Beneath a Wounded Sky

by Kurt R A Giambastiani

  Horses whickered as they approached, nervous and fidgety at the smell of gunsmoke and blood. George counted four horses, one for each soldier, tethered near the remnants of an overnight camp.

  One man gave orders to the others. They set George down against a tree and began to break camp.

  “No!” he shouted at them. “You have to go get her!” He tried English and French, then his pidgin Spanish. “You idiots! She is wounded. You...tu cabrón! ¡Tu pendejo!”

  The sergeant stormed over. George jerked to the side and the butt of the sergeant’s rifle hit the trunk of the tree. George let the image of Mouse Road, bloody and unconscious, fill his mind. He let his anger bloom, let obscenity spew from his mouth.

  It was all that was needed.

  The sergeant hauled back for another blow, but it never came. The low branches behind him shook and the walker exploded into the clearing.

  She took the nearest soldier in her jaws and tossed him into the second man. The horses reared, pulled free and fled, trampling the third soldier in their panic. The sergeant was taking aim at her and George surged upward, shoulder to the sergeant’s ribs, bowling him over. The walker stepped in and snatched the sergeant headless. Then she turned to finish off the others.

  George searched the body for a knife, found one, and cut his bonds. Free, he ran out from under the trees, into the sunlight.

  Mouse Road moaned and he fell to his knees at her side. He cut the shoulder-lace of her dress and exposed the wound. A wave of relief swept through him when he saw it. The bullet had run a gash across her collarbone and cut across the inside of her upper arm. Blood pumped out of the wound, soaking her clothing and the grass around her. Her eyes opened. She smiled at seeing him, then winced at the pain.

  “I...I fell,” she said, still disoriented. “I hit my head.” She moved her arm and cried out, more in surprise than in pain.

  “Hush,” he told her, laying the hand of her wounded arm across her belly. “You were shot, too.”

  “Shot?” she asked in alarm. “Oh, yes,” she said, remembering. “Yes, I was.”

  With the Spaniard’s knife he cut the sleeve from her dress and folded it into a compress. He put it on the bleeding wound and then put her good hand on top of it.

  “Pressure. Tight,” he said, and then, “Don’t move.”

  He raided the soldiers’ camp, avoiding the sight of his walker and her current meal. He found what he needed and returned to Mouse Road. He worked silently and Mouse Road did not offer any conversation. Rum was his disinfectant and strips of clothing made both a serviceable compress and the means of keeping it tightly bound. A pair of kerchiefs for a sling, and he hoped she was strong enough to travel.

  Finally, when they were on the move once more, he spoke.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “I should have been more careful.”

  She squeezed him with her uninjured arm.

  “No one is allowed to be sad today,” she said, and he laughed.

  But he kept a sharp eye out, nonetheless.

  They went farther to the south to avoid more encounters with new arrivals from Spain who couldn’t tell ally from foe. Though George knew he had officially turned coat, he hoped to play the friendly liaison as long as he could. Before long, it was clear that the Queen Regent’s marines had indeed landed, and in force. George and Mouse Road skirted patrols, keeping close to trees for cover, and soon crossed the trail of torn earth and flattened grass made as the marines had moved north to join Pereira.

  “How many?” Mouse Road asked as George stared at the swath the Spanish left behind.

  “Hard to tell,” he said, studying the lanes of over-trodden ground. “Foot soldiers. Many. Plus at least a hundred horse. And supply wagons.” He pointed to ruts, off to the side; deep cuts in the pale grass. “And artillery. Five guns, probably. That won’t help. These men likely know how to use their artillery.”

  “What can we do?”

  He frowned and nudged the walker into motion.

  “We will think of something. Right now, we need to keep out of sight.”

  They did so, cutting a long, wide curve around the rear of both contingents, rounding up to the western flank where, George hoped, they would find Storm Arriving and his patrols before the Spaniards found them.

  Mouse Road bore up, stoic despite her weakness and the pain of her wounds. George insisted they stop to inspect the dressing regularly. Despite his efforts, the wound kept reopening, and each day she bled through the dressings.

  He put her before him along the walker’s spine and lashed her torso to his, so he could hold her up and keep her from falling. By the time they came upon a Kit Fox patrol, she was limp and insensible, her skin cold and pallid.

  “Help her,” he cried to the approaching soldiers.

  The patron rode in at once.

  “She is wounded,” he explained. “And has lost a lot of blood.”

  Sun Rising was the leader of the patrol. “Blue Feather has the fastest whistler,” he said.

  The others agreed and in moments Blue Feather sped off, Mouse Road in his arms. The rest mounted and followed, but at a slower pace to accommodate George’s tired walker.

  “We met a new group of Iron Shirts,” George explained. “They did not know who we were.”

  Sun Rising, a thin, hook-nosed man with pock-marked cheeks, grinned.

  “They arrived two nights ago. Many Iron Shirts. The bluecoats have been running before our greater numbers.” He raised two fists. “This hand is the Land Iron Shirts, and this one is the Iron Shirts from across the Big Salty. First one hits the bluecoats, then the other.” He moved his fists in slow, punching jabs. “And the bluecoats retreat. They have no time to rest from the first blow before a second blow comes in.”

  George could appreciate the tactic. The marines’ commander was undoubtedly a more experienced man than the greenhorn Pereira. But he hoped this “retreat” was all part of Meriwether’s plan, and not because Pereira truly had them on the ropes.

  “And you?” he asked Sun Rising. “Where are the soldiers of the People?”

  “Ha!” Sun Rising beamed. “We are the wolf that lunges in from the side to bite. We are the hawk that swoops in from the sky to slash at their eyes. When the Iron Shirts push the bluecoats, we steer their retreat. It will not be long, now.”

  George heard the pride in the soldier’s voice. “Not long before what?”

  Sun Rising’s smile was peaceful, serene, assured. “They will have the White Water at their back, and no time to cross.”

  “You seem confident,” George said.

  Sun Rising signed his agreement. “We have a good war chief.”

  George’s walker had caught her second wind and they picked up the pace. The land was gentle, but George’s mind was a-stir with fretful worry. He recalled to his mind’s eye old maps of the region and, with an imaginary finger, traced the courses of the great rivers and their tortuous paths—the Sudden River, the White Water, and a half dozen others that fed into the Big Greasy.

  Meriwether was a master tactician, but he had been away from the field for a handful of days. Could his adjutants have boxed him in along un-fordable banks? Could they put him in such a grave situation in so short a time?

  He was also disturbed by the utter faith and gleeful anticipation that Sun Rising held for Storm Arriving and the impending battle. Speaks While Leaving’s vision was clear as summer’s sun to George. Hopefully, he would be able to convince Storm Arriving. That in itself was a big enough task, but George had definitely not thought that he would also have to convince every soldier the People had in the field.

  These worries piled themselves atop his fear for Mouse Road’s health. He swirled the questions and possible answers around in his head, not watching where they were going, just letting his walker follow while he struggled to see his way through to what needed to be done.

  And so, he was brought up short when they rode around a grove of trees and he saw the battle groups arraye
d on a great plain.

  George guessed the view stretched for nearly ten miles across a vista as flat as a table. The sky above was brilliant blue and, for once, without a cloud. Prairie grass carpeted the plain in a nap of taupe and gold.

  Two encampments lay like dark patches on the prairie’s otherwise seamless fabric. The nearest, but a mile distant, was alive with movement and sound. Canvas billowed, wheels turned and creaked, horse-drawn carts grew heavy as pots and equipment were tossed aboard. Men dashed about, striking tents and loading supplies. Pereira’s forces were preparing to depart.

  Miles ahead, dimmed by the haze of dust and distance, the other patch of land seethed with similar activity, but there the obscuring clouds were not dust but smoke from cookfires as the marines settled in for a rest.

  George peered into the distance, squinting to the north, looking for sign of Meriwether and his bluecoats. His eye scanned the plain, side to side, all the way to the horizon. At one spot, he thought he could make out a line of greenery against the deepening gold, perhaps the edge of scrub or the limit of some trees. At another, he thought he saw the glint of sunlight on a distant river. But these were phantoms, dreams of his waking mind. Even a West Point cadet knew better than to rest within sight of the enemy.

  If only we’d acted sooner, he thought. Before the marines arrived. Mouse Road would still be...

  The idea fell apart as he formed it. They had needed an agreement with his father. Without it, there was never any hope of convincing Storm Arriving to switch sides.

  But now? With greater numbers and high morale, how could he convince them to betray their alliance with the Iron Shirts? How could he prove to Storm Arriving that the crooked path was the straightest route to peace? With so much more to dream on, he felt hope slipping through his fingers.

  His walker stopped and turned her head. She stared at him with her great, golden eye, and for a moment—a brief, crystalline moment—he felt her emotions, her strength, felt them flow into him. The hair on his neck stood up. His heart lurched, then began to pound, hard. He felt strength, he felt power. He felt that there was no challenge he could not master.

  He felt invincible.

  Yes, he said to her.

  She held his gaze a moment longer, then turned and stepped off to catch up with the others.

  Chapter 23

  Moon When Ice Starts to Form, Waxing

  Four Years after the Cloud Fell

  North of the Sudden River

  Alliance Territory

  George followed his guides down toward the camp. As before, the soldiers of the People were encamped a short distance away from the Iron Shirts. As they approached, George noted that the number of soldiers had remained constant in the camp of the People.

  Good and bad, he judged it, for while it meant no major defections had occurred, it also meant there had been no increase to their forces. And, considering the insight he had just gained into the company’s morale, it also meant that Storm Arriving was surrounded by true believers.

  Storm Arriving was waiting, hands loose at his side, face a scowl, eyes locked on George as he rode up.

  George unhooked his leg and slid down his walker’s flank.

  “How is she?” he asked as he touched down. Storm Arriving stepped forward and wheeled a backhanded blow at George’s face. The assault took George off guard, as did the next, full-fisted punch. He saw dark stars and stumbled sideways, but recovered quickly enough to see Storm Arriving’s advance.

  George held up a warning hand and his walker shifted her stance, legs tensed, neck back, head ready to strike.

  Everyone froze.

  George took the moment to feel the side of his face and blink away the pain. Then he looked around.

  Storm Arriving was a statue of fury while the soldiers around him were pictures of shock and surprise. George walked up to Storm Arriving, his own anger echoed by his walker’s menacing rumble. The war chief’s eyes had lost none of their rage.

  George stared at him, meeting the challenge.

  Storm Arriving seethed.

  Sun Rising took a tentative step. Without breaking his gaze, George raised a finger and Sun Rising halted.

  “One Who Flies,” the soldier said, his tone pleading entreaty. “Do not.”

  “A chief should show more control,” George said.

  Storm Arriving shivered with unspent rage. “First, you endanger my wife, then my daughter, and now my sister,” he said.

  George shrugged. “You think they would listen to me, when they will not listen to you?” He touched his face again, feeling the bruise beginning to rise.

  “That is the last time you strike me,” George said to him. Then he looked at his walker.

  “Watch him,” he told her, and stepped around the stunned war chief.

  “Sun Rising, take me to my wife.”

  Sun Rising gave George a worried, sidelong glance as he led him toward the center of the camp. George measured his gait as they walked, calming his own anger. He knew it had not been wise to humiliate the man he most needed on his side, and only hoped that his show of strength would counter the sting of shame he had inflicted.

  He halted, then, and closed his eyes. He thought of a quiet stream and the chee-rik of diving lizards calling from the banks above. His blood subsided, his muscles unclenched, and deep within, he felt a taut string loosen. The echo of raised voices behind him confirmed that his walker broke stance and settled down to rest, releasing Storm Arriving and his men. George motioned to Sun Rising, and they continued onward.

  “There,” Sun Rising said, pointing to a huge chestnut tree. George hurried onward and saw beneath its yellow-leaved boughs a woman crouching down, weaving smoke from a smudge stick over a patient laid out on a mat of furs.

  George moved to his wife and knelt at her side. He felt her brow, found it damp but warm once more. He checked her wound. The old dressing had been removed and replaced with a poultice. The air smelled of the healing smoke of smoldering sage.

  “She will be fine,” the woman said.

  George looked up and realized that his wife’s healer was no woman after all.

  “Whistling Elk!” George said. “Thank you for tending to her. She will be well?”

  “Yes,” Whistling Elk said. “You did well with the wound, but she is weak from the bleeding. She drank a good deal of water, which is good, but she needs all her strength to recover. She will be much better by morning.”

  George touched the swelling along his cheekbone. “Too bad you did not inform Storm Arriving.”

  He heard his friend sigh. “That man has enough anger to burn the sun,” Whistling Elk said. “He was furious when you took her and rode off to parley with the bluecoats, but when she came back, wounded by a bluecoat bullet—”

  “What?” George said. “No. It wasn’t the bluecoats. It was the Iron Shirts that shot at us.”

  Whistling Elk set down the smudge stick and rose, brushing dust from his dress and leggings.

  “I will tell him that,” he said as he walked over to put a hand on George’s shoulder. “But I do not think it will cool him. He blames you for much.”

  “I know,” George said, looking down at Mouse Road. He thought of all the trouble and sorrow Storm Arriving had met in recent years—one sister dead, a wife with a stubbornness to match his own, a daughter dead of red fever contracted in a foreign land, the People divided, the Alliance crumbling, and now Mouse Road, the one remaining member of his family, wounded and brought down on what he saw as a fool’s errand.

  “He blames me for everything,” George said, “but I do not know why.”

  Whistling Elk gave George’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Because it is easier,” he said, and then left.

  Mouse Road moaned, and George forgot about everything else. Her eyes fluttered and then George saw nothing but her ink-black pupils.

  “I am thirsty,” she said.

  “Of course,” he said, and went for a waterskin near the tree’s trun
k. He poured some water into a horn cup and brought it to her lips. She sipped and fell back upon the furs that blanketed the wicker headrest.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  She pondered, her brow wrinkled as she estimated.

  “Better,” she said, and George believed her.

  “Your brother will be glad to hear it,” he said.

  She squinted, looking at his face. She reached up and touched the swelling bruise along his cheekbone, and winced in sympathy.

  “He was displeased,” she said.

  “A little,” he answered.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “He is such a tangle,” she said. “It is not as if he thinks you are responsible for...” She gave George’s chuckle a quizzical look.

  “That is exactly his thinking,” he said with a smirk.

  She blinked up at him. “But that...that is not...” She clenched her fists and shut her eyes again. “Oooh! He makes me so angry!”

  George patted her arm. “Hush,” he said. “Save your strength. Besides, getting angry will not help.”

  “It does help!” she said, trying to sit up. “Why, I have a mind to go to him and say just what I—” Her strength faded and she fell back against the headrest.

  “And say what?” Storm Arriving said, walking up with Grey Bear, Whistling Elk, and a small group of his command staff. He looked from Mouse Road to George and back. “You were talking about me, no?” He walked to his sister’s side opposite George and knelt beside her.

  “What is it you would say to me?” he asked, his voice almost gentle.

  “I would say,” she began, and then paused. Her breath was labored, her energy burned up, but she had enough in reserve to point a finger and poke her brother with it, punctuating her words. “I would say...no one...tells me...what to do. Not him. Not you. No one.”

  Storm Arriving took her hand in his. “I can see that, now,” he said. “I do not know how I could have thought otherwise.”

  She pursed her lips and closed her eyes. “Good,” she said. “Now, we have news to tell you. We met with...husband...you must...I need to...”