by Don McQuinn
Sylah rose slowly. She said, “We should make camp elsewhere, even if it means a night ride. We have to leave behind everything that happened here. Everything.” Her voice trembled with sorrow, as well as with the unspoken fear that forgetting might be the one insurmountable task that could break them.
Chapter 28
Jones followed Fox. Flat on their stomachs, they inched the last few yards toward the juniper-crowned ridgeline that was their objective. At this altitude, the air was cool. The lowering sun at their backs contributed little warmth, and the crisp, tangy scents of sage and juniper seemed to promise even greater chill as dusk deepened. In tantalizing contrast, the evening sky was a horizon-to-horizon display of thick-bellied clouds that resonated warm shades of pink, orange, salmon.
The Mountain warrior moved farther up the slope, his headband sporting sprigs of brush and grass. Jones, similarly equipped, and dressed in identical leather shirt and jacket, waited until Fox reached the ridge before starting his own climb. When Fox turned to glare at the noise behind him, Jones had to look away to avoid laughing. The man looked like an angry shrub.
Continuing up, Jones put a finger on his wrist to check his pulse while he reflected on what was about to happen. The beat was steady and sure. A surge of pride swelled his heart. Not many men in history—in either world—had been called on to make the decisions that were calling out to him almost daily.
He refocused on Fox. There was a good example of his leadership problems. A perfect savage; superstitious, absolutely group oriented. Impervious to pain, ambition, enticement. Integrated into his environment with human skills and the cunning of the beasts. Anyone would see all that. Who else would see the perfect pawn? No one. Nor would anyone else be able to control such an elemental force.
Fox signaled him forward, and Jones pushed himself across the stony soil and prickly growth in noisy imitation of a snake. He ignored Fox’s pained gestures demanding silence. Fox would have to learn that leaders weren’t expected to perform like creatures of the field. For an exciting moment, Jones’ mind flowed with lush images of retribution.
He was close enough to the crest to look over now, if he stretched. Savoring what was to come, he resisted the impulse, pushing himself the last scratchy inches to his first view of what awaited him so that it would be free of any distraction.
Fox’s scouting report had been very descriptive, so Jones expected no surprises. What was important was to see it properly, to absorb the scope of it. It must come to him in a burst, all at once, to fill him with the power of its potential.
Eyes closed, he felt the earth slope away under his palms and splayed fingers. He rested his chin on the back of his hands. Looked into the future. Looked at the engine sent to carry him in glory into the new world.
The nomads covered the immense floor of the valley between crenellated mountains. The camps were separated, sometimes by a mile or more. The campfires were just flickering to life in the purple-gray dusk. Great, high-wheeled wagons loomed like stolid beasts in the crepuscular softness. The tents were domes, with saucerlike caps above the smoke holes in the roofs. Some, with cookfires burning inside, glowed like coals studded into the flat valley floor. The haze from so many fires combined to create a shimmer across the landscape. Its wavering translucence added to the impact of the scene, giving it a mystic, transient air. Jones imagined blinking, then opening his eyes to discover everything gone.
The notion was a delicious fright. He shivered. Fox clamped a restraining hand on his shoulder. It was a gross liberty, and for one blind, raging instant, Jones thought of his rattlesnakes, the thick bodies compressed in S-curved anticipation, measuring…
He composed a placating smile.
With the disappearance of the sun, the darkness was pierced by fires below and stars above. Jones found it awe-inspiring, an omen, a battle for dominance between sky and earth.
Torch-bearing nomad security patrols began riding in. Fox sneered. With his mouth practically touching Jones’ ear, he said, “They destroy the night eye. Worse, they tell everyone where they are. My warriors would follow, like wolves trail a lamb to the flock. These people are fools.”
Before Jones could comment, Fox gestured for silence. It took a while before Jones heard the approaching horses. Fox held up five fingers twice, pointing toward the sound. Jones hurriedly indicated retreat. Fox shook his head in a negative.
Riding in two loose columns, the patrol passed within fifteen yards of the men hidden on the ridge. They paused directly below to light their torches, giving Jones ample time to study them. The leader was a tall, swarthy man with a mane of hair bound in a club that trailed almost to his waist. Two of his patrol affected the same style, while four were shaved completely bald. The latter all wore hats, which they’d taken off, now that the sun was no problem. Jones noted that two of the bald ones showed the scars of old wounds; one in particular made him reach to touch his own injury.
All wore long-sleeved cloth shirts. Trousers were cloth, with tie-on leather covers in front to protect against brush. Footwear was boots, but where some reached almost to the knee, others barely reached the ankle. Every man carried the same weaponry. Most obvious was a lance. Jones estimated it at about eight feet in length. The sharp end was a barbless iron cap; the bun was leather-wrapped. A brass tubular fitting on at each saddle the rider’s right rear provided a holder. With the butt inserted in the tube, the point rode to the rear, angled at such a degree that no rider closing from behind would impale himself. In addition, the men carried bows and arrows. When the leader drew his sword from its copper-bound leather scabbard to point toward the camp while giving orders, Jones saw it was relatively short, almost exactly as long as the man’s arm from wrist to armpit, with a thick, massive blade.
Remembering the Dog warriors who’d harried him and Altanar southward out of Ola, Jones wondered how the two forces would match up in combat. These people rode bulkier horses and their weapons indicated a different philosophy. The Dogs relied more on speed and elusiveness. This was heavy cavalry. Their bows and arrows were long, designed to be launched from a distance. That would disorganize the opponent. Then the charge with lances. Finally, the cleaverlike swords, battering as well as hacking.
While Jones analyzed and measured, the unsuspecting patrol got their torches burning satisfactorily, then descended the mountainside at a fast walk.
Once inside the camp, the torches split off, each seeming to drift among the tents like an errant spark, glimmering out when the individual rider arrived home.
For some time the camps bustled with activity. Faint sounds drifted up to the watchers. Music. Laughter, on one occasion loud and rollicking. Horses whinnying, cattle bellowing. Incongruously, a rooster.
The camp quieted slowly, so that silence simply slipped over it.
Then, shuddering across the valley, came the low mourning of horns. Jones inhaled audibly.
Fox had reported the night horns, as well as the deep, rolling chant that flowed from each camp even as the brazen echoes continued to call. He had failed to convey the stunning effect.
Recovering his composure, Jones said, “The chant of the moonless night. I’ve never heard the ceremony so magnificently done.” While he spoke, fires leapt to life in the approximate center of each camp. Dimly, they could see the firemen, the ones who would keep the flames alive through the darkness. Jones went on, “What a pleasure it’ll be to perform all the rites among such a throng, among people dressed in richness.”
Fox was defensive. “We do all the rites now, just as you instruct.”
“Of course you do.” Jones patted his arm, placating. “But see how much more impressive it is down there? Hundreds—thousands—of people, all obeying the same commands?”
“What matter how many believe, if a thing is the truth? Are we less good Moondancers because we are few? Or poor?”
Jones sighed, letting silence convey his irritation.
Both men shifted, suddenly aware how long they’d been
in one position.
The other noises began shortly after that. Far to the east, a wolf howled. Haunting, chilling, an answer rose from the south. Down in the valley, close to the now-invisible tents, a coyote yammered. Several others joined his song, touching off barking challenges from the camp dogs. Moments later, a dog snarled, then yelped. Immediately, it was screaming, and the sounds of animals fighting erupted. The screams ended sharply. Humans shouted. Mocking coyote yowls answered.
Silence filled the valley once more.
Jones slid back off the crest, indicating Fox should come with him. When they could stand with no danger that their heads might be silhouetted, Jones looped his hand under Fox’s belt in the back. In trail, he let the more nature-wise warrior lead to their previously established campsite.
The walk took nearly twice as long in the dark as it had in daylight, even with Fox leading. Still, when they reached the narrow cleft between a pair of downed trees, they settled down by mutual understanding, too intrigued by what they’d seen to simply fall asleep.
Jones started the conversation as Fox built a tiny fire in a hole. “Don’t misjudge their scouts and the torches,” he said. “They’re not fools, Fox. Fools don’t roam and conquer as we hear they have. What you saw is confidence. They’ve scouted this land. They know they’re being watched. They’re telling the watchers that they don’t care if anyone knows where they are. ‘Attack if you dare,’ they’re saying.”
“I’d attack. The Mountain People are like the tiger. Step on our territory prepared to die.”
“True,” Jones agreed equably. “And when men choose to, they hunt the tiger down and kill it not because they’re stronger or better hunters, but because there are too many of them for the tiger.”
Fox’s voice from the darkness carried the image of wounded pride. “Then why have you had me and my men endanger ourselves by observing them? If they’re too strong for us, why do we approach them?”
Jones poked in the firepit long enough for a fresh-cut green stick to ignite. The faint light sharpened his features to acute angles. After grinding out the flame, he rose. Pointing at his companion with the smoldering wand, he said, “We shall defeat them, then command them. You are my weapon. Strike their patrols. Strike those who search for you. Creep into their camps, strike at their sleeping hundreds. Kill, and kill again. This leader, this Katallon, must understand that he follows false prophets. You bring him confusion and irritation. I will bring him relief, and then I shall show him conquest beyond his imaginings. We shall create.”
“Create? Something to impress Katallon? After we’ve killed his people?”
Throwing back his head, Jones laughed. The metallic ring of it made his companion shift nervously. When Jones resumed speaking, his voice rasped. “Exactly that. Be with me, serve me with all your heart and skill, and I will give you Katallon’s warriors to command. Believe.” He thrust his face within inches of Fox’s. Sweat-dampened skin gleamed red as fresh blood in the coal-glow. When Fox stared back into the probing eyes fixed on his, the embers were reflected there, burning at him from deep, deep in Jones’ skull.
Fox stood, trembling. “I do believe. I obey. Moonpriest. Reborn to rule above all other men.”
A son. The man responded like a true son. Jones’ throat tightened with emotion.
Moonpriest, Fox called him. Moonpriest. Religion personified.
Certainly.
Chapter 29
The column moved warily, horses and men combined into one immense, sinuous beast that slipped through the dry forest. Flankers searched the ridges paralleling the valley’s swift-flowing stream, while a point force of twenty men led the way. Another group of twenty rode rearguard. Teams of two riders each scoured the ground between the flankers and the main body, following an erratic course that took them from one potential hiding place to another.
Approximately a mile from where the lead riders carefully picked their way through the trees, the valley bent to the north at a sharp angle. The earth had broken there, twisted by a spasm beyond imagining in a time lost to man’s memory or present learning. A stream leapt into space at that break, creating a waterfall that cloaked the granite wall in swirling, lacelike folds. The midmorning sun struck at the sheeting flow, transformed it into exuberant silver. The delicacy of shimmering rainbows contradicted the tumult of falling water and the wind it stirred up.
High above the canyon, Jones stood motionless beside a tree and watched the advance. From behind him, on slightly higher ground, Fox said, “It’s as you suspected. The man’s leading them to our camp.”
Jones nodded easily. “I didn’t suspect. I knew. No protector has the skills to avoid trackers. As soon as he deserted, I knew he’d be captured and tell all he knew.” He changed the subject. “The commander of that column is quite good. You were right to advise against an ambush in the valley.”
“We’ve taught them caution.”
“You’re phenomenal people. Three dead in three weeks of raids. And Katallon’s patrols only got the body of one of them. They must think your men are ghosts.”
“I hope so. But I think we should leave now. The column should be working itself into an attack position shortly before dark.”
It was a short walk to the reverse side of the ridge and their horses. On the way, they passed the other men assigned to observe the column. Some were former protectors, some were Fox’s Mountain warriors. Despite his earlier remark, Jones was impressed by the improvement in the field skills of the protectors. Nevertheless, there was something about them that made it obvious that they were fugitives. Fox’s people had the eerie ability to suddenly appear in one’s vision, and the worst thing about them was that they were invariably watching. They were simply, suddenly there. They made Jones very nervous, made him think of the tiger that he and the other crèche survivors saw on their first day leaving the cave. He had known fear—yes, even terror—in a world of poison gas, nuclear weapons, and terrorism. In this world he’d looked into death the moment his eyes met those of that animal. It still made his breath come in sharp, almost painful bursts to realize that another life-form saw him as nothing more than food.
The experience continued to color his perception. Other men judged as men. Moonpriest must evaluate from a different, higher, viewpoint.
That was how he dealt with these, his nucleus.
The Mountain warriors were deadly, but only men. Dirty men, at that. At least they bathed now. Jones shuddered at the memory of their sanitary habits before he could convince them that washing wouldn’t make them more vulnerable to the unseens of other tribes. There were so many things like that—rituals and prayers with no known origin, customs that served no apparent purpose, but which had acquired the authority of tradition. The Mountain People they’d met on their southward journey weren’t nearly as fierce as Fox’s tribe. Why was that? And why did they have a sacred fire, and Fox’s branch didn’t?
Those questions, and others, kept his mind occupied during the ride to the campsite on the plateau behind the waterfall. By the time they arrived, the sun was halfway between its highest point and the tops of the higher mountains to the west. As Jones dismounted, rubbing the inside of thighs that never seemed to adjust to horseback, one of the protectors hurried up, sliding from the saddle, hitting the ground at a trot. His horse ambled a few paces farther. The rider approached Jones, reporting. “The scouts are almost up to the plateau, very excited, talking a lot. Our patrol leader’s afraid they’ll attack as soon as they see the camp.”
The danger of an undisciplined charge by the advance elements of the column was very real. If it happened, it would cause problems. Even followers as thoroughly cowed as his would be affected by the deaths of their women and children.
So far, his judgments had been perfect. The plan would work.
All his plans were perfect. The signs were unarguable, in escapable.
Which didn’t mean that details should be ignored. Jones told the rider, “Go back to your leader. Te
ll him to follow my instructions.” To Fox, he said, “Go, assure that everything’s in order.”
The camp appeared normal. Children played. Warriors around a fire sharpened weapons. A group of women skinned and butchered a wildcow. Slabs of meat were passed to women at a small table. They rubbed them with handfuls of salt, then layered them with more salt in a large stoneware jar.
The steady clash of metal on metal drew Jones’ eyes. A man was raising a bowl by pounding a sheet of copper on a rounded tree stump. A bed of coals glowed dully next to the worker, and as Jones watched, the man took the roughly rounded form and worked it down into the coals. With a pair of tongs, he moved it around until he was satisfied, then settled back to wait for it to heat properly.
Jones knew that the heat treatment restored the ductility of the copper. Without that annealing it became brittle, and instead of forming a smooth curve under the hammering, it shattered.
The Mountains’ version differed. They said that because the metal was born of fire, it took life from fire; the coldness of the hammer could kill it.
Jones sighed and turned away. Suddenly, the sight of the conical little tents depressed him. Barbaric, cramped, smelly leather painted with symbols of superstition. He squatted and waddled through the ground-level entry of his own tent. Rising inside, his head nearly touching the crown where the poles met, he slumped back to his knees. He considered falling over on the bed, then rejected the idea. A cloth bag full of rough herbs and pine tips. Wonderfully scented, but a couch for a man destined to lead all men to salvation?
To the side, the rattlesnakes watched him from their individual rectangular baskets of woven willow. Patient eyes, sharp as obsidian chips, watched his every move. Supple forked tongues darted. Only Moonpriest could thrust his arms into those baskets and extract them entwined in living death.