Judas Strike - Deathlands 54

by James Axler

  Reaching the collapsed section of the warren, Ryan paused at the right turn and signaled it was all-clear to Doc.

  "Lady Ann, we meet once more." The scholar smiled, then looked over the sec men. They were as rough and tumble a group as he had ever seen. "Your entourage, I assume?"

  "Six minutes and counting," J.B. said brusquely, patting his munitions bag.

  Doc said nothing, but his eyes went wide, and he started up the mound of loose dirt. Reaching the surface, Doc unlimbered the M-16 and stood guard while the others clambered out of the blast crater. Exiting the tunnel, the group quickly got away from the depression in the ground as the rim was soft and crumbled easily under their boots and bare feet.

  "This way!" Mitchum cried, waving a blaster and heading for the water pool.

  "Forget it! Follow me," Ryan countered, and started up the inclined ramp at a full sprint.

  In ragged formation, the group charged past the pungi-stick wall, and braked to a halt upon reaching level ground. Masked by moon shadows, Krysty and Mildred were waiting there with blasters drawn. Dean was nowhere in sight.

  "Hello, Adam," Mildred said, her blaster out, but not quite pointing in the direction of the sec men.

  "Hey, Claire," Ryan responded, and the women relaxed.

  Mitchum arched an eyebrow at the exchange and said nothing. But it was patently obvious they were exchanging some kind of a code. Who exactly were these outlanders?

  "Nice to see you again, lover," Krysty said, resting the barrel of the Steyr on a shapely shoulder.

  Ryan pulled her close for a hard kiss and took the longblaster. "Move fast. We lit their armory."

  "Dean, get the horses!" Mildred shouted.

  Instantly, the boy bolted from the stand of bamboo and dashed into the darkness of the night.

  "Horses? Scorch me, we might live to see daylight yet!" a sec man said, grinning widely.

  J.B. tossed Mildred the scattergun. She caught the blaster and pumped the action to chamber a round. Watching the exchange, Colonel Mitchum was impressed that a lowly woman knew anything about blasters.

  Just then there was a loud bang and a sec man fell to the ground, a jagged hole in his chest. In unison, the companions turned and fired down into the ville. A group of cannies armed with longblasters took cover in the smoking rubble, and started to reload.

  Leading the way, Ryan sprinted along the path through the bamboo forest and found Dean slashing the ropes tethering the horses. Most of the animals were bareback but there was no time to find and cinch on saddles. Clumsily, the people climbed onto the placid animals and rode out the swinging gate. Once outside, they kicked the beasts hard and started to gallop away from the hidden ville at top speed.

  The companions and the sec men had just cleared the patch of dry land and were splashing through the beginnings of the swamp when a flash of light lit up the sky. As wind buffeted man and horse, they watched as a column of fire and smoke formed a classic mushroom shape that reached for the stars.

  "Mother of God," Mildred said, watching the mushroom cloud expand over the shaking bamboo. "How much powder did you use?"

  "Everything they had," J.B. replied curtly.

  Just then the ground tremors arrived, and the horses reared on their hind legs, screaming in terror. The riders fought to control their mounts.

  "Watch for debris!" Ryan warned, even as the first of the wreckage started to plummet from the sky.

  Charred heads splashed into the soggy landscape, along with bent blasters and unrecognizable things blackened by smoke and fire. Racing into the trees, the group waited until the grisly rain finally ceased. A reddish light swelled to fill the world, and they could see the bamboo forest was on fire, the flames illuminating the surrounding countryside for miles.

  "Which direction to the ville?" Ryan asked, settling the Steyr into a more comfortable position across his back. He was dirty and tired, but they couldn't make camp until far away from here. A few of the cannies might have survived and could come after them in a nightcreep. Best to get some distance for safety.

  Gazing at the stars overhead, Ann turned in the saddle and pointed. "That way. North."

  "No, we should go east from here," Colonel Mitchum corrected her. "Then north after passing the rad zones."

  Reining in his horse to keep it steady, Ryan studied the two people, debating their answers.

  "How far?" he asked suddenly.

  "A week on foot," the girl answered after a hesitation.

  "Day or so, on horseback," Mitchum added. "Easy traveling, flat land, lots of freshwater."

  Moaning across the land, a warm wind blew over the group, rustling the leaves on the trees and carrying the smell of fiery death.

  "East it is," Ryan said, not believing a word said by either of them. Personally, he much preferred fighting cannies. At least you could see them coming.

  Chapter Nine

  The bedroom was lit only by candles, the flickering light playing across the waiting people. Dried flower petals mixed into the wax gave off a sweet perfume. The only door was shut tight and locked with a heavy wooden bar, and a cheery blaze burned in the predark fireplace, giving off soothing waves of warmth. The window shutters were closed, and the silence was broken only by the soft crackle of the burning logs in the fireplace.

  Standing on a small rug in the middle of the room, a slim woman with long blond hair slowly unbuttoned her shirt and let it slide off her body. The cloth fluttered to the floor, and she ran delicate hands across her taut stomach, then upward to cup her heavy breasts. The pink nipples hardened immediately, and the tip of her tongue played along her sensuous lips. Tugging on her waistband, she released her skirt to join the shirt on the floor. She was shaved clean, ready for this special evening, and small tattoos adorned her pale skin, which only made her appear even more naked, if that were possible. A finger was missing from her left hand, and the brand of a slave was burned into the satiny skin of her shoulder.

  "You, too," the giant man on the bed said, taking another sip from his 40 mm brass goblet of wine.

  The other woman removed her top and held it out at arm's length for a moment before letting it fall. Her breasts were small but firm, the oversize nipples already protruding. She laughed, the sound as gentle as the rain, and ran her long hands down her waist to push off her cotton pants. She stepped out of the pile of clothing, and kept her legs spread wide, then ran her ringers across her taut stomach and down to the juncture of her thighs. Her skin was as dark as coffee, her raven hair set in bouncy coils that dangled loosely and partially hid her features. There was an acid scar on her neck from when she had been caught out in the rain as a child. Her nails were long and sharply pointed. The brand of a slave marked her bare shoulder.

  "Come close," the huge sec man ordered, slurping his wine. He shifted position on the bed and let his robe fall open, showing that he was fully ready for the women. His body was colossal, and more heavily muscled than a field slave's. White dots marred his thickly hairy chest, showing where he had been shot many times. A thin scar ran across his forearm where he had blocked a knife thrust, and a small gold ring glistened from his right ear, disguising the fact the lobe was gone, bitten off in a bar fight.

  "Do me," the giant demanded, placing aside the artillery shell of red wine. "Do me now."

  The women joined him on the bed. Going to either side, the gaudy sluts pressed breasts onto his face and both wrapped their hands around his throbbing cock. Almost suffocating from the delicious softness, he ran rough hands over their bodies as he sucked on one nipple, then bit another.

  The blonde lifted a leg onto the mattress and guided his hand to her moist softness. His stubby fingers played with the delicate folds as the brunette wrapped her strong fingers around his shaft and started to stroke the sec man, but he pushed her off. Not yet, too soon. He wanted this to last the whole scorching night.

  "You," he panted, grabbing the blonde by the shoulder hauling her to the floor.

  Obediently,
the woman took him fully into her mouth and began to use her talented tongue. He groaned in lust as she rotated her head around his throbbing shaft, playfully using her teeth at just the right spot.

  "Nuke me," he hoarsely whispered. "Again. Do that again!"

  "No, that's quite enough," a new voice said calmly.

  The giant snapped his head around and tried to focus on the figure standing in one corner of the room. A thousand questions filled his mind, but his hand instinctively darted for the blaster in the gun belt hanging from the nearby bedpost, only to find the weapon gone. Frantically, the sec man tried to extract himself from the ministrations of the two naked sluts, so pleasurable before, now a deadly trap. But the women hung on tighter, digging in their nails to hold him in place.

  As he struggled to get loose, the stranger walked into the firelight, raised an ax and brought it down with unbridled fury. The blade passed through the arm the sec man raised to protect himself. The pain rooted him to the spot, and as he tried to scream, the women pulled long thin needles from within their hair and stabbed upward through his jaw, pinning his mouth shut.

  Unstoppable, the ax fell again, opening his chest, and the women hastily backed away as his beating organs slithered out of the red body cavity.

  The giant fell backward, reeling from the loss of blood, and the ax descended once more, permanently ending the matter.

  As the stranger yanked the ax free from the dead man's head, he saw the exposed heart suddenly beat a brief flurry, and then go still. Nukeshit, the huge man had been hell to chill. Perhaps the hired coldhearts hadn't been lax in their failed attempts to ace the battle-scarred goliath. Pity he couldn't be bought. He would have made a wonderful bodyguard.

  "Good work, my pets," Chancellor Griffin said, wiping the crimson blade on the sheets. Blood was still flowing from the warm corpse, and he had trouble locating a dry patch to clean his weapon. As he shifted a blanket, the gun belt became visible tucked far underneath the bed. Completely out of reach.

  The two slaves bowed to their master, then raised smiling faces, plush lips smeared with blood.

  "You're filthy. Get washed and visit the next man on the list," the chancellor commanded. "And be quick, there is much to do tonight."

  Gathering their clothes, the women hurried off, exiting through the same hidden doorway their master had entered.

  Removing a bit of skull from his weapon, Griffin tested the nicked edge of the blade and decided it was still in good enough shape for one more kill. After that, silence wouldn't be necessary, and he could move openly.

  Lifting the brass cup, he drank the wine in a victory toast. Everything was going precisely on schedule. Nothing could stop him now. Not even the mighty Lord Bastard himself.

  ARMED GUARDS walking in front and behind, Kinnison walked down the main corridor of the mansion, waving and smiling at the cheering people lining the way. He had a son, an heir to carry on his reign! Triple-damn fools had better cheer, or he'd rip the bones from their flesh.

  The pain in his limbs was especially bad today, but the baron forced a smile and continued along with the procession. Slaves threw rose petals in the air, an old man blew a tune on a harmonica and the sec men stayed very close to the chained midwife carrying the newborn baron.

  But Kinnison was annoyed his preparations for the parade had failed so miserably. Every step was agony even though he was wearing fresh bandages boiled in clean water, had smeared ointment on every open sore, and even took an extra dose of jolt to ward off the pain from his disease. The baron knew the drug was rotting his mind even as the disease did his flesh, but he had no choice. Twelve more winters and he could die. Not until then would the boy be big enough to rule the islands, and their hundred villes. That was the age he was when he pushed his own father off a balcony to seize the Iron Throne.

  His grandfather had once told him how the secret of black powder was found in an old book. Just a book, sitting forgotten on a shelf for decades. Amazing. Unfortunately, it wasn't the strange silvery stuff in predark military blasters. Nobody had ever been able to duplicate that smokeless brew.

  But the grainy black powder did operate muzzle-loading blasters, and if ground very fine it would work in rapidfires, at least for a while. They always jammed.

  Only his family knew the formula for the precious black powder, and protected that prize by having a hundred different chems delivered to the mills when he needed only three. In recent years, Kinnison thought he would be the last of the noble line, taking the knowledge to his grave. But now he had a son to carry on the reign. In some indescribable way, that made him feel immortal.

  Oddly, while black powder was the source of his island's wealth, the Firebirds were its strength, the power that made his words into law. The sleek missiles obeyed his commands as if alive, and would never swerve from a target once it was in view.

  More than a dozen times since skydark, other barons, coldhearts, pirates and muties had attempted to seize control of Maturo Island. But the Firebirds always slaughtered the invaders, and nobody had tried open rebellion for quite a while. However, the local barons were constantly testing him by sending old fish and sick slaves as their tribute. Sometimes even beer they watered down with piss. Each "mistake" was savagely answered by a barrage of Firebirds, and there would be no more trouble for years. That was, until some fool decided to try again. The dockyard dogs of his island feasted richly on the entrails of those who dared to challenge his power.

  Approaching the throne room, trumpeters blared a herald for the arrival of the baron and his son, which naturally made the infant start to wail in fear. Seriously annoyed, Baron Kinnison glared at the men, and they quickly retreated down a side passage. Fused-brain idiots.

  "My lord, a moment!" a sec man called from the attending crowd.

  Turning in the doorway, Kinnison stared at the disturbance. It was a corporal from the coast watch. Evander something, good man, had chilled a guard with his bare hands for sleeping on a watch.

  "What?" the baron demanded.

  "My lord, pirate ships have been spotted on the horizon," he reported. "And the quartermaster is unhappy with the number of Firebirds we have ready. I understand this is an important moment, the coronation of your first son—congratulations, my lord—but the safety of the ville may be in danger. Would it be completely out of the question to—?"

  "You talk too much," Kinnison snapped, and turned to the midwife.

  "Take my son to his room. Double the guards and stay there until called. Understood?"

  "Yes, my lord," she said, bowing her head. "I shall guard the boy with my life."

  "You better," the baron growled, touching the blaster at his side. The woman paled and raced away with a full squad of sec men in her wake.

  Anxiously, the crowd waited to be told what was happening.

  "Evander, with me, the rest of you stay here," the baron commanded, and started along a corridor at his fastest pace.

  Murmuring among themselves, the attendees did as ordered, nobody wanting to be the first to leave and risk the wrath of their brutal lord and master.

  The sec men easily matched the speed of the ill man, and spread out in a standard defensive arc as he reached a massive door set in the stone block wall. It was a new section of the mansion, formed of solid granite blocks taken from the ruins of a lighthouse at the far end of the island.

  Kinnison unlocked the door and opened it a crack to reach through and fumble with something on the inside. When the booby trap was deactivated, the baron swung the door wide and marched straight inside. The room was narrow and dimly lit by a single oil lantern hanging from the ceiling, the wick barely glowing red it was turned down so low. At the back was a honeycomb of bamboo tubes, every one filled with a Firebird, and both of the walls were lined with shelves filled with small bowls. Something in the bowls splashed about at his approach, and tiny tentacles writhed in the air as if waving in greeting.

  Suddenly, Evander entered the room with a torch, the crackling l
ight filling the tiny room with brilliant illumination. The things in the bowls began to shriek and wildly thrash their tentacles in blind panic.

  "Out!" Kinnison yelled, and shoved the man into the corridor.

  Evander stumbled from the room and dropped the torch. It rolled away, leaving a trail of burning pitch on the cold stone.

  Leaving the room, Kinnison ever so gently closed the door, then turned on the sec man. "Idiot!" the baron shouted, backhanding the officer to the floor.

  "I just wanted to see…" Evander began hesitantly. Suddenly, he felt the cold gaze of the other sec men directed toward him.

  "The pilots are terrified of fire!" Kinnison raged. "You've weakened the defensives of the entire island! If the pirates attack now, we may lose because of this. It will be days, even weeks before the pilots calm down!"

  Kinnison found he had trouble speaking, his mind was a hurricane of dark thoughts. To lose everything because of one small mistake. There was no torture awful enough to serve as punishment for this crime. Wait. Yes, there was.

  "Guards, seize the traitor," Kinnison commanded. "But no blasters! I want him alive when we feed him to the pilots."

  Evander went pale and backed away, clawing for his blaster. But the other sec men pounced on the former guard, easily disarmed him, then bound his hands behind his back.

  "Mercy, my lord," Evander stammered, tears running down his bruised face. "Castrate me, burn me at the stake. But not this! Anything but this, please!"

  Kinnison said nothing as he watched the weeping prisoner dragged away, then sighed and sagged against the stone wall. He was feeling weaker every day, and the drugs were helping less and less. Death would be a sweet release. But this unexpected excitement of pirates and Evander had drained him completely. He felt sick to his stomach, and itchy.

  "Here, my lord," a sergeant said, offering a gourd. It sloshed from the slight motion.

  "And what is this?" Kinnison demanded suspiciously, not accepting the container.