“Jesus!” said Belden. “Is he—”
“No,” said Kabede, pulling him back into the guardhouse.
Taking advantage of Belden’s distraction, Manx broke away from him and ducked behind Weeks.
“Shoot them down!” Manx yelled.
Weeks grinned and raised his pistol. Belden backed away, his own pistol up, but Doctor Milton slapped Weeks’ hand down.
“Belay that, sergeant.”
“What the hell are you doing, Tobias?” Manx hollered. “You are a goddamned doctor. You are not in command here.”
“Something’s going on here,” Milton reasoned. “Something I can’t explain.”
“He’s right sir,” Cord chimed in, struggling with the bucking trooper who had just murdered the man in front of him. “Look.”
The man in question stopped struggling, and he nodded his head emphatically, staring in the direction of the man the African was dragging away.
“Ja. Ja. Komm. Komm.”
Then he jolted, stiff as a board, just as he had just before he’d killed his comrade, and fell limp in their arms.
“You recognize that voice?” Cord said shrilly. “Do you?”
Manx shook his head, grinned, and waved him off.
“You’re crazy.”
“No, he’s right!” Milton said. “My God…it was that German who came here a week ago. You spoke to him at length, Manx. It’s him.”
Belden turned away from Weeks and Manx and the rest and ducked into the guardhouse, where Kabede had propped the Rider’s seemingly lifeless body against the far wall of the hall.
“What’s going on? What can we do?”
Kabede stood.
“Stay with him. Protect him. And get me a horse, and five of your best riders, with poles, about a meter and a half long, if possible.”
“Where are you going?”
“I need the staff.”
Then he was gone.
The Rider’s body fell away into Kabede’s arms, but his astral form remained standing in the swirling colors of the Yenne Velt.
The Rider watched only for a moment as Kabede dragged his body away.
He could still perceive the doings and sounds of the material world as echoes and silver shadows around him. He turned to where Cord and another man held the possessed corporal between them, and saw Jacobi inhabiting his body, leering.
They saw each other in the same moment.
“Yes. Yes. Come, come!” Jacobi screamed, no longer in German, but in the universal telepathic language of the Yenne Velt.
The Rider drew his Volcanic pistol and fired into the center of the corporal’s chest. The blue-white etheric blast did nothing to the possessed man, but Jacobi was blown clear of his body and fell sprawling a few feet behind.
The Rider levered his pistol and stalked toward him, passing unnoticed through the crowd of soldiers and Belden.
Jacobi scrambled to his feet, stunned, but mainly unhurt. A possessing body was a like a suit of armor to a spirit. But now Jacobi was without that armor.
Killing Jacobi here wouldn’t lead him to the others—to DeKorte and LeBouclier. Nor to Adon. It wouldn’t stop the undead from overrunning them.
“Why’d you do it, Sword?” he said, using Jacobi’s alias for the moment. “Why did you trade your life for your soul?”
“I wasn’t coerced into The Creed, Rider. When Adon came to Berlin, it wasn’t my life he offered me.”
“The Creed. Is that what Adon’s calling his bunch? What did he offer then?” He knew the answer.
Jacobi grinned and got slowly to his feet. The Rider tensed, but Jacobi’s pistol was in its holster. It was not a Volcanic as he’d first thought. It was lighter, thinner, more elegant.
“Godhood, Rider. In a world without your God.”
“My God now, is it? I see you traded in your namesake.” The Rider nodded to Jacobi’s armament.
Jacobi looked down at his pistol.
“The sword? Yes, it became impractical. I took a page from your book, Rider.”
Ironic, the Rider thought, considering he had gotten the idea for a mystic pistol from his encounter with Jacobi.
“Perhaps you could settle an argument for me,” Jacobi said. “Why did you choose the Volcanic? Such a slow, clumsy weapon.”
“The surface area. I couldn’t fit twenty two seals on a revolver.”
Jacobi smiled thinly.
“Just as I thought. Those pistols are quite hard to obtain, you know, even here. I had to settle for this,” he said, gesturing to his own gun. “A Venditti.”
The Rider motioned with his pistol barrel, implicit.
“Hands,” he warned.
Jacobi held his hands out as before, placating. “And so what happens now?”
“Where’s Adon?”
“Who’s the black you’re traveling with?” Jacobi countered in answer.
“No one,” said the Rider. “Just a man I met on the trail.”
“Just a man who came to your aide against three bounty hunters,” said Jacobi, irritated. “Just a man who passed through Sheol at your side and lived. Just a man who held Lilith’s brats at bay with a shepherd’s staff. Who is he? Someone we missed? Not one of the Sons of the Essenes surely. Some kind of arel hedge wizard?”
“Where’s Adon?” the Rider repeated.
“Give us the scroll you carry.”
“Why? What is it? What does Adon want with it?”
“The scroll, Rider. Or every man dies.”
“You’ll kill them all anyway. Maybe I’ll give this scroll of yours to the fire.”
“I don’t think so. You want to know what it is too badly.”
“The years have blunted my curiosity.”
“Then,” Jacobi sighed, “you had better shoot.”
With a flick of his outstretched wrist, a small silvery pistol jumped into his hand, propelled by some accordion-like mechanism up his sleeve.
The Rider felt a hornet sting in his right bicep, and fell back firing.
Belden winced as his unconscious friend’s right arm began to spontaneously leak blood like some kind of miraculous spring, spreading out across the dark sleeve.
He reached under the coat, traced a shallow wound in the upper arm, and came back with blood on his fingertips. When had this happened? He hadn’t had the wound when Kabede set him down.
Belden got to his feet and turned to go outside when two privates dragged in the unconscious trooper who had killed the last man and dumped him into the far cell, slamming the door shut behind him.
“Easy with that man!” Belden enjoined.
“Easy my ass!” said one of the privates, then stiffened a little when he saw it was Belden. “I’m sorry, sir, but he murdered Jaffray for no reason.” He cast a glance at the man in the cell. “He can rot in there.”
Belden watched the two men touch the brims of their hats and exit. If somebody didn’t do something soon, these men would be at each other’s throats. The murderer in question, Private Bigelow, had been well-liked. Now the men were ready to lynch him.
He rushed outside.
Kabede had hoisted himself onto a bay horse, his staff now in hand, and the men Belden had selected to help him were turning in place on their mounts like poor knights, clothes poles tucked under their arms like makeshift lances.
Weeks had a hold of Kabede’s bridle and Manx was yelling up at him as the private who had locked up Bigelow approached and handed him back the guardhouse keys.
“Get down off that horse.”
“Let me go, you fool!” Kabede yelled down to Weeks.
Weeks cocked his pistol and cursing, angled it up at Kabede.
Belden forgot about Joe for the moment and hurried over, laying Sunderland’s gun upside the back of Weeks’ thick skull. The sergeant’s legs wobbled and he fell on his face.
Belden kicked his pistol away.
“Quincannon!” yelled Manx. “Shoot Mister Belden down. Now!”
Quincannon looked down t
he barrel of his pistol at Belden, but as soon as their eyes met his own flitted away from the former sergeant major’s withering look. He lowered the muzzle again.
Manx snarled at Quincannon in frustration. “Mister Cord. I want these men under arrest again.”
Cord shook his head.
“No, sir.”
“Right,” Manx said, folding his arms. “You’re out of your mind, Belden, if you think I’m going to let some wild nigger out of the desert get on a horse and command my troops.”
“They can help, Manx. You want to see more of your troops bite down on their own guns?”
The men gathered around murmured. Manx said nothing, just coughed and dabbed at his perpetually runny nose. He stalked off, kicking the dirt in frustration.
Belden looked up at Kabede. “All yours.”
Kabede nodded, and held up his staff.
“Three men ride counterclockwise around the perimeter, the other three, clockwise. Drag your staves along the ground like this,” he said, scraping the earth with the sharp point of his rod. “I need an unbroken circle drawn around the post. Understand? It must be unbroken.”
The other cavalrymen looked at each other, doubtful.
“Do you understand?” Kabede repeated.
“Answer him!” Belden ordered.
They each nodded, and some murmured in the affirmative.
“When you’ve ridden around and met again, go ten feet in and inscribe a second circle. Go now!” Kabede yelled.
The riders spurred their horses and set out to do their task.
“Meet me in the center when you’ve finished,” he called after them.
Kabede wheeled about.
Belden squatted by the body of Davies, and plucked up Kabede’s curved knife from the corpse’s belt.
“Hey, Kabede.”
Kabede glanced back, and caught the gilded knife as Belden tossed it to him.
“What’re you going to do?”
Kabede tucked the knife into his sash.
“All that I can. You must trust me. What of the Rider?”
“Bleeding,” Belden said. “I don’t see how—”
“Tend to him. If he dies, more will follow him.”
Kabede slapped the rump of his horse with the rod and went galloping off like some wild Arabian Nights fairytale.
Belden felt a hand on his sleeve and turned to see Cord standing there.
“What if we order the men to disarm?” the battered lieutenant suggested. “It might buy them some time, if…if it happens again.”
“That’s a good idea,” Belden conceded. “Start with Weeks. When he wakes up he’ll shoot me if he has a gun. See if you can get the rest of them to go for it. And try to keep an eye on Manx.”
Cord nodded.
“I’ll try to get them all back in their barracks too.”
“No, best leave them out in the open where everybody can see everybody.”
“Alright.” Cord half turned, and Belden went to look for Milton, but the lieutenant called to him. “Belden.”
“What?”
“I’m…sorry…for that boy that died.”
“That’s good to know,” Belden said. He meant it. Cord might not be the stupid sycophant he’d taken him for.
Cord went off to wrangle Manx.
Belden found Doc Milton kneeling over the unconscious Weeks, fanning himself with his hat.
“How’s he?”
“As if you cared,” Milton grinned. “He’ll be alright.” He rose, and coughed into his sleeve.
“You alright?”
“Some kind of fever or a flu. I’m not sure what.”
“Probably caught it from Manx,” Belden said.
“Could be.”
“I’ve got a patient for you take a look at, Doc,” Belden said, walking toward the guardhouse.
Milton replaced his hat
“That’s what I’m here for.”
In the Yenne Velt, mystic blasts of blue-white and scarlet streaked back and forth as the two astral combatants traded shots. There was no cover to preserve them, only their own quickness. They were not more than eighteen or nineteen feet apart at any given moment, and were firing wildly, Jacobi with his Venditti pistol and the Rider with his Volcanic.
Scant seconds had passed, but to the Rider the fight seemed eternal. He did not know what the nature of Jacobi’s magic was. It seemed to be based on the same practices of the Essenes, but somehow negative in nature. The color of his weapon’s discharges was one indication of this—it was the same crimson hue as the lightning the Canaanite Hayim Cardin had been able to summon from his fingertips. If it was some kind of Outer God magic, who knew what it would do to him?
Sheardown had employed the same tools, and had disrupted his ethereal horse. At least he knew his own shooting wasn’t in vain, unless Jacobi knew some form of protection Sheardown hadn’t. The Rider had dispatched Sheardown in the Yenne Velt, but only after his body had died in the material world. He still wasn’t sure what the effect of his weapon would be on an astral form. It was designed to disrupt the focused will of a spirit, and thus destabilize it. On human souls it had the power to stun their consciousness, allowing him to pass into and possess physical forms, just as Jacobi had been doing. But he had only fought one other astral traveler in the Yenne Velt with his Volcanic, and the question hadn’t been answered in that instance.
Astral bodies weren’t subject to the same physical limitations as their material counterparts of course. With training they could react somewhat faster than thought, as the mechanism of muscles and synapses were no longer in play to slow down the progression from intent to action. It was possible to dodge gunfire here, as they were both doing. The relative slowness of their lever action pistols helped.
Jacobi was amazingly skilled. He was a ferocious opponent, feinting and diving and executing impossible ballet-like aerial leaps as he skipped between the Rider’s attacks. It was an intimidating display of power. He seemed to be giving his etheric form over to the buffeting astral winds that always blew in this realm. These currents were strong, and could tear an untrained will apart. It took years of training just to be able to stand and remain in the Yenne Velt. But Jacobi seemed to be riding the winds.
It was an incredibly dangerous undertaking, almost as dangerous as his forced suicides had been. The Rider wondered if it was something Adon had taught him. The last time they’d fought, years ago, Jacobi had been just as formidable but not nearly so reckless.
The Rider had never faced an enemy in this manner, one who had embraced the lack of physical constraints in the Yenne Velt to such a degree. Jacobi’s acrobatics were something the Rider himself had never considered attempting.
The Rider, for the most part, remained grounded. Jacobi’s antics were impressive to see, yes, but impractical. There was a haughtiness to him that the Rider had only glimpsed in their first encounter. Now Jacobi wore it like a garish coat. He laughed as he dodged out of the way of the Rider’s shots, and taunted him with derisive laughter as he somersaulted through the air like a monkey. He was blindingly fast, impossible to hit, but arrogant and overconfident. He buzzed around the Rider like an annoying insect, flying in the ear but withholding its sting.
It was as though Jacobi were simply playing with him. He returned fire, but not with the single-mindedness with which he avoided being hit. His attacks were almost afterthoughts. He was buying time. But for what? The Rider needed to end this.
“You’re old and slow, Rider!” Jacobi laughed during a lull in the shooting.
His arrogance had increased hand in hand with his ability.
One of Jacobi’s blasts seared his cheek.
Milton and Belden watched as a new fissure opened in the unconscious man’s cheek and began to ooze blood.
Milton slapped a bit of cotton to it.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” he said hoarsely.
“How you doin,’ Doc?” Belden asked. Now that he was closer to Milton, the man look
ed like hell. He was pale and sweaty, with great rings under his eyes and the same bloodshot eyes and blood encrusted nostrils as Manx. His quip about Milton having caught some bug from Manx had been in jest, but they really did look to have the same ailment.
“I don’t know,” Milton said. “I haven’t been sleeping. Been getting these nosebleeds. And my throat, very raw.” He coughed pointedly, as if the mention of it intensified his sickness.
“Maybe you should get back to your bunk,” Belden suggested.
“What about him?” he said, gesturing to Joe. “I’ve never seen a man in such a state. It’s like he’s awake but…absent. He doesn’t respond to any physical stimulus. Even his autonomic responses are dead. But he’s breathing. And these wounds…I just don’t see any reason for them.”
“He’ll just have to keep, Doc,” Belden shrugged. “I’ve known this man for a long time. If he says he knows what he’s about, I guess he does.”
Milton rose, a little unsteadily, Belden noticed.
“Call me then, if he worsens. I’ll do what I can, but all I can say is if any more bleeding occurs, just staunch it as best you can.”
Belden nodded.
“I’m going to see to the other wounded men, then I’m going to retire.”
“Alright, Doc.”
“It’s good to have you back in some capacity, Dick,” Milton smiled thinly. “Even for a little while.” His eyes were fluttering.
“Thanks. Get some rest.”
Belden turned back to Joe as Doc Milton left the guardhouse. Outside, he could hear Manx’s voice. If there weren’t some sort of results soon, he’d have the troops’ attention again and that would be it for Belden, Joe, and Kabede, maybe Lieutenant Cord too, if he kept on their side. As it was, the boys were on the verge of panic. As far as they knew, any one of them might up and murder his friend for no reason at all. Cord’s idea of taking their weapons away was a good one. This way no innocuous gesture would be misconstrued. Checking a load could easily lead to a shooting at the rate they were going.
Meanwhile Joe Rider was somewhere else. He surely wasn’t here. On long camps at night they had lain awake during the war, and Joe had talked of the spirit and how it, and not the fragile body, was the abode of a man’s consciousness. He’d told Belden these things to keep him lucid. Often the terror of an impending battle had threatened to send him raving and running all at once. The spirit never died, Joe assured him. Flesh could be torn and fall away, the bones would dry up and blow to dust, but what made a man a man would have long moved on by then. Belden had guessed then that was the secret of his friend’s bravery. They’d seen a lot of death during the war. A lot of men blown to dust. He had heard such words from chaplains and preachers many times, but something in the way Joe had told it had always given him comfort. Joe had never said ‘I think this is how it is’—not out loud and not by way of tone. Joe seemed to speak from experience.
Merkabah Rider: Have Glyphs Will Travel Page 6
