The Warrior (2 page)

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.