the self-doubt of youth. Around the fires, the weapons of the war party were all glowing a deep turquoise, dripping liquid fire. White Tree had been too old to master the new ways of the spirit warriors when the Great Spirit had reemerged among the People. He was still in awe at this physical proof of the Spirit’s power.
The only answer from the darkness was a heavy silence.
“Chatan,” White Tree moved slowly towards the boy, eyes ceaselessly roving through the shadows. “If the scouts have been taken, perhaps more than just your blades will be called for… “
The young warrior looked quickly at the elder, a momentary fear in his glowing eyes, before he nodded sharply.
“Namid,” another warrior sidled near, her eyes fixed on the forest around them. “Keep the clearing secure and defend the elder at all costs.”
The other young warrior looked concerned for a moment before nodding. “You will take to the woods?”
Chatan was already placing his weapons beside the fire, his eyes shining like miniature stars. “The Great Spirit will guide and protect me. You protect the elder.”
Even watching for the moment, White Tree was startled by how quickly Chatan disappeared into the darkness.
Namid began to deploy the remaining warriors around the outskirts of the clearing while White Tree moved to pick up one of Chatan’s fighting knives. The blade was hard and sharp, obsidian polished to a deep shine, but there was no mystical fire in it now. The elder gripped the handle tightly and moved to stand beside the young woman assigned to guard the clearing. Together, they stared into the darkness.
“You boys got any room ‘round yer fires? It’s pretty cold up here ‘n the mountains!” The voice was harsh, seeming to emerge from the shadows all around. It spoke in the English of the invaders rather than any of the languages of the People, and it sent a cold chill racing down White Tree’s back. How had they defeated the sentries without a sound?
“Now, boys, you know you ain’t in a good position, with or without you all got your eyes all glowy and whatnot.” The mocking tones were clear, and the remaining warriors began to bridle beneath their impact.
A dull, muffled detonation sounded in the distance. A cloud of smoke, eerily lit from within by a snap of red flame, erupted off to White Tree’s left, followed immediately by an angry streak of crimson light slapping through the leaves towards them. The missile briefly illuminated the forest around the war party in stark red tones, wild, dark-ruby shadows swinging in wild counterpoint as it slashed into the clearing.
The bolt flashed between two warriors, across the clearing, and struck another in the back. The poor boy’s body was shattered by the impact, arms flown wide, the ghost of a cry emerging before the ravening fire of the blast consumed the breath from his lungs. The body tumbled into a still heap, streamers of red-tinged smoke rising from the ruin of its back.
“Well, seems you got some room there now, yeah?” The same voice, coming from another direction entirely, mocked them once again. “But you know what?” The voice turned thoughtful. “I do believe we’ll just kill the lot of you and then have a seat when there’s plenty o’ room. What d’you say about that?”
Suddenly the forest was alive with fierce crimson bolts, smacking through the trees and striking warriors down all around. The rattle of demonic gunfire echoed from all directions as the warriors, shaken out of their astonishment, flung themselves into the darkness with ululating war cries.
Namid, Chatan’s warnings forgotten, leapt after the others, leaving the elder alone with the gently-snapping camp fires. White Tree knew he would be less than useless trying to follow and so moved slowly to the bole of a giant pine. He crouched into the shadows and followed the battle from his hidden vantage point.
Crimson bolts were answered by the electrical flash of spirit energy as the braves fired their charged arrows at targets White Tree could not see. Streaks of red and blue passed each other in a chaotic mayhem of light and shadow. Many of the bolts blasted the thick trunks of trees in passing, filling the night with shattered splintering and firefly sparks illuminating roiling clouds of ash and smoke. Screams echoed among the trees as warriors died. Howls of victory were proof enough that the attackers were not having it all their own way.
As the combat moved deeper into the woods and farther from the clearing, White Tree lost any sense of what was happening. Distant flashes and muffled wails were the only indication that the elder was not completely alone. Carefully, he rose and began to move towards the fighting, the long knife held high and at the ready. He saw the twisted bodies of young Nation warriors who had been blasted by the demonic weapons the European had introduced to the land, their faces contorted with the savage pain of their last moments. A building anger caused the knife blade to tremble as the elder’s mind registered the extent of the massacre.
Soon, however, the bodies of strangers were intermixed with the fallen warriors, and White Tree bent down to inspect these new dead as best he could in the shifting shadows. Worn leathers, old gear but well-maintained, and a mix of weapons showing hard use all pointed to one thing: outlaws. If these men had been fighters for the brutal Union they would have been in uniform, their gear more standardized and better-maintained. If they were deputies of the self-proclaimed men of law, there would have been glittering metal stars of office. And only a cursory investigation proved that they were not the abominations of Doctor Carpathian.
White Tree stood and continued to move carefully through the shifting darkness. The battle still raged ahead of him, the blue and crimson flashes like distant heat lightning on the rolling plains of his youth. He began to move faster as his heart perceived a slackening in the azure flames.
“Come on, ya damned savages!” It was the same taunting voice, coming out of the blinding swirl of light and shadow. “Ain’t ya got no more fight in ya than that?”
White Tree came slowly out into a wide clearing, a shallow stream flowing away on the far side. Most of the braves of the war party were scattered across the grassy sward, bodies twisted in violent death. The number of dead outlaws here was nearly equal, but at least the same number, appearing unhurt, were standing along the tree line opposite. In their center stood a young looking scoundrel with a red kerchief tied around his neck, pulled to one side. He wielded two old-style six shooters that bore the obvious marks of upgraded weapons, the tell-tale red gleam from various components announcing the presence of the European’s foul technology and the corrupting energy of his unnatural new energy source.
Nearer to White Tree crouched the remnants of the war party, their turquoise flames guttering in the darkness. There were not many left.
“Well, now, I guess we know who the curly wolves are, don’ we, boys?” The young man laughed and his friends quickly joined in. “Figure we better clean this up, call it a night?”
A resounding shriek echoed from above and a streaking blur fell from the trees overhead. A creature out of nightmare dropped among the outlaws; a grotesque amalgam of man and some mysterious bird of prey. Hands hooked into brutal claws, glittering talons erupting from fingers, sank into the eyes of an outlaw. The man spun, screaming, down into the dirt. The nightmare vision’s head slashed down again. Its vicious, hooked beak tore into another man’s head, sending a shower of blood across his companions.
White Tree shrank back for a moment. He had never become accustomed to the changes wrought by the Great Spirit upon its most potent warriors. The familiar form of Chatan was scarcely recognizable within the twisted, violent creature tearing into the outlaws before him. But the elder was a warrior still, in his heart, and he gestured at the rest of the war party.
“Move forward! To Chatan!” And with that, White Tree ran towards the startled outlaw posse, the thrill of battle singing in his veins. Behind him, the remaining men and women rose up, the flames in their eyes and along their weapons roaring back to azure life.
The young outlaw leader grinned to see the renewed attack and waved one of his altered pistols into the shadows behind him.
“Guess you were right, Clem! Let’er rip!” The man’s smile turned savage as a quick clattering from the darkness was followed by an explosion as if the world was ending. A seemingly unending spray of crimson bolts flew from the shadows, slashing out with the constant hammer-blows of an automatic weapon.
White Tree felt as if he’d been kicked by a horse and found himself flying sideways through the air. An alarming numbness spread out from his side, but not before he felt burning heat as a wash of blood ran down his ribs. His head was spinning as he landed in the soft grass, the ironic counterpoint to the violence and the pain resonating in his mind. All around him, the few remaining warriors were pounded off their feet, their spirit fires extinguished and their blood spraying across the cool grass.
Through the haze of pain and despair closing down around him, White Tree watched as the spirit creature that was brave Chatan slashed through the outlaws. The young outlaw leader danced among his own men, many standing still in shock, and cracked blast after blast against the young warrior. Chatan leapt into the air, spinning around as he soared over the heads of the outlaws, landing lightly behind one large brute wielding a massive meat cleaver. The talon-hands arced up, blood-spattered claws hooked to strike.
“Watch it, Smiley, somethin’ behind ya!” The young man had spun around with the Warrior Nation scout, and as Chatan landed, ready to strike, the outlaw was bringing both of his pistols into line with the warrior’s bare chest.
“Fly away, birdie!” The young man sneered, and then fired both pistols. The dual streaks slashed out, striking Chatan in the chest and blowing him backwards into the trees. The azure flame in his eyes, wide in surprise in the moment before the outlaw fired, were quenched before his body tumbled to a halt in the dirt.
White Tree slumped down, his vision fading and his mind beginning to wander. Who would recover the artifact… if there even was an artifact in Teetonka valley? His people needed him. The chiefs had entrusted the wellbeing of these young warriors to his care…
The elder felt the cool grass against his cheek and fought to claw his way back into consciousness. There was so much that needed to be done. But he was so very tired, and the leaden numbness from his side was spreading across his entire body.
“How many’s that?” A voice on the edge of his awareness dragged him back. The voice seemed so young.
“Twenty, Billy. We got ‘em all.” Another voice, harsher and more grating. “Well, twenty one if you count the old one, but o’ course we ain’t got his yet.”
The voices drifted back and forth, but seemed to wander closer. White Tree felt the Great Spirit summoning him, and was filled with a sudden desperation to answer the call. Something within him screamed that he needed to flee this life and listen no further to the voices closing in.
“Still,” the young voice again. “These folks are pretty far afield. And they’re all a lot younger than you’d expect, exceptin’ pops, here.”
White Tree’s spirit tried desperately, but the voices called him back, and he was unable to deny them.
A burning pain flared in the body he had forgotten, dragging him screaming out of the shadow realm between life and death. He could see nothing but a red-tinged blur and the voices speaking above him were distorted and strange, but still he could not sink away.
“So, old man, what brings you so far from the new hunting grounds?” The voice lowered towards him, circling ever-nearer.
There were things White Tree must not say. Knowledge he dare not pass on to one so clearly tainted by the evil of the ancients. But what were they? He felt the most sacred knowledge slipping from him, and tried desperately to retain it. He felt his dry lips, salty with his own bloody, forming the words, giving shape to the sacred trust. Teetonka. The artifact. He remembered. He remembered, and his lips smiled as he felt a vague tugging across the throat of his body, and his spirit was allowed to drift downward once more, into the Spirit Realm, to continue his journey.
In a blood-drenched clearing far above, a young man’s face creased in a very similar smile.