Malone rolled over onto his belly and raised the ‘scope to his eye. The riders were continuing to advance towards the hidden campsite and now, he could see that one of the riders was female. She was carrying a ragged green and yellow flag with the bottom end of the pole resting in her left stirrup. And the guy at the head of the pack had a strip of the same green material wrapped around his forehead..
Behind him, to the left of the picture frame, was the third rider who was also carrying a green and yellow flag. His face was shadowed by the wide-brimmed helmet. All three were dressed in a curious assortment of clothes and bits of body-armour of a type that Malone had never come across before. But it was also their skin colour which aroused his curiosity.
‘Jack me … they’re lump-heads!’
Gordon reached for his carbine. ‘What are we gonna do, chief – take ’em out?’
‘No, invite ’em up for a little chat. I want to find out just what the hell’s goin’ on.’ Malone handed the ‘scope back to Gordon. ‘Well done, Stu. If they stay on their present heading, there’s a good chance they’ll come through that defile below us. Keep your eyes peeled but stay well under cover. If they suddenly change course, send Nick down. Okay?’ Malone scrambled to his feet. ‘I’ll go and organize a reception committee …’
Malone was not the only one to have been intrigued and impressed by the cavalcade. Since leaving the Kojak to celebrate their hard-won victory over the Iron Masters, Steve, Cadillac and Clearwater had crossed the turf of seventeen other clans. All of them, after listening to their story, had given them a heroes’ welcome and after an exchange of tokens they had been escorted in triumph to the boundary of the no-man’s land that, by tradition, lay between the turf claimed by neighbouring clans.
Mounted on strange beasts, with tasselled harnesses and decorated saddles, dressed in a mixture of soft Mute leathers and Iron Master armour, and with their green and gold silk banners fluttering proudly from the top of the long thin poles, they were an imposing sight. And the same melodramatic mix of words and magic that brought the Kojak off the fence and into the fray had worked on every clan they had encountered, including those from the bloodline of the D’Troit, mortal enemies of the She-Kargo.
Even Steve, who was struggling to maintain a healthy disbelief in pre-destination and the all-embracing power of Talisman was increasingly tempted by the idea that perhaps it was true. He had always nourished the idea that he was a cut above the average and destined for great things. And the ‘otherness’ he shared with Roz marked them out as something special. There could be no denying that the mind-bridge that joined them had allowed him and Cadillac to escape from the wheelboat and he had seen with his own eyes the power of Clearwater’s magic. Scientific explanations might help you sleep more soundly but they weren’t necessary. It worked. End of story.
Except of course it wasn’t. Deep down, Steve wasn’t ready to hand over control of his life to anyone. But if Cadillac’s act was going to get them to Wyoming, then that was a good enough reason to conceal any reservations he might have and play his part with total and utter sincerity.
Cadillac, who had assumed the role of spokesman, was now in his element. The embarrassing moment of panic during the escape from the sinking wheelboat had been totally forgotten. He was back on top and, what was more, he actually believed what he was saying. This wasn’t just a story; this was a divine revelation. The light of Talisman, the radiance of his power, as bright as the noonday sun, had entered the world. He, Cadillac Deville, was the torch-bearer and his allotted task was to kindle the flame of collective resistance. Stirring stuff.
This message, delivered with messianic fervour, plus their unusual appearance, led the normally-hostile scouting parties who barred their path to extend a cautious invitation to address the clan’s circle of elders. After repeating this impressive preamble, Cadillac would raise their silvered eyebrows even further by revealing that before them stood The Chosen; the first of the Lost Ones to return as prophesied from the Eastern Lands and the dread Fire-Pits of Beth-Lem.
How had this been achieved? How had they managed to escape from the world of the dead-faces beyond the Great River – something that no one had ever succeeded in doing before? By the power given to them by Talisman! And here, on Cadillac’s signal, Clearwater and Steve would display some of the Iron Master swords, bows and armour they had brought with them. Was this not proof, demanded Cadillac, of a stirring victory?
It was indeed. Heyy-yaaahhhh …
The first of many, declared Cadillac. The Plainfolk need never walk in fear of the dead-faces again! And here he would launch into an edited but highly graphic account of how they, The Chosen, had destroyed the assembled might of the Iron Masters at the Heron Pool and then, with the help of the clan Kojak, had sunk and killed an entire boatload of samurai. With a sweeping gesture Cadillac then drew the attention of the elders – as spellbound as the clan seated behind them – to the patient group of horses. These magnificent animals were just a few of those who had been ridden into battle by the yellow war-lords whose heads now adorned the poles outside the lodges of the Kojak!
Heyyy-YAHHHH!
And now it was Clearwater’s turn to demonstrate a skill that Steve had not known about before the sinking of the wheel-boat.
In the harsh light of dawn, Steve and Cadillac had made their way northwards along the shore to the battleground. The hairless corpses of Iron Masters lay everywhere. In the shallows where the water lapped the pebbled shore, half-buried in the pit-falls, strewn along the beach, and hanging from the fish-nets – the last line of defence before the dunes. A number of horses had also fallen victim to the clan’s spirited defence of the beach. Most were dead, but some lay mortally wounded, their life-blood draining from their heaving flanks, while others, with limbs broken by stumbling into the pitfalls, thrashed about in wild-eyed panic. Moved by the piteous sound they were making, Steve persuaded Cadillac to help him put an end to their misery.
The Kojak had lost a hundred and eighteen warriors and scores had been wounded. Some of these might yet ask to kiss sharp iron but it was still held to be a famous victory. Mo-Town thirsts, Mo-Town drinks. The Iron Masters had lost three times that number. Many of the samurai and red-stripe infantry who succeeded in reaching the shore were on the point of exhaustion but all had fought with a reckless fury until they were cut down. Others, finding themselves surrounded like wild animals at bay had chosen to fall on their own sword before being hacked to pieces. The rest, including the crew of the wheelboat, had perished in the water.
The work of stripping and beheading the corpses had already begun, and out on the lake, the crews of a score of outriggers were busily salvaging anything and everything that was floating on the water. The two halves of the burning vessel had sunk without trace but a storm or two would complete its destruction and bring another rich harvest ashore.
But where was Clearwater? If she had survived unharmed, should she not have been there, on the beach – showing some concern for their fate? Gripped by a sudden anxiety, Steve and Cadillac hurried inland, through the dunes in the direction of the settlement. It was then that they saw the horses – clustered round Clearwater like bees around a bee-hive.
Steve called out to her but she did not respond and when they reached the circle of horses and tried to catch her eye she looked right through them. As they watched her move amongst the animals, touching their heads and speaking softly to them, it quickly became apparent they were witnessing an extraordinary act of communion. Clearwater was oblivious to everything beyond her group of four-legged admirers, who patiently waited their turn to make contact.
Cadillac had known for some considerable time that Clearwater was able to exert a certain mastery over animals but he had never suspected she could control so many. Steve, to whom all this came as a great surprise, could only marvel at the range and depth of her powers. What other surprises did she have up her sleeve?
Ever since he had proposed the idea of captur
ing a number of Iron Masters’ horses he’d been grappling with the problem of how the three of them could keep control of the riderless mounts during the journey west. He and Cadillac had already agreed that if a sufficiently large number of horses were captured, they would give two – one male, one female – to every clan they encountered on the way home. Always provided, of course, there were enough of each to go round. Clearwater had provided the solution. The horses were ready to follow her anywhere and proceeded to do so, instantly obeying her spoken and unspoken commands.
It was this skill which Clearwater would then proceed to demonstrate to the delight and consternation of her Mute audience. By pointing and snapping her fingers and with sweeping movements of her arms she could make individual horses, or groups of any number she chose, trot round the assembled clan in either direction following the leader nose to tail, then call them to halt and turn inwards. A further command would cause them to bow their heads to the circle of elders and paw the ground in salute. It was masterly display and always drew roars of approval from the delighted audience.
And then it was Steve’s turn. The only card up his sleeve was the one he wasn’t yet ready to play. Besides which, a telepathic connection with an absent party was hardly likely to win him a sustained round of applause. The horses were a hard act to follow, but Clearwater had lent his number her magic touch and, apart from Cadillac’s final rousing address, he now topped the bill with a death-defying feat that tested his own credulity and courage to the limit.
While three woven straw mats were being rolled into tubes by a trio of elders and secured by knotted twine, Cadillac and Clearwater planted two six-foot long poles in the ground just in front of Steve but about eight feet apart. Two of the rolled mats were then slid onto the top of the poles. Spreading his legs in a fighting stance, Steve would draw the samurai sword he now carried and, with a sudden yell, shorten the tightly-rolled straw mats with four lightning-fast strokes. It was easy for his audience to imagine the sword slicing through someone’s neck with the same chilling ease.
Cadillac would then call upon the clan’s paramount warrior to enter the circle whereupon Steve would present him with the sword and invite him to do the same. Despite their un-familiarity with the weapon, the chief head-collectors rarely failed to duplicate the power and speed of Steve’s killing strokes; all they needed were a few trial swings.
When the top gun had lopped a few more inches off both rolls and satisfied himself that he was holding a lethal weapon, Steve took a deep breath and proceeded to the show-stopper. When he had taken up a firm stance with his feet spread apart, Clearwater offered him the third rolled mat. Grasping it firmly at both ends, Steve raised it above his head and told the paramount warrior to cut it in two with one blow.
This always brought a murmur of alarm from the crowd. They had already seen how the superbly forged weapon sliced through the rolled mats without encountering any perceptible resistance. If the warrior accepted the invitation to strike the mat, the sword would cleave open the head of the Chosen One!
The same thought had passed through Steve’s mind when Cadillac had dreamed up the idea. Clearwater assured him he would be under her protection and safe from harm but Steve, somewhat understandably, had taken some convincing. Sure, he believed in magic. He had total confidence in her abilities. But supposing Talisman had an off day? With the kind of stunt they were suggesting, if the magic didn’t happen, you could die at the first rehearsal. If Cadillac was so sure it would work, he argued, let him do it.
To his great surprise and subsequent embarrassment, Cadillac had volunteered to hold the rolled mat while he, Steve, gave it his best shot. It worked. That was the good news: the bad news was that Steve was then obliged to swap places. All he had to do was believe in Clearwater but it was no easy thing to stand there while Cadillac got ready to cleave him in two. Things might be all right between them on the surface but underneath there was a festering layer of jealousy and resentment that could burst through at the slightest provocation. If Cadillac was looking for a chance to put an end to their rivalry, this was it. The fragile oath they’d sworn to be blood-brothers wasn’t worth a pigeon’s fart; only Clearwater could stop that sword …
And she had. And the power given to her by Talisman had kept him from harm again and again as they progressed westwards. When the paramount warrior of each clan steeled himself to make the killing stroke, some invisible force brought the blade to a shuddering halt just before it touched the rolled mat Steve held above his bare head. Then it vibrated wildly, tore itself loose from the stunned warrior’s grasp and flew back over his head, burying its point in the ground.
It was time for Cadillac to move centre stage. Behold! Now you see with your own eyes the power of Talisman! Even the weapons of the Iron Masters dare not harm The Chosen! The Lost Ones are on the homeward march, brothers! Nothing can stop the rise of the Thrice-Gifted One!
So far this had never failed to bring the clans to their feet. Heyyy-yaaahhh! HEYYY-yaaahhh! HEYYY-YAAAAHHHH
The buffalo trail they’d been following curved away from the river and rose towards a narrow pass. Bringing their horses to a halt, they scanned the high ground on either side of the defile then walked the herd up the slope.
Steve’s mind was still on the events of the last few days. Yes … there had been sweet moments. It didn’t really matter whether it was true or not. If it was what the Plainfolk wanted to hear, if it helped get them through the day – what the hell? It was better to believe in something than in nothing. It was the dream of a return to a cleansed Blue-Sky World that had sustained Trackers down the centuries. And maybe the First Family too.
Everyone needed something to hang onto. His dream was that somehow he’d find a way to reconcile his own mixed-up hopes and desires with the conflicting demands that other people kept making. He wanted to be with Clearwater – but what kind of a life could they make together out here? And there was Roz. With her life now in jeopardy because of his involvement with Karlstrom’s ultra-secret operation she needed him too. If he hadn’t gone back in she wouldn’t have gotten involved in this mess. But he had, and she was.
The only way he could secure her chosen future was to bring in Clearwater and Cadillac. Or their heads on a plate. That was the least Karlstrom would settle for. But despite the constant desire to throttle Cadillac, Steve could not break his promise to return them unharmed to Mr Snow. He could envisage only one solution: by some means or other, Roz had to be brought out of the Federation. But if by some miracle he was able to free her, she and Clearwater would be at each other’s throats!
It was an impossible situation, and on top of all that, Steve had another cause for concern. Throughout the journey Cadillac had been delivering spell-binding performances but he was back on the sake. When the wheelboat had broken up, several dozen small casks of the potent brew had floated up from the hold. Cadillac who, by Sod’s Law, just happened to be there with Steve when the first cask was brought ashore, tore it from the hands of the unsuspecting fisherman, sniffed the bung then clasped it to his bosom.
Were there more? Indeed there were. Steve’s heart sank. The sunken vessel had released a veritable bonanza of booze and the pressing need to recover every last drop instantly transformed the inveterate landlubber into a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed sea-dog who proceeded to trawl the waters for the next seven hours without once feeling sick.
Watching with growing dismay as the casks continued to pile up on the shore, Steve realized the truth of what he’d been told while training to be a mexican at Rio Lobo. If you had the right mental attitude, the right motivation, you could endure anything.
Several casks had been opened to help give an extra swing to the Kojak victory celebrations – with predictable results. Those who overdosed ended up completely legless. And while it loosened a few libidos, it also unleashed a certain amount of aggression; something which never happened when Mutes opened their heads to the sky with the help of a pipeful of rainbow grass. The co
mbination of top grade sake and grass left everyone who’d been hitting heavily on both lying flat on their backs nursing blinding hangovers. Those who manged to haul themselves upright found that their eyes were being stabbed cruelly by sharp daggers of daylight, and that any jarring movement produced the painful sensation of being kicked in the head by a buffalo.
Practice, as the saying goes, makes perfect, but as a result of this salutary experience, most of the clanfolk were unwilling to try again. The general consensus was ‘Thanks, but no thanks’, which left them with a small mountain of unwanted booze. Faced with the possibility that Cadillac might insist on staying put until he’d drunk it all, Steve had helped him load up several pack-horses with an absurdly generous supply of the yellow fire-water.
The prospect of Cadillac once again drinking himself nightly into insensibility went against the grain, but Steve had no desire to stir up any more arguments. They’d already had enough run-ins. Cadillac seemed to sense Steve’s concern and promised to restrict himself to a modest nightcap and remain reasonably sober until they got to Wyoming. And, in all honesty, Cadillac had done his best. He hadn’t lost his place in the script, or fallen nose first into his pot of stew but Steve – who’d watched him put it away before – knew the alcohol was back in his blood. Sooner or later that could only mean trouble …
But right now, they were facing trouble of a different sort. Entering the defile at the top of the rise, they suddenly found the trail barred by a line of ten armed renegades. There was another twenty or so standing further back. A quick backward glance confirmed they were surrounded. Those at the rear were still moving down the side slopes but a hasty retreat was out of the question. Only Clearwater’s magic could level the odds against so many rifles. But even if, by some miracle, they broke free without getting hit, many of the horses ran the risk of being killed or wounded, and that was not the object of the exercise.
The Amtrak Wars: Blood River Page 35
