Description: CHAPTER ONE THE URGE TO HUNT LURKS DEEP IN THE BONES. IT PULSES WITH each beat of our hearts and jets with our blood. To hunt--be it for food, for sport, or as an act of war--causes body and souls to thrive at the height of existence. We are not the only ones enchanted by the hunt. So, too, are the invaders. And on that cold and rainy day, I watched them from a vantage point high in a live oak. I am Black Shell, of the Chief Clan, of the Hickory Moiety--an outcast from the Chicaza Nation. I am akeohoosa, or "dead to my relatives." The Kristianos had come to collect wood; they''d chopped it the day before with their hierro axes. The distinctive sound had carried across the forest and betrayed their location. Kristianos needed a lot of wood, and not only for fires. They were busy fortifying the captured Apalachee city of Anhaica. Their leader, Adelantado Hernando de Soto, had reason to add to the city''s defenses. They''d forced the Apalachee people--to whom it rightly belonged--out into the forests. Predictably, the Apalachee considered such behavior to be intolerable. The monster and his invading army had been under constant harassing attack since. And the Apalachee had fought Kristianos before, having defeated another invader called Narvez but eleven summers past. Where Kristianos went, they went in force, knowing that every thicket, swamp, and patch of timber harbored Apalachee warriors--all of whom were thinking up creative ways to kill them. The woodcutting party I watched had come in strength and armed for combat. Having run out of daylight the day before, they were back, seeking to collect the remainder of what they''d cut and drag it back to Anhaica. Thirty of them--accompanied by twenty slaves and ten cabayos--entered the clearing just north of my high perch. "Cabayo" is their name for the great animals they ride. Larger than an elk, the cabayo has rounded hooves, a hornless head, and a long-haired tail. We try to kill them at every opportunity. The slaves were a mixed lot of Timucuans, some from the south, others having been but recently captured in the Uzachile lands. The Uzachile captives looked the healthiest, having only starved and camped in the open for three moons. The others, those enslaved most of the year, looked like walking death. Their flesh wasted by hunger, they were hollow bellied, their ribs protruding. Their eyes, now deep set, stared dully out of skin-wrapped skulls. Two were staggering and would no doubt be killed before the day was out. Alert for an ambush, the Kristianos inspected their stacked wood, anxious to see if it had been tampered with. Talking in low voices, they stared suspiciously at the surrounding brush, crossbows at the ready, while their slaves began tying up bundles of wood for the cabayos to drag away. Several of the soldados --Kristianos who fought on foot--edged toward the brush, hands on sword handles, searching for any sign of ambush. I eased behind the thick bole of the live oak. Having been raised as a forest warrior, I knew how to merge with my high perch to avoid detection. Then the hunt began. The woman appeared on a trail just back from the clearing. She seemed oblivious to the sounds of the working men, and her path would screen her from the majority of the wood party. A thick tumpline ran down from her forehead to the bulky pack resting on her hips. A tumpline doesn''t allow free movement of the neck, but restricts vision to straight ahead, so she didn''t see the soldados off to the side. The Kristianos, however, definitely saw her as she stepped negligently past an opening in the brush. One immediately raised a knotted fist; at the same time he placed a finger to his lips: the signal for silence. Men placed hands over the noses of the cabayos, others grabbed metal chains to keep them from clanking or threatened the slaves into stillness. Hunters--though delighted by the chase itself--relish taking a trophy as the ultimate measure of their worth. And the woman was a trophy indeed. Long-legged, tall, and muscular, she was young, with glossy black hair hanging down past her buttocks. A fabric skirt had been belted at her thin waist, her breasts bare despite the chill. As she approached my hiding place, I admired her triangular face, the thin and straight nose, and the fire that flashed behind her dark eyes. Oh, yes, a beauty in any man''s eyes--especially a Kristiano''s. I watched five soldados take up the woman''s trail. In single file--like two-legged wolves--they hurried forward, slipping through the band of brush separating the trail from the clearing. They kept hands on their weapons, bearded faces lean, eyes intent. The ones in the clearing settled down to wait, watching the spot where their companions had disappeared. I hunkered down against the bark, curious as to how their pursuit would play out. Had they the wiles and skill to sneak up on and overtake the unsuspecting woman? Or would their foreign clumsiness betray their presence? The invaders were not of our world, but alien, coming from a terrible land beyond the seas, the likes of which I couldn''t even conceive. I''d followed the Kristianos since they first landed down south in the Uzita lands. I''d tracked them, studied them, even captured one once. For the most part they had limited forest skills, though they fought and killed with vicious ferocity. The five I now watched didn''t make the usual mistakes. They didn''t clump along in their heavy boots and were careful to keep branches from rasping on their shirtsleeves or their thick, cotton-and-metal batted vests. Those with swords kept a hand to the hilt to keep them from rattling in the scabbards. The man in front--a burly and grizzled fellow with a gray-streaked beard and close-set blue eyes--held his loaded crossbow sideways so the staves didn''t knock against the leaves and stems he eased through. They''re learning. Three moons ago, before Napetuca, these five would have just charged after their quarry, seeking to run her to earth like a rabbit. Oh yes, grand sport that. But the Kristianos were changing. At Napetuca they had kicked the beating heart out of the Uzachile Nation and destroyed the best Timucua warriors in the world. Then they''d marched west through the thicket country that separated the Uzachile from the Apalachee--and smack into a different kind of war. Adelantado de Soto might have taken the Apalachee capital, Anhaica, his invincible soldados and the cabayeros on their terrible mounts driving the Apalachee High Mikko Cafakke--the divine ruler--into exile. Capturing the capital was one thing. Controlling the country? That, my friend, was something entirely different. Kristianos never traveled out from Anhaica alone and rarely in groups as small as the one I now watched. Had the gray-bearded leader not caught sight of the woman, he would never have left the security of his woodcutting party. But the hunt is bred into our very blood and bones. In the presence of prey our muscles tighten, the pulse quickens, and our senses narrow and sharpen. The woman continued striding down the trail toward my tree. Not thirty paces behind, the five slipped along, eyes gleaming. As much as they feared ambush, the hunt proved irresistible. Risk only added to the thrill and the value of the prize. My curiosity was piqued. Could the Kristianos close the gap without betraying themselves? I judged the shrinking distance and craned my neck to see the woman''s goal: a small, thatch-roofed house. It lay no more than two bow-shots to the south. Surrounded by trees, thick sumac, honeysuckle, and vines of greenbrier and grape, the clearing was little bigger than the house itself. Will she make it before they catch up? The woman passed directly below my high vantage point, her hips swinging to the stride of those long legs. I couldn''t help but wonder how she could look so unconcerned, oblivious to the closing threat. My urge was to hiss, call a sibilant warning. I desisted; she mastered her own fate. My duty was to watch, to study. I eased behind the live oak''s curved trunk, making myself small lest one of the Kristianos look up. Heedless, they passed in single file, trotting as though to a silent cadence. The woman was almost to the clearing, the Kristianos no more than ten paces back. The grizzled leader evidently caught sight of her, for he ducked down, scuttling forward in a crouch. The others mimicked his bent-backed scurry. With firm strides the woman walked into the clearing. Stopping before the doorway, she swung the big pack from her hips, rolling her neck at relief from the strain. She turned her head as a mockingbird landed on one of the grape stems off to the right--and immediately launched itself skyward with a panicked chirp. "I''m home," she called in Mos''kogee, no hint of alarm in her voice. The Kristianos had frozen, still screened by the brush at the end of the trail. The grizzled leader hunched like a porcupine and peered through a screen of yaupon leaves, the crossbow held low before him. When no one answered the woman''s call, she shrugged and ducked through the low doorway. The Kristiano gestured for his men to fan out, surrounding the house. He darted forward--still in a crouch--to take a position beside the door. His ear was pressed to the wall, listening. He raised an index finger--perhaps indicating a single occupant? The surrounding men looked at each

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