Outlanders 35 Cerberus Storm, page 1
Prologue
Though he couldn't see his pursuers he sensed them tracking him in the darkness sidling through the deeply shadowed forest just out of the range of his vision and hearing.
His name was Tuktel Tahea Yanka, which translated as Fleet Deer and on this night he did his best to honor it. He ran through the shifting curtains of snow with the speed and agility of his totem animal.
The black gnarled branches of trees clutched at him as he sprinted among them. The scattered pines cast distorted, skeletal shadows over the white-flecked ground, and the wind whispered taunts to him. The rustling of air seemed to carry the distant voices of spirits, of Fleet Deer's forefathers, filling the mountain silences with an undercurrent of terror.
He refused to heed the whispers. Fleet Deer's young legs pumped steadily, the muscles as finely honed and strong as the best bowstrings woven by Lakota artisans. Still, he accepted with fatalistic certainty that he couldn't outdistance his pursuers. The Lynx Soldiers were familiar with the country and were expert trackers. Alone, unarmed, barefoot and naked except for a breechclout, Fleet Deer entertained no hope of standing them off until—or if—Sky Dog came in search of him.
Fleet Deer realized his only chance lay in eluding his enemies by reaching Lodge Grass Creek and concealing his trail and scent in its waters. But the creek was a long way off. He prayed his friend Chikala had fared better than him in confusing Catamount and Deathmaul. Both men had broken away from the Lynx Soldiers at the same time, running in opposite directions with the enraged shrieks of Catamount and the bewildered snarls of Deathmaul ringing in their ears
Despite the cold, sweat sheened Fleet Deer's face and poured down his neck where the large veins pulsed from his exertions. He couldn't remember how long he had been running but he knew he soon had to rest. Sprinting downhill over rough ground was almost as exhausting as running uphill. The frigid night air burned his throat and the soft tissues of his nasal passages. Fleet Deer had grown to fifteen summers loving to run. He had trained himself to be the swiftest of foot of his people. He took pride in his graceful long-legged lope, his legs moving so fast and smoothly they blended into a blurred glide that spurned the rocky ground beneath his feet.
He knew better than to look back, so he kept his gaze focused only on what lay immediately ahead of him. Still, he couldn't help but wonder how far he raced down the face of Medicine Mountain. He guessed three or four miles at most, since the Moon had been in a different position when he broke free of the Lynx Soldier. With a great mental effort, he put his pursuers out of his mind and tried to give himself up completely to the task of running.
His mind toyed with images of galloping horses, of thundering herds of buffalo. He thought of home, of his mother and of his uncle Sky Dog who had dispatched him, Long Nose, Buffalo's Ghost and Chikala on the spying mission. He resolutely ignored the pain that grew in his chest and the waves of dizziness assailing him, instead concentrating on his legs, commanding them to keep moving. He swallowed a mouthful of cold air, wincing as it burned his lungs. He jumped over a log, nearly stumbled on loose stone, regained his balance and forced himself on.
The young Lakota warrior wondered if his pursuers were only playing with him its they had with Long Nose and Buffalo's Ghost, taking an evil delight in running him, harrying him like prey until he collapsed and begged for death. Fleet Deer felt he had to look back, just a quick glance. He knew his body couldn't tolerate much more punishment without rest. He was afraid his muscles would seize, his legs lock up and freeze. The poison of fatigue was spreading through his system. He cast a glance over his right shoulder, squinting through his long black hair streaming out at the back of his head. He saw nothing, but the light in the forest was tricky. Patches of deep gloom alternated with palely lit glades where the Moon managed to shine its lambent light down through the interwoven boughs.
Fleet Deer slowed his pace but didn't come to an immediate stop for he feared that his muscles would stiffen in the cold. By degrees, he carefully shortened his stride and relaxed his pace until he was trotting. He found a tree against which to lean. He inhaled deeply, air rasping in and out of his straining lungs, then held his breath for a few seconds, listening intently. He heard only silence except for the pounding of his heart
Slowly he exhaled and after a few moments his respiration was no longer as labored. Gusts of wind began to whip the tree limbs, flakes of snow dancing in the shafts of moonlight. He massaged his stiff knees, noting apprehensively the numbness of his toes. Thrusting his hands into his armpits to keep his fingers warm, he realized that to assume he had made his escape was optimistic to the point of naiveté but still, he experienced a surge of hopeful giddiness. He had run the best race of his life and was proud of himself. Then he heard the noises.
A stealthy rustling sounded behind him as of a large body moving through the brush. There were other noises approaching him too—not quick, not loud, but not pausing, either. Things crept through the darkness toward him on two and four legs, and he knew they possessed fangs, claws and a thirst for blood.
Pushing away from the tree. Fleet Deer gulped air, balancing himself on the balls of his feet, flexing the tendons. He knew he had to keep running. He refused to consider what would happen if he was recaptured. He began running again but with less speed than before. The arch of his right foot cramped and every time it impacted with the ground, needles of pain shot up through his leg into his hip.
Fleet Deer breathed in strangulated gasps, heedless of the noise he made. He knew his pursuers could see him or smell him so keeping quiet was far less critical than continuing to him. Apparently, those who chased him felt the same way. He heard them clearly, closer behind him, despite the wail of the wind that caught up the snow and whirled it around him like miniature cyclones. Soft running footsteps that kept pace with his own, and animal panting that came from behind him.
The strength of the wind increased and the bare tree limbs shook with it, dried pine needles showering him. Fleet Deer tasted a warm salty tang on his lips. It took him a few seconds to realize that his mouth, chin and even his upper chest were covered with blood. It riveted from his nostrils, his body's silent protest against the punishment it was taking.
He knew they were very close behind him now, and the skin between his shoulder blades crawled in anticipation of receiving a lance head or a hurled tomahawk there. The rest of his body tensed, expecting the impact of clawed paws and the tearing agony of razor-sharp fangs.
He caught a brief, almost subliminal glimpse of a figure flitting from a patch of moonlight into a wedge of murk. The impression he received was of an animal, feline head. The gloom suddenly seemed to be populated by silent stalkers all around him.
With blood-chilling suddenness, a screeching yowl pierced the darkness, full of malign triumph. Fleet Deer choked back a sob of helplessness, of hopelessness. The chase was almost over.
Bursting through a row of elms. Fleet Deer nearly pitched into empty space. He dug in his heels and rocked to a clumsy stop, panting loudly. Directly in front of him the lip of a gully sloped precipitously downward. The drop was about twenty feet into the rushing, ice-edged waters of Lodge Grass Creek, tributary of the Powder River. The surface glittered with highlights cast by the Moon and the stars.
Fleet Deer didn't hesitate. He jumped, arms and legs flailing the air. He splashed feet-first into the shockingly cold water. The icy temperature nearly made him empty his lungs in a gasp. Clamping his lips tight, he swam beneath the surface, stroking furiously. The creek, fed by melted snow spilled down from the Bighorns, was only a degree or two above freezing. He knew if he stayed in the water too long, he might never get out of it.
Swept along by the current, Fleet Deer kept beneath the surface until the pounding of blood in his temples and the frigid bite of the water became intolerable. He kicked upward and his head broke a thin layer of ice filming the shallows and he fought the impulse to cough and gasp. Tree roots, looking like gnarled fingers, twisted down toward the creek from the bank.
Raking his long hair from his eyes, clenching his jaw muscles to keep his teeth from chattering, Fleet Deer tilted his head up and back, scanning the indigo sky and mountainside beneath it. He saw nothing but the Moon and a frosty scattering of stars above the tree line, somewhat veiled by the snow flurries. There was no sign of his pursuers and though he wanted to believe he had lost them, he couldn't convince himself.
He stroked for the far side, and using roots as hand- and footholds, the young Lakota clambered his way up the muddy bank until he reached the top of the bluff. He felt more than justified in lying down and catching his breath.
He couldn't lie for Very long. He knew he had to keep moving or the low temperatures would do what claws and fangs had not. Despite that realization. Fleet Deer didn't rise. He continued to lie there, noting how pleasantly warm his limbs began to feel. The spreading warmth stung him into a floundering rush to his hands and knees. Horror surged through him. He was freezing to death. Staggering erect, he forced himself to start running once more, his every footfall jarring his entire body and blurting his vision. He swerved to avoid the trees looming in his path and searched for a clear path so he could achieve his full speed.
Fleet Deer heard a splashing from the creek behind him, a faint, husky grunt and involuntarily he cast a glance over a shoulder. He didn't turn away from another tree fast enough. His left foot plunged into a hollow formed by two thick roots and pain seared through his ankle. As he fell, he he ard the faint crunch of cartilage.
Repressing a groan of frustration and pain. Fleet Deer extricated his foot and pushed himself to his feet again. He achieved three: shambling steps before agony flashed through his leg from foot to thigh, and he fell again. He didn't know if his ankle was broken or sprained, but he knew he wasn't going to run any farther.
Raising himself on his elbows, he dragged himself back to the trunk of the tree that had cost him his mobility. He twisted to a sitting position and waited, composing his angular face into an expression of calm, fearless acceptance. When he heard the snuffling sound in the darkness, his lips twitched in fear but he quickly clenched his teeth, baring them in a defiant grimace. With a slight shaking of leaves, the brush parted. As he expected, he saw Deathmaul first, padding aiming the trees on huge paws. The young man's throat constricted at the sight of the heavy muscled, tawny cougar, the moonlight dappling through the branches shining on its glossy coat. The cat's mouth was open as it panted, saliva dripping from the long yellow fangs, the beige fur dark and wet from crossing the creek.
Fleet Deer guessed twelve feet stretched from his be-whiskered snout to the black tip of his tail, and he probably weighed about two hundred pounds.
When the creature caught sight of him, he didn't snarl or hiss. He growled, a very low rising and falling note, almost like a signal and regarded the young man with calculating, faintly luminous green-gold eyes. Fleet Deer did not move, forcing himself to meet the animal's stare. He received a brief, almost subliminal impression of intelligence glinting in the cougar's eyes. The great cat was a hunter of men not by instinct but by conscious choice, driven by devotion to his master and the simple lust of death dealing. Fleet Deer numbly remembered tales of Deathmaul's horrific ferocity. Then he heard the swift rustling of running feet and six Lynx Soldiers materialized out of the gloom, spreading around him in a semicircle. They were all young lithe women, and all were dressed in pelts of panthers and bobcats that left their copper-colored limbs bare except for bands of colorfully beaded fur. Their jet-black hair hung loose, framing faces painted with brightly colored geometric designs to symbolize their warrior society and spirit power. They were armed with long-bladed knives and tomahawks. Two of them cradled single-shot rifles in their arms, brass cartridges affixed to the wooden stocks to allow for swift reloading. The Lynx Soldiers didn't approach him but eyed him from a distance with the same kind of passionless calculation as Deathmaul. Fleet Deer knew they awaited the arrival of their chief. A few seconds passed before Catamount stalked out of the shadows and strode toward him, moving with a feline grace of her totem, her muscles undulating beneath bronzed flesh. The suffuse moonlight gleamed in satiny highlights on the curves of her bosom, the sleek thighs and long muscular legs. Catamount wore the hollowed-out head of a panther like a hood. Its golden brown pelt draped her shoulders and back like a cloak. From underneath the pelt fell two thick braids of black hair, barely covering her high, round breasts. A brief kilt of cougar skin was twisted about her loins, and wet boot moccasins encased her feet to mid-calf.
Fleet Deer couldn't help but stare at her, both in fear and admiration. Catamount was a strong, long-limbed woman, nearly six feet tall. Her big eyes were like chips of anthracite and set wide apart in a face of coldly chiseled loveliness. The set of her lips, the angle of her chin suggested the austerity of a goddess.
He had heard tales of the chief of the Lynx Soldiers for years. a savage warrior, a renegade whose strange dark beauty haunted men's dreams. Rumor also had it she was a witch and she cast spells over male enemies who then swore they would die for her—and, it was whispered, had indeed after a spending a night or two in her lodge.
In her right hand she gripped a long lance, its wooden haft decorated with feathers and sixteen coups—the scalps of Catamount's enemies slain by her in combat.
The trophies marked her as perhaps the most deadly warrior of all the Lakota people.
The cougar lumbered toward her, lowering its head to be petted. She fondled it roughly behind the ears, then slapped it absently on the haunch. The beast sat, staring piercingly at Fleet Deer.
Catamount stepped up to within a few feet of the young man and gazed down at him silently, contemptuously. Lowering her lance, she prodded his swollen left ankle with its point. Fleet Deer didn't react despite the pain flaring up and down his leg. Catamount smiled slightly, approving of his stoicism.
In the Lakota tongue, she said, "You have run far this night." Her tone of voice held a bell-like contralto, vibrant and imperious. "Sky Dog named you well. But the totem of the puma is a far more powerful totem than a deer. Did he not tell you that?"
"My uncle told me many things," Fleet Deer retorted, a bit surprised by how steady his voice sounded. "He told me how you were exiled from our band because you did not put the welfare of all the people ahead of your own soldier society."
She didn't appear to be offended, intoning quietly, “There is Sky Dog's truth and there is my truth." Angrily, fleet Deer retorted, "I have seen you take orders from the white dirt-diggers with my own eyes! That is my truth!"
"All these truths cannot be braided into one rope. But you are here with me, so it is my truth that matters this night. If you live to speak with Sky Dog again, you will tell him whose truth has more power... his or mine."
Fleet Deer couldn't suppress the note of suspicion in his voice. “You will let me go?"
Catamount moved her head forward slightly “You will return to Sky Dog and give him a message. Tell him that the name will soon be found. He will not send any more spies or warriors against me, the Lynx Soldiers or the Millennialists. We will seek him out when we are ready."
Fleet Deer couldn't feel relief. Taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it, he asked, "What about my friend? Where is Chikala?"
Catamount shook her head as if annoyed. She half turned and gestured imperiously with her lane. A lynx Soldier stepped close, dragging a length of rope. It was attached to a cruel yoke made of two tied-together saplings. The yoke formed pincers around the neck of a young naked man, his wrists bound tightly to either end of it. Cold nausea surged in Fleet Deer's belly. Chikala swayed, his blood-streaked face bruised and battered beyond almost all recognition. His name meant Little One, an obvious joke since he was very tall and burly for his age. His mouth sagged open and his eyelids drooped. Behind his friend's eyes, Fleet Deer saw only exhaustion and pain.
“I suppose you want me to free him, too." Catamount stated with a forced exasperation. "You really are taking advantage of my merciful nature."
Fleet Deer refused to be baited. He swallowed hard, not trusting himself to speak.
"But," Catamount continued, "since he provided me and my soldiers with a few moments of sport I'll give him a chance. If he can run one hundred feet without Deathmaul catching him. I'll let you both go free." The Lynx Soldier detached the rope from the yoke and spoke sharply to Chikala. He didn't appear to understand or even hear, but he suddenly lunged forward, shouldering the woman aside. She screeched in anger, snatching at him. The young Lakota had taken barely three steps when, with a single spring-steel legged bound. Deathmaul leaped atop him.
The yoke of wood splintered and snapped, the thongs giving away like wet cobwebs. A swipe of curving, unsheathed claws flayed almost all the flesh from Chikala's back. He went down amid flying ribbons of blood and uttered a single, brief outcry.
'That's a shame." Catamount said blandly.
As Fleet Deer watched in sick horror, the giant cat gutted Chikala with a single slash of a hind paw. Loops of blue-pink intestines spilled onto the ground. Huge jaws closed over the back of the young man's head, the fangs sinking into the bone with a crunch, shearing through the skull.
Catamount called to the cougar and almost immediately the animal released its prey, backing away from the flesh-stripped, eviscerated body, its muzzle and bared fangs glistening with fresh blood.
She stepped over the coils of viscera lying on the barren ground, a knife blade gleaming in her hand. Propping her lance up against a tree, Catamount bent over Chikala and moving with the skill of long practice, inserted the point of the knife beneath the mangled flesh at the youth's hairline. She made two swift incisions and ripped away his scalp. It separated from the skull with a sticky smack.
