Cloud Warrior

by Patrick Tilley

  Cadillac danced around her gleefully as she ran towards the fallen capo. ‘Did you ever see such a fine head? Or such a fine shot?’

  Clearwater knelt and examined the fast-foot as Cadillac strutted round it, his face glowing with excitement. The body of the deer quivered spasmodically as the nervous system responded to the last confused signals of the dying brain.

  ‘Where did you aim?’ asked Clearwater.

  ‘For the heart,’ replied Cadillac. ‘Where the throat joins the chest.’ He knelt beside the dead animal and ran his hand down its neck. He felt blood run between his fingers. ‘See – here – you can feel the end of my shaft.’

  Clearwater nodded gravely then lifted her hand from the side of the capo. ‘Then whose bolt is this?’

  Cadillac’s mouth dropped open as he saw the vanes of a crossbow bolt sticking out of the capo’s chest just behind the right foreleg. He pulled his knife from its stick-shaft and cut the bolt out of the dead buck. Clearwater wiped the blood away with a handful of grass. The pattern scored on the shaft in front of the vanes were not those of the M’Call clan.

  ‘What is this, brothers?’ said a mocking voice. ‘A coyote and a fox that feeds off the meat of lions?’

  Cadillac’s and Clearwater’s hearts faltered momentarily as four unknown Mute warriors rose from the grass around them. One of them who, to guess by his adornments, was the gang-leader, carried a crossbow; the others were armed with knife-sticks and stone flails. The strangers wore helmet masks of hardened buffalo hide onto which were sewn bones and coloured pebbles. They had stone-studded leather cuffs on their forearms, and their patterned bodies were shielded with similar thigh, chest and shoulder plates, hung with feathers and bones that had been dipped in blood.

  Cadillac and Clearwater rose slowly to their feet as the four Mutes took a menacing step forward. Cadillac slipped his knife into the sheath tied to his waistbelt and turned to face the heavily-built gang-leader. The Mute tossed his crossbow to the warrior on his right.

  Cadillac offered the bolt to the gang-leader on his outstretched palm. ‘I am Cadillac, of the clan M’Call, from the bloodline of the She-Kargo, first-born of the Plainfolk. We have stalked this fast-foot since the sun was at the head of the sky. The bolt I fired lies in its heart.’ He gestured to the dead capo. ‘Cut it free and you will see I speak the truth. Yours was aimed too high to kill.’ He tossed the bolt towards the Mute – who snatched it out of the air with an angry gesture.

  Clearwater’s heart quailed at Cadillac’s recklessness.

  One of the other warriors knelt and examined the wound in the breast of the dead buck. He nodded to his leader as if to confirm Cadillac’s claim.

  ‘It does not matter,’ said the gang-leader. ‘I fired first. It is our meat.’

  Cadillac flushed angrily. ‘He was already dead when your bolt struck!’ He tapped his chest. ‘I made the kill!’

  The gang-leader filled his deep chest, flexed his shoulders and treated Cadillac to a mocking smile. ‘You have a big mouth, coyote. But your tail will soon be between your legs.’

  Cadillac stood his ground. ‘A coyote does not fear the cawing of carrion crows with no name.’

  The gang-leader swaggered forward until his nose was almost touching Cadillac’s and folded his arms – a gesture indicating his total indifference to any possible danger from his opponent. ‘Listen well, coyote – while you still have ears. I am Shakatak, of the Clan D’Vine, from the bloodline of the D’Troit, mightiest of the Plainfolk.’ He indicated his companions. ‘These are my brother Lion-Hearts – Torpedo, Cannonball and Freeway. We have chewed bone, coyote. A full head-pole marks the door to our pad. Your skull will sit well upon the second.’

  His three companions laughed, and mocked Cadillac by yelping like frightened coyotes.

  Clearwater moved to Cadillac’s side and addressed Shakatak without any sign of fear. ‘By what right do you take the life of a soul-brother? Are we not all of the Plainfolk? Do we not breathe the same air? Let us divide the fast-foot between us and share the triumph of the kill.’

  Shakatak uncrossed his arms, holding his fists clenched against his thighs. ‘The D’Troit are not soul-brothers of the She-Kargo.’ He spat on the ground in front of them. ‘Your name is dirt in our mouth. We share nothing with those who invade our turf and steal the meat from our knives.’

  Clearwater could not restrain her anger at the insult. ‘This is no-man’s land! Your clan have put down no markers!’

  Shakatak flung out his left arm towards Cannonball and snapped his fingers. Cannonball reached down into the grass and picked up a claim stick – an eight-foot pole hung with feathers, and plaques of sculptured wood coloured with dyes that Mute clans used to mark the boundaries of their turf. Grasping the long pole with two hands, Cannonball lifted it high into the air and drove the point deep into the ground.

  ‘We have now,’ growled Shakatak. He turned to Cadillac. ‘So, coyote – if you would take meat back to the stinking yellow cubs you call clan-brothers, you will have to show me how sharp your teeth are.’

  Cadillac stepped in front of Clearwater. ‘Sharp enough to tear your liver out,’ he snarled.

  Shakatak smiled. ‘Hot words, coyote. Does your knife speak as boldly?’ He pulled out his long blade and sprang back, dropping into the crouching, wide-legged stance of a knife-fighter.

  Cadillac fumbled for his blade and stepped back, adopting the same fighting pose. His throat was dry. He had fought mock duels, wrestled and undergone trials of strength with his clan-brothers; his body was lithe and well-muscled, his reflexes sharp, his mind alert, but up to this moment, he had never faced anything more lethal than a sheathed blade. Now he found himself staring at a weaving eight-inch blade with a vicious, dished top cutting edge and suddenly realised that he was about to get himself killed – very painfully. He imagined Shakatak’s blade sinking into his groin and ripping upwards through his bowels. His stomach became a ball of ice; the skin on the back of his neck quivered. If only he had stayed on the far side of the river. If only –

  Once again Clearwater moved between them, thrusting a raised hand at the fearsome Shakatak. ‘Put up your blade! There is no standing in this fight. This is not a warrior you seek to kill, but a wordsmith!’

  Shakatak paused, clearly surprised by the news.

  ‘Are the Lion-Hearts of the D’Vine so weak that they must hunt down those who have not chewed bone?’ Clearwater laughed, but there was a note of desperation in her voice. ‘That would make a fine fire song!’

  Shakatak growled angrily and looked at his companions, uncertain of his next move. Before he could reply, Cadillac hurled Clearwater aside and slashed the air in front of Shakatak’s face with his knife. ‘Even a wordsmith who has not chewed bone is worth ten warriors from a clan like the D’Vine whose name is dirt, and whose bravery can be recounted without the taking of a single breath!’ He spat on the ground at Shakatak’s feet.

  Shakatak’s eyes almost popped out of his head with rage. He bared his teeth and jabbed a blunt forefinger at Cadillac. ‘You are going to eat those words, coyote – along with your scrawny little nut-bag. Torpedo! Draw the circle!’

  Cannonball and Freeway grabbed Clearwater by the neck and arms and dragged her to one side. Torpedo put down Shakatak’s crossbow, reversed his knife-stick and quickly drew a fifteen-foot circle in the earth around Shakatak and Cadillac.

  Shakatak indicated the circle. ‘Each time you step over that line, Torpedo will take a slice off the fox. Do you understand?’

  Cadillac replied by making another slash at the air in front of Shakatak’s face. Torpedo threw his knife-stick aside and helped pinion Clearwater by the arms.

  ‘Cut him slow!’ yelled Freeway.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ gloated Shakatak. ‘I’m going to unpick this mother one stitch at a time. I’ll leave his eyes till last so he can watch us grease the tail of that fox –’ His knife flashed from his right to his left hand with frightening rapidity and slashed forwa
rd under Cadillac’s guard, slicing along Cadillac’s rib cage with surgical precision.

  Clearwater’s scream was choked off by Cannonball’s hands on her mouth and throat.

  A spasm of pain shot up through Cadillac’s chest as the blood welled out of the wound in his side. Shakatak’s knife flicked forward again, this time in his right hand, slashing open the skin on the other side of Cadillac’s ribs. They were the first two strokes in the ritual of wounding and dismemberment in single-handed fights to the death. Cadillac had seen the pattern on the bodies of his clan-brothers and marauding Mutes. Next would come the cuts on the shoulders and upper arms, weakening the opponent’s knife thrusts. The deep jabs into the thighs would be followed by the cheek slashes, then the forehead stroke, causing blood to pour into the eyes, the second horizontal slice, across the belly, the upwards rip through the groin and then – if you were lucky – the plunging thrust into and across the throat that preceded the severing of the head. Those that were unlucky suffered further mutilation before choking to death on their severed genitals.

  Cadillac’s terrifying vision of what lay ahead lent wings to his feet as he bobbed and weaved around Shakatak. He could not run, could not abandon Clearwater, yet knew that if, by some miracle, he managed to defeat Shakatak, his brother Lion-Hearts would take his place, either singly or together. He was going to die! It was unthinkable that he should but there was no way to escape. He leapt backwards as Shakatak’s blade scythed through the air less than an inch from his navel.

  Shakatak’s knife thrusts were terrifyingly fast but because of his heavier body, he was slower on his feet. After the two opening cuts on his ribs, Cadillac’s natural agility had kept him out of serious trouble but this merely offered a temporary respite; it was no solution. He could not dance beyond the range of Shakatak’s blade for ever. He had to find some way to get under his guard and inflict a short, sharp disabling thrust. But how?

  Cadillac sidestepped as Shakatak lunged forward and ran behind him to the far side of the circle where he stooped down and scooped up a handful of dirt and pebbles. Shakatak turned, his face creased with a knowing smile. As Cadillac advanced towards him warily, Shakatak flung out his arm towards the three Mutes who held Clearwater, and snapped his fingers. Holding onto the struggling Clearwater with one hand, Torpedo unfastened the stone flail looped through his belt and lobbed it towards Shakatak’s outstretched hand. As his arm came up, Clearwater kicked at it desperately, causing the flail to fall between Shakatak and Cadillac. Shakatak stepped forward, switched his knife into his right hand, fixed Cadillac with his glittering eyes and bent to pick up the flail.

  Cadillac knew it was his one and only chance. Hurling the handful of dirt at Shakatak’s face, he threw himself sideways into the air above Shakatak’s knife hand with a tremendous yell and kicked out at Shakatak’s head with both feet. His heels connected with a force born of desperation. The knife flew from Shakatak’s hand as his neck snapped sideways. Cadillac felt a terrible jarring pain as his feet slammed into the stone-covered helmet. There was a fleeting instant when time seemed to suddenly stand still and he found himself praying he had not broken his ankles – then Shakatak crashed to the ground with Cadillac sprawling on top of him.

  Cadillac kicked out wildly at Shakatak’s face, knocking off his helmet-mask at the same time as he stabbed viciously at the thick, strongly-muscled legs that thrashed around his own head. Shakatak roared with pain like a crippled bull-buffalo. Twisting round, Cadillac scrambled to his knees, fumbling to change his grip on the bloodstained knife so that he could plunge it deep into Shakatak’s throat, or between the stone and leather chest plates protecting his heart.

  Before he could strike, Shakatak rolled into him then jerked upright, his left hand flashing out to grasp Cadillac’s wrist, staying the knife. Seemingly oblivious of any pain, or the blood pouring from the deep slashes in his leg muscles, Shakatak smashed his right forearm, with its leather and stone cuff against Cadillac’s throat, knocking him backwards onto the ground, half-dazed and choking for breath. Cadillac tried to roll aside. Too late. Shakatak still held his wrist in a grip of iron. Kicking out with his right heel, he hit both of Cadillac’s thighs with paralysing blows then threw his whole weight upon him. Cadillac squirmed wildly, arcing his body like a speared fish, clawing at Shakatak’s eyes but in a matter of seconds, Shakatak was sitting astride his chest, with his knees pinning Cadillac’s arms to the ground, and with Cadillac’s knife in his hand.

  Shakatak grabbed Cadillac’s hair, forcing his head back, and pressed the sharp edge of the blade under Cadillac’s left ear. ‘You fight well, wordsmith,’ he gasped hoarsely. ‘Well enough to have earned the life I now hold in my hands. The D’Vine have no tongues that can pierce the mysteries of the world. The past is darkness. Our fire songs are not remembered. If you would weave them for us so that the bright thread of our bravery endures, you and the fox shall have meat, shelter and standing.’

  Cadillac struggled against the crushing weight on his chest and dragged air down his battered throat. ‘I would sooner have eagles tear out my tongue than poison the air with your name,’ he snarled, half-choking on the words.

  ‘So be it, coyote,’ said Shakatak. ‘I have no past, you have no future.’ He raised the knife high into the air. Cadillac saw the late afternoon sunlight flash off the blade as it hung poised ready to plunge into his throat. He suddenly felt drained of fear; was filled instead with a great sadness at leaving the world; at being parted from Clearwater. But it would not be for ever. He would roam the sunset islands in the sky until his spirit was poured into a new earth-mother, re-entering the world in another skin to fulfil his destiny, sharing the triumph of Talisman’s ultimate victory.

  In the split-second before the knife fell, Clearwater wrenched her head free of Cannonball’s grip and let out a piercing cry; a blood-curdling half-scream, half-shout – the dreaded ululation that was the mark of a summoner.

  In the same instant, Clearwater became the epicentre of a mini-tornado which hurled her three captors from her in a shower of dust, stones and uprooted grass. The claim-stick wavered, was wrenched from the ground, spun wildly up into the air then drove itself through Torpedo’s chest as he tried to strike Clearwater with the stone flail. Cannonball and Freeway crouched low, vainly trying to shield themselves against the shower of stones that rained on them. Cadillac was terrified too. He covered his ears but the intensity of the sound coming from Clearwater’s throat grew, piercing his brain.

  An instant later, the spiralling wind enveloped him and Shakatak, still seated on his chest, arm upraised. The power that Clearwater had unleashed seemed to imbue the knife he held with a life of its own. It vibrated wildly in Shakatak’s fist but instead of breaking free of his grip, the awesome force in the wind caused his fingers to lock tighter round the handle. Sensing the danger, the now-terrified warrior threw up his other hand in a desperate effort to force the knife loose but as he touched it, his fingers closed round those already gripping the knife. Shakatak let out a howl of fear. The muscles on his neck and shoulders bulged as he strained to hold the knife above his head. The vortex of force increased in power, the swirling wind howled, drowning out Clearwater’s wavering, unearthly cry. With one swift, unstoppable movement, the knife in Shakatak’s hands curved downwards in front of Cadillac’s horrified face and buried itself up to the hilt in the warrior’s solar plexus.

  Shakatak gave a harsh, gasping scream and fell forward across Cadillac, his hands still clasped around the knife. Cannonball and Freeway scrambled to their feet and took off across the grass like stampeding fast-foot, closely followed by the howling twister. The sound coming from Clearwater’s throat faded. She fell to her knees, eyes glazed as if in a trance.

  Wriggling out from under Shakatak’s lifeless body, Cadillac stumbled across to Clearwater on his numbed legs and gathered her in his arms. Her body felt cold; drained of life. He laid her down gently and caressed her face, not knowing what to do, completely overawed
by the deadly nature of the power that had come from within her. A power he had not suspected she possessed; that she had never given the slightest hint of possessing.

  After a few minutes, the grey veil lifted from her eyes. He felt the warmth flood back into her body. She smiled at him, then a look of alarm crossed her face. She sat up quickly then relaxed as she realised that they were both out of danger. Cadillac stood up, walked over to the fallen Shakatak and turned his body over. As the dead warrior rolled onto his back, his hands fell limply away from the handle of Cadillac’s knife. Clearwater joined him and they walked to where Torpedo lay transfixed by the D’Vine claim-stick. Their eyes met over his lifeless body.

  ‘Why did you not tell me you were a summoner?’

  Clearwater shook her head in bewilderment. ‘I did not know until now. It was only when you were about to die that the power came upon me. It was sent through me. It used my voice to call the forces up from the earth but I did not guide it.’ She paused and looked back at Shakatak’s body, suddenly intimidated by the terrible violence she had unleashed. ‘I do not know if it will come again.’

  Cadillac nodded. ‘The door in your mind has been opened. If you call, the power will enter. Mr Snow will teach you how to guide it.’

  Clearwater shivered and rubbed her arms. ‘It frightens me.’

  ‘Me too,’ agreed Cadillac. ‘But it is a good power. Did you not save my life?’

  Clearwater shook her head. ‘No. Talisman saved it. It was his strength that flowed through me.’ She gently brushed the wounds on Cadillac’s ribs with her fingertips. ‘If I could have saved you with a single cry I would have struck down Shakatak before he drew his blade. But it was not to be. Talisman did not reveal his power until you revealed yours. You fought bravely, like a great warrior and, at the point of death, you refused to dishonour your clan. You have standing. You have the heart and blood of a Bear and there shall be a fire song to mark this day –’