Oh, bliss! Slinging his quarterstaff across his back, he moved on, gnawing his way out from the middle of the snake towards both ends.

Reaching the crest, Steve climbed into the upper branches of the tallest tree he could find and took stock of his surroundings. The sun now hung above a tree-covered ocean. Wave after wave of forested hills stretched away towards the eastern horizon, their undulating crests running north and south as far as the eye could see. Along the floor and lower slopes of the adjacent valley were scattered clearings, some with dwelling places; others enclosing square ponds and terraced cropfields.

Smoke climbed from the chimneys of the dwellings, reminding Steve that others, more fortunate than himself, were preparing to face the day fortified by something more appetising than raw snake meat. If he decided to traverse the valley he would have to take great care to keep out of sight. Safer to wait till dark and hope for a clear sky. The moon was a thinning crescent and would soon disappear altogether, but that didn't matter.

If the stars were out, he could use the roads. Provided he kept clear of dwelling-places and the guard-posts that controlled access to bridges and ferry crossings, it was not as dangerous as it sounded.

And it was a lot faster than blundering through a pitch-black forest.

The Iron Masters rarely moved along the roads at night. When they did, the travellers were always accompanied by several dozen foot-soldiers and everyone carried lanterns on the end of long poles. They also made a surprising amount of noise, banging sticks and small drums, blowing on horns and talking at the top of their voices. The din they created could not have endeared them to the people living along the route who were trying to grab some hard-earned shut-eye, but it meant that Steve always had plenty of warning of their approach.

From his perch at the top of the tree, Steve saw a stretch of the winding highway that cut through the mountains.

Its western end met the Allegheny River, running on, via the ferry, towards navref Pittsburgh - the Fire Pits of Beth-Lem. Since it was wider than the other roads he had encountered and surfaced with tightly packed stones, Steve had concluded, not unreasonably, that it must lead to other places of similar importance. Persuaded - for want of a better idea - that the Heron Pool might be located at or near one of them, Steve had steered a course roughly parallel to the highway, dividing his attention between the landscape and the sky. Cadillac and Clearwater had been here for a good six months. If the Mute had picked his brains he ought to have something airborne by now. Something that he, Steve, could get a bearing on. So far, there had been nothing up there but the birds - and today's dawn patrol wore feathers too. He drank in the fresh breeze sweeping through the treetops, and headed for the ground.

Since beginning his eastward journey, Steve had made a point of spending part of each day noting the type and level of traffic along the highway and the behaviour patterns of the people at work in the fields and around their dwelling places. What he saw confirmed the impression he had formed of the Iron Masters back at the trading post.

They ran a tight ship - afloat and ash.o.r.e - and they were highly organised. Perhaps over-organised.

And it had occurred to Steve that he might have discovered their weak spot. Field-work and domestic activities were dovetailed into a strictly daily routine, but their schedule also included rest periods when people gathered in groups to chew the fat and - to judge from the faint sounds of laughter that reached him - generally have a good time.

Whether their Mute slaves found anything to laugh at was another matter.

Having now walked and run nearly 200 miles - much of it over difficult terrain - Steve had begun toying with the idea of waylaying one of the lone hors.e.m.e.n who sometimes pa.s.sed by. If he found himself unable to ride the beast, he could always eat it. It was an agreeable fantasy but nothing more. The handsomely dressed warriors who rode back and forth - sometimes singly but more frequently in groups - were a superior kind of Iron Master whose appearance caused local pedestrians to hit the dirt. To take one of them out would cause the s.h.i.t to hit the fan in triplicate.

Steve had seen video pictures of horses, but the discovery of their continued existence had been the biggest surprise to date. The Federation archives listed them as one of the many species that had become extinct during the Holocaust. But it was not true. In the past three weeks he'd seen close to fifty - always with samurai in the saddle. Horses were clearly a status symbol, reserved for the privileged cla.s.ses. Everyone else walked, or rode on pushcarts or on larger four-wheeled vehicles drawn by smooth-skinned buffalo. Really important people - to judge by the accompanying procession -were carried shoulder-high in lavishly decorated palanquins. Iron Master society obviously had a pecking order just like the Amtrak Federation, running down through the ranks from their version of the First Family and the high-wire Execs in the Black Tower to' the greaseb.a.l.l.s in the A-levels. Despite the vast cultural and technological gap, Trackers and the Sons of Ne-Issan were cast from the same mould. The arms and accoutrements of the samurai showed they were gripped by the same unbridled pa.s.sion for hardware: they also subscribed to the idea of a master race - and thought they were it. But despite this potential source of conflict it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that, at some point in the future, the Iron Masters might decide to cut out the middleman and deal directly with the Federation. If they did, Talisman and the Plainfolk would have to get their act together. Fast.

Keeping to the western flank of the mountain - still shaded from the sun - Steve headed in the direction of the highway. It lay at the bottom of a man-made gorge whose smooth sloping sides were now covered by a tangled carpet of vegetation. At some time in the past, a wide band on either side of the highway had been cleared of trees, but the forest above was slowly reclaiming the lost ground. Several generations of saplings had sprung up amid the bushes and the long gra.s.s, and the strongest were beginning to elbow the weaklings out of the way in the race to grab the biggest chunk of sky.

Before Steve could select a proper hiding place, a motley group of hors.e.m.e.n burst out of the trees on the far side of the highway and zigzagged down through the belt of saplings. Caught on the wrong foot, Steve froze awkwardly, 'unsure whether to duck or run. His surprise turned rapidly to panic as the riders clattered across the road and came thundering up the slope towards him, their slung weapons bouncing off their backs. The fact they kept looking over their shoulders suggested that they, and not he, were the quarry but Steve was not about to hang around for confirmation. It was time to get the h.e.l.l out. MOVE it, Brickman.t Powered by a surge of adrenalin, Steve turned and sprinted back up through the trees, pausing to check the scene behind him as he reached the crest. The rising steepness of the slope had obliged the riders to cut back and forth across its face, slowing their mad gallop to a laboured canter. The wild bunch had become a strung-out line and now the home team - approximately double in number, and decked out with banners and matching armour - were streaming out of the woods, firing volleys of arrows across the gorge as they galloped down towards the highway.

And scoring hits. Ouch! A horse reared up and fell backwards on top of its rider. Steve accelerated rapidly.

There was no point in getting caught in the crossfire. His frantic dash through the trees reminded him of the afternoon he had been chased through another forest by a posse of Mutes. He had given them the slip by diving into a rock pool and hiding close to the bank among the reeds.

Given the chance he'd have done the same thing now but he was too high up. Every stream he came across was no more than ankle-deep. The only thing he could do was keep going. He settled down into the loping stride he'd picked up from running with the M'Call Bears. The acc.u.mulated aches and pains of the past weeks merged, becoming an exquisite burning sensation that enveloped him from head to foot as he pushed his body to the limits.

It went past the point of being unbearable and induced a strange kind of euphoria that damped down all physical sensation. He could barely feel his feet thudding against the ground, or his pain-wracked lungs that, only moments before, had felt as if they were about to explode inside his chest. He was conscious of being outside himself. It was as if his brain had parted company with his body and was floating just above and behind him, saying, 'You go right ahead and do what you have to do, fella. Don't worry about me. I can't feel a thing."

Steve had been there before and knew from experience that he could maintain the same relentless pace for several hours. But he could not outrun a galloping horse - and that was fast becoming his most pressing problem. He had changed direction several times but whichever way he turned, the fugitive riders who were obviously as confused as he was always' seemed to end up heading in the same direction!

The only solution was to take to the trees and stay there till the excitement died down. But what would he do if the home team spotted him and took him for one of the opposition? He would be trapped, out on a limb like a treed mountain-cat. But then, if they caught him it wouldn't matter who they thought he was. The jig would be up. It was a chance he'd have to take. He shinned up the leafiest tree he could find, pulling his legs up out of sight as the ground shook under the hooves of the front runners.

The gaps in the leaves provided Steve with a few brief snapshots of the riders as they sped by, crouched low over their horses. Their faces and arms were smeared with dirt, and their dress was as varied as the ragtag uniforms worn by Malone's renegades. Some wore armour, but n.o.body seemed to own a full set. Two or three had small square shields fixed to their shoulders. Most had helmets of one sort or another, some with wide sweeping brims and what looked like metal horns or crescent moons attached to the front. A few had a tangled mess of shoulder-length hair streaming out from under headbands of cloth. All the riders Steve caught a glimpse of wore curving swords- the mark of samurai- plus a variety of other weapons: spears, halberds, two-bladed axes and bows and arrows. Were these outlaws? Did the Iron Masters have their own brand of breakers?

Moving to a higher branch, Steve saw another sizeable bunch gallop through the small clearing, followed a short while later by a handful of stragglers. The last one had turned round in his saddle and was shouting hoa.r.s.ely in the Iron Masters' nonsense language. From his gestures it was clear he was urging on someone who had fallen behind.

He paused briefly, his sweating horse pawing the ground nervously, then rode on. A few seconds later Steve caught sight of another rider. But this guy was in trouble. His horse had slowed to a trot and he was hunched up in the saddle with two arrowshafts sticking out of his back.

Now that, thought Steve, must hurt. He lost sight of the rider as he crossed the clearing, then heard a sharp crack and a dull thud rolled into one.

Peering down the line of the trunk, Steve saw that the guy had fallen off and now lay at the foot of the tree. His wide-brimmed helmet and the shanks of long hair that went with it had rolled to one side, revealing a head that was completely bald. The riderless horse moved restlessly back and forth near by, s.n.a.t.c.hing hurried mouthfuls of gra.s.s. Steve was filled with a strange feeling. This has to be fate, he thought. It was totally mad. Insane. But a voice that was not his own urged him on. Quickly! Before it's too late! His mind resisted.

But I don't know how to ride these things! Never mind, said the voice.

Just do it/ He dropped out of the tree and took a quick look at the fallen Iron Master. He had landed on his back, flattening the lacquered wooden arrowshafts beneath him. The impact had driven the bladed points out through his chest.

He wasn't dead, but he soon would be. Steve relieved him of his sword, then scooped up the long-haired helmet and put it on his head. Pulling the plaited strap firmly under his chin, he gathered up the reins of the horse, took a deep breath and hauled himself aboard.

Okay, sweet Sky-Mother, let's go.t The horse took off with Steve bobbling around in the saddle like a ping-pong ball in a shooting gallery. But Mo-Town - or some other benign deity - kept him in his seat until his feet found the stirrups and some innate sense of rhythm brought his undulating backside into partial phase with the rise and fall of the horse beneath him. What Steve wanted to do most of all was stop and get off, but he didn't know which b.u.t.tons to press. The alternative was to throw himself off, but he was too scared to try.

The horse was going too fast and he was too high off the ground. If he failed to get clear and fell under its hooves...

Steve drove the thought from his mind. It was clear he had made a serious tactical error. He had shinned up the

tree to get out of the way of the wild bunch - and here he was hard on their heels! In fairness, it had to be said it was not of his own volition. His entire energies were concentrated on staying upright in the saddle and avoiding getting his brains knocked loose by low-hanging branches. There was no way he could steer at the same time - even if he had known how. Steve had, in fact, lost the reins and was hanging on, white-knuckled, to the front edge of the saddle. His feet kept springing out of the stirrups and every time they banged against the horse's ribs, it tensed up and made another wild surge forward.

Christo! What on earth had persuaded the Iron Masters to use such a capricious means of transportation? No wonder they had no hair. They must have torn it all out trying to figure out how to stay on top of the G.o.dd.a.m.ned things.

Steve could see that a horse offered certain advantages: if you had a lot of ground to cover it was the animal that did most of the work in getting you there.

But jeeezzz - the pain! The sinews in his thighs were zinging like overstretched rigging wires, and every time his a.s.s collided with the horse it felt as if a red-hot knife had been driven into the base of his spine. The discomfort was something he could cope with. What worried him most was the fact he was now the meat in the sandwich: if he tried to slow the horse down the home team might catch up with him; if it went too fast, he could land himself in the arms of the wild bunch.

Unaware of the problems it was causing its rider, the horse galloped on, weaving its way through the trees without the slightest hesitation.

Since there was no trail beneath its feet, it must have been following an internal route map. Which indicated the animal was not as stupid as it looked - even if the route did not always contain sufficient headroom for the person on its back. Within a short time, Steve's face and limbs were striped, bruised and bleeding from the searing whiplashes delivered by bush and branch along the way. The headlong dash for freedom was also taking its toll of the horse. Its breathing was harsh and laboured, and its quivering flanks were covered with a soapy lather, but somehow the animal found the stamina to keep going mile after mile, driven on by the same herd instinct Steve had seen demonstrated by fast-foot and buffalo. Rider and mount were possessed by the same urgent need to reach some place of safety. But where might that be? It was the kind of situation he always did his utmost to avoid.

So what's happening here, Brickman? I mean, aren't you the guy that likes to plan ahead? Y'know -figure out all the angles... ?

Yeah, right, but,Never mind the 'buts'! Come on! it'S about time you got a handle on this situation. Let's see some positive action here!

Easier said than done. Steve was still the guy who liked to figure out all the angles, but he had noticed that ever since Clearwater had crossed his path he had become prey to sudden, dangerous impulses. The off-the-cuff decision to stow away on board one of Yama-s.h.i.ta's wheelboats without asking even the most elementary questions about what he might find when he got to wherever they were going was a prime example.

Leaping astride this animal was another. It was just not like him. Or was it?

From the very beginning, entering the blue sky-world was like coming home. What he had experienced ran counter to everything he had been taught. It was like being torn in two. He had become impatient and increasingly rebellious, had discovered feelings he could not put into words and was now driven by the need to find his rightful place in the whole great scheme of things. This inner conflict had given birth to the sure and certain feeling that it was the overground that held the key to the questions which plagued him. It was here that he would discover not only the truth about himself but also the dark secrets so jealously guarded by the First Family. Perhaps, in allowing the horse to carry him wherever it had a mind to, he was being given a sign. A

gentle warning to stop trying to manipulate people, to always be in control. Perhaps he was being asked to put his life in someone else's hands - to allow them to manipulate him. It was an interesting proposition, and one he would definitely give some serious thought to.

But not right now.

The shouts and trumpet calls of his pursuers slowly died away, and there was no sign of the wild bunch up front. The fear that had turned Steve's b.a.l.l.s into frozen walnuts slowly melted away. After a while, the forest began to thin. Soon there were more bushes than there were trees, more sky than leaves, and the only thing smacking him in the face was fresh air. Ahead of him was a rise in the ground. Steve gathered up the reins and managed to get the horse to stop short of the crest so that, by standing up in the stirrups, he could take a peek at what lay on the other side.

The ground fell away unevenly into a rock-strewn river valley. On the far side there was more broken ground rising up to meet a heavily forested slope which ringed a mountainous, flat-topped chunk of bare rock.

Its deeply fissured sides were only a few degrees off the vertical and, from a distance, it looked like the stump of a giant stone tree rooted in a mound of red moss; a fossilized relic of some bygone age.