by neetha Napew
As she straightened, Sprite had thrown two handfuls of the powdery leaf mold, mixed with sharp pine needles, directly into Krysty's face following it up with the frightening speed of a charging buffalo.
Krysty staggering backward, stumbling clumsily, hands trying to clear her blinded eyes, opening and closing them to try to see through the sudden flood of tears.
Too late and way too slow.
Sprite was on top of her, screaming with a fervid delight, clasping her muscular arms around Krysty's chest, crushing her to her own body as both women fell to the earth. There was a dull thud as Krysty's skull hit the dirt, followed almost simultaneously by a sickening crack as Sprite drove her forehead into her face. Blood gushed from Krysty's nose and cut mouth, and she lay still and helpless.
"Chilled, bitch!"
Sprite straddled the inert body, her knees gripping Krysty's chest, holding her motionless, while the woman's big butcher's hands grappled for a hold on her throat.
There was a collective sigh of delight from the watching Children of the Rock. Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan noticed that Jim Owsley's right hand was caressing the tight front of his jeans and his mouth sagged open with a morbid, obscene delight at the killing spectacle.
"Krysty!" Ryan yelled, his voice cracking. He took a step forward, stopping as he felt the sharpness of the barrel of a pistol jammed into his spine, not even seeing who held it. He was aware that several of the ville's sec men had leveled their revolvers and rifles at the outlanders, preventing the possibility of interference from any of them.
"Watch and enjoy," Wolfe whispered to Ryan. "Payment of debts."
Sprite grinned at her shrieking supporters, showing her broken, stained teeth. She leaned forward, putting all her weight into the strangulation, her fingers digging into the soft flesh of Krysty's neck.
Krysty thrashed her head from side to side, her emerald eyes staring wide, white rimmed, threaded with blood. Her mouth was open, rasping breath struggling for release, her tongue protruding and purpled.
Brother Wolfe was rocking back and forth, his hand on the butt of his blaster, grinning broadly, his eyes locked to Ryan's face.
"Yes, Brother Cawdor," he crowed. "A dish best eaten cold, wouldn't you say?"
Ryan didn't say anything. If there hadn't been so many blasters trained on him and his friends, he would have made a grab for Wolfe's pistol and risked holding him for ransom—the life of the leader of the Children of the Rock in exchange for the life of Krysty. But it would have been a hopelessly suicidal gesture. All that seemed left to him was the ultimate possibility of wreaking a bloody revenge.
Sprite was toying with her victim, releasing her grip and allowing Krysty to draw in a couple of tortured breaths, then closing off the air passage again.
"She's dying, bro," J.B. said very quietly.
Mildred turned to face Wolfe, her fists clenched tight with anger. "She's butchering her," she said accusingly.
"So she is, Sister Wyeth, so she is."
Krysty was fluttering in and out of consciousness, her hands beating feebly at Sprite's broad shoulders, making no impression on the woman.
"Use the power, lover," Ryan shouted. "Use Gaia! You fucking well have to."
It was a grim decision.
Krysty had been taught a number of arcane skills by her mother, Sonja, a woman wise in the old mystic traditions. It wasn't just the power of seeing. It was the ability, in times of extreme need, to transform herself with almost supernatural forces, giving her an inhuman strength.
But it always drained her energy so deeply that it often took her to the brink of the grave.
"Use it!" Jak and Dean yelled in unison.
"Do it!" Ryan shouted as loudly as he could, trying to make sure that his words carried to Krysty over the screams of the spectators.
There was no sign that she'd heard them. It looked like she'd passed out and was well along the dark road from which no traveler ever returned.
Sprite sat back once more, taking a moment to release her victim, clasping her meaty hands above her head in a gesture of triumph.
"Now, lover! Call on the Earth Mother! Krysty! Fireblast, lover, do it now!" Ryan's voice was breaking, ragged, high and desperate.
He saw the bloodless lips moving, but it was impossible to hear what Krysty was saying. Her eyes had closed, and she seemed to be concentrating all of her mental energy on taking herself to another place.
"Gaia!" she was saying, focusing inward, hands opening and closing.
Ryan realized that he was holding his breath, watching what was going to be, one way or the other, the terminal scene in the brief drama.
Sprite seemed to sense that something was going on, that there was a bizarre change happening in the helpless body clasped below her.
She reached down and resumed her grip on Krysty's throat, fitting her fingers onto the dark bruises that marred the soft skin of her victim's throat, smiling in triumph as she began to apply what everyone recognized was going to be the final pressure.
But Krysty seemed to have grown.
Her eyes snapped open, and the rictus of hopeless agony on her face changed into a gentle smile. It was something that Sister Sprite saw immediately, and the watchers gradually recognized as being an ominous development.
"Sprite is plucking defeat right out from the jaws of victory," Mildred said.
Krysty reached up, almost lazily, and laid her hands on the muscular forearms of the huge woman. She flexed her entire body, with a visible surge of the Earth Mother's power. Sprite screamed, once.
The piercing sound rose above the double snap of the bones of both her arms, radius and ulna, both breaking like fragile frosted twigs.
For a moment Ryan saw the whiteness of jagged ivory, as the broken bones tore through muscle and skin, bright blood spilling into the sunlight.
Sister Sprite screamed again, trying to throw herself clear of Krysty. But the smaller woman, the gentle smile scarily unchanging, clung to her, twisting and crushing.
The whole settlement of Hopeville was utterly silent.
"Crippled me…done for…" she moaned, hanging like a helpless rag doll in Krysty's inexorable grip. Everyone could hear the harsh grating sound of the raw ends of bone rubbing against each other.
"To the death?" the redheaded woman questioned, pushing Sprite away from her with an unforgettable gesture of contempt. "That what you said, Brother Wolfe?"
"I said…that…I didn't…not…" Wolfe stammered.
Sprite was hunched over, her ruined arms clasped under her, her face in the dirt, sobbing. Krysty paused to wipe sweat and leaf mold from her own face, standing over the disabled woman, holding her steady with her knees.
For a moment Ryan had a vision of Krysty astride a broken stallion.
The wind was rising, whipping up a mini tornado of circling dust, obscuring the tableau.
"Do it, lover," Ryan called.
"Oh, I will…" Krysty answered in a voice that was barely human.
The dust cloud blew away and everyone saw that the redheaded woman had stooped over the hapless Sister Sprite, gripping her skull between her hands.
She started to twist it.
"Jesus!" Mildred breathed. "Nobody could…"
Krysty Wroth, in thrall to the Gaia power, could.
And did.
Ryan watched, unable to avert his eye from the macabre sight. Sprite's bull-like head was revolving on her thick neck, the bulging, blood-streaked eyes staring sightless into the sky, toward the pitiless face of her tormentor.
It didn't seem possible for the skull to turn any farther without the spine cracking.
When the crack came, it seemed surprisingly quiet, almost insignificant.
The body jerked and relaxed, vacated, the spirit gone. There was a dark stain appearing at the crotch of Sprite's pants, as her bowels and bladder emptied.
Krysty stood a frozen moment, then opened her hands and staggered away from the twitching corpse. She took three totter
ing steps and fell like a hewed log to the earth.
Ryan ran to her, kneeling at her side, seeing that the use of the Gaia power had, as always, exacted a dreadful toll. Krysty lay completely still, unconscious, her breath rapid and shallow, her heart pounding at twice its normal speed.
"You said to the death, Wolfe," he said. "If she dies, as well, I swear on the grave of all my friends that I'll take your bastard life."
But the leader of the Children of the Rock wasn't listening. He'd turned on his heel and walked away, his head drooping, toward his own hut.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Krysty was still deeply unconscious.
Mildred sat by her, chafing her wrists, dabbing a water-soaked rag on her white forehead. There had been no sign of life since Ryan had carried her into their cabin, placing her on the bed with an infinite gentleness.
And that was nearly four hours ago.
"Any change?" he asked.
Mildred shook her head. "Not really. Though her respiration's better than it was, and the pulse is slowed some. But she's still way out of it."
Jak stood in the doorway, staring out over the settlement. Sister Sprite's body had been dragged away by half a dozen of the sec men, her heels digging twin furrows in the soft earth.
"Nobody moving," he said, terse as ever.
Doc was propped up on one elbow on his bed, sipping at a mug of hot water and honey, held for him by Mildred, who had left Krysty for a moment. He had managed to stop coughing for several minutes, but he still looked desperately frail. Krysty lay on the adjacent bed, her eyes tight shut.
Mildred had been seriously worried for the first few minutes, but now was much happier. She decided that it had been using the power of the Earth Mother that had stricken her friend, and that time and rest would probably see her recovered in a few days.
"If we have a few days," had been Ryan's response. "After all that's gone down, I'd like us to be away from here as soon as possible."
After the death of Sister Sprite, the ville had been quiet. A dog had started yapping, then they had heard the sound of a blow, and the animal had become silent.
"What do you reckon happens next, bro?" J.B. asked, standing next to Ryan, by Krysty's bed.
"No idea. You?"
The Armorer pushed back the brim of his battered fedora and shook his head. "Bones might fall either side of the line. By their rules we all passed the testing."
"Except you, me, Dean and Doc."
"Baron's coming," Jak said, moving away from the doorway. "Alone."
A shadow fell across the floor, and Brother Joshua Wolfe walked into the hut,
"Good afternoon, outlanders," he said quietly. "How is Sister Wroth?"
"She'll be real fine," Mildred replied. "How are the Burrows boys?"
"Shaken. Got the wise woman to give them some sleeping herbs. Set the breaks. Should help. We have to do some talking about the rest of the testing."
"Haven't had enough?" Jak snapped. "Want everyone in ville chilled?"
Wolfe looked at him. Ryan noticed that the man was stroking the stump of his amputated arm. "Race isn't over until the fat lady crosses the line, kid."
"Don't call kid."
"Sure."
Ryan sat on the side of the bed, hearing the springs creak under his weight. "What happens next? What do you want me, Dean and J.B. to do for our testing?"
Wolfe shrugged. "The boy's not of age. He's excused. I've seen enough of both of you, personally, to know that there's no need for you to face any trial. You are two of the most dangerous men in all of Deathlands. There's no need for you to be tested."
Ryan was puzzled, not believing that it was going to be that easy. Give Krysty three days or so, and they could head back to the redoubt and make a fresh jump. By then Doc should also be well.
"So, it's over."
"No." The single syllable hung in the dusty air of the cabin.
"No?"
Wolfe shook his head. "I'm deeply regretting this, old friend, but it isn't quite over yet."
The smile was as sunny and broad as the Grand Canyon in August. The eyes and the voice were like a cascade of Sierra meltwater in April.
Doc suddenly sat up, his pale eyes blinking open, and he stared directly at Joshua Wolfe. "Just send my mail to the Tijuana jail," he said firmly, then pushed the mug of water aside and lay down again.
"Not good." Mildred laid a cool hand on the old man's fevered forehead, wincing at the fiery heat. "No, not good at all. Wish the temperature would go down. Set him on the road to recovery. Still, with rest…"
Ryan was still staring at the leader of the ville. "What do you mean?"
Wolfe shook his head gently. "Not who wins the first lap, friend. It's who's first past the tape at the end of the race. You all did real well in the testing."
"But?"
"But you haven't all taken the trials. Still one of you left." He pointed at the recumbent figure of Doc Tanner.
"What?" Ryan's temper was always on a short fuse. Always had been, always would be. The suggestion that the critically ill old-timer should somehow have to prove himself to the sick-brain bastards of Hopeville was so obscene that an instant red mist descended. "You don't—"
Wolfe had the pearlized grip of the blaster firmly in his hand, the gaping barrel drilling into Ryan's abdomen. "One wrong step, One-Eye. That's all I want."
Jak had taken a half step toward Wolfe, his fingers groping for one of the concealed knives, and he barely halted the movement. "Test Doc?"
"Right. Test Doc. Couldn't have put it any more succinctly myself."
"He's real sick," Dean said shrilly.
Wolfe nodded gently. "That's absolutely correct, young man."
Mildred looked for a moment as if she was about to throw the drink in the man's face. "You really are something damned special, mister."
"Why, thank you," Wolfe replied, dropping a low bow.
Ryan could have taken him at that moment, but they would still have been absurdly outnumbered by armed men, all within calling distance. He held himself in check, waiting to see how the cards fell.
"I'm not a hard man," Wolfe protested. "Nor do I wish to be unfair. Blessed Jesus of the cap and ball wouldn't want that to happen."
Ryan managed to control the crimson rage that had brimmed dangerously close to the surface. "Just what are you saying, Wolfe?"
"If he's unwell, we can postpone the testing."
"For how long?" Mildred asked. "Long as it takes for him to recover?"
Wolfe gave out his genuine, friendly laugh, which crinkled the lines around eyes and mouth. "Oh, dear me, no. I'm afraid that's not on at all, lady." He slipped the blaster back into its holster. "Lady, we don't have the time."
"Then…?"
"Doc can have all of the rest of today to recover, and all of the coming night, as well. He needn't face his testing until… Let me see. Until eleven tomorrow morning. No, why pinch the penny? Until noon."
"Noon!" Mildred roared. "Poor old guy'll probably still be unconscious by then. Give him a week and then he might, just might, be able to make a showing."
"Tomorrow. Noon. Best you don't leave the hut. Food'll be brought to you."
He turned about and marched quickly out of the cabin, leaving a pool of shocked silence behind him.
THE SHADOWS HAD lengthened around the ville, as the great golden bowl of the sun slipped slowly out of sight, behind the final range of hills that separated the place from the endless stretch of the Cific.
They'd been fed from a black iron caldron of vegetable soup, thick with carrots and parsnips, served with fresh-baked bread and some tender roasted sweet potatoes. There was home-brewed beer on offer, but Ryan gestured for them all to reject it. Now they were left alone again. A bowl of the soup stood cooling on the small table under the window, waiting to see if Krysty could be roused enough to try to sample it.
The one slightly encouraging sign was that Doc had been able to sit up, with help from Ryan and Jak, and had
sipped at his own helping of the steaming soup, licking his lips after three or four spoonfuls before wearily lying down again.
"We have to get him well away," J.B. said, standing in the doorway, the setting sun flaring off the twin lenses of his spectacles.
Ryan was sitting on the bed, holding Krysty's limp hand. "Fates are against us, bro."
"You mean her using the Gaia power and it knocking her out like this?"
"Sure."
Mildred was lying on her own bed. "She's hit harder by it than I ever saw before."
"When do you reckon she might be able to travel again?" Ryan asked.
"Krysty's about the strongest woman I ever came across, Ryan, but she's not going to be up and walking good for… At the most optimistic, say three days."
"Just to get back to the gateway?"
"Still, three days."
"How about Doc?" Jak asked.
"Same. Think he's about turned the corner. If it came to it, he could maybe walk a short distance, tomorrow evening. Not a lot sooner."
"If made break tonight? Me, Dean and J.B. help Doc, and you and Mildred take Krysty?"
Ryan sniffed. "Don't know the country like they do, Jak. They got some dogs. And there's the Apaches, as well. One of them'd hunt us down before we got two miles."
The teenager got up from his bed and walked to stand alongside J.B., the dying rays of the sun turning his white hair to a mane of living fire.
Ryan looked at the two slight figures, side by side. His mind flashed back to the long years that he'd known the Armorer, and the shorter time with the boy, all the desperate times they'd faced together.
He wondered if they were all coming close to the end of the line.
"You four could get away," he said hesitantly.
"Looks like a cloudy night. Be long gone into the forest before they started off to chase you. Move fast, a lot faster, without Krysty or Doc to slow you down."
"Dad! You can't mean that. I'm not going, and you can't make me."
J.B. and Jak both opened their mouths to speak, but Mildred was quicker, holding up an accusing finger. "In my time, Ryan Cawdor, we had a good saying. 'Why not go and take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut.' "
