Peacemaker (9780698140820) (12 page)

They were carrying men out of the mine now, the red blood of the wounded standing out vibrantly against white skin, even in the dim lantern light. Most were walking under their own power, but two were not moving at all and never would again. Even at his distance, Caleb could see that their skulls were crushed. The mountain had taken its due.

“I don't understand, Ernst. Why would they risk all this to mine nullstone? It's not that valuable.”

“I'm more concerned with what they're doing with it once they get it out of the earth. If they're taking it back to the ranch, that might be where the children are being exposed.”

Ernst was almost certainly right. Caleb felt it in his gut. “Then he has to know what he's doing to them.” It couldn't be a mistake. What kind of monster
was
Warner?

“Hsst! Look out!” Ernst ducked deeper into the bushes, and Caleb froze as the miners and their guards made their way down the rough path. They pushed the cart of nullstone ahead of them, struggling to keep it upright on the rocky trail, and four carried the bodies of their fallen companions. At the end of the procession, Schmidt herded a groggy Mary Catherine along, keeping a tight grip on her arm.

The Peacemaker remained still long after the sounds of the miners' passage had faded into the distance. Only when a bird in the tree above him sent out a questioning chirp and some of the night insects began to buzz around his ears did he remember to breathe normally.

“They must have haulers down the mountain to get the stone out. But I still can't fathom why. And Mary Catherine . . . How did she do that trick with the dust devil, all covered in nullstone like that? I wouldn't be able to find my head with both hands, covered in that much stone.”

“Caleb?”

Ignoring Ernst, Caleb gathered his staff up. “I think I need to look around up there a bit more.”

“Um, Caleb?”

“Don't worry, you don't have to come, and I won't go in the tunnels.” He clambered to his feet, shaking leaf litter from his clothing. “I just need to see what is so important about this mine.”

“I don't think they're going to let you.”

“You don't think who's going to let me?” He looked down at Ernst, only to find the animal staring down the hill behind them.

“You might want to put the staff down.”

Slowly, Caleb turned.

How they had approached so near without even Ernst hearing them, Caleb would never know. But the seven Indian braves were almost within spitting distance, each of them with a drawn bow trained on Caleb.

None of them said a word, but Caleb gave a small nod and bent ever so slowly to lay his staff next to his feet. It didn't cripple him, by any means, but it was at least a visible indication that he didn't intend to fight. He raised his empty hands, just in case they didn't understand.

“What do they want?” he asked quietly.

Ernst shook his head. “I don't know. And I can't translate again, not so soon.”

“This creates a problem, Ernst.”

“I'm aware of this, Caleb.”

The men in the trees looked young and strong. Not one arrow wavered from fatigue, and their eyes never left the Peacemaker. Most of them had paint on their cheekbones and feathers tied into their dark hair.

Caleb knew he could get a shield up without the aid of his staff, but it would last only until his air ran out and he fell unconscious. Not a pleasant thought, under the circumstances.

The silence dragged out for an excruciatingly long moment. Finally, the one in the center lowered his bow and snapped something at Caleb in their language.

“I don't speak Cheyenne. Do you speak English?”

The tall Indian only barked the same phrase at him, obviously a command, and the two men closest to him approached Caleb warily.

“Ernst, stay close. This may get a bit messy.” Caleb took a deep breath, drawing power inward, feeling it pool in the center of his chest. From that store, he could accomplish almost anything. Without his staff, it could only be destructive.

Suddenly, someone laughed. It was an eerie sound, high-pitched and frantic, off to Caleb's left. The braves paused in their advance, glancing back toward their leader.

A furry head pushed through the bushes at the leader's side, and a large coyote trotted into view. It yipped once, looking up at the leader, and the man frowned darkly. The coyote yipped again, and there was no mistaking the note of command in the animal's tone.

“Ernst, is that . . . ?”

“I'm . . . I'm not sure.” The jackalope huddled closer to Caleb's boot, eyeing the large predator. “I've never seen a familiar like that before.”

Whatever the creature wanted, it was not to the liking of the band of warriors. They grumbled among themselves until the coyote nipped at the leader's hand, growling softly. Finally, the men acquiesced.

The leader pointed at Caleb and snarled a short command. One of them reached out to grab Caleb by the shirt, giving him a slight shove, and another collected the staff.

“Where are we going, Ernst?” Caleb stumbled over the rocky terrain as the braves closed in around him, taking him down the mountain.

“Wherever they want us to, Caleb.”

And they were marched into the sultry night.

Chapter 9

It was easy to guess at the amount of time they'd been walking. Caleb placed that at nearly an hour. It was next to impossible to guess the distance.

The first time he noticed the anomaly, he thought his eyes were merely playing tricks on him in the darkness. They were walking along a narrow path bordered by low bushes—buckbrush, he thought. He raised his hand to wipe a spiderweb from his face, and when his vision was clear again, the path had changed, becoming rockier and almost fenced in by small saplings of various types. He got only a moment to glance behind before his captors shoved him onward, but the hardy little buckbrush plants were nowhere to be seen.

By the third such strange shift in scenery, Caleb realized that it was being done deliberately, and through no power he himself possessed. “Ernst, what are they doing to us?”

“I'm . . . not sure.” The valiant little jackalope was hard-pressed to keep up on his short legs, and the Indians didn't seem inclined to wait for him. Caleb scooped him up without breaking stride, holding him in the crook of one arm. “It's not an illusion. We're actually crossing great distance with each leap. I just . . . can't tell how it's done.”

The brave beside Caleb jabbed him in the ribs hard, a reminder to stay quiet. The Peacemaker gritted his teeth and said nothing more, but he watched for the abrupt shifts in scenery. Notably, they always took place shortly after the coyote familiar disappeared on the trail ahead of them, almost as if the animal were leaping ahead to make sure they reached the right destination at each shift.

Caleb kept a wary eye on the other familiar every time it appeared again. While they weren't precisely rare, neither were they common, and Caleb had never encountered one that belonged to an Indian. In fact, he'd encountered none at all since leaving the East behind him, save for Graeme's Tan in Kansas City. His friend's familiar had always just been a quiet presence in the background, the tawny spotted cat as silent as his partner was loud.

Familiars should never be mistaken for docile pets or companions, though. During the war, Caleb had seen the familiars of two powerful generals meet on the battlefield, and that combat alone had nearly leveled five acres. It was never wise to underestimate the magical creatures.

It was clear, however, that the coyote did not belong to any of the men there. And since they seemed inclined to follow orders from the furry predator, it was likely that it belonged to someone important. Someone the braves were not willing to disobey, no matter how they disliked what they'd been commanded to do.

Ernst wanted nothing to do with the big coyote; that was certain. Though Caleb would have loved to know more about what made the strange familiar different, his captors started grumbling and poking him with sharp objects when he tried to speak, and he was finally forced to fall silent. The questioning would wait until later.

The last abrupt jump in terrain was the most obvious, because they went from dark forest to a brightly lit clearing, with campfires dotting the night as far as the eye could see. Truly impressive dwellings, the teepees towered overhead, and almost a hundred people came pouring out of the lodges to see what their warriors had returned with.

Men and women of every shape and size watched Caleb and his familiar with dark eyes, some hostile, some merely curious. There were no children present, he realized, and the lack stood out starkly in his mind, once noticed. Many of the people called to the men escorting him, obviously family glad to see the hunters returned.

And they said the Dog Soldiers had been broken
. Caleb wondered what the military strategists back east would say if they knew of this village and just how many Cheyenne warriors still remained.

He was pushed and prodded toward a large fire at the center of the village, where it seemed people had assembled to wait for his arrival. The coyote was seated at the feet of the most ancient man Caleb had ever seen, whose black hair had gone pure white and was plaited neatly. The lines of many cares and worries were etched deeply into his worn face, but there was no mistaking the keen glint in his eyes, though, or the proud bearing of his shoulders as he stood stick-straight. His garments were thickly ornamented with quills and feathers and beads, and elaborate scenes were worked into the leather with dyes. This was a personage to be reckoned with.

One of the braves walked forward, presenting Caleb's staff to the elderly man with a noticeable air of deference. The old man looked it over with mild curiosity. The runes themselves seemed to interest him, and he traced them several times with one finger. Caleb braced himself, ready to throw up a shield if he saw the sigils light, but the staff remained dormant.

The elderly man seemed satisfied with whatever he'd discovered, and he came forward, using the staff now to walk with, though he didn't seem to need it. As he approached Caleb, the crowd murmured in agitation, perhaps worried that the dreaded white man was going to attack their venerable elder.

Caleb held up his free hand, once again displaying his intention to simply remain passive. The old man tilted his head, looking the Peacemaker up and down. His eyes lit on Caleb's gun, which they hadn't taken away, and he asked something of his braves. The leader answered with a shrug. Apparently, they didn't feel the firearm was a danger.

“Are you up to translating again?”

Ernst barely shook his head. “I don't want to weaken myself that much around that one.” His eyes had never left the coyote, though the predator seemed to ignore Ernst's very existence.

The jackalope's voice drew the attention of the ancient Indian, and he tilted his head the other way, his sharp eyes examining the creature in Caleb's arms. His gaze moved from Ernst to Caleb and back again, a thoughtful frown forming in the lines of his face.

He looked to one of the braves and gave an order. The intent became clear when the young man reached to take Ernst away from Caleb.

“No!” Blue flame flared to life around Caleb's empty fist, the threat explicit. No one was taking Ernst.

The brave hesitated, glancing toward the older man. The ancient one nodded firmly, indicating that he was to proceed. Reluctantly, the man stepped forward.

“Kracht!”
A bolt of raw force leapt from Caleb's hand, slamming into the young brave's chest and sending him sprawling to the ground.

It was not a killing blow but one meant to daze. The brave blinked his glassy eyes, barely aware when his comrades moved to help him to his feet.

Caleb continued to hold his power, and licks of blue energy flared around his fist, casting strange shadows on the faces of the watching throng. They were eerily silent, but no one made any further hostile moves. “If you have to, blink out of here, Ernst.”

“I'm not leaving you.”

“It wasn't a suggestion.” He glanced at his familiar. “For once, just do as I ask, all right?” Ernst didn't answer.

The ancient Indian was examining his stunned brave, and to Caleb's surprise, seemed to be chuckling. With mirth in his eyes, he came back to Caleb and pointed at the power held in his hand.

“Not a chance. You threaten Ernst, you deal with me.” The Peacemaker shook his head firmly.

The old man shook his head in reply, saying something in their musical language. He pointed across the clearing, past the fire, to a wooden frame with leather stretched tightly across it. It had many holes punctured in it and a few broken arrows around the base. A target, obviously.

“You . . . want me to hit that?”

The old man nodded, insistently pointing toward the target again.

It was easy enough to do, though Caleb couldn't fathom why the old man wanted him to. The trick would be keeping the thing from erupting in flames and igniting the entire forest.

With narrowed eyes, he brought all his concentration into the middle two knuckles of his hand, condensing the blazing power into a narrow point of light. Arm outstretched, he breathed the word
kracht
on his exhale, and power lanced forth with a sharp crack, a beam of blue in the firelit night.

The target blew apart into many pieces, those standing closest to it diving for cover with surprised cries. The old Indian laughed with obvious delight, going himself to retrieve pieces of the mangled frame and looking them over with excitement. There seemed to be much laughter in the crowd, good-natured mockery of those who had fled from the exploding target.

“They're all crazy, Ernst.”

“I highly doubt that.” The jackalope burrowed himself deeper into Caleb's elbow. “Look out. He's coming back.”

It seemed ridiculous to be holding on to a fistful of raw power in the face of such a wizened individual, but Caleb did it anyway, bracing himself for whatever came next.

The ancient one smirked, and pointed once again to Caleb's flaming hand, then to the leader of the braves who had captured him. The brave stepped forward, his jaw and fists clenched, a hint of hatred in his dark eyes as he gazed at the white man.

“No.” Caleb shook his head emphatically. “I'm not shooting at him.”

The old Indian frowned and made a gesture toward both men before bringing his two hands together sharply in the middle.

“I think he wants you to fight him, Caleb.”

“Why in the hell would I do that?” They
were
all crazy.
Dear God.
“Look, I don't know what you're about, but I'm not fighting someone for no reason.”

“Think of it like a duel. Just . . . put him down quickly, without hurting him.”

He looked down at Ernst. “Just whose side are you on? Besides, I'm not letting you go for anything. Lord only knows where they'd try to carry you off to.”

The old man seemed to understand, and he gestured toward Ernst, then himself. The amusement had vanished from his dark eyes, and he clearly understood the gravity of what he was asking.

Caleb took a step back, squeezing Ernst until the little creature wriggled uncomfortably. “No one touches him.”

The old Indian smiled gently, nodding his understanding, but looked to Ernst next, offering his hand to the jackalope instead.

“Caleb . . . air!” Ernst jabbed his partner with his antlers in an effort to breathe, and reluctantly, Caleb eased up.

“Can he hurt you, Ernst?” The arcane flames still crackled around his fist, and he kept his wary gaze on the old man.

“I don't think so. But their magic is not like ours. I can't feel it at all.” Caleb couldn't feel it either, and it bothered him. There should have been something there, something to explain the subtle show of great power they'd been subjected to on the way there. “It's all right, Caleb. I don't think he'll let anything happen to me.”

He didn't want to give Ernst over. The very thought made his stomach knot painfully, and he felt the beginnings of a cold sweat on his forehead.
He's not being taken away. He's just going to be safely out of harm's way.
Still, it took a few deep breaths before he could willingly hand his familiar over to a potential enemy.

The old man cradled the jackalope carefully in one arm, managing to scratch the animal's ears and still hold onto Caleb's staff at the same time. After a few moments, Ernst purred softly.

Though he felt like the skin was about to crawl off his back, Caleb withdrew his power, coiling it into the center of his chest again. The blue fire snuffed out. “I don't want to fight your man.”

The old man never even looked at Caleb, but merely shuffled off to the side with Ernst, entranced with the charming little creature. His coyote remained where it was seated, watching the proceedings with a bored gaze.

The Indian brave said something to Caleb, and it wasn't hard to guess the sound of an insult. Caleb raised a brow. “I'm not fighting you. This is ridiculous.”

The dark man smirked, saying something to his cronies. They hooted and whooped at Caleb, taunting him.

The Peacemaker held his ground, but took no hostile moves of his own. “I don't want this. I have no quarrel with any of you.”

Perhaps the tall warrior had a quarrel with him. Suddenly, the brave let out a wild whoop. He spun in a full circle, braids flying, and flung his hand at Caleb as if throwing a spear. There was no weapon present, but Caleb could see the shimmer as the narrow shaft of air hardened, crystallized, and came straight for him.

Only instinct and years of training saved him.
“Schild!”
It wasn't pretty without his staff to help him focus, and it shattered into a cloud of spent arcane motes on the first strike. But the air spear was likewise destroyed, a faint breeze stirring the clearing where it had been released.

A chorus of laughing catcalls echoed around the clearing, goading the brave on. He glowered, apparently not seeing the humor in the situation. Caleb didn't see it, either, and made a few emphatic negative gestures, hoping the other man would stop. He did not.

There was no warning cry this time. The brave dipped and bobbed in an odd little dance, then slammed his palm against the ground. Instantly, Caleb felt the vibration in the soles of his feet, and he dove to the side only a heartbeat before the ground beneath him exploded in a rain of dirt and rocks. Those spectators who also got showered with debris called disapprovingly to their tribesman.

It was a basic trick, one of the first any cadet at West Point learned. To churn the earth beneath an advancing army's cavalry, to destroy roads and train tracks, to fell trees across paths and funnel them into ambush, all started with the same source skill. But as Caleb reached for the traces of the arcane power that had to be used, he felt nothing. It was as if the ground had simply erupted of its own accord.

“Come on Caleb! Thump him one!” Ernst was the sole voice cheering for him, and he stared at the little creature in disbelief.

“Have you lost your—”

“Look out!”