by James Axler
"Chancellor Griffin commanded us to start carrying some of your medicine with us while on duty," the guard explained smoothly. "There is no reason our baron should ever be in pain."
Kinnison looked at the gourd as if it were a fanged insect. "Thank you, Sergeant," he spoke in an even tone. "Take that to the launch pods on the roof. I'll be there shortly to direct the attack."
"But…" The sec man stopped and saluted. "As you command, my lord."
As the guards marched away, Kinnison decided that Griffin had to go to Davey. This was the most clumsy attempt on his life ever, and if the chancellor was this poor at his job, then of what possible use could he be to the ville? None. Simply more jetsam for the sea.
Flanked by the remaining sec men, Kinnison rushed along the corridor as quickly as he could, and forced himself up a flight of stairs to reach his private level. The guards at the iron gate saluted as he went through. Going directly to his bedroom, Kinnison used two keys to unlock the steel door. The guards stayed in the hallway as he went inside and threw the heavy bolts. Then he paused to catch his breath. His temples were throbbing like a ship's cannons, his bandages felt tight, breathing was difficult and his skin felt prickly as if he were standing near a roaring fire. That sec man had been right; he needed more jolt immediately. But he wasn't accepting any as a gift. How stupid did Griffin think he was? Something was happening, and the baron began to strongly doubt there were any pirates in the waters around his island. The real danger was under his own roof.
Rushing to a hidden compartment in the headboard of his bed, Kinnison slid back a grooved wooden panel that perfectly matched the rest of the intricately carved mahogany. Quickly, he extracted a jar full of white powder and shook some into his trembling palm. There was spring water in a crystal pitcher on the table, and red wine in sealed bottles filling a shelf near the rack of longblasters, but those were much too distant. Lapping the drug from his hand, he stayed kneeling on the quilt until the tremors passed. Feeling better by the second, he drained the pitcher of water and sat down in relief.
Kinnison first knew something was terribly wrong when a fuzzy warmth spread outward from his enormous belly, stealing the strength from his limbs. He tried to rise and found it impossible. What was happening? Had he finally crossed the line and was dying of an overdose? The baron had to concentrate to breathe. His fingers twitched for the bell rope to summon his healer, but the effort was too great. He felt woozy and confused, and trying for the rope was too great an effort.
The door swung open, and in walked Griffin with a huge revolver in his grip. Kinnison recognized it instantly; it was a gift to Samson, one of his personal guards, for saving the baron from a night-creep attack. But the sec man was fanatically loyal to Kinnison and would never give up the weapon. Unless he was chilled.
"Yes, he's gone," Griffin said with a grin, cocking back the hammer. "And the ones I didn't ace personally, my gaudy sluts did. Every man and woman who supported you is dead. The palace is mine."
A great well of fury boiled inside Kinnison, but he could do nothing. The chancellor seemed to be at the far end of a long white tunnel. The baron mouthed the word traitor, but nothing came out.
"Oh, I'm much more than that, you fat bag of pus." The man chuckled and went to the door to slide back the heavy bolts.
As the door swung open, in came a dozen young sec men, their faces grim, hands full of rope.
"Hi, tubby," Evander said, grinning. "Was I a convincing enough fool to bring on one of your fucking attacks?"
"I am baron," Kinnison managed to whisper hoarsely. "This is my ville!"
"Was," Griffin corrected with a grim smile. "Report, Colonel, how goes the revolt?"
"The mansion and armory are under our control. A few of his guards escaped into the jungle, but we released the Hunters to bring them down, so they're meat in the ground. The gates of the ville are closed, the petey boats have only our men on board, and we have control of the Firebirds on the roof. The slaves tried to escape in the chaos, as you said they would. We shot some, and the rest went back to work. There is some fighting at the docks, but nothing we can't handle. All is secure."
It was so easily said. Maturo Island had fallen. Kinnison couldn't believe he heard the words. Nightmare. This was another wild hallucination brought on by the jolt, nothing more. His ville was fine, everything was fine.
"Excellent work, Colonel," Griffin said.
"Thank you, my lord."
There it was. Chancellor no more.
"You and you," Baron Griffin said, gesturing. "Bind that sack of shit with rope. Don't worry about cutting off his circulation. It isn't important."
Pulling on canvas gloves to protect them from his sickness, the sec men bound Kinnison tightly. He wanted to fight back, to reach the machine pistol hidden in the bed, but his strength was gone. He felt like a fish on the beach, fighting to move, trying to breathe.
"How…?" Kinnison said, then broke into a cough, bloody flecks staining the floor. The sec men moved farther away. Dragging in a lungful of air, he tried again. "What…did you…give me?"
"Exactly what you came here for, fat boy," Baron Griffin said with a sneer. "The jar was full of jolt. Not your painkillers and flash, with a trace of the drug. But pure quill jolt. Enough to stun a whale. I guessed it should be enough to dull your quivering bulk. Your own healer told me of the secret stash. I knew if a sec man offered you some openly, your natural paranoia would make you rush here for some clean drugs. You fell right into my hands."
"And if you died," a corporal said, "who'd give a fuck?"
The others agreed, some laughing, others staring with open hatred. Kinnison gave no reply, the growing buzz in his ears drowning out the world. He began to surrender to the warmth and closed his eyes. Then pain took the baron as his head snapped to the side, and he realized somebody was slapping him awake.
"Don't you die on me," Griffin snarled, back-handing his prisoner again. "I haven't begun to take my revenge yet. Colonel, send some of your men to cast that new brat of his into the sea with a stone tied around its neck."
"Yes, my lord." The man grinned and exited the room.
"No!" Kinnison screamed, and in a rush of strength stood and charged for the usurper. Two sec man grabbed his bandaged arms, and he shook them off, the urge to kill driving him onward like a Firebird in flight. But Griffin merely laughed as the sec men wrestled him to the wall, pinned helpless under their combined weight.
"Not even a good try," Griffin said haughtily.
"You'll never keep the throne," Kinnison growled, feeling the rush of strength ebbing away like the tide. "You can't control the Firebirds!"
Leaning past the guards, Griffin whispered something into his ear and Kinnison went pale.
"Did you really think I never followed you?" Griffin asked, delighted at the expression on the man's face. "Or listened at a keyhole? The rockets will obey my commands. I am in absolute control."
"There's still Lieutenant Brandon, sir," a burly sec man reminded. "He's got a dozen peteys, could be trouble. The ass is actually loyal to this blubbering thing."
Griffin waved that aside. "Brandon is dead. That healer, Glassman, is in charge of those boats, spreading the word about the outlanders. If Captain Glassman tries anything, we nail his family to the front wall until he surrenders. Then we blow him out of the water with my Firebirds."
Kinnison narrowed his piggy eyes and said nothing. For once he was thankful for the bandages that masked his features.
"What about the outlanders?" a sergeant asked. "I heard they took Cold Harbor ville in less than a day."
"Send the word, chill them on sight."
"Yes, my lord."
Exhaling loudly through his nose, a guard moved his head away from the huge prisoner. "Shitfire, this diseased pus bag stinks something awful!" he stated.
The other guards muttered in agreement. They had never been this close to the former baron before, and were beginning to understand why dogs wouldn't go near
him, and his bed partners got drunk before and after sex. He reeked worse than a dead seal on a hot beach.
Baron Griffin sniffed the air and made a face. "Nuke me, he is pungent. Well, he'll smell a lot worse when I'm done with him. Sergeant, have your men haul his wretched ass to the dungeon. I have something very special planned for our former lord and master."
"Yes, sir!"
Dragging Kinnison into motion, the sec men kicked and shoved the fat man along the stony corridors of the mansion and down into the cellar. When Kinnison heard the telltale booming of the heavy door closing, he knew that there was every possibility that he would never leave the dungeon alive. A flare of pride overlook him, and he found the notion intolerable that the hideous tortures he did so often to others would now be done to him. Kinnison decided to try for a clean death. When the guards cut off the rope to shackle him to the wall, he'd grab a blaster and start shooting. They would be forced to chill him then, and he would be spared the humiliation of being taken apart under the sharp knives and red-hot tongs of his enemies.
But the sec men seemed to have expected that move on his part, because they shackled him first, and then cut away the ropes. Dangling helpless from the iron cuffs attached to the ceiling, Kinnison stood before the jeering men utterly helpless. They could do as they pleased with him now, and there was no way he could stop them. He was already dead. If he had a single minute alone, he might have a fleeting chance of escape, but that would never happen. Griffin was proving himself worthy to be a baron in every way.
"Let's carve him up a little first," a guard said, poking at the man with the tip of his knife. "Mebbe set him on fire first."
"Cut off his fingers, feed them to the dogs!" another shouted.
"Don't be ridiculous," Griffin said, testing the anchor bolt that held the chains. It was good and solid. "His heir is dead, his reign is over. Let him live out the rest of his miserable life down here in the cold and wet. The sickness will eat him alive, and without his drugs or shine, it'll be a much more painful death than anything we could do to him."
Dribbling blood and pus from tied hands, Kinnison heaved for breath and remained quiet.
That wasn't the reaction he wanted, so Baron Griffin took a bottle from a nearby table, grabbed Kinnison by the chin and forced him to look upward.
"Live forever," he whispered, and pulled the cork with his teeth to pour the contents over the man, front and back.
Kinnison had only a moment to wonder what was happening before he smelled the strong aroma of alcohol. He watched in horror as the clear liquid seeped through his bandages and reached the open sores covering his skin. The screams exploded from him as searing pain burned into his flesh, his anguished cries almost drowning out the laughter of his captors. The agony seemed to last for years as he was doused with more shine, and then again, until he was finally swallowed whole by sweet blackness.
KINNISON AWAKENED with a scream, and it took a moment for him to realize he was alone in the cell. Then he shuddered in memory of what they had done. He ached from the beatings, and every sore felt brand-new, as tender as a bullet wound. Plus his clothes were filthy. The blood and pus had soaked through the bandages and stained his shirt and pants. His sandals were gone, his bare feet resting on the cold stone floor, and his left arm was broken, the job expertly done. There were no splinters of bone through the skin to cause major blood loss and a fast death. He could feel the splintered ends grinding against each other, but after a decade of pain, it was only a minor annoyance.
The cell was as he remembered, small and damp. There was only ambient light in the cell, a soft glow seeping around the door from the torches in the corridor outside. The wall shelf had been emptied of any tools. There were no sounds, but the scurrying of rats in the dank straw piled near the waste bucket.
Patiently, the man forced himself to wait, making sure he was truly alone. Griffin had made a terrible mistake letting him live. Soon he would answer for his crimes against the state. And for the death of his son.
Suddenly, Kinnison not could wait another second, and he clumsily swung the broken arm to his mouth and started tugging at the shirtsleeve with his teeth. The fine cloth ripped easily, and he started on the stained bandages. Steeling his stomach to the task, the man started chewing off the filthy strips. The smell of his diseased flesh turned his stomach, but he continued until inadvertently swallowing some saliva. The taste convulsed his entire body, and he violently retched.
Gasping for breath, he heard the rats arrive as if they knew what the sound was. They gathered around the sour puddle, and he crushed one underfoot, then kicked it into the corner. The rest converged on their wounded member and started to feast. Dripping sweat, Kinnison redoubled his efforts to get the putrid strips of cloth off his arm. They would be even more hungry when finished and would immediately turn on him. Now it was a race.
Ignoring the pain and taste, he ripped at the bandages madly until the last layer peeled away making the sores bleed anew. But there it was, a small iron key taped just below the break. Breathing through his nose, he lipped the item out of the slimy sore, and quickly jerked his head to the right, grabbed the key from his mouth and retched again, until his body was racked with dry heaves. The rats didn't seem to notice or care.
Commanding himself, Kinnison twisted about and brought his hands close, awkwardly inserting the key into the lock of the manacles and turning it ever so gently. As the catch released, his arm dropped free and he bit back a scream, trembling with the effort. As the circulation was restored, the pain subsided, and he forced the shaking limb to reach up and unlock his right wrist. The click was like music, and he quickly caught the broken arm so it wouldn't drop again. Very gently, he tucked the aching arm into his shirt, then rigged a crude sling with his own bandages. It was uncomfortable, but more important, he was free, although locked in a rat-infested cell deep underground, surrounded by traitors.
Trembling with weakness and covered in filth, Kinnison grimaced in triumph as he climbed onto the pile of straw and fumbled with the ceiling. Even in bright lantern light it appeared to be solid stone. Finally, his fingertips found the pattern of a Firebird carved into a stone, and he started to pound with his right fist. After a few minutes, the stone came loose and he reached into the hole to start removing handfuls of items: a zip-top plastic bag full of fresh white bandages, plastic film canisters of his drugs, clean clothing, candles, a tinderbox, a gourd of wine, glass jars of food and clean water. Then came the weapons: a slim dagger and a pre-dark revolver in oiled cloth, with a full box of live rounds. His emergency supplies in case of a rebellion. This hadn't been done with every cell in the dungeon. That would have been too dangerous. Only this special one had been kept empty of prisoners, even when he had five or six packed into the others.
Now taking his time, Lord Baron Kinnison lit the candle, the light making the rats flee back into the walls. Stripping naked, the fat man washed the filth from his body and plotted revenge as he wrapped his sores and began to dress. By the time he was rigging a new sling for the broken arm, Kinnison already had a plan to bring down Griffin and the rest of the cowardly traitors who had planned this Judas strike.
"Live forever," Kinnison throated through his gritted teeth, tightening the sling. "No, I won't, but I'll live longer than you bastards. Oh, yes, I will."
Chapter Ten
As the train of horses plodded along the mountainous trail, Ryan fought off a shiver, his coat offering little protection against the strong winds.
There had been enough horses for everybody, more in fact, but only saddles for about half and no supplies. Most of the freed sec man were in thin clothing. As the group climbed into the hills and the temperature quickly dropped, Krysty had gotten the horse blankets from under the saddles, and cut holes in the centers to make crude ponchos for the cold men. It helped, but not much. The horses were unhappy, but they didn't have a vote in the matter.
Good thing the companions were wearing jackets, although only Krysty w
as actually warm in her bearskin coat. And those fingerless gloves J.B. wore were a godsend. Ryan's own coat was too thin to be much protection against the bitter winds of the higher peaks, but it was a hell of a lot better than those ponchos. Mildred had loaned Ann some of her spare clothing, but the thin girl still looked pale and weak. Ryan wasn't sure she could last much longer without a hot meal. The cholera had taken a lot out of her.
And everybody was hungry. The cannies hadn't fed their prisoners since they had planned on eating them, and while the companions had lots of MRE food packs, they hesitated to display the predark wealth of the foil envelopes. Ryan had convinced Mitchum that the companions found their rapidfires and revolvers in the cannie armory. The lie was accepted at face value, but if they started showing MRE packs, flashlights, rad counters and such, the only possible conclusion would be that they were outlanders, and strangers got aced in these islands by order of the lord baron.
With a week's worth of food in their backpacks, the companions rode along with Mitchum and his troops, stomachs growling, and watching the landscape for anything they could shoot for dinner, then breakfast and now lunch. Thankfully, there was lots of grass for the horses to munch on the lower hills, and plenty of snow for water. Filling a canteen only gave a few cupfuls after it melted from body heat. But it tasted pure and clean.
"Ville much farther?" Jak asked, his teeth chattering. The albino teenager had one hand stuffed into a pocket, the other holding the reins. And he switched them often. He couldn't understand how it could be so damn cold in the tropics. But then, he'd seen a swamp turn into a desert in under a year in the Deathlands. Bastard weather was screwy across the globe.
"Mebbe by tomorrow morning we'll see Ratak ville," Colonel Mitchum said, tightening the belt strapped around his poncho. The wind kicked up tiny blizzards of snow and constantly dusted them with flakes. The officer filled his mind with memories of warm days on the beach, and savored what little heat came from the animal he rode.
