Читать книгу The Warrior - Dinah McCall - Страница 6

North American Continent—early 1500s

Night Walker, second chief of the Turtle Clan of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, stood on a promontory overlooking the bay of great water near his village. He was a warrior of twenty-nine summers, with a face that was a study in planes and angles. He was also something of an oddity in the tribe, standing head and shoulders above every other warrior. His shoulders were broad, his muscles as hard as the line of his jaw, which, today, was clenched against the angry slap of the wind blowing against his skin. With each fierce gust, his hair—thick, black and straight as the arrows in his quiver—would lift from his shoulders to billow out behind him like the wings of a soaring eagle. As he stood, wearing nothing but a piece of tanned deer hide tied at his waist and hanging to just above his knees, his nostrils flared, savoring the scent of oncoming rain mixing with the ever-present tang of salty air.

For days he’d been having visions that troubled his sleep—bloody visions always ending with death. Troubled by what he believed to be a dark omen of things to come, he’d taken to standing guard on the highest point above the village. Today, when the storm had come in without warning, churning the great water into massive waves higher than Night Walker’s head, he’d felt a foreboding similar to that in his dreams.

Now he stood with his feet apart, his body braced against the storm front as he looked out across the bay, watching the dark underbelly of the angry clouds covering the face of the sun. As he watched, a long spear of fire shot out of the clouds and into the water with a loud, angry hiss, sending water flying into the air. Night Walker flinched, and the skin on his face began to tighten. Every instinct signaled that danger was upon them.

A second shaft of fire pierced the clouds, stabbing into the heart of the great water and yanking his gaze from the sky to the horizon. As he watched, a shape began to emerge from the far side of the rocky finger of land pointing out into the water. It was floating on the water like the canoes of his people, but much, much larger, and with big white wings filled with the angry wind. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen, and the sight left him stunned. The unsettled waters were rolling the big canoe from side to side, and he could see men running about on its floor, scrambling like tiny insects trying to outrun a flood as waves washed over the sides. His heart jumped; then his gut knotted as his sense of foreboding grew.

He turned and looked down at the village. His people were as yet unaware of anything more than the oncoming storm. As he watched, he saw his woman, White Fawn, come out of their tepee and go to the woodpile just beyond. She staggered once from a hard buffeting wind, then regained her footing and went about her task. He knew what she was doing—gathering dry wood before the storm got it wet, which made it difficult to burn. She was a good woman, always thinking of his comfort. The mere sight of her always made his pulse quicken. She was his heart, the other half of his soul, and even though the Great Spirit had not blessed them with children, he loved her no less. It wasn’t until she went back inside their dwelling that he turned back to the water. When he did, a jolt of fear shot through him. The great canoe was now inside the bay, and three smaller canoes filled with strange-looking men were in the water and coming toward shore.

Their presence was a threat to the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, even though he had no words to explain how he knew that. He turned and began scrambling down the steep slope of the bluff, desperate to get back to the village and warn his people.

Antonio Vargas was a pirate with an eye always on the prize just out of his reach. For months he’d heard rumors from Spain that a man named Colombo had found a new route to the West Indies and, in the process, found a land rich in wealth guarded only by a race of savages. In other words, a treasure ripe for the taking.

Before he could act on the notion, an unexpected raid in the night by an English privateer had decimated his crew. They’d managed to escape by sailing into a fog bank. A week later, he’d put into the nearest port and taken on more crew, and for more than a month now, they’d roamed the seas without encountering another vessel or coming within sight of any kind of land. Desperate to recoup his losses as well as his self-esteem, he’d decided to follow Colombo’s path and claim some of those easy riches for himself. Only it hadn’t been as easy as he’d hoped.

They’d been on the water for more than two months, and Vargas had been beginning to fear his decision had been a bad one when land was finally sighted. It was none too soon. His men were weak, some suffering dysentery. He needed fresh water and fresh food. Sighting land was a godsend, but the upcoming squall at their backs was pushing them in toward shore far faster than he would have liked. As he prayed that they would not founder on a hidden reef, they’d done the best that they could to navigate into the bay. Between the swiftly approaching storm and the sheet of rain that they could see coming across the ocean, he was relieved to drop anchor. Giving orders as fast as he could shout them, Vargas watched as his crew scrambled to obey.

It wasn’t until the ship was secure that he took the time to scan the shoreline. Just beyond the shore, nestled up against a backdrop of trees that appeared to be the beginning of a forest beyond, was a village. He couldn’t tell much, but it appeared small, composed of no more than thirty dwellings. A slow smile broke across his face. He’d done it! He’d found Colombo’s famous new land, too. When he returned, he would also be lauded as a daring explorer. All he needed was proof, like some of the gold he heard Colombo had found. Uncertain as to which would be wisest—ride out the storm before it hit, then go ashore, or go ashore now and take the residents by surprise—Vargas let his greed settle the debate. If he waited, whoever lived there might hide or even run, taking their treasure with them.

Barking another set of orders for boats to be lowered, Vargas watched the village through his spyglass while he waited. When he saw movement and then savages gathering and pointing, he realized that they’d been spotted.

“Make haste!” he yelled, pointing toward shore. “They’ve seen us!”

Three smaller boats were lowered, manned by six men apiece. Vargas’s boat took the lead. About halfway to shore, he looked through his spyglass again, and as he did, his heart jumped. Four of the savages were heading toward the water, while the rest of the villagers had begun to gather in the background, obviously as curious about him and his men as he was about them. The wind was still high, churning the waves. The threatening rain seemed imminent, and yet the villagers didn’t seem worried. In response, Vargas’s concern over the storm dropped, too. If they thought nothing of it, then neither would he.

Within minutes, the boats were beached. Vargas vaulted out and strode forcefully through the raging surf, ignoring the rising wind and the sea slapping at his legs. Three of his men followed closely. He could hear them cursing and muttering among themselves about the storm and the cold, angry sea. Although more than half of them were weakened from dysentery, he was beyond caring about creature comfort. Greed rose like gorge within him as he watched the approaching savages.

Their skin was dark, but not as dark as a Moor’s. Their hair was long and straight, and seemed to be woven through with bits of feathers and what appeared to be strips of animal skin. They came without care for the wind whipping about their faces and necks, impervious to the impending storm as they stared at him and his men in fascination.

He didn’t know or care that they’d never seen men with light skin or hair on their faces, or seen people wear clothing, even in warm weather, that covered their entire bodies. He fingered the scimitar at his waist, then slid the palm of his hand from its hilt to the dirk he’d shoved beneath his wide leather belt. He looked past their crude weapons and animal skins to the bright bits of what he took to be gold, mingled with the strange gemstones and shells they were wearing around their necks. His gaze focused on a small pouch hanging from a leather strip around the neck of one of the savages and he imagined it filled with gold, as well. His imagination swelled as he pictured pots of the jewel-like stones within their huts, maybe even lying about on the ground.

When the first savage stepped up to him and lifted his hand in greeting, Vargas reached for his necklace.

Chief Two Crows, principal chief of the tribe, had been as stunned by the appearance of these men as had Night Walker. With no reason to suspect danger, he’d willingly gone down to greet them. But when the tall stranger with the hairy face suddenly grabbed at his medicine bag and sky stones, he grunted and knocked the man’s hand away.

Vargas grinned, then pointed at the chief as he spoke to his men. “So, amigos, the savage does not want to share.”

Someone chuckled behind him as the first drops of rain began to fall. He reached for the pouch, yanking it from around the old man’s neck before he could react, palmed his dirk and slit the savage’s throat.

The old chief’s shock died with him as his blood spurted onto Vargas’s chest.

“Now!” Vargas screamed, then pulled the scimitar from his waist and waved it above his head.

His men swarmed from the boats. With the rain hammering down upon them and the wind pushing against their backs, they raced toward the village, firing their small handguns and hacking at the savages, without care even for woman or child, as they began to run in terror toward the village that would provide no safety now.

Night Walker was halfway down the cliff when he heard the first screams and what sounded like short claps of thunder. But it wasn’t until he heard an answering war cry that he knew they were being attacked. He flashed on the visions he’d been having. Fear increased his speed.

He ran without thought for himself while the thunder of his own heart drowned out the screams of his people. The storm was on top of him now, yet he felt none of it. The fear in his belly lent speed to his strides. Tree limbs slapped at his face and against his chest, marking the smooth brown flesh with long, angry streaks, bringing blood that was quickly washed away by the torrent of rain. Night Walker was unaware of all of it—not the sharp, burning pain from the thorny limbs ripping at his flesh, nor the blood and rain pouring down his body. Even though he couldn’t hear her, White Fawn’s face was before him, her name echoing within his heart. He felt her panic, knew something terrible was happening to her—and that he was not going to be fast enough to save her.

When he finally burst out of the forest into the clearing, it was to a scene of horror. What he saw was worse than his nightmares, bloodier than his visions.

The enemy had come, and the enemy had killed.

Everyone.

The only signs of life were the strangers, ripping clothing from the People’s bodies, yanking totems and medicine bags from around their necks. Laughing as if their greatest joy in life was desecration.

When Night Walker saw a tall man with a hairy face reach down and rip the sky stone from around White Fawn’s neck, shock rolled through him. Her head lolled lifelessly as the man shoved her limp body aside with his foot. Night Walker saw the rain pouring down into her dark, unseeing eyes, flooding her nostrils, washing the blood from her face.

He screamed—first in horror, then in rage.

With the bodies of his people strewn about like maize husks tossed by the wind, he pulled the first arrow from his quiver, notched it and took aim. The arrow cut through the downpour in a blur, piercing the throat of the nearest man, who dropped the booty he’d been carrying and grabbed at both sides of the shaft. His eyes bulged as a bubble of blood popped on his lips. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Night Walker notched another arrow, took aim and let fly, watching with grim satisfaction as, one by one, the unsuspecting invaders dropped where they stood. Their cries of pain or shock went unnoticed by the others, drowned out by the sound of the storm. He fired off another arrow, then another and another, until he’d emptied his quiver, leaving them with a band of far fewer men than when they’d landed.

It wasn’t until he grabbed a club and a spear from a nearby hut and began running toward them, screaming an endless war cry, that the others realized he was there.

A man named Miguelito Colon saw the crazed savage coming toward them and shouted at Vargas over the storm.

Vargas spun just in time to see the attacker run Colon through with a spear. Even though he was accustomed to hand-to-hand combat, he flinched as Colon’s guts spilled out on the ground, the spear still quivering in his belly.

Vargas roared in anger, surprised by both the savage’s sudden appearance as well as the shocking number of his crew who now lay dead. As the rain blurred his vision, a cold wind whipped through the village, suddenly chilling him to the bone.

At that moment, it crossed his mind that he should have waited until the storm passed before coming ashore. But nothing could change what was, and the savage was only one man—little more than a lingering nuisance.

“Get him!” he shouted, waving his men toward the tall, nearly naked man coming at them on the run.

Arturo Medajine grabbed for his handgun, took aim and fired. But the powder was soaked, and by the time he dropped the gun to reach for his sword, the savage was upon him.

The savage swung his wooden club as he passed, cracking Medajine’s skull. The man never knew what hit him.

Night Walker’s gaze was still fixed on the man who’d killed White Fawn. As he passed her grandfather’s corpse, he grabbed the spear from Brown Owl’s lifeless hands then leaped a small child’s body.

The next man to come at him did so with a broadsword. Night Walker dodged, then speared him in the gut. The man was still screaming as Night Walker took the sword out of his hands and decapitated him where he stood.

Vargas was shocked. The savage was still alive and downing his men one after the other. Compared to the others they’d encountered, this one was extremely tall—as tall as Vargas himself. Before he could react, thunder rattled the ground on which they stood. The lightning bolt that followed struck nearby, so close that they were all momentarily blinded. By the time Vargas could see clearly again, the savage was less than a hundred feet away and another of his men was dead.

His fingers tightened around the hasp of his scimitar as a storm gust staggered him.

“Damnation,” he cursed, and then swung his blade in the air. “Peron! The savage! Stop him!”

Luis Peron was at home on the deck of a ship, but, weakened from dysentery and slogging around in the mud with the armload of furs he’d just dragged out of a hut, he was at a huge disadvantage. Still, Vargas was his captain, and orders were to be obeyed. He dropped the furs and was reaching for the knife in his belt when a blow from the savage’s broadsword split his breastbone.

He dropped where he stood.

Vargas’s heart ricocheted against his rib cage. This wasn’t happening. He’d fought the most heinous of men—in seaports, on the sea, in the dark, beneath the subtle glow of a full moon, even in the alleyways of London, England, in full daylight. So why had killing one savage become such a difficult feat?

Nervous now that his men were too few, and knowing he was dangerously out of his element, Vargas began to retreat, taking the remaining men with him.

“Back to the boats!” he yelled, and then, without waiting to see who followed, he started running, now facing the full fury of the storm.

The few surviving sailors gladly obeyed and headed for the boats, following Vargas’s retreat. But for every two steps Vargas took, the storm slowed him by one. Afraid to look over his shoulder—afraid to slow down—all he could do was keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Even though the intruders were falling one by one beneath Night Walker’s hand, he felt no satisfaction. Revenge would not be done until he had spilled the blood of the man who’d cut White Fawn’s throat and ripped away her medicine pouch. Not until he watched the tall, hairy-faced thief draw his last breath would the fire in his gut cease to burn.

When the invaders suddenly turned away and began running back to their canoes, Night Walker panicked. They couldn’t escape! They had to pay for what they’d done.

He caught up with the slowest of them within seconds, grabbed him by the hair hanging out from under his water-sodden hat and yanked.

The man’s white-rimmed eyes had one last glance of the sky before Night Walker’s flint knife sliced across his jugular and an arterial spray of red shot across his line of vision and everything went dark.

Night Walker only grunted as the body fell at his feet. He was nothing but one less man between him and the one who’d killed White Fawn.

Another flash of lightning shot out of the clouds, striking the bluff on which Night Walker had been standing only a short time ago, momentarily blinding him. Even as he kept running, there was a subconscious part of him that wished he’d still been on that bluff when the fire had come down. Then he wouldn’t be feeling this horrible, rending pain. Then he wouldn’t have to face burying every person he’d ever known and loved.

By the time his vision cleared, the strangers were at the edge of the great water and pushing off from shore, piling into one canoe as fast as they could climb, leaving the other canoes behind. Rage surged as he lengthened his stride. He couldn’t let them get away. Not now. Not when he was so close.

Then he saw the tall one—the leader—grab the oars and begin to paddle against the surge. Still too far from shore to reach them in time, Night Walker knew that revenge was slipping away. When the other men began to row, as well, he knew his chance had flown.

By the time he reached the water, they were as good as gone, but his rage and fury were not. He ran out into the surf until the backwash from the storm reached his knees. He lifted his arms above his head, screaming into the storm—cursing the man with White Fawn’s sky stones, calling for the Old Ones, pleading with the Great Spirit, offering his soul for the right to avenge the deaths of White Fawn and the dead Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya.

As the canoe moved farther and farther away, he stood there in the water, and screamed and shouted, pointing toward the canoe, then slapping his chest and opening his arms as if embracing the storm.

He was daring them to come back, to face him man-to-man—to give him a chance to avenge his people in an honorable way. But it was obvious these men had no honor, because they kept rowing in the opposite direction.

Vargas couldn’t believe it. The bastard was still daring them—slapping at his chest as if offering the broad expanse as a target. After the humiliation of turning tail and running, he couldn’t resist the offer, but he was too far away to throw a knife, and his pistol was empty. He wasn’t sure if he could load his gun again in this downpour, but he was damn sure going to try. He crouched down in the boat, then pulled his jacket up and over his head. Using it as a cover, he began trying to load his gun. The boat was rocking so hard he kept spilling his powder. Twice he dropped the lead shot. His hands were shaking from exertion, but his determination won out. Rising from the bottom of the boat like Neptune coming up from the bottom of the sea, he threw off his jacket, stepped up onto a seat, bracing himself against the rock and roll of the boat. The savage was still there, holding his arms out at his sides and shouting words Vargas could not understand, although their meaning was clear.

He took aim and fired.

The sound of the shot rang in his own ears. Even through the downpour, he could smell the burning powder. In his mind, he could almost see the shot spanning the distance between himself and the savage.

He held his breath—waiting to see the savage drop, just as the others had done. Only then would the whole sorry sortie be behind him.

Night Walker had screamed until his voice was nearly gone. He’d prayed and begged and cursed the Old Ones, demanding to know why he alone had been spared. The muscles in his body were starting to tremble. His gut was a knot of pain. He’d pulled at his hair and ripped his own flesh with his fingernails, needing satisfaction—wanting to die.

Then he saw the leader suddenly stand up in the canoe and point at him.

He screamed into the wind and slapped his own chest over and over, daring the man to come back and fight, but the invaders were still moving toward their winged canoe.

There was a loud noise, and then everything, including time, seemed to slow down. It was still raining, but suddenly it was as if he were seeing each raindrop as it fell, hearing his own heartbeat over the roll of thunder, feeling the exhalation of his own breath more sharply than the wind hitting him in the face. In the midst of that reality, he saw something fly from the hand of the man who’d killed White Fawn, coming at him, cutting through the rain, pushing aside the air with a high-pitched whistle.

He stopped, his arms dropping at his sides as he watched it come, accepting that this was death. The Old Ones had heard his prayer. Whatever this was, it would end his life in battle in an honorable way. He would join White Fawn and the others. He would not walk this land alone.

He waited. Unblinking. Barely breathing. Watching as death came for him.

Then it hit.

He waited to feel pain.

Expected to see his own blood pouring down his chest.

Instead, it bounced off the broad expanse of his chest and fell into the water.

He grabbed his chest in disbelief.

“No!” he screamed, then spun toward the village, striding to the shore, staring at the bodies, willing them to rise up and walk. This couldn’t be happening.

He’d tried to avenge them, but the enemy was escaping.

He’d tried to die, to go with them, but he’d failed at that, too.

He looked over his shoulder. The man in the canoe was staring at him in disbelief. Night Walker’s misery was complete. He didn’t notice that the wind had died and the rain had quit falling. All he could think about was everything he had lost.

Then the clouds parted, and a single ray of light poured down onto the shore, bathing him in what felt like fire.

So…now I will die.

He arched his back, lifted his arms above his head, closed his eyes and waited to be consumed. Instead, he heard drums, then voices, and even though he couldn’t see them, he knew he was in the presence of the Old Ones. When their chants turned into words, he fell to his knees.

“Night Walker—son of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, son of the Turtle Clan—we hear you. Brave son of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, you have fought well. You have honored us in life as you honor us in death. Look now to the great waters. Look upon the face of your enemy and know that whatever face he wears, you will always feel his heartbeat. Son of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, we have heard your prayer. Son of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, listen to our words. You will live until the blood of your enemy is spilled upon your feet. You will live until you feel his last breath on your face. Then and only then, will you be as all men. Then and only then, will you suffer and grow old. Then and only then, will you live until you die. But for now it as you have asked. You will live.”

The light disappeared. The clouds blew away. Night Walker swayed, then staggered where he stood. The Old Ones were silent. The fire was gone, and he was not consumed. He looked to the water. The enemy was climbing aboard the great canoe and scrambling about as if they were crazed.

He saw the tall bearded man standing at the front of the canoe, staring toward shore. He felt the man’s blood pulsing through his body in an urgent, panicked gush, though he did not know why.

Vargas was in shock. He had witnessed the savage’s baptism in fire, expected to see him incinerated, been shocked to see him standing safely on the sand. The men around him began talking in hushed tones, attributing magical powers to the fact that though the savage had been shot, the bullet had bounced off his flesh like a single drop of rain. That he’d been struck by lightning and walked away unharmed.

Vargas was afraid. He didn’t know what had just happened, but when it came to the supernatural, he was out of his element. Yet what other explanation could there be? The savage had killed more than twelve of his men single-handedly, been shot without suffering a wound and been struck by lightning without being burned. The man should be dead, and yet they were the ones on the run and the savage was standing alone on shore, watching them go.

He knew his crew was scared. They’d all been through something they didn’t understand. But it was over. It was over, and he was still alive to tell the tale. He wanted to turn his back on the whole thing and pretend it had never happened. But there was the matter of all those dead men, and the still-pressing need for food and fresh water.

He felt the eyes of his men on him, waiting to see what would happen next. He’d lost face when he’d let one single man—and a savage, at that—put him on the run. He turned his back to shore and faced the crew.

“Hoist the anchor!” he shouted.

Even though two men ran to do his bidding, no one would look at him. A shiver of fear ran through him. Sailors were a superstitious lot. If they lost trust in him, his own life was in danger.

He shoved one of the crewmen who was running past him. “Weakling! Make haste, or I’ll feed you to the fishes.”

The sailor staggered, quickly righting himself before hurrying to do what he’d been told. The captain was angry, and they all knew him well enough to know that he would take his anger out on whoever was closest.

But the ones who’d been on shore with Vargas weren’t afraid of him—not anymore. They’d seen him panic. They’d seen him turn tail from only one savage and run like a woman toward safety. They were sick and hungry, and someone needed to be blamed for their situation. Vargas was the logical target.

By the time the moon rose that night, Vargas was standing at the end of the plank, begging for his life. It never struck him that the savages he’d killed that morning had been doing the same thing. He didn’t feel remorse for what he’d done to them—only that his life was going to end in such a humiliating fashion.

A shot rang out.

Unlike the shot he’d fired at the savage that morning, this bullet quickly found its mark. He felt a fire in his chest, and then he was falling, falling.

Water closed over his face, then washed up his nose, choking off the curses he was heaping on the heads of his mutinous crew. The last image that swept through his mind before he died was of the savage pointing at him from shore.