by James Axler
“Gentlemen,” he said to the four warriors who stood across the circle from him, “let us begin.”
He eyed them warily. The circle of dirt that had been cleared had a circumference of five yards. Small, but not so small as to be confining. Those who were watching hung back a few yards behind the line of the circle.
The four warriors carried small axes, each with a knife sheathed at their waists. They were dressed in loincloths, painted in war markings. There was no way that they were taking this with anything other than the utmost seriousness. They fanned out around the edge of the circle, so that they covered almost 180 degrees. Each warrior held himself so that he was evenly balanced. There was little chance that Doc would be able to tell from their body language alone which one of them—if just one—would be the first to move on him.
Doc moved languidly up and down, looking sideways on at the four warriors. He was stooped forward slightly, head down, looking up at them from beneath his mane of silver hair. His feet dragged slightly in the dust, kicking up small whirls around his heels.
The old man looked incongruous when compared to the men who faced him. He was fully dressed, his frock coat hanging off his shoulders. It seemed as though it would constrict him if or when they should pounce. He also carried his silver lion’s-head sword stick, holding it so that the silver head was clutched lightly in his loosely bunched fist.
Too many clothes. Too casual. It seemed as though he was setting himself up to fail.
The shaman and the chief exchanged glances. One was thinking that the man seemed too casual, and that it was a ploy that may just cause his men to drop their guard. The other was wondering what reserves of strength and magic this man who seemed to speak with the spirits may hold within himself. To go up against four warriors with nothing but a flimsy piece of wood…
With a yell that was intended to unnerve his opponent and disarm him as an attack was launched, one of the warriors hurled himself toward Doc. His ax was raised and his free hand reached out to grab at the old man’s coat.
Seemingly frozen in shock, Doc deceived his attacker. At the last, when the man’s hand touched the fabric of the frock coat, Doc sidestepped and shrugged. The coat fell easily off his arm, pulled down by the weight of the warrior as his momentum and balance carried him forward. With a few deft movements, he made space for himself away from his floundering attacker.
It was space that he needed. Before he had a chance to draw breath, another man was coming for him, ax and knife offering a twin threat. He was almost on Doc before the older man had a chance to move.
This, perversely, worked to Doc’s advantage. He pitched the sword stick into the soil, the tipped end dig ging into the dirt and twisting so that it came around and across, into the shins of the onrushing warrior. Balance disrupted, the man stumbled. Doc drew the sword stick from the soil. With a deft flick of the wrist, he dealt his adversary a sharp blow to the back of the man’s exposed neck, his parted and plaited hair forming a line that was an inviting target for Doc.
Stunned, the warrior sprawled in the dust as Doc moved farther away from his two attackers, moving around the line of the circle so that he was now approaching the two remaining warriors before they even had the chance to move on him.
“Gentlemen,” he whispered, the tone of his voice now giving a different feel to the word than in his previous utterance. He could see indecision in the eyes of the two men who faced him. They had not expected him to dispose of their comrades with such ease. It wasn’t fear that he saw; rather, it was the sudden knowledge that they had underestimated their opponent, and were unsure of their best course of action.
Indecision led to hesitancy, a fraction of a second’s delay in reacting. That was all Doc needed. The briefest of vulpine smiles flashed across his face. It couldn’t have escaped the two men who faced him.
If they were already in doubt, then Doc’s next move was enough to show them that they were novices when it came to close combat.
With a speed that defied the eye, Doc revealed to them the sword hidden within the stick. The rapier-thin blade, honed from the finest Toledo steel, glinted in the light. It had momentum enough to blur in an arc and catch even the weakest of sunlight in this shadowed glade.
Reacting quickest, the man to the left of the old man feinted and tried to duck inside of the blade’s whirling arc, his ax discarded and his knife now unsheathed. Doc dropped to one knee and flicked his wrist deftly, reversing the angle of the blade so that it almost sang in the air as it seemingly defied the laws of nature to come back and lick at the man’s exposed wrist, slicing the skin and drawing beads of blood, causing the knife to drop from his nerveless fingers.
It hadn’t been for sheer dramatic effect that Doc had dropped to one knee. As the man had approached him, from the corner of his eye Doc had seen his comrade draw back his arm and unleash his ax. The change in height effected by his dip had enabled Doc to evade the spinning ax as it sailed harmlessly over his head.
A neat move, but he had no time to stand on ceremony and reflect on how smart he may have been. While one warrior stumbled, pain momentarily fogging his reflexes, the other pulled his knife and rushed at Doc.
The old man rose to his full height and parried the thrust of the knife, made by his adversary as he closed. The steel of the sword and the coarser metal of the knife blade squealed and scraped against each other, sliding down until the hilt of both met, drawing the two men close so that Doc could see into the warrior’s dark eyes, and smell his herb-scented breath as he came almost nose-to-nose. For the briefest of seconds, they were locked into stillness.
Doc grunted loudly. He was slightly more on the front foot than his opponent, all he needed to aid the effort that saw him push the man away.
While the warrior stumbled backward, Doc stepped farther back, the better to deal with the man he had cut, who was now recovering his wits and reaching for the knife with his uninjured hand.
A sweep of the blade kicked up dust, catching the knife blade and pitching it beyond reach. The back stroke of the arc saw the blade hack at the warrior’s shins, causing him to stumble. As he floundered, Doc stepped forward and reversed his arm, so that he was able to club his opponent with one sharp, brief blow that caught him behind the ear, rendering him unconscious.
One man remained standing. There was still no time for Doc to pause or rest, for that man had recovered balance and was now heading for him, anger causing him to forego any attempt at retrieving a weapon, relying instead upon his bare hands.
It would be simple to disarm him, if only Doc had fast enough reflexes. But the efforts of putting down the three men had taken the edge from his speed, and he was in the act of raising the sword blade when the warrior hurled himself at Doc, coming in at waist level and under the arc of the Toledo steel.
Doc groaned and gasped for air as the man caught him in the midriff, driving him backward so that he crashed on the bone-jarringly hard earth with the weight of the warrior driving all the air from his abdomen. Lights danced before his eyes and blackness started to encroach on the edges of his vision. His lungs felt as though they were ripping as he struggled for air. Yet he knew that he had to catch his breath before the similarly disabled man on top of him had such a chance.
From somewhere deep within him—possibly the wells of sheer stubbornness that had seen him through so much in his strange life—Doc found the strength to heave the man from him, rolling with him so that he was now on top. He felt his adversary’s hands start to close around his throat. But the grip was weak, as though the man beneath him struggled for breath and strength.
It was all the impetus Doc needed. With one mighty effort, he raised his arm and crashed the silver lion’s-head on the temple of the man beneath him. It was not the sharp, decisive blow he had shown to his previous opponent. It was hesitant, stumbling…Twice, three times he raised his arm and, almost painfully slow, crashed it down again. Each time he felt the fingers of his opponent weaken just that little mo
re.
The fourth blow, as weak as it seemed to him, had just enough force for the cumulative effect to render the man unconscious.
Gasping, his head both pounding and reeling as the sudden influx of oxygen from his now regulated breathing began to flow around his system, Doc hauled himself to his feet. Swaying slightly, he looked around, surveying the carnage that surrounded him. Four warriors, all rendered incapable.
Vision slightly blurring, he looked across at where the chief, the shaman and other men of the Pawnee stood watching him. There was a low murmur in the crowd, and it sounded approving rather than hostile. Despite his “chosen” status, it had briefly crossed Doc’s mind that rendering four of your hosts’ best fighters incapable was not, perhaps, the best way of making friends and influencing people.
“You have done well,” the chief said. “You have proved yourself the equal of Whitey in besting any who would oppose you.”
“I do not know about that,” Doc demurred, aware of the rasping breathlessness in his voice. It was a judgment that Jak probably wouldn’t be too happy about, and that thought alone made Doc smile to himself. Still, it was nice to hear.
“Does that mean I get the job?” he asked in as bright a voice as he could manage, light-headedness lending him a flippancy that would otherwise have been out of place.
“Eh?” The chief looked at the shaman, puzzled.
The stoic medicine man shrugged. “Spirits can make you crazy,” he muttered.
“Oh, good. I am so glad,” Doc said, confusing them further.
With which, consciousness escaped him and he fell forward slowly, face-first into the dust.
FOR MILDRED AND J.B. the path toward fulfilling their destiny had little in the way of such high points. The interpretation of their shared vision quest, and the manner in which it tied in to the great legends that powered the progress of the Otoe, meant that they were seen by many as above reproach.
J.B. had already had many a chance to prove himself when out hunting, and in the patrolling guard that kept the children and the women of the tribe feeling safe, riding out at night to keep clear the boundaries of the ville. Mildred had not had this chance, but despite her sex, the wise words of the old seer Milled Red had proved to be correct in some manner. Her color set her apart from the white-eyes, of which J.B. was a part, and this enabled the tribe to see her in a different light. She was an outsider in the land of the white-eyes, just as they were. So she did not face quite the hostility that Krysty had faced with the Sioux in being able to take part in activities that were the preserve of the male.
And now that she and J.B. were linked with Dore and Wahre’dua in the minds of the tribe, they were now both seen as being not a white-eye and a woman; rather, they had become symbols of the way in which the monster-slaying brothers had given themselves to the world. The whole world, regardless of race or creed.
When Mildred went once more to visit the old woman, she remarked upon this. At first, it seemed as though Milled Red had paid no heed. In an irritable tone, she sent the woman who tended her to fetch fresh water, complaining that the herb tea she had been given by her nurse was brackish. It was only when the nurse left the earth lodge that Mildred saw the light sparkle in the old woman’s eyes.
“It is a shame to treat her like that, for she is a good girl in many ways. But not of the brightest, and perhaps inclined to open her mouth before her mind has formed any thoughts.”
“So there’s nothing wrong with the tea?” Mildred asked with a smile.
The old woman shook her head with an air of impatience. “Of course not. It seems wrong to scold the child in such a way, as she makes such good tea. But I wished to speak with you with some degree of privacy. First, I must ask you—does it not strike you as strange that you and your friend should have the same vision?”
Mildred thought about her answer. What was the old woman expecting her to say? She chose her words with care.
“We’re close. We’ve shared many things. We’ve also heard much about your tribe and its legends during—”
The old woman waved a hand dismissively. “No, no, that’s not what I mean. In the time since our people have returned to the old ways, I have never heard of any two people—even the closest of brothers—having such a shared experience. I am also suspicious of anything that fits too nicely. And this does.”
“In what way?” Mildred asked, a glimmering of the old woman’s meaning sparking at the edge of her consciousness.
“Simply this. At a time when all thoughts are focused on the prophecy, two people arrive from nowhere. Then they are sent on a dream quest and have an identical vision. It is as though the legend were being written around them by an unseen hand.”
“The spirits?”
The old woman shrugged. “Oh, well, you might call it that. But I am old enough to remember a time when such things were not blindly believed. And there is nothing wrong with a little healthy skepticism. You should cease trying to humor me, and be yourself.”
Mildred could not resist a chuckle. “Okay, you got me there. I suppose I do find it hard to believe in spirits without anything else to go on. But what’s the alternative? That something else is guiding us? Some unseen hand?”
Milled Red sniffed. “That is no less possible. The old bases from white-eye military days, when our people were workers in thrall to them. They are scattered around here like gopher holes. I have never seen inside the one that we are near, but I suspect that your friend may have done.”
Mildred nodded. “I wouldn’t doubt that John was itching to have a look around. Even though your people don’t use the tech, it would still seem like a good idea to him to check it out.”
“You haven’t spoken of this, then?”
“No, there hasn’t been enough time for us to be alone—” she paused, hearing the nurse return.
Milled Red waved her hand in agitation. “There isn’t much time, then. Listen well. You must talk to him about what he has seen in there. The white-eye bases hold the key to the prophecy as much as the spirits. The two may even have become the same over the years, one as a way of explaining the other. I have thought this for many years, but those living now could not understand how things used to be, and would not want to question. I like you. It has been refreshing to speak with one who is not small in horizon, just the once more. I would not wish harm to come to you because you are unprepared.”
Her voice had dropped to a harsh whisper as the nurse entered, so that she would not grasp the gist of the conversation.
“You are having trouble speaking. I must make you more tea with honey,” the nurse said in a worried tone.
“Don’t fuss, girl, it was nothing more than a clogged throat,” Milled Red replied. “Make your tea, but don’t worry.”
Mildred left the old woman, with the nurse fussing over her, and went in search of J.B. The words of the old seer were racing through her head. If this area was riddled with old tech and military bases; if there were anyone still alive in any of them, mad, inbred and mutated but still with a rudimentary grasp of how the tech worked; if there were something that worked still on an automatic program…
She did not have to search long before she found him. The Armorer was with a group of men, making bows from finely carved wood, bending the soft, yielding flesh so it was shaped by the tension of the string that ran between the ends.
“John, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”
“Sure,” he replied, infuriating her as he showed little sign of moving from where he sat, among those she didn’t want to hear their conversation—accidentally or otherwise.
“I’ve got to be getting on, so could you…” She indicated that they move away.
J.B. frowned. “Okay, but it’d better be quick.”
As they moved away, and she tried to ignore his puzzled expression, she was acutely aware of the eyes of the others following them. She made small talk that baffled him even more, until he finally snapped.
&
nbsp; “Millie, what the hell is going on? What did—”
She silenced him with a gesture and, looking around to check that they could not be easily overheard, told him of her conversation with the old seer. When she had finished, he nodded shortly.
“Yeah, I can see why you wouldn’t want that overheard.” He paused, then added, “She might have something. There was certainly a shitload of activity going on around here before skydark.”
“Why didn’t you say anything about this before?” she asked, exasperated.
“Because I never had a chance for more than a brief recce,” he replied, pondering the matter, “and it didn’t occur to me that there could be anything going on. Just figured that they’d all be as useless as this one seems to be.”
“Except it’s only useless because the Otoe don’t want to use it.” Mildred sighed. “I think we should check this out.”
It was easy to approach the redoubt. The tribe thought nothing of the old base, and it was open at all times. Yet they could rarely be bothered to enter without some purpose, so it was essential that Mildred and the Armorer have a reason to enter, in case they aroused suspicion.
J.B. went to Little Tree, explaining that he was more familiar with the old habit of map reading than the Otoe-preferred methods of scouting land, and so he wished to consult the old maps that he had seen when the man had shown him the redoubt.
Little Tree shrugged, figuring it would be no problem, and he accompanied them to the redoubt, where J.B. showed Mildred the wall chart that mapped the maze of redoubts that littered the plains area, completely oblivious to the significance it now held for them.
Mildred whistled low, then spoke as quietly. “With all that shit under the ground, it’s a wonder that we just don’t fall through and have done with it.”
“It is kind of impressive, in a way,” he agreed.
She looked over her shoulder at Little Tree before saying softly, “It means that there’s a whole lot of computer tech that could still be running, or a whole lot of inbreds who could be doing it. Maybe that’s why we had the same vision. Some kind of tech that can bend our minds.”
