Part 21 (1/2)

He'd been stripped to his breeches. Even at a distance of ten strides, Quent could see that Solomon's bare back and shoulders were covered with the old scars of John's whipping, and fresh wounds that looked like burns. His boots were gone and his feet were b.l.o.o.d.y, the flesh torn and lacerated. He lay on his belly, his big body twisted into a deep, unnatural arch. They had tied a leather thong around his neck and his ankles and pulled it tight enough to raise both his head and his feet. The Indian standing over Solomon was pouring water over the las.h.i.+ng. As it dried, the leather would shrink and the ties grow tighter, contorting him into an ever more torturous curve, slowly but constantly tearing muscles and snapping bones. Quent had seen it before. It took most men three or four days and repeated soakings before they died. Judging from his position Solomon had been tied up for only a few hours. With luck, no permanent damage was yet done.

Quent held the long gun in firing position; the musket was also loaded and lying beside him. He could finish off two of the three renegades in as long as it would take to draw three breaths. The one remaining would be too busy looking for the source of the gunfire and a way to save his own skin to bother with the captive. His confusion would probably last the twenty or so seconds it would take Quent to reload, then he too would be dead. That left Lantak unaccounted for. He was by far the most dangerous. Not smart to move until he knew where Lantak was.

His gaze ranged over the campsite, always coming back to the thick stand of trees on the far side.

What had driven Lantak and his demented band to travel hundreds of leagues, much of it through the country of their enemies, to burn and murder and pillage the land of people they had never met and with whom they could have no conceivable quarrel? He'd seen Lantak once or twice, but they'd never tangled. The Huron could have no possible personal grudge against Uko Nyakwai. And as far as he knew, John had nothing to do with Quebec, much less Hurons; it was the same for Ephraim and Lorene. Their world and that of Lantak were as far apart as America and the j.a.pans.

None of it made any sense, but he had to find a way to make sense of it Otherwise how could he be sure that the Patent and everyone on it would be safe from future attacks? d.a.m.n! He needed more time to think. He needed to talk to Corm.

Solomon groaned. He'd obviously been trying not to, but the leather ties were shrinking, and tightening as the sun dried them. The barrel maker's head and ankles had drawn closer together, increasing his agony. Quent could see his face clearly now. Solomon's left eye had indeed been gouged out, just as Thoyanoguin said. The empty socket was caked with dried blood; the old man's cheeks were sunken and his mouth drawn tight in a grimace of pain. He groaned again. The braves drinking in the shade beneath the trees laughed.

The one who had wet down the leather joined his companions. The jug pa.s.sed to him and he upended it, taking a long drink of rum. Quent thought he saw some motion in the trees on the far side of the stream. d.a.m.n them all to h.e.l.l. Lantak, where are you? Come out and fight like a man, curse your rotten hide.

He felt a p.r.i.c.kling on the back of his neck and rolled swiftly onto his back, keeping the long gun in firing position and drawing a bead on the observer even before the motion was complete. A coal-black squirrel stood on its hind legs staring at him, swis.h.i.+ng its bushy little tail and holding an acorn in its paws. Man and squirrel surveyed each other for a second or two, then the squirrel turned and ran away. Quent rolled back into his original position overlooking the camp in time to see one of the Indians get to his feet and stumble toward Solomon.

”Where are you going?” The words were slurred and uneven, as if the jug of rum had been circulating for some time.

”I have to p.i.s.s.” The renegade walking across the field pulled aside his breechclout as he spoke. ”If we water this one some more, he will sing louder.”

”Lantak said he wanted to be here at the end. He'll cut out your heart if you send the darkface to his ancestors too quickly.”

”Lantak's not here. Besides, I do not need his permission to p.i.s.s.” The Huron stood above Solomon, holding his c.o.c.k in his hand. A stream of urine played over Solomon's back and the thongs that tied him. The other two laughed heartily, even the one who had warned against killing the captive too quickly. The brave who was relieving himself changed position and directed his flow at the barrel maker's face. ”You thirsty maybe? Here, drink this.”

The others laughed louder. Quent's finger tightened on the trigger and he sighted down the five-foot barrel of the gun. The Huron didn't have time to release his grip on his c.o.c.k. It was still in his hand when his head cracked like an overripe watermelon, spewing blood and brains.

”Ayi!” The brave who screamed reached for his tomahawk just as the ball of the dead lookout's musket parted his chest into two halves.

Quent dropped the musket and sprang to his feet, loading the long gun as he ran down the hill. A single stride to yank the cork from the powder horn with his teeth, two more to pour the black powder down the barrel, three to ram a wad and prime the pan. The third Huron had managed to load his musket but he was moving it in a wide and unsteady arc, still seeming not to know the source of the danger. Then he spotted Quent pelting down the embankment.

The long gun was now fully loaded and ready to fire. Quent raised it to his shoulder, still running, presenting a moving target and taking only the blink of an eye to get the renegade in his sights. The barrel of the musket swung in Quent's direction; Quent drew back the hammer of the long gun. The two weapons roared in the selfsame instant. This time Quent didn't brace himself against the long gun's mighty recoil, but allowed it to knock him to the ground. He continued rolling down the hill. The musket ball cut through the air over his head and landed some distance behind the place he'd been standing. The body of the renegade Huron crumpled headless to the earth.

Solomon's face was still wet with urine as he turned it to Quent, his remaining eye fixed steadily on the younger man. ”I knowed all I had to do was hold on long enough and you be coming to get me.”

”Absolutely, old man. I figured you knew that.” The dirk sliced through the leather thongs, releasing the barrel maker from the unnatural arch. ”Take it slow.” Quent reached behind him and slipped the dirk into its sheath. He needed both hands free so he could support Solomon's shoulders with one arm and grab his legs with the other. ”Real easy now.” Gently, with infinite patience, he allowed Solomon's tortured body to unfold.

The barrel maker groaned. Quent waited until what he knew was a rush of excruciating pain had subsided, then asked, ”Solomon, do you know where Lantak's gone?”

”I did not go far,” a voice from across the clearing replied. Lantak stepped out of the trees. ”I have come to meet you, Uko Nyakwai. Stand up and let me see the guest at my camp.”

The renegade was some twenty strides away, on the other side of the field where the bodies of his two dead comrades lay. He held a long gun aimed at Quent. Quent knew it was loaded and ready to fire.

”So the brown robe told the truth.” Lantak spoke the words without turning around, but he seemed to be addressing someone behind him. ”I thought you were dreaming. I did not believe that a whiteface would come after a darkface in this manner. I was mistaken.” He didn't move, not taking his eyes off the Red Bear for a moment. ”I told you to stand up, Uko Nyakwai. Do it now. The gun, you will leave there on the ground beside you. If you reach for it I will kill you.”

Quent still had hold of Solomon's arms and legs. He let them go. ”Stay still,” he murmured, his lips barely moving. ”When I shout, roll away from my voice.” Slowly, taking what felt like an infinite amount of time, Quent got to his feet. No gun, but his tomahawk hung at his waist. G.o.d-rotting h.e.l.l! Why had he been so b.l.o.o.d.y quick to sheath the dirk? He couldn't risk reaching for it. Or the still more lethal tomahawk. And there was another unknown: Who was behind Lantak, and with what weapons?

”Walk toward me, Uko Nyakwai. Yes, like that. I wish to see your face when I kill you.”

”Killing quickly is not your custom, is it Lantak? The storytellers say Lantak is like a spider who brings a fly into his web and offers many caresses before death. But perhaps that is only your way with old men and children and squaws? Maybe you do not have the courage to test a brave whose strength is like your own.”

Lantak chuckled. ”Do you think you can make me angry, Red Bear? That perhaps I will lose my temper and that will cloud my judgment? They say you are truly a Potawatomi brave. Perhaps that is so, but you are also a fool. You treat Lantak as if he were a child. No Real Person would do that. Yours will be the next corpse left for the vultures to find, not Lantak's. Every moment you remain alive you are a danger. If you have a death song, Uko Nyakwai, sing it now.”

The barrel of the long gun had not wavered while Lantak spoke. Quent knew he was perfectly sighted. Lantak would not miss. Quent focused his mind on his interior spirit, calling up the strength to meet death. He saw everything with remarkable clarity. Even the small gesture Lantak made as his finger tightened on the trigger.

Quent's death song rose in him. He was a whiteness that first plunged into the bowels of the earth. Then the whiteness rose, reaching for light like a flower stretching to the warmth of the sun. He, his spirit, was the whiteness. He would cover the earth and protect all that he loved. He would sing his white song forever, and all that Shkotensi the Great Spirit had put inside him, all that made him who he was and not someone else, would live for eternity. He was a whiteness with the softness of new-fallen snow, and the cunning of the wabnum, the white wolf who hunts on ice. Lantak fired his long gun. Quent let his death song and his spirit go free, toward the bright light waiting for him, beckoning him.

The bullet crashed into the trees to Quent's left. Lantak stumbled and fell. Behind him Pere Antoine shuddered, staring at the hand that had shoved the renegade as if it did not belong to him. He, Antoine de Rubin Montaigne of the Friars Minor, had saved the life of Uko Nyakwai, heretic and enemy of the True Church. The priest groaned softly.

Lantak released his gun and allowed his body to roll, coming to his feet with his tomahawk in his hand. He hurtled toward the priest with a roar of rage, the tomahawk swinging above his head in an arc of death.

”Lantak!” Quent was still suspended between two worlds, hovering, looking down on himself and on Lantak and the priest on the other side of the clearing. ”Lantak! I am your enemy! Uko Nyakwai is over here! Why waste your time with a man in a squaw's frock?” Quent's own tomahawk was in his hand. In what seemed to him the slowest, most deliberate motion, he pulled his arm back. ”I am over here, you madman!”

For a single heartbeat Lantak hesitated, torn between his rage at the priest and the knowledge that every moment Uko Nyakwai lived was a danger to him. Then he swung round and charged across the open ground toward the Red Bear.

Quent released his tomahawk. It whistled through the air in a deadly series of turns, gathering momentum as it spiraled toward the renegade. But though he'd adjusted the throw for the fact that Lantak was running toward him, he was spent from the release of his death song and this time his aim was not perfect The knife-sharp edge of the stone blade buried itself in the renegade's left shoulder instead of his forehead, slicing through skin and muscle and lodging deeply in the bone.

The pain opened a pit into which Lantak could plunge to escape torment. But he knew it offered no refuge, only death. Lantak fought the lure of oblivion. He dropped his own tomahawk and reached up and pulled that of Uko Nyakwai from his flesh, sending it spinning into the dirt. He could not suppress a scream of agony, but it didn't stop him from pulling his knife and hurtling toward his foe.

Quent had his dirk in his hand. His rage erupted in a scream of hatred and he ran to meet his enemy.

Quent could not feel his feet in contact with the earth. To fight well, to feint and dodge and maneuver until he was close enough to cut out the heart of his foe, he must be able to read the enemy's movements with his moccasins. The ground would tell him which direction Lantak took before he took it, but it was as if Quent floated above its surface, separated from the source of strength and knowledge. He had freed his spirit to seek the next world, and though it had been called back, it had not entirely returned to this one.

Lantak sensed the Red Bear's weakness. For a moment it seemed to him that he could still emerge from this contest victorious. The renegade thrust forward with his right arm, ignoring the searing pain in his left.

Quent saw the blow coming and moved, but not in time to prevent the Huron's knife from slicing through the flesh of his side. He grunted once, then blessed the sting of the wound. It helped him to focus, to summon his soul back to his body, and when Lantak swiveled to the left Quent followed, ready to plunge the dirk deep into the other man's chest.

At the last moment Lantak pulled back. The handspan's length of the dirk's blade buried itself not in his heart, but in the same arm already on fire from the tomahawk's a.s.sault. He screamed again, and without another moment's hesitation turned and ran. Here on this day, he was no longer a match for the mighty Red Bear. But if he lived there would be other days. And revenge, when it came, would be sweeter for the delay. He ignored the pain and stooped to scoop up his long gun before he disappeared into the surrounding forest.

Quent could not follow him: his tomahawk lay on the ground where Lantak had flung it and his dirk was still buried in the renegade's flesh. By the time he got his gun ... He glanced back at Solomon. The barrel maker was sitting on the ground cradling Quent's long rifle. ”I got it, Master Quent.”

”Very good, Solomon. Excellent. You hang on to it.” He shook his head, trying to come back, reminding himself that he and Solomon were still not alone.

The priest hadn't moved since Quent first caught sight of him; he was white-faced and trembling with shock, hunched over, shaking like a leaf in the wind. Quent took a step toward him. ”I appear to owe you my life, sir.” The pit in the center of Quent's belly was closing, but his words still seemed to his own ears to travel an immeasurable distance. ”I'd like to know your name.”

”I am called Pere Antoine, and-I could not let him kill you in cold blood in front of me. I could not.”

”I'm glad to hear it, Pere Antoine. But for you I'd be dead.” Quent's voice strengthened. ”The water in that stream over there is fresh and cold. Do you a bit of good just now.” He touched the other man's arm, noting how rough the brown cloth was, and gently turned him in the direction of the brook.

”I could not see a man murdered in front of my eyes,” Pere Antoine said. ”I could not.” But Almighty G.o.d, how will you judge me for this? He is a danger to Holy Church. I feel it in the depth of my soul. But to see him killed in my very presence, with no opportunity to repent his sins so he must go straight to h.e.l.l-fire ... I could not. Savior, forgive me if I did the wrong thing.

Pere Antoine stumbled toward the stream, leaning on his enemy. They reached the bank, and the priest bent over and splashed his face with the icy water. ”Thank you, my son. I will offer prayers for your soul.”

”I'm the one in your debt, Pere Antoine. May I ask how you happened to be here,” Quent watched the priest's face. ”I saw you back there in the nuns' church, didn't I? The place I brought Mademoiselle Crane.” He turned his head to look at the dead Indians in the clearing. ”These renegades don't seem likely converts to Christianity. Nor Lantak either.”

The cold water helped. Pere Antoine felt more himself. He stood up, and his eyes were level with those of the redheaded giant. The priest was accustomed to being able to whither most men with the power of his glance. Not this one. Are you heathen or heretic, Red Bear? And do you know how close to death you just came? Do you care? ”G.o.d's ways are not ours, my son. Who are we to say who is to benefit from the loving kindness of Jesus Christ, or the infinite goodness of His True Church? Now, I must be getting back to the town and my duties.”

Quent moved aside, clearing the way to the path that led through the woods and back to the fortress city of Quebec. ”I will not forget this day, priest. Nor the fact that I'm in your debt.” He spoke to the man's departing back. The priest merely raised a hand to acknowledge that he heard.