by James Axler
The others pinned the captive as the sailor at the fire withdrew a long iron pole with a glowing red tip. The prisoner fought wildly, kicking and wiggling, but to no avail. The glowing tip was pressed to his bare right shoulder, a wisp of smoke arose from the contact and he froze, every muscle taut, eyes bulging, teeth bared from the incredible pain.
The branding iron was removed, and seared into the dead-white skin was a red symbol, an outline of a bird with wings outstretched, silhouetted by a flaming sun.
"Now you're a slave," the leader snorted, hitching up his loose-fitting pants. "Free for the taking!"
The others released the branded slave, but the man stayed on his feet, panting for breath.
"Gods of the deep, I was a fool to ever trust you bastards," the man wheezed, a rivet of drool flowing from his slack mouth. "We had a deal! You repair our ship, and we'd pay in blasters and powder. We had a deal!"
"And who'd believe a slave?" He laughed loudly. "Even the lord baron himself can't keep track of every ship that gets storm damaged in the Thousand Islands!"
The words hit the companions hard, and they looked again at the scene before them. So the men wearing the good clothes weren't pirates raiding a ville for slaves, but were the villagers, who had stolen the ship from the sailors.
"Would have thought it was the other way around," Dean said quietly.
"Deal? Yeah, we had a deal. And now we don't."
The skinny man hawked and spit into the open mouth of the slave leader. The man gagged on the spittle, almost vomiting. Then he screamed in rage, and, drawing the flintlock from his belt, awkwardly pulled back the hammer and fired. Flame and smoke exploded from the wide maw of the handblaster, the strident blast blowing away half the prisoner's head. Grayish-pink brains flowing from his smashed skull, red blood pumping from the severed neck, the lifeless body slumped to the ground.
"Any more?" the usurper roared, brandishing the empty weapon.
"Father!" a young man shouted, and charged from the bushes carrying a long pole with a free formed blade on the end.
The leader of the villagers turned at the cry and ducked behind another villager just in time to avoid being slashed across the throat, a spray of blood from his shield arching into the sky. A coldheart tried to use a flintlock, but it merely hissed in a misfire. Another threw a knife and it missed. The young man then threw his spear and it went completely through the coldheart at the fire, stabbing the man behind him with its unusual blade. Entrails slithering into view from between his fingers, the first man slumped over into the fire, dragging the second along with him.
Bare feet padding on the smooth sand, the young man grabbed a blaster from another coldheart when a thundering boom shook the beach, and the young man staggered backward, his right arm gone, only shattered bone and tendrils of flesh hanging from the hideous wound.
The coldhearts cheered, and yet the dying man walked onward, going straight for the nameless leader of the slavers, his whole body trembling from the incredible exertion of staying on his feet. Contemptuously the slaver pulled a pouch from his belt and began to reload the huge flintlock blaster, pouring in black powder, then ramming down a ball and wad of cloth to keep it there. The blood pumping in spurts from his wound, the young man reached the leader and raised the dagger high just as the man cocked back the hammer of the weapon and fired it point-blank. The muzzle flame engulfed the features of the captain's son, and his head shattered into bloody pieces as the solid lead miniball plowed through flesh and bone in a grisly explosion.
The coldhearts cheered, and the captives bowed their heads in complete submission.
"Any more trouble, and you'll get the same!" the leader shouted, waving his arms. "Now I want to learn how to work the great ship, and no more shit from any of you asshole sailor dungheads!"
"They can't steer the ship," Doc said softly.
"Good enough for me," J.B. grunted.
Still not liking the odds, Ryan glanced at the others. Krysty and Doc nodded, Mildred cocked back the hammer on her revolver, Dean jacked the slide on his semiautomatic, Jak gestured and a knife dropped into his palm. He agreed with their decision.
Standing into plain view, Ryan started to shoot.
Chapter Five
Doc was a heartbeat behind Ryan. Leveling the LeMat, the scholar walked onto the beach firing his blaster. The .44-caliber hand cannon thundered flame and smoke, and a coldheart left the ground, flying backward for a yard before landing sprawled on the ground, his chest an ugly mess of bones and organs.
The chained sailors stared in wonder, while the shocked coldhearts hastily tried to draw their weapons. A few clumsily attempted to reload the flintlock longblasters, ripping open pouches of black powder that spilled onto the beach and was carried away by the blue waves.
Firing with every step, Doc strode among the slavers, bodies bursting from the impact of the soft-lead miniballs. Mental images of his own time of captivity flashed before his eyes, and the gentle scholar killed with ruthless satisfaction.
Meanwhile, the other companions opened fire from behind the cover of the broken wall, but J.B. stepped into view and triggered a spray of 9 mm Parabellum rounds at the slavers on the beach. Caught in the act of loading blasters, their riddled bodies tumbled into the surf, but amazingly the chattering of the submachine gun froze everybody into a tableau. Then the captives wildly cheered, and the coldhearts dropped to their knees.
Switching the selector pin to the shotgun chamber on his pistol, Doc paused at the bizarre surrender. What had just happened here?
"Rapidfires! It's the lord baron's sec men!" a slaver cried, dropping his flintlock. "Forgive us, masters!"
"W-w-we didn't know this ville was under your protection!" another said, cringing in the bloody sand. "I humbly beg pardon for our actions."
"Sirs! We are freeborn!" a chained man shouted, raising a fist in spite of the heavy links. "They branded us as slaves to sell!"
"So it would seem," Ryan said in a low and dangerous voice. The Deathlands warrior was starting to understand what was happening. The locals had black-powder weapons, while the sec men of the baron in charge had automatic blasters. "Release the prisoners by order of the lord baron!"
Hesitantly the slavers started to obey, but many were whispering among themselves as they fiddled with the locks. The surf carried away most of the conversation, but Ryan still heard a few words.
"… so where are they?"
"No tattoos anywhere…"
"Are they really…?"
Taking advantage of the temporary peace, Krysty went to the table and cut the bound girl free. Weeping her thanks, the teen joined the other young women, clutching each other in terror. Krysty moved behind the table for protection, and with her hands out of sight, quickly reloaded her revolver. Doc joined her, his hands purging the spent chambers of the LeMat and reloading.
"How long?" he whispered.
"Any moment," she whispered.
The sea breeze shifted the thinning smoke from the burning houses in the ville away from the beach, leaving them all in clear sight.
"Shit," Jak muttered, leaning against the broken wall.
As the chains came off the sailors, the men fell upon the corpses, retrieving their clothes and weapons. Dean and Mildred meandered close by and took position near the roaring fire.
Lining the gunwale of the ship, men stood with flintlocks in their hands, uncertain of what was happening on shore. Removing a half-spent clip to insert a full mag, J.B. noted the stubby black barrels of cannons now jutting from the side of the sailing ship. Ryan had played a good turn, but the slavers were getting wise, and the situation was turning bad fast.
Summoning some courage, a large bald slaver walked from the crowd and directly addressed Ryan. "Sir," he began respectfully, "are you…are you sec men of the lord baron?"
"Yes," Ryan lied.
"Then where are your tattoos of rank?" The bald man seemed suspicious, his vision flicking from weapon to weapon, the avarice in his gaze painfully
obvious.
Nothing more needed to be said. Ryan knew he was caught, and with blinding speed opened fire. Crying out in surprise, three coldhearts dropped to the ground wounded. The fourth staggered, but managed to discharge his muzzle-loading pistol. Even as he fired back, killing the man, Ryan felt an angry buzz by his ear and then a hot trickle. He touched the side of his head and the palm came away red. Fireblast! He nearly bought the farm.
Instantly the rest of the companions cut loose at their chosen targets and a score of slavers fell, gushing blood.
Screaming in rage, the half-naked sailors joined the fray, firing blasters with remarkable speed. More slavers fell, their numbers reduced to a few dozen. Then the sailors charged at their captors with drawn knives and hot branding irons. Every remaining flintlock discharged, blowing clouds of dark gray smoke over the combatants, the screams of pain and yells of rage mixing into the muted roar of battle. In seconds, the battle went hand to hand, and the companions could no longer find easy targets.
Trying to run into the forest, a coldheart raced directly into the reach of the raped young women. He was twice their size and armed, but all ten of the teens leaped upon the man in bestial rage, clawing at his face with their nails. He fell shrieking and didn't stop for quite a while.
Ryan killed another two, then switched to the Steyr. He was out of loaded ammo clips for the handblaster. Blood was everywhere, the black smoke of discharged weapons mixing with the smoke of the burning houses in the ville until visibility was reduced to mere feet. Trying to listen for the sounds of the surf, Ryan moved for the beach. Unless these villagers were fools, they would start for the ship any time now, and he planned to be there waiting for them.
Smashing a man in the face with his LeMat, Doc tried to fire and found a sticky red wad of hair caught on the hammer. Holstering the piece, he unsheathed his sword and lunged at a man, stabbing him through the neck. The man was motionless from the pain, unable to use the weapon in his hand. As Doc savagely pulled the blade loose, he twisted the handle, forcing the wound to widen. Gurgling horribly, the slaver dropped, his hand clutching at the mortal wound, trying to staunch the crimson flow of life with dirty fingers.
Reaching the shoreline, Ryan saw the men on the ship scurrying about madly. A flintlock fired, and the anchor chain suddenly rattled through a hole in the gunwale, sinking into the sea.
"Bosun, look! They're trying to steal the ship!" a sailor cried out, pulling an ax from the split skull of a prone villager.
"What? We'll be trapped here forever!" a burly man snapped, grabbing a leather pouch of black powder from the belt of a corpse and reloading a flintlock pistol. He fired at the ship, but the miniball only hit the wooden side, doing no appreciable damage.
"It's too far!" the bosun raged, stuffing the pistol into his belt. "Bones of God, who's got a fucking longblaster!"
"What do you mean trapped?" Ryan demanded, walking around the piles of corpses. "Isn't there any other way off this island?"
"Hell's bells, no! Why do you think they wanted the Connie so bad?"
"Fireblast. Where are their boats?" Ryan demanded as he dropped a spent clip and shoved it into a pocket. He pulled a fresh magazine from the pouch at his belt and slipped it into the handle of the sleek blaster.
"On the ship, sec man," a bearded sailor said, sneering, cradling a broken arm. The brand on his shoulder was bleeding freely, but it didn't seem to bother the big man much.
Ryan glowered. "I meant the boats of the ville!"
"Over here!" a woman cried, and limped for a clump of weeds on the shore of a small inlet.
Whistling sharply three times, Ryan raced after her with the rest of the companions, except Doc, following close behind. Reaching the reeds, they found a crude dock made of stones simply piled on top of one another, without mortar or any other filler. But floating in the still water were two long dugout canoes, lashed together with stout bamboo poles into a single vessel.
"An outrigger," Mildred said as they climbed on board.
"Row!" Ryan ordered, shoving the craft away from the dock.
Oars bending and threatening to break, the companions put their backs into the task and the nimble craft leaped forward over the crashing waves toward the Constellation. Standing amid the reeds, the young woman silently watched them go, then turned her back to slowly walk away.
A wave crashed over the outrigger, almost swamping the boat, but they leaned against the swell and stayed afloat. Looming before them, the Constellation rose from the sea like a wooden cliff, imposing and indestructible. On the shore, the fighting had slowed to a few scattered gunshots and the steady thumping of an ax slamming into meat. Then Doc appeared from among the fighters, his gory sword stabbing here and slashing there. In the crow's nest, a villager looked down in shock at the approaching outrigger and reached for the rope attached to a warning bell. Rocking against the waves, Ryan fired the Steyr, and the man fell backward with most of his face gone.
"J.B., keep these stupes off us for a minute," Ryan ordered, rowing with one hand, the other holding the SIG-Sauer and blowing flame at the men on the deck.
Nodding, the Armorer released his oar, pulled a large gren from his munitions bag and began to unwrap the tape around the old-fashioned lever handle.
"Fireblast! That the reload?" Ryan asked, pulling the top of the SIG-Sauer along his pant leg to jack the slide and clear a jam. There was more ammo for the Steyr in his backpack, but only a few loose rounds for the longblaster in his pocket, with no time for reloading the magazine.
The Armorer nodded grimly. The gren was an old World War II model called a pineapple. Normally the two-pound gren was filled with gunpowder, but that had lost its ginger over the decades and wouldn't explode anymore. So J.B. had replaced the dead gunpowder with C-4 plas-ex. Problem was, the old-style gren held six times more plas than a modern lightweight gren, and nobody could throw it far enough to survive the explosion. J.B. had been saving the bomb for a special job, and this was it.
"Now!" Ryan shouted, and the companions stopped rowing to duck.
In a lofting arch, J.B. threw the gren over the gunwale.
There was a shout from the main deck, then a strident fireball erupted, blowing pieces of deck and bodies into the sky. A dozen men fell from the rigging, plummeting to the deck with horrible thumps.
"Head for the bow!" Ryan directed, sliding the longblaster over a shoulder. "Stay away from the bastard sides! Those cannon will cut us into mincemeat!"
At the shout, another face appeared over the gunwale and aimed a crossbow at them. Releasing her oar, Mildred triggered the shotgun and the man went flying out of sight, the iron quarrel slamming into the deck of the outrigger, missing Krysty by a scant inch.
"Thanks," she grunted.
"No prob."
Reaching the side of the vessel, Ryan grabbed the muzzle of the cannon and hauled himself off the outrigger canoe. As he peeked inside the ship, he saw the gunners jerk in reaction to his presence and claw for weapons. The SIG-Sauer coughed a song a death, and the slavers dropped where they stood.
Bracing his shoulder against the side of the ship, Ryan grabbed the cannon with his free hand and started to push. It took all of his strength, but the cast-iron weapon slowly moved along its recoil track until there was enough space for him to wiggle through and enter the gun room.
A match flared from the dark end of the room. Ryan dropped and rolled as flintlocks boomed and miniballs loudly ricocheted off the iron cannon.
From within a pool of darkness, he waited for his eye to adjust to the low light, then backtracked the muskets and emptied half the clip. Grunts announced lethal hits, then he spun about, firing twice more in the opposite direction.
Standing in a stairwell, a fat man struggling to load a musket dropped the weapon in surprise as a 9 mm round only nicked his arm. Shifting position, Ryan dropped the spent clip and slapped in a fresh mag while the coldheart raced to ram the cloth wad down the barrel of his blaster and finish the reloadin
g process. Both men clicked back hammers at the same time, and fired. Ryan proved to be the better marksman.
Quickly making sure the rest of the cannon deck was clear, Ryan tossed some rope out the cannon hole and stood guard while the rest of the companions climbed inside. Moving up the stairwell, they found only pieces of men, gore trickling down the steps leaving a grisly trail.
Reaching the main deck, the companions paused, listening for any voices, then charged out and spread apart as they searched for cover. The entire deck was smashed, pieces of planks jutting wildly from the tremendous explosion. Small fires burned here and there, and in the deck was a gaping hole large enough to drop a tank through. Teeth and slick stains told of several kills. A wounded man sat with his back to the mast, a belt tied tight around the oozing stump of his left leg.
"Ya fucking shifters!" he screamed, and fired both of the flintlocks in his hands. Even before the smoke of the double discharge cleared, he tossed the weapons aside and drew another set from his belt, clicking back the spring-driven hammers.
"Kill ya all!" he spit, reddish foam at the corners of his mouth.
J.B. threw his hat at the man, and as he shifted the aim of his weapons, Ryan fired. The slaver slammed backward against the mast, cracking his head. Slumped over, blood dribbling from his slack mouth, the man straggled to raise the blasters once more.
Ryan fired again and ended the matter.
Staying low, the companions studied the ship from their safe locations. Nobody else was in sight, on the deck or in the rigging above. The bow was piled with rope, and the quarterdeck was a full story above the main deck. The steering wheel would be on top, the captain's cabin and chart room underneath.
Rocking to the motion of the sea, the huge ship creaked gently as the evening tide carried it farther and farther away from the island.
"Not like," Jak said, scowling. An easy victory usually meant they had missed something important.
"Agreed," Ryan said, brushing back his hair. "J.B., Mildred, check the bunk room for survivors. Krysty and Dean, take the hold. Make sure they haven't done anything to sink the ship. Jak, with me," Ryan commanded, and started sprinting along the long deck of the battered vessel.
