order to do it, I can’t be disturbed.”
“What?”
The
Rider got out his engraved iron Bowie knife and knelt down. He began to scratch
a circle in the dirt floor.
“I
need you to try to listen for that gun. If it looks like it’s going to hit here
again, I need you to pull my body out. I won’t be able to react.”
“What
do you mean?”
“I
won’t be here, Gershom,” the Rider explained, continuing to scratch at the
floor, etching out a protective seal, for all the good it would do him. “My
body will be here, but I won’t. Look, you can accept that the men who we’re
fighting aren’t human? Now you’ve got to just accept this.”
It
occurred to him that if any of Lilith’s demonic minions had followed him, they
might tear his soul to pieces as soon as he set foot in the Yenne Velt. He had
not attempted to leave his body since Tip Top. He had to trust that Nehema’s
rosette token would protect him there too.
Ketev
Meriri spoke on the ridge again, and in a few moments one of the picket shacks
on the edge of Varruga Tanks ceased to be, the impact shuddering underneath
them. It would be a test of concentration for him to be able to travel in these
conditions, but he was a master. Part of his training had involved leaving his
body on a rocky top during a tremendous lightning storm. This would be somewhat
similar.
The
Rider seated himself cross-legged in the circle and looked up at the bewildered
youth towering over him.
“Be
strong,” he said, and closed his eyes.
* * *
*
Gershom stared at the man seated on the floor. He was unlike any man
Gershom had ever known. He felt a kinship with him because he knew the man was
of his father’s people—a people he did not know except from childhood memories.
All his life he had been the Child of Calamity, alone even with Hash, the man
who had known him best.
Hash
had been a good friend, and very like a father. He had saved him as a boy from
the wrath of the Comanche, after he had wrestled down a warrior who had beaten
him and broke the grown man over his small knee. That was the same warrior who
had killed his mother and father and taken him to be a slave, and that had
given him satisfaction.
At
first Hash had viewed him as a freak to be displayed, though over the years
they had grown fond of each other. As a half breed, Hash had understood
Gershom’s sense of being apart from other people. They had skirted society
together, at least. But Hash could tell him no more about his people than
Gershom could tell Hash how to be a Comanche or a ‘Polack,’ as Hash had always
told him the other half of him was.
But
this man, this Rider, in the short time they had known each other, had
explained to Gershom one of the great mysteries of his early memory as a matter
of course. He had accepted Gershom’s great strength and even explained its
source. He had opened Gershom’s world like one who entered a dark room and lit
a lamp.
So
he knew that whatever Rider was doing, no matter how crazy it seemed , he would protect him as he had been asked. There was more
to know, and they both had to live through this.
Gershom
took Bill’s shotgun and crouched outside of the circle in the floor. He watched
his still and silent charge and their surroundings, and he waited.
* * *
*
The Rider stood, emerging from the top of his skull. He hesitated, then stepped out of the protective circle. No rush of talons
swept through his etheric form, no clutch of demons settled upon him. The
rosette symbol in his fist was potent indeed, or else Mazzamauriello had
arranged to take him alone and horde the credit. He reached into his jacket for
another token—the clay Cheyenne horse talisman given to him by the great shaman
Misquamacus. Concentrating on it, he drew it in easy circles, the innate energies
coalescing into an animal form—a fiery horse, which he mounted and steered
toward the ridge.
Atop
the horse’s back, he would reach the cannon in
moments. He spurred
“What?”
The
Rider got out his engraved iron Bowie knife and knelt down. He began to scratch
a circle in the dirt floor.
“I
need you to try to listen for that gun. If it looks like it’s going to hit here
again, I need you to pull my body out. I won’t be able to react.”
“What
do you mean?”
“I
won’t be here, Gershom,” the Rider explained, continuing to scratch at the
floor, etching out a protective seal, for all the good it would do him. “My
body will be here, but I won’t. Look, you can accept that the men who we’re
fighting aren’t human? Now you’ve got to just accept this.”
It
occurred to him that if any of Lilith’s demonic minions had followed him, they
might tear his soul to pieces as soon as he set foot in the Yenne Velt. He had
not attempted to leave his body since Tip Top. He had to trust that Nehema’s
rosette token would protect him there too.
Ketev
Meriri spoke on the ridge again, and in a few moments one of the picket shacks
on the edge of Varruga Tanks ceased to be, the impact shuddering underneath
them. It would be a test of concentration for him to be able to travel in these
conditions, but he was a master. Part of his training had involved leaving his
body on a rocky top during a tremendous lightning storm. This would be somewhat
similar.
The
Rider seated himself cross-legged in the circle and looked up at the bewildered
youth towering over him.
“Be
strong,” he said, and closed his eyes.
* * *
*
Gershom stared at the man seated on the floor. He was unlike any man
Gershom had ever known. He felt a kinship with him because he knew the man was
of his father’s people—a people he did not know except from childhood memories.
All his life he had been the Child of Calamity, alone even with Hash, the man
who had known him best.
Hash
had been a good friend, and very like a father. He had saved him as a boy from
the wrath of the Comanche, after he had wrestled down a warrior who had beaten
him and broke the grown man over his small knee. That was the same warrior who
had killed his mother and father and taken him to be a slave, and that had
given him satisfaction.
At
first Hash had viewed him as a freak to be displayed, though over the years
they had grown fond of each other. As a half breed, Hash had understood
Gershom’s sense of being apart from other people. They had skirted society
together, at least. But Hash could tell him no more about his people than
Gershom could tell Hash how to be a Comanche or a ‘Polack,’ as Hash had always
told him the other half of him was.
But
this man, this Rider, in the short time they had known each other, had
explained to Gershom one of the great mysteries of his early memory as a matter
of course. He had accepted Gershom’s great strength and even explained its
source. He had opened Gershom’s world like one who entered a dark room and lit
a lamp.
So
he knew that whatever Rider was doing, no matter how crazy it seemed , he would protect him as he had been asked. There was more
to know, and they both had to live through this.
Gershom
took Bill’s shotgun and crouched outside of the circle in the floor. He watched
his still and silent charge and their surroundings, and he waited.
* * *
*
The Rider stood, emerging from the top of his skull. He hesitated, then stepped out of the protective circle. No rush of talons
swept through his etheric form, no clutch of demons settled upon him. The
rosette symbol in his fist was potent indeed, or else Mazzamauriello had
arranged to take him alone and horde the credit. He reached into his jacket for
another token—the clay Cheyenne horse talisman given to him by the great shaman
Misquamacus. Concentrating on it, he drew it in easy circles, the innate energies
coalescing into an animal form—a fiery horse, which he mounted and steered
toward the ridge.
Atop
the horse’s back, he would reach the cannon in
moments. He spurred
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