Du-aruta, the Iron Master’s name for the trading-post, was a derivation of Duluth, Minnesota, the pre-H port situated at the western end of Lake Superior. But this was, in fact, something of a misnomer. As the accompanying maps show, Duluth had been built on the northern side of the Lake whereas the trading post had been planted on the opposite shore near its vanished trading partner, the port of Superior, Wisconsin.
In the days when they were both thriving transit points for the Great Lakes freight trade, Duluth and Superior were separated by the St Louis River which snaked down from northern Minnesota then turned east into a meandering estuary whose southern bank was eaten away by inlets and bays. A triangular chunk of land – on which the town of Superior stood – pushed the estuary in a north-easterly direction, but on rounding the point it made a sharp right hand turn into a long narrow lagoon bisected by the state line.
The lagoon itself was separated from Lake Superior by two low needle-like spits of sand and gravel which reached out from the opposing shores to form an almost unbroken line running from the north-west to the southeast.
In pre-Holocaust days the upper and lower sand-bars were separated by a three-hundred foot wide shipping channel kept open by dredgers. With the passage of time, the channel had silted up, narrowing to half its original width, and was now only thigh deep. The land to the south and west of the trading post consisted of rolling plains sloping gently upwards away from the lake, but on the Duluth side, the estuary sand-bar and the lake beyond were dominated by six-hundred foot high bluffs that rose steeply from the narrow shore.
The first thing that struck Mr Snow on reaching the trading post was the size of the D’Troit and C’Natti encampments. Traditionally, the delegations from the six bloodlines were camped around the outside of a huge octagon marked out by a line of stones. The She-Kargo and D’Troit – who were both allocated two segments – faced each other across the central reservation, flanked on each side by the supposedly neutral, lesser bloodlines – the M’Waukee, C’Natti, San’Paul and San’Louis. This arrangement was designed to minimize the violent confrontations which, despite the general truce and the restraining presence of marshals and capos, always flared up as groups of young bloods from both sides prowled around the outer edge of the vast encampment looking for trouble.
This year, the dispositions of the various groups was the same, but not only were the individual D’Troit and C’Natti delegations much larger than usual, there were a great number of turf-markers belonging to Clans who had never been represented before.
Discreet enquiries through intermediaries elicited the reason: the Iron Masters, because of some internal upheaval, had withdrawn the boats which normally called at Bei-Sita, the second trading post serving the Mute clans inhabiting the plains close to the Eastern Lands – the pre-Holocaust states of Ohio, Indiana, and the broad peninsular bordered by Lake Erie, Huron and Michigan – the original home of the D’Troit.
As a result of this temporary closure, the delegations had made their way to Du-aruta. No one wanted to miss the once-yearly opportunity to exchange skins, furs, dream-cap and rainbow-grass for new knives, crossbows, tools, woven cloth and utensils. And, of course, there was always the hope that more clans would be able to obtain examples of the rifles supplied to the clan M’Call the year before.
To understand what went through Mr Snow’s mind it is necessary to explain that mathematics was a branch of learning the Plainfolk had little use for, especially when the sums embraced numbers larger than twelve – the number of fingers and thumbs possessed by the majority of Mutes. It had always been accepted that the She-Kargo were numerically superior to the D’Troit but prior to this fateful gathering the rival factions had never carried out a head-count of their supporters. This also meant they had no clear idea of the number of warriors their opponents could muster. On this occasion however, the D’Troit had received some outside help.
THE TRADING POST / DU-ARUTA 2991 A.D.
Over the years of trading with the Mutes, the Yama-Shita family had amassed a great deal of information about the various bloodlines and the multiplicity of clans grouped within. And with the Iron Master’s passion for paperwork, everything had been duly recorded in great detail by a battery of scribes.
In some respects, such as the size and breakdown of each clan, they probably knew more about the Plainfolk than the Plainfolk themselves, and like any military-minded organization gathering intelligence about a potential enemy – or client-state – they had even identified the distinctive headgear and turf-markers that placed a clan within a particular bloodline but set it apart from its neighbours.
As part of the larger picture the wheel-boat captains knew the relative size of the various bloodlines and the numbers they could expect to find waiting for them at the trading post. The She-Kargo bloodline contained 242 clans, the M’Waukee 103 and the San’Paul 38. Each sent an average of 150 delegates – making a grand total for the She-Kargo faction of some fifty-seven thousand five hundred delegates – adult males and females from 15 to 55, all fit and able to fight.
Under normal circumstances the D’Troit, C’Natti and San’Louis would have fielded, collectively, some fifty-two thousand delegates giving the She-Kargo faction the numerical edge. But with the closing of the Bei-Sita trading post, the D’Troit faction had been swollen by another 92 delegations from the clans whose turf lay to the east of Lake Michigan. The total number of C’Natti and San’Louis delegations had also increased for the same reason.
Added together, this should have produced a grand total of some seventy-six thousand warriors – large enough to confer a comfortable margin of superiority. But each clan had sent an above average number of delegates. Reinforced by the unexpectedly large numbers of ‘journey-men’, the D’Troit, C’Natti and San’Louis had fielded a staggering one hundred and sixty-three thousand warriors – giving them an advantage of almost three to one. With that number of people milling about the camp site, it was hardly surprising that the She-Kargo faction thought the odds were even greater.
Since they had no independent means of checking out the state of play at the Bei-Sita trading-post, the She-Kargo were obliged to accept the explanation they were offered. It seemed plausible enough but it did not justify the inflated numbers of journey-men which the D’Troit and C’Natti had brought with them to trade for goods and weapons. Some surreptitious head-counting by the same intrepid intermediaries established that some D’Troit clans known to be only half the size of the M’Calls were proposing to exchange over one hundred men and women whereas the M’Calls themselves had never sent more than fifty down the river in any one year.
The situation was unique and potentially explosive. A hastily convened meeting of elders from the She-Kargo delegations could only envisage two possible explanations: one – by offering so many ‘guest-workers’, the D’Troit and C’Natti hoped to elbow their rivals aside and grab the lion’s share of whatever the Iron Masters had come to trade or, two – the army of journey-men with their yellow headbands were not destined to sail away across the Great River but were here for some other purpose. Either way it spelt trouble.
The M’Call delegation, some seven hundred miles from their settlement, were too far away to send for reinforcements but some of the other She-Kargo and M’Waukee delegations whose homes were within a day’s run promptly despatched messengers to summon reinforcements.
All this was done in great secrecy. Mr Snow and the other wordsmiths had decided that there was to be no provocation and no outward show of suspicion. The explanation furnished by the D’Troit wordsmiths had to be taken at face value. By their own sacred tradition, wordsmiths – even from opposing bloodlines – never lied to one another. If they had not betrayed their oath, then the Iron Masters must have closed down Bei-Sita. The question everyone in the She-Kargo camp was asking was – why?
A hint as to what the answer might be came with the arrival of Carnegie-Hall, wordsmith of the Clan Kojak from the bloodline of the M’Waukee. Entering the bullring where the other wordsmiths habitually gathered to exchange news and gossip, he sought out Mr Snow and under cover of the formal greetings exchanged on such occasions, passed over a whispered request for a meeting when darkness fell.
Several hours later when a thousand camp-fires pierced the darkness like orange blossoms scattered on black velvet, Carnegie-Hall, accompanied by five Kojak warriors, was led by a M’Call guide into the small wood west of the camp-site where Mr Snow and his own body-guard stood waiting.
The two wordsmiths sat down on talking mats, their faces lit by the solitary flame of a fire-stone which lay between them. Its glow which sharp eyes could have seen from the camp-site was masked by the cloak Mr Snow had thrown over a nearby bush and the dense undergrowth beyond. As a person, Mr Snow would not have given Carnegie-Hall the time of day, but as a fellow wordsmith he had to be treated with the courtesy traditionally accorded to all practitioners of the ancient art.
‘What say you, brother? Do you bring me good tidings or bad?’
‘I bring news of great happenings. It is for you to judge whether they are good or ill. But first let us speak of The Chosen. Did your clansmen return safely and in good spirits?’
Mr Snow was familiar with the term ‘The Chosen’, but for some reason, didn’t catch on immediately. ‘Clansmen …?’
‘Cadillac, Clearwater and Cloud-Warrior.’
Mr Snow’s present anxieties vanished under a great surge of elation. ‘They escaped from the Eastern Lands?!’
‘Escaped and more! They are The Chosen – the first of the Lost Ones whose return heralds the coming of Talisman!’
‘It is true that these three were born in the shadow of Talisman. By what token do you know them as The Chosen?’
‘The words were born on my lips!’ exclaimed Carnegie. ‘The Thrice-Gifted One appointed me to be the first to recognize them and name them! And when the history of the Plainfolk is retold in the ages to come, the Kojak will be remembered as the clan that first gave them shelter, and whose valiant warriors played a decisive part in the victories achieved by their mighty powers!’
‘Victories …?’
‘Over the arrowheads, the iron-snake and the wheel-boat!’
‘Sounds like they’ve been busy,’ grumped Mr Snow. ‘Tell me more.’
Carnegie-Hall gave him the whole story including – to his credit – the treacherous deal struck with Izo Wantanabe which, as events unfolded, had reinforced his belief that his steps had been guided by Talisman. And as might be expected he laid great emphasis on the part the Kojak had played in the destruction of the wheel-boat.
As Mr Snow sat listening to Carnegie’s graphic description of how the Kojak had massacred the horse-borne samurai, red-stripe infantry and sailors who had struggled ashore, his sense of foreboding increased. All this had happened weeks ago. Since when, Cadillac, Clearwater and Brickman had departed in triumph, with a pile of booty and more than a hundred head of horses – the four-legged beasts which the dead-faces had tamed and learned to ride but which, up to that moment, Mr Snow had never seen.
The trio had last been reported heading westwards towards Nebraska. The southern route! Mr Snow silently cursed the Sky Voices for sending him in the wrong direction. No doubt, by the immutable perverseness of Sod’s Law, his protégés would – barring some mishap – have arrived at the settlement within a day or two of his departure!
Never mind. Carnegie-Hall’s story had amply confirmed Mr Snow’s belief that his two young charges and the cloud-warrior were destined to achieve greatness. They were indeed The Chosen, recognized and hailed as such not just by the Kojak, but by the clans they had encountered in crossing the Central Plains. Whatever misfortune might befall them, they would survive and grow ever stronger, for the power of the Thrice-Gifted One was upon them. An invisible force which, if not an impervious shield, would preserve and heal their earth bodies and the spirit within.
Once again Mr Snow regretted that he would not live to see the saviour of the Plainfolk revealed. But he now understood why the Sky Voices had directed him towards the trading post. It was here the immediate danger lay, and it was here that his gift of power and his courage would be sorely tested.
Perhaps to the limit – and beyond …
‘What you have said explains a great deal.’ Producing a pipe charged with rainbow grass, Mr Snow lit it, taking a soothing puff before offering it to his visitor. ‘Old Golden Nose is not going to let such a catastrophic reverse pass unavenged.’
Old Golden Nose was a nickname derived from the elaborate black and gold mask which Domain-Lord Hirohito Yama-Shita wore whenever he appeared at the trading post. Depending on their rank, all Iron-Masters wore masks of one sort or another when dealing with the Mutes – a practice which had given birth to the generic term ‘dead-faces’.
‘Lord Yama-Shita is dead,’ announced Carnegie-Hall.
The news took Mr Snow’s breath away. ‘How do you know this?’
‘Cadillac told me. Before escaping from the Eastern Lands, your clansmen fought a mighty battle with the dead-faces.’
Mr Snow listened with a mixture of pride and dismay as the Kojak wordsmith repeated Cadillac’s spell-binding story of death and destruction at the Heron Pool including, in all its gory detail, the moment when Clearwater had compelled the domain-lord to kill himself several times over.
The loss of the wheel-boat with all hands, coming hard on the heels of the mega-debacle that Carnegie-Hall had just described merely added insult to injury. Lord Yama-Shita might be dead – and that removed one formidable adversary from the field – but his successors would be honour bound to strike a devastating blow in return.
The first opportunity to do so would be when the wheel-boats ran their noses aground on the beach by the trading post. It was going to be a strange feeling, watching the vessels appear over the dawn horizon and knowing that this time, as they grew larger and larger and the dread sound of their engines reached the ears of the waiting Mutes, there would be no obsequious welcoming ceremony, full of false smiles and bogus cameraderie. This time, the rising sun would mark the beginning of a countdown that would end in an explosive confrontation; an orgy of blood-letting whose limits could not be foreseen and whose consequences were incalculable.
After a long moment of reflection Mr Snow said: ‘I think I can see how this is going to play. The Yama-Shita won’t attack us directly. To do so would jeopardize their whole trading operation. That’s why the D’Troit and C’Natti are here in such large numbers. The family is going to use them to put the knife in.’
Mr Snow smiled as he took back the pipe and inhaled some more smoke. ‘You’re probably on the hit-list too. I’m surprised you came.’
Carnegie-Hall bristled. ‘You dare to call the Kojak cowards – after all we have done?!’
‘Calm down, Carney. No one’s calling you anything. The M’Calls have never backed out of a fight, but if I’d known what we were walking into, I’d have been severely tempted to stay at home.’
‘We came because we thought The Chosen would be here!’ exclaimed Carnegie-Hall. ‘We have seen their power! With them at our side we have nothing to fear. The dead-faces are powerless against them!’ Then, with engaging candour, he added: ‘Had I known they weren’t going to show, we might have had second thoughts too. But where could we go?’
‘It’s a big country,’ replied Mr Snow. ‘But if someone’s determined to find you, there’s no place you can hide. If you have to make a stand, you might as well make it here – amongst your own kind.’ He paused and appraised his visitor. ‘The M’Calls can count on their blood-brothers. Can the She-Kargo count on the M’Waukee?’
Carnegie-Hall shifted uneasily. ‘At this moment I cannot say.’
‘You trying to tell me you’ve found a way to get your head off the block?’
‘No! It’s just that –’
‘– by standing aside, you hope to save your own skins.’
‘Never!’ cried Carnegie-Hall. ‘The M’Calls may be the paramount clan of the She-Kargo. but it is the Kojak who have proved their worth in battle with the dead-faces!’
‘With a little help …’
‘How generous of you!’ sneered Carnegie-Hall. ‘It takes little courage to face the enemy when you know you are protected by the mantle of Talisman! Your clanfolk emerged unscathed. Mine paid for their triumph with their own blood! How dare you impugn the honour of the Kojak! This conversation is at an end!’
Mr Snow laid a restraining hand on his visitor’s knee as he moved to get up. ‘Nice try, Carney. You always were good at the old huff’n puff. But don’t give me this honour nonsense. Everyone knows you as a man with his eye on the main chance. You’ve admitted as much yourself. You were prepared to sell my people down the river for a boxful of geegaws!’
Carnegie-Hall dropped the self-righteous anger and adopted the air of a honourable man who has been sorely wronged. ‘That was before Talisman revealed his purpose to me! Yes, it is true that when he put his words onto my tongue my heart was full of treachery, but all that changed when he filled my mind with his presence! It is easy for you to look down on us from your safe haven in the far mountains. We live on the front line! The dead-faces now have men and boats on the far side of the waters which were once our own! You seek our help now – what help can we expect from you once you have journeyed beyond the Black Hills?!’
‘Not much, I grant you. That’s why we have to stand together now. If there is a fight, we have to win it. Do you want to live under the heel of the D’Troit?’
‘It is a fate many of the M’Waukee already endure.’
‘Then now is your chance to get out from under. We can count on the San’Paul. You are the only people who can talk to the San’Louis.’
It was obvious that Carnegie-Hall did not relish the prospect of getting embroiled in a potentially fatal confrontation with the D’Troit. ‘It will not be easy,’ he muttered. ‘Is there no hope that The Chosen will get here in time?’
Mr Snow drew down some more smoke. ‘Carney, I could make the right kind of noises in order to string you along but I’m not going to. The answer is – I just don’t know but from what my gut is telling me, I’d say the chances are virtually nil. We’re going to have to manufacture our own miracles. The only consolation I can offer is the news that Clearwater, the young lady whose performance has so impressed you, is a pupil of mine. She’s good – but I’m better.’
‘The D’Troit have summoners too.’
‘The D’Troit?! Don’t make me laugh! Their best man can’t even move a pile of buffalo shit unless he has a shovel!’ Mr Snow waved the threat away. ‘Go back to your lines and talk to your blood-brothers. Contact the leader of each delegation and persuade them to come to a meeting with their paramount warrior plus every available wordsmith and summoner. I want them here within two notches for a meeting with their opposite numbers from the She-Kargo.’
A notch was a standard measurement of time marked on candles made from animal fat and represented one pre-Holocaust hour. The system had originated with the Iron Masters. Having obtained some of these candles at the trading post, the Mutes had made copies of their own. In their normal daily lives, Mutes were not clockwatchers; the candles were only used in situations which were time-critical – such as the present gathering at the trading post.
‘Two notches! Sweet Mother, that doesn’t give us much time.’
‘We’re as short of time as we are of people. That’s why we’ve gotta move – fast!’
As they both got to their feet, Carnegie asked: ‘What about the San’ Louis.’
‘Sound them out. See which way the wind’s blowing but don’t tell them about the meeting.’
Carnegie-Hall nodded, his eyes full of doubt. ‘I hope we’re doing the right thing.’
‘Trust me,’ said Mr Snow. He gave Carnegie’s arm a reassuring squeeze. ‘I too am guided by Talisman. This is what he sent me here for. To preserve the freedom of the Plainfolk.’
Between dawn and nine o’clock on the following day, the last of the trade delegations arrived and set up camp in the area allotted to their own bloodline. Most of them were new faces belonging to the D’Troit. Their appearance caused the heavily-outnumbered She-Kargo and M’Waukee to feel both beleaguered and belligerent and by mid-morning, when all the wordsmiths had gathered in the bull-ring for the opening round of their annual talk-fest the atmosphere had become electric. Everyone was filled with that oppressive sense of foreboding you get when a violent storm is about to break.
In order to appreciate what follows it is necessary to explain that while most but not all clans possessed wordsmiths, very few of these gifted individuals were summoners. Mutes born with two gifts – such as Mr Snow (wordsmith and summoner) and Cadillac (wordsmith and seer) – were extremely rare. And summoners as powerful as Mr Snow and Clearwater were rarer still.
The same degrees of professional competence applied to wordsmiths. The M’Calls had enjoyed the benefit of an unbroken line of wordsmiths stretching back through successive generations to the War of a Thousand Suns. This distinction, shared by only a handful of clans, enhanced Mr Snow’s standing but also engendered a great deal of envy.
In many respects, wordsmiths resembled any group of Pre-H professionals. Like lawyers, they came in all shapes and sizes and while they all possessed what was once known as ‘the gift of the gab’ their performance – as 20th century clients often discovered to their cost – spanned the ratings from the peaks of excellence to the troughs of incompetence.
Like the plethora of personal computers of the pre-H era that came fitted with differing amounts of hard-disc storage, some wordsmiths’ memories were better than others. Compared to the ordinary Mute armed with the equivalent of 256K RAM, your average wordsmith with a hundred gigabytes on line was a mental giant – a walking reference library.
However, as with all people-based systems, there was one drawback. Memory is not a product or function of character: the most able brains do not necessarily reside inside the heads of charismatic human beings, or even just plain nice ones. The greatest data-bank in the world is not worth a row of beans if there’s a dildo manning the front desk. But when a few zillion gigabytes of memory was allied to an exceedingly acute mind – as in the case of Mr Snow – the result was an outstanding personality whose opinions and influence extended far beyond the narrow confines of their own clan or even their own bloodline.
But while Mr Snow might be regarded as the star of the She-Kargo, there were other noteworthy contenders among the D’Troit and C’Natti ready to pit their wits against his. And they were present on that fateful morning.
Last year, Mr Snow, by virtue of his age and experience, had been selected to chair the proceedings; this year, his place had been awarded to a senior wordsmith from the rival faction – Prime-Cut, leader of the Clan R’Nato from the bloodline of the D’Troit.
Because of Cadillac’s triumphal progress through Illinois, Iowa and eastern Nebraska – where the trail had run cold – the hottest topic among the wordsmiths from those areas was the appearance of The Chosen, the trio from the Clan M’Call. The news of their exploits and their escape from the Eastern Lands was not confined to the bull-ring. Exaggerated reports of their prowess passed on by those who had witnessed their travelling road-show were now spreading like a bush-fire through the whole encampment.
To the wordsmiths from the various delegations it was both a source of satisfaction and alarm. Apart from Carnegie-Hall and Mr Snow, none of those present were aware of any prophecy which bore a reference to these individuals and no seer had found their image in the stones. The prediction which came closest referred to the return of The Lost Ones – the generations of Mutes who had been taken away by the dead-faces to the Fire-Pits of Beth-Lem and their off-spring, the Iron-Feet – born into slavery in the Eastern lands.
Invited to take centre-stage, Carnegie-Hall launched into a colourful explanation of how he had met Cadillac, Clearwater and Cloud-Warrior – carefully omitting the details of his treacherous deal with Izo Wantanabe. Guided by Talisman he had despatched a posse of Kojak warriors through the winter snows to a rendezvous with the select band of individuals who were to herald the coming of the Thrice-Gifted One.
A graphic account of their powers – which Clearwater had used to destroy four arrowheads with one wave of her hand and which, later, had been employed to rip the belly out of an iron-snake – made a deep impression on his attentive audience. When he had finished, he appealed to Mr Snow. Had the Sky Voices not told him that Cadillac, Clearwater and Cloud-Warrior were born in the shadow of Talisman?
Rising to his feet, Mr Snow agreed that this was so.
His affirmation of Carnegie’s claim sparked off a heated argument. Individual wordsmiths from the D’Troit and C’Natti camps leapt to their feet to protest. Out of all the Plainfolk why should three warriors from the Clan M’Call have been chosen to herald the coming of Talisman? It was just another ploy by the She-Kargo and their lackeys amongst the M’Waukee to further inflate their already exaggerated importance.
No wordsmith, claimed the protesters, had ever spoken of The Chosen in this bull-ring until Carnegie-Hall had coined the phrase. It was all a put-up job; something concocted on the flimsiest of evidence by the Kojak and the M’Calls. At best it was a well-intentioned mis-reading of the events in question; at worst, a total fabrication.
Carnegie-Hall vigorously defended himself but the carefully orchestrated outburst had achieved its aim, splitting the gathering into three camps: the pro-She-Kargo faction who supported the proposition, the pro-D’Troit faction who rejected it, and the uncommitted who were waiting to see who was going to get the better of the argument.
Mean-Machine, a C’Natti wordsmith, made his voice heard amid the hubbub and threw down a challenge. If Carnegie-Hall and those who supported him were speaking the truth where was this mysterious trio? Why had the Clan M’Call not brought them to the trading post where they could display their powers and spread their message to the assembled representatives of the Plainfolk?
Good point, thought Mr Snow. He cursed himself for not having a ready answer.
Carnegie-Hall leapt up angrily and confronted Mean-Machine, his menacing bulk towering over his smaller opponent. ‘Do you dare to call me a liar?!’
Prime-Cut – an equally imposing figure – rose and stepped off the low mound which the chairman traditionally occupied. ‘No!’ he cried. Pushing Carnegie-Hall and Mean-Machine apart, he aimed an arm between them, an accusing finger pointed at Mr Snow. ‘There sits the man who has lied to us all!’
His words drew a shocked gasp from the uncommitted and an angry roar from the She-Kargo wordsmiths. Half of them got to their feet, exchanging accusations and abuse with their more aggressive counterparts on the other side of the ring.
Prime-Cut spread his arms in a commanding gesture. ‘Cease this noise!’ he thundered. ‘Sit down and parley in the proper manner or leave this place!’
The uproar subsided as the more vociferous protestors and counter-protestors resumed their seats but the murmuring continued, becoming a sullen underswell of sound.
As Mean-Machine and Carnegie-Hall settled into their places, Mr Snow got to his feet and appealed to his supporters. ‘Let peace descend! Let your minds be tranquil. I am the one who stands accused here. My conscience is clear! Let the charges be heard!’
The murmuring gradually subsided under the fierce gaze of the Plainfolk’s two most prestigious wordsmiths. When silence had been obtained Mr Snow turned to face Prime-Cut in the centre of the bull-ring. Attracted by the violence of the argument, the open space between the inner and outer rings was now crowded with clan elders and other members of the various delegations.
As the R’Nato wordsmith circled him with a wolfish grin, Mr Snow muttered: ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘Oh, I do, my friend, I do.’ Prime-Cut halted by Mr Snow’s shoulder and thrust his mouth close to the Old One’s ear. ‘You are in deep shit,’ he whispered. ‘I’m going to bury you!’
‘You’re not the first man to try and do that.’ Mr Snow’s voice had a confident ring but he felt cold and sick inside. Already outnumbered on the ground, the She-Kargo was in danger of losing the battle for hearts and minds and he could see no way to reverse the situation.
Drawing back, Prime-Cut pointed a finger at his victim and addressed the ring of wordsmiths in a voice loud enough to carry to the expectant crowd beyond.
‘You have heard our brother speak! His name is renowned, his memory legend! Yet even he is bound, as we are, by the wordsmith’s oath to forswear all falsehoods, to faithfully chronicle the deeds of the Plainfolk and reveal, in their full majesty, the revelations of the Sky Voices!
‘To relay the truth, adorned and embellished by his art but sure and solid as a rock, clear and pure as a mountain stream’ – his voice hardened – ‘not buried beneath shifting sand, or muddied by deceit! You were witness to his claim that the Sky Voices had told him that Cadillac, Clearwater and Cloud-Warrior were born in the shadow of Talisman. Is that not so?!’
‘Aye!!’ chorused the wordsmiths.
‘Were those your words?’ demanded Prime-Cut.
Mr Snow sensed the trap but could see no way out. ‘They were.’
Prime-Cut could hardly contain himself. ‘You hear?!’ he thundered. ‘He stands condemned out of his own mouth! The young brave known to the Kojak as Cloud-Warrior, and who our revered brother’ – he indicated Mr Snow with an elaborate gesture – ‘claims as one of the three M’Calls chosen to lead the Plainfolk towards nationhood is not a Mute at all!’
The charge provoked roars of anger and cries of disbelief.
‘“Cloud-Warrior” is a name as false as the colour of his skin! He is a sand-burrower from the dark cities – known to his masters as Brickman!’
More shouting. Prime-Cut demanded silence and faced Mr Snow. ‘How do you answer?!’
Mr Snow eyed his accuser calmly. ‘Is that it?’
‘No, there is more!’
‘Then I’ll wait till you’ve finished.’
Prime-Cut appealed to his audience. ‘Evasions! You see how his serpent tongue wriggles to avoid the truth?! Well I shall reveal it! All of you seated here who played host to The Chosen have been cruelly deceived! Cadillac, Clearwater and Cloud-Warrior are agents of the Federation! And they are not alone! Mr Snow – who would have us believe he is our brother – and the entire clan have sold their souls to the sand-burrowers!’
Once again the meeting erupted with cries of protest and condemnation. Charges and counter-charges were hurled back and forth by the opposing camps and the D’Troit and C’Natti wordsmiths set up a strident chant: ‘OUT-OUT-OUT-OUT!’ The confusion and bitterness spread amongst the spectators outside the bull-ring, leading to angry exchanges and physical violence. Fortunately there were enough line-capos on hand to restrain the D’Troit hot-heads who were clearly out to cause trouble. Mr Snow had foreseen this and following his midnight meeting with the leaders of the She-Kargo and M’Waukee delegations, their clanfolk had been given strict instructions not to succumb to any provocation from the rival camps.
In the midst of this commotion, Mr Snow stood firm. Seemingly oblivious of the jostling mass of bodies crowded around him, he radiated a deceptive calm like the eye of a hurricane.
Prime-Cut’s accusations were highly damaging but Mr Snow could not allow himself to be drawn into answering specific accusations. By remaining silent and allowing the torrent of charges to wash over him, he hoped to tempt Prime-Cut into revealing all his cards and – with luck – the R’Nato wordsmith might even end up as the accused instead of the accuser.
But it was hard to resist the cries of ‘Answer! Answer!’ from his own camp, and it was clear from the anguished expressions on all sides that many of his friends were in despair at his failure to defend himself.
Prime-Cut ran through a devastating list of questions to which Mr Snow had no answer. Had the sand-burrower not descended from the skies? Did the clan not harbour him in their midst and treat him as one of their own – to the point of even giving him a bedmate? Did they not release him? Had he not returned the following year on a new mission for his masters? Had Mr Snow not brought him to the trading post where he had stolen aboard a wheel-boat to join his two accomplices in Ne-Issan?
And once there, had they not wreaked bloody havoc at a place called the Heron Pool – slaughtering the true friends of the Plainfolk? The Iron Masters who furnished them with weapons and the necessities of existence? But even that was not enough! These ingrates had murdered Domain-Lord Yama-Shita, Captain of all the wheel-boats and master of the Great River! The visionary who over the past years had sought to deepen the links and friendship between Mute and Iron Master.
It was a long time since Mr Snow had heard such sycophantic rubbish but it was clear that Prime-Cut’s share of the audience were swallowing it whole. And they were cheering him on!
The calumny reached its climax. The M’Calls had betrayed their brothers, but that was only to be expected. Such treachery was in the blood of the She-Kargo. No longer able to maintain their superiority by force of arms, they were now seeking to bolster their position by secret deals with the sand-burrowers!
Again there was uproar, each side trying to howl the other down. It was a serious charge and it confirmed Mr Snow’s reading of the situation. His knowledge of what had happened in Ne-Issan was limited to what Cadillac had told Carnegie-Hall. But at Mr Snow’s request, Carnegie-Hall – when addressing the wordsmiths in the bull-ring – had not mentioned the battle at the Heron Pool or the death of Lord Yama-Shita.
Prime-Cut could have only gotten this information from the Iron Masters. The D’Troit and their allies the C’Natti were acting as mouthpieces for the Yama-Shita, but how deep did their involvement go – and how long had they been getting their act together? Long enough to put the She-Kargo on the spot. The degree of coordination between the D’Troit and She-Kargo and the inflated size of their delegations was proof of that. The Iron Masters intended to take their revenge here, at the trading post. Tomorrow. And they were using Prime-Cut to set the stage with his accusations.
It was time to begin the fight-back. He had to defend himself, his clan and the good name of the She-Kargo. And he had to do so publicly in a way that was effective but did not provoke an immediate and violent response. The battle, if there was to be one, had to be on a ground of his own choosing.
By putting him in the dock and trying to make scapegoats out of the M’Calls, Prime-Cut seemed to be trying to isolate the clan from the rest of the Plainfolk. Having achieved that, it would not be too difficult – in view of the enormity of their crimes – to persuade the gathering to hand the M’Call delegation over as a sacrificial offering to appease the Iron Masters. But it hadn’t worked. The vociferous support he had received from the other She-Kargo wordsmiths was proof that the M’Calls had not been abandoned. Which was, Mr Snow realized, just what Prime-Cut intended. The blow, when struck, would be aimed at the entire She-Kargo faction. The hand of the D’Troit would be on the knife but they would be acting for the dead-faces. And by this unparalleled act of treachery they hoped to fulfil their long-held ambition to become the paramount bloodline. It was ironic. The D’Troit had become the running dogs of the Iron Masters and yet it was the M’Calls who were accused of betraying the Plainfolk.
But it was not over yet …
The focus of Mr Snow’s attention turn outwards as the noise subsided. Prime-Cut stood in front of him, trembling as he cranked up the required level of indignation. ‘How do you answer?!’
Mr Snow chuckled then raised his voice to address the assembled wordsmiths. ‘How do I answer?’ He turned full circle, arms out-stretched. ‘My brothers under the sun, you have heard what passes as the truth fall from the lips of the D’Troit. You have seen their spokesman circle me like a hungry jackal around an ageing bull. Why? That is the question you must ask yourselves – and which I attempt to answer!
‘Why does he choose this moment to accuse me of treachery? Why does he attack the honour of the She-Kargo at a time when the Plainfolk have come together in peace and fellowship? Are his words as pure and clear as a mountain stream or do they mask some dark ambition of the D’Troit which they have yet to reveal?’
‘Heyy-yaahhh …’ The She-Kargo and M’Waukee wordsmiths and their supporters massed beyond the bull-ring voiced a sombre chorus of approval.
‘And you must also ask yourself how he knows these things. Who else is aware of the events of which he speaks?’
The question, aimed at those around him, met with no response.
‘Reflect on what he has told us. He speaks of Mutes who are not Mutes, of secret journeys through the clouds and across the seas to the Eastern Lands! Of battles between Mute and Iron Masters in which the noble lords of Ne-Issan perished in their hundreds! Of wheel-boats sunk by red-eyed nightbirds!
‘Are these inventions of a fevered mind? Dreams inspired by envy of his betters? If they are not, how does he know – in such detail – what took place far beyond the Great River, beyond the Running Red Buffalo Hills?! He does not speak, like you or I who only a short while ago listened to our brother Carnegie but as someone with foreknowledge of these events! He has never met The Chosen yet he speaks of their great battle at the Heron Pool and the death of Domain-Lord Yama-Shita as if he had been there!
‘How can he know of such things! There can only be one answer! These words through which he seeks to bring disgrace upon me and the She-Kargo were put into his mouth by the dead-faces – an alien race that would make slaves of us all!’
‘Heyy-YAHHH!’ This time it was a full-throated cheer. And it came from all sides of the ring.
Mr Snow raised his voice. ‘Well, they will not make slaves of the She-Kargo! The weapons they provide are not given to us. They are exchanged for goods we gather through sweat and blood and our most priceless possession – our Clan-brothers and sisters! Think back to when this all began. Have you forgotten how they killed those who refused their offerings?! And yet this man stands before us and says we must show gratitude? For what?! We trade with the dead-faces not by choice but by necessity! But there is one thing we will never trade – our freedom!’
This ringing declaration was greeted by a tumultuous cheer.
Mr Snow pointed to Prime-Cut. ‘He charges me with treachery! He tries to tell you that The Chosen are agents of the Federation because they were born to the bloodline of the She-Kargo! What will his hatred and envy lead him to do next?! Deny the power of Talisman?
‘The Chosen do not belong to the Clan M’Call or the She-Kargo or the D’Troit! They are of the Plainfolk! The first of the Lost Ones to return from the Eastern Lands – as it was prophesied – to herald the coming of the Thrice-Gifted One! Under his banner we shall become a mighty nation! We shall crush the dark cities and drive the dead-faces back into the sea!
‘This should be a time of rejoicing, not anger! Are we not all brothers under the sun?’
The ground shook as ten thousand voices chanted their response. ‘Heyy-YAHHH! Heyy-YAHHH! HEYY-YAAHHH!!’
Mr Snow pointed to Prime-Cut. ‘Then beware of those who seek to divide us, for it is they who are the real enemy!’
The wordsmiths leapt to their feet to avoid being trampled down by the excited crowd pressing in around them. Those from the D’Troit camp looked sullen and frustrated but everyone else, including many of the C’Natti were cheering and raising their fists in a gesture of solidarity.
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 musicians 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 …