Iron master, p.13
Iron Master, page 13
In that same split second, the quarterstaff came to life, vibrating in his hands, filling his limbs with a tingling energy that swept the ice-water out of his veins. Brain, hand and eye reacted with undreamt-of speed and precision as his body became a supercharged fighting machine. Steve was less than ten yards from the archer, but as the bow-string was released and the arrow sped towards his chest, he advanced the curving blade of the quarterstaff and swung his body to the left.
The steel-tipped point struck the angled blade and was deflected upwards. Steve saw it as a moving streak of light as it flashed past his right shoulder, then heard a strangled cry. Looking back, he saw that the arrow had embodied itself in the throat of the rider behind him. The sword which he had been intending to plunge into Steve’s back fell from his hand as he toppled backwards out of the saddle.
Steve flattened himself against the wall as the horse’s forward momentum carried it past him towards the open doorway where it collided with the samurai. The Jap, who was in the process of fitting another arrow to his bow, was thrown against the opposite wall as it clattered past, and the impact knocked the arrow loose from the bowstring.
Realising he was suddenly at a disadvantage, the samurai cast the bow aside, drew his sword and rushed towards Steve with a fearsome yell. A bad move. Just as in the fight with the back-up squad, Steve’s blade moved faster than the eye could register. The first forward thrust severed the samurai’s sword hand at the wrist, the second drove the curved end of the blade sideways through his throat, cutting his neck clean through to the spine.
Two down, ten to go…
Ordinarily, such odds would have given him pause for thought, but Steve’s killer instinct was now well and truly roused. He dragged the blood-drenched body of the samurai out of the way, shut the door firmly and headed back up towards the arena past the second casualty. The Jap lay on his back, choking on his own blood as he clawed feebly at the arrow in his throat. Steve eyed him without compassion.
Boy… what a fluke shot that had been.
An image of Clearwater came into his mind and a voice told him it was she who had used her gifts as a summoner to give the bladed quarterstaff its power. But was it a finite charge? If so, how long would it last? Was that the gist of the message her clan sister, Night-Fever, had been unable to remember when she had presented the staff to him on his return to the clan? Jeeezz! Steve ran on, hoping like hell that the Mute magic was not about to fade out on him like the power in a battery pack. With the kind of odds he was facing he needed all the help he could get.
Racing back into the centre of the arena, Steve saw that the odds had dropped to seven to one. A considerable number of arrows, fired by unseen defenders, were now flying in all directions without finding a target. An intermittent series of loud bangs followed by puffs of smoke told him that somebody was using one of the primitive drum-magazine rifles that the Iron Masters had supplied to the M’Calls. The smoke issued from the mouth of a cave on the third tier but the rifleman’s aim was bad and his ineffectual shots only served to increase the samurai’s anger and blood-lust. Only the leader now remained on horseback, directing operations. Two archers covered him, firing at anything that moved on the terraces. Armed with burning brands, the other four were now systematically attacking the ground-floor caves on the right of the arena. Smoke billowed from the interiors of those that were already alight. As the panic-stricken women and children ran out in a vain effort to escape the flames, they were struck down.
This, thought Steve, has gone on long enough.
Running towards the centre of the arena, he planted his feet firmly on the rocky ground and yelled defiantly at the mounted samurai. There was no more than fifty yards between them. To judge from the shrill reaction, the sight of an armed Mute seemed to give the rider apoplexy. Wheeling his horse round to face Steve, the samurai ordered the two archers to cut the insolent lumphead down.
Once again, Steve made two incredible deflections, catching the converging arrows on either side of the blade and sending them winging past him with an adroit flick of the wrist. And again. And again! Zzzikk – zzzokk! Pow-Pow! Away they went. His reaction time and his perception seemed to have speeded up by several thousand per cent. The arrows appeared to float slowly towards him, giving him plenty of time to bat them out of the way.
Hhhhawwww! The head samurai practically fell out of the saddle. His startled archers had another cause for worry. With all the previous mayhem they were now out of arrows. And Steve was closing in the gap between them, moving in for the kill. Out came the swords, but neither man was keen to make the first move against what was clearly a serious contender. The rider, however, figured he had a clear advantage, and spurred his horse forward, psyching himself up with a tongue-twisting battlecry.
Steve waited until he got up some speed, heaved a rock at him, then sprinted rapidly off to the left towards the terrace of boulders that formed the edge of the arena. His path was angled past the oncoming samurai, forcing him into a choice between making a wide galloping turn, or hauling back on the reins in order to hang a sharp right. Unsettled by the rock that bounced off his breastplate, he made a manoeuvre which fell somewhere in between, by which time Steve was standing on top of a boulder, brandishing his quarterstaff above his head as if he was playing king of the heap.
The boulder on which Steve was standing was about the same height off the ground as the rider’s stirrups. The size of the boulders and the manner in which they were clustered together made it impossible for the samurai to pursue Steve over them, should he decide to retreat further. He had to take him to where he stood. To make sure Steve stayed there, he ordered the two archers to get round behind him. The Japs split up and began their pincer movement as the samurai positioned his horse for another charge. Meanwhile the mindless slaughter over on the other side of the arena continued.
Pow! The rifleman in the upper cave finally got a round on target. One of the advancing archers was knocked flying by the heavy metal slug. He stayed down, sprawled across a rock, one leg jerking feebly.
Six down, six to go…
Riding in from right to left across Steve’s front, the samurai curved in towards the rocks, sword poised, the shield on his left arm raised to parry Steve’s counter-blow. He and the horse were clearly used to working together. Steve, who now stood head and shoulders above the samurai, guessed correctly that his attacker would try to cut the legs from under him. The slashing blow when it came was lightning fast, but Steve was even faster. Leaping clear of the sweeping blade, he twisted his body round to the left, spinning like a top as the samurai sped by. The quarterstaff, extended at a downward angle, and rotating with the speed and force of a helicopter blade, passed under the rear of the samurai’s helmet and came out under his plaited chin-strap. With the head still seated inside, the wide-brimmed helmet lifted into the air and described several backward somersaults before hitting the ground. The rest of his body swayed drunkenly in the saddle as the horse galloped on. Steve did not have the time to watch what happened to it. His attention was now focused on the surviving archer.
Realising he was next in line, the Jap turned in his tracks and beat a hasty retreat. Steve raced after him, leaping effortlessly over the jumbled heap of rocks like a mountain goat. The archer fell awkwardly off the last rock into the arena, picked himself up and scuttled towards the four remaining samurai, yelling at the top of his voice.
With a few, swift, bounding strides, Steve caught up with him. Realising he had to make a stand, the Jap gave one last despairing shout to his companions, then turned and assumed a fighting stance, with both hands on the hilt of his sword. But by this time, Steve was moving forward like a steam train. As the Jap began to bring his sword down, Steve – who was holding his quarterstaff level across his chest – punched both arms upwards to parry the blow.
Yahhh!! The thick wooden shaft hit the underside of the Jap’s arms with the impact of an iron bar, shattering both elbows. The force of the blow, added to Steve’s initial momentum, lifted the Jap off his feet and sent him flying backwards.
By the time he hit the ground, Steve was already bearing down on his next target: a samurai who had just cut down a young woman fleeing from a burning cave and was about to kill another who had tripped and fallen with a small child in her arms. She was now on her knees, pleading for mercy. Some chance.
Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw more trouble on the way. The three other samurai, now fully alerted to his troublesome presence, were running towards him. But first things first.
The nearest samurai had also seen the danger from Steve but his mind was already committed to making a killing stroke that would dispatch both woman and child. For a fleeting instant, his raised sword wavered. It was the chance Steve needed. Coming in from the side, he thrust his quarterstaff forward, driving the full length of the blade in through the Jap’s exposed armpit into the chest cavity beyond.
Nine down, three to go.
He turned to face the final trio. They were a gruesome sight. With the samurai who had just had his card cancelled, they had done most of the close-quarter killing, and their body armour and swords were smeared with blood.
And the next blood to be spilled will be yours, thought Steve. Come on staff! Don’t fail me now!
Emboldened by his spirited attack and the dwindling number of samurai, the camp-women began to reappear. Some of them picked up the halberds lying by the bodies of the earlier defenders; others gathered up arrows and fitted them to bows. Over on his left, two women finished off the stunned samurai whose arms he had broken. The rest formed a ragged but resolute semi-circle behind the trio of swordsmen facing Steve. The scent of victory was in the air and they wanted to be in at the kill. Steve waved to them to stay back. After the way those arrows had been flying around earlier, he did not want to risk getting in the way of a near miss at this stage of the game.
While the two outside samurai edged outwards, figuring how best to take Steve, the guy in the middle spun on his heel and advanced on the women, hopping from one foot to the other like a bandy-legged bogey man, shouting angrily and brandishing his sword. For a minute it worked. Two or three turned and fled. The rest wavered and took a few paces backwards but then rallied and held their ground.
Steve knew he had to strike while the middle man had his back turned. The two on his right and left were clearly planning to take him from both sides. A frontal attack on one would leave him exposed to the other. Steve leapt through the space between them, twisting round in the air so that he landed squarely on his feet behind both men, facing his previous position. It was a tremendous jump. From a standing start he had cleared over twelve feet. If his body had not been energised by the power in the quarterstaff he would have been lucky to cover half that distance.
As the startled Jap on his right turned to bring his sword to bear, Steve swung the iron-shod butt of his quarterstaff up and round, delivering a lethal uppercut to the base of the jaw. It landed at the point where the hangman places his knot and produced the same effect – a broken neck. Then, in one continuous movement, he caught the sword blow from the second Jap on the cross-piece set below his own blade, and swung the butt forward and upwards in between the samurai’s splayed legs. The impact lifted him clean off the ground. As he came back down and crumpled forwards under the pain, Steve snapped his head back with another iron-butt-blow under the chin, then, sensing danger, he spun round to face the attack of the advancing middle man.
The last samurai’s sword was still poised above his head as Steve’s blade punched deep into his stomach. It was only when he toppled forwards that Steve saw why the Jap’s reactions had been so slow. A shower of arrows had turned his back into a pin-cushion.
Well done, ladies…
Steve turned back to make sure the other two were out for the count and was just in time to see the woman whose life he had saved plunge the first Jap’s sword into the throat of the second.
*
Noburo Naka-Jima, leading the forty-six survivors from his band of ronin through the secret door to his camp, was alarmed to find the bodies of two of Lord Se-Iko’s samurai lying in the passageway beyond. Urging his horse into a gallop, he raced up the entrance ramp into the arena just in time to see a tall Mute plunge what looked like a spear into the belly of yet another of Se-Iko’s samurai. Smoke poured from five of the ground-floor caves and –
By the blessed kami, there were bodies everywhere!
His men, following in single file with their three prisoners, spread out on either side of him and cried out in horror as they caught sight of the dead women and children. Iiyyyehhh! And alongside them, their comrades who had been left to guard the camp! Old Ishido, who had slipped from the upper terrace after drinking too much sake and had broken his leg; Narita, who had been thrown from his horse and had split his head open. But they had given a good account of themselves. Twelve of Se-Iko’s samurai had also fallen.
The ronin cantered forward and hurriedly dismounted as their womenfolk and the surviving children rushed towards them uttering heartrending cries. The tearful lamentations and the mournful howls of women bearing the limp bodies of their young offspring alternated with shouts of joyous relief as the unharmed found their kinfolk. Fathers gathered up their precious sons and hugged them fiercely as they listened to shrill accounts of the dreadful slaughter that had taken place – and the courage of the mysterious intruder who singlehandedly had killed five of the blood-crazed attackers.
And the two in the secret passageway?
Ah, in that case, seven!
And who was this base individual who dared to court the wrath of the Iron Masters by bearing arms?
No one knew. He had appeared, as if by magic, when Ishido and Narita and the other men had been killed and the terrible wrath of Se-Iko’s samurai had been turned against young and old. And despite his base origins, the outlander had conducted himself like a true warrior, with the martial skills and courage that only samurai were thought to possess.
And there was more! He had saved Kiri, Noburo’s wife, and their son, Itada as they lay helpless under a samurai’s blade! Was that not so? Kiri Naka-Jima agreed it was so. The crowd parted to make way for her as she carried Itada towards his father. One hand supported her child, the other gripped the hilt of the samurai’s sword, red with the blood of the Se-Iko. Noburo took charge of the boy and embraced him. Their tears mingled as he showered kisses on his tiny face. Placing the point of the sword on the ground, Kiri folded her hands together over the hilt and inclined her head respectfully. Noburo reached out and gripped her shoulder. Normally samurai did not embrace women or display any signs of affection in public. It was deemed unseemly but, on this occasion, he found himself overcome by emotion.
*
As Steve stood there, in the midst of the carnage, he realised that he had won a hollow victory. There was little cause for celebration and he was unlikely to be given a hero’s welcome. If anything, his intervention had placed him in an even worse predicament than before. Not only was he an armed alien intruder, he was now an uninvited guest at a wake, who would soon be called to account for his presence.
The unkempt warriors – who must have belonged to a different group from the one he had seen trapped in the valley – were clearly aghast at what had taken place in their absence, and those whose kin had been killed soon gave vent to their grief. And there were many women who were visibly distressed when they failed to find their menfolk among the horsemen. Questions were asked and answers were given. Mainly about him. In between bouts of grief-stricken gobbledegook, the women kept pointing in Steve’s direction, and when the men had got over the initial shock of the devastating attack on their camp he was quickly surrounded.
With so much sharp iron pointed in his direction, the only thing Steve could do was to keep absolutely still and hope that he’d done enough to earn himself a fair shake. From the fierce glares he was getting he had the feeling he was supposed to be on his knees. Screw ’em… He had done nothing he needed to apologise for. He stayed right where he was, feet apart, body nice and loose, and with the quarterstaff cradled against his chest.
Since he was almost a foot taller than the group around him, Steve was able to look over their heads and thus avoid direct eye contact. Three of the group hadn’t dismounted. Two were small dark-haired, olive-skinned dinks, the other was a taller, cowled figure whose face was covered by an oval chalk-white mask. All three were blindfolded. Their wrists were bound to a rounded post at the front of their saddles and their ankles had been fastened together by a rope passed under the horse’s belly. Something drew his eyes back to the figure in the white mask. The quarterstaff vibrated in his hands, causing a shiver to run down his spine. Not of fear, but of excitement.
No – surely – it couldn’t be. It just wasn’t possible!
The ring of sweat-stained warriors around Steve parted to let through the man who had led them into the arena. He was bigger than the rest and was followed by the woman and the small boy. The child was now back in her arms, his face buried shyly against her neck. Now and then his small, slanted black-button eyes would dart towards Steve. His guard-mother’s gaze was more steady, but it was hard to tell what she was thinking. Her dark eyes reflected neither gratitude not hostility. Now she had recovered her composure, her face was completely devoid of expression.
They were all the same. Side-Winder had told him Iron Masters had amazing self-control. They prided themselves on their ability to suppress all outward signs of emotion. And, apparently, they were pretty cool characters on the inside as well. As a result, it was virtually impossible to tell from their faces what they were thinking – or what their next move might be.
Steve realised he must present a weird sight. Apart from his patterned skin, he had dark, tangled hair, and a golden four-week growth of beard. Plus hair on his forearms and the exposed parts of his legs. Whereas these dinks had, as far as he could see, absolutely no hair of their own at all. The straggling pieces the wild bunch wore must have come from Mutes. And Steve remembered that several sackfuls of hair had been among the items that the M’Calls had carried on their trucking poles to the trading post by the ‘great river’.
