Soul of an Eagle

by Edwin Skinner

  From behind him, Kit heard a strange voice bellow out a challenge. "Turn and face a real warrior, or die like the dog that you are." A second later a furious drumbeat of sword strokes could be heard behind him. It ended in the distinctive snapping sound of iron going through bronze and was followed immediately by a scream.

  Kit, however, could not turn to assess the situation. He had his hands full with his present assailant. The two bounded around the open area, spooking the pack ponies who only added more confusion to the fight. At one point, Kit was confronted with a puzzling sight. He could see a large nomad warrior, his sword on the ground. The barbarian was bending almost solicitously over the prone body of the stricken Helvon. The meaning of the tableau would have to wait. Kit's assailant was once again pressing his attack.

  Kit parried a strike with his sword and simultaneously struck out with his knife, stepping into the attacker instead of away from him. A red slash appeared across the nomad's chest and the man jumped back with a grunt of surprise. Kit, however, was no longer willing to grant his opponent a respite. He pressed the attack with a raging fury. He felt he must dispatch this one quickly before the big nomad could finish murdering Helvon and join the other nomad against him. With two more driving strokes of his sword, Kit set up the fatal blow. While the nomad's attention was on the deadly iron blade in Kit's right hand, he slipped his left hand under the man's guard and upward toward his throat. The knife blade entered at the top of the man's throat and drove relentlessly up into the brain. The nomad was dead before he could even register surprise.

  Kit tugged the blade out nearly as fast as it had entered and turned to confront his final adversary. What he saw rooted him to the ground in confusion. Helvon was sitting by his opening in the rocks, propped up against a large boulder. To his right was the big nomad, sword held toward the ground at his side. They were both watching with appreciative grins on their faces.

  "We hated ta disturb ya, while ya was havin' so much fun," Helvon drawled. "I tole Chan ta leave you two be. If'n ya cain't handle th' likes of thet'n, ya ain't no good as a partner ta me no how."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Goovon was moving along almost mechanically. His muscles ached and his body was weak but he had to keep moving. He stumbled forward, his arms together in front of his body as if in an attitude of prayer. The rope around his wrists that trailed off toward the nomad pony ahead of him dictated both his bodily position and his constant forward motion.

  He had been preparing to cook the late afternoon meal when they had burst upon him in great numbers. The howling nomads had come at him from several directions at once. One of them had ridden him down and struck him over the head with the hilt of a sword. Goovon had never even managed to place his hands on a weapon in his own defense.

  When he came to, he was bound hand and foot. The warriors were busy pillaging the campsite. The foodstuffs were already divided up among the warriors and someone had confiscated his crossbow, sword and knife. Pots and pans, too, were being taken. The small pup tents were ripped to shreds, being a style that nomads did not care for. Goovon could see his riding pony and the four pack ponies that had been left in camp, standing among the group of nomad mounts at one end of the clearing.

  There had been about twenty warriors or so in the raid on the camp. Once the camp goods were divided up, they broke into two parties. Half went off on the trail of Helvon and Kit and the others had collected most of the booty, taken their prisoner and captured ponies in tow and headed toward the southwest. Even though there were more than enough ponies, Goovon was made to walk along behind his captors. Once, he had tripped and fallen. The warrior he was attached to had dragged him, laughing all the while, for about a hundred feet before pausing just long enough to allow him to scrabble back on to his feet.

  Goovon knew what was in store for him and, as he stumbled along, his mind raced furiously trying to think of some way to avoid that fate. The nomads loved having 'sport' with their prisoners. Women were repeatedly raped. If they were comely, they eventually wound up in some warrior's harem. Men were eventually killed. Nomads had no need of slaves to do the back breaking chores around their camps. That was one of the functions of a nomad woman. Male captives were sometimes kept alive for a time but their life among the nomads was anything but pleasant. Both the male and female members of the tribes enjoyed the dispensing of pain and suffering to their enemies. Cruelty was, for many of them, what they enjoyed most and they had diabolically clever minds when thinking up ways to torture their unfortunate prisoners.

  Finally, the procession stopped. Goovon looked around and realized that he was in a small nomad camp which had been set up in a little, hidden valley. There were more men there and a number of nomad women, their breasts bare as was their custom during the hot summer months. All turned to watch the entrance of the small scouting party. Many of them smiled with anticipation when they saw the captive stumbling along behind the last warrior. A tall, well-muscled warrior stepped out of the largest of the tents. He stood before the entrance as the returning nomads lined up in front of him. Their leader dismounted and stepped up to him with an attitude of deference.

  "Oh mighty Crill, we came upon the campsite of some hunters," he announced. "There were three of them but only one was in camp at the time. Gault took nine warriors and set out to track down the other two. We captured five ponies, much food and many useful camp items. The prisoner, we brought along for your pleasure."

  Crill's eyes turned upon Goovon who had been roughly pushed to the forefront. The cruel smile that lit up the tall nomad's face terrified the exhausted prisoner. Goovon dropped to his knees and lifted his bound hands in supplication.

  "Oh, magnificent Crill," he said, "Spare my life and I will make it worth your while."

  "What can you give me that would match the immense pleasure I will experience while slowly destroying your mind and body?" The nomad's cold words caused a shiver to run down Goovon's spine.

  "What are you snooping around out here for?" he stammered. "You are hoping to stage an invasion of Washington, am I right? Well, perhaps I can help you get in past the pass guards. Does that interest you? Well, I won't help you at all if I am to be killed or tortured."

  The nomad's eyebrow rose quizzically. He was, admittedly, intrigued. "And how can a humble hunter such as you help us to get into the crater?"

  "I am known at the passes," the cowardly hunter explained. "We can dress some of your warriors up as wild meat hunters and I can teach them how to talk and act. We can ride up to the pass and I will tell the guards that you are a group of hunters that I have joined up with from another crater. We will say that they moved to this area because of nomad activity elsewhere. When we get past the guards, we will turn and attack them from the rear at the same time that a strong force of your warriors comes out of hiding and assaults them frontally. In no time, you'll be through the pass and then nobody can stop you. It should work easily but you couldn't do it without my help."

  "You would betray your friends in the crater?" Crill asked contemptuously. "Where is your loyalty to your people? How can I trust you not to betray my men to the pass guards?"

  "Just look at my face," Goovon commented. "Do you think I have any friends? The only man I could call friend has probably been killed already by your warriors. Besides, he was partially responsible for this happening to me in the first place." He indicated the scar on his face. "He only put up with me because I had money when he needed it. I'm not even from Washington crater but we have been hunting around there for most of a year now. You give me the use of a halfway decent looking woman and the chance to make a place among your people and you will be my only friend and have my complete loyalty. As for my betraying your men, make sure that one of your best warriors is by my side at all times. If I say or do anything that betrays you, he can kill me at once."

  Kit rounded up their horses as Chan tended Helvon's wounds. Besides the arrow sticking out of the old man's shoulder, there was a long gash in hi
s right leg which made walking very painful. The tip of the barbed arrowhead had forged through Helvon's shoulder and had barely broken the skin of his back. Chan pushed it the rest of the way through and cut it off the end of the arrow. He then pulled the shaft out from the front. An antiseptic poultice of local herbs was introduced into the wound from both sides before the wound was bound with a soft strip of antelope hide. The same poultice was applied to the open wound on Helvon's leg which was then sewn shut using a needle and cotton thread from the hunter's sewing kit.

  While Helvon rested from the ordeal, Kit and Chan went down the trail a ways to retrieve the ponies of their now pacified enemies. They collected whatever personal effects the nomads had including any arrows and iron weapons they had with them at the time. Kit also retrieved most of the bolts that he and Helvon had expended during the skirmish. `

  Within an hour after the last nomad had fallen to Kit's knife, the tall hunter was lifted painfully into his saddle and the three were moving off, with many ponies in tow, to a safe camp that Chan knew of. Chan was careful to cover their trail as cleverly as possible. The last leg of the journey had been made up the middle of a wide, shallow stream. Chan had ridden right up to a waterfall and disappeared into it. The hunter and his student stopped and looked at each other in surprise before following the nomad's lead.

  On the other side of the sheet of falling water was a large cave. The ceiling was nearly twelve feet high and it reached back into the mountain side a good distance. Chan sat on his pony at the back of the cave, looking back at the others. When he saw that they were watching, he urged his mount forward and turned behind a large boulder to his right. This turned out to be the opening to a winding tunnel which cut right through the mountain, climbing steadily. At its lowest point, the riders were forced to duck low over their mounts' necks to pass. They emerged into a high mountain meadow between two lofty ridges.

  Helvon gave out a low whistle. "What a right purty hidin' place. Is thet the only trail in?"

  "No," the nomad answered, "I first climbed up here chasing a wounded antelope. He died of his wound here before I caught up with him. When I saw the cave entrance, I investigated and discovered the chamber behind the waterfall. Passing through the curtain of water, I recognized the other valley and decided to use it as my secret entrance. I have hidden the first trail well. Even if a warrior were to find it, there is no evidence of recent travel and it would be too steep for most men to want to investigate without cause. This is my secure camp. You are the first to see it other than me."

  Within a short period, the horses were unburdened and released to graze. A corral fence had been erected at the point where the back trail started down the mountain and two other ponies were already grazing on the lush mountain grasses. There was plenty of forage for the entire cavy of horses. A small shelter had been erected against the cliff face near the entrance to the cave. Helvon lay comfortably under the lean to and a small, smokeless fire was kindled before him. As Chan began preparing a meal, using some of the foodstuffs which their former enemies had so thoughtfully brought from the hunters' camp, he talked.

  "You must pardon me if I talk too much. It has been many moons since I had a friendly conversation with anyone. Ponies don't talk back, as a rule. I heard those Silarites' war cries and came to your aid as soon as I determined what was going on. If I had gotten there a moment earlier, or the young one's bolt had been more accurate, perhaps you would not have had such grievous wounds. Your leg should heal well but I worry about that shoulder wound." He turned to the boy. "It was the warrior you wounded that fired the arrows. Had he not lost his sword when you hit him, he might not have thought of using his bow."

  "Ya called 'em Silarites," the tall hunter noted. "Did ya mean they's from th' tribe o' Silar the Great? How'd ya know their tribe?"

  "Silar the Great is what their Chieftain calls himself," the nomad said. "I could have told you simply by the reddish color that they die their clothes had I not recognized two of the warriors. They were personal retainers of Silar's war chief, Crill when last we crossed swords. If he is the one that we are dealing with, we have a formidable enemy, indeed."

  Helvon shifted uncomfortably. "This Crill, what d' ya know of him?"

  Chan looked straight into the hunter's eyes. "He is older than I. When I met him last I was a promising young warrior. We crossed swords in battle and he nearly bested me twice before the tide of battle drove us apart. They say he is a fearless warrior and an excellent tactician. He also has a cruel streak that is unusually strong even for a nomad. If your friend fell into his hands alive, his next few days will be a living nightmare for him. Crill can keep a man alive under exquisite torture for days on end. He is not a good enemy to have at all."

  "In the light o' thet, why'd ya come ta our aid, anyway?" asked Helvon. "I weren't too courteous th' last time we met."

  "I saw the young one and felt that it was too early for him to die because of the rudeness of a cantankerous old man." Chan flashed a smile at Kit. "It is a weakness of mine that I like children, no matter who’s they are."

  "Well, I thank you," said Kit extending his right hand. "We haven't been formally introduced. I am Kit Washington, son of Lieutenant Peron Washington of the Home Guard." His smile told the nomad that they shared some common interest.

  "I have met your honorable father," the nomad said, accepting the handshake. "How does he fare, lately?"

  Kit's face saddened greatly. "I thought you knew. He died in battle the day you met."

  Chan was surprised. "I watched that battle but I did not see him fall. I assume that he was the one who fought with two swords as you do. He fought admirably but when was he struck down and how? Was it during the escape on horseback that night?"

  "From what they told me," Kit answered, "he defeated the nomad leader just as the sun was going down. As he stood up from examining his fallen opponent, they shot him through the neck with an arrow."

  "I watched the whole battle and the escape from a high point not too far from there. I turned my head for a moment to watch the sun drop below the eastern horizon. It must have been then that he fell. When I looked back, all was still. He was one of the most skillful fighters that I have ever seen. It would have taken an arrow or a bolt to bring him down. No sword could penetrate the net of iron that his swords wove around him."

  "This is one of the swords he used in that fight. The other is safely hidden back inside the crater along with most of my money." Kit handed the short sword to the nomad hilt first.

  Chan admired the weapon for several long minutes before handing it back to the lad. "You must be proud to bear a sword that has already been wielded with such distinction."

  "They are my most prized possessions along with the black stallion he left to me." Kit put the sword back in its scabbard. "I have always wondered why you helped my father as you did. The two of you were natural enemies and yet you tried to save his life and actually did save over half of his troop."

  Chan grunted and stirred the coals of the fire a moment with a stick of wood. Placing the stick into the fire, he looked up at the small boy. It was easy to see the boy's resemblance to his father. "It was he who made the first move toward peace, though he did not even know that I knew about it.

  "I was aware of the troop's movement through my area and began shadowing them. At one point, they stopped for a rest break. When I saw one of his scouts riding in to report, I moved closer in order to hear what they said.

  "The scout had discovered an old trail of mine. Your father deduced that it was me and told them to watch for tracks other than mine. When the scout suggested they track me down, Peron Washington, fair man that he was, ordered them not to attack me unless I made a hostile move against them. He basically granted me amnesty with your Home Guard. He said that every nomad hand was against me and I did not need them on my back also. I will never forget what he said and will bless his shade forever for his kindness." He looked up at Kit steadily. "Now I have been able to befr
iend his son. You are already on your way to being as great a man as your father was. You use his sword well and you speak fairly also. In your stout, young heart, you are truly his son."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The days following the skirmish with the nomads were spent partly in getting used to each other and partly in making their refuge better suited for a party of three rather than one. Kit helped Chan to enlarge his shelter and make it more comfortable for the three of them. In this, Helvon was little help except for the giving of advice, an activity that he was more than happy to indulge in. In fact, the nomad began to get weary of the old man's constant suggestions not all of which were applicable to their current conditions. His inborn respect for his elders, however, kept him from rudely turning on the wounded hunter about it.

  Once the shelter was enlarged and Helvon made more comfortable, Kit and Chan ventured out of their valley to assess the nomad situation and do a little hunting. Chan's hunting methods were considerably different from Helvon's and Kit learned a lot about nomad stalking and killing techniques. Chan praised the boy's skill with his crossbow and Kit marveled at the nomad's ability and speed with a short bow. In the evenings, when they returned to their hideout, they soon began a program of mutual instruction in those weapons. Although Chan found it hard to master the crossbow due to the clumsiness of his hook, in a rather short time, Kit became reasonably proficient with a short bow and took to carrying one and a supply of arrows with him at all times. It would come in handy, he realized, if he had another run in with nomads in superior numbers.