Spirit Walker (13 page)

Chapter 12: Terror is for Children

Phylomon counseled Scandal on preparations for the journey and had him spend four extra days building a heavier axle for the wagon, fulfilling Chaa’s prophesy that the party would not leave until eleven days after Chaa had ended his Spirit Walk.

The mayor’s Dryad never returned to town.

Scandal’s wagon was massive, large enough to hold both the barrel and supplies. Scandal purchased a swivel gun that Jenks was selling for scrap, and he mounted it on a platform on the front of his wagon, although the gun rode too low to shoot over the back of his mastodon. The Rough held many dangers—woolly rhinos, dire wolves, giant Mastodon Men, great horned dragons. Such animals would usually be frightened of a large party of humans and Pwi, and while frightened animals are seldom dangerous, the gun made Scandal feel more comfortable.

At sunrise on the day the party was to leave, Scandal came out of his inn to inspect his wagon, already loaded to the hilt, and stared—the swivel gun had been stolen.

“By God’s flabby breasts!” Scandal shouted. “God rot the Starfarer's left testicle!” He climbed up on the wagon. He could not believe it—the gun weighed over two hundred pounds. He scanned the streets, searching for the thief, picturing someone struggling to drag the gun away. But the streets were empty. He heard only waves smacking the rocks below the inn.

Phylomon came from his room wearing a black Pwi breechcloth. “Did I hear you blaspheming my testicles?” he said mildly.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” Scandal shouted. “The gun has been stolen!”

Phylomon studied the wagon from beneath. “The thief greased those bolts to keep them quiet. They were newly bolted; he needn’t have bothered.”

Phylomon wandered down the road toward Pwi Town, studying the dust in the street, then ambled back north. “He took it this way—rested here.”

Scandal hopped off the wagon, hitched up his sagging pants. Sure enough, there was a pockmark on the street where someone had rested the gun. Thirty feet away was another. The thief rounded a corner and the pockmarks came to an end; there was no sign of the gun.

“Shall we search the houses in this part of town?” Scandal asked.

Phylomon studied the ground. “The man who carried off your gun was at the end of his strength when he got here. Someone joined him. I doubt they hid it in town.”

“But—but—how will we protect ourselves out there?”

Scandal glanced vaguely to the mountains. “I don’t suppose this town has another gun we could purchase?”

“Just the town cannons,” Scandal said, nodding down to the turrets behind the inn where the ten inchers guarded the entrance to the port.

“I’ll look around,” Phylomon said, and for the next two hours Scandal marveled to see Phylomon the Wise, Destroyer of Bashevgo, Master Woodsman and Scholar, spend his time peeking under woodpiles, poking his nose into abandoned sheds, and peering at the tracks on every path that left the road.

Tull and the other Pwi arrived later in the morning.

Ayuvah came bearing his war spear and a shield made of painted tyrannosaur hide stretched over a wooden frame. The big Pwi rode the back of a giant black ox. He wore a wooden headband with a single sword fern tucked under his hair so that it flowed out the back. Little Chaa walked beside the bull, and their kin followed behind.

Tull had tried to recruit other Pwi, but none dared go to Craal. Yet to Tull, the group seemed well balanced. Little Chaa was named for the magic crow, and even at a young age, Little Chaa was a gifted empath who often dreamed of what it was like to be a heron eating frogs in a marsh, or a rabbit living in fear. Because of his empathy, Little Chaa could call a wild crow to land on his arm if he saw one. Such empathy would lead the child to become a great Spirit Walker. But Ayuvah was named for the dire wolf, a creature noted for its ferocity and strength, its keen ability to hunt, and Ayuvah lived true to his promise. Of the Pwi on the trip, only Tull did not have an Animal Guide, and that rankled him.

Many Pwi came to watch the party leave, and to offer words of comfort or warning. Etanai and Sava, Ayuvah’s wife and daughter, Chaa and Zhopila with their five remaining children were among them.

Fava bore a spear in one hand, and she walked up and wrapped an arm around Tull.

“I want come with you,” she said, watching Tull’s eyes. “I love you—not the way I should, now that I’m your sister. I want to join my spear with yours on this journey, the way we did in Hotland. I want to come with you.”

Tull looked back at Wisteria, saw Wisteria’s frown. “It wouldn’t look right,” Tull said, confused. “I’m married now.”

“I know, but you’re my brother now, too,” Fava said, sniffling. “If I can’t love you as a wife, I will still love you as a brother and a friend.”

“It would be hard for you,” Tull said.

“It would be harder for me to stay here, to sit by the fire and worry!” Fava answered loudly. Tull looked at the girl, embarrassed, not sure what to do.

Chaa came and took his daughter by the shoulder. “I’ve walked this future for you, my daughter whom I love. Tull would let you come with him, but I will not. You must stay!”

One old Pwi, a stranger with no hands, had come into town with the other Pwi. He’d stood patiently, until Chaa pulled Fava away, and then using the stumps of his arms he pulled a black leather bag off his neck and passed it to Ayuvah. The back rattled when it moved.

Ayuvah opened the bag, looked in. “Bones?”

“My bones,” the old man corrected, “from my hands. When I escaped Craal, the Blade-Kin-we-all-fear hunted me by night. They crouched on the ground and hunted by scent, like wolves, and when they caught me, they cut off my hands and put them in this bag. The bones are all that is left.”

“Why do you tell me this?” Ayuvah asked, revulsion twisting his features.

“So you will be careful. It is said that you are a great hunter, and you know how to hide your tracks. But if you will hide yourself from the Blade Kin, you must also hide your scent.”

Scandal whispered to Phylomon, “Is that true?”

“Ayaah,” Phylomon said. “The Neanderthal Blade Kin can run faster than humans, so they often help catch any Thralls who escape. I’ve known the Blade Kin to track down slaves using dire wolves, too.”

It was a bad thing for a Pwi to leave family, almost as painful as a funeral. Old Zhopila took it hardest—she was letting three sons go at once, and the stranger’s words frightened her. She kept telling them over and over again, “Beware of the Blade Kin! Beware of Adjonai. I will be here, waiting for you!”

Chaa took Tull aside and Phylomon heard him warn, “When the time comes, capture the serpents
shev-mat-fwe-da,
before the sun even thinks to move. And I must tell you now: Beware the Spirit Walkers of the Blade Kin. They are not connected to the Earth and to one another, so they cannot walk the future, and they have no Animal Guides to help them. Instead, they pervert their powers. These twisted ones are the hands of Adjonai! Beware of them or the hand of Adjonai will crush you!”

Phylomon and Little Chaa collared the old bull mastodon and backed him between his
tugs
, the long poles that would hold him to the wagon. Little Chaa pulled Snail Follower’s right tusk and lifted a foot, and the mastodon put his trunk down for the young Neanderthal to step on, then gave the boy a boost. Little Chaa squatted on the bull’s neck and in moments the tugs locked into the hames, the collar that went over the mastodon’s neck, then Little Chaa took his seat on Snail Follower’s collar.

Little Chaa urged the mastodon forward and the wagon crept out of town, taking the road to Finger Mountain and beyond that to Gate of the Gods. Scandal rode in the front seat of the wagon, while Wisteria sat on blankets in the mouth of the barrel and looked out the back. Tull, Phylomon, and Ayuvah walked alongside.

The first day of the journey was a mere walk. The road twisted a serpentine path just out of town and headed up into the mountains through groves of fir and redwood. Always the river was nearby, slow waters overshadowed by redwood. Always the earthy smell of summer river water filled the air. After ten miles, Phylomon wanted to stop at High Valley, but the men were obliged to continue—the apples were on, and farmers had a hard time keeping elk out of the orchards. They didn’t need a mastodon to rip limbs from their trees.

When the Starfaring paleobiologists built Anee, they created
sanctuaries
—walled regions where flora and fauna could be introduced in something of a protected environment. Each sanctuary was surrounded by a wall thirty feet high and twenty feet wide, and these walls often enclosed a thousand square miles. Smilodon Bay was enclosed by such a wall, and the portal into the Rough was called Gate of the Gods.

Of course, the enclosure was really fairly small, in geological terms, and much of it had been destroyed.

When the party set camp that afternoon, Phylomon asked, “Who will be first watch?”

The men all looked at him in amazement. “We’ve still got eight miles before we reach Gate of the Gods,” Scandal answered. “We can worry when we get beyond the gate.”

Phylomon regarded him coolly, but said nothing.

They set camp under an apple tree at the edge of a meadow filled with vetch and wild pea. The river flowed lazily only a hundred yards off, and the mastodon rolled in the pools for an hour, then wandered about the meadow pulling up vetch in a colossal attempt to defoliate the area.

Phylomon went to the wagon, pulled out half a dozen practice weapons—wooden swords, maces with heads made of cloth, simple wooden shields and spears.

“Gentlemen,” he said to the men, “If we go into Craal, we must pass the Blade Kin. I know you must get some practice in Smilodon Bay, but none of you has received the kind of battle training that they have—yet. Take your favorite weapon, and let’s see what you are made of.”

“Hah, not me!” Scandal begged off. “I’m not one to fight with weapons like that. Just give me a skillet or a cleaver, and I can hold my own!” Phylomon looked at the fat man, and grunted his contempt.

He fought the others in mock battle, running them through their paces. Little Chaa took a wooden scimitar, the only weapon that was light enough to be suitable for him. He surprised Phylomon by using it to thrust with, and once he had it inside Phylomon’s guard, he twisted his wrist so that the curved wooden blade twisted around to nick the inside of his opponent's sword arm. He was not fast, powerful, or graceful, but the child showed common sense and good promise.

Ayuvah took a long spear and danced about Phylomon keeping from his reach, trying to strike at any target. Phylomon used a long sword that let him parry the blows, and Ayuvah could not get past his guard. Phylomon laughed. “You’re fast and clever, but you’ve never been trained by a master of the spear.”

“I’ve seen him kill a tyrannosaur with a spear,” Tull put in.

Phylomon stood back for a moment. “Is that true?” he asked.

Ayuvah nodded. “I use the mammoth stroke, like my father showed me.”

“That explains it,” Phylomon said. “You are too used to fighting big animals. You try too hard to put power behind your blows, and it slows you. You don't need that stroke to kill a human—just concentrate on putting a hole in me. You must be quick and slippery. You need to extend your lunges, try misdirection. When you plan to go for my head, lunge low as if you are aiming at my leg, then pull the spear up quick toward my face. With your style, you will need to commit yourself to an attack, and that is dangerous. When you commit yourself, you need to make sure that no matter how your opponent counters, you can still get your blow. In a few weeks, I can turn you into a dangerous man.”

Tull tried him next, and took a long-handled kutow for a weapon. Tull liked the weight the double ax heads gave him when attacking, and the long handle let him strike deep. In all of Smilodon Bay, no one had ever been able to beat him when he practiced with the kutow. But Tull found that watching Little Chaa and Ayuvah fight the blue man had been no help.

Phylomon took a wooden shield and a broadsword—the classic weapons issued for Craal warriors.

Tull rushed in and swung, and Phylomon put the shield overhead and parried. Tull slammed for the right side, testing the blue man’s sword arm, and Phylomon turned the blow with his sword. So Tull rained blows down from all sides and all angles, looking for a weakness, but he could not swing a blow that Phylomon couldn’t parry.

Phylomon moved in and out, dodging and turning the blows, never taking the counterstrike. Tull kept waiting for Phylomon to take the offensive, but he never did. Yet Tull found that he was afraid of that counterstrike and, therefore, tried to maintain his distance. He wanted to be quick and slippery, like Ayuvah, but it did not let him put his strength behind the blow. After three full minutes of embarrassment, Tull got mad and swung with his might.

Phylomon tried to turn the blow on his shield. The shield splintered in half, and the kutow slammed into the blue man’s arm, knocking him to the ground.

“Oh, God, are you all right!” Scandal shouted. Phylomon sat there, a bit stunned. He looked up at Tull.

“You should always swing with your might. It’s devastating. I think we’ve found your style.” He looked at the men. “From now on, we practice twice a day—every day. We’ve got twelve weeks until we reach Craal. You'll want all the practice you can get before then.”

He glared at Scandal—”Even you!”

With that, he gave Scandal a cleaver and a pan. The old innkeeper was used to hard work, but Phylomon put him through his paces, forcing him to fight a comic battle that left Scandal dazed and sweating.

That evening, as Tull helped set a fire, he thought about Wisteria, about the clean feel of her skin as he’d caressed her that morning, the taste of her lips, when suddenly from the brush just a hundred yards away, a great horned dragon leapt into the air with a roar.

Tull looked up, saw the forty-foot wingspan of the beast as the blue wings flashed above the treetops, and he fell backward on his butt and shouted.

The dragon’s leather wings flapped with a loud
whoosh, whoosh.
Its long ostrich like legs stretched out behind its short tail. Its thin forearms raked the air, claws exposed. Even though it flew a hundred feet above the men, the wind of its passage beat down on them like blows. The dragon kept climbing, and while Tull tried to decide whether or not to be relieved, he watched the dragon’s flight path. The dragon headed for a copper-colored pterodactyl that soared high above them, letting thermal up-drafts carry it over the mountains.