The natives had warned them not to go beyond the hills, but Miguel Huerta and his men were not about to allow the primitive fears of savages to deter them from their mission, so they’d continued on, and were sleeping tonight in a wide, riverless valley that remained completely uninhabited, despite the profusion of tribes in the region. A great massacre had once occurred at this location, according to Tsictnako, their guide, and since that day, generations before, people had shunned this place, afraid of the spirit that lived here, the unseen force that had led brother to slaughter brother, that had caused madness to descend upon all survivors, be they victor or victim. The guide had not wanted to go here, had led them over the hills only under threat of torture, and he had deserted them sometime during the night, leaving them alone in this hostile, godforsaken land, a fact Huerta discovered when he was awakened by the screaming of the horses. It was a terrible, unholy sound, unlike anything he had ever heard.
