Cloud Warrior

by Patrick Tilley

  Below the bluff, about a mile east of the settlement, Mr Snow and Cadillac led the homeward run across the rolling plain. Mr Snow did not hear Clearwater’s cry, but his finely attuned senses heard the earth answer. He signalled the party of warriors to halt. They crouched, listening instinctively for any sounds that signified danger. And then they all heard it. A low, distant, deep-throated rumbling. But this was not from the sky, this was earth-thunder! The ground shivered as some unseen force, like buried lightning bolts, zigzagged through the earth beneath them in the direction of the settlement. The M’Call Bears groaned and fell on their faces, seized by the paralysing primal fear that afflicted all Mutes; a distant race memory of a time when the earth rose up and the sky exploded with blinding white rain-fire that burnt flesh from bone, the grass from the earth, and turned the world to dust.

  Wordsmiths were supposed to be made of sterner stuff. Mr Snow hauled Cadillac off his knees as he babbled a plea to Mo-Town to spare them all from the wrath of the Lord Pent-Agon. ‘No need for that! Come on, get those legs moving! We’ve got to get back.’ Mr Snow hurried forward, pushing Cadillac ahead of him. ‘Go on! Run! Run!’

  Above them in the settlement, at that self-same instant, the rumbling earth-thunder grew louder and louder. The ground beneath Clearwater shuddered violently, then rose quickly to form a hillock, overturning Mr Snow’s hut in the process, flattening itself abruptly, then splitting apart on either side of her body with an ear-shattering roar. All over the plateau, terrified M’Calls scrambled out of their huts and threw themselves face down, men, women and children huddling together as they hugged the earth and begged Mo-Town to save them.

  Moving with terrifying speed, a large fissure zigzagged away from Clearwater’s prostrate body across the plateau towards the main cluster of huts then, before any damage was caused, it turned sharp left and raced up the slope towards the bluff.

  Once again, it was in the same moment of time that Steve decided to stake everything on one last desperate gamble. Pulling the trigger to release the taut bowstring, he hurled the crossbow at Motor-Head’s chest and made a break for the rifle. As the bow flew through the air and Steve turned and ran towards Blue-Bird, the drum roll of earth-thunder shook the ridge and caused the three Mutes to become rooted to the spot. With a dry, spine-chilling cracking noise, the fissure reached the bluff as Steve reached the matting roll and got his hand on the butt of his rifle. It was as if the earth was being ripped open by a giant invisible knife. Before he could catch his breath, a narrow, jagged fissure suddenly opened up right across the plateau, separating him from his now-terrified attackers. There was another deafening explosive roar of earth-thunder. The ground shook violently, throwing Steve onto his back. Rolling over onto his stomach he saw the edge of the bluff tear itself loose from the rest of the plateau. The whole strip of earth on which Motor-Head and his clan-brothers were standing just fell apart and went sliding down the steep slope, carrying the bodies of the three Mutes with it in a dust-laden torrent of rocks, pebbles and earth.

  Badly shaken, Steve got cautiously to his feet, clutching his rifle. Close! he thought. If the ’quake had run a few yards further in, he and the glider would have gone the same route. He raised the visor of his helmet and made a quick inspection of Blue-Bird. The trestles under the wings and the now useless engine had fallen over but the craft itself was undamaged. Steve put the three trestles back in place and hurriedly loosened the last two bolts holding the engine in place. He found that his hands were shaking and he had to stop to try and get a grip on himself. He untangled the harness straps and satisfied himself that he was ready to go. It was much lighter now. Broad bands of purple, crimson, orange and yellow lay along the eastern horizon. Faint, confused cries floated up from the direction of the settlement.

  Within seconds of their arrival Mr Snow and Cadillac were quickly surrounded by a shocked and still panicky crowd of Mutes seeking reassurance. When he had recovered his breath, Mr Snow dealt with them firmly, telling them that if it had been the end of the world – as some of them obviously thought it was – he would have announced it in advance. If they really wished to follow his advice they should all stop running about like headless turkeycocks and go back to the normal business of the day. That said, he brushed aside all further questions and pushed his way through the crowd, shooing away those who attempted to follow him.

  Clearwater sat upright on her talking mat, her face deathly pale under the patterned blacks and browns. Her eyes were dilated, and she kept biting her lips to stop them trembling.

  Mr Snow surveyed the wreckage of his hut, his scattered possessions and the deep narrow fissure that ran away towards the bluff. ‘Was this your doing?’.

  Clearwater nodded silently then found the strength to speak in a whisper. ‘I did not wish it. It was Talisman who called.’ She held out her hands to Cadillac. He put an arm round her and helped her up. She wavered slightly then gained control of her legs and held herself erect without his support.

  Mr Snow’s face softened. He placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘You have true power. You will make a worthy adversary of the sand-burrowers.’ He took hold of her elbow and gestured towards the bluff. ‘Come… walk with us.’

  Holding his rifle at the ready, Steve advanced to the new edge of the bluff. He wanted to make sure that, when he made his leap to freedom, there would be no last-minute surprises. He was relieved to discover that there was now a good steady breeze sweeping up from the plain. Spitting the dust from his mouth, he saw that there were two bodies lying twenty or thirty yards down the slope, half-buried under rocks and earth. He looked for the third but was unable to spot it. It went completely against his better judgement, but some perverse urge made him slither down towards the corpses in the hope of discovering that one of them was Motor-Head.

  Pushing aside the rubble with the toe of his boot, Steve uncovered enough to recognise Black-Top and Steel-Eye. He looked them over but couldn’t be sure if they were dead. It didn’t matter. Dead or not, neither of them were going anywhere. He scrambled up on a pile of rocks and scanned the lower part of the slope. With the possibility of more after-shocks it was a crazy thing to do. It was equally crazy to hang around for one second longer but Steve felt the need to know he’d won. If he was ever to come back for Clearwater, it would be better to fix Motor-Head now, once and for all.

  He could see nothing, and there was no more time to look. He turned and started back up the slope. When he had gone a few yards, Steve’s sixth sense sounded the alarm. Slipping his index finger onto the trigger, he turned around and saw a Mute pulling himself out of the dirt near the bottom of the slope. The distance between them was about a hundred and fifty yards. Too far away for Steve to make out the Mute’s face, but it had to be Motor-Head. He gazed up the slope at Steve then started towards him.

  Steve pulled his rifle into his shoulder and found he’d got the shakes. He took a deep breath, aimed at the middle of the Mute’s barrel chest and squeezed off a triple volley. Chu-witt-chu-witt-chu-witt!

  Motor-Head kept coming.

  Christo! thought Steve. Steadying himself on the shifting layer of pebbles that now coated the steep slope, he aimed again, this time at Motor-Head’s belly and fired his second volley.

  Motor-Head stopped, fell over, picked himself up and broke into a stumbling run, his powerful thighs driving him up the steep, rock-strewn slope.

  Smokin’ lumpshit! thought Steve. This guy is unstoppable! He scrambled back to the top of the bluff, then turned, went down on one knee to give himself a steadier firing position and aimed for the base of Motor-Head’s throat. The rifle wavered in his trembling hands. Steve took a firmer grip and squeezed off his last three rounds.

  The impact jerked Motor-Head sideways but did not break his stride. He just kept on coming, powering up the slope like the Trans-Am Express.

  Now you’re in trouble, Brickman… Move! Move! Move! Steve dropped the empty rifle, raced back towards Blue-Bird, kicked away the rear trestle a
nd started to clip himself into the harness. If the big Mute didn’t slow down… Oh, you jack-ass, Brickman! You totalled out! As he fastened the straps with fumbling fingers, Steve cursed himself for his incredible foolishness. He only had seconds left in which to run Blue-Bird forward and launch himself before Motor-Head reached the top of the bluff.

  Seizing the sides of the triangular control bar, Steve lifted Blue-Bird clear of the trestles and ran forward. The stiffening breeze spilled over the edge of the bluff, rippled over the wing with a dry slap-snap then put a taut curve in the fabric. Pausing about five paces from the edge, Steve leaned against the breeze, bracing himself for the run forward and leap into space. He had made dozens of successful launches from the bluff but each time there was always an element of chance. This one had to be right…

  Check straps… Deep breath… Okay, Brickman. Go for it! Steve firmed up his grip on the sides of the control bar – which at this point was bearing the weight of the wings above him – and ran for the edge. As he launched himself over the bluff, Motor-Head leapt up in front of him like a killer whale coming out of the water in a vertical climb, grabbed hold of the control bar and was carried out into space.

  Steve fought to maintain control of the glider but with the big Mute hanging on the bar between his own outstretched hands it was a near-impossible task. Blue-Bird rocked violently then dived to the right, swooping dangerously close to the bluff before rising on a strong gust of wind. They were climbing now but Steve knew it was only a matter of time before they hit the deck. He looked down between his arms and saw the crazed murderous look on Motor-Head’s broken, bloody face. His arms and legs had been scuffed and torn in the rock slide and he was bleeding from several bullet wounds. Steve hadn’t missed. It was the combination of will power and enormous physical strength that had kept Motor-Head going and had led to this last ditch attempt to block his escape. The Mute was going to die, and he intended to take Steve down with him.

  Steve tried to prise Motor-Head’s fingers loose with one hand but it was useless. He couldn’t even budge one little finger. Blue-Bird began to slip to the left. Steve hauled it back on an even keel then lost it again as it went into a steep dive. He was out over the plain now, about eight hundred feet up. He had to dump the Mute before he lost any more height. He was going to have to cut him loose… Reaching back with his right hand, he tried to claw his combat knife out of the scabbard strapped to his leg. He couldn’t get a proper grip on it.

  It didn’t matter. The Mute was now struggling wildly to maintain his grip on the bar.

  Motor-Head’s eyes widened as he realised that he no longer had the strength to hold on. The dying burst of energy he had summoned up in a last effort to kill the cloud – warrior ebbed away. This was the terrible moment he had often dreamed of; the unspeakable horror that had robbed him of sleep, leaving him sweating and trembling in the moon-dark. Falling. Falling from the claws of a huge bird with pointed wings, ridden by a warrior with golden hair and a face like polished stone. His fingers slowly slipped from the control bar. Hanging on with one hand he made one last effort to grab Steve by the throat then, with a despairing cry, he dropped away, arms outstretched.

  Mo-Town! Drink, sweet Mother…

  Steve soared upwards like a bird released from a cage.

  Cadillac, Clearwater and Mr Snow reached the edge of the bluff in time to see the figure fall away from the arrowhead. As the body crashed to earth, the watchers heard a brief cry of anguish, a cry echoed by Cadillac.

  ‘Mo-Town, forgive me! I have killed my clan-brother!’

  ‘Not so,’ replied Mr Snow quietly. ‘Do you not remember the answer you gave when the cloud-warrior asked why Motor-Head called him the Death Bringer?’

  ‘Yes. I said that perhaps the death he feared was his own.’

  ‘Good. Do you now understand that, in sending him here, you changed nothing? In attempting to change your destiny, all you succeeded in doing was to play your part in fulfilling his.’

  ‘I shall still grieve for him, Wise One,’ said Cadillac.

  ‘We all shall,’ said Mr Snow. ‘His name shall stand among the greatest of the M’Calls.’ The old wordsmith stepped to the edge of the bluff and stood between his two young charges, his feet planted firmly astride, arms folded, his body erect.

  On the far horizon, the sky was streaked with yellow and hot rose-pink as the sun nudged open the eastern door. No one spoke as the cloud-warrior was borne aloft on the morning wind. They watched him rise into the sky and bank gently towards the Dry Lands of the South.

  Cadillac knew he would not speak to Clearwater of what he had seen in the stone regarding her desire for the sand-burrower. There would be no accusations, or recriminations. The Path was drawn; the Cosmic Wheel turned. The true Warrior faced his destiny with courage; he did not allow himself to be deflected from the Path by unworthy emotions. The rising sun stretched their shadows into giants whose heads were lost in the mountains behind them.

  Clearwater waited until the arrowhead had dwindled to a mere speck in the sky then broke the silence. ‘Will he come back?’ she asked, unsure if she really wanted to know the answer to that question.

  ‘Yes, in the time of the New Earth,’ replied Cadillac. ‘I have seen it in the stones. He will come in the guise of a friend with Death hiding in his shadow and he will carry you away on a river of blood.’

  Clearwater gazed out across the plain that descended like a rolling sea beyond the bluff and up at the clouds rimming the hills on the southern horizon. The yellowing sky above was now empty. Steve had disappeared. ‘Am I to die in the darkness of their world, or will I live to see the sun again?’

  ‘You will live,’ said Mr Snow quietly. He put his hands on their shoulders and drew them closer to him.’ You will both live. You are the sword and shield of Talisman.’

  A Note on the Author

  Patrick Tilley was born in Essex in 1928, but spent his formative years in the border counties of Northumbria and Cumbria. After studying art at King’s College, University of Durham, he came to London in 1955 and rapidly established himself as one of Britain’s leading graphic designers. He began writing part-time in 1959.

  In 1968 he gave up design altogether in favour of a new career as a film scriptwriter. Work on several major British-based productions was followed by writing assignments in New York and Hollywood. His books have been translated into several languages, and have achieved cult-novel status.

  Discoverbooks by Patrick Tilley published by Bloomsbury Reader at

  www.bloomsbury.com/PatrickTilley

  Mission

  The Amtrak Wars: Cloud Warrior

  The Amtrak Wars: First Family

  The Amtrak Wars: Iron Master

  For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been

  removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain

  references to missing images.

  This electronic edition published in 2012 by Bloomsbury Reader

  Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square,

  London WC1B 3DP

  First published in Great Britain 1983 by Sphere Books Ltd

  Copyright © 1983 Patrick Tilley

  All rights reserved

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  The moral right of the author is asserted.

  eISBN: 9781448210718

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