Death-Bringer

by Patrick Tilley

  Prime-Cut gave it one last try. ‘You ask us to believe in The Chosen, but they are not here! Are they frightened to appear before us in case their so-called feats of bravery on behalf of the Plainfolk are revealed for what they really are – criminal acts sanctioned by the sand-burrowers who wish to destroy our friendship with those who give us aid and support?!’

  His booming voice cut through the surrounding noise, bringing a sudden hush.

  Mr Snow closed his eyes, raised his face briefly to the sky then said the first thing that came into his head. ‘The Chosen do not fear the truth! They are not here because they confront an enemy the warriors of the D’troit have yet to face! At this moment, as I speak, they battle against the iron-snakes of the Federation!’

  The bull-ring erupted with thunderous cheers. Prime-Cut looked as if he was about to bust a blood-vessel, but it was all over and he knew it. He stepped forward, teeth bared, and came nose to nose with Mr Snow. ‘You lying sonofabitch!’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ chuckled Mr Snow. ‘But can you prove it?’

  Before Prime-Cut could frame a reply, several of the She-Kargo wordsmiths hoisted their hero onto their shoulders and carried him in triumph from the ring.

  In the afternoon, with the help of the M’Waukee, who provided them with a suitable disguise, a group claiming to represent an important number of C’Natti trade delegations sought an audience with Mr Snow. Essentially, what they had to say was this: they were greatly concerned that the actions of certain members of the She-Kargo might jeopardize the existing trading arrangements (and they left Mr Snow in no doubt as to who they were referring to) but – and it was an important proviso – they were not prepared to lend their support to ‘those elements who were actively contemplating a joint action with the Iron Master against certain of the Plainfolk’.

  Having stated their position, the disguised spokesmen proceeded to ask questions. Did the She-Kargo have any plans to resist a surprise attack by a rival faction? If so, they were prepared to help in any way they could.

  Once again, they did not name names, but there was no doubt who the C’Natti spokesmen were referring to. Their veiled expressions of solidarity could well have been genuine but Mr Snow could not be sure. They might have been sent by the D’Troit in the hope of discovering what, if anything, the She-Kargo had up their sleeve.

  Framing his reply as carefully as he could to avoid spurning what might be a bonafide offer, Mr Snow said: ‘There is no plan. We have put our faith in Talisman. Let those who believe in him stand by us. The She-Kargo will never be the first to draw sharp iron against their brothers.

  ‘The last thing we wish to do is divide the Plainfolk, especially now when The Chosen are amongst us. All of us must put an end to our ancient blood-feuds. We must cleanse our hearts and minds, sweep away our petty rivalries and rally to Talisman’s bright banner. If you believe that He is our Saviour, strike down those who insult His Name by giving aid to our enemies.’

  ‘Yes, but when and where do you expect all this to happen?’ enquired one of the C’Natti wordsmiths.

  Mr Snow threw up his hands. ‘Who can fathom the workings of poisonous hearts? If betrayers revealed their hand treachery would never flourish as richly as it does today! It is the assassin who chooses the place and the hour, not his victim! Look about you! Danger surrounds us! Go and prepare yourselves! And be vigilant!’

  Nitwits …

  Mr Snow spent the remaining daylight hours in head-to-heads with the leaders of friendly delegations, securing pledges of support and a firm promise to attend a midnight council of war in the depths of the wood which was now ringed by sentinels posted by the She-Kargo. All this should have left the M’Call delegation in an upbeat mood but their earlier exuberance had been dampened by the unprecedented number of clashes between groups of hot-heads from the rival bloodlines.

  The use of weapons in these encounters – which by tradition were strictly forbidden – was a sign that the fragile truce governing these occasions was under threat. Despite the efforts of the line-capos and camp-marshals, the ugly brawls continued throughout the day, causing death and injury to both sides.

  Faced with a steadily deteriorating situation, a high-level meeting proposed by the M’Waukee and C’Natti brought representatives of the D’Troit and She-Kargo face to face in the bull-ring. But this too failed to ease the tension. By prior agreement, neither Mr Snow nor Prime-Cut was there but it was clear that the D’Troit were still angry that their spokesman had been made to look like a prize asshole and despite the mutual expressions of respect and willingness to reconcile their differences by amicable and reasoned debate the meeting broke up amidst angry recriminations from both sides.

  The D’Troit, and to a lesser extent the C’Natti, were clearly spoiling for a fight. And they had imported the muscle to make sure they won it hands down.

  The last major conflict in the history of the Plainfolk had been the Battle of the Black Hills when two entire clans – the M’Calls and the B’Nardinos from the D’Troit bloodline had fought each other to a finish in a running encounter that lasted from sunrise to sunset.

  Thunderbird, Clearwater’s father, had fallen in that battle from which the M’Calls emerged bloodied but unbowed – a victory which confirmed their position as paramount clan of the She-Kargo.

  But that was fifteen years ago. There had never been a clash of arms on that scale before or since and, more important still, there had never been any occasion where clans of the same, or competing bloodline had submerged their traditional rivalry to stand shoulder to shoulder against a common enemy. Until now. And having had less than 48 hours in which to cobble together a temporary alliance and hammer out a concerted plan of action, no one in the She-Kargo faction was sure how long it would hold together.

  The Mute warrior ethic was similar in many respects to that of the samurai – the military class that ruled Ne-Issan – but there was one important difference. The Mutes were gang-fighters, not battlefield soldiers. Their skills, and the supremacy of the knife were derived from their pre-Holocaust ancestors – the ghetto people who, by some miracle, had emerged indelibly scarred but alive from the nuclear blasts that levelled and torched America’s great cities. Desperate, impoverished individuals whose entire lives had been a struggle for survival in the urban jungle. An underclass whose sense of right and wrong had been warped by deprivation and injustice. Whose moral nerve endings had been dulled by the callous exploitation and dog-eat-dog indifference that was the hall-mark of the pre-Holocaust era.

  They had survived then by the quickness of their wits, feet and fists, a combination of animal cunning and hair-trigger aggression, a readiness born of desperation to take what they wanted: the very qualities needed to survive the aftermath of a global nuclear war.

  Abstract philosophizing, the art of debate, the intellectual flatulence of the educated classes, the privileges of the mega-rich secured by acres of prime real estate and Swiss bank accounts, the well-meaning advocates of charity, compassion and the fellowship of man were buried beneath the smouldering ashes. Literacy went up in smoke as the unschooled burnt the remaining books to keep warm.

  It was not the meek who inherited the earth but the traumatized remnants of the bread-line poor, the muggers, pushers, the sewer-rats and hoodlums, along with the Rambo-style, Soldier of Fortune gun-crazy firepower freaks who had prepared for Armageddon in the backwoods of America.

  Stranded amid the wreckage of the 20th century, like flotsam and jetsam left high and dry on an alien shore, this residue of humankind had separated into their different ethnic groups, like snails of different species placed together in a cage. At a time when everyone was a potential predator, the only security was within a group sharing a common language, customs and racial origin.

  During the next nine centuries and through numberless generations, they had gathered strength and multiplied. Around countless camp-fires they had recreated the past, mixing fact and fiction in the same way that jazz musi
cians improvise on a well-known melody. Dimming memories of distant events had given birth to a new mythology, a new identity; mutated genes had spawned a new, mishapen but strangely gifted breed of humankind. And when the grey curtain of clouds that brought the Great Ice-Dark retreated, revealing the sun and stars in all their glory, the first of a race of warrior clans emerged – the Southern Mutes and their northern brothers who later became known as the Plainfolk.

  Later, when the delegates to the midnight war council had agreed on a joint plan of action and returned to their own lines, Mr Snow toured the M’Call encampment, bringing hope and encouragement to his clanfolk like Shakespeare’s Henry V on the eve of Agincourt. His last call was upon Blue-Thunder, Rolling-Stone and Boston-Bruin who sat around one of the many fires with the other leading lights of the M’Call trade delegation.

  As he squatted down and warmed his hands, Rolling-Stone threw some more wood onto the glowing embers and stared moodily into the leaping flames. ‘So tomorrow’s the big day …’

  ‘Yes, when the wheel-boats get here.’ Mr Snow’s voice was racked and hoarse from countless hours of argument and persuasion.

  Blue-Thunder tested the edge of the blade he was sharpening. ‘I don’t understand it. The D’Troit must know we know what they’re up to. Why are they waiting? Why didn’t they attack us today?’

  ‘Psychology.’

  Blue-Thunder frowned at the unfamiliar word.

  ‘They’re trying to unnerve us by letting the pressure build up. Keeping us in suspense. The way the numbers are stacked up they know we are not going to attack them. In theory, they can strike when and where they please. But it will be on the beach at dawn tomorrow. That’s what I’m counting on.’

  ‘But what makes you so sure?’ insisted Blue-Thunder.

  ‘Because it’s the dead-faces from the Yama-Shita family who want to get even. They’ll use the D’Troit and maybe the C’Natti to make the opening play but they’ll be in at the kill. You’ve seen them at work. Chopping people to pieces is what Iron Masters like doing best. They’re not going to come all this way just to watch from the sidelines.’

  Doctor-Hook, a M’Call warrior who often acted as a bodyguard to Mr Snow, approached the fire. ‘It is time to leave, Old One.’

  ‘Good.’ Mr Snow rose to his feet. The others followed. After exchanging farewell handclasps with each of them, he said: ‘If any of you have any questions about who’s supposed to be doing what come the dawn now’s the time to ask. We may not see each other again.’

  He ran his eyes around the ring of mishapen firelit faces. No one spoke.

  ‘Good.’ He turned to go.

  ‘There is one thing,’ said Blue-Thunder. ‘That stuff in the bull-ring. Was it true? Did Cadillac, Clearwater and the cloud-warrior kill hundreds of dead-faces like Prime-Cut said?’

  ‘They may have done. According to Carnegie-Hall, Cadillac said they were involved in a big battle in which many died. If it’s true then it’s something we should be proud of.’

  ‘Yes. But did the sand-burrowers help them win it?’

  Mr Snow shrugged. ‘Who can say? Talisman moves in mysterious ways.’ He drew his dark-hued cloak around his body with a showman’s flourish. ‘Now! I suggest those of you who form part of the beach party should try to get a little sleep. When you wake up you’ll find the weather is to our advantage. Make the most of it because we won’t be able to hold it in place for long.’ He backed away, his hand raised in a last farewell. ‘And for goodness sake, try to look more cheerful! We’re going to win!’

  The M’Call elders and the other members of the She-Kargo war council who shared their misgivings as the small hours ticked away might have gained some comfort had they known that the leaders of the D’Troit faction were also plagued by doubts and difficulties.

  Every D’Troit clan, by the cherished tradition of their bloodline, was a mean bunch of mothers – which meant, inevitably, that they were scornful and suspicious of any attempt to moderate their behaviour. They were governed by only one discipline – violence. They were takers, not makers. They preferred pillage to husbandry. The hunting and killing of meat on the hoof was an acceptable pastime, but why grow breadstalks and green-stuffs when the winter larders of weaker clans could be ransacked at The Gathering?

  In a violent world where every male and female of fighting age was expected to carry sharp iron, the D’Troit were the supreme predators, feared, hated and despised by all. In the brief period when peace was supposed to reign at Du-aruta, they were the chief trouble-makers and much of it was caused when they were caught trying to augment their own stock of tradeable items by stealing from the baggage trains of other clans. They came to the trading post as spoilers, and during the rest of the year they cruised the ocean of red grass like blood-crazed killer sharks.

  Given their reputation, one might reasonably wonder why they were not the paramount bloodline. Perhaps only Talisman knew the answer to that. By some quirk of fate, the clans of the D’Troit bloodline were less fecund than those of the She-Kargo. In overall terms, they had remained numerically inferior. The ratio of gifted Mutes to the rest of the population was also lower amongst D’Troit clans. There were some eminent wordsmiths but very few summoners, most of whom were only gifted with the first two Rings of Power.

  The knowledge that their rivals were more favoured in this respect was a constant source of envy and resentment. Talisman’s apparent lack of even-handedness had caused the D’Troit to regard this saviour figure with increasing contempt. The Plainfolk had been waiting nine hundred years – how much longer would they have to wait? To the D’Troit, this endless waiting had become futile and pathetic. It was time for those who could to help themselves.

  These festering grievances, the innate capacity for violence and the basic indiscipline which had caused many of the D’Troit to abandon their belief in Talisman had also bedevilled the forward planning of their leaders.

  Having primed their warriors for a joint attack on the She-Kargo, the chieftains and elders had come close to fighting amongst themselves as they accused each other of failing to control the hotheads under their personal command. Why – they asked – in the name of the Great Sky-Mother could the mad-dogs they led not understand they were only to attack the She-Kargo when the Iron Masters got there?!

  Since they all posed the same question whilst denying that their own delegation was at fault the discussion, as might be expected, soon became overheated.

  The D’Troit war council, which included representatives from the C’Natti and San’Louis, had counted on seizing and holding the initiative from the very beginning, but Mr Snow’s robust defence in the bull-ring had thrown them off balance. His rallying call for the Plainfolk to unite and his invocation of Talisman had caused many of the C’Natti delegations to waver.

  Despite the rumours of a mass defection, they would not switch sides. They were too spineless for that, but they might hold back when the fighting broke out. So be it. When the D’Troit emerged triumphant, as the paramount bloodline with the sole right to trade with the Iron Masters, the C’Natti would come crawling like whipped dogs to lick their feet.

  And would be crushed like all the others …

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mr Snow’s prediction about the weather proved chillingly correct. In the wake of his departure, the air turned cold and damp. A mist began to form. At first, it lay only ankle deep above the ground but within two hours it rose, blotting out the night sky. Sixty minutes later, when the D’Troit, C’Natti and San’Louis rose to make their final surreptitious preparations, the huge encampment, the trading post, and a five mile stretch of the adjacent shoreline was wrapped in a clammy pale grey blanket.

  Every year, the clan delegations made their way down to the shore in the pre-dawn twilight to await the moment when the wheel-boats appeared on the horizon, silhouetted against the incandescent disc of the rising sun. To the impressionable unscientific mind of the average Mute the wheel-boats appeared to issue from
the sun itself; an impression that the Iron Masters had been at pains to reinforce. This year, the normally well-ordered migration from the lines to the trading post was marked by scenes of unparalleled confusion. The mist was so thick, the D’Troit and their allies were obliged to set up a line of warriors standing at arm’s length from each other to find their way to the trading post and the beach below.

  When they arrived to take up their alloted positions, they were surprised to discover that the She-Kargo, M’Waukee and San’ Paul had already staked their claim to the north-western end of the shoreline and were spread out across the entire width of the lower sand-bar from lake to lagoon. With visibility reduced to three or four yards, the disposition of the entire She-Kargo faction could only be guessed at. Any further reconnaissance was barred by several, densely-packed lines of warriors.

  This pre-emptive move on the part of the She-Kargo left the leaders of the D’Troit-C’Natti-San’Louis war council in some disarray. By denying access to the part of the lower sandbar they now occupied, the She-Kargo faction had neatly blocked any outflanking manoeuvre by their opponents. Any attempt to force a way through would have immediately led to a pitched battle in swirling mist, which at times was so thick you could barely see beyond the end of your knife arm. The present poor visibility was not the only limiting factor: by prior agreement, the attack on the She-Kargo was not supposed to take place before the Iron Masters arrived on the scene. In the circumstances, the D’Troit and their allies had no choice but to position themselves along the remaining section of the beach, between their rivals and the tall, ornately carved trading post. And wait.

  The original plan had called for the She-Kargo faction to be sandwiched in between the C’Natti and D’Troit. A twin pincer movement on the landward side – easily achieved by their numerically superior forces – would have left the She-Kargo and M’Waukee surrounded with their backs against the sea and with no possibility of escape. At the same moment, a secondary action was to have been launched by the San’Louis against the camping grounds occupied by the She-Kargo, M’Waukee and San’Paul. With the majority of the delegations crowded onto the shore to await the arrival of the Iron Masters, the lines would only be thinly defended.