Prophecy (13 page)

“I wonder if those on our tail will stay there the whole while, or if we shall be able to shake them.”

“Not if you talk so loud…”

Doc contained a wry smile. Jak was in a bad mood. It was not really surprising. Doc could see that the warriors who followed their every move would cramp his style.

They had been given horses by the men who were to act as their guides—though it was obvious they were also guards—and had ridden for several hours before the warriors had given them the command to halt. This, like most communication, had been done with a gesture. Doc had attempted to engage them in conversation, but had been unsuccessful. Why he had even bothered was something of a mystery, even unto himself. He suspected it was something to do with the fact that he was to spend days in the wilderness with a lad who brought new meaning to the expression taciturn.

Further, although he had enjoyed his long conversations with the shaman—learning along the way a number of things about the Pawnee that he was sure would be useful before too long—he had noticed that the tribe as a whole were a silent people. They preferred their
own language to that which Doc spoke; and even in this they were inclined to reticence. Doc liked to talk. Sometimes, perhaps, to his own detriment. But he liked it, nonetheless, and he missed the chance to cross swords for the occasional verbal thrust and parry with the good Dr. Wyeth.

Doc's mind stopped wandering aimlessly and snapped sharply into focus. The others: that was why he wanted their tail to be lost. And he was sure that Jak echoed this.

When he spoke again, it was in a much softer, quieter tone. Barely more than a mumble. But with Jak's sharp ears, it did not have to be more than this.

“If we evade them, then which direction?”

Jak's incline of the head enabled him to murmur directly toward Doc. “They bring us due east. Ville southwest of where found me. Good place to start as any.”

Doc considered that. “That's a lot of ground. Particularly for two men without food, water or transport of any kind.”

“Saying we should give up?”

Doc pondered. “No. Merely that we should try to get some.”

Jak's impassive white visage flowered momentarily into a vulpine grin before returning to its neutral state. “You think right” was all he said.

As Doc looked around, he could only conclude that the idea was all very well; the reality may prove to be a little different.

Now, having left the safety of the shelter and the
scrub that surrounded the old redoubt and hills where the Pawnee had pitched their ville, Doc and Jak were exposed to the harsh climate of the post-nukecaust plains—hard-packed earth with a light film of dust as a topsoil. The occasional burst of violently colored foliage held little hope of anything that could be eaten. Consequently, there was little sign of whatever could survive here, and could in itself be hunted, chilled and eaten.

And dry: the land was parched, and about to lose more moisture under the clear skies and the unrelenting glare of the sun. When they set off, it had still been the cool, damp dew of sunrise. There was moisture in the air, but it had burned off as they had progressed, and now that it was nearing the middle of the day, Doc could feel the sweat gather and evaporate before it had a chance to run, leaving white salt marks on his skin and clothes. He had already shed as much as he dare, trying to balance his increasing body temperature against the burning rays. Glancing across at Jak, he was momentarily astounded that the albino still wore his patched and heavy camou jacket, and seemed to be barely breaking a sweat.

Sweat…water…Doc's mind wandered back to the matter at hand. He was aware that he was beginning to wander, and that he had to keep it together if he was to be anything other than a liability to his companion.

It was a condition of the quest that they have dreams and visions while they were out in the wilderness. Given that they were forbidden to eat or drink during this time, it was not hard to see why these visions would come to
them; with a wry smile to himself, Doc figured that he didn't need lack of water and food to have hallucinations of this sort.

Therefore, it made sense that they would be placed in a region where such temptations were beyond them. Which was all very well; however, it did them little good if they were to search for sustenance to fortify them for the breakaway that they hoped to make.

Doc hoped that Jak's finely attuned senses—those that had made him a hunter of both man and animal—would come to their assistance. For he feared that he would be of little use.

 

R
YAN AND
K
RYSTY
reached the top of the plateau and lay panting on the hard rock that fringed the wind-blasted surface. Unlike the plateau that served as a camp for the Dakota Sioux, atop the honeycomb of caves and tunnels they called home, this had no raised rock wall to shelter the flat surface from the elements. As a result, the earth was dry and dusty, a few straggling plants and sickly trees clinging on for dear life. Even the hardiest of birds would not nest here. The only water came from the skies, and was sucked hungrily by those few flora that dotted the surface.

“Gotta admit, lover, they're not giving us any chance to cheat or run,” Krysty said ruefully, still breathing heavily from the climb.

Ryan rose to his knees, gulping in the dry, warm air and instantly regretting it. Though his body craved the oxygen, he could already feel that his throat was parched, drying with each hungry intake.

“Bastards got every option covered,” he husked.

It was true. At the back of both Ryan's and Krysty's minds had been the idea that they might use this opportunity to make a break for it, to head off and try to locate their lost companions. More than that, perhaps: the chances of easily tracing J.B., Mildred, Doc or Jak were nonexistent. But the chances of riding into disaster at the head of a Dakota Sioux party to fulfill a prophecy about which they knew nothing were greater. Maybe the so-called quest would reveal something to them. Krysty had a greater belief and knowledge of these things than Ryan; for his part, the one-eyed warrior believed mostly in what he could touch, feel and see. And as a battle-hardened veteran he could see nothing but disaster ahead. The Sioux had no real idea of what the prophecy meant in practical terms. So the chances of anything that resulted from Krysty and himself leading them into the future being what they wanted were slim.

The quest should have given them the chance to flee from this powderkeg.

Escorted by a phalanx of Sioux warriors, they had ridden out from the caves as the sun rose. From one outcrop of mountain to another was a good two hours' ride, and the sun was starting to beat down by the time that they arrived at their destination.

Looking up, Ryan was at first disbelieving. They were expected to climb to the top of the rocks and stay on the plateau for three days and nights without food and water. It gave them no option to escape. From the looks on the faces of the Sioux warriors as they watched
Ryan and Krysty begin their ascent, it was obvious that this was a prime concern.

The climb was hard. The rock was smooth, with little in the way of hand- or footholds. For the first few yards it was relatively easy, but the higher they climbed, the steeper the ascent, to the point where—near the lip of the plateau—the rock swung out, necessitating a swing that took the body almost horizontal.

The rock was scarred by great slashes that looked like the marks of giant claws. Too deep, wide and long to be as such, they were also impossible to use as holds. But they did give Ryan an idea. Unsheathing the panga, he started to hack at the clay. It was tough, and it bit back at the blade, but it would yield. The blade would be blunted and would need to be sharpened, but that was for another time. Right now, all that mattered was that the rock gave enough for him to make the hand- and footholds that would take them to the top.

It was slow progress. The rising sun began to pound him with waves of intense heat. He could feel the muscles in his calves cramp as he dug his combat boots into the small holes he had hacked into the face of the mountain, taking the weight as he clung with one hand and cut with the other. He could feel, rather than see, Krysty clinging to the rock beneath him. The occasional upward glance showed him that there was still a long way to go. And that lip…

His back ached, strained and protested as he twisted his muscles, reaching with one hand to grope for the edge of the rock while feeling the skin tear from his
other hand as it gripped the hold he had cut, indented to make the rock take some of the weight.

The worst of it was when he felt his feet swing free into the air, his torso partly over the edge and onto the plateau, his center of gravity almost dragging him back. Muscles burned as he hauled himself over, pausing only for the chance to breathe deeply before looking back over the lip and extending a hand to help Krysty up and over.

And now they half crouched, half lay on the plateau. Not bothering to look over the edge, knowing the warriors would still be there, pitching camp and waiting, they breathed deep and hard, resigned to their fate.

It was going to be a long three days.

 

F
OR
M
ILDRED AND
J.B. the journey to a place where they could undergo the vision quest and so see their part in destiny took far longer. The Otoe had chosen their home on the plains with care, and so they were surrounded by territory that was lush by comparison with other areas. To go beyond this, and so to attain an area that would have the deprivations necessary to reach the trancelike state of the dream, entailed a ride of more than a day.

Little Tree was one of the guides who led them to this place. While the other tribesmen who rode with them maintained the kind of silence that seemed to come naturally to the tribe, and was only increased by the language gap, Little Tree had formed a bond with J.B. over the weeks that caused him to feel the need to talk.

So it was that, when they stopped at a creek to water the horses and themselves, Little Tree beckoned to the
Armorer to follow him. Under the guise of leading their horses just a little farther downstream, the two men found the necessary space to exchange words in a barely audible undertone.

“You know why we are with you,” Little Tree began.

J.B. nodded. “To guide us…”

He left the words hanging, guessing what his friend had to say. Little Tree grimaced and spit into the creek.

“Guide, yes. And more. But you know this, I think. You did not know of the prophecy, nor did you come to us willingly. As such, there are those who think you would run if you had the chance.”

“You think we would?” J.B. asked.

Little Tree let the ghost of a smile flicker across his face. “I think that if I was in your position, I would be thinking of such a thing. You do not know what you face. You do not know where your traveling companions are, though you may have a mind of where to begin searching. I would be thinking, wondering if it would be possible.”

“And your telling me it isn't?”

Little Tree smoothed the snout of his horse, gently tickled it under the lower jaw, and looked back at Mildred and the other men, some distance away.

“All I can tell you is that we have our commands. We must see that you fulfill the quest, and that you do not run. We are not to move unless it becomes necessary. But if you make it so, then we must stop you, come what may. I do not want to have to do this.”

J.B. followed the man's line of sight. There were five
warriors surrounding Mildred. That made three-to-one. Not good odds. J.B. and Mildred still had their blasters. It was a sign of the ambivalence that the Otoe felt: they had allowed them to keep their weapons as a sign of faith, yet would still mount a guard over them to prevent their flight. Three men with bows and axes to one blaster-wielding combatant made for reasonable odds in J.B.'s reckoning, but he and Mildred would be in flight, and so the Otoe would have had first shot. There was no way that the shaman or the chief could have figured on Little Tree's sense of loyalty to his new friend clashing with that to his tribe.

Not that it did. J.B. could see from Little Tree's expression that he did not feel he was betraying anyone: rather, he was trying to keep a balance and play his small part in fulfilling the prophecy.

For this, if nothing else, J.B. opted to say, “Okay. We'll go with it. Might as well see what this prophecy means before we think about trying to find our friends.”

Little Tree's expression was one of great relief. “I am glad you say that, my friend. The future is already there for us, we just have to trust in the Grandfather.” With which he grasped J.B.'s forearm in his fist.

The Armorer understood what this meant to the warrior, and how much it had taken him to speak. Question was, how was he going to put this across to Mildred on the rest of their journey without giving the warrior away? Certainly, the look she shot him as both he and Little Tree rejoined the rest of the party demanded a response of some kind.

But it was only a few hours later, as they left the water and scrub behind to enter an area of arid dust and rock, that she was able to steer her mount close enough to the Armorer that she could ask him without fear of being overheard. With one eye on the guide party that rode with them, he dismissed her question with an imprecation to wait. She was less than pleased, but how else could he avoid implicating Little Tree, who had risked the greatest thing a warrior had: honor.