A Time for Warriors

Prologue

Morning fog rose over the Kai River and drifted into the valley, not quite hiding the village of Blackwater from colorless eyes above. Floating in white silence, only chimneys and thatched roofs rode high to mark the lives of farmers and their families.

A tentative trail of smoke from the earliest of fires drew the eyes as it puffed upward in a spreading stain. Joined, then countlessly joined again, the high watchers held a contemplative moment before fading back to gird themselves among the mountain rocks.

Shivering impatiently, Brend jiggled the stove door tight and glared at the sluggish glow behind the grill. He wasn’t demanding so much― it wasn’t such a large kitchen― so why did this always have to take forever? Especially on winter mornings when most of his own warmth had stayed behind in bed? The cold metal gave a creaking pop and the boy sighed a visible cloud, bringing himself around to face the table and his turn at breakfast duty.

His father would just be rising, his sister hiding in her blankets.

Fumbling with a knife and a hard loaf of bread, he tried to picture his mother stamping this same frigid floor and cursing the laggard stove, but it was an image that wouldn’t come. Her patience was one of the things he remembered most about her. He also remembered wondering where she’d found it.

A pot of carefully-coaxed water was just starting to boil around three brown eggs when he caught the first edges of the noise. It sounded like a roar… or a cry. Maybe a moan. He knew instinctively it couldn’t be a windstorm, even as he told himself it couldn’t be anything else. Stopping for a quick look past the shutters, he saw nothing but the fog. The nearest cottage might be a hundred days away.

It certainly was an unsettling sound.

Then a new intrusion that jolted him to a stop― the distant alarm of shattered windows. Brend’s heart began the first in a series of painful beats as the answer leaped across his mind.

Kakoffs!

He burst through the door for the street as he yelled. It was just as the Riders had described. But it was growing so loud. And it seemed to come from everywhere. There were screams now, too, frightened and helpless amid the swelling din.

The Kakoff howl.

Brend was scared. He didn’t know why he was standing in the street holding the big knife from the kitchen. But here he was. And now something in the anguish of his neighbors’ voices rose to curl with his fear. He felt the anger move up to take control.

Kakoffs! he shouted again. The sound was terrible, held low by the fog. He was no fighter, he knew that, but fourteen years in the fields had made him something. Something, too, had been the occasional Riders who’d probably never noticed how intently a quiet boy had sat and listened. This dawn it was a heavy-shouldered youth who crouched to meet the first of the raiders to forego the outer cottages.

Duck and move. Always move. The tactics of the unhorsed were all that could serve him. Not tactics of first resort, he gritted as he threw his body sideways. A booted foot skidded and the Kakoff wheeled to face the farm boy who’d somehow eluded the first stroke of his sword. He lifted his blade high and added his voice to the howl. Again Brend ducked the charge and again he moved, but this time there was rough contact and the knife came away sticky in his hand.

The Kakoff towered in his black furs, taller than Brend, taller than anyone Brend had ever seen. The furs swallowed most of the blood from the astonished raider’s open chest. As the Kakoff died and fell, Brend snatched up the sword and spun to face the running swarm.

No room for thought. They were all around him ― in the cottages crashing through windows and doors, in the streets cutting down people in their nightclothes. They were howling as they slaughtered.

One horrible, pale face, framed by hood and lank hair singled itself out to rush him. The boy swung the sword, countering the dark blade, but the weapon was like nothing he’d ever held. A jarring clash, then the Kakoff’s backstroke hissed and took him deeply across the throat.

Brend fell in the street, blood steaming across the view as he faced the splintered door of his home. His sister appeared, powerless in her panic. Leva! He couldn’t shout. Her terrified eyes caught him and he wanted to cry at what came into her face. A scarred Kakoff loomed behind her, waving their father’s shining sword ―

Then it was gone. Brend felt himself slip away.

His village was a monument and everything was cold.

ONE

King’s Masterwright Nor-Ulden studied himself in the glass and took a couple of steadying breaths. Neither one was overly effective. He could see he looked the part well enough, but tonight he just didn’t feel it, not with an audience of such importance lurking moments ahead. A mild tranquilizing spell might help; then again, he certainly didn’t need his brain deserting his mouth for any artificial reasons. It was a likely enough horror as things stood. Considering, he breathed again, and settled instead for the twenty-third readjustment of his ceremonial sash.

It was time.

Evening torches lined the hall, freshly lit and starting to smell. The smoke wasn’t really unpleasant yet, but it meant the pledges were having a little trouble with their maintenance chants. Either that or they were shirking. Someone would have to speak to them.

The man in charge of the King’s Wrights strode resolutely, feeling small in the corridors of the Seat. It was a natural enough phenomenon; stone ceilings arced in the shadows at least four times his inconsiderable height, and the floors always seemed to stretch to a vanishing point, endless paths that clicked and counted every booted pace. Odd how he never felt dwarfed like this, though, when he was walking with no particular goal in mind.

Ulden… The voice was an unexpected greeting at a small confluence, the speaker, a young man with the lean look and brown uniform of the appointed Outrider. I’d forgotten you had so much wardrobe. What’s the occasion?

Ulden slowed without stopping. Ryle― I didn’t know you were back. I’ve got an appointment right now. I’ll have to talk to you later. Glad you’re safe.

Me too. Mind if I walk with you? I’m headed that way myself.

Something oddly hopeful flickered across Ulden’s face and he did pause. An audience? Really― now?

Ryle nodded, stepping up and bringing him along. I’ve been back since early this morning. Thought I’d better make myself available.

Oh, well, it’s good you’re here.

It was quiet in the central hall, not the usual state since the Kakoff invasion, but the busy dinner hour was imminent, serving to keep the middle levels clear. The footsteps of the two men echoed for a time and Ryle glanced at his contemplative companion. Would you consider a suggestion from a man with only one suit of clothes?

Probably not.

All right, then. I won’t mention the blanket.

Ulden stopped reflexively, blurting it with the look on his face.

You know how Rustig thinks, the Rider continued with a smile. He won’t be sore amazed. Besides, His Paternal Highness already knows your rank.

Ulden glanced down at his purple sash. It splashed sharply across his office grays and seemed to his eyes to add a touch of authority to his stocky body. He ran a hand through his leeched hair. I thought it looked impressive.

It does. But not now. The King wouldn’t be impressed if the One Mother Herself stopped in for a drink. Unless maybe she had a word to beat the Kakoffs.

Ulden waited one more moment then reached for the clasp behind his left shoulder. You’re right, he sighed. ‘Posturing.’ How could I forget that one? Especially now. I must be more addled than I thought.

Ryle gave him a hand then folded the sash carefully inside his jersey. Funny world, he mused as they resumed the long approach, the way it follows you everywhere you go. I’ve seen a Rider get so prepared for the big battle that he gallops off, first to fight, and forgets to bring his sword. It’s a military shame when a good man blunts his edge.

Ulden gave him a sideways glance. Point noted, he said. And I’ll be sharper with some support in the room. It’s lucky you’re so creative at scheduling.

Ryle shrugged. I wanted to hear what you had to say.

Well, it isn’t the simplest case around. Ulden took another long breath. It’s no secret how little the King values the Wrights in any real crisis. From the Masterwright on down. He infused the word with a careful potential for contempt. I suppose that’s our fault. But if I’m the one caught wearing the― He reached to his chest then stopped. Well, you know. If it’s my turn when the walls start falling in, I want to be able to step forward and see what I can do. Who knows? Maybe the time is coming around again. A duty can’t disappear completely.

They stopped finally at the arched door to the High Conference Room.

There’s so much riding on this I don’t even know how it happened. And some of it’s personal. The thing is― The small man caught Ryle’s eye. I’ve got some ideas.

I trust you, Ulden, the Rider said as he reached for the heavy handle. You’re Resa’s Masterwright. So while you’re standing there with your guts all on fire, let’s go tell it to the King.

Your highness― I’m offering you my help. Ulden’s voice rang with the slightest note of disbelief, the kind pushed up by frustration.

Rustig, King of Resa, stood before the ceremonial dais with his hands on a heavy table. Shoulders and head down, he studied an incomprehensible array of maps, even as his aide spread yet another thick parchment and spoke quietly. Kai River High to the Blue Forest, sire.

Rustig nodded. Except for an occasional rustling from the table the room grew silent.

Discreetly to one side, Ryle stood and watched. He saw Rustig wrestling with the slippery problem, and he noted the extra lines that worked around his beard. The King was a big man, physically impressive, true to his lineage. He dressed simply and wore his graying hair long. A trifle rough for an artist’s image, perhaps, but Ryle didn’t think anyone could look more like a ruler if his soul rested on it.

Ulden was in danger of clearing his throat before the King raised his eyes.

Resa appreciates your offer, Masterwright. I appreciate it. But this is a real war. And a damned difficult one at that. There is no room here for something I cannot trust.

Sire, I’m not speaking of the purely magical. I―

This, broke in the King, tapping a parchment and making his dagger rattle beneath it, is something I can depend upon. It does not fight against existence or blow away with the wind. Metal is what will defeat the Kakoffs. Metal in the hands of my Riders.

King Rustig―

Again, Nor-Ulden, I thank you. Outrider, he turned to Ryle. There will be no priority dispatches for a time. Not until I can get this filth to stand for a fight.

Ryle bowed. It was clearly a dismissal but Ulden wasn’t moving. Ryle had been impressed with his friend’s fortitude but with Rustig it was a question of recognizing degree. And the King wasn’t in his best―

Sire, I propose using the Cave.

Rustig straightened, slowly arriving at his full height. Indeed?

Yes, your highness, the province of my office. Ulden hesitated. If it has been proscribed, I wasn’t aware.

Ryle ran a hand across his forehead.

I’ve proscribed you nothing, said the King.

Ulden squared himself. I’ve been studying a group of warriors. Mere study at first, but now maybe more than that. They are excellent fighters, sire, used to a difficult foe. I believe their tactics may―

My men need that much help, do they?

Ulden’s face twitched. I do not mean to presume, your highness.

Tren moved a chart, as always attentively within his boundaries.

Rustig leaned forward. And I intend no insult, Wright, your services are well noted. But your arts are passive. And, frankly, your ranks have grown soft over time. How much control could you exercise? Over any import? We face great risks already.

I’m suggesting a small group only. Examples, if you will. Ulden spoke with his particular passion, pained to see his best efforts losing to the distastes of a practical man.

From the edges of his soundest judgment, a thought occurred to Ryle and forced its way against his will. Sire, if I may… He stepped forward, lightly appalled at himself.

You too, Rider?

Sire?

Go ahead.

Ryle knitted his brow. Wouldn’t there be an advantage here? I mean one beyond what he’s saying? A gesture if nothing else. And if the attempt were known, even if only a token- He swigged a mental bracer. Might it not help to silence certain restless factions here at the Seat?

King Rustig took a slow step. On a distant wall a torch went through a spasmodic flicker and steadied.

‘Restless factions?’ Rustig quoted, circling the table. Ryle and Ulden stood still, side by side.

Restless factions, loyal Ryle, are annoyances I have dealt with since the morning I took power. And the day I allow one of them to make a decision for me― the day I change or make up my mind because of grumblings― on that day I will take my sword and hand it gently to you or whoever happens to be standing near.

He spent a moment, looking between two pairs of eyes.

Yes, your highness, said Ryle, sparing an unreturned glance at Ulden.

Can you imagine, Tren? Disquiet at my own feet? Rustig shook his head.

Tren matched the movement. Unthinkable, my liege.

Showing them his wide back, the King resumed his place at the planning table. Ulden started to move, but Ryle stopped him with a look. Dismissal wasn’t clear this time. Rustig studied his maps for a series of eternities then lifted smoothly to fix his Masterwright with a finger.

A small group, Ulden, nothing more. Ryle, since you’re so eager, I can spare you for this experiment but designate another good Outrider for me. Keep within my limits, both of you, and be careful. That’s all I will hear now.

Ulden blinked as Ryle sidled closer to him. Thank you, your highness, Ulden sputtered. I know you won’t―

Ryle nudged him. The two gave a concerted bow then moved to leave.

And gentlemen― Rustig never raised his eyes. Don’t get your imports trampled beneath my army.

Another bow and King Rustig was alone with his aide. Tren indicated a few specific reference points. Rustig glared at them. Minutes passed before he spoke again.

Restless and noisy, he murmured. If those two can buy me one good hour’s silence I’ll divide my throne between them.

TWO

Flagmarshall Clure tethered his mount and walked through a slow inspection of the site. The aftermath of battle was never going to be a pleasant scene, but when you faced an enemy such as this there was a certain satisfaction only a hypocrite denied.

He counted roughly fifteen Kakoff dead. There were no wounded, not in this war. They lay sprawled through the meadow where the disciplined charge had taken them by surprise. In the open, against mounted fighters, they had stood little chance, for all their size and ferocity. Still, there were six Riders, maybe eight, depending on the Steaders, who had ridden their last this day. Their lives for ours, thought Clure. Kakoffs for Riders. It was the great constant, war, only the rate of exchange varied.

It was acceptable, however. As good as it was likely to get and at least better than it had been of late. Finally given a chance to tear into the elusive foe, his men had shown everything and more than an old soldier could want. Rustig was going to be pleased. Clure smiled sadly as he thought of his old friend, picturing the King’s ire at being shut up at the Seat under the unique demands of this war. A most unenviable situation for men of certain instinct.

Unenviable, too, was the pressure growing there. Clure had heard that Urspuer was spending most of his time at the Seat now, observing the difficult progress and critiquing, always critiquing. Military grapevine had it the man was finding listeners ever easier to gather. Clure knew how he would ache to act were he atop the throne. Influential landowner or not, Urspuer was a traitor in the planning, ready to blossom like a parasite flower. Historically, he would not be fungus without precedent.

The Flagmarshall nudged a limp, fur-clad leg, and mused. The grass was high enough here that from a distance it would look like a field for a midday picnic. Up close, this particular Kakoff had been nearly decapitated by a Rider’s swordstroke. A blow to be studied.

A flurry of hooves and a Fieldrider reined up with a hand salute.

Sir, said the officer, his mount moving nervously, still dancing from the fury of the fight. Clure put a hand on the bridle and the animal steadied.

Sir, the detachment’s ready.

Clure looked back to see Riders standing by six blanket-wrapped forms draped on mounts. Releasing the bridle, he nodded, and the Fieldrider raced to rejoin his men, waving for the burial squad to move.

There were other detachments running the area, looking for survivors. The Flagmarshall walked the grounds alone.

Fair enough, he pondered, if Rustig chose to concentrate on the Kakoff problem and let the intrigues care for themselves, that was royal prerogative. The questions had to be answered in turn regardless. Fortunately, all that was required of Clure was his performance. As the officer commanding the Riders in the field, he listened to his King and did as he was told.

Here he stood among the evidence of his loyalty. And strange how things ran. A gathering, large by furtive Kakoff standards, had been sighted― by Urspuer Irregulars on their way to reserve duty at the Seat. (Even so, better late, as someone often said.)

Dubious, Clure had decided to act on the tip anyway and now the first good day of the campaign so far was his. It tasted sweet, but only on one side of his mouth. Urspuer was going to lay his claim to the credit and that was bitter. Worse still that there would be those who would heed him. Look at the King, running his Riders about like mounted jesters. Thank the Mother there are other minds at the Seat, capable if unappreciated.

Clure knew the vagaries of his profession. He also knew Urspuer couldn’t have set this up no matter how often a Flagmarshall found himself thinking it.

A jumble of Kakoff bodies grabbed his eye, clustered about a solitary tree where they must have hoped to split the sweeping charge. Clure inspected them. One had lost an arm and a good portion of his face. Another was so drenched in blood it was hard to tell what had dropped him. All of them were long, ropy forms, swathed in coarse furs taken from the beasts of their frigid homeland. A few had lost their hoods, revealing white faces, black eyes and knot-bound hair. Was it only imagination, or did they seem more gaunt than he remembered? He knew they weren’t starving here, but famine had pushed more than one population beyond its borders in the past. History’s greatest catalyst.

But could there be a question of pity? These were a cruel foe, indiscriminate in butchery that pre-dated even the Final War of seventy years ago, in which Clure’s grandfather had earned such distinction. That had been a difficult enough struggle and the Kakoffs hadn’t landed then in half the swarming numbers of today. Simply put, this was one day’s victory, and that was a fleeting inspiration.

With a silent sigh, Clure knelt in the grass where sunlight glinted off something hidden. Brushing around, he picked up a shard of metal from the broken sword of a Rider. It was still shiny enough to show him his aging face.

A breeze rustled the grass behind him and the bloody Kakoff rose noiselessly in its cover. Holding a short blade, he took a step toward the Flagmarshall’s back, then another. He was stealthy for a killer his size, stealthy for a killer half his size.

Midway through the third pace, Clure wheeled and plunged his sword through the Kakoff’s chest. The opaque eyes grew wide, then fixed as the raider slid off the blade. He fell in the grass, looking not that different from before, the bound tail of his hair spreading out above his head.

Another constant, thought Clure. Seventy years and more proved that some parts of it would never change. He wiped his sword in the fur then dropped the mirror-sheen metal and resumed his walk.

He felt better now. The gray weight of the day seemed to lighten a little around his shoulders. It was a comfort how well grandfather’s tricks could still serve a man in the field.

THREE

The morning sun was higher in their eyes when Ryle and Ulden reined in for the first breather of the day. Having ridden well into the night, they’d taken a brief stay in camp and let first light find them wearing at the trail again. Their appointed mission― that’s what Ulden was calling it.

Our mission is as sacred as the Riders', he said as the mounts slowed into a walk. The protection and good of Resa. He shook his head. Languishing benefits no one. We are proof of that. If the King had said no I don’t know what I would have done.

Taking in the morning, Ryle moved alongside, content to ride and listen. His position as Outrider was a hard-earned honor, he was aware of that, and proud. But dispatches didn’t fly like leaves and the Seat could be a dark place when stretches of silence grew long. All things considered, he’d rather be in the saddle.

As I heard it, he did say no. More than once, he recalled. You were inflamed, old friend, and teetering just a little close to the edge. Our King does not like presumption, as you know.

Or posturing, remember. I teetered on that one, too.

So you did, Ryle breathed in the brisk air. And then there’s panic, another favorite hatred. I never realized that about our highness― presumptuous posturing panic. I’ll bet he hates peppercorns, too. And parapets. You never see him up there. Royal Rustig.

Around them the Fargone Plains were changing, flat land beginning to round up here and there, foretelling the approach of the Blade Mountains. The range bordered the western edge of Resa; beyond it lay little before the Broken Sea. It was a natural barrier, hailed over time as a vital part of Resa’s defenses, and as Ryle studied the thin, jagged peaks ahead, he was glad they wouldn’t need to be penetrating much more than the foothills. Even those looked a little steep for a plains lover.

And, of course, there was that one peak, particular and prominent, that seemed to hang up there like a shadow. Not as high as some or as rocky as others, it was still the most forbidding to Ryle’s eyes, for atop it rested Murdered Keep, just visible in the high haze of morning. A great chunk of carved stone studded with square towers and iron gates, it had been the original resting place of power in Resa just over seven centuries ago. Today it was campfire history.

The kingdom good and settled by his predecessors, Old King Aiden had devoted his life to the building of the Keep and he had built it well. The finished castle was pleasing to him, so pleasing that he had insured his title by killing off his three brothers before the last of the mortar was dry. Sadly enough for the old man, a trio of bloody apparitions had appeared not long after to follow him day and night, wherever he ran, circling like vultures while they shrieked and gibbered in his face. Whether they haunted his halls or merely his mind (the argument would simmer forever) the ghosts hadn’t needed much time to exorcise the King from his cherished home. Gaunt and weeping, Aiden had traveled to Reunion City, commissioned plans for the Seat and spent the last months of his life in a tent.

Dwelling on the story, Ryle found his gaze drawn high as if to a hangman’s scaffold or the tomb of a beautiful bride. He knew the Keep was occupied now, had been for the last two hundred years, actually, by the somber family of Steaders, but that knowledge did him little good. Gloom seemed to spread from the windows of the place and the lightness of his mood began to suffer.

Yes, the morning was nice, but he was cold, even with his heavy leathers. And indeed the land was bright and the air was fresh― the Kakoffs running and breathing not far distant would certainly agree.

Picking up his mood, or more probably the changing terrain, Ryle’s mount dropped its head toward the stones that sounded with every hoof. Ryle patted the animal’s neck. Only rocks, Beast, he said softly. Only rocks and cliffs and holes in the ground. I don’t much like it either.

Ahead, Ulden had a length and a half on them, certain where he was going.

Tell me something, Ryle spoke up. I know we’re the best at what we do and everything, but how are all two of us supposed to stop your visitors from going berserk when they get here and just killing anything that happens to catch their eye? You can’t import inclinations, you know. What’s to stop them if they want to hop right over and join the other side?

Ulden looked back at him. I thought you understood, Ryle. We don’t just grab indiscriminately. We make every determination we can on their end and bring only those we choose. It's really the whole point. As I said.

You mean we explain it to them first?

Correct.

I thought you said they were new to this.

Ulden nodded. Never contacted.

I see, said Ryle. Wonderful. Volunteers weren’t hard enough to come by, even when the officers asking didn’t admit up front they were crazy. Or something like that. This isn’t going to be easy, is it?

Ulden paused a moment then reined back and waited for him to catch up. Is something bothering you? he asked as the mounts matched their strides. We need to be of a mind on this.

Well-acquainted with the Masterwright’s concerns, Ryle recognized some of what shaded across his companion’s face. No, he reassured him quickly enough. No problems, really. He unconsciously fingered the hilt of his sword. It’s just hard not to think sometimes― about a lot of things… Have you ever been to Blackwater?

Ulden shook his head.

I have, Ryle nodded at no one. Or had. It’s strange to realize how little of it’s left. All those people… Clure’s a good man. He knows what he’s doing. But I’m not sure anyone knows just what to do now. The future isn’t promising anything and I’d hate to be wasting good time.

Ulden was quiet for a while, long enough that Ryle began to worry about how he’d said it. After all, he wasn’t exactly sure how he did feel. Misplaced, maybe.

I know what you mean, Ulden spoke up finally. Back there at the Seat I had ample time to dwell on it. That’s where this plan came from. From the days and nights I spent working to keep the breakfast breads soft and the castle air just the right temperature― my wartime service. A lot of good time.

Then you’re sure?

As to why, yes. Not for Wright honor but for Resa. Nothing’s all dark and nothing’s all light, but I remember what’s important. As to how― I turn to my strengths just as you turn to your sword. As to― He shrugged his shoulders. As to whether or not it will help― I don’t know. I can’t. But I think it might. Most of my other Wrights agree, though they can rarely see past theory. Rustig thinks, I suspect, that I’ll never succeed in the first place, and even if I do I’ll be capable of little damage. I don’t know what you think. But I suppose someone in there is going to be right about it all. Maybe it’s me. All I propose to do is try.

As they spoke a cliff face had sprouted before them and grown high. They walked a little farther then Ulden spurred toward it. Kicking up to keep pace, Ryle rode easier now in spite of the magic that was waiting for him. It had something to do with the worried little man he followed and a frankness that put a Fieldrider’s battle speech to shame.

Coming to the wall of the cliff, they assumed a slow parallel and rode on, brushing low shrubs that crackled with winter. Ryle saw some fissures in the stones and a few respectable holes, but mostly―

Good enough, Ulden said, swinging a little stiffly through a dismount. I’ll call for you when I’m ready. And remember the mounts, of course.

Of course, Ryle answered, blinking and looking around. He reined in his animal and looked around some more.

Here?

He knew it was called the Cave, and that’s what he supposed he expected. But this was only a cave. A broad-mouthed one, to be sure, and rather symmetrical, but as a whole picture it looked about as magical as his boots.

Ulden stood back to study the entrance, stroking his chin like a tradesman. Ryle watched his breath in the air. So this is it, then, he said.

Ulden nodded.

It doesn’t look too special. How is it guarded?

It isn’t.

Ryle looked at the rocky opening. You mean anyone could just―

It’s quite commonplace unless one knows the key. And that is only for the Masterwright. That which is a window for me, or a door if I choose, is for you little more than shelter from the storm. He turned. Are we properly impressed?

Ryle wasn’t sure. Considering, he summarized. I only followed you down that hall to offer some moral support, you know.

Ulden smiled as he handed up his reins. The Cave can be intimidating, he said. Powerful, mysterious, a little scary. He stepped away. It is also a walk in the cool rain, so to speak. You never heard me say this, Rider, but given the proper sounds a pledge could get this place working in an hour and master it in a day. The focusing power of the shape is remarkable, forgiving even. About all a Wright has to do is learn how to select the other end. After that, it’s just stand back and look dignified.

Ryle let his brows arch only a little. Even so? he said.

Even so.

Then why is it so little used anymore?

Ulden squinted at him. Didn’t Riders once carry clubs? Things change― styles change. Even people, sometimes.

Ryle watched the King’s Masterwright turn and enter the mouth. Just wait for my call, his voice echoed back.

Dismounting, Ryle held two sets of reins and stared into the darkness. There was headroom enough for a man on horseback, but for some reason he knew he’d feel better on foot.

Much too quickly, he thought, the Cave began to emit a blue light. Slowly it deepened in hue and intensified, giving its color to rocks and brush and bringing out shadows of sharp contrast.

Holding the mounts against nervousness, Ryle noticed dimly they weren’t showing any. Beast, in particular, was about as placid as he could be this side of sleep. Ulden was doing something to them, he decided. That was a good idea.

He checked his sword again, and his dagger. He made certain the Rider’s short bow was firmly placed across his back. The oversized bundles Ulden had prepared were good and secure behind the saddles.

The glow was downright beautiful by the time Ulden’s beckon floated out. Ryle moved with it, leading the animals.

The tools at hand, he murmured to himself as he was surrounded by a swirl of blue.

Now it was all in the plying.

FOUR

The Kiowa camp on Two Hatchet Creek was quiet. Dry, prairie breezes whispered fitfully of cool but they never really meant it as they carried sounds from the soldiers encamped not far out of sight. It was an almost perfect night, the kind Harrison Burrill Hannah required.

As peace commissioner of this model band he was setting examples the dreamers at the Wichita Agency could only envy. Savages to citizens. It wasn’t simple, not with the raw material General Sheridan had collected; still, Hannah was making a diligent name for himself. A few more months with his charges, then Haworth beware― 1875 would see a new agent of choice in Indian Territory.

His was such a clear vision.

So sad there always had to be a hitch.

Standing rigidly before the desk, Cold Wolf was glaring, angry, as usual. The commissioner made his disarming gesture― palms out, angled, fingers apart― and he spoke calmly. It was always best to try to keep his ideas simple.

It’s not a question of permission, he continued. The plan calls for accountability at all times. That means no unnecessary wandering. Surely you can see that.

I’ve said where we―

You’re not hearing me, Hannah shifted to his patient smile. It’s not just you and those here― there won’t be anyone in attendance. No Indians, no one. Cold Wolf grew darker and the commissioner nodded his head. Colonel Davidson doesn’t think the Sun Dance is appropriate this year.

Always soldiers, Cold Wolf observed in his measured English. It makes me tired to hear you.

Hannah sighed. One of his favorite theories held that the stubbornness of the Plains Indians was a fundamental reason for their success in a hostile world. Every so often he even felt a grudging respect for that trait, and others. But there was a time for everything, and it had been a hot day. He had a bath waiting for him, followed by real sheets and a quiet night. Little pleasures were all he asked.

Things are changing, he announced, sounding reflective as he took his seat before the open office window. The world is finally coming of age― part by part. People and places I’ll never see… He shook his head and leaned back. But I can feel it. And I’m a big part of part of it. So are your people. All but a few.

Cold Wolf held his gaze steady. Big and