Page 3 of The Last Warrior

Wakantanka, help me. I do not know what I am doing wrong. Have I not shown my enemy mercy; have I not bestowed kindness? Why does the curse still remain?

Wakantanka, I go because I must help my friend. I only ask you to understand.

Wakantanka, I will return when the show is ended for this season, and when I come back, I promise I will not rest until I discover how to end this enchantment which binds my people.

Wakantanka, to show you how much my heart is in the right place, I offer you not only my flesh, I proffer you the best possessions I have. My robe, given to me by my Lakota grandfather, is now yours. My arrows, bestowed upon me by my father who is still imprisoned in the mist, I give to you.”

Black Lion placed the robe and the arrows on the ground before him. Then, as he had been guided to do by his elder, White Claw, Black Lion knelt down and cut off sections of his flesh on both of his arms, offering the gift to He who stands above all others. Returning to his stance atop the butte, there amidst the aromatic herbs, he continued:

“Wakantanka, hear my plea. If you accept these gifts, I would ask your guidance.

Wakantanka, I have said it. My prayer is done.”

Black Lion came down into a squat. Fanning the gentle smoke onto his body, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. It was then when he heard it.

A song. A beautiful yet strange song wafted to him on the wind. It was unlike any other melody he had ever heard. It was also sung in a language he did not understand. The structure of its refrains was different than those he was accustomed to, and he wondered at it, for it had a strong beat, and then two small ones; then again, a strong beat, and then two small ones, over and over. Gradually, he began to hum along with the strain, finding it pleasing, soothing.

But who was singing this melody to him? He glanced to his right, to his left, behind him, all around him. There was no bird here, no other person to be found on this butte, which itself was stuck out in the middle of the prairie. Then came the words:

“Human!”

Who was talking to him?

“Human, hear me,” said a voice. Looking in the direction from where the words came, Black Lion recognized his namesake, the mountain lion, or perhaps more correctly, lioness.

“You must seek this song, and the singer of it. Look for it in a place far from here. Seek it wherever you may go. It is a white man’s song, it is true, but its heart is Indian and will always be so. Once you find this most sacred melody and the person who owns it, you must sing it with a brave heart, and not one word must be missing from its verse. If you do this, you will pierce the Thunderer’s heart. The melody will heal his anger as well as his need for revenge, and he will cease to be your enemy. When this happens, your people will be freed from their entrapment. I will sing the song one more time. Listen well, for when this moment comes, remember that not one word must be misplaced.”

Black Lion nodded. “I am listening. Will you chant it more than once so that I may learn it well?”

But the lioness didn’t answer. Instead, she sang the song one more time, and Black Lion, attending to it well, memorized every word.

From high up in a cloud, the Thunderer watched the mountain lioness and this last champion. He grumbled, and the skies echoed the sound. So, thought he, this last champion means to find a song. Did the mountain lioness possess some magic unknown to him, a god?

A song? To heal his heart?

The very notion was impossible. Glancing toward the golden effigies of his four children, the Thunderer knew true rage, for, while his children were caught in stone, in image only, most of the clan now roamed free upon the earth.

“Never will my heart heal,” he exclaimed, and thunder tossed through the heavens. “Never! Only when my children are free will I ever think to forgive. So sing all you desire, you, who are the last champion. It will do you little good. In sooth, it will do you no good. None!”

He laughed, the sound of it echoing down to the mountaintop below.

Black Lion, hearing it, felt his spirits sink.

Chapter

Two

London

Summer, 1892

The sun was high, the day was sultry, warm and muggy, and despite the fact the exhibition’s seating provided a canvas roof for protection, nineteen-year-old Suzette Joselyn was hot. Daintily, she pressed a handkerchief to her forehead.

What, she wondered, had possessed her to accompany her grandmother, Irena, to this rather crude display of American culture? Even though people from all over London had flocked here—especially after the Prince of Wales’s endorsement of the show—it still seemed to her that the show would be crude, indeed.

Irritated, Suzette thought of the old saying about a cat and its dire curiosity. Perhaps next time she would heed the cliché’s warning before agreeing to one of Irena’s schemes.

In truth, Suzette was embarrassed, and with good reason. The smell of horseflesh—and perhaps unwashed bodies—wafted through the air. And she, sitting here so primly beside her fiancé, who was a fine young man, wondered what she was to do. A proper young lady, especially one who was to become the wife of the Earl of Lankersheim, was not supposed to acknowledge the rank odor of horse manure, stables and worse, was she?