Rao-Bak Pt. 14

CHAPTER XIV.

Fortune’s Fool

At the distant forest's edge, a retinue of mounted Apache stood stolid as painted marble. From their ranks, Naiche trotted forth astride his steed flanked by two of his men. An uncharacteristic smile marked his typical, stone-faced demeanor. He entered the camp alone, leering down at the sneering braves and tribesmen parting like the sea before them.

A retinue of mounted braves halted him before the council tent, where Kuruk emerged to meet him. The chief moved ahead of the council, where he stood some twenty paces from Naiche’s horse.

“I come for my price, Kuruk. It would seem the ravages of time have not robbed you of all sense,” smirked the prince, leaning down at him. “Come now. Look not so glum, father. You do not lose a daughter but gain a son, and what a dowry I have in store for her.”

At a sign from the prince, both of his braves trotted forth, reached into their saddlebags, and produced rich hides, colorful silks, and glass beads. “This and more will fill the tents of all, for Kuruk and his people, for as long as the gods see fit to grant him. As we trade with kings hereafter, I will make Waki a queen among indians!”

A shrill whistle sang out, and Naiche’s horse skittered back. The other Apache drew back sharply, chattering angrily amongst themselves and looking around.

Naiche’s eyes bulged at the recognition of an Apache lance, still caked with dried blood quivering from where it lodged in the ground. He lifted his eyes to glare through the parted procession of natives.

Rao-Bak stood firmly, his chest out and matching the prince’s glare. “Naiche!” he spat, pointing a finger up at him, “I challenge you! Naiche is brave in the face of old men and trembling girls! What game can you bring, Naiche, apart from women and defenseless priests?”

Naiche whipped his horse about and glared like a panther at the wild boy. “Then are you Kuruk’s champion, pup? Will you carry off his daughter to raise a bastard litter? Who are you to challenge me?”

“I am Rao-Bak,” snarled the wolf boy, “son of Obaoh-Bak! With these hands have I brought down lions! With these weapons have I sent your braves and allies scattering like flies!” He beat his chest with a clenched fist. “With no steed, I felled the buffalo, and like flies, even your mounted warriors fell before me. I plumbed the very depths of your mighty city and plucked the precious flower from your grasp! I scattered your retinue like ants—I! Alone!” He spread his hands and smiled up at Naiche. “I did it! Boy!”

Naiche trotted forth and reared his steed aside before Rao-Bak. He brandished his spear above him and howled back his retort. “I am Naiche, son of Itza-chu! I have taken the scalp of Sadaka, chief of the Nadaco! I have taken the scalps of white warriors from here to Nacika in the far south! In three days’ time, I return to yon plain between the forest and your tents! We will see who stands!” Leveling his spear down at Rao-Bak, he coldly gave his parting remark, “I will add your pelt to my dowry!” With this ghoulish vow, he galloped past, leading his men like red ants across the prairie until they vanished again into the distant trees.

***

“This is folly, Ki-Rot!” Waki held him fast by the arm, staring pleadingly into his eyes. They stood alone upon the distant hill where they had sighted Naiche’s approach days agone.

“Then you think I cannot do it?” Rao-Bak’s tone was incredulous. “You think after all the men and beasts I have felled that Naiche will overcome me?”

“No,” she shook her head sternly. “Were you unbroken, unbattered, and unpierced by Spanish pursuit, I know he would fall like chaff before you.”

“Then what have you to fear? I am not so broken as that. What cause have you to call this folly?” demanded Rao-Bak.

“You play in a den of serpents! Think you the Apache will keep their word if you win? Think you Bartolome will abide by the results any more than they?” she clasped his hand and stared deeply into his eyes. “If you slay their prince, the Apache will not rest until your scalp hangs above their council fire!”

“What would you have me do?” Rao-Bak’s tone was desperate. “Would you have me surrender you to that godless fiend? Would you have me crawl before him?”

“Dios, no!” Waki shuddered at the thought, clasped her arms about him and buried her face in his chest. “No, by all that is holy, no! I love you! God, take me before I find solace in another’s arms!”

“Then what would you have of me?”

“Fly with me!” she gazed up into his eyes. “Fly with me to the north! We shall seek refuge in the United States!”

“And spirit you away like a thief? Like Naiche?” Rao-Bak shook his head. “I would not dishonor your father so. Furthermore, what have I to give you, hm? What would be your dowry? The rocks and trees? Then I leave your tribe to ruin at the hands of Naiche and Bartolome? No!” He felt her tremble and stroked her hair. Then his voice became softer. “Yet I will not relinquish you. No. You shall not be his.” He pressed her away, shaking his head and murmuring. “You shall not be his!”

A distant howl echoed through the trees, and he turned to face it. “I yet have business to attend to. Until then, await my return.”

***

Far through the monolithic forest he ran, knowing not what he sought to reach or escape. His feet found familiar paths, but his eyes were trained to the back of his mind. He practically staggered in his haste, dodging between trees.

At his side, his brothers kept a galloping pace with him. They told their hurried tale and briefed him on their father’s illness. Rao-Bak could only tell them that he had been wounded and healing amongst the indians, for what more could they understand?

Soon, the peak of the den loomed into view, and he howled for his kin to hear. He rushed to meet his mother at the council rock, where others gathered to meet him. He followed them to the den, where he found Whyn-Na lying beside Obaoh-Bak.

She lifted her head to mark her son’s entry, but her sad gaze returned to the old wolf at her side. She nuzzled Obaoh-Bak, rousing him to meet his son.

The old wolf lifted his head, straining to look upon Rao-Bak in the glare of the moonlight.

Rao-Bak drooped to his hands and knees, easing towards the aged wolf. He prostrated himself before him, “Father…” he spoke tremblingly. “Forgive your tardy son that would lose himself in the affairs of the heart. I…in my broken bones and the ecstasy of a new love, forgot to whom my heart first owes.”

Obaoh-Bak licked his forehead and nudged his cheek. “My son has come. The Shepherd has guided him back to me. Naught else matters.”

Rao-Bak heard the gargling in his tone, felt the shudder of his body when touched. He held his father’s head and looked into the aged eyes misted over. “Command me,” he pleaded softly. “Demand of me. I…I cannot think. I am of two minds and they are worlds apart!”

“Then stay awhile. You have tried one world. Remain a time in the other.”

Rao-Bak knew he could not stay. Danger hovered perpetually over the Neche, and he had little time. He caught the stench of dead deer in the corner, one that his mother had brought for his father. Yet the old wolf had eaten little and left it to putrefy for some days.

Rao-Bak moved across to the carcass, already covered in maggots. He slipped the pack from his shoulder and checked on the map.

Whyn-Na looked sadly at him from his father’s side. “The meat is old, my son,” she told him.

“It suits me well, mother,” replied the boy softly, folding the map again. He wrapped it tightly in the pelt he had it in and wrapped another around for good measure. Then, kneeling, he took his knife and began cutting through the deer’s gut.

***

Rao-Bak woke suddenly from a dream of dark skies and tempests of blood. The thunderclap in his dreams woke him. The moon broke sharply upon his dazed eyes, blinding him for a moment. A hideous medley of pealing howls and whimpering yelps burst horrifically in his ears. Black powder scorched the air.

The whimpering yell of Whyn-Na behind him jerked his brain into focus. He saw blood on the ground. He saw the gleam of black iron in the moonlight. His mind was a blinding rush of emotions. So, his nerves thought for him.

He sprang across the den, his fingers finding the neck of that hot barrel and jerking it aside. With a wrench and charge forward, he threw the dark figure back, plucking the musket from his grasp. He raised the musket to drive its stock into the frantic face of the bandito.

Another thunderclap split the night, and black powder scorched across his forehead. He staggered back, jerked his head left, and saw the wide eyes of another bandito fumbling with his musket. He staggered back again as the bandit he felled lunged at his gut with a knife. Striking down with the butt of the musket, he sent the knife clattering to the ground.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the other gunman closing in swiftly. He kicked the fallen gunman in the jaw, swung his rifle around, and sent the other spinning with a strike to the jaw.

He heard his mother howling. He looked around at the sound of the pack gathering towards the den. The air was filled with howls and barks. He saw his mother pawing at Obaoh-Bak. His father had not awakened. Then he saw the blood again. The moonlight shimmered off the dull eyes of the old wolf, gazing up in peaceful repose.

With a choked cry, Rao-Bak broke from his trance and hurled himself upon the first gunman. He tackled the man just as he was drawing himself to his knees. Casting the man back, he gazed a moment into the fearful eyes. Even if he had his weapons, there was little doubt his actions would have differed, for in that moment, Rao-Bak was not a man. He lunged forward and latched his teeth into the man’s throat.

The bandito screamed, throwing himself forward to dislodge the boy. Yet he only fell with Rao-Bak as the latter clasped his limbs about him and thrashed.

The recovering bandito struggled back at the sight of wolves approaching the den, finding his route cut off. He had no time to reload his musket, but wielded it before him like a club to fend off the approaching pack. He managed a horrified glance at his struggling companion, and the blood drained from his face.

Rao-Bak’s head came back in a spray of blood. He spat the hunk of flesh from his teeth, glared wildly at the remaining bandito, stood, smattered with blood, and left his quivering victim before the den. He approached the other assassin slowly. His shoulders hunched, a guttural snarl emanated from the back of his throat, and his shoulders hunched menacingly forward.

The bandito backed away, fumbling with his powder and ball, when a snap of a nearby wolf spun him around. He saw the pack gathering around him, snarling and baring slavering yellow fangs. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They had meant to cut the boy’s throat in his sleep, but the old wolf had awakened and moved to attack. He dropped everything and fell to his knees, spluttering pleas from his lips to his intended victim.

Rao-Bak hauled the assassin up by his shirt and glared into his eyes, blood and spittle dribbling from his bared teeth. He looked over into the gathered pack over the man’s shoulder and then flung him headlong into their midst.

From the assassin’s slavering lips burst a terrible scream. He was borne down beneath the lunging teeth and claws of the red wolves. His screams shrilled to the moon, gargled, and then drowned beneath the rending hunger of the pack.

Rao-Bak staggered back into the cave, collapsing to his knees before the limp form of Obaoh-Bak. He gathered the old wolf in his arms and poured out his heart in pitiful sobs.

***

The morning light cast a blue haze over the trees. No bird sang, no beast howled, but all was lifeless and still. Only Rao-Bak staggered through the brush, his feet carrying him without conscious thought.

He drifted through the shadow of the trees, his chin still smeared with dried blood. In his arms, he bore the body of Obaoh-Bak wrapped in the buffalo pelt he had taken a month ago on the prairie.

He at last stopped at the edge of the prairie, where a month ago he had first seen the buffalo hunts of the Neche. Laying his father down, he produced a stone hoe he had made with chert strapped to a buffalo’s thigh bone. Then he dug, and he dug, and he dug in perpetual silence until the blue light of morning waxed to afternoon glare. What would have taken half a day’s labor, he did in half that time.

Gently, he lay the old wolf’s body into the pit and covered it again. This time, he dug up more soil nearby until he fashioned a mound over the body of Obaoh-Bak. He draped the husk of a log over top it and ringed the edges with sharp staves to keep off predators.

At last, he knelt before the grave and let his tears flow anew. He tried to say some words—a prayer, perhaps. Yet all that tumbled from his blubbering lips was, “I’m sorry…I’m sorry…” There he remained through morning and evening, keeping a solemn fast until he drifted to tearful slumber.

***

“This is folly, Naiche,” grumbled Bartolome, cutting into a braised liver on his plate. “We have the support of the other tribes. They have already condemned Kuruk. Why not simply seize Waki and bring the Neche to heel?”

“Like we tried before?” reminded Naiche glumly. He grimaced distastefully at the liver on his companion’s plate as he gazed out the window of Bartolome’s cabin. “I have blinded them with wealth and convinced them o Kuruk’s treachery. Yet I must remain honorable in this instance. I must remain the image of the noble prince reclaiming his right by combat trial. If I backstab Kuruk now, how can they trust I will not do the same to them, especially when the Spanish come to the table?” He shook his head. “No. I shall put down this dog that nips at my heels. Then shall they see Naiche is no coward. Then I shall have shown my quality.”

“H’m,” Bartolome mused, shrugging his shoulders passively. “As you wish. Yet afterwards, I must have that map. You will help me find it, Naiche.” He sneered and picked at a knot on the table with his knife. “My men tried to retrieve it last night. Nombre del diablo!” he abruptly struck like a snake, burying the tip of his knife into the table. “It is true what they say, then—the boy is the bastard whelp of a she-wolf!” He gave a mirthless chortle. “All the more satisfying when I hang his flesh upon my wall.”

“Do what you will.” It was now Naiche’s turn to feign at impassivity. “He is an obstacle—a stone in my path to quickly brush away.”

Bartolome gave a warning glance. “So you say, but you have not seen him fight, Naiche. I have met him firsthand. My men have seen his fury on the battlefield. He alone was enough to turn the tide of our raid. Do not take him lightly.”

“Then my glory will only accrue from this duel,” declared Naiche flatly. “I may not see him as equal, but do not think I take him lightly. I am no fool, or I would not have come this far. I was no fool when I took Sadaka’s scalp. His shall be no different.” He turned and departed through the back door of the cabin. He took no note of the cryptic grin of the bandito as he left.

Naiche gave no sign of acknowledgement to his men, who turned to hail him as he passed. His mind was on dark things. The prince cast a vexed glance at the noonday sky darkened by a dark, gray ceiling of clouds. He heard the thunder rumble in the distance but heeded it not. He needed to clear his head.

He pulled up his canoe at the bank of the river, and a couple of braves approached curiously. “I go to meditate. I shall return in an hour’s time.”

The braves appeared disconcerted by this. “My prince,” urged one. “Will you not take at least one of us? The woods are dangerous alone, and this is Neche territory.”

“If that white whelp can survive in these wilds,” scoffed Naiche, dropping his bow and arrows into the canoe, “it is nothing for I who was born to it! I go alone.” He walked his canoe out until he was knee deep in the river and then hopped in and pushed off with his paddle. Soon, the milling of the bustling settlement vanished into the trees behind him, and soon after, the noise of the denizens was lost in the peace of the babbling river.

Naiche drifted along for several minutes like that, gazing up at the ancient pines that seemed to salute his passing. This land would be his. This would be his kingdom, like the white chiefs across the ocean. He would show himself and his kin worthy to stand amongst them. He would wed the daughter of Kuruk after this petty duel and create a dynasty to challenge the whites who pressed their advance on all sides.

He squinted his eyes abruptly as he glimpsed something on the left bank. He paddled a bit nearer as he drifted by and saw a lance protruding from the ground between two trees. Paddling ashore, he stepped out of the canoe and stared at it some ten feet distant. He recognized the faded colors along its shaft and the eagle feathers dangling from the butt of it.

A glance around revealed nothing. Slinging his war club from his back, he drew nearer up the bank. When he stopped before it, he heard nothing, not even the sigh of wind through the trees. Brushing the tasseled feathers with his fingers, he scrutinized the silent trees for a moment. Then, hefting his club to one shoulder, he strutted into the tree line.

He waded some fifty feet through the brush, glancing occasionally back at the bank to keep it in view. He tried to track through the woods but found no discernible trail of who left the spear. The rush of the river roared in his ears, or maybe that was the blood thundering from his chest.

The groan of bending wood sounded faintly in his ears, and he turned abruptly, hefting his club. He had not heard steps or breathing. Yet the groan of bowstring he knew all too well. He turned to catch sight of an arrowhead about two feet from his nose. Staggering back, he kept his club braced at his side. His eyes bulged at the beshadowed figure glaring through the brush.

Rao-Bak stepped forward slowly, keeping his arrow trained on the prince’s chest. He stopped when Naiche’s back bumped a pine some ten paces back. He glared at him silently, and Naiche returned the glare. Oh, what a pleasure to plunge that dart into the prince’s heart and see the shock and pain wash away that arrogant smirk!

He put away his arrow. Slinging the quiver from his shoulder, he cast it and the bow aside. He kept his glare focused on Naiche as he drew his bowie knife and tomahawk from his belt.

Naiche regarded him, tracing his gaze from Rao-Bak’s bare feet up the length of his dirty trousers and bedraggled shirt. Then he smiled. He gripped his club with both hands and leered forth menacingly.

The pair leered at each other and swayed side to side like cobras. Gradually, they closed the distance, a necessity for Rao-Bak, but Naiche’s club had the advantage of reach. Naiche took this advantage, swinging his club sharply up. When Rao-Bak jerked back out of range, he whirled it over his head and swung it in a broad arch before him. He did this several times, pressing his advance.

Rao-Bak had to back-step, but tried dodging side to side, looking for his chance to close into Naiche’s guard. He timed his attack, ducking past one swing and ducking low. He stuck out his tomahawk to catch Naiche’s ankle and drive the knife into his side.

Naiche drew back his foot sharply, sidestepping the tomahawk. Then he swung back around with the club, looking to clip Rao-Bak beneath the chin.

Rao-Bak ducked down and rolled past Naiche to avoid the blow. He scrambled to his feet and ducked again when Naiche followed his progress around with a swing. The club barely brushed across his scalp as he dove in for a thrust of his knife.

Naiche’s foot caught him in the chest and sent him sprawling backwards.

Rao-Bak quickly rolled aside to avoid a follow up swing that would have crushed his skull into the dirt. He sprang forward and swung his tomahawk at Naiche’s throat.

Naiche staggered back with a gash across his chest—bloody, yet shallow. With a cry of fury, he swung his club around in a broad arc.

Rao-Bak ducked and jerked sideways with a swing of his knife, grazing the prince’s ribs. He felt an elbow crack sharply between his shoulders, followed by a knee to the gut. He doubled over, gasping, and staggered back.

The club cracked against his left arm, and he collapsed with a cry. The knife dropped into the grass. Naiche raised his club to strike his back.

Rao-Bak lunged forward, hooked his other arm around the prince’s leg, and threw him backwards. Leaping forward, he swung up with his tomahawk to cleave Naiche’s forehead.

Naiche barely jerked away in time. Yet not time enough to avoid the gash across the corner of his skull. He howled in agonized fury and swung his club for Rao-Bak’s leg.

Rao-Bak cried out and collapsed to one knee as the club cracked against its side. He saw the club cleaving for his head out of the corner of his eye. He dropped forward to avoid the swing, driving his knife into Naiche’s foot.

Naiche collapsed to the side with a howl.

Both competitors scrambled away from each other, nursing their wounds. Rao-Bak gripped his thigh where a huge, purple bruise was already spreading. Naiche gripped his foot, writhing backwards as the blood seeped between his fingers.

Naiche dropped his club and flourished the bowie knife from his belt. Both men rose, limping on their good legs. They staggered like drunken men as they circled each other, brandishing their knives; Naiche, his bowie knife, and Rao-Bak, his long, Arkansas toothpick.

Naiche feinted right and plunged leftward with a wild laugh. His broad knife swung for Rao-Bak’s face, nearly striking the corner of his eye as he lurched sideways.

Rather than retreat, Rao-Bak hunched beneath Naiche’s arm and lunged into his guard. The tip of his knife barely pricked Naiche’s stomach as the prince sucked it in and pivoted sideways.

Naiche riposted with a swing to Rao-Bak’s head. His edge clipped a corner of Rao-Bak’s ear as the wolf boy pivoted clumsily around and jerked his head sideways.

Rao-Bak held back Naiche with the point of his knife, retreating a few steps. He felt the blood trickling down his ear and soaking his shoulder. Yet he ignored it, the pain only stoking his fury.

Naiche pressed the advance, swinging for Rao-Bak’s hand. Often his strikes would aim lower to divert Rao-Bak’s hand away before lunging for his eyes or throat.

Rao-Bak pranced back and side-to-side to avoid the deadly swipe of the knife. He had to end this fight quickly. Keeping the point of his knife before him like a rapier, he struck rapidly at Naiche’s face with a series of thrusts. His onslaught pushed the prince back, and he slipped an underhanded thrust for the exposed ribs.

Rao-Bak saw the blinding gleam long before he felt the burning in his neck. He staggered back and held his knife up, but stiffness kept his arm from rising all the way forward. He rolled his neck, and that was when the agony coursed down his side. His shoulder cringed down involuntarily, only heightening the agony, and he staggered again. He didn’t need to look. He could feel the depth of the gash in the corner of his neck.

The sign of this bloody shot galvanized Naiche, who plunged forth with a wild shout. His blade feinted for the eyes and jerked in for the liver. A triumphal yell burst from his lips, a gleam flashed in the corner of his eye, some stray beam of sun to guide his point home. He collided with Rao-Bak, his knees buckled, and he collapsed beside him. There was a frozen look of shock on his face, searing there the sudden realization of the scorpion strike of the toothpick that found his heart.

Rao-Bak loomed over the body, his knife quivering in his fingers. The sudden silence around him was deafening. He felt rooted in place; his nerves still tense as if they had not prepared for so swift a conclusion. He had to struggle not to hold his breath. Then the silence filled his body with a profound emptiness.

It was not guilt, no. He had no guilt for challenging Naiche. Yet something gnawed like a worm at his innards. The emptiness carried his feet slowly down the river, leaving the dead prince far behind. Yet some part of him felt weighted down with the body far behind him. He needed to see Waki. He needed something to fill the emptiness.

For the first time, Rao-Bak thought about the future. He thought of where the path was winding before him. He could only think how the river seemed to go on forever.