by RW Krpoun
“Yeah, and the only thing between us and him are two hundred warriors,” Derek rolled his eyes.
“Kill him and you can bet Cecil will know within a couple of hours,” Shad warned. “They know when their fellows die, and they know where each Death Lord is stationed. Its better security than motion detectors.”
“The guy is smart,” Fred conceded.
“Everyone against us is smart,” Jeff sighed. “And always better informed.”
The Talons kept a close eye on the frozen tableau of bones for as long as it was in sight, but the Undead never moved.
“I guess the Death Lords and Cecil never considered that we would capture a river boat,” Fred grinned.
“But for the Sivlic we would never have known about the supply line Cecil has going. Finding Uttle was a big stroke of luck for us,” Shad nodded.
“Actually, we could have bought the information from them in any case,’ Jeff observed. “But Uttle certainly made it cheaper and quicker. I’ve noticed that the locals pretty much ignore the Sivlic. They’re useful for trade, but otherwise they’re pretty invisible. Since they’re so non-violent they don’t show up on the political radar.”
“What is your point?” Derek asked.
“Cecil probably has the same prejudice. He didn’t factor the Sivlic into his plan. They are extremely good scouts, and non-violent doesn’t mean inactive.”
“They didn’t hesitate to share what they knew,” Shad agreed. “I think you’re right. We finally caught a break. We’re inside Cecil’s operation without him knowing it.”
“I bet Mister Samuel had a one-shot device similar to the tattoos on the Death Lords,” Derek mused. “Activate it and Cecil gets a signal, just the arcane equivalent of a warning tone. He hears that tone he knows we left Bloodseep. But he’ll be figuring on us moving by horseback and dodging Undead patrols, so he’ll be factoring his plans on a slower approach. And he’ll be waiting for Mister Samuel’s follow-on message with the details coming by boat.”
“And for us taking the same pass through the Eldiston Mountains as the river,” Fred nodded. “Which I bet is thoroughly covered by Undead.”
“You know, he really must have an exaggerated report on what we did in the Prison to be this worried about us,” Jeff shook his head. “In the end we’re four guys. Good levels and gear, but we’re just four guys.”
“Four guys who know the truth,” Derek pointed out. “Other than the Tek nobody will care what he’s doing out here in unclaimed territories. Plus he knows we bagged two of his bosses. That has to insert a note of caution.”
“Don’t forget the bounty on the Staff and other items,” Shad reminded them. “We can’t get too proud: there are others hunting Cecil, even if they don’t know his name.”
The fifth day of their journey on the river came with rain. The mountains were closing in as they followed the river’s twisting path across the plains, looming ever larger with each passing hour.
Derek was under the shelter studying books, notes, and lists, while the other three Talons were sitting on the deck in their ponchos, rain dripping from their hat brims.
“Movies centered around a boat on a river,” Jeff announced. “Deliverance.”
“Apocalypse Now,” Shad said.
“African Queen,” Fred countered.
“The River Wild,” Jeff grinned.
“The Adventures of Huck Finn,” Fred said after a lengthy pause.
Shad scowled at the water. “A River Runs Through It.”
“Half point for that one,” Jeff decided.
“I’m out,” Fred announced.
“Me, too,” Shad signed.
“OK, two-way tie, still my turn. Movies where the female co-star dies.”
“The Big Fix,” Shad snapped his fingers.
“What the hell is that?” Fred asked, lifting his Yellowboy out from under his poncho.
A burnt area of prairie, perhaps an acre’s worth, stood out like a scar on the northwest bank (the river was curving yet again); at the river’s edge in the center of the burnt area was a jumbled pile of charred timbers. Just outside the burned area a tall pole supported an object where two buzzards were roosting, and a small fence encircled the pole.
“Looks like somebody had a bonfire, and…what is that on the pole?” Jeff wondered. “Hell, it’s a body.”
“That wasn’t a bonfire, it was a raft, same as ours,” Shad stood to get a better look. “There’s bones in the ashes. They burned more bodies in the fire.”
“Those are heads on the sticks surrounding that pole.”
“That dead guy on the pole is partially skinned,” Derek joined them, Spencer in hand. “Looks like they skinned his belly.”
“Handiwork of the Bloody Sash,” Shad noted. “They remove a foot-wide sash of skin from around the midriff. If you’re lucky its post-mortem.” He handed his shotgun to Derek. “I’m going to put up our trade totem so they know we’re not with Cecil.”
“You’re sure that will keep us safe?” Jeff asked.
“No. We’re sleeping on the raft, with the raft anchored in mid-stream from now on. But Weehawk said it’s the latest marker, so we should be OK. The Bloody Sash are honorable once a deal is struck and are receptive to trade, although they also like to fight. They do like rifles, though.”
“I take it Cecil didn’t pay the toll,” Fred observed.
“The Long Sun are the Sash’s enemies,” Derek reminded the Scout. “Cecil’s boys are fair game by way of association.”
The Talons cooked their evening meal on the bank as they usually did, then poled out to the center of the river and anchored, returning to the bank just before dawn to cook and eat breakfast before setting out. The rain had stopped but the day was still overcast, and the mood on the raft was somber. Sammi and his crew were clearly upset over the fate of the other boat and more sullen than usual.
As noon drew near Derek closed the book he has been studying and crawled out from under the mildew-smelling shelter. “Guys, I have bad news.”
“Is there any other kind in this place?” Jeff asked.
“I’ve been looking over my materials, and while I don’t have enough facts to prove it conclusively, I believe Cecil can move up the date of the ceremony.”
“How can he, and by how much?” Shad asked.
“By draining the other items in the display he captured. I had assumed they were taken to draw attention away from the Staff since they weren’t of any use to Cecil in his sphere-crossing effort, but now I’m thinking he wanted them for…well, think of them as arcane batteries. As to how much, ten to twenty days is my best ballpark guess. Or he could extend the period the passage is open, but I doubt he would choose that option.”
“Damn,” Shad studied his journal. “We had thirty days to work with based on your earlier estimate. If you’re right now we have between ten to twenty days left. Fred, how far are we from the pyramid?”
“Forty miles as the crow flies, but there’s mountains in the way, or a heavily guarded pass. Are you counting today in the revised total?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not good.”
“It isn’t, but its still doable provided we get the Bloody Sashes to at least guide us across the mountains.”
“We’re going to need more than guides,” Jeff warned. “The place is going to be crawling with Celts and hired guns.”
“One crisis at a time,” Shad put away his journal. “First we get to the target area, then we worry about a plan. Until we start shooting we can always just turn around and head back to Bloodseep, maybe clip a couple Death Lords along the way.”
Two hours after Derek made his pronouncement the Black Talons saw a trade totem on the west bank and a trio of men standing beneath it. Sammi argued and then wailed over having to make landfall, but he reluctantly complied when Derek put the muzzle of his Le Mat into the lead boatman’s ear.
“I don’t like having to do this,” the Alienist explained to the wide-eyed,
sweating boatman. “But we’re at a critical juncture here. Much as it pains me, your usefulness has come to an end here so please do not try to force an ultimatum upon us.”
“Way to intimidate,” Fred rolled his eyes.
“I’ll make contact,” Shad decided. “Keep me covered.”
“Normally I would object, but after seeing their handiwork I think you may be the one of us best suited to this interaction,” Jeff nodded.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Shad snapped.
“You have a very simple and straightforward morality that should make you better able to relate with their mores,” the Jinxman explained.
“He means you like to blow stuff up when people annoy you, such as their houses,” Fred clarified. “Or shoot their camels, throw C-4 down their wells…”
“Yeah, yeah, I get the idea. I didn’t notice any of you guys protesting at the time.”
“You were our leader,” Jeff said. “We were innocents led astray by a madman.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” The Shootist chose a Martini-Henry and a Model 1817 from the captured weapons. “Here we go.”
“Good luck,” Jeff checked the action of his Winchester.
The men waiting on the bank were mountaineers, short, tough specimens with weather-darkened skin and hard eyes. Shad was no expert but he thought they looked more Asian that Native American, perhaps descendants of Montagnards or Nepalese. The large, slightly forward-angled fighting knives all carried supported the latter theory. They wore loose dark tunics and trousers under dark jackets of coarse wool thread. They were heavily armed, with the aforementioned knives that looked like a cross between a kukri and a machete, hatchets backed with a spike, and graceful crossbows.
The apparent leader had a muzzle-loading flintlock pistol shoved under his belt and a facial expression that suggested he was slowly dying of something gastro-intestinal and wanted to share his pain with anyone who got within reach.
“Hello.” Hands full, Shad nodded politely. “I am Shad of the Black Talons. We are here to request the help of the Bloody Sashes. We need guides to get us across the mountains, and help in dealing with the Long Sun Celts at a former Tek pyramid. We would like to offer your chieftain this small gift,” he held out the Martini-Henry.
The Sash with the pistol took the rifle, opened the action, and looked down the bore, handling the weapon with confidence. “A nice rifle. Where did you get it?” To Shad’s ear his ascent sounded like a Persian’s.
“Same place we got the raft: a base guarded by hired guns and Long Sun mercenaries.”
The Sash closed the action and leaned the barrel against his right shoulder. “We have our own words, but in this language my name is Sour Gut.” He stared at Shad, who stared back. “Why should we trade when we can take?”
“Because the Bloody Sash are honorable men, unlike the Long Sun who are thieves,” Shad said evenly. “And because there is a very good chance you couldn’t take that raft with the Black Talons holding it.”
“There are many of us nearby.”
“There would be a lot fewer before the fight was done.”
Sour Gut stared at the Shootist some more, doing a fair imitation of a Gila monster. Finally he shrugged. “Do you know how I got my name?”
“No.”
“When a boy becomes a man the council of women choose his adult name. They thought that it was appropriate for one whose expression is as mine. Now I am a tested warrior and proven war leader, and I am still Sour Gut. None of my wounds, fighting, or success can give me a name that does not make small children giggle. The Wise Women tell me the name was given because they saw my greatness and knew that they must temper my pride. Myself, I think they are a bunch of meddling old snakes with a dull sense of humor.” He looked at the raft. “Still, it reminds me that one should not thump one’s chest pointlessly, especially when he leads others less experienced than himself. Are you their leader?”
“When leading is needed, yes.”
“You saw the other raft, and you came forward rather than order another in your place.”
Shad shrugged. “To lead, you have to be in front.”
Sour Gut grimaced in what the Shootist guessed was a grin. “So you must. What do you have for trade?”
Shad held out the Model 1817, and Sour Gut motioned for one of the other warriors to take it. “A couple breechloaders and over sixty of these rifles, most brand-new. Bar lead, gunpowder, and thousands of prepared cartridges, trade goods, knives, and hatchets.”
“A lot of goods,” Sour Gut observed.
“We need a lot of help. Plus it was there for the taking.”
“Why should we help you? Aside from payment.”
“The Long Suns are your enemies, and Cecil Standbry, their employer, is giving them large numbers of those rifles,” Shad indicated the Model 1817. “Each raft that goes north brings at least sixty more rifles to the Long Sun. In addition, what Cecil plans at the pyramid is being done at the behest of the Death Lords, and no good will come of that.”
Sour Gut nodded thoughtfully. “We have ambushed several of their rafts.”
“Out of curiosity, what fate befell the boatmen?”
“The butra? We kill them. We do not take sashes, but we do kill them.”
“Why do you kill them? The Long Suns compel them at gunpoint.”
Sour Gut shrugged. “We don’t like them.”
After nearly an hour Shad returned to the raft.
“Man, that took forever,” Derek observed. “Where are we at?”
“Its done,” Shad sat down on a stack of cartridge crates. “Lemme tell you, these guys are hardcore.”
“I got that impression from the wreck we passed,” Jeff scratched his cheek. “You negotiated the entire business?”
“It turns out the Sivlic advised them we were coming. As hard as it to imagine, the two groups are pretty tight. The Sivlic move a lot of goods for the Sashes in the Protectorate. I was wondering at our luck that Weehawk happened to be in Bloodseep, and now I have the answer: it wasn’t luck. He was there for the Sashes. Turns out they’ve been watching Cecil’s operation closely, and while you could boil one of these guys in oil and not get an admission of concern out of ‘em, its plain that they are worried.”
“So what was Weehawk supposed to get them in Bloodseep?” Fred asked.
“Sour Gut, the war leader of this band, didn’t come out and say it openly, but I’m guessing he was sent to look for guns or help. This isn’t a raiding party: they were waiting for us.”
“So they’ll guide us through the mountains?”
“Yeah, and take part in dealing with Cecil’s plans; in return we give them everything on the raft and they get all loot save the Staff and any books or writings.”
“Ouch,” Jeff frowned.
“The reward on the Staff is worth more than anything the Long Sun are carrying,” Derek reminded him.
“I would kill Cecil for free,” Fred agreed.
“How soon can they get us there?”
“Five days, six if the weather turns against us. They know these mountains like the backs of their hands. They’ll unload the raft and get the stuff on a mule train for home, and we depart the day after tomorrow. I arranged for Sammi and his crew to get safe passage home; turns out the Sashes have an issue with the river-folk.”
“Why?” Jeff gestured to the crates. “You would think the trade would be welcome.”
“I didn’t inquire. Having seen the remains of the last raft I don’t think the Sash feel any great need to explain themselves, and I do not doubt their sincerity when they say that they hold ill-will towards someone.”
“Point,” the Jinxman conceded. “So now what?”
“They are bringing up a mule train. They unload the loot, we prep for the fight to come.”
“I’ve made so many hex sheets I’m out of room in my bandolier,” Derek observed. “But I’ll make some more. They don’t go bad.”
Chapter Sevente
en
The Bloody Sash unloaded the raft’s cargo, shooting the cowering boatmen contemptuous looks but otherwise leaving the butra unmolested. Some of the rifles were uncrated and issued to members of Sour Gut’s band, and the Black Talons watched the mountaineers sighting in the weapons with interest.
“Pretty militant bunch,” Jeff observed. “My money is on them over the Long Sun if those we fought earlier are the norm.”
“Why do you say that?” Shad asked.
“The Long Sun couldn’t shoot for shit. After our first shots they could tell exactly where Derek and I were, but they weren’t getting many rounds close. These guys obviously have cracked the mysteries of sight picture and trajectory.”
“Buffalo hunting is the problem,” Fred pointed out. “They ride in close and shoot ‘em at point blank range-its all horsemanship. The Sashes hunt deer and elk in the mountains, so they have to learn to shoot at a distance.”
“I wonder if there are any bighorns up there,” Shad mused. “I would like to see some. Not to hunt, just to see.”
“That would be cool,” Derek agreed.
The second morning after making contact with the Bloody Sashes the Black Talons set off across the foothills, leaving Sammi and his crew to pole their raft back home. Sour Gut accompanied them with forty warriors (half armed with rifles) six teen-aged mule-handlers, and eighteen mules. The Talons were able to put their packs and Fred’s Sharps on a mule and march unencumbered which was a blessing as the mountaineers kept up a brisk pace.
The Talons marched with the command group, and Shad stayed close to Sour Gut.
“You don’t use horses?” he asked after he had settled into the pace and had gotten his breathing under control.
“We have some ponies,” Sour Gut admitted. “But mules are more sure-footed on slopes. We train them for packs or saddles and use them accordingly. But mostly we walk. Do you miss your horse?”
“I’m not very fond of riding horses,” Shad admitted. “Although out on the high plains it is the better option. I much prefer to fight on foot.”
“As do we. Where are you from? Your speech is strange although your words are clear.”
