Matt Drake 11 - The Ghost Ships of Arizona (2 page)

Another surge of soldiers sent men staggering by, their loud weapons sometimes falling nearby as they passed. Mukat ignored them, fearing what he did not know, shunning the guns. The bulk of his world consisted of worries over constant subsistence, sand storms, visions visited upon the medicine man, the appearance of strangers, legends of Coyote the Trickster God, Temayawet, ruler of the land of the dead, and the temptations of Menilly, the Goddess of the Moon. It did not cover weapons beyond those he could make himself.

Mukat rose once more, his feet painful and seeping blood. Many of his brothers were injured, all of whom he recognized with fondness. A knot of fighting moved to his right, the sailors now using deadly looking blades too. Wrestlers fell overboard to continue their struggle in the waters below. Mukat visited his tomahawk and knife upon a ragged rank of the enemy, flashing the blades across stomachs and throats and faces until they were overcome.

The sailors fought hard against the aggressors, their actions and features attesting that they too were hardened men who had seen battle before. The Cahuilla were more suited to hand-to-hand combat aboard the deck, however, and they soon began to gain the upper hand. The sailors fell and some even tried to surrender, but the Cahuilla would leave none alive.

A captain then appeared above decks, shouting and gesturing and parading in some ridiculous finery until a brave stopped his unintelligible words with a well-placed arrow to the throat. The man’s body collapsed over the upper deck and fell among his battling men, sending them sprawling. The Cahuilla fell upon the injured, sensing victory and reward. The ship would be theirs.

Mukat parried a sword strike, then took a hard blow to the face. His opponent was a weathered individual, dirty of face and with clumped hair, a food-heavy beard weighing down the bottom part of his head. An oddly shaped nose and caved-in cheekbone verified this man was a fighter. Mukat needed to end it quickly. It wouldn’t do to win through such a hard battle and then die at the end.

A fist smashed down onto his shoulder, staggering him and making him lose his grip on the tomahawk. The ragged sword raised, lit only by the ship’s lanterns. Mukat scrambled underneath the swing of the weapon and then rose up, spear in hand, thrusting its point through the man’s underbelly as far as it would go. With a shudder the figure fell.

Mukat crawled through the folding legs and out the other side, to be faced with yet another foe. Weary, he raised a hand, grabbed a wrist and flung the attacker to the side. His half-naked body was cut and bruised and bloody, but he was a warrior and would never surrender so long as breath occupied his body. A sailor fell at his side, reached out for his neck and tried to throttle him. Mukat broke the wrist and jumped up. To his left and right men surged in tiny clusters, grappling, stabbing and bludgeoning. The ship rocked slightly in the small swell. On the beach the victors stood watching, their hatchets and war clubs held high. Scalps were being waved. More canoes were being readied.

Mukat ran from enemy to enemy, stabbing and breaking bones, helping his warriors where he could. The sailors backed away, suddenly rallied by one noisy individual and forming lines, one behind the other. What they had left of their guns were raised and aimed. Someone shouted and the first rank opened fire. Balls of shot screamed out of muzzles. One of the weapons exploded, killing its owner and the man at his side. Warriors fell, some dead and some wounded, their blood painting the deck.

Mukat leapt for the newly opened gap, squirreling his way among the ranks, slashing and hacking. The second rank opened fire, killing more of his brethren, but now they were all charging and closing the gap at a rapid rate. Fearless they came, even as the third rank opened fire before falling to pieces under the Cahuilla onslaught. Enraged, the warriors hacked until they were spent, the carnage around them the proof of their bravery, their manhood and their victory.

Mukat stood upright in the aftermath, basking in triumph and listening to the groans of the wounded that—on one side at least—would soon be silenced, enjoying the stiff breeze from across the sea that cooled his fiery skin. Their homelands were safe, their families and treasures secure from one more pillager. Time now to relax and reap the rewards of their sacrifices.

Mukat made a sound that called the braves together. He directed groups to the top of the ship and others inside, reminding them that lone stragglers may still remain, especially where the valuables were being stored. As he spoke the wind whipped up again and storm clouds scudded across the dark skies, torn by an approaching storm. The Cahuilla were used to predicting bad weather and Mukat suddenly knew there was something coming that not even his warriors could obstruct.

“A storm approaches,” he said aloud, eyeing the swell of the sea and the rock of the boat. By the moment the wind began to whip up. “We will make this quick.”

What the Cahuilla might term a valuable might be far removed from what others called the same. Mukat knew this. Clothes and material, certain foods, weapons, other raw items—these were all precious treasure to them. Gold coins and baubles not so much, although they too might have their place if the missions ever sprung back up.

His men swarmed the ship, looting what they could and dragging many items up to the deck. Some were discarded. More canoes came alongside, preparing to carry the plunder. Even now the swells were tricky in the shallows and the errant gusts of wind were beyond dangerous. More than one canoe capsized, though the Cahuilla were all strong swimmers and swam ashore. Mukat eyed the approaching storm with fear. Had they angered the gods in some way? The demons, perhaps? Or the Trickster himself? Surely defending their lands was no reason to punish them. But then demons were fickle things.

Mukat helped drag several items to the edge of the ship where braves were ready to lower them into the waiting canoes. Still more men came running up from the depths of the vessel, gesturing wildly.

You have to see this,
he understood.

He cursed the gods. The Cahuilla had taken a great victory here today, defeating soldiers who meant them harm even if they didn’t initially know it. After a hard-won victory came the chance to gather the spoils of war; they could use these goods to improve their lifestyles. Now, the great approaching storm was threatening to take all that away.

Mukat cursed into the coming gales. The deeper darkness of rain clouds swarmed towards him like a fast-moving sand blizzard, seemingly reaching out with inky black fingers. Water spat at his face. The waves churned. The gods, it seemed, were indeed angry.

Dare he defy them further?

Mukat lowered his head and ran to his men. Even now, they held items of plunder in their hands, some weighed down so heavily they could barely stand. Someone told him about the great chests in the lower hold, once heavily guarded but now defenseless, and the enormous locks and straps that held them closed.

Clearly they posed the source of the ship’s greatest riches. And just as clearly the Cahuilla could not open them. Not in so short a time frame.

Mukat rushed by them, dragging one man with him to lead the way. The huge ship began to rock as the storm enveloped it. Mukat knew his men would be escaping even now—they would not wait for him and rightly so. He ran past open and closed doors, bright lanterns and burning bodies. He ran past a table bigger than his entire tepee, lavishly set with goblets and golden plates and heaps of food. He ran past a groaning man who reached out two hands, beseeching him for help. This ship was such an odd place to be—even paintings hung on the walls. Sometime later he reached the hold, stopping as flickering lanterns picked out the source of all his men’s interest. Seven chests sat in a row, very large, each so big they would take many men to lift and have to be removed one at a time. The obvious answer was to empty them, but Mukat now saw the cause of his men’s torment.

Locks larger than any he had ever seen were attached to the sides. Mere spears and even rocks would not quickly dent them, let alone open them. In addition, two broad, solid metal straps wrapped around the circumference of each chest, imposing loops interrupted only by the addition of yet more locks.

Mukat blinked rapidly. Yes, the chests presented a great deal of trouble but it was that simple fact that told him they were worth the effort.

As the ship rolled under the onslaught of the storm he knew the answer was but a simple one.

“We leave,” he said. “And later, we come back.”

“Why don’t we stay?” his companion asked.

Mukat eyed the dark hulk all around him. “Devil’s home,” he said. “Not ours.” He would never be able to relax inside this unfamiliar, imposing, ghost-ridden place.

The two men turned and ran hard. Even down here they could hear the storm’s fury. Mukat again considered the depth of that anger. Had the gods sent these men to
save
the Cahuilla? Possibly from an upcoming event?

Mukat pondered as he ran, at last emerging from the nightmarish below-deck environment and into his real home—the great outdoors. The scene that greeted his eyes, however, was not at all inviting. Torrents of water lashed sideways through the air, peppering his face with little painful darts. As the ship listed toward the seaward side, great rolling waves greeted his vision, bigger than any he had ever seen. A forlorn canoe bobbed around out there, smashed from wave to wave, empty. The hellish skies pressed down as if trying to smother all life from the earth. Lightning danced from cloud to cloud, demons and devils skipping and cavorting at the top of the world.

Mukat fought his way to the ship’s rail, holding onto his companion as best he could. Together they gripped the solid wood and looked toward the shore. People were gathered up the beach, beyond the reach of the foaming waters, people drenched and miserable and frightened but still determined to wait for their leader. Mukat would not disappoint them. Grabbing his companion, he stared into the man’s eyes and nodded.

“We swim,” he said. “We live.”

Together, they climbed over the rail and fell to the raging waters below. Mukat hit first, the sudden quiet below the surface a sharp contrast to the world above. Kicking strongly, he propelled himself unerringly toward the shore. Many tribes he knew could not swim, but the Cahuilla had always been fortunate to live close to the inland sea. That was why, occasionally, they enjoyed venturing down the wide tributary that led to the great, endless sea, the place where huge ships sailed.

Today had been a mix of victories and defeat, good signs and dark omens. Today had been unpredictable in the extreme. But tomorrow would bring great fortune.

Mukat swam hard until he saw the sea bottom beginning to rise. His breath gave out just as he broke surface, into a debilitating sensory assault of stunning visions and terrible noise. Waves battered him, taking control of even his powerful body. Thunder roared down at him as if from a vast, many-toothed mouth. Lightning pierced the skies, forking down and splashing against the seas. A jagged point hit close to him, blinding his vision. Mukat threw himself toward the shore, fighting as if with a black bear or vicious coyote. The cruel creature wrapped him in liquid arms, dragging him down and then out to darker depths, but Mukat fought with all his heart and soul, still able to see the shore and safety. Tooth and nail he struggled, gradually losing his fight with the formidable beast. His strength was waning, the trial too much. He would now pay the price for leading his people into folly. Knowing that he had lost he began to relax his limbs, already accepting.

Hands and fingers gripped his arms, his clothing, even his hair. They pulled. He went with them, sucked from the very maw of the beast. His people had waded in to save him, beset by the waves and the winds but still eager to help. The Cahuilla were a family and they would prevail. Right then, he knew his people would never die, their names never be forgotten.

Mukat lay panting on the beach, men sat at his side, drenched and spent, his companion from the ship similarly worn out. The storm raged at them and did not relent that night, a spectacle to behold, a fury that would live in their minds forever. Before first light painted the horizon the mighty ship began to list, to heave and swell, and then broke from its moorings, drifting off into the eye of the storm. Mukat did not see where it went and had long since lost all desire to. The gods had spoken.

Leave it be.

Mukat would never again dare defy the gods as long as he lived.

CHAPTER ONE

Matt Drake woke and instantly wondered why he was alone. His first thought:
Mai?
was an early morning constant of late, and then he remembered . . .

Oh aye, she’s in Japan, I think . . .

And the world slipped back into place. He was alone once more and even if Mai Kitano returned today, forgiven and free, a figure of pure absolution, he doubted that he could ever go back. Their time was over—of that he was sure—but he would still welcome her as an ally. They had worked that way before, many times. If Drake had changed since the death of his closest friends it was only because he could be more resolute, more caring, and less vocal about it. Promises were nothing when compared to real action.

Drake sat up in bed, eyeing the espresso machine as if it were a lifeline. The blackout curtains were useful but he could still see light bleeding around the edges, which meant the morning was marching on. He scooted over the bed and inserted a fresh pod into the machine, placed a cup under the dispenser and waited for the coffee to pour. Hot and black it was ready in seconds. He sipped at it, still reviewing his new place in the world and the events that had led him here.

If there was ever an Englishman who deserved to be called a man of action it was Matt Drake. At the same time he would hear none of it, beyond the less-than-gentle ribbing offered up by his teammates. Drake had been forced at an early age to take charge of his life and continued to adhere to that pattern—no matter which megalomaniac tried to disrupt it. At the head of it all was the loyalty he felt towards his friends.