Merkabah Rider: Have Glyphs Will Travel (10 page)

The Rider took his attention from
Jacobi for an instant as another form shimmered into his vision. It was Kabede’s
astral body, rising from where it knelt about thirty yards away. The Rod of
Aaron was all ablaze in his hands, like a bar of brilliant white light,
constantly shifting to include all the colors of the world and more besides.

Jacobi took advantage of the Rider’s
distraction and suddenly coalesced from the bouncing blur he had been, into a
solid shape beside him.

It was a strange sensation to feel
another astral form touch his own. There was a crackle, as if of static
electricity, wherever they touched. Jacobi’s hand gripped the Rider’s gun arm,
trapping it, even as the muzzle of his own weapon was thrust into his armpit.

“So you die,
Manasseh Maizel
,” Jacobi hissed triumphantly.

There was a crimson flash and the
Rider’s astral form shuddered and wavered, an ugly red light playing all about
him for an instant, limning him in unnatural fire before evaporating. Then he
moaned and collapsed.

Kabede came running full tilt across
the plain towards them.

Jacobi smirked at the sight of the
black man, and raised his pistol almost casually, intending for his etheric
bullet to meet him before he ever got close.

Then his knee flared with blue-white
fire and he screamed and fell to his side, beside the Rider, who propped
himself up on one knee and kicked out, sending Jacobi’s pistol flying end over
end.

“Not today,
Pinchas Jacobi
,” the Rider said.

Jacobi screamed again, in rage as
well as pain, gripping at his leg. The spot where the Rider had shot him, just
below the kneecap, was flaming white fire and spouting blue sparks.

Jacobi lurched to his good leg and
limped off, dragging the wounded leg behind him like an oversized Roman candle.
As the Rider watched, the astral flesh about the wound began to melt. The lower
leg was dangling now, twisting haphazardly about.

The Rider got to his feet as Kabede
reached his side.

“Are you alright?” Kabede asked
hastily, inspecting him for signs of a similar wound.

“Yes,” the Rider said. There was not
a mark on him anywhere. “The soul is doubled.”

“Another time, Rider!” Jacobi
screamed over his shoulder.

With a whimper he leapt into the
air, and he was off, actually flying, his long black coat fluttering about him
as he caught the etheric wind and rode it away from the post, presumably back
toward his waiting body.

It was at that instant that the
cavalrymen, in the physical world, completed their circumnavigation of the
post, and completed Kabede’s immense sigil.

Lines of golden light began to glow
on the ground beneath their feet. These lines flared into a blazing sunshine
fire that shone straight up into the sky like beacons, creating walls of impermeable
solid light, an intricate house sprung from the blueprint of the Third Seal of
Solomon.

The outer circle sprung up just as
Jacobi’s astral body was passing over the boundaries of the post on its mad
flight back to his physical form. His etheric body was instantly split in two.
His lower half stopped in mid-flight and tumbled to the ground, legs askew, and
there was a horrible shriek of extreme agony. Then the kicking remains
dissolved before their eyes.

The Rider closed his eyes. He could
only imagine what had become of Jacobi’s physical form, if the wounds sustained
in the
Yenne Velt
were indeed
correspondent. Perhaps though, the trauma had killed him outright.

When the Rider opened his eyes
again, he was staring into Belden’s. The light of the real world was glaring,
and the stone wall was hard against his back.

“You’re back!” Belden exclaimed.

“I’m back,” the Rider agreed. “There
won’t be anymore suicides. At least for now.”

He rose unsteadily, and Belden
walked him out of the guardhouse. Armendariz’s body was gone, as were the other
suicides.

He saw Kabede then, being helped
across the parade ground by two cavalrymen, as the others led the horses back
to the stables.

“Your man fainted dead away,” one of
them explained as they rejoined them.

“It’s alright,” Belden said. “It’s
over.”

“As long as the circle holds,”
Kabede interjected. “It’s quite large, and imprecise. A stray foot or a gust of
wind will disrupt it. We need a sturdier spiritual guard.”

“You said the
aleinu
this morning,” the Rider said.

“Yes, in the prescribed manner. For
protection,” Kabede nodded. “It could work.”

“Dick, could we assemble the men and
have them recite something?”

Belden smirked. “You’re serious?”

Lieutenant Cord and Colonel Manx
came over.

“All the weapons are accounted for,”
Cord reported to Belden.

“Yes, we’re sufficiently disarmed,”
Manx said, his lip curling. “What next? Are we to hop about on one leg?”

Belden couldn’t help but grin.

“Better.”

After redistributing the guns to the
troops, who were now past fear and resorting to grumbling at the odd and
contradictory commands they were being issued, Weeks awoke and had to be locked
in the guardhouse by no less than four men, one of whom walked away with a
black eye for his trouble.

Manx agreed to assemble and address
the men (they had skipped morning reveille at any rate), but when handed a
transcript of the Hebrew prayer and being advised he would be ordering his
soldiers to recite it, his face purpled once again.

“The hell you say. These are Christian
men.” He slapped the paper on which the Rider had carefully written out the
aleinu
in English letters. “I don’t even
know what this gibberish means.”

“I can assure you we’re not tricking
you all into renouncing Jesus Christ,” the Rider said.

“We can translate it for you if you
wish,” Kabede offered.

Manx wheeled on Belden and Cord, who
looked doubtful themselves.

“These two tell us something out
there is mesmerizing the men into killing each other,” Manx said, his fists
doubled up, smashing the paper. “You men believe them, to the point of
disobeying my direct orders.”

“I don’t have to obey your orders
any more, Manx,” Belden pointed out.

“Shut up, Belden. You’re mine until
you’re off this post.” He spun and stalked back and forth in his rage. “I think
you’re crazy, but alright. Against my better judgment I allow some pagan
symbols to get scratched in the dirt. I even let my sergeant get locked in the
guardhouse.”

“It’s worked hasn’t it?” Belden
said.

“It’s true that nobody else has
tried to kill anyone or themselves, sir,” Cord agreed.

“Bullshit, lieutenant. You want to
know what I think? I think it’s the both of you that have been mesmerized.
These things didn’t start happening until these two wandered out of the valley.”
He looked accusingly at Kabede and the Rider. “If there’s anything odd or
mystical behind all this, it’s them. I think Davies let the three of you out in
the night. I think you did something to the water supply, or you drugged those
men with some of your homebrewing, Belden. I think Davies, young drunkard that
he was, sampled some of your native potions and had some kind of episode.”

“You’re the one that’s crazy, Manx,”
said Belden.

“Well,” he said, proceeding to shred
the Hebrew prayer in his fists. “I’m not crazy enough to play along with this.
Mister Cord, I’m going to release Sergeant Weeks myself and you and these men
are going to take his place in the guardhouse.” He threw the paper to the
breeze and dug for the cell keys still in his pocket. He began to march over to
them.

Behind him, the assembled men in
their ranks looked at each other and shuffled as their bickering officers left
them standing at attention.

Kabede, the Rider, Belden, and Cord
went with Manx.

“Be serious,” Belden said. “We’re
not going back in there. Not with—”

“Not with what?” Manx scoffed. “Not
with the threat of some phantom army marching on us out of the desert? Strange
that nobody’s seen hide nor hair of them today. You would think they would’ve
gotten here by now.”

It was true that there was no sign
of DeKorte and his horde down in the valley. They had not had time to
investigate yet, but Manx had apparently broken out some field glasses and
looked for himself during the morning’s commotion.

“Where’s Portis and the patrol then,
Manx?” Belden demanded.

“What you saw down there yesterday
was the Mexicans taking their cattle to the railhead. They probably requested
an escort from Lieutenant Portis.”

“The Mexicans wouldn’t ask us to
catch them if they were falling off a cliff, Manx,” Belden said. “Thanks to
you.”

“Mister Belden,” Manx sighed,
reaching the guardhouse and throwing up the bar. “There’s very little of what’s
going on here that I understand, but I do know that before this all began you
were already about to be expelled from the service. I intend to at least
complete that sentence.”

He threw open the door and Weeks
stood there, gripping the cell bars and glaring.

In the other cell, Bigelow, who had
killed the man in front of him under the influence of Jacobi, sat on his cot
with his head in his hands.

“I’m trying to help, Manx,” Belden
said. “But if it’ll make you feel better to lock me up again, you can.”

“I’m not locking you up again. I
want you off this post now. Along with these two. And Lieutenant Cord, your
insubordination will be noted in your record.”

He swung open the door and Weeks
stepped out, cracking his knuckles.

“Sergeant Weeks will show you to the
boundaries of the post.”

“With pleasure, sir,” Weeks said.

“I thought you were going to turn me
in, colonel,” the Rider said.

“I’ll leave it to the civil
authorities. I don’t want any part of you,” Manx said gruffly. He coughed
violently into his fist and waved him away. “Take your mule and go.”

The Rider was about to correct Manx
about the onager. It was an automatic response, a kind of tick he had developed
over the years he’d owned the animal. But that was when they heard the sound of
hooves outside, and the exclamations of the assembled men. Everyone but Bigelow
went out to look.

A man on horseback rode into the middle
of the assembly and nearly fell from his saddle. Corporal Quincannon lifted him
to the ground.

“Jeffries,” said Manx to himself. He
coughed, and he and Weeks and Cord rushed over, Cord glancing back at them over
his shoulder.

“Our scout,” said Belden. “What’s
happened to him?”

Jeffries looked the worse for wear.
He was bleeding down the arm of his light colored deerskin coat, and he was
hatless. His horse, a mottled pinto, looked to have been torn or cut in several
places, the hide hanging off in flaps. Blood was streaming down its flanks, and
it shook its head violently when Cord ran up to take its reins.

Manx stood over Jeffries with his
hands on his hips.

“Where’s your patrol? Where’s
Lieutenant Portis?”

“Get Doc Milton, for Crissakes,”
Belden said.

Weeks turned and shoved him hard in
the chest with one huge hand. Belden fell on his behind in the dust.

“Don’t interrupt the colonel,” Weeks
snarled.

Belden scrambled to his feet.

“You sonofabitch—” he began, but the
Rider grabbed his shoulders, both helping him up and holding him back.

“I’ll fetch him,” Lieutenant Cord
announced, and limped off for the doctor’s quarters.

Weeks grinned and turned back to the
scene.

“They’re dead,” spluttered Jeffries.
“All of ‘em.”

The Rider and Kabede moved closer to
hear. Jeffries’ voice was quite weak. He was covered in dust and was bleeding
not just from his arm, but from a sizable gash in his scalp.

He was an older man, possibly in his
forties, with a thick gray flecked mustache. His eyes were red-lined and blood
leaked from the corners of his mouth. He coughed some of it on Manx’s boot, and
Manx covered his mouth with his handkerchief and coughed too, as if by
suggestion.

“They kilt ‘em, sir. But I seen ‘em…
walk
.” Jeffries shuddered.

“Who killed them? Who?”

“Them bounty hunters. We rode up to ‘em.
Lieutenant Portis thought it was a cattle drive. Every head of beef in the
valley looked to be there. Portis. He was the first to die. They was smilin’
and they waved, but as soon as we rode over they just poured into us. The
people with ‘em reached up and dragged us down.”

“Who? Who was with them?”

“Mexicans…Indians…folks from
Escopeta…little kids even.”

Manx frowned and coughed into his
handkerchief, blood coming away in a line from his red lips.