Death-Bringer

by Patrick Tilley

  The Amtrak Wars

  The Talisman Prophecies

  Book 5:

  Death-Bringer

  PATRICK TILLEY

  For

  Patrick, Freddie and Sean

  the next generation

  who were into computers

  before they were out of nappies

  and have now come to grips with karate.

  From the way things are shaping up

  this looks like a good career move

  for anyone with a ticket to the 21st Century.

  Good luck, boys. Carry the torch. Hold it high.

  Opa

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A Note on the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  In the spring of 2991, Mr Snow, wordsmith of the Clan M’Call, faced a difficult decision. Should he accompany the clan’s delegation to the trading post on the shores of the Great River – or should he stay behind in the hills of Wyoming in case the cloud-warrior returned with Cadillac and Clearwater?

  Two winters had passed since his charges had flown into the Eastern Lands and it was almost a year since the cloud-warrior had gone in search of them. Brickman had promised to help them escape from the Iron Masters but that was easier said than done. The Dead-faces were a fearsome race who lived behind closed borders. No Plainfolk Mute taken away on the wheel-boats had ever regained his liberty. But Cadillac and Clearwater were no ordinary Mutes. They had been born in the shadow of Talisman, and Brickman, the cloud-warrior, was also gifted and resourceful and as cunning as a coyote. And though he did not yet understand why, he too had been touched by Talisman.

  If there was a chance to escape then these three would seize it, for between them they possessed the power to overturn nations. That had been their destiny from the day they had been born. But where were they? Day after day, Mr Snow had posted sentinels to keep a special watch over the eastern approaches to the settlement but the long-awaited travellers had failed to appear.

  They were not dead. In an uncertain world, that was the only thing Mr Snow was sure of. Cadillac and Clearwater were the sword and shield of Talisman, saviour of the Plainfolk who – according to prophecy – was due to appear in human form. Cadillac was to use his great gifts to prepare the way for Talisman, and Clearwater was to use the immense forces at her command to protect the Thrice-Gifted One until his own powers were fully formed. Which, for instance, would be the case if he entered the world as a new-born child. On the other hand, if he was present in someone already alive, with his powers over heaven and earth lying dormant until the chosen moment, then her given task was to protect that individual until Talisman chose to reveal himself. She would do this instinctively, without necessarily understanding why, because Talisman would draw her to him.

  Mr Snow had often wondered if Steve Brickman bore the Talisman within him. The cloud-warrior’s descent from the sky into the hands of the M’Calls had been foretold by the Sky Voices. He and Clearwater had been destined to meet, and in giving herself to him body and soul she had broken the solemn vows that bound her to Cadillac – grievously wounding her former lover’s pride in the process.

  In time, Cadillac would get over it. It was he who had seen their separation in the stones. Clearwater was destined to journey into the dark world of the sand-burrowers that lay beneath the deserts of the south. Home of the iron-snakes that crawled through the land leaving a trail of devastation behind them, and the arrowheads which carried the cloud-warriors across the skies. Warriors armed with long sharp iron and fire-seeds which erupted into smoke and flame with the sound of earththunder. Not the pure flame that swept the tree-spirits up towards the heavens but an evil cousin conjured up by the sand-burrowers. A flame whose thirst could not be quenched by water, that clung to flesh and burned through to the bone.

  Yes, these were dark days. The time known as The Great Dying had come. A time when the courage of the Plainfolk would be sorely tested. Mo-Town, the Great Sky-Mother had withdrawn into the Black Tower of Tamla to weep for her people. Many would perish but the Plainfolk would survive and become a great nation under the banner of Talisman. As a Mute, a revered sage and walking history book of the Clan M’Call, Mr Snow knew that the journey through the Valley of Death had to be undertaken with as much good grace as one could muster. The Wheel turned, The Path was drawn. Human beings could not change their destiny; it was the hubris of the unenlightened that fostered the cruel illusion they could do so.

  But meanwhile, three of the principal players were missing. Where in the name of Talisman were they? In a few days, the clan’s trade delegation would be ready to leave for the annual gathering on the shores of the Great River. Mr Snow had two choices: to go with them, or stay behind. And the cloud-warrior had two ways to return with Cadillac and Clearwater: by smuggling themselves aboard one of the giant wheel-boats due to travel along the Great River to the trading post, or by a more direct, overland route through the territory that had once belonged to the Io-Wa and Ne-Braska.

  A year ago, Brickman had stolen aboard one of the wheel-boats at the trading post and had been carried away to the Fire-Pits of Beth-Lem. If he had managed to complete the journey without being discovered he might decide that this was the best way to return. In the bustle of trading activity, with Mutes helping to load and unload the wheel-boats, they would have an excellent opportunity to steal ashore. Once there they could rejoin their clanfolk, becoming part of the delegation which would then travel home across the plains during the period of truce known as ‘Walking on the Water’.

  That was the sensible way, but the journey from Ne-Issan took many days – perhaps weeks. Finding a place on a wheel-boat where three people could remain undetected for days on end would not be easy. Mr Snow had been taken aboard one for a brief audience with Lord Yama-Shita. They were giant structures but they also carried a large crew who constantly swarmed back and forth like ants on a dunghill. And the wheel-boats only came to the trading post once a year. To return via this route meant boarding the right vessel at exactly the right moment. The cloud-warrior was resourceful enough to gather this information but what if they missed the boat? Or escaped much earlier and were unable to take the longer but safer way home?

  Mr Snow’s dilemma arose from his desire to be at the chosen point of arrival in case his powers were needed to fight off any pursuers. For they would be pursued. That was certain. Over the years of trading, he had come to understand the character of the Iron Masters and their obsession with ‘face’, what the Mutes called ‘standing’. Because of the status accorded to warriors, it was a concept the two races shared, but not to the same degree. Mutes generally nursed their shattered pride then gave it another shot. To the Iron Masters, loss of face was an unbearable condition which, if the victim’s sense of honour could not be regained, often led to suicide. This concern with honour, impeccable behaviour and faultless performance of one’s duties only affected the pure-blood ruling classes; the lower orders – the inferior races – were not graced by such concerns. Which, according to his informant, explained why the gods had condemned them to a life of servitude.

  Yes … Given the nature of Cadillac’s mission, their escape would cause a definite loss of face, and the authorities concerned would spare no effort to recapture them. Failure to do so would cause heads to roll. Mr Snow – who knew nothing of the mayhem the trio had caused at the Heron
Pool – was unaware that in its bloody aftermath a great many already had. He only knew the Iron Masters were tenacious adversaries who did not admit defeat. That was why he had to be on hand in case they pursued his young charges into the heartland of the Plainfolk.

  But he could not be in two places at once and he could no longer hesitate. He now had less than a week in which to make his decision. Perhaps the Sky Voices would consent to guide him. He had consulted them many times during the past year but they had greeted his questions about Clearwater, Cadillac and the cloud-warrior with a baffling silence. He clambered up to his favourite rock, sat down with his legs crossed, took several deep breaths while he admired the view, then raised his closed eyes and opened his mind to the sky.

  For a long while it seemed as if the staff of this spiritual advice bureau was out to lunch but eventually a series of pictures appeared before his inner eye. Soul-searing images of death and destruction on an unparalleled scale; a grisly drama in which he had been given a starring role. Mr Snow was renowned for his courage and resolution but even his indomitable heart quailed at this new burden that Fate had thrust upon him. And what made it worse was the knowledge that these fleeting images were merely a foretaste of what was to come. But there could be no turning back. The Sky Voices had spoken – and had left him in no doubt as to what he had to do.

  Some two thousand miles to the east of the M’Call settlement, Ieyasu, Lord Chamberlain of the Inner Court, grand-uncle and principal advisor to the Shogun Yoritomo Toh-Yota, absolute ruler of Ne-Issan, was also beset by problems that demanded resolution.

  If Mr Snow was old, Ieyasu was ancient, but they had many qualities in common including keen eyes and fire in their belly. Both were shrewd, highly intelligent and infinitely wise in the ways of the world even though the societies in which they lived were totally dissimilar except for their respect of physical courage and the code of honour which formed the basis of the warrior ethos.

  Mr Snow could not read or write but possessed gifts of memory and magic: Ieyasu was literate, extremely well educated and although he was unable to summon earth and sky forces to his aid, the skill and cunning with which he outmanoeuvred all those who sought to remove him from power was little short of supernatural.

  Before Yoritomo’s accession to the throne at the tender age of twenty-three, Ieyasu had exercised absolute power in the name of the Shogun’s dissolute father. Yoritomo, now twenty-nine, was made of different cloth. Restrained in his sexual appetites, something of an ascetic in his attitude to food and drink, overburdened with a tiresome morality and obsessed with traditional values, Yoritomo had proved particularly difficult to deal with. And the main source of difficulty was his determination to take sole charge of the nation’s affairs and ignore the voice of experience. The voice, of course, being that of his grand-uncle.

  It was hard enough trying to keep the government afloat and conspirators at bay without having to reeducate an aspiring saint who was trying to manoeuvre you out of office. In time, Yoritomo would learn. But he would learn a lot quicker and make life a lot easier for everyone by absorbing the distilled wisdom of his grand-uncle. Something he had done with the utmost reluctance.

  In part, it was a natural reaction to the moral laxity which had pervaded the Inner Court during his father’s reign. As a new broom, Yoritomo wanted to make a clean sweep. A perfectly laudable aim. The court was in need of a thorough spring cleaning. But in politics one never did anything to excess. Yoritomo did not understand the importance of leaving a little dirt in the corners. His puritanical streak – laudable in a monk but utterly depressing in a vigorous, intelligent young man holding the highest office in the land – was blinding him to the realities of power.

  The young shogun had not yet grasped an essential truth: exploiting the weaknesses of powerful men – especially powerful opponents – was an important element in the art of statecraft. It was also true that a nation needed honest men of high principle and modest ambition. They made excellent civil servants. The government revenue and customs houses and the postal service were always crying out for more. Sinners, on the other hand, made better dinner companions. And they were a lot easier to do business with.

  Ieyasu was also a traditionalist, as opposed to those who favoured progressive ideals – a group of domain-lords led by the Yama-Shita family. But the progress advocated by this cabal of entrepreneurs was restricted to the introduction of new industrial processes and manufacturing techniques. No one, however radical their ideas were in that direction, was in favour of modernising the feudal system on which Ne-Issan had been built.

  The problem – in Ieyasu’s eyes at least – was that you could not have one without undermining the other. And none of the seventeen ruling samurai families was prepared to surrender an ounce of power or privilege to the lower classes. It was the merchants who argued the case for an expanding economy and the benefits to be gained by increasing the purchasing power of the masses by – if you please – paying tradesmen and servants higher wages! Some had even suggested setting up trade links with the long-dogs inhabiting the buried cities beyond the Western Hills – but what else could one expect from chinamen who had an abacus where their brains should be?

  The greatest bar to progress was the immutable edict which forbade, under pain of death, the re-introduction of the Dark Light. It was also a treasonable offence for lesser mortals to utter its name and such was the dread it inspired, even those at the pinnacle of power only did so with the greatest circumspection. According to the scrolls which chronicled the distant past, the creation of the Dark Light – electricity – had corrupted mankind and led the gods to destroy The World Before with a tidal wave of golden fire. A wave that had engulfed the ancient homeland of the Iron Masters, and which was so high, it had covered the peak of Fuji, the sacred mountain which contained the soul of Nippon. As a result, there was a deeply-held belief that to seek to resurrect the Dark Light would be an act of incredible folly which would once again place the world in mortal peril.

  But, as Ieyasu knew, the world of Ne-Issan was bordered by the Appalachians and the Eastern Sea. There was another vaster world beyond the Western Hills, inhabited by grass-monkeys and long-dogs: Plainfolk Mutes and Trackers – the soldier-citizens of the Amtrak Federation. The Mutes were hairy savages, semi-nomadic hunters with no craft skills beyond those needed to support their simple mode of life. All their edged-weapons, crossbows and metal implements were supplied by the Iron Masters. But the Trackers were warriors who had no fear of the Dark Light. It was the life-force of their underground society. It enabled them to send images and voices through the air, it powered their weapons, their giant, caterpillar-like land-cruisers and their skychariots – war-machines which entered the cloud-realm of the kami with impunity and were not cast down.

  Their presence posed a threat to the world of Ne-Issan yet Amaterasu-Omikami stood aside and did nothing. Their underground cities were not crushed, and the world beyond the Appalachians was not ravaged by heavenly fire – a theological conundrum that was studiously ignored by the leading sages of the Shinto priesthood.

  Ieyasu knew the answer. The Dark Light was neither good nor bad. Electricity was a power that lay at the heart of the natural world. It could be captured by special, cunningly-wrought machines and conveyed along special threads from one place to another, or shot through the air like an invisible arrow that flew across plains, mountains and seas within the space of a single heartbeat.

  Like all power, it could be used and abused. It could corrupt, in the same way that sake addled the brains of drunkards and opium destroyed the will of addicts. But in its pure state, it was not inherently evil. Electricity had been created to be the slave of man. Only if the man was weak could the slave became his master. Ieyasu had certain foibles but he was not a weak man. He enjoyed the attendant luxury his privileged birth and high rank afforded him but he was consumed by nothing except the desire to manipulate the reins of power to the ultimate benefit of the Toh-Yota family
and the Shogun. In that order. Ieyasu ate well, drank judiciously, and kept his gaunt, aging body in trim by practising his swordsmanship. He enjoyed male and female company and could still produce a commendable erection which a select circle of court ladies – ever anxious to advance themselves or the careers of their husbands – accommodated by supplying him with a string of pubescent nymphets.

  The Dark Light might kill him but it would never enslave him. Ieyasu knew this because it had served him well over many years. Key members of his private network of secret agents had been using high-powered radio transceivers and other electronic devices for the last ten years. The same type of equipment used by the secret agents of the Federation and which, after a series of stealthy contacts, had been supplied by them to Ieyasu’s organization under the terms of a secret protocol signed by him and Commander-General Karlstrom, the head of AMEXICO.

  Among the items covered was the return of any mexican caught by the Plainfolk Mutes and sold to the Iron Masters. Other clauses outlined mutually-beneficial arrangements for the pooling of specific types of information, for example – the kinds of weapons the Iron Masters planned to supply to the Mutes by way of trade and, in return, any snippets of information which could help Ieyasu head off any bid to topple the Toh-Yota shogunate.

  A final clause set out the arrangements for joint operations between the two spy networks. It was here that AMEXICO’s help had proved invaluable. There were certain locations which, for various reasons, Ieyasu’s home-grown agents were unable to penetrate or where they could not operate effectively. The wheel-boats operated by the Yama-Shita family were one example. The vetting procedures were so strict it was impossible to slip an outsider into the crew. The only alternative was to buy the allegiance of someone already serving the family but experience had shown this to be a costly and highly unreliable way of doing business.

  Karlstrom had supplied the answer: the insertion of mexicans, disguised as Mute slaves, and armed with a working knowledge of japanese and other asiatic languages into sensitive locations. Ieyasu, after some initial misgivings, had accepted the offer. And it had worked. As non-persons, slaves were regarded as part of the brickwork, and since no outlander was permitted to utter a word of the Iron Master’s sacred tongue, people talked in front of them without ever suspecting their conversation was being monitored. Disguised slaves could not, of course, penetrate the secret council chambers of high-ranking plotters but they were the source of a surprising amount of raw intelligence. And many of the council chambers were no longer secret thanks to the electronic bugging devices obligingly supplied by AMEXICO.