Awesome-Wells placed his ear against them to try and catch what looked like the last words the Old One might utter.
‘Is it … over …?’
‘Yes. Most of the She-Kargo and their blood-brothers have survived but everything else has gone. The D’Troit, C’Natti and San’Louis, the wheel-boats, the trading post … all have been swept away.’ He paused but there was no response. Awesome looked up at those around him then sought the answer to one last question. ‘Tell us, Old One – was this the Great Dying the Sky Voices spoke of so long ago?’
‘Part … of it, yes. Talisman has … has cut … the poisoned … branches from … the … tree that is the … Plainfolk. We who … have … been chosen must … must make sure … they never … grow … again.’
‘He did more than cut the poisoned branches!’ cried Boston-Bruin. His voice was harsh with anger and grief. ‘The She-Kargo, M’Waukee and San’Paul will never be able to count their dead! We alone have lost close to half our clanfolk! If, as you say, we’re supposed to be Talisman’s chosen people why did he not spare all of us?!’
Mr Snow closed his eyes. ‘Ahhh, Boston … Boston,’ he whispered. ‘Why must you … always … ask questions to which there … is … no … answer?’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Two days later, when Steve, Night-Fever and the band of M’Call Bears came in sight of Lake Superior, the water carried inland by the tidal wave had not yet drained from the dips and hollows in the terrain.
Ranging in size from large puddles to miniature lakes, the farthest pools were up to seven miles from the fatal shore. Bodies and debris littered the entire triangle of land enclosed by the estuary of the St Louis River but the eye was drawn to the shattered remains of the five wheel-boats which rose out of the waterlogged grass like the dismembered carcasses of beached whales.
Moving mechanically through this sombre landscape were groups of scavengers; the numbed survivors of the She-Kargo, M’Waukee and San’Paul. It was clear there had been a major catastrophe with massive loss of life, and to judge from what was left of the wheel-boats, the Iron Master trading expedition had been virtually wiped out.
Steve dismounted and used a length of cord to fasten the front and rear left leg of his horse together. This allowed the animal to walk and graze freely but stopped it from straying too far. Until they found out what had happened and who had won, it would have been unwise to proceed further on horseback. It could raise questions that might prove difficult to answer – especially if they were posed by a bunch of bellicose nips facing a long walk home.
Leaving Night-Fever to guard the roped horse against jackals and other predators, Steve’s party made their way down the slope and met up with a small group of She-Kargo Mutes. They were from the Clan M’Kormik, a close neighbour of the M’Call’s. All of them looked pale and subdued. Cat-Ballou, the leader of Steve’s escort, exchanged formal greetings then, in hushed tones, asked what had caused such devastation.
For a moment none of the M’Kormik warriors replied then, one by one, beginning with a Bear called First-Blood, they took turns to describe what had happened with a kind of dazed weariness. There was none of the elation which, as victors, they might have been expected to display. Mutes were no strangers to pain or sudden death but the tidal wave had claimed nearly two hundred thousand lives. No one had witnessed destruction on this scale since the legendary War of a Thousand Suns.
Rough-Cut, the last to speak, concluded the harrowing tale with a sweeping gesture that took in the empty shoreline which, as Steve suddenly realized, had lost its familiar landmark.
‘Even the trading post has gone! Torn from the ground and snapped in two by the wrath of Talisman.’
‘Oyy-yehhh!’ groaned the M’Call Bears.
‘And the Iron Masters?’ enquired Steve.
Rough-Cut’s face darkened. ‘We have killed all those in which a breath of life lingered.’
‘And the treacherous dogs from the bloodline of the D’Troit have suffered the same fate,’ added First-Blood. ‘But all those from the C’Natti and San’Louis who could still walk were sent away unharmed.’
Steve frowned. ‘I thought they were in this together.’
‘They were,’ replied First-Blood, ‘But our elders said they should be allowed to go free to bear witness to the fate reserved for those who deny Talisman and seek to divide the Plainfolk!’
‘And what of our wordsmith, Mr Snow?’ asked Cat-Ballou. ‘The Storm-Bringer, whose body served as the hammer which Talisman used to smite the D’Troit? Where can we find him?’
Rough-Cut exchanged glances with his companions then pointed towards the high ground north of the lagoon. ‘His body lies above the Great river. There, where you see the smoke rising.’
Steve’s stomach turned over. ‘His body?! Is he dead?’
‘It is hard to say,’ replied First-Blood. ‘The elders say he crosses over then returns. With so many dead, Mo-Town’s cup must be filled to overflowing. Perhaps there is not yet room for him on the other side.’
Terrific … So much for the master plan. Steve tried to sound cool, calm and collected. ‘How can we get there?’
First-Blood directed him to the river crossing then he and his companions moved past them in search of another untouched heap of debris.
Steve hurried back to where he had left the horse, climbed into the saddle, told Night-Fever where he was going, and galloped back to Cat-Ballou. ‘See you guys up there – okay?’
The M’Call Bears watched him ride away then looked at each other in silent agreement. Having walked and run seven hundred miles, sitting on the back of a horse and letting it carry you where you wanted to go was beginning to look like an interesting idea.
After leading his horse up the face of the bluff, one of the first persons Steve came across was Carnegie-Hall. Before he could open his mouth, Steve took the wordsmith aside and explained that he was travelling incognito. Talisman did not wish him to be identified as one of The Chosen at this particular moment in time.
Flattered to be the sole guardian of such an earth-shaking secret, Carnegie-Hall readily agreed to keep shtum. He led Steve over to Mr Snow’s makeshift bed where he was greeted by the surviving clan elders from the M’Call trade delegation – Awesome-Wells and Boston-Bruin. Blue-Thunder, the paramount warrior was there too; wounded, but still mobile – along with several other Bears that Steve recognized.
Steve sat cross-legged for over an hour by Mr Snow’s side willing his eyes to open. Eventually they did. All the colour and sparkle had gone out of them, but there was a faint flicker of recognition when they finally alighted on Steve.
‘What kept you?’ The Old One’s face was thin and drawn – aged almost beyond recognition, his voice barely audible.
‘Oh, this and that.’
Mr Snow’s eyes wandered past him then gave up the search. ‘Where’s …?’
‘They couldn’t make it.’ Steve forced a lightness into his voice. ‘You going to lie there for ever? Your friends here want to invite you to a big party.’
Mr Snow’s lips twitched in a pale imitation of his mischievous smile. ‘You … may have to … start … without me.’ Stringing more than three words together seemed to drain all his strength. He paused for a while and tried again. ‘Are they … safe?’
‘Cadillac is.’ Steve outlined what had happened after leaving the Kojak. Having spoken to Carnegie-Hall, he knew there was no need to repeat the whole story. It was difficult to know how much Mr Snow was taking in. He took hold of a withered hand. It felt so fragile, he dared not squeeze it for fear of crushing the bones. ‘That’s why we need you back on your feet. You’re the only one with the power to get clearwater off that train.’
Mr Snow sighed and closed his eyes. The forefinger of the hand lying on his chest twitched, beckoning Steve to come closer.
Steve leant over to catch what he was trying to say.
‘What are you … trying to … do … kill me?’
In the day
s following the Battle of the Trading Post, the clan elders and warriors of the victorious delegations conferred on what to do next. Clearly nothing could be as it was before. When the D’Troit, C’Natti and San’Louis clans learned of their defeat there would be great bitterness. The enmity between the opposing bloodlines would deepen, the character of the fighting would change. Not the traditional clashes between rival bands of warriors but large-scale confrontations – and perhaps a permanent state of war.
It was a gloomy prospect. The She-Kargo, M’Waukee and San’Paul had made common cause against the D’Troit faction but that did not mean their own traditional hostility to one another had evaporated. In a sense, this year’s journey to the trading post had been the Plainfolk’s road to Damascus but there had been no miraculous conversion. The atmosphere was not now filled with harmony and light. Each clan, while sharing the bond of a common bloodline was still fiercely protective of its own identity and its turf.
What had brought the She-Kargo, M’Waukee and San’Paul together on that fateful day and the desperate hours preceding it was their unshakeable belief in Talisman and their willingness to accept the advent of The Chosen, whereas the D’Troit and its fellow-travellers were apparently ready to ditch those self-same beliefs in exchange for a deal with the hated dead-faces.
All the clans wished to trade with the Iron Masters if only for the simple reason that no one wanted to find themselves living next-door to a better-armed – and thus stronger – clan. But the Mutes were under no illusions about the impact these trading contacts would have on the traditional life-style and belief-system of the Plainfolk. From the very beginning, they knew they were getting the worst of a deal. And the fact they had been forced to trade by the threat of armed invasion by highly-organized predators had offended their sense of honour.
But it was the best and only offer available. And by accepting it, the Mutes had been able to delay the advance of their other enemy – the sand-burrowers. Everyone knew they were being ripped off but the point was all the clans from the six major bloodlines had accepted the conditions laid down by the Iron Masters. It was a collective rip-off and that, in some strange way, made it bearable. The mistake the D’Troit had made was in appearing to have come to a more favourable arrangement with the dead-faces in a way that would give the D’Troit extra power and advantages the other bloodlines would not share.
They had come close to succeeding, but their attempt to win hearts and minds by isolating the M’Calls and the She-Kargo had been foiled by Mr Snow’s rousing defence. In implementing Lord Hirohito’s plan, his successor, Aishi Sakimoto, had overlooked the crucial flaw in the domain-lord’s strategy. The endemic hostility between individual clans and bloodlines imperilled the long-term future of the Plainfolk but the She-Kargo, M’Waukee, San’Paul, San’Louis – and to some extent the C’Natti – were united by their fear and hatred of the D’Troit.
The majority of the C’Natti delegations had submerged these feelings in the hope of gaining the advantages that would accrue from being on the winning side – and had suffered terrible losses as a result. Whether they would now change sides remained to be seen. The few C’Natti who had survived the tidal wave and had been spared in the subsequent mopping-up operation were still too shocked to think rationally about the future.
It was a future which no one taking part in this first council could contemplate with any great pleasure. It seemed unlikely that the Iron Masters would return cap-in-hand to apologize for instigating the attack on the She-Kargo. They had obviously intended to punish the M’Calls and the entire bloodline for the actions of The Chosen in the Eastern Lands. This could not be allowed to happen. No one who believed in the Talisman Prophecy could fail to defend those who had been sent to herald the coming of the Thrice-Gifted One.
The dead-faces would return, but not to trade. From now on, the Plainfolk would have to rely on their own resources. Still stunned by the massive and merciless blow Talisman had struck on their behalf, few relished the prospect of defending themselves against marauding bands of dead-faces armed with an endless supply of long sharp-iron.
At the outset it seemed an impossible goal. Mr Snow, exhausted and at death’s door, was unable to lend his reasoned eloquence or wisdom to the debate but at the end of five argumentative and sometimes acrimonious days a fragile consensus emerged. All agreed that the Battle of the Trading Post marked the end of an era. From henceforth, the interests of individual clans would have to take second place to the protection of the Plainfolk. Warriors who, over the centuries, had been blooded by challenging and killing their peers from neighbouring clans would now have to earn their standing in combat with the real enemies of the Plainfolk – the dead-faces and the sand-burrowers.
It was this issue – inter-clan blood-letting – that aroused the most controversy. To deny this right of challenge struck deep into the warrior ethos. The courage to brave close, single-combat was – for the Mutes – absolutely fundamental. It was the corner-stone of their existence, the means by which an individual and the clan to which they belonged measured their worth.
The history of the Plainfolk was the history of heroes. Those who had ‘chewed bone’ stout hearts whose sharpiron had filled head-poles. Before the Battle of the Trading Post, no warrior worthy of the name would have used a crossbow in combat against his peers. Long sharp-iron was used solely for hunting game; the rifles and other weapons used by the sand-burrowers were proof of their cowardice, their lack of honour. They were animals whose blood-lust knew no bounds. That was why it was permissible to use the cross-bow when fighting them.
The Iron Masters used a different kind of bow and arrow made of wood. It had a shorter range than the crossbow but a much higher rate of fire. They also possessed other fearsome sharp-iron, long curved swords that could slice through flesh and bone and the heavy black pipes on the wheel-boats that spoke with the voice of sky-thunder and whose fiery breath could tear a man to pieces at five hundred paces.
Their readiness to use such weapons plus the fact they were an alien race placed them in the same category as the sand-burrowers. A category to which – because of their denial of Talisman – the D’Troit and their co-conspirators had also been consigned.
The use of long sharp-iron had always aroused strong emotions. Following the battle with The Lady from Louisiana, Mr Snow had stressed the need to develop not just new tactics but a totally new concept of making war. His radical proposals had not gone down well with the traditionalists within his own clan. There had been further objections following the gift by Lord Yama-Shita of a hundred repeating rifles. Cut off from further supplies of ammunition, they were now useless – as his opponents had predicted.
Such deep-rooted differences of opinion over such a wide range of issues could not be resolved in the space of five days, but there was general agreement that the discussions should continue. The number of the issues on which they were united was greater than the sum total of those on which they remained divided.
Each delegation made a solemn pledge to come to the aid of any clan attacked by the D’Troit faction or the dead-faces, but before this could happen the present patchy bush-telegraph had to be replaced by a more effective nation-wide system of communications. The discussions on how this could be set up would continue within each bloodline, and it was agreed that delegates from the clans now present would consider any proposals put forward when the first Plainfolk Council was convened at Big Running White Water (Sioux Falls, South Dakota) in three months’ time.
Meanwhile, the five-week truce which came into effect during the trading period was to be extended through the summer and would embrace any clans of the D’Troit and C’Natti who were prepared to recognize The Chosen as the heralds of Talisman and pledge their allegiance to the Plainfolk.
In his guise as a simple warrior from the Clan M’Call, Steve took no part in the discussions and his interest in the emerging alliance was, at best, academic. His overriding concern was the health of Mr Snow.
The M’Call delegation were also concerned but not to the same extent. They were governed by the fatalism that coloured the Mute view of death. After his experiences on the overground, Steve was increasingly drawn to the idea of a continuing cycle of existence, but in his present predicament the prospect of Mr Snow re-entering the world at some future date in a new body offered little consolation. What he needed was Mr Snow up on his feet and able to call down some heavy shit in the here and now.
As a wordsmith, Mr Snow could be replaced by Cadillac. He did not have the Old One’s stature but even Mr Snow had been a young man once. Cadillac’s appointment would give him standing within the clan and in time he would grow into the job, but he was not a summoner. There was only one person who could replace the Storm-Bringer – Clearwater.
In urging the clan elders to do their utmost to keep Mr Snow alive, Steve described the powers Clearwater had revealed during their escape from Ne-Issan – powers that might one day surpass even those of the Old One. Aroused by his tales of derring-do the elders promised to do all they could to help rescue her from Red River – even if Mr Snow died. If it was the will of Talisman, they assured him, the whole clan would lay down their lives for her.
A nice gesture but one which would make her rescue a totally pointless operation. In trying to sound helpful, the elders were blinding themselves to the fact that, without Mr Snow’s presence and the use of his power Clearwater could not be rescued. In his many arguments with Cadillac, Steve had hammered on about not relying on earth-magic but this time their lives depended on it. Only a summoner with the power and presence of Mr Snow could give them the edge they needed.
It was not just practical considerations that were involved; there was a moral dimension. Despite the promise made by the clan elders, Steve knew that without Mr Snow, the M’Calls would not attack the wagon-train. And if Cadillac tried to persuade them to do so, Steve would do his utmost to prevent it. He had witnessed the reckless bravery of the Bears at the Battle of The Now and Then River when they had been aided by Mr Snow’s earth-magic. His powers had been awesome but in the end, the M’Calls’ irrational desire to throw themselves headlong upon the enemy regardless of the cost had led to a senseless slaughter and eventual rout. After the losses suffered at the trading post he was not prepared to support any ill-prepared adventures that could lead to even greater sacrifice.
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