SPIRIT WALKER

Chapter 14: The Gate of the Gods (part 2 of 3)

An hour later, the scout returned. Phylomon spotted him two hundred yards off to his left. He was a big man, grunting and sweating as he carried the gun. By that Phylomon expected that he was the simpleton that Tull had spoken of, for he had a simple man's strength. He wasn't an imbecile, but he was none too bright, either.

He circled Phylomon on stealthy feet, staying out of sight, then carefully crept in close to set the unwieldy gun down in the brush, taking long careful aim.

Phylomon watched the scout in his mirror, careful to pretend to be looking down in the valley. The scout kept ducking behind the ferns.

The swivel gun was made of crude iron and had a three-foot barrel. Pirates sometimes mounted such guns on boarding vessels. It held a single cartridge that fired a four-inch bullet. It was a clumsy weapon, meant for shooting on a ship at point-blank range.

Phylomon considered what to do. If he attacked the scout, he could surely kill him, but more slavers were out there, and Phylomon feared that some might escape. Phylomon did not believe the scout would try to shoot him with that clumsy old gun just yet. No, he'd wait until the other slavers gathered.

Although Phylomon felt the presence of the symbiote, could speak to it, he could not explain the exact nature of his enemies, nor could he communicate the concept of gun to the animal. Instead, he let his fear course through him and felt the skin harden like bands of steel.

Men began walking up through the woods along the trail, five of them pacing slowly. Their heads swiveled back and forth stealthily, as if they were hunting. They offered a simple diversion for the real threat behind. Phylomon watched the men, nocked an arrow as if he'd taken the bait, and then he scrambled ten feet to the left. He imagined the gunner scurrying to correct his aim, and then he whirled and fired his arrow.

The gunner had been kneeling and rose as Phylomon fired. An arrow that should have taken him in the chest lodged in the simpleton's hip. He jerked the barrel of the gun, pointing it vaguely in Phylomon's direction, and dropped the hammer. Smoke boiled from the barrel.

Phylomon dodged, but the ball slammed into his ribs, and the blue man was flung backward. He spun several times and dropped.

"On him, boys!" the gunman shouted. "He's down!" Phylomon grabbed his side, felt a bloody mess. It was numb. He could see nothing, for he was blinded by pain.

He coughed, and tasted blood running from his throat, swallowed it. He heard the men charging toward him in the brush, and he pulled a long ragged piece of flesh from the gaping wound.

He had never been hurt so badly. His ribs were split and pulped, though the symbiote anesthetized him. He heard ribs cracking as the symbiote manipulated them back into position, felt hot burning as muscles regenerating. Phylomon pulled the knife that he kept strapped to his right leg, and cried out at the pain.

Fear. I taste fear, the symbiote said.

He heard the gunman limping toward him, and several men drew around him in a circle.

"He's wounded," one man said. "Look at the hole! It's closing! Quick, shoot him again!"

Fear. I taste fear.

The gunman popped the chamber of the swivel gun open, grunted and swore as he pulled the red hot shell from the chamber. One fellow rushed forward and swung an ax down on Phylomon's neck. It connected with a dull thud, and the man swore. "I can't cut through!"

Why do you fear?

The gunman dropped another heavy shell into the chamber, and Phylomon's vision cleared so that he could see a second fellow move toward the gunman. The two men grunted as they lifted the barrel, taking aim.