Death-Bringer

by Patrick Tilley

  On shore, having recovered from their surprise, the massed clan delegations of the D’Troit raced after the She-Kargo like a howling lynch-mob. Moving with them were their own summoners, but they could not reply in a similar manner. In order to do so, they would have had to place themselves of were their own warriors – exposing themselves to a well-aimed crossbow bolt. A summoner could only call up the forces from the earth and sky when he was standing still. The very act rooted him to the spot until the forces had passed through him. That was the second drawback to being a summoner.

  The deadly hail of stones raised by Dark-Star’s team had cut down hundreds of warriors. The D’Troit were not prepared to wait for a similar cloud to smite the fleeing She-Kargo. Some of the pebbles on the beach were bigger than a man’s fist but a direct hit could not be guaranteed. Knives, on the other hand, always found their target.

  The She-Kargo faction had been ordered to cover the three miles to the channel at the fastest possible speed. Those who tripped and fell, or lagged behind for whatever reason were to be left to their own devices. They could either try to catch up or make a stand in the few seconds that remained before they were engulfed by the screaming horde now racing towards them. A brave but futile gesture which failed to slow the pace of the pursuit. The leading ranks of the D’Troit simply ran around the stragglers, leaving them to be hacked to pieces by the tens of thousands of warriors packed into the middle and rear of the column.

  The time taken to cover the first three miles was a little under eighteen minutes – well outside the world record for that distance, but this race was run over an uneven bed of sand and shingle, not a rolled Olympic-class cinder track. Even so, the leaders were still travelling at over ten miles an hour, equal to the speed of Mitsunari’s wheel-boat.

  Fortunately, the wheel-boat had further to go and it was still out of range when the front of the column reached the three hundred yard wide channel and pounded across in a cloud of spray.

  Mitsunari realized that there was no chance of placing his wheel-boat in the channel – thereby cutting off the She-Kargo’s line of retreat. And having seen the violent sandstorms raised against the D’Troit, he was reluctant to get too close for fear of losing the vessel. The stories of Mute magic had been discounted, but he had now seen evidence of it with his own eyes! Already one wheel-boat with a noted commander and carrying many of his own comrades had gone down in Lake Mi-shiga. He did not propose to be on board the second.

  Mitsunari did not fear death, but as a samurai his whole life had been geared to one end: to die in the heat of battle on behalf of his domain-lord. Drowning – even in the line of duty – was a quite ignoble way of departing from this life. He asked Captain Umigami to alter the ship’s heading fifteen degrees to starboard. The bow of the wheel-boat was now aimed at the long upper sand-bar, but the approach angle was much shallower, allowing the cannon mounted in the port side galleries to brought to bear against the retreating column.

  M’Call elder Rolling-Stone had seen the wheel-boats discharge their cannon in a ceremonial salute but he had never seen them fire in anger. Others, in the early days before the Mute clans agreed to trade with the Iron Masters, had been given a practical demonstration. Being in the target area of a broadside from one of these vessels had proved an unforgettable learning experience and the news had been passed on.

  But this was not the only new threat. To the She-Kargo’s rear, the deadly pursuit had not slackened and now, as the middle and rear segments of their straggling formation headed towards the channel, they came under fire from the first of the D’Troit bowmen to reach the spur of land jutting out from the western side of the lagoon. Volley after volley of crossbow bolts flew across the four hundred yard stretch of water, cutting down warriors right, left and centre.

  Rolling-Stone and Mack-Truck urged the last of their clansmen into the channel then turned to greet Dark-Star D’Mingo. His escort – two giant M’Waukee warriors – had hoisted him up by his armpits, leaving his flailing legs barely touching the ground.

  They set him down in front of Rolling-Stone. He crumpled like an empty sack then straightened up. ‘I know, I know, I know. They weren’t supposed to pick me up. But don’t be angry at them. They are my sons.’

  He quickly embraced them both then turned his eyes skywards. ‘Bless you, Sweet Sky-Mother, for the loan of two strong arms!’ He turned back to his sons. ‘Right! Off you go! I’ve got work to do!’

  The two young warriors paused uncertainly. Dark-Star shoved them into the water. ‘Go on! Get moving!’

  His sons raised their hands in a farewell salute then ran on and were lost in the clouds of spray raised by the other fleeing warriors.

  Dark-Star crouched at the water’s edge between Mack-Truck and Rolling-Stone as hundreds of warriors sprinted past. Muscled thighs lifting and driving their flying feet, pounding the water to foam as they passed across to the other side. Foam that was already tinted with the blood of those slain by the bowmen on the nearby spur.

  ‘Are you out of your mind?!’ exclaimed Rolling-Stone. ‘Go after them!’

  ‘Pwwahhh! I’ve done enough running for one day!’

  ‘So have I,’ admitted Mack-Truck. ‘There’s no way I’m ever going to make it to the top of that bluff.’

  Rolling-Stone eyed the distant high ground that overlooked the seven mile-long sandbar their warriors had to cover before they reached safety. ‘Me neither …’

  ‘Better make ourselves useful then,’ said Dark-Star. Running back and forth across the curved point of the sand-bar he recruited two of his earlier colleagues as they stumbled to the water’s edge and ordered Rolling-Stone and Mack-Truck to arm their crossbows and gather as many bolts as they could from warriors who had fallen to the incoming fire from the nearby spur.

  Working their way through the dune grass on the lagoon side of the sand-bar, they came opposite the point where the D’Troit bowmen were massed. Dark-Star turned to his two colleagues. ‘I know it’s asking a lot but I want you to raise some more whirlies as the last of our people come through. I’ll try and spoil the aim of these toads over here.’ He gripped their hands in the traditional gesture of farewell. ‘Give it everything you’ve got. This is as far as we go.’

  The two summoners accepted their imminent death with the calm resignation that all Mute warriors strove to achieve and hid themselves in wind-scooped hollows between the spiked tufts of grass.

  ‘And what do we do?’ enquired Mack-Truck.

  ‘Do your best to cover us. The longer we can keep going, the more chance our brothers will have of getting out of this alive.’ Dark-Star glanced over his shoulder at the wheel-boat in the lake beyond as it crossed the mouth of the channel, almost sideways on to their position. ‘See how those yellow runts are trying to cut us off? They’re working hand-in-glove with the D’Troit!’ He ground his teeth together. ‘Oh, Talisman! When the guilty are judged, make them pay in blood!’

  Breaking away from Rolling-Stone and Mack-Truck, Dark-Star waded into the water seemingly oblivious of the incoming volleys of crossbow bolts. He concentrated for a moment as if gathering his inner strength, then threw his head back and spread his arms out sideways with the palms facing downwards. A shrill piercing cry burst from his lips and in the same instant, a small whirlpool formed in the water directly below each of his outstretched hands.

  Flexing his arms, Dark-Star pushed the whirlpools out of reach then, as they grew in size and increased their speed of rotation, he swept his arms upwards. Responding to his unspoken command, the whirlpools became two huge spinning columns of water that rose into the air – and kept on rising until they were about a hundred feet high. The noise was deafening – like the buffeting roar of gale-force winds tearing through the tree-tops.

  By now, Dark-Star’s hands were high over his head. He swept them forwards, the two index fingers aimed across the lagoon at the warriors massed on the opposing shore. The tall, snaking columns of water surged forward like unleashed hunting d
ogs. Behind them, Dark-Star raised another pair, then another.

  Before they had time to grasp what was happening, the C’Natti bowmen on the point of the spur found their view of the sand-bar obscured by twelve huge undulating columns of water, each one now twenty to thirty feet in diameter and bearing down on them with the speed and menace of an approaching express train.

  The wind circling each column whipped their faces and tore at their clothing then, as the first waterspouts reached the shore, the huge columns of water collapsed with a thunderclap of sound.

  Those immediately below were knocked senseless to the ground, others on the shoreline were swept into the lagoon. More spouts followed in their wake, swamping the spur from all sides. To many of the terrified Mutes it was as if the heavens had opened and the Sky Voices were venting their wrath upon the C’Natti for challenging the will of Talisman. Hundreds turned tail and fled inland. The hardier souls stood their ground but the torrential cascades of water falling out of the sky and the continuous advance of newly-formed waterspouts masked their view of the retreating She-Kargo.

  Running in their clan groups, spread out across the whole width of the sand-bar, the forty-five thousand warriors of the She-Kargo faction – or to be more accurate those still up and running – took about ten minutes to pass the point where Rolling-Stone, Mack-Truck, Dark-Star and the other two summoners were making their last stand. The D’Troit had been tearing savagely into the tail end of the column and despite the order to keep running, many of those in the rear had decided to stand and fight rather than face the ignominy of being cut down from behind.

  As a consequence of these desperate struggles, a slight gap – no more than thirty yards at best – had opened up between the She-Kargo and their pursuers. It was this approaching gap that Dark-Star’s colleagues – Silent-Running and Condition-Red – proceeded to exploit, each raising a power vortex that sucked stones and sand into the air then hurled them at murderous speed towards the advancing D’Troit.

  Once again the front ranks wilted and fell back under the onslaught, but as before it only caused a temporary delay. Those behind continued to leap over the prostrate bodies of their comrades, some falling in their turn, others circling round the lake-side of the sand-bar, under cover of the central ridge.

  The power given to summoners did not pour endlessly like water from a tap. It came in finite bursts, and like a battery that needed to be recharged after use, it quickly ran out if constant calls were made upon it. That was the third drawback to being a summoner.

  The howling sandstorms faltered then died. Sand and stones rained vertically out of the sky and seconds later the water around Dark-Star became ominously still. Totally exhausted, he staggered in the waist-deep water then pitched forward, face down. Two crossbow bolts struck the upper half of his body as he sank beneath the surface. Silent-Running and Condition-Red went down unresisting under a flurry of knife-thrusts. Rolling-Stone and Mack-Truck threw aside their empty cross-bows and met death knife in hand and a cry on their lips.

  ‘Drink, Sweet Mother!’

  They had been doomed from the start but their defiant stand had gained a few vital minutes of respite which allowed the tail end of the retreating column to get across the channel onto the upper sand-bar without further losses.

  But the chase was far from over. The She-Kargo and their allies had another seven miles to run before reaching the safety of the northern shore, followed by a steep, six-hundred foot climb up the face of the bluff to where Mr Snow now stood, guarded by a phalanx of M’Call Bears and ten of the She-Kargo’s most powerful summoners.

  It was not his life he cared about. Mr Snow was aware he might not survive the battle. The warriors and summoners were there to protect his magic.

  Only he had the potential to redress the balance; to counter the combined strength of Mute and Iron Master ranged against them. He had made a spectacular stand against the The Lady from Louisiana but his prodigious efforts on that occasion were dwarfed by the scale of the task that now confronted him. He was not even sure he could deliver what he had promised the delegates to the midnight war council.

  Immense powers lay hidden in the earth and sky, but the gift that enabled him to summon them was given to him by Talisman – and it was exercised with his blessing to do his Will. Would he allow his power to be used to tear the Plainfolk asunder? Mr Snow, who had spent virtually every moment since his arrival trying to plan for every eventuality finally gave up worrying and turned his red-rimmed eyes to the sky.

  We offer our spirits into your care, Sweet Mother. Let his Will be done …

  From his present vantage point, Mr Snow had a bird’s eye view of the evolving struggle and he could zoom in close on the action with the aid of the compact but powerful viewing device found on Brickman after he had been shot down during the Battle of the Now and Then River.

  To the left he could see the long sand-bar with the mass of She-Kargo and M’Waukee Mutes moving along it from the far end. He could also see the wheel-boat closing in on their right flank. Beyond the channel, the first waves of the D’Troit were entering the water.

  Immediately below him, defending the northern end of the sand-bar and the steep slope the last of the baggage train and the exhausted runners had yet to climb were several thousand reinforcements summoned from nearby She-Kargo and M’Waukee clans. Arriving in batches all through the night, some had been running Mute-fashion for twelve hours non-stop. These breathless latecomers asked for and were given no respite. They acknowledged the shouted greetings and directions of the battle-marshals with a wave and ran to their allotted positions without breaking their stride.

  Swinging to the right, to the western side of the lagoon, Mr Snow could see the C’Natti ‘army’ advancing along the route taken by the She-Kargo faction’s worldly goods. Having stolen away two hours after midnight, the baggage train and its escort of San’Paul warriors were now safely across the narrow point of the river estuary. Half their number had reached the top of the bluffs, but a long jostling line of porters trailed back down the path onto the shore below.

  Come on, come on, come on! Move! Move! Move!

  It was a nail-biting moment. The C’Natti were closing the gap at an alarming speed, but because of the initial confusion surrounding their departure and the circuitous route they were obliged to follow, the leading groups were still some way behind the She-Kargo column on the upper sand-bar. Mr Snow prayed they would not succeed in drawing level. If his plan was to succeed the She-Kargo faction had to reach the shore and scale the bluffs before the C’Natti crossed the river estuary and turned to cut the She-Kargo line of retreat – a danger Mack-Truck had already foreseen.

  O, Talisman, our Saviour on high, give wings to the feet of our warriors, and give us the power to defeat our enemies!

  By this time, the four remaining boats in the flotilla had run the square-cut bows of their vessels onto the gently shelving beach below the trading post. The joint D’Troit and C’Natti war council led by Prime-Cut, Judas-Priest, Screaming-Tree, Flesh-Eater, Corpse-Grinder and War-Machine had kept back some ten thousand delegates to provide an impressive welcoming committee. Taking their cue from Prime-Cut, all of them cheered wildly as the masked, richly-dressed samurai came hurrying ashore in their curious bandy-legged fashion as soon as the wide gangways had been lowered into place.

  Cutting short the usual formalities, Samurai-General Shinoda dispensed with the services of an interpreter-spokesman and demanded a direct explanation of what was happening.

  His boat-captain, Kato Yukinagi, stood nearby, flanked by the worried commanders of the Ko-Nikka and Se-Iko vessels. Neither had expected to find themselves in the middle of a war-zone.

  Prime-Cut had already worked out the crucial elements of his reply with one of the Yama-Shita’s forward agents. After delivering a brief, highly-coloured and totally biased account of what had happened the day before, he formally requested the assistance of the Iron Masters in punishing the treacherous She-Ka
rgo. Had it not been for the vigilance of the D’Troit, he declared, these hired lackeys of the sand-burrowers would have attempted to seize the wheel-boats and murder their crews!

  Hawwwwhh! The leading samurai from the Yama-Shita family crowded behind Shinoda and the wheel-boat captains reacted with a convincing degree of shock and horror, striding to and fro, and posturing in a warlike manner to express their outrage.

  If the noble Iron Masters were willing to come to the aid of their loyal friends, cried Judas-Priest, they must do so quickly!

  Oshio Shinoda went through the motions of consulting the Se-Iko and Ko-Nikka captains, but while they were formulating their answer, the first of the Yama-Shita’s mounted samurai came clattering down the gangways of their two beached vessels.

  As strangers in a strange land, the Se-Iko and Ko-Nikka could do little else but agree. They had not come prepared for trouble but having come this far – at great expense – they did not want to return empty-handed.

  By the time they had conferred and given their reluctant agreement to the proposed military action, the first two squadrons of samurai cavalry had already departed at the gallop; the first along the sand-bar, the second around the western side of the lagoon. And seconds after the Se-Iko and Ko-Nikka had penned their assent to the bottom of a document that Shinoda had thoughtfully prepared to cover just an emergency, a volley of green rockets soared skywards from the roof of his wheel-boat.

  This was the signal that Samurai-Major Mitsunari and Captain Umigami on the bridge of the flank-boat had been waiting for.

  B-BA-BBOOOMMMM!! The port side of Mitsunari’s wheel-boat erupted with smoke and flame as the thirty lower cannon were fired simultaneously, hurling a salvo of 201b iron balls at the retreating Mutes. Watching through their spyglasses, Samurai-Major Mitsunari and Captain Umigama chortled gleefully as the cannonade ripped bloody gaps in the column, sending bodies and great gouts of sand and smoke flying into the air.

  ‘B-BA-BBOOOMMMM!!’ The guns ranged along the first, upper gallery fired in their turn. More hits. Umigami ordered the helmsman to bring the vessel closer to shore so that the cannoneers could load grapeshot and cause even more casualties. Wounded soldiers ran slower and were easier to kill.