‘Jack me! Wow!’ exlaimed Steve. ‘You know, for a big guy, you’re awful quiet on your feet.’
Motor-Head bared his teeth in a grim smile.
Steve had a feeling he was in trouble. ‘Where are Mr Snow and Cadillac – down in the settlement?’
‘No, they’re not back yet,’ said Motor-Head. ‘We came on ahead.’
‘Oh…’ Glancing round, Steve saw two shadowy figures positioned between Blue-Bird and the bluff. It didn’t look good. Play it cool, Brickman.
Motor-Head looked Blue-Bird over. ‘Going somewhere?’
‘Me? Oh, no. I was just… fixing a few things. Couldn’t sleep so – I, uh, came up to do some work on the motor.’
‘In the dark?’
Steve shrugged. ‘Just got here. It’ll be light soon.’
‘Yes… Tell me – why the helmet?’
‘It’s to keep my ears warm,’ said Steve.
‘Got it…’ The big Mute aimed a finger over Steve’s shoulder. ‘Is that what you call “the motor”?’
Steve eyed him warily. ‘Yeah…’
Motor-Head put an arm through the sling of his quarter-staff, then eased Steve aside and stood with his legs astride facing the hand-carved propeller. He placed his fingers on the propeller hub then ran them out along the blades. ‘Why does it have my name?’
What a dummy! thought Steve. Still, better kid him along. ‘Ah, that’s because, like you, it is strong and powerful,’ he said. ‘It makes the arrowhead fly like an eagle.’
Motor-Head nodded thoughtfully. ‘Ahhahh… interesting…’ Grasping the tips of the propeller he snapped both blades off at the hub with one swift jerk of his huge hands, examined the two pieces briefly then dropped them at Steve’s feet. ‘Now it flies like a lump of crow-shit.’
Steve looked down at the broken blades and knew that there was no chance of walking away from this one. He had one good chance. If Motor-Head didn’t know what was rolled up inside the mat, he could get to his rifle and drop all three of them. He raised his head and met the Mute warrior’s challenging gaze. ‘Well, you should know. You’re full of it.’
Motor-Head bared his fang-like teeth in a tight smile. How he regretted his promise not to cut open this carrion! He spat on the ground. ‘You have a quarterstaff. Beat it out of me!’
This could work out just fine, thought Steve. ‘I might just do that,’ he said coolly. He took a couple of steps backwards then edged sideways under the wing towards the spot where his quarterstaff lay next to the rolled straw mat.
Motor-Head pulled his staff out of its carrying sling and whirled it around in a brief, flashy display.
That’s right. Come on, sucker…
Steve took another couple of steps towards the hidden rifle. He looked towards the edge of the bluff and was able to recognise the two shadowy figures as Black-Top and Steel-Eye. Black-Top was holding a loaded crossbow. Steve considered his chances of grabbing his rifle and blowing them away before Black-Top nailed him with a bolt. Not good. Not good at all.
And it got worse. As if reading his mind, Motor-Head tossed his own quarterstaff towards Steve. ‘Take mine. Your little arms will need a big stick.’
Steve caught it across his chest, conscious that the odds against him getting out alive were lengthening by the second. Motor-Head fixed him with his beady eyes then bent down and scooped up Steve’s quarterstaff. Up to now, everything had gone so wrong, he was half-expecting Motor-Head to pull open the matting roll, but the big Mute ignored it.
Steve knew that, provided the fight was limited to quarterstaffs, he had a hope of winning. He had already beaten Motor-Head seven times in a row, and he had the ribboned plaits to prove it. Motor-Head could have despatched him easily with a knife but his reputation as a warrior was at stake. He had to win with Steve’s chosen weapon to regain his position as paramount Bear. Steve now realised that, for Motor-Head, swapping staffs was a symbolic act through which he took some of Steve’s ‘power’ into himself. If he could hold him off long enough, the Mute’s psychological need to win might make him angry. It was this aggression that Steve had exploited in the past. Once Motor-Head lost control it would all be over. The trouble was, Steve didn’t have all day to play around. He had to floor this hulking piece of lumpshit in the next fifteen minutes. Some chance!
It was one contest Steve would have been prepared to concede, but he knew that if he took a dive the result would be the same as if he were beaten to the ground. Sooner or later, Motor-Head was going to kill him. It was galling to think that the speedy solution to all his problems was lying so near at hand. But the six feet that separated him from the hidden rifle might just as well have been six miles. Forget it, Brickman, he told himself. You’re going to have to solve this one the hard way. Christo, what a pill!
Grasping the quarterstaff firmly in both hands, Steve backed away from Blue-Bird to give himself some fighting room. A vague battle plan was beginning to coalesce in his mind. It was no good just winning. He had to finish up on his feet, fit enough to fly and within reach of the rolled-up rifle. Maybe if he could manoeuvre this big lump to the edge of the bluff and somehow topple him over…
Motor-Head threw aside the sling of his borrowed staff, flexed it to test its condition, then assumed the opening, wide-legged stance. Steve faced up to him, the tip of his quarterstaff angled across that of his opponent. Black-Top and Steel-Eye split up, moved back several yards and crouched down facing each other halfway between Blue-Bird’s wingtips and the edge of the bluff.
The use of the six-foot long quarterstaff or swordstick, as it was sometimes called, went back to the Federation’s third century when it was introduced as an exercise weapon by a member of the First Family called Bruce Lee Jefferson. As practised by Trackers, it was a cross between the Japanese martial art form known as kendo, where bamboo swordsticks were used, and the six to nine-foot long oak quarterstaff wielded by popular heroes of the Middle Ages such as Robin Hood. In the East, it had been used to teach budding samurai the art of swordsmanship; in the West, for training knights to use the two-handed battle sword.
In the Federation, trainees wore kendo-style helmets, gauntlets, and thick pads covering the target areas, with additional protection for the back, shoulders, pelvis and thighs. Both ends of the stick could be used and – apart from the mental discipline, lightning-fast reflexes and sheer physical stamina required – it was the dexterous manipulation of the staff, using a parrying stroke as the springboard for a scoring blow that distinguished the true expert from the talented tyro.
According to the rules governing formal bouts, the only blows that counted were those striking the top or sides of the head, the sides of the torso, the right and left forearm and a direct thrust to the throat. But this was no formal bout. This time around, there would be no rules.
As they faced up to each other, Steve reckoned that this might shorten the odds in his favour; the hulking Mute was sharp, but he was sneakier. He had to get in low and fast and not just because of the time factor. Apart from his visored helmet and his flight fatigues, his body was unprotected whereas Motor-Head was wearing his usual stone and bone-decorated leather skull mask and body plates. Steve could afford to take a few shots to the head but if any of Motor-Head’s blows landed with full force elsewhere it could mean a broken wrist, rib or collar-bone. Even if he won, and then managed to take out Black-Top and Steel-Eye, any injury along these lines would make the task of flying Blue-Bird both difficult and extremely painful. Somehow, Steve had to block every attack Motor-Head made or, at the very least, sap the force of each blow before it crashed against his unprotected body. Keeping his staff crossed with Motor-Head’s, Steve circled slowly to the left. Motor-Head matched him with wide-legged mirror-steps to the right.
Down in the settlement, on the mat outside Mr Snow’s hut, Clearwater saw the danger to the cloud-warrior and felt the power begin to flow through her body from its secret source deep within the earth below. It coursed through her veins, pierced her fle
sh like thousands of tiny red-hot needles, and sent its fire into the core of her bones. Every muscle in her body drew taut and began to jerk spasmodically. She fell backwards, eyes still tightly shut, back arched, her legs drawn up beneath her. The power inside her began to build with a frightening intensity, filling her body with an explosive pressure like molten lava inside a volcano that is about to erupt. With the rapidly shrinking part of her mind that still remained hers in this moment of possession, Clearwater realised she was about to become the executioner of her clan-brothers. The thought appalled her but she knew Talisman would stop at nothing to protect his own. The power doubled, tripled, in strength, and offered itself to her will. She tried to resist it, tried not to cede to the overwhelming desire to save the cloud-warrior. One hand flew to her neck, the other clamped itself over her mouth, fingers digging deep into the skin, in a desperate effort to hold back the death-dealing cry that was forming in her throat.
On the bluff, the quarterstaffs flashed and crashed together as Steve and Motor-Head suddenly burst into action. Thrust/parry/strike/parry, thrust/parry/strike/parry, to the head, to the side, to the arm, to the leg. Keep circling, Brickman! This lump has been practising. He is fast! Only one thing to do… let him lay one on you and hope it will provide a chance to slow him down…
The opportunity came. With a frightening yell, Motor-Head brought his staff up, over and down towards Steve’s right shoulder in a blow that, had it been from a samurai sword, would have sliced him open from neck to navel. Steve stepped underneath it, robbing the blow of some of the force with his own staff before letting it crash onto his helmet. Instead of taking it full on the crown of the head, which would have compacted his spine, and quite possibly have broken his neck, Steve managed to turn it into a glancing blow on the left side of the helmet, twisting his shoulder out of the way as Motor-Head’s staff bounced off and swept on down. But the trap was only half-sprung. Steve staggered, knees buckling under the blow. For a fleeting instant, Motor-Head allowed his killer instinct to relax. His face lit up with a gleam of triumph. It was the break Steve needed. In that split-second celebratory pause before the follow-up blow, Steve ducked in under Motor-Head’s guard, landed bone-crunching blows on both knees and ankles then rammed the end of his staff into the point of the Mute’s pelvis.
Motor-Head doubled over under the force of the blow. He staggered, trying to master the shrieking pain in his crotch, knees and ankles. Steve sensed it was now or never. He smashed his staff down across Motor-Head’s broad back, once, twice – then landed a third blow across the back of his neck. The blows brought the big Mute to his knees but the armoured leather body plates and the deep rim of his skull mask absorbed most of the damage.
Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw Black-Top and Steel-Eye moving in from the sidelines. Steve hurriedly brought his staff down again on their buddie’s head in an effort to take him out of the fight before they reached him. On anybody else, the blow would have knocked their block off but it just seemed to bounce off Motor-Head’s skull. With his quarterstaff still gripped in his hands, the big warrior rested stiff-armed on his knuckles, shook the pain out of his head like a dog shaking water from its ears, then lifted his left knee and got one foot on the ground.
Christo! thought Steve. This lump’s gonna get up! His own feeling of imminent triumph rapidly faded into near panic. Black-Top and Steel-Eye were practically on top of them. He swung his staff round in a sideways arc and slammed it against Motor-Head’s right arm just below the leather shoulderplate. It hit the Mute’s iron-hard biceps with a dull sickening thwack. Down, you jack-assed heap of lumpshit! he screamed inwardly. Go down! Reversing his grip, Steve aimed a similar blow at Motor-Head’s left arm, putting all his strength into a two-handed slice. To his surprise, Motor-Head threw his left arm upwards and outwards, stopped the blow with the palm of his hand, then closed his fingers round the thick shaft. Steve cursed and tried to pull his staff free but found it was stuck fast in Motor-Head’s outstretched hand.
‘Gotcha!’ The big Mute’s pain-wracked face split into a murderous grin. ‘Step back, Brother Bears. This mother’s mine…’
Raising his right arm, he waved Black-Top and Steel-Eye out of the way. The two Mute warriors moved back behind him towards the edge of the bluff; Black-Top cradling his loaded crossbow, Steel-Eye with his hand on the hilt of his knife. Steve tugged viciously on the Mute’s quarterstaff but Motor-Head didn’t let go. It hurt when he stood up but he hauled himself onto his feet and took a good grip on Steve’s pole with his right hand. Mo-Town! That hurt too!
Steve knew he had to do something but didn’t know what. He had started out with Motor-Head’s staff but now the Mute had a grip on both of them. Steve knew that to have any chance of recovering the staff he had to hang on to it with both hands. Which meant that he had to stay within range of his own staff, which the big Mute was about to beat him with. He could make a grab for it the way Motor-Head had, but even if he managed to catch it, he couldn’t match the strength in Motor-Head’s arms. The Mute would end up with both staffs in about two seconds flat.
Adjusting his grip on Steve’s quarterstaff, Motor-Head drove it teasingly into Steve’s ribs, then cracked him over the head. Steve took one hand off Motor-Head’s staff in an attempt to ward off the next blow. In a flash, the Mute slid his hand along the pole, pulling Steve another foot in towards him. Steve saw what was happening. He tried to get both hands back on the pole but was too late. Motor-Head laughed throatily and thwacked him hard on the outside of the thigh. If it had been a two-handed blow, it would have shattered the bone; even so, to Steve, at that particular moment, it felt like he might never walk again.
Triple lumpshit! he thought. I can’t take much more of this! He knew Motor-Head was only taunting him. He had to do something. Motor-Head was pulling him ever closer, making it almost impossible to stay clear of the whirling quarterstaff in the Mute’s right hand. Come on, Brickman! If you can get out of this, you can get out of anything! As the idea came, Motor-Head hauled in some more slack on the pole in his left hand. It was now or never. Okay, this is it, Brickman! Go for it!
As Motor-Head aimed another taunting blow, Steve threw up his left hand and caught the end of the staff as it flashed down. The impact sent a shockwave all the way down to his left foot and his palm felt as if it had burst open. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he pulled down hard on the two poles as Motor-Head tugged in the opposite direction. For a split second, the poles were like two parallel bars. In the instant that Motor-Head won the tug-of-war and jerked the poles towards him, Steve threw his body into the air, arms straight down like a vaulting gymnast, and drove the heels of his combat boots into the Mute’s face.
‘Heyy-YAHH!!’
The impact knocked Motor-Head over like a felled tree. Steve’s body sailed on, curving through the air to land at the feet of the startled Black-Top. Before either warrior could react, Steve tore the crossbow from Black-Top’s grasp and slammed the butt against the side of the warrior’s head. As Black-Top went down, Steve spun round to find Steel-Eye coming at him with a fistful of sharp iron. Unable to find the trigger in time, Steve brought one half of the sprung metal bow down onto Steel-Eye’s knife arm, then leant back, pivoted on his left heel, swung his right leg up to waist height and snapped it straight, flattening Steel-Eye’s solar plexus against his spine. The Bear went down blowing air like a ruptured pressure hose.
For a couple of seconds, Steve stood there as if mesmerised. He was shaking like a leaf. His head ached from the blow he let Motor-Head lay on him and his body suddenly seemed full of sharp jabbing pains. The rifle! Get the rifle and finish off these lumps before they get up again! Steve turned towards Blue-Bird, stumbled over Motor-Head’s outstretched arm and fell awkwardly to the ground, losing the crossbow as he went down. He felt a huge hand grip his ankle. Steve kicked himself free, threw himself towards the crossbow, pulled it towards him and scrambled to his knees. With his finger now firmly on the trigger he turned
towards his three fallen adversaries and was appalled to find they were all getting to their feet.
One side of Black-Top’s face was swollen; Steel-Eye was half bent and barely able to breathe; blood oozed from Motor-Head’s broken nose and mouth. Motor-Head was empty-handed. The others held long Mute fighting knives with the dished top cutting edge.
Steve stood up and backed away towards the hidden rifle as they took a step towards him. He raised the crossbow and aimed it at Motor-Head’s chest. ‘Stay right where you are!’
Motor-Head paused and gave Steve a lop-sided bloodstained grin. ‘You dropped something.’ He held up a crossbow bolt.
Steve stared at it incredulously then glanced quickly down at the crossbow. The steel bowstring was still drawn back ready for release but there was no bolt in the firing slot! Christo! It must have been thrown out when he’d used it to batter Black-Top and Steel-Eye to the ground or when he’d dropped it! Shit!
Flanked by his two clan-brothers, Motor-Head broke the two quarterstaffs, one over each thigh, and tossed the pieces aside.
‘No more games, carrion!’ He took another step towards Steve and held up his huge, six-fingered paws. ‘Take a good look at these hands! They are going to tear your eyes and your lying tongue out of your head, then they are going to crush your sharp-edged little face like a rotten yellow-fist!’
Steve edged back towards the hidden rifle. I am not going to make it, he thought tiredly. After all this… I am not going to make it! Oh, sweet Christopher!
In the same moment of time that encompassed Motor-Head’s step towards Steve, Clearwater’s hands took on a life of their own. They tore themselves away from her neck and mouth and pulled her arms outwards onto the ground. Her eyes snapped open and the chilling cry of the summoner issued from her throat. The earth answered, yielding up its secret strength. The full force of the Third Ring of Power flowed into her body to be shaped by her will…
Cloud Warrior Page 33
