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"No, that we are not," Rudi said forcefully. "Not if we can do more. I won't command us to certain death-but I will take a risk."
" I'm the one who was raised on tales of knights-errant," Odard said dryly. "We have the Princess to think about, Rudi… and your precious Sword. We have a long way to go. We can't right every wrong we find, not when we're outnumbered fifty to four. We're fugitives, not an army with ba
Rudi nodded; that was true. And he didn't doubt Odard's courage. It had been shown often enough that there was no need for him to go out of his way to prove it.
"I'm not going to try to right every wrong," he said. "But when the Powers shove one under my nose, and it smelling no better than a goat turd on a hot day, then it becomes my business."
"Yes!" Edain said, his eyes bright.
Rebecca's blazed. " Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you both."
"You're welcome," Rudi said.
"Well, then we need more information," Ingolf said practically. "More than we can get cooped up here. And that Jed Smith may have acted real friendly, but he's no fool like his nephew Jack. He'll let us see just as much as he thinks is needful for him, and not a bit more."
"No, he's a dangerous man," Rudi acknowledged. "He'll keep a close eye on us."
"Not on all of us," Rebecca said.
A sharp scream came from the middle distance, and then sobs and the sound of men laughing. She shivered, but went on:
"My people here will know all we need."
TheScourgeofGod
CHAPTER SIX
Avenger the Archer high-hearted
Deadly the skill of the bowman's hand
Stronger still is fate hard woven
Than any shaft nocked by mortal man From: The Song of Bear and Raven
Attributed to Fiorbhi
Peter Graber, newly promoted Major in the third battalion of the Sword of the Prophet, was a believing man. He recited from the Dictations nightly, or the Book of Dzhur, and had since he was a child in the House of Refuge. He treasured the occasions when he could feel that chanting bring him into contact with the Beyond, a joy as great as holding his firstborn son in his arms, and greater than any his wives could furnish. The Ascended Masters would welcome his lifestream in time, and eternal glory would be his.
He believed that so deeply that danger to his life aroused only an animal wariness, not the fear some men felt. And his combat record had been excellent as he rose from trooper to squadron commander; against the Powder River Ranchers, the Sioux, the Drumhellers, and then in the great battles of the Deseret War and most recently at Wendell against the US of Boise.
But I still don't like this Seeker, even if he comes from the Prophet's right hand. There's something… wrong… about him.
Right now High Seeker Twain was just an unexceptional-looking man of about thirty-five, wiry and tough, with a dull red robe over his traveling clothes, huddled on his horse with a blank expression on his face as beads of sweat ran down through the dust. He rode well enough to keep up, but not to the standard of the Prophet's elite guard regiment, or even as well as the average cowboy. Graber would have placed him for a townsman, if he hadn't been so uncomplaining of hardship… but then, the Seekers had their own code.
Fifty of the Sword were spread out to either side, in a single rank to make it easier to spot any turning in the trail they followed. The dull russet brown of their lacquered leather armor faded against the volcanic soil in the distance, with an occasional eye-hurting blink as the lance-heads above them caught the harsh noonday sun. The men rode in disciplined silence except for an occasional order from an under-officer, the spiked helmets rising and falling with the walk-trot-canter-trot-walk pace.
The noise came from the slow steady pounding of hooves, the clatter of the hard metal-edged scutes of their war harness, creak of saddle-leather, the dull clank of a shete scabbard against a stirrup iron or the rattle of arrows in a quiver.
Unavoidably they raised a plume of dust, in this stretch where even sagebrush was sparse; they rode into a wind out of the east, so the dust fell behind them rather than hanging about to get in nose and eyes, but it would be visible for some distance. The remuda, the remount-herd, was behind them, and its cloud was larger. Most of the Snake River country wasn't so different from the plains of Eastern Montana or the Powder River ranges, though a bit drier. This particular eerie stretch of cinders and conical hills was strange, though, and he distrusted it.
"High Seeker," he said respectfully.
You told us to come this way, and now my battalion is scattered over a front a hundred miles wide. Now tell us how to get out of it! I'm going to lose horses soon, if we don't get to forage and water. May the Nephilim eat your soul in the Black Void if I'll lose good men without an explanation!
"High Seeker?" he repeated.
The man's pupils were shrunken to pinpoints, and his jaw worked as if he chewed a bitter truth. Graber shrugged with a slight clatter of gear and swung up a clenched fist. The unit halted within three paces, horses as well trained as the men. Dust smoked backwards; he could hear a slight hissing sound as the heavier particles fell out. Everyone dismounted; you stayed out of the saddle whenever you could, if you wanted your horse to last.
"We'll wait for the Scout," he called. "Loosen girths but keep the tack on."
All his men could follow a trail; they were trained horse soldiers, and hunters besides, and many came from ranching families. The Scout wasn't of the Sword; his tribe were called the Morrowlander Troop, and they lived deep in the forests and grasslands south of Corwin, what the old world had called Yellowstone. Rumor said that they'd fallen from the sky right after the Change.
Graber didn't believe that; but they were almost inhumanly skillful trackers. They served the Church by sending their best for work like this, and paying a tribute in hides and furs. In fact, his superiors had said something about their ancestors being Scouts… some weird woodland cult of the olden times.
Graber considered taking a stick of jerky or a hardtack biscuit out of his saddlebag; he was hungry. Then he decided not to, as an example to the men of rising above material things. Instead he took off his helmet, unsnapped and peeled out the lining, then poured in a measured quantity of water. His horse drank eagerly, chasing the last drops around the bare metal with its lips. The rest of the unit followed suit.
Only then did he drink from his canteen himself, a precisely measured amount. No need to check on the others; the under-officers would see to water discipline.
And we are the Sword of the Prophet, he thought proudly, as he finished exactly the amount that the lowliest trooper would have. In the Sword there is no Rancher or cowboy or refugee, only servants of the Messenger of the Ascended Masters… Dammit, how did he do that!
Somehow the Morrowlander Scout got within a few hundred yards before he was spotted. His horse was shaggy but sound; the Scout ran along beside it at an effortless distance-devouring lope with one hand on the simple pad saddle he used, using the beast to set his pace.
He was a tall lean man, dressed in moccasins and fringed leather leggings dyed in mottled colors and a brownish green tunic over a shirt starred with circular badges sewn with bows and tents and other curious designs. A kerchief went around his neck, the ends held through a leather ring. Plaits of red hair held with leather thongs and stuck with eagle feathers bumped on his shoulders beneath a bandana, and he was lightly armed, with knife and tomahawk and bow. Three parallel scars gashed his cheeks on either side of a snub nose.