by Don McQuinn
Horribly, it was that old world that had killed Falconer even as he dreamed of what this one could be. Bacteriological warfare, they called it. A frightening phrase. Compared to the reality, the words were timid. Test-tube diseases, genetically altered to strike down humans and leave animals unscathed. Viruses that attacked only certain blood types. Things that sought one race to the exclusion of others.
Hellish inventions that mutated to circle back and fall on their creators.
A miserable little insect that transmitted something into Falconer’s blood that was no more than a minor itch to the now-resistant people who might very well be his own descendants.
Conway never ceased asking himself if he had Falconer’s courage. It was a question as seductive as it was frightening.
The horse tossed its head and tiptoed sideways. It steadied at Conway’s touch. Nevertheless, as they picked their way down the hill, its ears continued to flick, searching. The dogs were alert, too, their noses high.
Soon Conway glimpsed the waterfall through the trees. A little later, they left the slope to enter onto a brush-choked floodplain. The horse picked its way carefully across the cobbled surface. The dogs crowded close. If Conway signaled them away with gesture, voice, or the silver whistle on its chain around his neck, they’d obey instantly. By choice, they maintained visual contact with their master.
The team forged out of the cover and Conway stopped in awe. The drop of the silvered cascade wasn’t high, but the volume of water was immense. It fell into a near-circular pool, churning up a frothing wildness. Thunder radiated from it, bored through the earth to set bones trembling. The stream leading away lapped greedily at the stone beach. Spindly brush on the banks trembled as if in dread. Sticks and twigs lodged in the higher branches proclaimed flood levels; snapped trunks boasted of power.
Cold still held most of that strength fast to the mountains. Up there, ice and snowmass waited. Already the sun was playing across the peaks for a few extra minutes every day. Soon it would force winter’s grip.
Conway dismounted, leading the horse, calling the dogs to him so he could ruffle the heavy ears and coarse coats. They wagged tails like axe handles. He stepped into the frigid shallows to scoop up water and splash his face, then threw a stick for the dogs. They carefully followed its arc and then turned wide, unbelieving eyes on him. He would have sworn they were shocked. For the first time, he understood exactly what they were. Companions, even friends, they weren’t pets. If he wanted them to go get the stick and bring it back, that could be arranged, they seemed to say, but condescending games were best left for mere dogs.
Conway bowed from the waist. “My error, sir. And madam. Let us all be patient with each other, shall we?”
He patted their heads. They wagged tails again. All was forgiven.
After a drink, he rode downstream. Occasionally the form of the riverbank required they either forge through the brush or pick their way through the shallows. The horse particularly enjoyed the latter, prancing and smacking hooves down through the rippling surface to clash on the submerged rocks.
Once they saw a huge salmon roll, the polished silver back and shining dorsal fin startling. It was gone in an instant, a silent notice that soon the small river would be a ferment of breeding activity. Thousands of fish would strain upstream to the spawning beds. Conway was sure it was no coincidence that they discovered bear sign soon afterward. Huge pigeon-toed tracks in a muddy stretch of bank sent a quick chill up his spine. It was something of a relief to him to see the way the dogs also bristled. They sniffed the prints, growling softly. When they resumed their progress downstream, Karda dropped behind and angled off, keeping to cover. Nearly every time Conway checked, the big male was practically slinking along through the brush. Mikka held place between Karda and her master.
The proximity of the bear was still strongly on Conway’s mind when he heard something. The dogs were troubled. Every few steps, one or the other stopped, cocking its head from side to side, fixing the direction. Conway’s first impulse was to dismiss the sound as a bird’s call, but as they advanced, the notes resolved into the haunting song of a flute. The music swelled and faded, a partner to every breeze, an eerily ventriloquial effect. Conway smiled at the puzzlement of the dogs. Their heads swiveled constantly, always returning to him for expected instructions.
Conway pressed forward slowly, until he realized with a start he was at the edge of a carefully tended grove of very old willows. At the same time, he saw movement, back away from the riverbank. Dismounting in order to see under the thicket of thrusting new growth, he watched a black-clad figure wander among the thick trunks. Her aimless wandering through the interfering growth explained the ghostly distortions of her song. Conway stood entranced. The small figure stopped abruptly. When she whirled to face him, she threw back the cowl to stare with wide, dark eyes. She clutched the flute in front of her with both hands, as if to parry a blow.
Conway waved, feeling clumsy. “I know you, Priestess Lanta. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Her laughter was nervous. “I know you, Matt Conway. I didn’t expect anyone else to be out here.”
Instinctively, he knew he shouldn’t enter the grove. He took a step backward as he explained his presence. She came forward to join him outside the boundaries. When he complimented her playing, she blushed, quickly shifting the conversation to the grove and its purpose, pointing out the spring in the distance, with its adjoining small healing house. Both facilities were outside the limits of the willows, confirming Conway’s impression of a sanctified site.
In unspoken accord, they retreated to the riverbank. The dogs loitered behind. They seemed uneasy. There had been no more bear sign. Conway wondered if they were too young for this sort of experience, but before he could dwell on the matter, Lanta was saying, “I come here as often as I can. There’s no place so peaceful. I can just walk. Be by myself.”
“And play your flute.”
She colored again, gesturing with the instrument. Conway reached for it, and she let it go. It was of walnut, the holes artfully rimmed with silver. The mouthpiece was an inset ivory oval. Wire-thin silver inlay vined round and round the instrument’s length, and there were beautifully carved tiny amethysts set into the very end of the piece, creating a ring of violets.
Returning the instrument, Conway said, “It’s almost as beautiful as the music you make with it. It must be very soothing to be able to walk alone in this grove, hearing only your own thoughts, your own music. I wish I could.”
She smiled. There was a layer of reserve immediately behind it. Conway thought of her song, melodiously light, yet achingly sad. She said, “That’s an interesting coincidence. I was thinking of you galloping on your horse, working with your dogs. All of you a team, enjoying companionship without complications. I wish I could do that.”
Side by side, they walked farther downstream. The river was wider here, flat; Conway skipped a rock across the surface. He said, “Seeing must be a terrible burden.”
“We don’t speak of it.”
Ignoring her stiffness, he said, “Just as well. It doesn’t seem to work.”
“What?” She stopped, glaring. “You doubt?”
He grinned down at the small fury before him. “I was only thinking that if you knew the future, you’d have known I was going to bring up the Seeing, and you’d have warned me not to. Or gone somewhere else today. Or something. We could have avoided the whole thing.”
Watching her features go from anger to disbelief almost made him laugh again, but he controlled it. She said, “You’re joking. About the Seeing. No one does that.”
“It’s time someone did, then. Too much seriousness is as deadly as carelessness. I know. Tell me, how’s it work? Do you see events, or what?”
Still a bit in shock, Lanta answered readily. “Words. I see words, all in flames. They tell me.”
“Is that why you were allowed to learn to read?”
She nodded. “Priestesses are
allowed. I was given special help.”
“You can’t control it can you? I mean, you can’t avoid it.”
“True. I can almost always bring it. We have a way. I hate to use it. Sometimes it comes by itself, though.” She shivered, closed her eyes for a moment. Her expression afterward was studiously composed. She asked, “You aren’t afraid of Seeing? Do you have it?”
“No, no; not me. I’m not afraid of it, but I’m glad I don’t have it. Seems like a lot of responsibility. If I did have it, though, I’d be the richest gambler you ever saw.”
She laughed. Happily. For a moment the veil of separation that always cloaked her was torn. Nevertheless, it was back even as she was tapping him playfully on the shoulder with the flute. She said, “No one’s ever teased me about the Seeing. They fear. I think you’d laugh at a curse as easily as a blessing.”
“It’s especially important to laugh at the curses. It steals their power.”
The levity was gone instantly. Her eyes rounded, and she made a rapid three-sign. “Be careful, Matt Conway. There are powers…”
At first he meant to joke. Her concern was too genuine, too deep, for that. Instead, he said, “The only powers I truly fear come from other people. When it’s my turn for bad luck, magic won’t be any part of it.”
For a long moment, she held his gaze, and then she broke off and turned away, headed back the way they’d come. He followed, waiting for her to reopen the conversation. They were at the edge of the grove before she did. Keeping her eyes fixed on the far shore, she said, “I will tell you a thing, Matt Conway. Not as a Seer. As another person. A woman. I’ve watched you since Altanar first brought you to Ola. You came here a man without a purpose. Now you want a goal, but you don’t know what it is. You chase yourself through the mists of fate.”
“You’re very sure of yourself.”
“Of course. Every woman knows how to use a mirror.” She stepped into the grove, then turned to face him. The delicate features were unrevealing as stone. With a quick move, she pulled her cowl forward, and it was as if she disappeared entirely. She turned away with a slow, lingering grace. His last view of her was of a shapeless black figure gliding in and out of sight among the gnarled trunks.
Her soft, trembling music followed him back upstream, fading until no effort of concentration would bring him another note.
* * *
Across the river, well back in the trees, the Harvester and a spade-bearded man in metal-barred leather armor sat on horses and watched Conway’s progress. The woman spoke. “Are you going to let him ride away?”
The man said, “The ones who followed him are in position, Harvester.” He waved.
An answering wave came from the brush on the opposite bank, upstream between Conway and the waterfall.
Turning back to the Harvester, the man said, “We can leave now.”
“Not yet.”
“They’re going to kill him. You don’t want—”
She rounded on him, yet her expression was soft, undisturbed. “Never, never presume to tell me what I want, Baron. It’s quite rude. And possibly dangerous, if you take my point. I’m not one of your affrighted little Olan chickens. I rode out here to see the Matt Conway one die. And so I shall.”
Chapter 13
It was Mikka’s odd behavior that brought Conway out of his preoccupation. He was following a relatively straight stretch of the river, and the grizzled female had ranged far ahead. Karda was halfway between her and Conway. Suddenly, Mikka was in full flight back downstream. Rocks flew up behind her from the force of her effort. Karda joined her retreat as she came abreast of him. Together they raced to take positions on Conway’s flanks. By then the horse was jerking its head up and down, snorting heavily.
The first arrow came from the brush to their rear. It fell short, steel head clashing against rocks, striking sparks. Mikka stepped aside nimbly as the second came at her. It hit the stones, clattering to a stop at the water’s edge.
Conway rose in his stirrups and turned that way. He held his hands over his head, forefingers and thumbs joined in the universally understood sign of the sun, the peace symbol. “Don’t shoot!” he shouted. “Who are you?”
Unspeaking, an armored man carrying a stubby, recurved bow rode out from the bushes. He carried an arrow in the same hand. Upstream, two more men trotted into sight around the bend.
The lone man notched the arrow, drew it back.
“No!” Conway whirled to face him. “What’re you doing? I’m not—”
Before he could finish—or dodge—he heard a hot sound, as if someone were broiling bacon in a very hot pan. Something plucked at his jacket. His side burned. He looked down at the ripped cloth, watched it grow bright red. The wound was immediately above where his pistol should have been. If he’d worn it.
Thunder rolled through Conway’s head. All his frustrations, his uncertainties, his depression, focused on this moment, this identifiable source of challenge.
Wind rushed in Conway’s face as he charged. He flung himself to the side, saw the flicker of the arrow where he’d been an instant before.
The growing fear in the bowman’s eyes was like a beacon. Conway drew his knife from its scabbard at his calf and came upright in the saddle. The blade was a foot long, made of a complex steel alloy unknown on earth for half a millennium. It was a full quarter-inch thick, with a dished nose. The inside curve and the cutting length gleamed bright with sharpening. The five-inch handle filled his hand. Every morning he shaved with the weapon. He’d never used it in anger.
His attacker dropped his bow, stood upright in the stirrups, a sword in hand. As Conway closed, his opponent struck in a sweeping, ground-paralleling blow. Conway fell back, flat along the horse’s back. The blade blurred above him. The impact of Conway’s own counterstrike nearly pulled the knife out of his grip.
Skidding to a halt, the war-horse reared into a full turn.
The bowman clutched at the junction of leg and torso, just below his armor. Arterial blood fountained between his fingers.
The dogs hit him simultaneously from the same side. Combined mass and speed tumbled him out of the saddle and into a thrashing mess. The echoes of the man’s final, horrified cry were already sighing from the forest across the river before Conway could call them off. He replaced his knife and scooped up the dead man’s sword. The other two riders galloped toward him, iron-shod hooves sparking on the stones.
On whistled command, the dogs engaged the rider closest to the river. Conway shouted to his mount to attack. Teeth bared, it screamed its own challenge. Crouched low, Conway presented the sword like a lance.
Armor deflected Conway’s sword point. In return, he took a blow across his chest. Dazed, he slumped in his saddle. Cold fear knotted his guts at the sight of his jacket sliced open, his whole front sodden from chest to crotch. The sword dangled from weakening, shocked fingers. He wasn’t sure he could raise it again.
The horse saved him. It had been commanded to attack, and it was the order it was bred for. Whirling, it struck at its enemies. The other animal was never trained to withstand such fury. It reared, defended itself, effectively destroying its rider’s ability to fight.
When his opponent’s mount fell, dismounting him, Conway found the strength to lean outward and thrust. Through a mist of red, he parried a blow, thrust again. Then there was a twitching body on the ground. He rode to assist his dogs.
The last man had taken his mount belly-deep into the river. The maneuver escaped the dogs; it kept him out of the fight. Conway gathered strength to go after him. With one last look at the raging hounds, the man sheathed his weapon. He raised his hands, made the peace sign.
Conway was dizzy. He dismounted gingerly. The shock of the knee-deep cold water sent a burst of renewed energy through him. It lasted only a moment. He wished he’d stayed mounted.
Leaning against his horse, he ordered the dogs to get back and be quiet so he could hear. Something downstream caught his eye. Lanta. Running. T
oo late, he thought. By the time she gets here, this one’ll be as dead as his friends. But first I need answers.
Part of his mind told him that what he planned was barbaric, unforgivable. The part he heard most clearly said he was entitled to whatever vengeance he could effect.
“Who sent you? Why?” The words rang like metal. Echoed. Odd.
“Baron Steelarm, subject of King Altanar of Ola.”
“Impossible. Steelarm ran south, into the Empty Lands between here and Kos; one of their patrols got him and all his people.”
“He lives. Many of us with him. We’re bandits now.”
“Why try to kill me?” The man seemed to drift shoreward, then back out into the river. A function of the sun on the water, Conway decided. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to be alert for tricks. He looped an arm through the stirrup. Just for a little extra support. The chest was hurting more, a heavy sort of ache. Had he seen Lanta? He glanced downstream. She was still there. Closer. That was good. He looked down. The water around his feet was bloody. She was probably going to be upset.
The man was saying, “…the Door. The Baron said kill you and the Black Lightning, because you’re her main support. Please, that’s all I know.”
“Drop your sword. Get off the horse. Come here.” Now the words were mushy. Where’d the metallic echo go?
The man cocked his head. He seemed to be scrutinizing Conway, but his words were placating as the horse edged shoreward. “You won’t kill me? I’m throwing away the sword. I’m your prisoner.” He drew the weapon. And charged, war cry rising.
Conway’s horse reared in response. The stirrup jerked Conway almost off his feet. From the corner of his eye, he saw the dogs hurtle past. The rider’s sword swept down, struck Conway’s horse. Conway threw his sword as hard as he could, and then he was being trampled, flung aside.
