The Amtrak Wars - Ironmaster Part 15

Anxious to reach its chosen destination, the horse moved forward, straining at the bit. At the same instant, the wild bunch - or at least some of them - made their second appearance of the day. This time, however, they were not heading towards him - at least not yet.

They came out between the trees on the far side of the river, angling down from left to right across his front. Once again they were closely pursued by flag-carrying comrades, although now the numbers looked roughly equal.

Steve hauled back savagely on the reins, pulling the horse's head round to the left. The animal circled, stamping its hooves nervously and tossing its head in an effort to tear the reins from his grasp. Steve fought back, cursing the wretched beast for making him divide his attention at such a crucial moment.

Twisting from side to side in his saddle, he caught brief glimpses of the wild bunch as they raced along the river bank to where the broad, placid current rippled over a pebble bed. He felt a sudden pang of anxiety as they crossed over towards him in a cloud of spray, but they promptly veered off to his right, fanning out in three different directions - presumably in an effort to throw off or divide their pursuers.

The ruse didn't work because the home team also had a few tricks up their sleeve. With a dramatic suddenness which took Steve totally by surprise, a second group of beflagged samurai burst out of the forest from which he himself had just emerged. Fortunately, they were way over to his right and, by some miracle, had failed to spot him. Even so, the unexpected chorus of bloodcurdling yells was a real heart-stopper. Co-lumbus! To think he had just been sitting there right out in the open!

Having now discovered how the reins worked, Steve urged the horse towards the river, going down to his left, away from the action.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw that the samurai's pincer movement had cut off the wild bunch's escape route, causing them to wheel about in confusion, swords waving in the air. A fold in the ground blocked Steve's view of the ensuing clash of arms, and by the time he had managed to get safely across the river the sight and sounds of battle had faded.

Yeah, well, you win some, you lose some...

Whichever side carried the day was immaterial to Steve. He had no reason to believe that renegade Iron Masters treated Mutes any better than their law-abiding kin. Only one thing mattered: he, Steven Roosevelt Brickman, was still up and running.

And so was the horse. Once they were .clear of the fire-fight, Steve had allowed it free rein and it now moved forward purposefully along the steepening forest trail towards the forbidding ramparts of the rock tower which Steve had mentally christened 'Big D' in affectionate memory of Buck McDonnell, the crewcut, granite-jawed Trail Boss on the wagon-train known as The Lady.

The great stretch of landscape that now lay below and beyond the trees reminded him of the view from the c.o.c.kpit of his Skyhawk. His thoughts drifted back to the moments of danger he had shared with McDonnell and the rest of the crew during the Battle of the Now and Then River. Jodi Kazan, his Flight Leader, swept overboard, wrapped in a white-hot ball of fire while attempting to land her Skyhawk during the height of the storm. Gus White, fellow-graduate wingman, who had flown away leaving him to die in a blazing cropfield. And the rest of the flight section who had all perished on the same fateful day. Booker and Yates, consumed like moths in a flame when their aircraft were hit by lightning. Webber, killed in the take-off ramp. Caulfield, his head transfixed by a crossbow bolt, hauled from the c.o.c.kpit with his eyeb.a.l.l.s hanging out of their sockets. Ryan plunging to earth, incinerated on impact by his own planeload of napalm.

Lou Fazetti and Naylor who, seized by a sudden, inexplicable madness, shot each other down.

By a combination of luck and circ.u.mstance, Jodi, her face and neck now disfigured by scar tissue, had survived with the help of a band of Tracker renegades. But her luck had run out at the same time as theirs. She was now in the hands of the Iron Masters and on her way to Heron Pool. Prior to her capture and trade-in by the clan M'CalI, she had saved Steve's life, and he had made up his mind to rescue her along with Cadillac and Clearwater -just as he had vowed to get even with Gus White. And the others. The people who had conspired to deny him the graduation honours that were rightfully his. The memory of past injustices, and the cynical way he had been pressured by the threats against his kin-sister Roz, put the iron back in his soul.

So many scores to settle. So much still to do...

As the horse emerged above the tree line, Steve looked down towards the valley. Most of it was obscured by the forested slope he had just climbed, but he could see, almost directly below him, the stretch of broken water where the wild bunch had crossed over the river.

From his previous flight experience he judged himself to be some 800 feet above it. The horse moved on, picking its way along an increasingly precipitous trail through the scrub that clung like a red foam to frozen cascades of fallen rock.

Trees and rockfaces held no terrors for Steve. He had a good head for heights and flying like a bird was the greatest thrill of all. But this was something different. He was not standing on his own two feet and his hands were not firmly on the controls. He was balanced precariously on top of a strange beast that might stumble and lose its balance at any minute. That unsettling thought, plus the constant swaying back and forth, was making him feel distinctly queasy. More than once he felt compelled to get off and bring up his snake-meat breakfast but, by the power of positive thinking, he succeeded in holding down the bile that kept rising in his throat and stayed on board.

The horse worked its way slowly towards the eastern flank of the rock tower. Steve looked up and scanned its weathered face. Big D looked una.s.sailable - like the man it was named after. The animal must know what it was doing but, as far as Steve could see, there was nothin up there and no way to go but down. He had the impression the horse had come to the same conclusion.

It was certainly not in any shape to go much higher. Its pace had slowed to a plodding walk and its neck sagged under the weight of its head. With increasing frequency it missed its footing, causing Steve to rock alarmingly in the saddle, but it just wouldn't give up. An admirable stubborn streak drove the exhausted animal onwards and upwards until they reached a deep fissure. They had already pa.s.sed several, but it evidently knew which one it was looking for.

Steve glanced back down towards the river as they turned off the trail, but a curve in the rock slope now blocked off the valley, leaving only a distant view of the surrounding landscape. They were now about 1,000 feet up and, at a rough guess, had climbed two-thirds of the way towards the summit. Once they were a few yards inside the fissure all he could see of the outside world was sky and, pretty soon, not much of that. The fissure was not just a narrow vertical fault-line it was a deep cleft that went not only into the rock tower but all the way up to the top. At another time and place it was the kind of feature Steve might have been tempted to explore - except for one unsettling detail.

During, or after the formation of the cleft, several hundred tons of rock had come loose from the sides and were now wedged some fifty feet above the narrow floor. The ceiling of rock appeared to be anch.o.r.ed in place by several enormous boulders, but all it needed was a sizeable jolt of what the Mutes called 'earth thunder' and the whole lot could come cras.h.i.+ng down.

Heedless of the possible danger, the horse plodded along a series of rising S-bends. A leaden gloom replaced the last vestiges of daylight, and as they climbed deeper into the belly of the mountain the jagged ceiling of boulders got lower and lower, until its menacing bulk was only a few feet above Steve's head. After a few more twists and turns, he found himself sitting hunchbacked in the saddle facing a wall of rock. It was a dead end.

Brilliant... There was not even room to turn the horse round. Which bit did you have to kick or pull to engage reverse gear? What a pain!

While Steve fumed silently, his borrowed helmet jammed against the roof, the horse stood patiently with his nose against the rock wall.

Then, when his ungrateful rider failed to take the appropriate action, he pawed at the wall, first with his right hoof, then with his left.

Steve got the message. The horse wasn't as big a dummy as he thought.

It was trying to tell him this wasn't a dead end.

What looked like a solid wall of rock was a door- but how the eff-eff did you open it? He slithered out of the saddle and discovered he was unable to stand upright. Arching his back, he staggered about bent-legged, clutching his kidneys as he tried to get his knees together. His thighs had locked and his b.u.t.t-bones were...

Kristopher Columbus.

Gritting his teeth, Steve ran his hands over the rock, testing its surface. It was the real thing all right, but when he ran his fingers down the corners where it met the side-walls he thought he detected a slight draft.

Cunning b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. it was a door! Steve pulled out his knife and tried to insert it between the end wall and the uneven rock surround.

Whoever had put it together had done a good job. It was a real tight fit. But there had to be a handle or a secret catch somewhere. Steve pushed the horse back out of the way and scrabbled around amongst the loose rocks and rubble lying against the foot of the wall. He then checked the side-walls again and peered up at the ceiling. No rope pulls, no hidden levers or handles. Nothing.

s.h.i.+t...

Steve sagged against the wall bent-legged, still unable to straighten up. The pain that began at his knees had now spread all the way up his spine and out through his shoulder-blades.

f.u.c.king horses...

He eyed the foam-flecked animal as it returned to sc.r.a.pe a hoof against the end wall, tossing its head impatiently. Just you wait, fella. If we get through this and clear of whatever's behind it, I'm gonna turn your a.s.s into beefburgers...

The horse snorted dismissively.

Steve mastered his frustration and tried reasoning with himself. Come on, Brickman! A smart guy like you should be able to figure this out.

These d.i.n.ks may know how to join two pieces of wood together but their technology is still in the stone age. There are only so many ways this stone can move and you can bet your last meal credit they've gone for the simplest solution. If this is a secret entrance then you've got to be able to open it in a hurry.

The first glimmerings of a possible solution came into Steve's mind.

Elbowing the horse out of the way, Steve re-examined the rock face inch by inch. The fact that the pa.s.sage was in semi-darkness didn't help, but he eventually discovered something he'd missed first time around.

The rock face was made up of irregular terraced layers whose edges ran mainly in a vertical direction.

About eighteen inches from the right-hand wall his fingertips encountered an edge that was a little deeper than the others and appeared to be undercut at chest height.

Tingling with excitement, Steve probed the undercut section with his knife. With the handle laid flat against the rock face, the blade slipped in easily. By working it around he quickly discovered a V-shaped slot which narrowed as it went in. The sides of the V were angled at roughly ninety degrees. As he pushed the blade all the way in, Steve heard the sound of metal on metal. He moved the tip of the knife around the obstruction in an effort to divine its shape and function. It was rectangular and hollow. Some sort of tube or ...

socket - that pointed downwards at the same angle as the bottom edge of the V-shaped slot.

Sockets had only one function- they were made to have things stuck in them. This was it.

Scarcely daring to breathe, Steve found the opening and tried to insert the blade of his knife. The point went in and then stuck fast. Held flat, the main part of the blade was too wide to go in. Steve pulled it and tried inserting it on the diagonal. It fitted perfectly, leaving only the handle protruding from the V. There was only one way it could go - and that was up. Steve wriggled his fingers between the handle and the rock face, got as firm a grip as he could, took a deep breath and pushed. It took some effort and removed the skin from his knuckles but, as the knife handle cameinto line with the top edge of the V, Steve felt the right-hand side of the rock face move.

The horse dug his nose between Steve's shoulderblades.

He leant back and tried to brush it aside. The horse persisted, this time sticking its muzzle under the rim of his helmet, pus.h.i.+ng it forward over his eyes. Steve turned and threw a punch but the horse jerked its head out of the way.

b.l.o.o.d.y animals...