Mists of Dawn (67 page)

The
morning
air,
hushed
and
silent
a
moment
before,
became
a
bedlam
of
roaring
sound.
Mark
ran through
a
chaos
of
shouting,
screaming
men,
trumpeting,
coughing
mammoths,
pounding,
thumping feet.
The
very
earth
beneath
the
ice
sheet
trembled under
him,
the
cold
air
stabbed
at
his
lungs—and
the
quaro
were
right
before
him.

Mammoths!
The
very
word
means
enormous,
and enormous
they
were.
There
were
fifteen
of
the
monsters
clustered
on
the
ice,
and
they
were
big.
Mark judged
that
the
largest
of
them
would
weigh
at
least twenty
thousand
pounds—ten
tons
of
maddened
power. They
were
built
something
like
a
modern
elephant, with
a
huge,
powerful
trunk
reaching
almost
to
the ground,
but
they
were
covered
with
a
heavy
coat
of yellowish-brown
wool
mixed
with
long
black
hair.
The
quaro
had
immense,
curving
tusks
of
ivory,
some
of them
fully
fifteen
feet
long
and
wickedly
pointed.
Nor was
their
quarry
a
stupid
hulk,
such
as
the
extinct dinosaur
had
been.
For
all
their
massive
size,
the
mammoths
were
smart.
Mark
knew
that
elephants
in
general
were
among
the
most
intelligent
of
living
animals, 
their
flexible
trunk
being
one
of
nature’s
experiments on
the
road
that
had
finally
led
to
man’s
opposable thumb
and
grasping
hand.
Beyond
doubt,
the
mammoth
was
a
worthy
foe,
and
Mark
wondered
how many
people
would
have
cared
to
charge
him
with only
a
spear
and
a
torch.

But
charge
the
Danequa
did,
and
Mark
with
them.

Mark
yelled
frantically,
and
waved
his
torch
in
fiery circles
around
his
head.
He
knew
that
the
success
of the
hunt
depended
entirely
on
keeping
the
mammoths confused
by
fire
and
noise;
if
they
were
allowed
time to
think
clearly,
they
would
squash
the
Danequa
like so
many
buzzing
insects
hit
by
a
baseball
bat.
The first
step
was
to
get
them
moving,
and
it
was
not
an easy
step.

It
was
the
oldest
military
tactic
in
the
book,
surprise
and
panic.
Like
all
tactics,
it
was
wonderful
if it
worked.
If
it
didn’t
.
.
.

The
mammoths
were
in
no
hurry
to
move.
They eyed
the
shouting
warriors
nervously,
they
trumpeted and
shifted,
their
eyes
began
to
gleam
angrily,
but they
did
not
break.
Mark
screamed
and
brandished his
torch,
and
one
of
the
beasts
backed
away
a
little. But
that
was
not
enough.
Nranquar
suddenly
dashed in
behind
one
of
the
mammoths
and
jabbed
him
with a
spear.
The
mammoth
trumpeted
angrily
and
spun around
with
surprising
speed.
He
reared
up
on
his huge
hind
legs,
snorting.
Nranquar
stood
his
ground, yelling
and
waving
his
torch.
It
was
a
crucial
moment, and
Mark
and
Tlaxcan
ran
to
help.
If
the
mammoth decided
to
fight,
he
could
probably
handle
all
three of
them
without
difficulty,
and
the
other
monsters would
join
in
the
massacre.
The
three
warriors
shouted, and
Tlaxcan,
with
sudden
insight,
threw
his
torch
like a
spear
at
the
rearing
mammoth.
The
mammoth snorted
at
the
heat,
and
came
down
with
an
earth-shattering
impact.
His
tremendous
feet
missed
the dodging
men,
but
it
was
close.
The
mammoth
eyed them
warily,
and
then
turned
slowly
away
and
lumbered
into
motion
in
the
other
direction.

Mark
breathed
easier,
and
was
elated
to
see
that the
mammoth
herd
had
joined
the
old
bull
and
were jogging
along
toward
the
plains.
Mark
knew
that
they had
not
defeated
the
mammoths,
in
any
sense.
It
was just
that
the
mammoths,
like
most
animals,
did
not want
to
fight
at
all.
They
wanted
to
be
let
alone,
and doubtless
considered
the
puny
men
as
not
worth
killing.
But
they
might
change
their
minds
at
any
moment; they
had
to
be
handled
with
skill.

As
Tlaxcan
had
trained
him
to
do,
Mark
joined
in guiding
the
moving
mass
of
the
herd,
flanking
them and
shouting
to
keep
them
on
course.
Fang
learned fast,
and
dashed
in
to
nip
almost
at
the
quota’s
heels, barking
furiously
all
the
while.
Mark
could
not
help thinking
that
he
would
have
made
a
first-rate
cattle dog.
Fang
was
a
big
help,
and
Mark
noticed
that Tlaxcan
was
watching
him
approvingly.

Everything
was
going
according
to
plan,
with
the morning
sun
smiling
in
the
blue
sky.
Now
they
were running
along
the
grassy
plains,
and
Mark
began
to relax.