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 Fiorbhinn Mackenzie, 1st century CY
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.
"Scout," Graber said politely.
"Prophet's man," the Morrowlander said, equally expressionless, saluting by putting three fingers to his brow with the other folded under his thumb.
Then he held out his hand. Graber tugged thoughtfully at his brown chin-beard; the grimy paw held a horse-apple, and one that was fairly fresh.
"How long ago?" he said.
"Two days. Wind scrubs out the hooves in this place, but they went this way. Water about half a day's ride north, a little east-spring beneath a big hill. The nine rested there, and met some more."
"More?"
The Morrowlander grinned, showing strong yellow teeth. "Here."
He opened his other hand like a conjuror, with a twinkle in his blue eyes. In it was half a glass ornament, a golden bee.
"Mormons," Graber said thoughtfully, and whistled sharply in a signal to summon the under-officers.
His three subordinates gathered around him; there should have been four noncoms and a lieutenant, but casualties had been heavy at Wendell. All of them squatted and leaned on their sheathed shetes as they watched the Scout sketch in the dirt.
"How many?" one asked.
"Twenty, twenty-five of the Deseret men," the Scout said. "They came in from here "-his finger traced a route-"but they don't have many remounts, and their horses walk tired. And the nine we chase came in like this, met them there at the spring. The nine have plenty good horses"-he opened and closed his hands, showing the number- "some very big, never seen any tracks like that before. Big but not slow. They buried their ashes, and their own shit, but not the horses'! All rode off together, the nine and the Deseret men, making east and north."
"Two days ago?"
"Two days. Traveling slow-a-bit, walking, riding, walking. Half our pace. Be careful. They have good lookout, and they watch their backtrail. Their scout almost spotted me, I think. Had to wait half a day hidden up, buried myself in the dirt."
Another grin. "He didn't see me, though! I like to meet their scout, someday."
He tapped at his tomahawk to show how he'd like to meet the unknown man. Graber grunted and pulled at his beard again. That the nine were traveling at a long-distance pace argued that they didn't know someone was right on their trail-they were trying to conserve their horses for a long haul. He wished he could do the same. A ridden horse couldn't equal a fit man for long-distance endurance, though you could do better than foot-speed with a string of remounts.
Provided there's grazing, he reminded himself. Which there isn't, here.
"Northeast is old Highway 20," he said, drawing a line at the base of the wavy marks the Scout had used to represent the mountains. "They may be trying to cross the Tetons. Or work north through the mountains and then across; there are old tracks there."
"Bringing twenty-five Mormons into Church territory, sir?" one of the under-officers asked. "Pretty much like holding up a sign that says: Hurrah, we're here, now kill us! "
"A lot of it's Church territory that's pretty thin on people, just around there," Graber said thoughtfully. "And they may not be taking the Mormons… but we'd better catch them before then. General Walker will be pleased if we finish off some bandits at the same time."
Suddenly the Seeker spoke. "Give me two of your arrows, Major Graber."
Graber blinked in surprise; at the statement, and at its sheer disconnectedness. He obeyed automatically, reaching up over his right shoulder and twitching out two of the long ashwood shafts. As it happened they were both armor-piercing bodkins with narrow heads like a blacksmith's metal-punch.
The Seeker took them and studied them for an instant, then slowly licked each head. Graber controlled a grimace of distaste; there was something dirty about the gesture. He took them back reluctantly, and only because you never had enough-there were thirty-six shafts in a regulation quiver, and you could shoot them all off in a couple of minutes skirmishing.
"By the Ascended Masters," someone muttered.
It had been said softly, but the Seeker smiled; Graber wished that he hadn't.
"By the Masters indeed," he said, and the smile grew broader. "Oh, we have learned much, and we shall learn so much more of Them!"
"Do you have anything to say?" Graber asked neutrally. Technically I'm in command, but…
The Seeker nodded, his eyes growing distant again.
"There," he said. His arm stretched out, the hand like a blade, pointing precisely northeast. "There. The Son of the Bear… the Son of the Raven… where the weak are strong and the vanquished slay."
Graber felt sweat prickle out on his face, more than sun and armor would explain. He looked at the Scout, and the lanky man shrugged and pointed more nearly straight north.
"Mount," he said harshly. "We'll go for the spring and then track them from there. Until we reach it, water only for the horses."
His under-officers sighed and shifted slightly with relief; the big canteens on the pack-saddles were nearly empty. The reserve on the men's belts wouldn't last long.
"We'll push the pace now, and stop just long enough to water at the spring and fill our canteens. Change off with the remounts every hour, but no rest stops until dark."
As he swung back into the saddle he racked his brain for what lay ahead. A string of small Mormon settlements at the foot of the mountains; General Walker had said they were to be mopped up at leisure, as troops became available. And one pass over the Rockies eastward, so obscure they hadn't bothered to garrison it. Would any of the levies be heading there on their way home? Possibly not…
These misbelievers will not defile the homeland of the Dictations, he thought; the Prophet had given him this mission personally, and that was honor beyond price… and responsibility heavier than a mountain. By the beard of the Prophet, I swear it!