Justice and Utu, page 16
Another clearing opened before them, and as they broke cover Mat saw something that made his hair stand on end. The two boys staggered to a halt, out of breath and suddenly out of ideas.
A Maori warrior, naked but for a flaxen piupiu, and carrying a heavy patu, stood on the other side of the clearing. His face was a mask of moko, his hair caught in a warrior’s topknot. He opened his mouth and roared out a challenge.
A dozen more warriors emerged from the thicket behind him, and charged across the clearing straight at Mat and Damien.
Paramount chief
NEAR OKIATO, BAY OF ISLANDS, SATURDAY EVENING
Wiri led Donna Kyle and Will Hobson through the increasingly tangled and steep paths that led from the water’s edge. His thoughts were on the young men. Mat had matured a lot in the past year, and Wiri trusted him to be responsible; it was Damien who worried him. He prayed Mat’s maturity would keep the other boy’s recklessness in check. All they had to do was get in, talk to Sload, and get out. It shouldn’t be that hard.
His own mission was somewhat trickier.
Behind him, Donna and Hobson conversed in low tones, amiable but challenging. Daring little sallies and ripostes, fencing with each other. Almost flirting.
I need to warn Hobson about her. But there was no time right now. They had to make contact with the man he needed urgently.
‘You’ll always find him near Kororareka,’ Puarata had told him some seventy years ago, during an obscure mission in Aotearoa. ‘He can’t keep away … Hone Heke.’
We need a big war-party, to sweep in and deal to Asher Grieve and Sebastian Venn. Hobson doesn’t have enough men for the job. But Hone Heke does.
Hone Heke had married Hariata, the daughter of the famous and powerful Hone Ringia of the Nga Puhi tribe, making himself a chief of considerable standing, but he was a new man, an upstart in the eyes of rival chiefs. New men are seldom welcome among their new peers. They upset the ‘natural order’. They give dangerous ideas to other would-be usurpers. It didn’t help that Hone Heke was every bit as dangerous as they feared. Cunning, clever, charismatic, moody. He could flash from laughter to savagery in a heartbeat. Occasionally he had allowed Puarata to enter his tribal lands, and even aided him. Other times he’d tried to kill him, and Wiri, too.
Wiri frowned as he remembered the last time he’d been here. That hadn’t gone well. But our need is great.
About ten minutes later, they found a clearing with a pou-kapua, a Maori carved pole, set into the middle. It was daubed in faded ochre, the timber dried out and cracked, but it still had a menace to it. Wiri picked up a rock and hammered it against a boulder, so that the sound cracked and echoed about them. ‘Hone Heke! It is Wiremu! Hear me!’
He called six times, and then sat down to wait.
Hobson looked about him, sweating faintly. He took off his plumed hat with some reluctance, and sat on the boulder. Donna Kyle perched beside him, and threw an enigmatic look at Wiri, as if to say, ‘This man may be my salvation, so don’t get in the way.’
I really have to warn him … if he’ll even listen.
A long chuckle rolled out of the undergrowth, and then a ring of warriors stepped into the clearing. Even Wiri had not sensed their presence. They were toa of the Nga Puhi tribe, heavily armed, with a mixture of guns and the more traditional bludgeoning weapons of the Maori. They were lightly clad, their hair tied up. Ready for battle.
It had taken them only fifteen minutes to hear his challenge and gather.
They circled closer, pulling fierce faces, the men posturing before each other, each daring to come closer, to pose more brazenly. With a hungry growl, one stalked up to Donna, his tongue rolling, his eyes drinking her in.
‘At what point do I start shooting?’ Will Hobson enquired coolly, although he was sweating profusely.
Donna Kyle faced the warrior with narrowed eyes, her mouth held as if she were about to spit.
‘Don’t,’ Wiri warned them both. His eyes flickered about, and settled upon a man at the back, in a full-length feather cloak, a battered European hat perched at a rakish angle. His distinctive moko pattern left a diagonal slash of clean skin beneath both eyes to under his nose, lending his face a predatory aspect. ‘Rangatira Hone Heke, I seek your aid.’
The chief’s eyebrows lifted, and he held up a hand, causing his warriors to go still, although their menace was no less. Hone slid forward with his characteristic sideways gait, his eyes narrow. ‘Wiremu the Immortal seeks my aid? My aid! C’est incroyable!’ he added. ‘The man who, when last he came here, slew our tohunga, now seeks my aid. Have you lost your wits, toa?’
The warriors hissed, and a number of the younger, rasher ones inched forward, weapons quivering, faces contorted with ferocity. Wiri pirouetted on the balls of his feet, his mere suddenly in his hand. ‘Puarata commanded it. I had no choice.’
Heke weighed his words with a faint wag of the skull. ‘I have heard this song before, I think. They say Grey heard it also, and gave you pardon.’
‘Let me take his head,’ snarled the largest of the war-party.
Wiri inclined his head in the direction of the speaker, measuring him. A bull of a man, the one who had menaced Donna. He remembered him, too. A feral beast in human form. ‘Any time, Rongo.’
The burly warrior waggled his tongue at Wiri.
‘I didn’t know you cared,’ Wiri told Rongo mockingly. The words made Heke smile. The chief liked clever words, Wiri recalled. He’d talked the other chiefs into signing Hobson’s treaty, just because he could. He had been first signatory.
‘What aid do you wish for, Wiremu the Immortal?’
‘Sebastian Venn and Asher Grieve are in Kororareka. They have stolen the Treaty.’
Hone Heke visibly flinched, his eyes blinking. ‘My tiriti? They have taken my tiriti?’
‘It is so,’ Will Hobson threw in, still holding his pistol in readiness.
Heke looked at Hobson with a puzzled expression. ‘Englishman, are you the son of Mr Hobson?’
‘I am Hobson.’
Heke laughed, demurring. ‘No, you are not he. The governor is a sick, old man, near death. You are a son or nephew, whom I have not met before.’
‘I am Captain Will Hobson, of HMS Rattlesnake. We were battling piracy in the Indies, sir, until we were summoned here by a remarkable young man. I am here to bring this Asher Grieve to justice, and restore the Treaty.’
Heke still did not look like he believed Hobson, but he did not press the point. ‘So my tiriti really is stolen?’ His face contorted. ‘My tiriti. I signed it first. Without my lead, none would have signed!’ He straightened and flexed his shoulders, looking affronted. ‘I shall restore it!’
Wiri exhaled. ‘Thank you, Rangitira Heke,’ he began, but Hone Heke interrupted him with a flourishing gesture that finished with a finger jabbing at Wiri.
‘We shall restore my tiriti, but I have not forgiven Wiremu for his deeds, nor Donna Kyle hers,’ Heke snapped. ‘Rongo, kill him, then the woman is yours.’
Rongo beamed like a child given candy.
Predictably unpredictable. Wiri glared at Heke. ‘We don’t have time for this, Rangitira.’
Heke just grinned. ‘There is always time for love and death, toa.’
Hobson pulled Donna to one side, his pistol still in his hand, while Wiri exhaled ruefully. I should have seen that coming …
‘I hear you are not so “immortal” now,’ Rongo jeered, as he circled, hunched over like a bear. The other warriors pulled back into a loose circle containing the carved pou-kapua, the boulder, and the two fighters. Will Hobson and Donna Kyle were herded to the edge. None dared touch Donna, but the threat was implicit. She stood regally beside Hobson, her hand on his arm.
Wiri sighed, and shed his shirt so that Rongo could not grab it. The Nga Puhi jeered at Wiri’s smaller build, but Wiri knew his own strengths, and they weren’t in pure size. Rongo snarled a ritual challenge, slapping his thighs, hulking towards Wiri like a troll. His grunting voice became deeper, throatier. His eyes rolled back in his skull, and flashed with a lurid inhuman green.
Yes, I remember you, Rongo. They say you have turehu blood. Rightly, it seems.
The warrior was built like a small hill, but when he moved, it was like wildfire. Between two heartbeats he had covered the gap between them, and his heavy patu blurred towards Wiri’s skull.
Wiri swayed aside, felt the wind of the blow, and flashed his own edged mere at the Nga Puhi champion’s face. But Rongo was already ducking under the slash, slamming his elbow into Wiri’s chest. Wiri let the painful impact impel him into a roll that took him out of reach, and he crabbed sideways, slashing and cutting to re-establish distance.
He’s bigger than me. He’s stronger, too. Is he faster? That would not be good …
Rongo leapt onto the boulder, bellowed like a gorilla, and then flew through the air at Wiri. A raking hand sought a grip, to pin him and allow him to batter at will. Wiri darted aside, lashing out with a foot at the warrior’s stomach.
He might as well have kicked the boulder. He fell off the impact, and had to roll as Rongo plunged at him, seeking a grappling hold. His mere gashed Rongo’s shoulder, drawing a line of blood from the tattooed skin. The blood wasn’t red.
Rongo laughed. ‘You can’t hurt me, “Immortal”.’ He leered at Donna. ‘Does the witch give good sport?’ He licked his lips, and charged.
Wiri again had to dart away, sparring desperately on either side of the totem, evading massive swipes of the stone patu that would have shattered his bones or skull had they struck. Rongo roared, knocked the pou-kapua askew with his forearm, and stalked around it. He darted side to side, forcing Wiri into swift evasive movements while regaining his own breath.
Can I win this?
Wiri pushed aside his doubts, and sucked in oxygen, seeking to put the now-askew pou-kapua pole between them again. Rongo followed, baring his teeth. There were far too many of them. The two warriors circled each other warily. Heke’s war-party roared Rongo on, although the rangitira watched with a detached manner, as if this were all just an amusement to him.
All at once Rongo’s patience snapped, and he flew at Wiri.
Wiri feinted right, then swerved back towards the tilted pou-kapua, ducking under a blow and running up the skewed pole, making it tilt further as it took his weight. Rongo roared and followed him, bringing the pole crashing down, uprooted earth flying. Wiri leapt clear, pivoting and kicking backwards. His foot took Rongo on the side of the head, slamming him sideways. Rongo fell on the far side of the fallen pole, cursing.
As he scrambled to get up, Wiri slammed his mere down on Rongo’s wrist.
Bone shattered, and Rongo’s patu spiralled from his grasp. Rongo roared in agony. He went to get up again, slowly this time, blinking as his own patu came flying towards him: Wiri had caught it as it fell from Rongo’s grasp, and in one spiralling movement had hurled it back at Rongo’s face.
The stone club impacted like a rock hitting water. Rongo’s nose splashed blood in an arc as his feet jolted backward, and he thudded full-length to the turf. He groaned dazedly as Wiri leapt the log and straddled him, mere waggling in his hand theatrically, poised to strike if required.
‘Enough!’ Heke stepped in quickly. ‘Rongo is mine to slay, not yours.’
Wiri looked about him, at the rest of the Nga Puhi watching him with bared teeth and twitching trigger fingers. ‘And I am not yours to slay at all,’ he replied, with all the bravado he could muster.
Hone Heke raised one eyebrow, and adjusted his hat. ‘A good fight,’ he commented, as if he’d just witnessed a fine shot in a tennis match. ‘Entertaining.’ His warriors awaited his word, their eyes on Wiri’s slowly fluttering mere. ‘Wiremu, you slew your old master. Do you need a new one?’
‘I have a new master,’ he told the rangitira. ‘Her name’s Kelly.’
Hone Heke laughed shortly. ‘Ah, we are all slaves to our women, yes! My wife Hariata, she is my Sun and Moon.’ He embraced Wiri quickly, lightly, and then laughed again, and bent over Rongo. ‘My poor champion, I think he has learnt a lesson.’ He stood again, and clapped Wiri on the shoulder. ‘Come, we have deeds of greater renown to do. My tiriti must be recovered.’
Fire rune
WAITANGI, SATURDAY EVENING
Everalda went still as a cold blade pressed into her throat. It was too dark to see her captor clearly, but his body was all over her, pressing her down like a landslide, choking the air from her. He was naked, or nearly so, and he lay atop her with all his weight, his whiskery face pressed to hers. He licked her cheek, and chuckled as she squirmed in revulsion.
Another man bent over them, a dark silhouette in the sky. ‘Shanks, is that her?’ The voice was young, with modern intonations.
‘’Tis a one-eyed girl, like Mister Venn said,’ the man on top of her replied. ‘Yes, this is her, Byron my friend.’ Shanks removed the blade from her windpipe and sheathed it, but he kept his hand over her mouth. His body was soaked in seawater. A third man appeared in the corner of her vision, holding a long musket. He was peering warily up the overgrown path towards the Treaty grounds.
‘Bring her to the boat,’ Byron ordered. ‘Hayes is sailing in thirty minutes. Without her, they’ll be blind.’
‘Why not just kill her?’ Shanks rasped.
‘She’s an asset,’ Byron whispered. ‘Venn doesn’t waste assets. He sensed her tracking him. Without her, they cannot follow us. Come on, Shanks; let’s go.’
Shanks didn’t roll off her, though. Instead he hiked her skirts up over her thighs, rough hands scraping her skin while she lay helpless, terrified. Her left eye throbbed and her belly churned.
No … please …
‘Gimme two minutes with her, Byron,’ Shanks grunted.
Byron scowled. ‘Not here, fool! Come!’
Shanks spat in disgust, a wad of spittle that splattered over her face. She heard herself sob. Her brave dreams of using her Gift in some powerful, aggressive way seemed like a stupid joke now. They were going to kidnap her, and who knew what else, and she felt utterly helpless in their hands. Her eyes stung as helpless fury boiled up inside her.
Shank’s stinking breath washed over her as he yanked her to her knees. ‘One sound and I’ll slit your throat, you ugly slag,’ he snarled in her ear. His rough face was burnished copper by the sunset. The tattoo of an anchor adorned one cheek.
I am not passive. I am not a victim.
She fought her left hand free, as her mind reversed the rune stone in her hand. Kaunaz was shimmering in her mind, and the power gathered behind her left eye felt like a swollen pumpkin. She spun it, slowly, shaping it to her will.
The tale of Balor and his deadly eye seethed through her mind.
I can do this … I can shape my future …
She wrenched off her eyepatch as flames billowed from it.
An eruption, a torrent of burning light, engulfed her attacker. He lifted away from her, screaming and clutching his face. The light burned across her right eye’s retina, but she was far from blind. All the world seemed visible to her as she sat up, her left eye scorching the night.
The third man, the one with the musket, scrambled backwards, lifting his long gun and trying to turn it. Like a searchlight her left eye found him, and its fire struck him, too, like the blast from a furnace, hurling him onto his back, a hole in his chest. His gun went off, shattering the night’s silence, but the man sprawled like a broken doll. Shouts broke out from all about the tiny peninsula.
Evie turned to face Byron. He was a young man, heavily tattooed, with a haircut that was close-cropped with patterns carved into the scalp, a modern style. But the pistol in his belt was of this Ghost World, and he lifted it towards her.
She burnt it, so that the weapon went molten and exploded in his hands. He cried in shock and pain, staggering backwards to the water’s edge. She gathered her energies again, feeling them running low as she did, and threw one last burst of fire in his direction. It sizzled across the waves, causing steam to hiss, but he had already plunged beneath the surface.
If he came up again, she didn’t see it. She was still waiting for him to surface, trembling and shaking uncontrollably, when the first of the constabulary found her. Something was running from her left eye, down her cheek. She put her left hand to it absently, and tasted it. Blood. She plastered the patch over it, with hands that shook uncontrollably.
Part of her still recoiled in horror. She thought about how Mat had described feeling after he’d burnt the man outside the gaol — at the time she’d thought him overly sensitive, but not anymore. Another part of her exulted, though, however hard that was to acknowledge.
I am not passive. I am not a victim.
Bloodied waters
KORORAREKA, SATURDAY EVENING
Mat braced himself, but no blow fell as the warriors roared past, shouting their battle cries. Behind them he heard shouts and orders. More warriors appeared, many with guns, which they quickly aimed.
‘Mat!’ Wiri ran from the undergrowth. ‘Get down, you idiot!’
Mat threw himself to the ground, Damien following, as the first volleys from both sides thundered. Musket balls whined above them. Two warriors shrieked and fell. Then the war-party roared as one and charged. Damien rose, sword in hand, and went with them. Mat swallowed, and gave chase.
‘Dame! Wait!’
To his left, he saw Hobson fire a pistol, then draw a cutlass. Flashes of flame and billowing smoke filled the tangled undergrowth. There were two dozen rough-clad Europeans strung out before them, frantically reloading. Mat saw Damien slash at the midriff of one, who folded over. To his right a soldier shot a charging warrior in the face at point-blank range, then went down bludgeoned by the taiaha of a closely following second man. Flames roared to his left, accompanied by the crackling of magical energy. Asher Grieve was there, clutching his walking stick and scowling, his hands shaping darkness and lashing about with it. A warrior screamed and fell, a rope of darkness tearing his throat out. The warriors gave ground fearfully.
