The noise of the first two salvos bounced off the rocky rampart and reverberated across the lake towards the trading post. Noting the increasing bewilderment of the Se-Iko and Ko-Nikka, Shinoda explained with studied courtesy that these opening shots had been the signal for the cavalry to draw their swords in support of the friendly tribes of grass-monkeys. A signal which, of course, could not have been given without their consent.
Inviting the two captains and their chief lieutenants to accompany him, Shinoda boarded the red and gold vessel which had once carried his domain-lord and ordered the captain to cruise along the sand-bar so that he and his guests could survey the carnage. The ingrained streak of cruelty that all Iron Masters possessed made the invitation impossible to resist.
The third Yama-Shita wheel-boat followed, leaving the Se-Iko and Ko-Nikka vessels beached by the trading post, under the command of their junior officers.
From the top of the bluff, Mr Snow watched helplessly as repeated broadsides from the upper and lower decks tore great gaps in the columns of running warriors. And on the flank-boat, the sweating, smoke-blackened gun-crews poured buckets of water over their muzzle-loading cannons to cool the heated barrels.
To aid the retreating She-Kargo and M’Waukee delegations, four lines of bowmen had been stationed across the sand-bar at regular intervals. As the last men passed through the first line, the bowmen fired into the advancing D’Troit, then fell back. And as they and the retreating troops pass through the second line the operation was repeated.
By the time the fourth line had fired their lethal volley, the first line had taken up a new position as the fifth line, and so it went on, mile after mile, all the way along the sand-bar. But the plan had not taken into account the repeated cannonades from the wheel-boat – and now Mr Snow could see that two more were steaming in the same direction!
Fortunately, the firing from the western side of the lagoon had ceased. Through Brickman’s viewer, he could see the hunting packs of the C’Natti running flat out in an effort to draw level with the She-Kargo.
Behind them, gaining fast, were the leading horses of the second squadron of samurai. Each rider carried the tall black and silver house-flag of the Yama-Shita mounted on a slender pole fixed to the back of his armoured tunic. With their horned, wide-brimmed helmets, snarling iron battle-masks and other warlike accoutrements they were a fearsome sight.
B-BA-BBOOOMMMM!! The sound of another broadside thundered across the lake as thirty muzzle-loads of grapeshot scythed down several lines of running Mutes. Unable to bear the one-sided slaughter any longer, two She-Kargo summoners, gifted with the Third Ring of Power, ran into the shallows and called up huge waterspouts as Dark-Star had done.
Before this moment it had not been practical to do so. There was a limit to the power that flowed through the Third Ring. The towering columns of water the summoner was able to raise and move in a chosen direction could not travel very far – half a mile at the most and somewhat less if the summoner was generating a series of them. Beyond a certain point, the dynamic thrust that kept the twisting column up in the air and moved it forward simply petered out and the whole thing just collapsed in a cloud of spray.
But now, the wheel-boat had steamed closer to the shore and within seconds of being summoned into life, four towering waterspouts were snaking across the lake towards Captain Umigami’s vessel and more were being brought to life behind them.
Seeing what was happening, a large number of warriors broke off from the retreating column and formed a human rampart around the summoners to protect them for as long as they could.
Samurai-Major Mitsunari and Captain Umigami stared in horror as the line of waterspouts came spinning across the lake towards their boat. The wheel-house perched on top of the third floor gallery was already some fifty feet above water-level – these huge roaring white snakes were higher by at least half as much again, maybe more!
A raging wind tore through the portside galleries and buffeted the wheel-house then the boat shuddered as the first four columns of water slammed into it. Water cascaded out of the sky and burst into the side cabins, flooding through the transverse passageways to empty over the starboard side. Again and again the ship was struck. Interior partitions were swept away as torrents of water poured down the maze of stairways onto the through deck and into the holds below.
The basic structure had been built to resist the worst of storms but no one had envisaged moving walls of water as high as this! Two more, top-heavy spouts struck the port side of the wheel-boat just forward of midships, snapping off both funnels and sweeping them into the sea beyond. The next seemed to be aimed directly at the wheel-house.
Before anyone inside had time to react, the hundred foot high column of water struck the corner of the forward galleries. Several tons of water fell out of the sky, flattening the wheel-house and its occupants.
Samurai-General Shinoda, on the bridge of the following boat, watched speechlessly as the tumbling mass of water hit the roof of Mitsunari’s vessel and exploded, hurling the splintered wreckage of the wheel-house and the rag-doll bodies of his comrades into the sea. Finding his tongue, he invoked the protection of Omikami-Amaterasu, the supreme deity. Like all his compatriots, he had discounted the half-baked tales of Mute magic, but it was true! He had seen it with his own eyes. These grass-monkeys had summoned a horde of evil kami to their aid!
And as if to underline the awful truth of this conclusion, the huge boiler in the bowels of the stricken vessel exploded with a muffled roar. For a brief instant of time the damage was contained then, with a thunderous boom, billowing clouds of smoke and steam burst out through the roof and the ruptured side galleries.
The cannons fell silent. And the last waterspouts faltered and died before reaching the wheel-boat as the two She-Kargo summoners went down under a dozen flashing knives. The bodies of their defenders littered the water’s edge, staining it with their blood.
The run continued, the death-toll mounted. But now, with only three lung-stretching miles between the retreating column and the face of the bluffs, they entered the last defensive zone where, in the hours between midnight and dawn, feverish preparations had been made to delay the pursuit.
Six-foot square lattices of poles, lashed together with sharpened stakes fixed at right-angles to every join had been scattered along the bar, sharp end down. As the column passed by, the frames were turned over by the tail-enders to expose the lethal points and tossed into the path of the oncoming D’Troit.
Their size made them too risky to leap over. The fleet-footed dodged around while other more public-spirited individuals attempted to diminish the risk even further by overturning them. But the immense pressure exerted by the middle and rear ranks caused the column to steamroller over anyone who stopped at the front.
Those who stumbled and fell usually brought a tangle of bodies down on top of them. If they were lucky, those behind ran past or leapt over them, but if there were too many choke points, they were simply trampled into the ground.
Some distance behind the spiked mats were a collection of twenty-foot long barriers made out of a simple framework of poles to which more sharpened stakes had been lashed at an angle facing the enemy like the steel girders in pre-Holocaust tank traps. These too were swung across the sand-bar by the last men to pass.
Compared to the number killed and injured by the wheel-boat’s cannon, the casualties suffered by the D’Troit through these hastily-prepared devices were pitifully few. There had not been enough time to prepare and position enough of them, but with the lines of bowmen still firing then falling back, it was enough to break the momentum.
The sand-bar was five-hundred yards wide – enormously wide if you have to defend it, but exceedingly narrow when you have sixty thousand screaming warriors from groups who don’t particularly like each other, all chasing the same quarry – and all trying to elbow their way into the front line. Added to which there were now dozens of dead-faces mounted on strange four-legged be
asts demanding passage through their ranks from the rear!
When Aishi Sakimoto, the acting regent of the Yama-Shita had resurrected Domain-Lord Hirohito’s plan, he had never considered the possibility that the D’Troit might regard the Iron Master’s assistance as an interference. But from the angry reactions of the grass-monkeys now surrounding them it was clear to the officer in charge of the first cavalry squadron that they bitterly resented being forced to stand aside. It was their brothers who had fallen. What right did the dead-faces have to push to the front and take all the glory?!
The resulting melee in which Iron Master and Mute ended up brandishing their weapons at each other brought the rear third of the D’Troit column to a standstill. What began as a spontaneous reaction became a deliberate ploy to hold back the Iron Masters so that their clansmen could finish the job they had started, but it gave the She-Kargo and their allies an unexpected respite.
The possibility of Iron Masters giving chase on horseback had been foreseen by Carnegie-Hall. The ultimate line of defence consisted of five staggered rows of forward-sloping stakes running across the sand-bar from lake to lagoon. They were spaced wide enough apart to allow a warrior to slip through, but any horseman attempting to ride through it would immediately find himself in difficulty. The pointed stakes were too close together and too high, and because they were staggered in depth, they could not be cleared in a single jump.
The job of gathering, sharpening and planting the stakes, begun as soon as darkness fell, had continued after dawn and was still being completed as the She-Kargo began to pass through.
The lines of bowmen now formed into two groups, one on either shore to protect the rear of the column, but stocks of the precious crossbow bolts were now dangerously low. When a bowman emptied his pouch, he joined the retreat.
The pursuing D’Troit thought it was a rout, but they were wrong. It was a strategic withdrawal. And that was not a play on words to hide a bitter truth. Every man and woman in the She-Kargo faction would have preferred to stand and fight regardless of the odds. To face an enemy who outnumbered you by 3 to 1, knowing that you were bound to die demanded a very special kind of bravery for which the She-Kargo were renowned. But Mr Snow’s stern message had been passed to the leaders of all the threatened delegations. Talisman had spoken through him. The D’Troit, the C’Natti and San’Louis had to be punished for their renunciation of the Thrice-Gifted One and their betrayal of the Plainfolk. And the dead-faces who had inspired their treachery had to be taught a lesson they would never forget.
That was why the She-Kargo faction had to endure this costly and ignominious withdrawal – to draw their enemies onto the killing ground.
And the time was nigh …
Mr Snow surveyed the scene below him once more. The leading ranks of the retreating column were now splashing across the silted-up bed of a narrow access channel cut through the sandbar close to the northern shore. Soon they would begin to pass through the line of defenders at the base of the bluff.
To his right, the last of the baggage train were toiling up the slopes under the weight of their loads. Their pursuers, the C’Natti, in their tens of thousands, were on the far side of the river estuary, preparing to cross the narrows. Further back still, samurai horsemen moving over open ground between the lines of Mutes were catching up with the leading warriors.
Mr Snow swung the viewing device back towards the lake.
The lead vessel of the Iron Master’s flotilla had now drawn alongside the stricken flank-boat. The third boat lay stationary in the water some way behind the first two, a thin line of smoke curling lazily upwards from its funnels. In the distance, the two remaining vessels were beached below the trading post.
Handing the viewer to Awesome-Wells, a M’Call clanelder and long-time friend, Mr Snow closed his eyes, took a deep breath and steeled himself for what lay ahead. For over an hour he had watched the flower of the She-Kargo and M’Waukee fall under the knives of the D’Troit, had witnessed the bravery of Dark-Star and the other summoners. Now it was time to put his own life on the line – and maybe lose it in attempting to save the Plainfolk.
He could not think of a better reason for having lived until this moment.
Commending his spirit to Mo-Town, he stretched up his arms and silently prayed to Talisman to grant him power over earth and sky.
Let me be your dark, avenging angel!
The earth shivered under his feet. High above his head a dark cloud formed in the clear sky and spread rapidly in all directions. A cry burst from his throat. A cry so terrible, those around him fell to the ground, vainly trying to cover their ears. Some who dared to look upon his face said afterwards that his eyes became two points of blazing white fire.
Drawing the invisible power down from the sky and upwards from the earth with sweeping movements of his hands, Mr Snow hurled it downwards towards the lake, his fingers aiming at a point midway between the northern and southern shore, some three miles beyond the sand-bars.
Samurai-General Oshio Shinoda, on the bridge of his flag-ship, watched the dark cloud form with growing disbelief. A distant rumble of thunder seemed to come from within the bowels of the earth and was followed by an answering peal from the darkening sky.
The lake became ominously still, with scarcely a ripple disturbing its surface. The air had ceased to move. It was as if the whole world was holding its breath.
As a soldier, Shinoda was without fear, but the inexplicable moods of the kami who inhabited the natural world filled him with unreasoning terror which – as supreme commander of the expedition – he had to do his best to hide.
The spreading cloud blotted out the sun, casting a shadow across the lake. The ground trembled bringing a hushed silence as the warring Mutes paused uncertainly, pursued and pursuer united in their fear of earth-thunder.
The Mutes in the defensive line at the foot of the bluffs were equally alarmed but they, at least, had been warned about what was to follow. Scrambling back up the slopes, they urged the panicky She-Kargo warriors to follow them as fast as possible. Those now lined along the top called down to their companions, urging them not to look back. Whatever happened, they must keep climbing.
Their exhortations were lost under a longer and much louder, stomach-clenching rumble of subterranean thunder which caused loose earth and stones to slide down the fissured slopes. Some of the exhausted warriors lost their footing, the rest clung on grimly until the mini-avalanche ceased then clawed their way upwards with a new sense of urgency.
A circular depression appeared in the lake at the point on which Mr Snow’s powers were focused. For a moment, the water appeared to be draining down a huge plug-hole then the depression became elongated, spreading quickly to either shore. Now it seemed as if a vast bottomless trench had opened up into which the whole lake was emptying itself.
The three Yama-Shita wheel-boats began to drift helplessly towards it, like empty matchboxes being carried along a rain-filled gutter towards a cavernous drain. Then there was another clap of thunder. But this one was mind-splitting not just ear-splitting, and it was twinned with an even more violent earth-tremor that threw everyone who was standing to the ground.
Only Mr Snow remained upright, surrounded by an eerie vertical shaft of light composed of shifting planes that changed colour as they intermeshed. To those who dared to raise their heads from the ground, he appeared to be standing on the threshold of the world beyond, in thrall to the spiritual powers that flowed through his rigid body.
Another rumble of thunder. The trench-like depression splitting the surface of the lake filled abruptly and rose to become a vast wall of water as the sunken bed was pushed upwards by a convulsive subterranean eruption. Rising two hundred feet into the air, the wall of water tilted and fell forwards towards the shore, creating a giant tidal wave whose foaming edge dwarfed the wheel-boats that lay in its path.
Neither the frenzied orders of Samurai-General Shinoda, nor the seamanship of Captain Yukinagi could save the ve
ssels or their crews. Picked up and pinned at an impossible angle against the curving front of the wave, the wheel-boats were carried at sickening speed over the sand-bar and the western shore of the lagoon then smashed and ground to pieces in the breaking surf that spread for several miles over the land beyond.
The beached wheel-boats of the non-belligerent Ko-Nikka and Se-Iko suffered the same fate. Everyone on shore, Prime-Cut, Judas-Priest and the other collaborators in the war-council, the advancing hordes of D’Troit, C’Natti and San’Louis, the samurai cavalry – all were swept away and drowned or battered to death in the vicious undertow.
Only those who had reached the top of the bluffs, or had managed to scramble more than a hundred feet above the shoreline were spared. The tidal wave, sweeping down on the sand-bar had gained extra height as it was forced against the bluff, carrying the stragglers away as it passed.
The bulk of the force who managed to reach the northern shore escaped with their lives but there was no cheering, no celebration. The circumstances surrounding their deliverance were so awesome, the scale of death so overwhelming, the survivors fell wordlessly to the ground, overcome with grief and sheer physical exhaustion.
Mr Snow was one of them. Awesome-Wells and Boston-Bruin ran towards him. For several agonizing minutes they thought he was dead. The lighter parts of his skin were greyish-white, and his almost weightless body, cradled in their arms, felt like a sack of loose bones. Eventually his eyes fluttered open, but they too were drained of life.
Awesome-Wells took hold of Mr Snow’s hands and squeezed the unresisting fingers. ‘Old One! Old One! Do you know who I am?’
Mr Snow’s eyes searched slowly for the speaker but seemed unable to focus on the faces of those who knelt over him. His lips moved soundlessly.
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