GeneStorm: City in the Sky (3 page)

If ferals had been rustling cocoplods, a veritable range war might result. For twenty years the ferals had kept their distance – the guns and riders of Spark Town were deadly. But a new feral tribe might have migrated into the hills – or young warriors split off from an older tribe could be trying to make a name for themselves as raiders. Raids would swiftly bring counter raids, and it would become impossible for an honest prospector to make a living.

It all sounded like bad news. Snapper swung back up into Onan’s saddle and sent the bird swiftly climbing up the hill, keeping to the shadows of the rocks. They shadowed the cocoplod trail from a distance, keeping well hidden amongst the rocks and trees.

A sharp escarpment looked down into a narrow, twisting valley. Cocoplod prints ran through the valley, following a path through bramble trees that curved off to the east. The water course in valley bottom was still slightly muddy – the herd would not be raising any dust. The rustlers had clearly thought out their strategy.

Snapper’s eye spied a good path down the far side of the hills then up into the boulder far beyond. She raced Onan onwards, keeping low, sensing something dangerous in the wind.

Feral raiders would surely have a rear-guard. Snapper curved wide around the cocoplod’s line of march, hoping she could pick up the herd at the far end of the valley. Onan moved with speed and cunning, his huge clever feet pad-pad padding on the rocks and soil. They rode for about two kilometres circling about the valley, then cut back to intersect the trail. Snapper found a hill crest well sheltered by dead trees and old stones, and crouched low, easing Onan forward until they could see the distant valley floor.

The valley had broadened. Several other valleys had joined the first, making a wide space down below. There were a few old walls down there – what looked like a few collapsed houses and possibly an old garage. Normally, Snapper would have been instantly ablaze with joy - but there was something wrong: the tangled trees down by the houses seemed oddly full of menace.

There were no cocoplods – the herd’s trail still led east. Snapper looked carefully over the scene, then twitched at Onan with her heel, turning him to the east.

A faint, unheard
something
jangled at Snapper’s nerves. It worried at her, somewhere just out of sight and hearing. She flicked her head about, staring back down at the valley – and suddenly a numbing bestial scream shattered the air.

Three feral warriors came racing through the trees down in the valley, firing bows behind them as they rode. One man fell as
something
leapt on him, tearing him from the saddle of his beetle-horse. The other two ferals turned to fight, drawing war clubs. But six creatures smashed into them, leaping in ambush from the trees – carnivorous monstrosities with vast jaws and studded with eyes. A beetle-horse was pulled down as horrifying monsters swarmed over beast and rider all in one. The third man – smaller than his companions – flailed about himself left and right, trying to beat back monsters that leapt screaming at his throat. The creatures crashed into the feral’s mount, sending the beetle-horse slipping and staggering madly aside. The monsters shrieked out ear-splitting calls.

Two men down – and the monsters were closing on the last. Time to rattle her dags! Snapper cast a quick glance over the terrain, slung her carbine and drew her wicked sabre from its sheath.

“
Onan! Go!”

Snapper jabbed her heels, and Onan raced straight down the hill towards the monsters.

The bird charged at blinding speed, head down and wings spread, almost flying across the dust. He exploded out through the bushes, right into the midst of the melee.

Snapper charged full speed at the screaming monsters, her great broad-bladed sabre held point forward in the charge. The curved blade speared clean through a monster as she crashed through the swarm. She whipped her blade clear, monstrosities cannoning out of the way as Onan smashed clean through. The injured feral rider fell, scrabbling clear from his falling mount, streaming blood from his arm.

Snapper was a cavalryman; she kept her mount racing, moving fast. The shark girl rose in her stirrups and made a huge scything cut as she galloped through the swarm, slamming her sabre in an upper cut with the full force of Onan’s speed behind it. One of the screaming monsters fell, its entire head and shoulder cut through. Snapper did not stay to fight, but spurred onwards, flicking her sabre free of gore. She gave a wild cry of delight, riding thirty metres onward then swinging hard about in a turn.

The screaming, snarling monsters ran straight at her.

Two were down – still thrashing, but clearly done for. Three others came straight for her. A last creature ran shrieking towards the injured feral, who took shelter in the ancient garage. He tried to block the entrance, struggling to jam an old car door in place to block the gap. The monster, a huge being rippling with muscle, tore and wrenched at the door, almost hurtling the feral warrior out into the dust.

There was no time to ride about taking pot shots with a carbine – and Snapper’s blood was up. Huge teeth bared, she levelled her sabre in the charge and made another run. The monsters raced straight at her, shrieking like banshees as they came. They leapt for her an instant before impact – and the fight dissolved into a blur of tentacles and steel.

The sabre jarred in Snapper’s hand, slamming through a monster. Teeth scraped from her helmet, and claws ripped across the denticles of her hide. Onan bit and tore, rearing back with wings flapping: One monster leapt up and half landed on Onan’s back behind Snapper. The shark drew her double-barrelled pistol and fired behind herself. The heavy bullets slammed into the creature and set it staggering. She caught it with a vicious sabre cut, and the monster fell away.

Onan was battling the monster to the front, beak against fangs. Snapper back swung her sabre, cutting a deep wound into the monster. It never wavered, but came straight back into the attack. Snapper blocked the thing’s jaws with her sword, shoving back with both hands. A tentacle studded with claws lashed at her, cracking hard against her cuirass. But Onan managed to seize the monster’s hindquarters in his wicked beak and tear a savage wound. As the creature was wrenched free, Snapper slammed her sword down in a great razoring slice. The monster fell back, head dangling across its back, and fell kicking in the sand.

The last monster had ripped the wounded feral warrior out of his shelter and flung him hard against a tree. Snapper dropped her sabre and let it hang by its wrist strap, drawing her carbine. She fired the weapon from the saddle – eight shots, as fast as the efficient revolver could fire. Heavy bullets smashed into the monster’s back. It spun, horribly wounded, then came straight for her, but Onan danced backwards. Snapper ejected the spent cylinder of shells and clashed home a new one. As the monster closed the distance she fired twice more. The creature spun and fell, thrashing in the dust.

Snapper fired a shot into each of the fallen monsters, then galloped past the final creature, firing into it one handed as she passed. She was already leaping out of the saddle as Onan raced up beside the injured feral warrior.

The feral was clearly a youth – still slight and wiry. His right arm had been badly clawed, and hung bloody at his side; his head had taken a blow, and blood flowed into the long mane of hair running down his neck. He could hardly stand. Still rather dazed by the fight, Snapper approached.

The feral warrior planted his back against a tree, looking up at her through dazed red eyes.

The warrior tried to reach for a knife, but the bone weapon had shattered against the hide of the attacking monsters. His club lay broken. Snapper kept back and carefully held up empty hands. She moved her fingers carefully and clearly.

“Be still. I will attend you.”

She did not share a spoken language with the ferals. But amongst the town folk there were species that lacked lips or vocal cords. Finger talk – a sign language of hand movements – had become a second language, and filtered out to become the trade talk of the plains. Snapper motioned carefully, trying to keep her motions calm.

“Enemy gone. You are safe.”

The feral warrior cautiously raised one bloody hand.

“Screaming ones. Enemy!”
He made a puzzled motion.
“Town dweller – enemy also. Why help THE PEOPLE?”

“You are no enemy of mine. No bad blood between us.”
The shark made an airy motion of her hand.
“A true rider helps those in deed.”
She spoke aloud, giving a bow.

“Noblesse oblige, mate! The cavalry’s here.”

Dazed, the feral warrior leaned back against a tree and looked at the splayed corpses of the monsters.

“Your gun is powerful.”

“My mount is true.”
Snapper knew her jagged grin could be a little less than welcoming. She decided not to smile in reassurance, since it might be taken the wrong way. “
Warrior – I will tend your wounds.”

She washed out the feral’s wounds with some of Spark Town’s infamous whiskey. The boy never twitched a muscle, but merely set his jaw. The shark girl cleaned the wound, inspected it, then bound it with a bandage from the first aid kit on her belt. The bandage smelled sharply of ants: bull-ants exuded an antibiotic, and the ant family beside the blacksmith’s store made a good living selling medical supplies. Snapper set the youth up with a sling for his arm, then set her belt canteen into his good hand and bade him drink deep. Leaving him in Onan’s care, she went to check the fallen ferals and their mounts.

The feral warriors had been riding long beetle-horses – a far rangier breed than those found in Spark Town. They were plated and iridescent blue-green, and were as supple as lizards. One had been killed outright in the first attack, and another was clearly breathing its last. The final creature was injured and limping, but seemed like it would recover. It was standing guard over one of the fallen ferals.

The fallen man was older than his companions. He was unconscious, but still had a pulse: the angle of his right arm showed the limb was broken. Snapper gingerly examined the man: his neck seemed unbroken, but his headdress of beetle chitin and feathers had taken a terrible bash. The shark quietly felt at the fallen man’s skull: odd things, skulls – they came in all manner of shapes and sizes. But this poor fellow’s seemed intact. Hopefully it was some sort of concussion that would fade over time. Snapper cut sticks from the nearby brush and managed to splint the warrior’s arm. She sponged his temples with water, and was relieved to hear the man groan.

Groaning seemed a good sign, signalling an intent to return to the land of the waking. Snapper carefully moved the man into the shade, then led the surviving beetle mount over to the young feral who sat sipping from her canteen.

“One man is dead. The older man lives. He is unconscious.”

“He is strong. He will recover.”
The young feral wearily handed back the canteen.
“Fish person is a skilled rider.”
The feral was still quite dazed.
“I thank you.”

Snapper squatted down to speak to the young man.

“I am here prospecting.”
By tradition, the hills were open to all and claimed by none.
“What brought you to the treaty lands?”

“See herd tracks, heading to hills. Wandering herd is big find. We follow.”
The youth signed awkwardly, using his off hand.
“Screaming ones were waiting.”

Screamers. Snapper had heard of them at length: they were one of the reasons Spark Town had ringed itself with walls. Screamers were insensate monsters - a hold out from the ancient days of plague. No two of them were alike. But none had been seen for a century. The early settlers had seemingly wiped them out. But now they were back again? The God-Fish help anyone who ran into the things without a good mount and a decent blade.

Onan busied himself eating salty crackers while Snapper took a careful look at the tracks left by the Screamers. The creatures seem to have come from the east – from the same general direction the cocoplods had chosen for their migration. The eerie tingle at the edge of her senses had gone. No more monsters were in evidence.

Snapper grimly kept moving. She felt lethargy pulling at her – delayed shock from the battle. The shark drove herself on at a steady pace.

As Uncle Toby always said, whinging was for the weak.

For the second time in a day, Snapper scratched out a shallow grave. She buried the fallen feral, covering him over with stones from the creek bed. It was damned hot work, but very much the decent thing to do.

The shark returned to drink, and sit with her patients for a while and clean her sword. The young feral was recovering his senses slowly – and Snapper felt far better after a moment of calm. She had a wicker covered bottle of cherry wine in Onan’s saddle bags. She took a deep pull from the bottle then proffered it to the feral, who sniffed at it then refused. The shark drank again, savouring the taste, before corking the bottle and putting it carefully away. She dusted off her hands and then signed to the young warrior.

“Your friend still sleeps. He is in need of a healer.”

“I will take him to the tribe. He will be cured.”

The shark scratched at her snout, feeling a little dubious.
“Are your healers skilled?”