《The Amtrak Wars I : Cloud_Warrior》27

Once Motor-Head lost control it would all be over.  The trouble was,
Steve didn't have all day to play around.  He had to floor this hulking
piece of lumpshit in the next fifteen minutes.  Some chance!

It was one contest Steve would have been prepared to concede, but he
knew that if he took a dive the result would be the same as if he were
beaten to the ground.  Sooner or later, Motor-Head was going to kill
him.  It was galling to think that the speedy solution to all his
problems was lying so near at hand.  But the six feet that separated
him from the hidden rifle might just as well have been six miles.

Forget it, Brickman, he told himself.  You're going to have to solve
this one the hard way.  Christo, what a pill!

Grasping the quarterstaff firmly in both hands, Steve backed away from
Blue-Bird to give himself some fighting room.  A vague battle plan was
beginning to coalesce in his mind.  It was no good just winning.  He
had to finish up on his feet, fit enough to fly and within reach of the
rolled-up rifle.  Maybe if he could manoeuvre this big lump to the edge
of the bluff and somehow topple him over...

Motor-Head threw aside the sling of his borrowed staff, flexed it to
test its condition, then assumed the opening, wide-legged stance.

Steve faced up to him, the tip of his quarterstaff angled across that
of his opponent.  BlackTop and Steel-Eye split up, moved back several
yards and crouched down facing each other halfway between BlueBird's
wingtips and the edge of the bluff.

The use of the six-foot long quarterstaff or swordstick, as it was
sometimes called, went back to the Federation's third century when it
was introduced as an exercise weapon by a member of the First Family
called Bruce Lee Jefferson.  As practised by Trackers, it was a cross
between the Japanese martial art form known as kendo, where bamboo
swordsticks were used, and the six to nine-foot long oak quarterstaff
wielded by popular heroes of the Middle Ages such as Robin Hood.  In
the East, it had been used to teach budding samurai the art of
swordsmanship; in the West, for training knights to use the two-handed
battle sword.

In the Federation, trainees wore kendo-style helmets, gauntlets, and
thick pads covering the target areas, with additional protection for
the back, shoulders, pelvis and thighs.  Both ends of the stick could
be used and - apart from the mental discipline, lightning-fast reflexes
and sheer physical stamina required - it was the dexterous manipulation
of the staff, using a parrying stroke as the springboard for a scoring
blow that distinguished the true expert from the talented tyro.

According to the rules governing formal bouts, the only blows that
counted were those striking the top or sides of the head, the sides of
the torso, the right and left forearm and a direct thrust to the
throat.  But this was no formal bout.  This time around, there would be
no rules.

As they faced up to each other, Steve reckoned that this might shorten
the odds in his favour; the hulking Mute was sharp, but he was
sneakier.  He had to get in low and fast and not just because of the
time factor.  Apart from his visored helmet and his flight fatigues,
his body was unprotected whereas Motor-Head was wearing his usual stone
and bone-decorated leather skull mask and body plates.  Steve could
afford to take a few shots to the head but if any of Motor-Head's blows
landed with full force elsewhere it could mean a broken wrist, rib or
collar-bone.  Even if he won, and then managed to take out Black-Top
and Steel-Eye, any injury along these lines would make the task of
flying BlueBird both difficult and extremely painful.  Somehow, Steve
had to block every attack Motor-Head made or, at the very least, sap
the force of each blow before it crashed against his unprotected
body.

Keeping his staff crossed with Motor-Head's, Steve circled slowly to
the left.  Motor-Head matched him with wide-legged mirror-steps to the
right.

Down in the settlement, on the mat outside Mr Snow's hut, Clearwater
saw the danger to the cloud-warrior and felt the power begin to flow
through her body from its secret source deep within the earth below.

It coursed through her veins, pierced her flesh like thousands of tiny
red-hot needles, and sent its fire into the core of her bones.  Every
muscle in her body drew taut and began to jerk spasmodically.  She fell
backwards, eyes still tightly shut, back arched, her legs drawn up
beneath her.  The power inside her began to build with a frightening
intensity, f'filing her body with an explosive pressure like molten
lava inside a volcano that is about to erupt.  With the rapidly
shrinking part of her mind that still remained hers in this moment of
possession, Clearwater realised she was about to become the executioner
of her clan-brothers.  The thought appalled her but she knew Talisman
would stop at nothing to protect his own.  The power doubled, tripled,
in strength, and offered itself to her will.  She tried to resist it,
tried not to cede to the overwhelming desire to save the
cloud-warrior.

One hand flew to her neck, the other clamped itself over her mouth,
fingers digging deep into the skin, in a desperate effort to hold back
the death-dealing cry that was forming in her throat.

On the bluff, the quarterstaffs flashed and crashed together as Steve
and Motor-Head suddenly burst into action.

Thrust/parry/strike/parry, thrust/parry/strike/parry, to the head, to
the side, to the arm, to the leg.  Keep circling, Brickman!  This lump
has been practising.  He is fast!  Only one thing to do... let him lay
one on you and hope it will provide a chance to slow him down...

The opportunity came.  With a frightening yell, Motor-Head brought his
staff up, over and down towards Steve's right shoulder in a blow that,
had it been from a samurai sword, would have sliced him open from neck
to navel.

Steve stepped underneath it, robbing the blow of some of the force with
his own staff before letting it crash onto his helmet.  Instead of
taking it full on the crown of the head, which would have compacted his
spine, and quite possibly have broken his neck, Steve managed to turn
it into a glancing blow on the left side of the helmet, twisting his
shoulder out of the way as Motor-Head's staff bounced off and swept on
down.  But the trap was only half-sprung.

Steve staggered, knees buckling under the blow.  For a fleeting
instant, Motor-Head allowed his killer instinct to relax.  His face lit
up with a gleam of triumph.  It was the break Steve needed.  In that
split-second celebratory pause before the follow-up blow, Steve ducked
in under Motor-Head's guard, landed bone-crunching blows on both knees
and ankles then rammed the end of his staffinto the point of the Mute's
pelvis.

Motor-Head doubled over under the force of the blow.

He staggered, trying to master the shrieking pain in his crotch, knees
and ankles.  Steve sensed it was now or never.

He smashed his staff down across Motor-Head's broad back, once, twice
then landed a third blow across the back of his neck.  The blows
brought the big Mute to his knees but the armoured leather body plates
and the deep rim of his skull mask absorbed most of the damage.

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw Black-Top and Steel-Eye moving
in from the sidelines.  Steve hurriedly brought his staff down again on
their buddie's head in an effort to take him out of the fight before
they reached him.

On anybody else, the blow would have knocked their block off but it
just seemed to bounce off Motor-Head's skull.

With his quarterstaff still gripped in his hands, the big warrior
rested stiff-armed on his knuckles, shook the pain out of his head like
a dog shaking water from its ears, then lifted his left knee and got
one foot on the ground.

Christo!  thought Steve.  This lump's gonna get up!  His own feeling of
imminent triumph rapidly faded into near panic.  Black-Top and
Steel-Eye were practically on top of them.  He swung his staff round in
a sideways arc and slammed it against Motor-Head's right arm just below
the leather shoulderplate.  It hit the Mute's iron-hard biceps with a
dull sickening thwack.  Down, you jack-assed heap of lumpshit!  he
screamed inwardly.  Go down!  Reversing his grip, Steve aimed a similar
blow at Motor-Head's left arm, putting all his strength into a
two-handed slice.  To his surprise, Motor-Head threw his left arm
upwards and outwards, stopped the blow with the palm of his hand, then
closed his fingers round the thick shaft.  Steve cursed and tried to
pull his staff free but found it was stuck fast in Motor-Head's
outstretched hand.

'Gotcha!"  The big Mute's pain-wracked face split into a murderous
grin.  'Step back, Brother Bears.  This mother's mine..."

Raising his right arm, he waved Black-Top and Steel-Eye out of the
way.

The two Mute warriors moved back behind him towards the edge of the
bluff; Black-Top cradling his loaded crossbow, Steel-Eye with his hand
on the hilt of his knife.  Steve tugged viciously on the Mute's
quarterstaffbut Motor-Head didn't let go.  It hurt when he stood up but
he hauled himself onto his feet and took a good grip on Steve's pole
with his right hand.  Mo-Town!  That hurt too!

Steve knew he had to do something but didn't know what.

He had started out with Motor-Head's staff but now the Mute had a grip
on both of them.  Steve knew that to have any chance of recovering the
staff he had to hang on to it with both hands.  Which meant that he had
to stay within range of his own staff, which the big Mute was about to
beat him with.  He could make a grab for it the way Motor-Head had, but
even if he managed to catch it, he couldn't match the strength in
Motor-Head's arms.  The Mute would end up with both staffs in about two
seconds flat.

Adjusting his grip on Steve's quarterstaff, Motor-Head drove it
teasingly into Steve's ribs, then cracked him over the head.  Steve
took one hand off Motor-Head's staff in an attempt to ward off the next
blow.  In a flash, the Mute slid his hand along the pole, pulling Steve
another foot in towards him.  Steve saw what was happening.  He tried
to get both hands back on the pole but was too late.  Motor-Head
laughed throatily and thwacked him hard on the outside of the thigh.

If it had been a two-handed blow, it would have shattered the bone;
even so, to Steve, at that particular moment, it felt like he might
never walk again.

Triple lumpshit!  he thought.  I can't take much more of this I He knew
Motor-Head was only taunting him.  He had to do something.  Motor-Head
was pulling him ever closer, making it almost impossible to stay clear
of the whirling quarterstaff in the Mute's right hand.  Come on,
Brickman!

If you can get out of this, you can get out of anything!  As the idea
came, Motor-Head hauled in some more slack on the pole in his left
hand.  It was now or never.  Okay, this is it, Brickman!  Go for it!

As Motor-Head aimed another taunting blow, Steve threw up his left hand
and caught the end of the staff as it flashed down.  The impact sent a
shock-wave all the way down to his left foot and his palm felt as if it
had burst open.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he pulled down hard on the two
poles as Motor-Head tugged in the opposite direction.  For a split
second, the poles were like two parallel bars.  In the instant that
Motor-Head won the tug-of-war and jerked the poles towards him, Steve
threw his body into the air, arms straight down like a vaulting
gymnast, and drove the heels of his combat boots into the Mute's
face.

'Heyy-YAHH I I' The impact knocked Motor-Head over like a felled
tree.

Steve's body sailed on, curving through the air to land at the feet of
the startled Black-Top.  Before either warrior could react, Steve tore
the crossbow from Black-Top's grasp and slammed the butt against the
side of the warrior's head.  As Black-Top went down, Steve spun round
to find Steel-Eye coming at him with a fistful of sharp iron.  Unable
to find the trigger in time, Steve brought one half of the sprung metal
bow down onto Steel-Eye's knife arm, then leant back, pivoted on his
left heel, swung his right leg up to waist height and snapped it
straight, flattening Steel-Eye's solar plexus against his spine.  The
Bear went down blowing air like a ruptured pressure hose.

'For a couple of seconds, Steve stood there as if mesmerised.  He was
shaking like a leaf.  His head ached from the blow he let Motor-Head
lay on him and his body suddenly seemed full of sharp jabbing pains.

The rifle!  Get the rifle and finish offthese lumps before they get up
again!

Steve turned towards Blue-Bird, stumbled over Motor-Head's outstretched
arm and fell awkwardly to the ground, losing the crossbow as he went
down.  He felt a huge hand grip his ankle.  Steve kicked himself free,
threw himself towards the crossbow, pulled it towards him and scrambled
to his knees.  With his finger now firmly on the trigger he turned
towards his three fallen adversaries and was appalled to find they were
all getting to their feet.

One side of Black-Top's face was swollen; Steel-Eye was half bent and
barely able to breathe; blood oozed from Motor-Head's broken nose and
mouth.  Motor-Head was empty-handed.  The others held long Mute
fighting knives with the dished top cutting edge.

Steve stood up and backed away towards the hidden rifle as they took a
step towards him.  He raised the crossbow and aimed it at Motor-Head's
chest.  'Stay right where you are!"  Motor-Head paused and gave Steve a
lop-sided bloodstained grin.  'You dropped something."  He held up a
crossbow bolt.

Steve stared at it incredulously then glanced quickly down at the
crossbow.  The steel bowstring was still drawn back ready for release
but there was no bolt in the firing slot I Christo I It must have been
thrown out when he'd used it to batter Black-Top and Steel-Eye to the
ground or when he'd dropped it!  Shit!

Flanked by his two clan-brothers, Motor-Head broke the two
quarterstaffs, one over each thigh, and tossed the pieces aside.

'No more games, carrion!"  He took another step towards Steve and held
up his huge, six-fingered paws.  'Take a good look at these hands!

They are going to tear your eyes and your lying tongue out of your
head, then they are going to crush your sharp-edged little face like a
rotten yellow-fist I' Steve edged back towards the hidden rifle.  I am
not going to make it, he thought tiredly.  After all this... I am not
going to make it!  Oh, sweet Christopher!

In the same moment of time that encompassed Motor-Head's step towards
Steve, Clearwater's hands took on a life of their own.  They tore
themselves away from her neck and mouth and pulled her arms outwards
onto the ground.  Her eyes snapped open and the chilling cry of the
summoner issued from her throat.  The earth answered, yielding up its
secret strength.  The full force of the Third Ring of Power flowed into
her body to be shaped by her will...

Below the bluff, about a mile east of the settlement, Mr Snow and
Cadillac led the homeward run across the rolling plain.  Mr Snow did
not hear Clearwater's cry, but his finely attuned senses heard the
earth answer.  He signalled the party of warriors to halt.  They
crouched, listening instinctively for any sounds that signified
danger.

And then they all heard it.  A low, distant, deep-throated rumbling.

But this was not from the sky, this was earth-thunder!  The ground
shivered as some unseen force, like buried lightning bolts, zigzagged
through the earth beneath them in the direction of the settlement.  The
M'Call Bears groaned and fell on their faces, seized by the paralysing
primal fear that afflicted all Mutes; a distant race memory ora time
when the earth rose up and the sky exploded with blinding white
rain-fire that burnt flesh from bone, the grass from the earth, and
turned the world to dust.

Wordsmiths were supposed to be made of sterner stuff.

Mr Snow hauled Cadillac off his knees as he babbled a plea to Mo-Town
to spare them all from the wrath of the Lord Pent-Agon.  'No need for
that!  Come on, get those legs moving!  We've got to get back."  Mr
Snow hurried forward, pushing Cadillac ahead of him.  'Go on!  Run!

Run!"  Above them in the settlement, at that self-same instant, the
rumbling earth-thunder grew louder and louder.  The ground beneath
Clearwater shuddered violently, then rose quickly to form a hillock,
overturning Mr Snow's hut in the process, flattening itself abruptly,
then splitting apart on either side of her body with an ear-shattering
roar.  All over the plateau, terrified M'Calls scrambled out of their
huts and threw themselves face down, men, women and children huddling
together as they hugged the earth and begged Mo-Town to save them.

Moving with terrifying speed, a large fissure zigzagged away from
Clearwater's prostrate body across the plateau towards the main cluster
of huts then, before any damage was caused, it turned sharp left and
raced up the slope towards the bluff.

Once again, it was in the same moment of time that Steve decided to
stake everything on one last desperate gamble.

Pulling the trigger to release the taut bowstring, he hurled the
crossbow at Motor-Head's chest and made a break for the rifle.  As the
bow flew through the air and Steve turned and ran towards Blue-Bird,
the drum roll of earth-thunder shook the ridge and caused the three
Mutes to become rooted to the spot.  With a dry, spine-chilling
cracking noise, the fissure reached the bluff as Steve reached the
matting roll and got his hand on the butt of his rifle.  It was as if
the earth was being ripped open by a giant invisible knife.

Before he could catch his breath, a narrow, jagged fissure suddenly
opened up right across the plateau, separating him from his
now-terrified attackers.  There was another deafening explosive roar of
earth-thunder.  The ground shook violently, throwing Steve onto his
back.  Rolling over onto his stomach he saw the edge of the blufftear
itself loose from the rest of the plateau.  The whole strip of earth on
which Motor-Head and his clan-brothers were standing just fell apart
and went sliding down the steep slope, carrying the bodies of the three
Mutes with it in a dust-laden torrent of rocks, pebbles and earth.

Badly shaken, Steve got cautiously to his feet, clutching his rifle.

Close I he thought.  If the 'quake had run a few yards further in, he
and the glider would have gone the same route.  He raised the visor of
his helmet and made a quick inspection of Blue-Bird.  The trestles
under the wings and the now useless engine had fallen over but the
craft itself was undamaged.  Steve put the three trestles back in place
and hurriedly loosened the last two bolts holding the engine in
place.

He found that his hands were shaking and he had to stop to try and get
a grip on himself.  He untangled the harness straps and satisfied
himself that he was ready to go.

It was much lighter now.  Broad bands of purple, crimson, orange and
yellow lay along the eastern horizon.  Faint, confused cries floated up
from the direction of the settlement.

Within seconds of their arrival Mr Snow and Cadillac were quickly
surrounded by a shocked and still panicky crowd of Mutes seeking
reassurance.  When he had recovered his breath, Mr Snow dealt with them
firmly, telling them that if it had been the end of the world - as some
of them obviously thought it was - he would have announced it in
advance.  If they really wished to follow his advice they should all
stop runnin about like headless turkeycocks and go back to the normal
business of the day.  That said, he brushed aside all further questions
and pushed his way through the crowd, shooing away those who attempted
to follow him.

Clearwater sat upright on her talking mat, her face deathly pale under
the patterned blacks and browns.  Her eyes were dilated, and she kept
biting her lips to stop them trembling.

Mr Snow surveyed the wreckage of his hut, his scattered possessions and
the deep narrow fissure that ran away towards the bluff.  'Was this
your doing?"

Clearwater nodded silently then found the strength to speak in a
whisper.  'I did not wish it.  It was Talisman who called."  She held
out her hands to Cadillac.  He put an arm round her and helped her
up.

She wavered slightly then gained control of her legs and held herself
erect without his support.

Mr Snow's face softened.  He placed his hands on her shoulders.  'You
have true power.  You will make a worthy adversary of the
sand-burrowers."  He took hold of her elbow and gestured towards the
bluff.  'Come... walk with us."

Holding his rifle at the ready, Steve advanced to the new edge of the
bluff.  He wanted to make sure that, when he made his leap to freedom,
there would be no last-minute surprises.  He was relieved to discover
that there was now a good steady breeze sweeping up from the plain.

Spitting the dust from his mouth, he saw that there were two bodies
lying twenty or thirty yards down the slope, half-buried under rocks
and earth.  He looked for the third but was unable to spot it.  It went
completely against his better judgement, but some perverse urge made
him slither down towards the corpses in the hope of discovering that
one of them was Motor-Head.

Pushing aside the rubble with the toe of his boot, Steve uncovered
enough to recognise Black-Top and Steel-Eye.

He looked them over but couldn't be sure if they were dead.

It didn't matter.  Dead or not, neither of them were going anywhere.

He scrambled up on a pile of rocks and scanned the lower part of the
slope.  With the possibility of more after-shocks it was a crazy thing
to do.  It was equally crazy to hang around for one second longer but
Steve felt the need to know he'd won.  If he was ever to come back for
Clearwater, it would be better to fix Motor-Head now, once and for
all.

He could see nothing, and there was no more time to look.

He turned and started back up the slope.  When he had gone a fw yards,
Steve's sixth sense sounded the alarm.  Slipping his index finger onto
the trigger, he turned around and saw a Mute pulling himself out of the
dirt near the bottom of the slope.  The distance between them was about
a hundred and fifty yards.  Too far away for Steve to make out the
Mute's face, but it had to be Motor-Head.  He gazed up the slope at
Steve then started towards him.

Steve pulled his rifle into his shoulder and found he'd got the
shakes.

He took a deep breath, aimed at the middle of the Mute's barrel chest
and squeezed off a triple volley.

Chuwittchuwittchuwitt I Motor-Head kept coming.

Christo!  thought Steve.  Steadying himself on the shifting layer of
pebbles that now coated the steep slope, he aimed again, this time at
Motor-Head's belly and fired his second volley.

Motor-Head stopped, fell over, picked himself up and broke into a
stumbling run, his powerful thighs driving him up the steep,
rock-strewn slope.

Smokin' lumpshit!  thought Steve.  This guy is unstoppable I He
scrambled back to the top of the bluff, then turned, went down on one
knee to give himself a steadier firing position and aimed for the base
of Motor-Head's throat.  The rifle wavered in his trembling hands.

Steve took a firmer grip and squeezed off his last three rounds.

The impact jerked Motor-Head sideways but did not break his stride.  He
just kept on coming, powering up the slope like the Trans-Am Express.

Now you're in trouble, Brickman... Move I Move I Move I Steve dropped
the empty rifle, raced back towards BlueBird, kicked away the rear
trestle and started to clip himself into the harness.  If the big Mute
didn't slow down... Oh, you jack-ass, Brickman!  You totalled out I As
he fastened the straps with fumbling fingers, Steve cursed himself for
his incredible foolishness.  He only had seconds left in which to run
Blue-Bird forward and launch himself before Motor-Head reached the top
of the bluff.

Seizing the sides of the triangular control bar, Steve lifted Blue-Bird
clear of the trestles and ran forward.  The stiffening breeze spilled
over the edge of the bluff, rippled over the wing with a dry slap-snap
then put a taut curve in the fabric.  Pausing about five paces from the
edge, Steve leaned against the breeze, bracing himself for the run
forward and leap into space.  He had made dozens of successful launches
from the bluff but each time there was always an element of chance.

This one had to be right...

Check straps... Deep breath... Okay, Brickman.  Go for it!  Steve
firmed up his grip on the sides of the control bar which at this point
was bearing the weight of the wings above him - and ran for the edge.

As he launched himself over the bluff, Motor-Head leapt up in front of
him like a killer whale 'coming out of the water in a vertical climb,
grabbed hold of the control bar and was carried out into space.

Steve fought to maintain control of the glider but with the big Mute
hanging on the bar between his own outstretched hands it was a
near-impossible task.  Blue-Bird rocked violently then dived to the
right, swooping dangerously close to the bluff before rising on a
strong gust of wind.  They were climbing now but Steve knew it was only
a matter of time before they hit the deck.  He looked down between his
arms and saw the crazed murderous look on Motor-Head's broken, bloody
face.  His arms and legs had been scuffed and torn in the rock slide
and he was bleeding from several bullet wounds.  SteVe hadn't missed.

It was the combination of will power and enormous physical strength
that had kept Motor-Head going and had led to this last ditch attempt
to block his escape.  The Mute was going to die, and he intended to
take Steve down with him.
 

Steve tried to prise Motor-Head's fingers loose with one hand but it
was useless.  He couldn't even budge one little finger.  Blue-Bird
began to slip to the left.  Steve hauled it back on an even keel then
lost it again as it went into a steep dive.  He was out over the plain
now, about eight hundred feet up.  He had to dump the Mute before he
lost any more height.  He was going to have to cut him loose...

Reaching back with his right hand, he tried to claw his combat knife
out of the scabbard strapped to his leg.  He couldn't get a proper grip
on it.

It didn't matter.  The Mute was now struggling wildly to maintain his
grip on the bar.

Motor-Head's eyes widened as he realised that he no longer had the
strength to hold on.  The dying burst of energy he had summoned up in a
last effort to kill the cloud309

warrior ebbed away.  This was the terrible moment he had often dreamed
of; the unspeakable horror that had robbed him of sleep, leaving him
sweating and trembling in the moon-dark.  Falling.  Falling from the
claws of a huge bird with pointed wings, ridden by a warrior with
golden hair and a face like polished stone.  His fingers slowly slipped
from the control bar.  Hanging on with one hand he made one last effort
to grab Steve by the throat then, with a despairing cry, he dropped
away, arms outstretched.

Mo-Town!  Drink, sweet Mother...

Steve soared upwards like a bird released from a cage.

Cadillac, Clearwater and Mr Snow reached the edge of the bluff in time
to see the figure fall away from the arrowhead.

As the body crashed to earth, the watchers heard a brief cry of
anguish, a cry echoed by Cadillac.

'Mo-Towq, forgive me!  I have killed my clan-brother!"  'Not so,'
replied Mr Snow quietly.  'Do you not remember the answer you gave when
the cloud-warrior asked why Motor-Head called him the Death Bringer?"

'Yes.  I said that perhaps the death he feared was his own."

'Good.  Do you now understand that, in sending him here, you changed
nothing?  In attempting to change your destiny, all you succeeded in
doing was to play your part in fulfilling his."

'I shall still grieve for him, Wise One,' said Cadillac.

'We all shall,' said Mr Snow.  'His name shall stand among the greatest
of the M'Calls."  The old wordsmith stepped to the edge of the bluff
and stood between his two young charges, his feet planted firmly
astride, arms folded, his body erect.

On the far horizon, the sky was streaked with yellow and hot rose-pink
as the sun nudged open the eastern door.  No one spoke as the
cloud-warrior was borne aloft on the morning wind.  They watched him
rise into the sky and bank gently towards the Dry Lands of the South.

Cadillac knew he would not speak to Clearwater of what he had seen in
the stone regarding her desire for the sand-burrower.

There would be no accusations, or recriminations.  The Path was drawn;
the Cosmic Wheel turned.  The true Warrior faced his destiny with
courage; he did not allow himself to be deflected from the Path by
unworthy emotions.  The rising sun stretched their shadows into giants
whose heads were lost in the mountains behind them.

Clearwater waited until the arrowhead had dwindled to a mere speck in
the sky then broke the silence.  'Will he come back?"  she asked,
unsure if she really wanted to know the answer to that question.

'Yes, in the time of the New Earth,' replied Cadillac.  'I have seen it
in the stones.  He will come in the guise of a frie.  nd with Death
hiding in his shadow and he will carry you away on a river of blood."

Clearwater gazed out across the plain that descended like a rolling sea
beyond the bluff and up at the clouds rimming the hills on the southern
horizon.  The yellowing sky above was now empty.  Steve had
disappeared.  'Am I to die in the darkness of their world, or will I
live to see the sun again?"

'You will live,' said Mr Snow quietly.  He put his hands on their
shoulders and drew them closer to him.  'You will both live.  You are
the sword and shield of Talisman."