by Robert Adams
As the immense hooves of the Northorse paced some foot or more above the ground, the pumpkin-sized head of their dead leader, encased in his tub-sized helmet, was often on the same level—or so it seemed to them, impossible or not—as the unwilling watchers.
Waving his great sword with its very broad, very thick, six-foot-long blade, to emphasize his words as so often he had been seen to do in life, the apparition shouted at them in angry tones, his voice booming hollowly from out the closed and locked helmet.
"Stoopid muthuhfuckuhs!" the revenant roared. "Twicet afore I done give yawl mah warnin'. Them whut heeded me is still livin' and breathin' and they'll awl keep a-doin' it, too. You dumb, bug-tit bastids is plumb doomed lessen yawl gits a-headed souf afore of moonup, tomorra. The lucky ones, they'll be kilt owtraht, but yawl pore bastids whut the demons done took them a fancy to, lahk they took a fancy to pore ole Crushuh Hinton…"
Slowly, the cliff side of the following mist became less opaque, and through it could be seen a human figure writhing helplessly among crackling tongues of multihued flames. Huge, phantasmal figures seemed to be moving about the wretch, now and then bending over him, and each time they did so, he shrieked in utter agony.
"Waaaaagh! Don', don' pleez don' do thet to me no mo', aaaaarrrgh, PLEEEEZ!" None who had known him could doubt that the screaming, pleading, clearly suffering voice was that of the bunch leader, Crushuh Hinton, and already shuddering, shivering men began to whimper mindlessly in paroxysms of fear.
At a slow walk, the wraith of a Northorse bore his huge, spectral rider along the moonlit track, his progress followed by the boggled gaze of every Ganik along those cliffs. The ghostly rider was followed too by the cloud of luminous mist, within which dark, distorted figures still could be seen to move and from which still came the bloodcurdling shrieks and pleas and screams of Crushuh Hinton, now and then almost drowned out by the fiendish cackling of the demons as they tormented him.
Then the ghost again began to speak. "Thishere be the las* warnin' I'll be a-givin' you mens. I warned the fustes' felluhs thet the demons they meant to kill sum and tek sum away; and the demons they did, they kilt near two hunert and took pore ole Crushuh and them othuh mens.
"I warned the nextes' bunch the rocks they wuz a-gonna fawl agin, lahk they fawled everwher the day I died. And the rocks has done fell two nahts naow, and kilt and mashted up mo' mens. One naht soon, naow, fahr is gonna fawl awn the shelf, demon-fahr, it'll be. And then yawl'll know them ole demons is a-pokin' up the fahrs, a-gittin' 'em ready fer yawl. The lucky 'uns, they'll be jes' kilt—lahk I wuz, mah haid laid opun clear to mah eyes wif a big ole axe. Them whut the demons done took a fancy to, they'll be a-jinin' pore ole Crusher, right quick-lahk.
"Yawl ain' gotchew lowng lef fer to git awn your ponies and do lahk I tol' them mens to start out—ride souf, iffen you wawnts to live. Yawl won' none of you see me aftuh't'naht, no mo'. So yawl awl do whutawl I says, heanh?"
So saying, the phantasm reined about and rode, still not touching the beaten earth of the track with even a single big hoof, into the cloud glowing with wan, blue-green fire. As soon as he and the spectral horse were lost to view in the misty cloud, that cloud began to shrink in upon itself, to grow both denser and dimmer and, finally, to disappear from human sight. Erica had never seen Merle Bowley so disheartened, so beaten-looking. She quickly crossed the cave to him and laid a hand on his arm. "What is it, Merle? What's happened now?"
He turned a dull-eyed gaze upon her, sighed deeply and said hoarsely, "Don't be lookin' fer your bullies, Lee-Roy and Abner, no more, Ehrkah. Them two wuz part of the bastids whut took awf this mornin', a-ridin' souf. Pore Owl-eyes and some othuhs of the mens trahd to stop 'em, and naow he and them's awl daid, cut down or trompted ovuh."
He pushed past her and sank tiredly into a chair. "Whut with awl the daid 'uns and awl them whut done lit out, naow, the whole bunch is down to way lessen half of whut it wuz whin them Kuhmbuhluhn fuckuhs fust campted up ther in them ridges and commencted a-playin' Kleesahk tricks awn us."
She wondered fleetingly if this was the opportune moment to broach the subject of his coming with her up the airshaft, out of the cave and south, to the Center. Then she decided to wait just a little longer, until she was a bit more certain that his reaction would be one of cooperation rather than opposition to an escape from a place that was rapidly becoming a deathtrap and a situation waxing more and more untenable.
"So what will you do, Merle?" she asked.
"Whut I should awta done fer to staht out, Ehrkah. Hit them fuckin' Kuhmbuhluhners with everthin I still got while I still got it fer to hit 'em with, thet's whut!"
"When?"
"Naow is whin, Ehrkah. Today, soon's Horseface and Counter and the rest as ain' took awf kin git everbody armed and awn they ponies. You kin come iffen you's a mind to, too, but bad as your fahrstick afrahts the ponies, be best you don* brang 'er alawng, this tahm."
Erica Arenstein was not about to ride deliberately into a hack-and-slash contest without a firearm of some sort, so she said, "No, Merle, I'll await you here."
He just nodded, stood up and, with her help, began to don his padded clothing, then the nearly full set of three-quarter plate he wore for serious raids or battles. Just before he set the helmet on his head, he took her body in one steel-sheathed arm and kissed her lips briefly, almost passionlessly. "I'll try fer to mek it back, Ehrkah," were his only words of parting and farewell. Then he settled the helm in its place, buckled the straps securely, stalked clanking out through the high entry, mounted his horse and set it down the terraces toward the lake and the plain beyond.
Everything had seemed to come down at once on Corbett and his hapless command, just as the line of cliffs had come down upon the doomed packtrain, weeks before. One good thing had happened, then nothing but bad.
A hunting party had pursued a wounded deer much farther south than they usually went and Sergeant Cabell had spotted in the near distance a familiar landmark which had told him that they were almost in the territory of one of the reasonably friendly tribes which lived a little to the north and west of Broomtown.
Upon the return of the hunters, Cabell hastened to make a full report to Corbett, and the officer smiled—it was to be his last smile for some time. "Then we've marched farther south than I'd reckoned. That would put us no more than a hundred—a hundred and ten at the outside—kilometers from Broomtown base, itself.
"We'll give Braun a few more days, then we'll hit the track again. It'll be good to get back."
But that evening's examination and rebandaging of Dr. Braun's leg had sent cold prickles racing along Corbett's spine. Seeing the officer suddenly pale, Braun did too.
"What is it, Corbett? Damn you, what is it?"
Jay Corbett sank back onto his haunches and looked his patient straight in the eye. "It's gangrene, Dr. Braun. I'd hoped earlier that the discolorations would fade as the infections were overcome. Apparently that was just wishful thinking on my part. The only way to save the life of your present body is to amputate this leg, the more of it the better."
"Good God, man!" Braun almost shrieked, his eyes wide and wild. "You don't have the skill to do that kind of a procedure. Or the equipment and supplies, either. If you just tie me down and saw it off, you'll kill me of shock. Then who'll speak for you and your schemes on the Board?"
Corbett just nodded, tiredly, finding that simple act a real effort. He'd been feeling strangely exhausted all day and part of the day before, too, come to think of it.
"No, Braun, don't worry. I'm not going to try to put you through a battlefield amputation. I do have the equipment— there's a full instrument kit with the medical pack—but the drugs are almost all gone. Besides, you're right, it would be premeditated murder, for I don't have the requisite training and skills for such a radical procedure.
"No, in the morning, I'm going to have you tied into the saddle of a mule. Then you and Gumpner and a couple more men will set out at top speed for Broomtown bas
e. I'd not told you this before, but Cabell spotted a landmark he knows, which means we're closer than I'd thought—only some hundred kilometers from the northwestern border of Broomtown. Barring misfortune, you could be there in two or three days. Then you can transfer and let this body finish dying."
But Braun shook his head vehemently, tears welling up in his dark eyes. "Oh, damn you, damn you!" he half-whined. "Haven't you tortured and degraded me enough these last weeks? Do you think I can take the jolting, the pain of riding a damn mule, on just these nauseous little roots? You haven't given me an injection of anything except antibiotics in days, and I know it, too. I can tell the difference between them and drugs, you know."
Corbett sighed. "Doctor, there are only three ampules of morphine left in the packs, along with a little pentathol. After they are gone, you'll be on toothache roots or nothing. I knew we'd have to move on sooner or later, so I've been hoarding the real drugs against that time."
"Bullshit!" Braun snarled. "You just wanted me to suffer, damn you, wanted to watch me squirm, waiting to hear me beg you for a cessation of the pain, damn you. But I didn't, damn you, I didn't! I'm stronger than you or anybody else gives, has ever given me, credit for."
"Fine," Jay Corbett said soberly. "It's good that you do have a hidden reservoir of strength, Braun, because I think you're going to need it on the ride from here to Broomtown. It's either ride out in the morning, or give me any last requests you have before you go out of your head. Gangrene is not an easy or a pretty death, you know."
But the next morning dawned on disaster. Gumpner and most of the troopers were unable to arise from their blankets, all of them feverish and either writhing and sweating on soggy blankets or in the throes of tooth-chattering chills, their own damp blankets drawn tightly around their shuddering bodies. It was an effort requiring every last ounce of his will for Major Jay Corbett to drag himself out of his own sweat-wet blankets, but his centuries of self-discipline won out, finally… for a while.
Sergeant Cabell showed no signs or symptoms of whatever had struck down the rest of the command, nor did Trooper Horner, nor old Johnny Skinhead. So the three became at that juncture the party that would accompany Harry Braun to Broomtown, then send back help to the rest of them.
Under Corbett's supervision, Cabell and Horner put one of the flaring warkaks back on the doctor's big mule, then lifted him into that saddle and tied him in place. The officer gave Cabell the last of the narcotics and a few syringes, warning him to try to make them last.
"Old Johnny will have his bag of toothache roots, of course, and swears that they are common in these mountains. The doctor doesn't like them, but if there's nothing else, he will chew them. Keep going even if he passes out in the saddle, because if he isn't in competent medical hands within two or three days—four, at the outside—he'll be dead, or so far gone that he can't be helped in any way.
"Johnny, you take my horse—he's in better condition than yours is. Cabell, you and Horner take whichever animals you fancy, and spares, too, if you wish. We at least have plenty of mounts."
At that point, the valley began to swim before Corbett's eyes. He stumbled and would have fallen had not Cabell taken his arm and slowly eased him down into a sitting posture, his back against the trunk of a maple sapling.
"My God, Major, sir, you're hot as a stove! All three of us can't leave you and the others here. Who'll take care of you?" Cabell expostulated.
"Nonono!" snouted Braun, suddenly. "You heard what he said, Sergeant. If I don't get back in three days I'll be dead! It's your duty to get me back, to get me—Dr. Harry Braun—back to Broomtown. I'm a highly valuable scientist, the Center needs me, can't you understand that, you cretin? Major Corbett can be easily replaced if he does die. He's not valuable to the Center, just another damned soldier."
Jay Corbett had heard little of what Braun shouted, so loud was the sound of rushing, crashing water in his ears. He was wondering slowly, vaguely, disjointedly how and when and why he had arrived on an oceanside beach, when he felt himself shaken violently. Full consciousness returned as he looked into the lined, bearded face of old Skinhead Johnny Kilgore, the Ganik, with the sunlight glinting off his shiny pate.
"Majuh," he said softly and quickly, "I thank I knows whut you and the mens has got. Me and my brothuh and my boy, Lowng Willy, wuz with a bunch sum yars back whut had done set up camp in a mess of ruins fum way back whin, and aftuh a coupla weeks, purt neah awl of 'em had done come down with suthin jes' zackly lahk yawl has, but none of the three of us got it thet tahm neethuh."
Blinking his eyes rapidly against the salt sweat coursing down his forehead, Corbett asked, "How many died, Johnny?"
The older man sighed and averted his eyes. "Bout haf, I rackons… mebbe a maht mo' than haf. But they din't hev them stick-you thangs, neethuh, of cuss."
Beckoning Cabell, the officer gave his instructions and, shortly, heedless of Braun's screaming tantrum that they had not yet left the campsite, the sergeant had gone from man to suflfering man and injected a healthy quantity from the supply of antibiotics.
After he had given the shot to Corbett, he shook his head and said, "Major, sir, I still don't think we all ought to just ride off and leave you like this. Homer and old Johnny, they ought to be able to get the doctor back. Let me stay here to take care of you and Gumpner and the rest."
With great effort, the officer shook his head. "No, Cabell, thank you, but no. I'll let you help me back to my shelter, but then the three of you take Braun and ride like hell. Old Johnny has led me to believe that this may well be a flare-up of those terrible mutated plagues that killed off millions, hundreds of millions, a millennium ago. The like has happened before. The damned germs lie dormant in old sites for hundreds of years just waiting for a vulnerable human."
Cabell looked around, then stated flatly, "But there're no ruins in this valley, sir."
"No, Sergeant," Corbett agreed, "none that we can see. But how are we to know what may lie under the soil, eh? Or what we may unknowingly have passed through or inadvertently camped upon or among back along the track? No, the best thing that you can do for us all now is to get on the move and send back help from Broomtown.
"When you get there, give your report to the base sergeant major. Old Ted Graham will know what to do from that point on.
"Now, help me back to my lean-to. Oh, and leave the drugs and syringes with me, too."
With the officer tucked into his blankets, Cabell arose, then turned back. "One thing, sir. If we should run into any trouble… well, Dr. Braun, he's unarmed… ?"
"Oh, hell," Corbett mumbled, feeling a chill beginning. "Give the son of a bitch a pistol. The one he murdered Dr. Arenstein with is in my near-side saddlebag. There's only one other person that I know of he'd like to see dead, now, and that person won't be with you on your ride."
Later, he was to recall those words.
Chapter Thirteen
Alerted by the powerful farspeak of the watching prairiecat, Whitetip, as soon as the Ganiks began filing down the path from the shelf, Bili had all three hundred and twelve of his male and female warriors standing to arms in their preassigned places when the van of the Ganik mob came onto the crest of the first ridge. Only a few, on the flanks and in the rear center, were mounted. Most of the force were on foot and bearing long-hafted pikes, in addition to their customary sidearms.
Soon the entire ridgetop seemed to be aswarm with shaggy, yelling Ganiks on their weedy little ponies. Anyone could easily see that they still outnumbered Bili's force by at least five to one. But the armored men and women stood fast in the face of the threatening horde, for they knew of things that the screaming mob of pony riders did not… yet. Moreover, they nurtured supreme confidence in the sagacity of the very young man who led them—Thoheeks Bili of Morguhn, Bili the Axe.
Merle Bowley, in his fine armor, sitting high on his big, well-bred horse, in the midst of a knot of similarly equipped and mounted bullies at the rear of the mob of lesser Ganiks, re
flected that whoever was in command of the Kuhmbuhluhners must be either an utter fool or a military tyro to so place his pitiful little bunch. He should have made his stand up on top of the next ridge, so that the Ganik charge would have been slowed, the impetus weakened by the ascent.
But no, the idiot had spread them out in way too thin a line and without even the big horses that gave them an edge over the pony-mounted Ganiks. Now, true, because of the thick growth of brushy woods to either side of that line, it would be damned hard to hit them from all sides—the preferred Ganik tactic. They would all have to hit them in front, but few of them as there were and with the added power of a downhill charge behind them, the Ganiks should be able to tromp right over the two or three hundred, then wheel around on the slope of the next ridge and finish them off, good and proper.
Merle smiled for the first time in twenty-four hours. When he had bid goodbye to Ehrkah, he had been certain that he and the rest were riding out to their deaths. Now he was not so sure. Unless there were a whole helluva lot more of the Kuhmbuhluhners hidden somewheres—and there could not be, not within easy reach, for there was just no place to hide enough to make any difference. The Kleesahks? No, he knew a bit about Teendhdjook magic, and there were just too many of his Ganiks up here for the Kleesahks to cloud all of their minds.
"A'raht," he yelled at the bullies, "git 'em movin'. Rahd raht ovuh the Kuhmbuhluhn fuckuhs!"
Soon after Merle had left the cave, Erica had saddled her horse, buckled on her equipment belt, slung her rifle and the big binoculars and ridden across the depth of the shelf—now deserted, save for the much-shrunken herd of ponies, and seeming oddly lifeless. She had ridden to the highest point along the cliffs, a spot almost fifteen meters above the track meandering below.
Dismounting at the base of the pile of huge boulders, she tethered her horse to a tough-looking bush and climbed as high as she felt she safely could. Finding a steady seat, she took out the binoculars, removed the protective lens caps, put them to her eyes and began to adjust the focus.
