All they that take to the sword shall perish with the sword.
MATTHEW 26:52
Standard year circa 60
PLANET ALGERON
Larkin had to speak loudly in order to be heard over the fly-form’s engines. “This is bullshit.”
“Of course it’s bullshit,” McKee replied. “You joined the Legion. Remember?”
“Yeah, but this is extraspecial bullshit. After marching through that F-ing swamp, we deserve a break.”
“Think of this as a chance to learn more about Naa culture.”
“Will the fur balls have beer?”
“Doothdown is a small village, so I doubt it. Not the kind you’re used to, anyway.”
“Then screw their culture.”
McKee closed her eyes and let her helmet rest on the bulkhead behind her. “You’re hopeless.” The way she understood it, the orders had originated with Colonel Bodry. Then they flowed downhill to Lieutenant Dero, who chose McKee’s squad for the job. “It will be a stroll in the park,” Dero had assured her. “Bodry sent Heacox and the first platoon south to intercept some raiders headed for Doothdown. The captain has a quad and something like sixteen T-1s—so he should be able to grease the southerners without breaking a sweat.
“But here’s the thing,” Dero said. “What if the raiders go wide? And send a war party up and around? All of the warriors from Doothdown are with Heacox, so the village is unprotected. Your job is to go in there and secure the place until the fighters return. Simple, huh?”
And it was simple. Or should be. But if McKee had learned anything since joining the Legion, it was that what should be often wasn’t. So once the squad was on the ground, she was going to do everything in her power to screw the lid down tight. Larkin wouldn’t like that either. McKee smiled.
• • •
Like the rest of the cyborgs, Sykes’s war form was secured inside a metal cage that would hold it in place even if the fly-form flipped upside down. So all he had to do was lock his knees and go to sleep if he wanted to.
But he didn’t want to. Not so long as he had a very difficult puzzle to solve. The material Quinn had downloaded to his onboard comp fell into three categories. The first consisted of stuff which, though unencrypted, was incredibly boring, like lists of things to do, lists of things not to do, and lists of things McKee had accomplished.
The second category consisted of material that was encrypted, and might be of interest to him, but would be worthless to Max. The title PERSONNEL FILES said it all.
Last, but not least, were the contents of what Quinn called “the cat drive.” That material was encrypted, too. And trying to hack into it had become Sykes’s hobby. By utilizing his onboard computer’s excess computing power, he could run word/number combinations around the clock. Even so, the processor lacked the power of a mainframe and might crank away for years without hitting the right sequence of letters and numbers.
That was why he was working on the problem as well. Most people chose their birthdays, names of relatives, or other personal minutiae to use as passwords. So he was currently working the word “cat” and all sorts of numbers in an attempt to come up with the magic combo. All the while knowing that even if he was successful, he’d probably wind up looking at a bunch of love letters or something equally innocuous. Still, McKee did wear the cat around her neck, and why bother with a second storage device? Especially since all of the Legion’s computers were backed up twice a day. Sykes was determined to find out.
• • •
In keeping with a suggestion from McKee, the fly-form circled Doothdown a couple of times before landing a quarter mile away. The idea was to let the inhabitants know that the legionnaires weren’t about to attack them.
Prior to departing the FOB, McKee had convinced a supply sergeant to issue her a number of items that would normally be reserved for a platoon. Among them were two drones, which she sent south to patrol the trails that led into the village.
Then, along with the rest of the squad, she went to work unloading weapons, ammo, and enough food for seven days. It made quite a pile, and it looked like the legionnaires would have to hump the stuff into town when a pair of dooth-drawn carts arrived. Both were driven by females. They were young, slender, and covered with variegated fur. Their clothes consisted of skillfully sewn leather garments that were decorated with feathers, trade beads, and small pieces of bright aluminum. Salvaged from a downed fly-form perhaps? Probably.
Judging from their expression, the Naa were plainly hostile, and no wonder, since odds were that they were related to someone who had been wounded or killed during a battle with the Legion. But there was a strange-looking human with them, and it quickly became apparent that the carts were his idea. He was tall, rather emaciated, and dressed in a tattered robe. The man was carrying an eight-foot-long fighting staff. It was partially sheathed in metal and topped with an iron loop that symbolized his faith. “Good morning,” he said cheerfully. “Father Ramirez at your service. And you are?”
“Sergeant Andromeda McKee,” the noncom answered as she went forward to shake hands. “No offense, but are you the man the Naa call ‘Crazyman Longstick’?”
“One and the same,” Ramirez said. “How did you hear about me?”
“From a maiden named Springsong Riverrun. We took her prisoner when her people attacked us.”
“And you turned her loose,” Ramirez said. “That was wise, as was the decision to move your FOB off sacred ground and onto a different hill.”
McKee nodded. “Major Hasbro is a good officer.”
“He must be,” Ramirez agreed. “There are lots of officers who would have refused to move it.”
McKee took a guess. “You were an officer?”
“Yes, in what seems like another life. Rather than return to Earth, I decided to retire here.”
“So you know why we’re here.”
“No, but I can guess. A subchief named Quickstep led all of the village’s warriors south to fight the southerners. That left the village defenseless, and someone was bright enough to send you to protect it. I would have expected two squads, however, or a full platoon.”
McKee took note of Quickstep’s involvement. The truth was that the Legion was stretched thin, very thin, but she saw no reason to tell Ramirez that. “One village, one squad. That’s the rule,” she replied.
Ramirez laughed. “Spoken like a true noncom,” he said. “Well, if you load your gear onto the carts, we’ll get it inside the palisade. Then, if you choose, I’ll serve as your interpreter.”
“That would be wonderful,” McKee said. “Is Springsong here?”
“No, not right now. She’s up north. With relatives.”
“Okay, we’ll get to work.”
Once the carts were loaded, Ramirez led the legionnaires into the village. Knowing that she might be called on to defend the place, McKee paid close attention to the outer walls. They were made out of vertical poles that had been cut up on the surrounding hillsides, brought down, and planted in trenches. The good news was that they were quite sturdy. The bad news was that rather than tear the old walls down and reconfigure the palisade, new sections had been added over the years, a practice that resulted in obvious weak points. But what was, was. And McKee would have to deal with it.
A wooden gate groaned open to provide access to the village. There were no streets as such. Just heavily used pathways that were frozen at the moment but would quickly turn to mud the moment the temperature rose. That explained the system of well-placed stepping-stones that ran hither and yon.
A communal well was located in the open area opposite the main gate and half a dozen shops were arrayed to either side of it. There were no signs, or any need for them, since everyone knew what they sold. Farther back a three-story watchtower stuck straight up, and based on the satellite imagery McKee had seen, she knew that dome-shaped homes dotted the area around it.
The previously shy residents were starting to appear by then. And as they entered the common area, McKee saw that with the exception of some very old and very young males, the rest of the villagers were female. It seemed that all of the warriors had gone south. That meant the legionnaires would be on their own if the town was attacked.
Larkin must have been thinking the same thing. “There are eight of us,” he observed. “What are we going to do if the bad guys take a crack at this place?”
“The T-1s pack quite a wallop,” McKee responded, “and you could talk them to death.” That got a laugh from other members of the squad.
Larkin didn’t deserve the rebuke, and McKee knew it. But she couldn’t let morale start to slide. “Besides,” she added, “the supply monkeys gave us some equalizers. Come on . . . Let’s find a place to set up shop.”
After a discussion between Ramirez and a female mystic, the decision was made to let the legionnaires take over the village longhouse. That was the structure where village meetings were held, weddings took place, and feasts were eaten. It was a sturdy affair, made out of logs, and more than adequate for the bio bods. Unfortunately, the T-1s were too large to go inside. Not that it mattered because the log house was primarily a place in which to store and maintain their gear. A fire pit was located outside under a pole-mounted roof. McKee lit a brick of F-1, took comfort from the instant heat, and began to issue orders. There was a lot to do.
• • •
Hooves thundered as the riders galloped across a meadow and followed a pair of cart ruts up onto a lightly treed rise. That was where Oneeye raised a hand and brought the group to a halt. Twenty-seven warriors had been killed at what would forever be called Bloodriver, and twelve had been seriously wounded. They were on their way south along with the eleven warriors assigned to care for and protect them.
The rest of the war party, more than one hundred in all, had been divided into small groups and ordered to travel separately. A strategy intended to prevent the slick skins from attacking them. Because, when viewed from above, all Naa looked the same. And if the Legion went after every group of four or five warriors they saw, it wouldn’t be long before they killed some northerners. That would not only aggravate Lifetaker but make it difficult for him to hold his alliance together.
So as the warriors came to a stop, there were only four of them. Oneeye, Thunderhand, Highclimb, and a youth who hadn’t earned an adult name yet but was generally referred to as “Shithead.” None of them spoke as the dooths made grunting noises, and Oneeye sampled the air for any scent that shouldn’t be there. Having found none, he said, “This will do. We’ll bed down in the trees over there. Shithead will gather some wood. No point in using dung chips if we don’t have to.”
All of them knew that dung chips were best reserved for rainy days, and as the most junior male present, it was Shithead’s job to gather the necessary firewood. Someday, when he was older, the task would fall to someone else.
Once the dooths had been cared for and tethered down in the meadow, it was time to eat dinner. The meal consisted of hopper jerky, dried fruit, and a pot of boiled ga, a starchy cereal that was part of nearly every Naa meal. And it was then, while they ate their food, that talk turned to the battle. “Many slick skins died today,” Highclimb said phlegmatically.
Oneeye wiped his mouth on a sleeve. A mere six hours had elapsed since the fight, but it felt like sixty. Was Shithead tired? Hell, no. The truth was that Oneeye was too old for the job at hand, and he knew it. But he couldn’t say no to Truthsayer. Very few could.
“Yes,” Oneeye said, “and many warriors died as well. Too many.”
“They are in paradise,” Thunderhand put in. “Feasting with the gods.”
“Some are,” Oneeye allowed. “But not all of them.”
That got a hearty laugh from all but Shithead. He sat slightly apart from the others, watching with shiny eyes and listening to the war talk. There were many things to learn from a chief like Oneeye—and his use of humor was one of them.
“So,” Highclimb said. “Let’s speak of Doothdown. We can take it. Of that there can be little doubt. Most of the village’s warriors are dead. But can we hold it?”
The question came as no surprise. What the warriors didn’t know they couldn’t reveal if captured. Now, only hours away, it made sense to share the plan. “We will take it,” Oneeye agreed. “But we won’t try to hold it. That would require a much larger force. Lifetaker could bring thousands of warriors against us. No, the purpose of the raid is to prove that he’s vulnerable in spite of the pact with the slick skins, and to cause his subchiefs to doubt his leadership. So we will take it, burn it, and leave.”
“But what of the females? And the oldsters?” Thunderhand wanted to know.
It was a loaded question because while it was customary to take slaves, they could slow the warriors down. Still, Thunderhand, as well as the rest of them, would love to profit from the trip into enemy territory. And keeping them happy was important. “We’ll take every villager over ten and under fifty,” Oneeye said. “The rest will be allowed to go where they will. Spread the word when we join the others. There will be no needless killing. It isn’t our way.”
That wasn’t true, of course. There had been lots of needless killing in the past. But Truthsayer was trying to put an end to it. Partly because he considered the slaughter of noncombatants to be immoral. But for pragmatic reasons as well. Oneeye had heard him say it more than once. “If we kill theirs, they will kill ours . . . And where will it end?”
Once the meal was over, the older warriors wrapped themselves in travel rugs and took their rightful places around the fire. That was the beginning of Shithead’s two-hour watch. Once it was over, Thunderhand would relieve him. Then, after a mere two-hour nap, the youngster would be expected to climb on his dooth and ride. Shithead felt something cold kiss his nose and looked upward. It had started to snow.
• • •
Battery-powered work lamps had been attached to the inner surface of the palisade and threw pools of light onto the ground. There was no wind to speak of, so the snow fell straight down and covered the village like a white shroud. It was beautiful in a ghostly sort of way, or would have been if McKee had taken the time to appreciate it. But she was busy trudging from place to place, checking to make sure that everything that could be done had been done. And that’s where she was, up on the palisade’s elevated walkway, when Hagen tracked her down. He was carrying the HF/VHF man pack radio that allowed the squad to stay in contact with the FOB. “The loot wants to talk to you,” he said. “Maybe they’re coming to pick us up.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice,” McKee said as she accepted the handset. “This is Bravo-Eight. Over.”
Dero’s voice was so clear it was as if they were standing a few feet apart. “This is Two. Any action out your way? Over.”
The words were casual, but McKee thought she could detect an underlying tension in the other woman’s voice. “Negative so far. Over.”
“Glad to hear it, but that’s likely to change. Over.”
McKee felt a rising sense of dread. “Roger that. What’s up? Over.”
“I’m sorry to inform you that Alpha-Nine and his force walked into a trap. We’re still sorting things out—but the so-what is that a group of hostiles may be headed your way. Over.”
“May be? Over.”
“It looks like the raiding party split into small groups—and the cloud cover is screening their movements. Over.”
McKee cleared her throat. “Copy that. How many? Over.”
There was a moment of silence before Dero spoke. “There could be as many as one-zero-zero. Over.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. One hundred to eight. The odds sucked. McKee struggled to keep her voice level. “No problem. We’ll take care of it. Over.”
Dero chuckled. “You’re full of shit, Eight. But I like your style. Once the weather clears, I will arrive with a platoon, a hot lunch, and a case of beer. Over.”
“We’ll look forward to that. Over.” A click brought an end to the conversation and left McKee to face Hagen. “So,” he said suspiciously. “What’s the scan?”
McKee took a long, slow look around. It was too dark to see anything out beyond the palisade. “It sounds like we’re going to have some company. Let’s kill those lights, grab something to eat, and stand to.”
Hagen frowned. “I heard you ask how many. What did she say?”
McKee considered lying to him for the sake of morale but decided against it. The squad had a right to know. “It could be a hundred. But we know they’re coming, we have a plan, and the people who live in this village are counting on us.”
Hagen continued to look her in the eye. “So you believe we can defeat them?”
“I know we can.”
“That’s good enough for me.” And with that, he turned away.
McKee was grateful because she knew that most of the females in the village were widows now—and there was no way to stop the tears.
• • •
The raiders arrived five hours later, just as the lead gray sky began to lighten and the temperature rose by a few degrees. The attack began with the appearance of a single mounted warrior. He looked insubstantial through the screen of falling snow, barely visible at the edge of the tree line. Then another appeared, and another, until dozens of Naa could be seen all around the village. Clouds of vapor drifted away from their faces, their dooths pawed the ground, and one of them produced a snort. It sounded unnaturally loud.
McKee had pulled the drones in hours earlier rather than run the risk that one or both of them would be spotted. So, viewed from the tree line, the village was entirely peaceful, with nothing but a few plumes of smoke to indicate that it was occupied.
The silence was broken when one of the riders raised a large horn to his lips and blew a single note. The sound was deep and threatening. McKee, who was up in the watchtower, chinned her mike. “Wait for it . . . Remember the plan.”
At that point, a dooth trotted forward so that the warrior on its back could be heard within the palisade. “Open the gate, leave the village, and no harm will come to you!”
McKee was kneeling behind the waist-high wall that ran all around the platform. The barrel of the sniper rifle was sticking out through one of many holes made for that purpose. With no wind to speak of, and a target that was only three hundred yards away, it was an easy shot. She placed the crosshairs where she wanted them and felt the trigger break. The stock thumped her shoulder, and the report was like an afterthought as the bullet hit the warrior right between the eyes. His head jerked, he swayed, and fell sideways to the ground. The battle-trained dooth remained stationary.
The warrior’s death was followed by a momentary pause as the southerners processed the unexpected turn of events. Then, with a roar of mutual anger, they charged. Not willy-nilly, but at specific targets, because the previous hour had been spent scouting the village. And there were plenty of weak points. The front gate, for one thing. It wasn’t strapped with metal the way it should have been and was vulnerable to battering rams. And then there were the older and generally weaker sections of the palisade, which would be susceptible to fire. Especially if the villagers failed to keep the attackers at a distance.
But McKee knew that, was expecting the enemy to attack the village’s weak points, and was happy to see them do so. She traded the rifle for a wireless remote and stood. The key was timing. If she triggered the mines too early, they would inflict very little damage. And if they went off too late, the raiders might get inside.
McKee watched half a dozen raiders rush a weak spot on the west side of the palisade. Two of them were standing on their mounts with plans to jump onto the top of the wall. When they were twenty feet away, she mashed a button. The results were spectacular. Columns of earth and fire shot up into the air, taking the raiders and their dooths with them. Each explosion produced a resonant boom, and they were still echoing between the surrounding hills as a warm rain started to fall, and the snow turned red.
McKee pushed another button and watched as a cluster of mines blew a dozen riders to smithereens. Then she swore as the final explosion destroyed the main gate. That wasn’t part of the plan. A mistake had been made. Her mistake since she was in command.
McKee estimated that at least twenty warriors were down at that point, but there were plenty more, and they had a plan as well. And that was apparent as two fireballs appeared in the sky, arched over the village, and fell. The first landed on open ground, where a puddle of fire continued to burn but did no damage. The second scored a direct hit on the longhouse and immediately set the roof ablaze. That was when McKee realized how stupid she’d been. Their supplies were stored inside the structure.
“Father Ramirez!” she yelled into the mike. “Collect some villagers and put that fire out!”
Ramirez had been given a handheld radio. The response was identical to what she could expect from any legionnaire. “Roger that. I’m on it, Sergeant.”
Meanwhile, another fireball had fallen into the village and splashed a shop. Black smoke poured into the sky and soon became part of a thick haze. “Jaggi, Clay, speak to me. Who has a fix on that catapult?”
“There are two catapults,” Clay responded. “I have a lock on the one off to the west.”
“And I’ve got the one to the east,” Jaggi added.
“Kill them,” McKee said tersely, and gave thanks for the missile launchers that each cyborg carried in place of a bio bod. The idea being to increase the squad’s offensive capability and cover more ground by having the T-1s fight by themselves.
Each cyborg carried two “cans,” and each can could launch six independently targeted missiles. There was a whoosh as Clay and Jaggi came out of hiding long enough to fire their weapons. Four rockets arched high into the sky, sought their targets, and found them. McKee was looking west and saw a flash of light in the forest as two missiles struck a catapult.
McKee was about to comment on that when Larkin’s voice filled her helmet. “Uh-oh, they’re coming through the front door!”
McKee turned and saw that Larkin was correct. Two dozen riders were galloping through the main entrance, firing as they came. Suddenly, Quinn stepped out of the shadows. She had a rocket launcher on her shoulder and was too close to miss. Light flared as the missile left its tube, and the explosion blew the lead dooth, its rider, and the neighboring animals into bloody fragments. The next rank stumbled over the remains of the first, dooths went down, and warriors tumbled into the street. That was when female villagers surged out of the surrounding buildings with knives, hatchets, and clubs. They descended on the invaders like avenging spirits and blood flew as their weapons rose and fell.
Some of the attackers had escaped the melee, however, and McKee was about to point that out, when a rocket struck the tower ten feet below her. Two of the supporting legs were severed, a third broke under the strain, and McKee was falling. Her helmet bounced as she hit the ground, her vision blurred, and all of the air was forced out of her lungs. Then she heard a crash as the watchtower smashed into the ground, where it was reduced to a pile of firewood.
McKee was lying on her back gasping for air when a warrior stepped into the picture. He was armed with an AXE, which he pointed at her face. McKee thought about her pistol and was reaching for it, when an eight-foot-long staff whizzed through the air. She heard a loud thump as hardwood met bone, and the left side of the warrior’s skull collapsed. His eyes rolled back in his head as he fell. The next thing McKee knew, Father Ramirez was pulling her up off the ground. “Here,” he said, as he bent to retrieve the AXE. “Take this. It might come in handy.”
McKee was about to thank him when the longhouse blew up and threw debris high into the air. Pieces of wood were still raining down on the area when Ramirez said, “Sorry, we weren’t able to extinguish the fire.”
McKee took note of her own stupidity but didn’t have time to dwell on it as the raiders blew a hole in the west side of the wall. Another rocket? Yes, that appeared to be the case since there weren’t any Naa pouring through the gap. Not yet, anyway. McKee chinned her mike as she ran toward the breach. “Sykes! Tanner! Rise and shine.”
The T-1s had been buried with strict orders to stay there until summoned. And McKee would have given the order earlier except for the crash landing. But even though it was late, the sudden appearance of two T-1s rising as if from the grave had the desired effect.
McKee saw half a dozen warriors gallop away even as the cyborgs opened fire on them, sending both riders and dooths tumbling head over heels in a welter of blood and snow. “Watch out,” she warned. “The bastards have rocket launchers!”
No sooner had McKee spoken than a missile sped past Tanner, entered into a wide curve, and exploded. McKee swore as the T-1’s headless body collapsed in the badly churned slush. Sykes spotted the culprit and loosed a burst of machine-gun bullets at him. They threw up geysers of snow, found the target, and ate him up. That was when McKee heard Larkin say, “Okay, assholes . . . This is my fucking village, and you are pissing me off.”
By looking at her HUD, McKee could see that Larkin was off to her right. She ran that way and arrived just in time to see him marching down the main street firing two assault weapons. The target was a group of Naa who had taken refuge behind a couple of dead dooths. They were shooting at Larkin but couldn’t seem to hit him as his bullets chewed their way through flesh and bone to eventually find them.
It wasn’t long before the defensive fire stopped, but Larkin didn’t. He just kept walking until he was standing on top of a dooth firing down. “There,” he said, as both rifles clicked empty. “I told you not to mess with my fucking village.”
McKee heard the whine of servos and turned to find that Clay was standing behind her. Both of his cans were empty, but the big fifty was ready to go. “They’re pulling out,” the T-1 growled. “Jaggi’s watching them. Should we give chase?”
“No,” McKee said. “Where’s Hagen? And Quinn?”
“Hagen is up on the wall,” Father Ramirez said, “and Quinn’s dead. One of the raiders was going to kill a cub with a battle-axe. She threw herself in between them.”
“Let’s put the drones to work. Hagen and Jaggi will patrol the perimeter. I think we won, but who knows? Let’s put the fires out, establish a fortification of some sort, and get ready to defend it.”
Tired though they were, the legionnaires understood the necessity. And as they started work, something strange happened. The surviving villagers began to appear. They arrived one, two, or three at a time until a group of about fifty Naa was assembled. Then a female who had a bloody bandage wrapped around her head came to stand in front of McKee. Father Ramirez translated what she had to say. “She says the village’s menfolk are dead. Nothing else could explain how the raiders were able to get here. But the fact they were alone, and that you fought for them, is evidence that Chief Lightfoot is right. The Legion can be trusted. And they want to thank you. And they are sorry about the casualties you suffered.”
“Tell them that they are welcome. Please tell them thank you. And tell them that we are sorry about their losses as well.”
Father Ramirez spoke, and the female nodded. Then, as the snow continued to fall, all of them went to work.
• • •
Snowflakes twirled down out of low-hanging clouds and made travel that much more difficult for the dooths. Ice crackled, and water flew, as the huge animals pounded through a creek and onto a track that led generally south. What remained of the war party was riding hard, and for good reason. They knew that the moment the snow stopped and the skies cleared, the slick skins would be able to see them—and what the off-worlders could see they could kill.
And there was Lifetaker to worry about as well. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the chief of the northern chiefs would be furious about the slaughter at Bloodriver and the attack on Doothdown. So their only hope was to reach the tunnel that led under the Towers of Algeron and do so quickly.
By some horrible twist of fate, Oneeye had survived even as 90 percent of his war party had been killed. The shame of that weighed on his shoulders as he kicked the weary dooth up a hill and over the top. The fact that the animal was burdened with two Naa made its task that much more difficult. Shithead had been hit by a piece of flying shrapnel as one of the damnable mines went off—and his inert form was draped across the dooth’s muscular neck. And as they started down the south side of the rise, Oneeye felt something warm his right leg. A single glance was sufficient to reveal the cause. Shithead was bleeding again.
Oneeye felt for a pulse, could tell that it was weak, and eyed the area ahead. A copse of spiky evergreens looked as though it would serve as a windbreak if nothing else, and he kneed the dooth in that direction. The rest of the band followed.
Once they were in among the trees, Oneeye lifted a leg up over his mount’s neck and slid to the ground. Then he pulled Shithead off, took the youth’s weight, and carried him over to the spot where a travel rug had been placed on the snow. Having laid the youngster out, Oneeye went about the business of strapping a fresh dressing over the bloody one. Shithead opened his eyes. “Where are we?”
“Headed home,” Oneeye said gruffly. “So you can tell your family war stories.”
Shithead coughed, and blood ran down his cheek. “I’m dying, aren’t I?”
Oneeye paused for a moment, then he nodded. “Yes, son. You are. The good news is that you earned your name.”
“I did? What is it?”
“Longride Strongheart.”
“Longride Strongheart,” the youth said experimentally. “I like it.” Then he coughed. More blood flowed, and seconds later he was dead.
A single tear trickled down Oneeye’s cheek and was immediately lost in his fur. He stood. “Dig a grave,” he ordered. “And make note of this spot. We will place a marker here when we return.”
They were brave words but meant little as Oneeye and a dozen riders continued their flight south. There were close calls during the next few days. On one occasion they were attacked by a flying machine. The only thing that saved them was the fact that they were in the foothills just north of the mountains by that time. An area they knew well, which enabled them to hide under a rocky ledge until the fly-form disappeared.
Then, only a mile from the entrance to the tunnel, a bolt of energy fell from the sky, killing Thunderhand and his dooth. The explosion vaporized both. Fortunately, the next bolt struck well ahead of the group. It sent a column of soil fifty feet into the air, and dirt was still raining down as they thundered through the shallow crater left by the explosion.
The Naa rode for their lives as a barrage of energy bolts landed all around them. Oneeye was in front and was entering the rocky passageway that led to the tunnel when a bullet hit his war dooth, and the animal went down. Oneeye was thrown head over heels. He landed hard and got up just as the rest of his warriors arrived. The barrage ended abruptly as they skidded to a stop.
As the smoke blew away, Oneeye saw that a group of warriors were blocking the way. The long, hard ride had been for nothing. With help from slick skins, the northerners had been able to block his path. Oneeye’s rifle had been lost in the fall—but he drew his knife as the enemy formed a line abreast. It was pointless. He knew that. But holding the weapon made him feel better. “And who,” he said, “are you?”
“My name is Spearthrow Lifetaker,” the chief-of-chiefs said. “And you are?”
“Fastblade Oneeye.”
“I have heard of you.”
“And I of you.”
“You will feast with the gods tonight.”
Oneeye took a long, slow look around. Everything was so clear. The smell of the mountain air. The sound of the blood pounding in his ears. The weight of the weapon in his hand. He nodded. “I hope they have plenty of beer.”
What happened next took place quickly. A southerner fired, a northerner fell, and Lifetaker’s spear was in the air. Oneeye heard the rattle of gunfire and ordered his body to move. But it was too late. The spear hit his chest dead center, and Oneeye felt it go deep. He staggered, looked up at the Towers of Algeron, and fell onto his back. The long ride was over.