“Seen what?”
“The horned ones attacking our village.”
“No. The Carns have been attacked. Tonight.”
“Yes, the Carns,” she said dully. “I dreamed of that two nights ago. I am to die. No children for Curopet. No man through the long winter nights. We are all to die.”
“Nonsense. The future is not set in stone; we make our own destinies,” said Shannow, pulling her to him. The blanket slid away from her shoulders as she moved toward him, and he saw that she was naked, her body glowing in the dancing light of the blaze.
“Do you promise me that I will live?” she asked.
“I cannot promise, but I will defend you with my life.”
“You would do that for me?”
“Yes.”
“And I am not your wife?”
“No. But you are close to me, Curopet, and I do not desert my friends in their need.”
Curopet snuggled into him, her breasts pushing against the bare skin of his chest. Shannow closed his eyes and drew back.
“Let me stay?” she asked, and he nodded and stood. She went with him to his blankets, and together they lay entwined. Shannow did not touch her, and she slept with her body pressed close to him and her head on his breast. Shannow slept not at all.
In the morning Shannow was summoned with all warriors to the long cabin, where Karitas sat on a high chair, the only chair in the village. The warriors—thirty-seven in all, counting Shannow—sat before him.
Karitas looked tired and gaunt. When everyone was seated, he spoke.
“Five of our ESPer women have seen an attack on us by the Hellborn. We cannot run, and we cannot hide. All our stores are here. Our lives are here. And we cannot fight, for they have thunder guns and are many.” He fell silent and leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, his head bent and his eyes staring at the floor.
“Then we are to die?” asked a warrior.
Shannow glanced at the man; he was stocky and powerful, and his eyes glowed fiercely. “It would appear that way, Shonal. I can think of nothing.”
“How many are they?” asked Shonal.
“Three hundred.”
“And all with thunder guns?”
“Yes.”
“Why should they attack us?” questioned another man.
“It is their way.”
“Could we not send someone to them?” suggested a third man. “Tell them we will be their friends, offer to share our food?”
“It will avail us nothing; they are killers and drinkers of blood. They have wiped out the Carns, and we are next.”
“We must find their camp,” said Shannow, standing and turning to face the men. “It is winter, and they must have tents and food stores. We will burn their tents, destroy their stores, and kill many. Perhaps then they will be driven back to their homelands until the spring.”
“And will you lead us, Thundermaker?”
“Indeed I will,” promised the Jerusalem Man.
With somber faces the men left the cabin to prepare their weapons and bid farewell to their wives and children. Shannow remained with Karitas.
“Thank you,” said the old man, his head still bowed.
“You owe me no thanks, Karitas.”
“I know you think me a little mad, but I am not stupid, Jon. There is no victory to be gained here. You have made a noble gesture, but my people will still die.”
“Nothing is certain,” Shannow told him. “When I rode the hills, I saw a number of shallow caves. Fetch the women and children and as many stores as they can carry and take them there. Cover your tracks where you can.”
Karitas looked up. “You believe we have a chance?”
“It depends on whether this is an invasion or a raid.”
“That I can tell you. It is the ritual of the Blood Feast, where newly ordained warriors gain their battle honors.”
“You know a great deal about them, old man.”
“Indeed I do. The man who leads them calls himself Abaddon, and I used to know him well.”
“It is a name from the Book,” said Shannow sharply. “An obscenity named in Revelation as the leader of the Devil’s forces.”
“Yes. Well, in those days he was simply Lawrence Welby, a lawyer and a socialite. He organized curious parties with nubile young women. He was witty, urbane, and a Satanist. He followed the teachings of a man called Crowley, who preached ‘Do what thou wilt is the whole of the law.’ Like me he survived the Fall, and like me he appears to be immortal. He believes he is the Antichrist.”
“Maybe he is,” said Shannow.
“He had a wife back then, a wonderful woman—like light and dark they were. I was a little in love with her myself; still am, for that matter.”
“What happened to her?”
“She became a goddess, Shannow.”
“Will Abaddon be with the raiders?”
“No, he will be in Babylon. They will be led by seasoned officers, though. I cannot see how my few people can oppose them. Do you have a plan?”
“Yes. I shall prime my weapons, and then I shall pray.”
“I think you have your priorities right, at least,” commented Karitas.
“They are only men, Karitas. They bleed, they die. And I cannot believe the Lord of Hosts will allow them to succeed.”
As Shannow rose to leave, Karitas stopped him. He took the stone from his pouch and offered it to the taller man.
“Without it you may die. Take it with you.”
“No. Keep it here. You may need its powers.”
“It is almost used up, Shannow. You see, I refuse to feed it.”
“How do you feed a stone?”
“With blood and death.”
“Do not worry about me, Karitas. I will survive. Just get your people into the hills and keep that pistol primed.”
Shannow returned to his hut and loaded his three spare cylinders, stowing them in his greatcoat pockets. Then he took the Bible from his saddlebag and turned to Jeremiah:
“Thus, saith the Lord, Behold, a people cometh from the north country and a great nation shall be raised from the sides of the earth. They shall lay hold on bow and spear; they are cruel, and have no mercy; their voice roareth like the sea, and they ride upon horses, set in array as men for war against thee …”
Shannow set aside the section and closed his eyes. In the distance thunder rolled across the heavens.
He rose and left the hut, his saddle on his right shoulder. In the open ground beyond thirty of the warriors awaited him with set faces, their quivers full of arrows.
“I will ride out and scout the land. Follow my tracks and wait for me where you see this sign.” He made the sign of the Cross with his arms and then walked past them to the paddock.
Shannow headed east and did not once look back to see the warriors in single file loping behind him.
The country was open, and in places snow had drifted to a depth of more than ten feet. The gelding skirted the drifts and headed on toward the high ground and the distant timberline of the Carns’ territory. Shannow had seen the attack on the Carns’ village and guessed that the Hellborn would camp there overnight. If he was right, they now had two options: They could rest for the day at the site of their victory, or they could ride on immediately toward Karitas’ village. If the former, Shannow’s small band stood a chance. If the latter, the two parties would meet on open ground and the villagers would be massacred.
The day was icy cool, and a breeze was blowing from the north. Shannow shivered and gathered his coat at the collar. The gelding pushed on through the morning, and the distant trees grew steadily closer.
The crack of a pistol echoed in the air, and Shannow drew on the reins and scanned the trees. He could see nothing, and the distance was too great for the shot to have been aimed at him. Warily he rode on. Several more shots sounded from the woods: The Hellborn were hunting the last of the Carns. Shannow grinned. The first danger was past.
At the foot of the
last rise before the woods Shannow dismounted. He gathered two sticks and tied them in a cross, which he thrust into a snowdrift; it would be many hours before fresh falls of snow would cover it. Then he guided the gelding up the rise and into the trees.
A blue-and-yellow-streaked figure hurtled from the snow-covered bushes, saw Shannow, screamed, and fell as he attempted to change the course of his flight. Then a horse leapt the bush. Shannow’s pistol fired as the animal landed, and the helmed rider catapulted from the saddle. Shannow cocked the pistol and waited, ignoring the cowering Carn, who was gazing openmouthed at the dead Hellborn. The rider was obviously alone, and Shannow dismounted, tying the gelding’s reins to a bush. He approached the corpse; the rider could not have been more than fifteen years of age and was a handsome boy even with the round hole in his forehead. Shannow knelt beside him, lifting the boy’s pistol. As Karitas had shown him, it was loaded with cartridges. Shannow opened the rider’s hip pouch; there were more than twenty bullets there, and he transferred them to his own pockets before thrusting the boy’s pistol in his belt. Then he turned to the Carn.
“Can you understand me?” asked Shannow.
The man nodded.
“I have come to kill the Hellborn.”
The man edged close and spit into the dead rider’s face.
“Where is your camp?” asked Shannow.
“By tall rocks,” answered the savage, pointing northeast.
Shannow tethered the rider’s horse beside his own and moved forward on foot toward the northeast.
Three times riders came close to him, and twice he stumbled across the bodies of dead Carns. After an hour he found a steep path winding down into a sheltered glen. There he could see the huts of the Carns, a picket line, and more than two hundred horses. The Hellborn were wandering freely around the camp, stopping at cooking fires or talking in groups around larger blazes.
Shannow studied the area for some time and then eased his way back into the trees. Every so often a pistol shot caused him to freeze and drop to the ground, but he made his way back to his horse unobserved. The Carn had gone, but not before ripping out the eyes of the dead Hellborn … The boy did not look handsome now. Shannow was cold and sheltered behind the horses, huddled against a bush, waiting for the villagers. After an hour he moved to the edge of the trees and saw the group waiting stoically by the cross. One of them looked up and saw him, and he waved them to join him.
Shonal was the first to arrive. “They are camped?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“When do we attack?”
“After midnight.” Shonal nodded.
Shannow spotted Selah in the group and summoned him. “You should be back at the village.”
“I am a man, Thundermaker.”
“So was he,” said Shannow, pointing to the corpse.
By dusk the pistol shots had ceased to sound, and Shannow had begun to believe he was freezing to death. The villagers seemed not to notice the cold, and he cursed his aging bones.
The moon rose in a clear sky, and toward midnight the bushes by Shannow’s head parted and a warrior stepped into sight. Shannow rolled, his right-hand pistol sweeping up. The man was a Carn, and he squatted beside Shannow.
“I kill Hellborn also,” he said.
The villagers were alarmed. Many had weapons in their hands, and several bows were bent and aimed at the newcomer. Shannow sheathed his pistol.
“You are welcome,” he said.
The Carn lifted his hands to his lips and blew a soft humming note. All around them Carn warriors appeared, armed with knives and hatchets. Shannow could not count them in the dim light but guessed there were twice as many Carns as villagers.
“Now we kill Hellborn, yes?”
“No,” replied Shannow. “We wait.”
“Why wait?” asked the warrior.
“Many are still awake.”
“Good. We follow you.”
Shannow found the man’s pointed teeth disconcerting.
Shonal crept to his side. “This is not right,” he whispered, “to sit thus with Carns.”
The Carn leader hissed and spit, his hand curling around his knife hilt.
“That’s enough,” said Shannow. “You may resume your war at a later time. One enemy is enough for today.”
“I will follow you, Thundermaker, but this turns my stomach.”
“He probably feels the same, Shonal. Be patient.”
At midnight Shannow called the two leaders to him.
“They will have posted guards, and if they are disciplined, they will change the guard sometime soon. We must wait until the sentries are relieved and then kill those who remain. It must be silent—no screams, no shouts, no war cries. Once the shooting starts, you must flee. Bows and knives are no match for guns. You understand me?” Both leaders nodded.
“Also, we must steal as many of their horses as we can. Shonal, have Selah and several of the younger men assigned to that task. Tell them to head the horses west and wait for us about a mile away.”
“What do we do when we have killed the sentries?” asked Shonal.
“We walk into the camp and kill them as they sleep. As each man dies, take his pistol and keep it ready. You know how to fire a pistol?” Both men shook their heads, and Shannow drew his own weapon and eased back the hammer. “Like this; then you point it and pull the trigger, here.”
“I understand,” said Shonal.
“I also,” whispered the Carn.
“Good. Now take your best warriors and seek out the sentries. There should be four, but there might be six, all around the camp perimeter. When you have killed them all, return here with their pistols.”
The Carn slid away, and Shonal remained. “It seems … unnatural,” he whispered.
“I know.” The villager vanished into the darkness.
Then began the long wait, and Shannow’s nerves were strained to the limits. Every minute that passed he expected to hear a pistol shot or a scream. After what seemed an age the blue-yellow Carn leader appeared through the bushes.
“Eight men,” he said, holding up two pistols, both cocked.
“Be careful,” said Shannow, gently pushing the barrels away from his face.
He pushed himself to his feet, and his left knee cracked with a sound he felt rivaled the earlier thunder.
“Old bones,” said the Carn, shaking his head.
Shannow scowled at him and moved off, the warriors following silently. They arrived at the camp just as the moon vanished behind a cloud. Shannow squatted on the rise above the huts with Shonal and the Carn beside him.
“Split your men into groups of six. It is important that we enter as many huts as possible at the same time. All the men with guns will fade back to that point there, by the stream. Now, at some point someone will wake up, or scream, or shoot. When that happens, run into the woods. Then the men with guns will open fire. But remember that each pistol fires only six times. You understand?” Both men nodded, but Shannow ran through the strategy twice more to ram it home.
Then he drew his hunting knife, and the warriors moved silently down the hill. Starting at the southern end of the village, they split into groups and entered the huts.
Shannow waited outside, eyes scanning the doorways and windows of the other dwellings. Gurgling cries came to him and some sounds of scuffling, but they were muted, and the warriors emerged from the huts bathed in blood.
Dwelling by dwelling the avengers moved on, and the night breeze brought the stench of death to Shannow’s nostrils. He sheathed his unblooded knife and drew his pistols; their luck could not hold out much longer.
By the sixteenth hut Shannow’s nerves were at the breaking point.
Then disaster struck. A warrior dragged back the hammer of a captured pistol while his finger was on the trigger, and the shot echoed around the camp. In an instant all was chaos as men surged into the night.
Shannow raised his pistols and rained shots into the milling crowd. Men fell sc
reaming, and other pistols flared in the darkness. A shot from behind whistled past his ear, and he turned to see a tribesman vainly trying to recock his weapon. A bullet smashed the Carn from his feet. Shannow fired his left-hand pistol, and a Hellborn warrior toppled to the ground, his head crashing into the coals of the dying fire. With a flash his hair caught light and blazed around his face.
“Back!” shouted Shannow, but his voice was lost in the thunder of shots. He emptied his pistols into the ranks of the Hellborn and then sheathed them, drawing the captured weapon from his belt. He ran back toward the stream, where at least a dozen warriors had remembered his commands. Elsewhere in the camp the Carns had charged the Hellborn and were in among them, shooting their pistols point-blank but hampering Shannow’s force.
“Back into the trees,” Shannow ordered, but the men continued to fire at the milling mob. “Back, I say!” said Shannow, backhanding a man in the face. Hesitantly the warriors obeyed.
Shots screamed by Shannow as he ran, but none came close. At the top of the rise he stood with his back to a tree, breathing hard. Thrusting the captured revolver back into his belt, he took his own pistols and added fresh cylinders.
Shonal came alongside him. “Most of our men are here, Thundermaker.”
“What of the horses?”
“I could not see.”
“Without horses they will hunt us down before we are halfway home.”
“Selah will have done what he can; the boy is no coward.”
“All right,” said Shannow. “Get your men out of the woods and head for home. If Selah has done his work well, there should be horses around a mile away. If there are, do not ride straight for the village but head north and then swing back when you reach firmer ground. Try to cover your tracks—and pray for snow.”
Shonal grinned suddenly. “Many dead Hellborn,” he stated.
“Yes. But was it enough? Go now.”
Shannow reached his horse and mounted, wrenching free the reins. A Carn whom he recognized as the leader loomed out of the darkness. “I am Nadab,” he said, holding out his hand.
Shannow leaned forward and gripped the man’s wrist.
“No more war with the Corn People,” said the Carn.
“That is good.”
Wolf in Shadow Page 10