by James Axler
The front gate was very small, only slightly larger than a regular door, just barely big enough to walk a horse through. Riding into the ville would have been out of the question. There was no way coldhearts or pirates could force enough troops through the door to forcibly hold the passage open. A handful of sec men could defend the door with nothing more than axes. With blasters it would be a slaughter.
"Impressive," Krysty said.
"Best ville in the Thousand Islands," Mitchum boasted.
Looking around, J.B. noticed a break in the trees to the far right, indicating another road. "That lead to the docks?"
"Where we keep the ships," the colonel corrected. "Wouldn't call them docks, exactly."
Ryan reined in his horse. "Before we go any farther, you and I need to talk."
"Yeah? What about?" Mitchum asked suspiciously, a hand moving dangerously near his blaster.
"Our deal. A ship for your freedom."
"I'll pay your price," the officer said. "Don't worry about that. Just one of these flintlocks will buy you a rowboat large enough for everything but the horses."
"And you can keep the horses once we're gone. All we want is a boat."
"Fair enough, but you better hide those fancy blasters. I know you got them from the cannies, but if Thayer spots those, he'll take them away. Road tax, defense budget, whatever he feels like calling it this month."
"He can try," Dean said stoically.
"Won't just try, lad. Baron Thayer would get them any way necessary," Mitchum stated. "That's a fact. And we'll help him do it, too. We owe you big, but the baron has our oath."
Yeah, Ryan thought as much. But they had walked this razor's edge before and survived. Briefly, he considered having J.B. stay outside and keep watch, but decided it would be wiser to keep everybody together. Otherwise, they might have come back for the Armorer through an army of sec men. Besides, they had a few special items that Mitchum knew nothing about in case of trouble.
"Hide the weapons," Ryan commanded.
Reluctantly, the companions removed their gun belts and holsters, hiding the blasters and ammo inside their bedrolls and backpacks. Flintlocks were tucked into their belts now, ammo bags of black powder and lead shot slung across shoulders to distribute the weight.
Shaking the reins, Ryan made a clucking sound with his tongue and started the horse at a canter through the field heading toward Ratak ville. Mitchum galloped to catch up and stayed alongside, while the rest of the group followed close behind.
Chapter Eleven
As the companions and the sec men rode toward the jungle ville, Mitchum started to wave at the guards on the wall.
"Gotta show we're friendly," he said, "or we don't even get close. Standing orders are to shoot on sight."
"Shoot who?" Mildred asked, rocking to the movement of her mount.
"Everybody," the colonel answered. Then he pointed at a sec man on the wall, who was sitting with his legs dangling over the top and sipping from a gourd. "Pierce! Put down that shine!"
The startled sec man dropped the gourd and quickly stood, wiping his mouth on a sleeve. Squinting down at the riders, he broke into a smile. "Fuck a mutie, it's the colonel. Hey, Sarge! Colonel Mitchum's back!"
"I saw him five minutes ago," the sergeant stated calmly.
Raising a hand, Mitchum brought the riders to a halt a short distance from the front door.
"Open the gate, Sergeant Whyte."
"Sure thing, sir!" the man said, lowering his blaster to point at them. "Be glad to, just as soon as your new friends back away."
"Better do as he asks," Mitchum told the others. "And don't draw a blaster or he'll shoot without warning."
"Tight security," Ryan said, noting the placement of the guards. "Must have a lot of enemies."
"Not anymore."
Shaking the reins, the companions walked their mounts away from the sec men and watched the group enter the ville through the door. It closed behind them. But after a few moments, the door swung open again, and Mitchum waved them inside.
Ryan took the lead, and single file the companions guided their mounts through the narrow doorway. Doc was the last, and as it thudded closed the sound reminded him of a coffin lid slamming shut. An unnerving comparison.
After the gate closed, armed sec men struggled to slide a wooden beam as thick as a horse across the portal.
Mitchum and his troopers had stopped in the middle of a street and slid off their mounts to look around the ville and clap each other on the back. It was obvious they were glad to be back home.
Sidling closer to the sec men, Ryan studied the place. Logs with steps cut into them served as a ladder to reach the walkway set along the inside of the wall. Boxes and barrels placed at regular intervals probably held ammo, arrows and such for the sec men to use in case of attack. That was smart. Ryan had seen many a ville fall because the baron kept every round of ammo in his home, and didn't arm his guards fast enough to stop an attack.
The streets were dirt with gravel walked into the ground as protection from the rain. The ramshackle buildings were mostly trailer homes, with a few log cabins and one big structure made of brick and stone. The baron's home, obviously. A well stood in the middle of a stone plaza, a bamboo-and-thatch roof standing guard over the precious clean water. A door stood wide on a blacksmith shop, tan men pounding iron on an anvil made of stone, and a thick waxy smell came from a tiny van whose chassis was sunk into the ground, smoke rising from a vent in the roof and rows of candles hanging from a clothesline to cool and harden in the sea breeze. And looming darkly over the ville was a row of gallows, the light-color palm-tree wood stained with blood.
From somewhere there came the steady crack of a whip, followed by an anguished cry. The noise continued, with the cries becoming weaker.
Straggling in, a crowd of people was forming in the street to greet Mitchum and his troops. The locals were dressed in the usual assortment of homemade hides and bits of predark junk. Many wore sandals cut from tires, and there were lots of vests and skirts made from shag carpeting. An old man was smoking a wooden pipe, and a young girl was suckling a newborn in her arms.
Suddenly, the crowd parted for a big man in shiny boots and tight denim pants worn light blue at the knees. The big man was shirtless, revealing his hairy chest and massive muscles with long arms that nearly reached his knees. Mildred thought he looked like an ape, the man was so simian in nature. As the only person carrying a blaster, he had to be the baron. The weapon was a .22 revolver, small cartridges filling half the loops lining his rainbow-colored belt. Some sort of lizard skin, the physician assumed.
Covertly, J.B. and Ryan exchanged looks. If that was what the baron carried, then the man would happily chill them to get his hands on the .357 Colt Magnum or the Uzi machine pistol.
As the ape man came closer, Mitchum and his troops quickly stood in a rough line.
"Sir!" they chorused and snapped salutes.
He tried not to show it, but Ryan was impressed. He hadn't seen disciplined troops since the Shiloh slave camp of that crazy whitecoat.
"At ease, you bastards," the baron grunted in greeting, returning the gesture. "Mitchum, glad as hell to see you and the troops alive. After a week I figured you were aced."
The colonel frowned. "Damn near, my lord, but we're still sucking air thanks to these folks," Mitchum said, looking at the companions.
"That so," Baron Thayer said, glancing at them for only a second. "So what happened, pirates attack?"
"It was those cannies that been hunting us since last winter," Mitchum explained. "Aced half my squad, and was working their way through the rest when Ryan and his people busted in and blew the place apart."
"What do you mean?" the baron asked, confused.
"They set fire to the armory, Baron," the colonel said. "You should have seen it!"
"Those cannies won't ever be bothering us again," a private added.
"That true?" Thayer demanded, scowling in disbelief.
> "Close enough," Ryan said, sliding out of the saddle to talk with the man on an even keel. The Trader always said that talking face-to-face put a man more at ease, and they needed the baron's goodwill to acquire that boat.
Rubbing his chin, Thayer studied the companions closely, a thumb in his pocket, resting his hand inches from the little blaster. "I'm Harlan Thayer." he said at last, "the baron of Ratak ville. Who the hell are you folks?"
"Just some explorers," Ryan said, crossing his arms, so that his own hands hung near the loaded flintlocks tucked into his Army belt. "A forest fire burned down our ville of Moscow, and we set out to find a better place."
"Lord Baron Kinnison doesn't like wanderers," Thayer growled. "Says they're often spies working for pirates."
The statement sounded like a trap of some kind, so Ryan took the offensive. "Don't give a hot shit what the Lord Bastard likes," he stated firmly. "And if somebody stuffed a Firebird up his ass, I'd gladly light the fuse."
The crowd froze in terror, but the sec man laughed and Thayer shifted his frown into a momentary grin. "Well, you got balls, One-eye, that's for sure. Everybody hates the fat rotbag, but few dare to say it aloud. What are your names?"
Introductions were made all around.
"Mighty good horse," Thayer said, going to a mare and stroking its neck. The animal stayed in place and shuffled its hooves in pleasure under the petting. "What'll you take for them?"
"The ones ridden by Mitchum and his men are yours," Ryan said. "As are the blasters they carry. They bought them with blood."
Thayer continued to stroke the beast, but seemed confused that the offer of payment had been declined, the animals and weapons turned into a gift. If he didn't know better, the baron would have sworn the stranger was trying to buy his goodwill.
"Sell you these others," Krysty countered, draping the reins over the pommel of her saddle. "Food and good beds for a week."
Amused, Thayer looked over the red-haired beauty. He had thought she was only Ryan's bed warmer, but now he saw she carried a blaster. Odd folks these outlanders. A memory tickled the back of his brain, something about strangers with fancy blasters. But these folks had only flintlocks, so it couldn't have been about them.
"Keep the horses. I'm offering food and good beds for a month," Baron Thayer stated loudly. "That's what I pay as reward to anybody who aces a hundred cannies and saves my men from the pot. Food and beds, or three full pounds of black powder. Your choice."
The old man dropped his pipe, and the crowd gasped at the incredible offer, unable to believe what they were hearing.
"Take the food and beds," Ryan said, easing his stance and offering a hand.
"Agreed, Blackie," the baron replied.
They shook on the deal, and Thayer added, "Mitchum, take these folks to the Grotto and tell Sal they're my guests. And after they're fed, bring them to the palace for drinks. Got some coconut wine that'll melt a cannonball, and I'd like a talk with folks who have seen other islands."
"Yes, Baron," Colonel Mitchum answered, snapping a salute.
"Just a second there, dead man," a gruff voice said from the crowd, and the people parted to admit a burly officer.
"Colliers," Mitchum growled, drawing his blaster. The rest of the sec men did the same, and the cocking of hammers sounded like tree branches snapping in the sudden quiet.
"You were gone for a week! Now I'm the sec chief in this ville!" Colliers stated, stabbing his chest with a thumb. "Ain't just going to roll over like a gaudy slut and give it back to a feeb who let cannies catch him!"
"A fight to the death," Mitchum said, his weapon neither moving nor wavering. "Not first blood, but a chilling. No quarter, no rules."
"Fine by me," Colliers snarled, and pulled a blade with lightning speed.
"No rules at all?" Mitchum insisted.
"Agreed!" Colliers spit, starting for the man.
Calmly, Mitchum fired the flintlock in his hand, the .75 miniball punching a round hole in the other man's face and blowing out the back of his head, spraying bones, brains and blood over the crowd.
Most of the people broke ranks and ran; only a few stayed to watch more.
"Only a triple stupe would agree to no rules," Mitchum said, holstering the smoking weapon, "when you got a loaded blaster pointed at your guts."
"Wondered how you two would settle this," Baron Thayer said, waving away the cloud of gun smoke. "Was going to make it a formal match, in the pit with no weapons but bare hands. Don't have to do that now."
"No, sir," Mitchum stated. "Private, drag the body to the cliff and toss him into the sea. But keep the boots and that blade. We'll give those to the sec man we take on to fill his place."
"I'll do it," a teenager said, stepping forward. "Want to be a sec man. Chill me some pirates."
Baron Thayer arched an eyebrow, but Mitchum looked the boy over closely. He was barefoot and dressed in a piece of canvas, crudely stitched into shapeless clothing. His face was gaunt, but the teen stood a good head above the rest of the crowd, and his hands were gnarled weapons of grisly scars. Good food would fill in as solid muscle, and the ville would have a useful chilling machine in their fighting ranks.
"Name?" he snapped.
"Samms, Virgil Samms, sir. I live down by the docks, in the dolphin cove with the—"
"Shut up! Never waste an officer's time with horseshit, boy. Now help dispose of the body, and remember," the colonel added sternly, "Brad Colliers was a stupe, but also a sec man. He gets full honors and prayers before going to Davey. You'll taste the lash if I hear about you missing a single word. Get me?"
"Aye, aye, sir," Virgil said and saluted.
"Sailors say that dreck, not sec men," the sergeant said, smacking the boy in the back of the head. "Now salute your baron, and get to work!"
The fledgling sec man shakily gave Thayer a salute and held it until the baron returned the gesture. Then a couple of the sec men joined the boy and helped drag the dead man away, leaving a gory trail in the dusty ground.
"Waste of a fisherman," the baron said, tucking thumbs into his belt.
Pulling out a pouch, Mitchum reloaded his blaster. "Just green, that's all, my lord. Started off that dumb myself."
"Your call," the baron said. "First time he fucks up bad, you get the lash for him." The baron gave Ryan and his crew a long look as if somehow they were involved in the fight, then turned his back and started to walk up the street toward his palace.
"Sharp move," J.B. said.
Mitchum closed the pouch by pulling on the drawstring with his teeth, then tucked blaster and ammo away. "Not really. Colliers always had a tough time controlling his temper. That made him a bad commander. Bastard had to die for the sake of the ville."
Ryan filed that information away. There was a lot more to Mitchum than was readily apparent.
"But now that he's gone, I'm in charge again." The colonel grinned as he freed the reins of his mount and passed them to a private. "Put her in the stable and have them give her a good rub-down."
"Yes, sir," the sec man said, and started off with the animal in tow. It followed placidly, waiting to be beaten or fed, whatever was the choice of its new masters.
Then Mitchum slapped Ryan on the shoulder. "Come on, let's get chow. Don't know about you folks, but I'm starving."
"Could do with a bite," Ryan admitted. Taking his own horse by the reins, he began leading it down the street of the ocean ville.
"Hot food sounds good," Dean said, rubbing his stomach.
Then Mitchum bumped shoulders with Ryan. "Also got a gaudy house," he added.
"Brought his own," Krysty said, a touch of ice in her voice.
The officer broke into a grin. "No offense meant."
"None taken," she replied. "This time."
Walking their horses down the street, the companions found that between the trailers were tiny plots of farmland, set out in neat squares, edged with brick and covered with oily canvas supported by rusty poles.
"
Protection from acid rain," Mildred said, excited. Before they sailed away, she had to find out what the locals used to coat the canvas. That was info she could trade to villes across the Deathlands and help save a lot of lives.
The public latrine was far from the wells, and noisy chickens were in a bamboo coop behind a woven wicker fence. Big dogs were on rope leashes before a lot of the trailers, and there were no slaves in sight. No decomposing bodies hung from torture poles, or any of the things they normally found in a ville.
"Nice place," Doc said, resting his ebony stick on a shoulder.
The sword cane was too long to hide easily in their bedrolls. Besides, there was no reason anybody would think it wasn't just a support for the old man.
"Best in the world," Mitchum stated proudly.
Since the colonel had never seen Front Royal in Virginia, Ryan held his peace and let the man enjoy the fantasy.
LEANING OUT OF a second-story window, a beautiful girl allowed her robe to gap open in front and expose a lot of cleavage. Several men passing by on the street took notice, but there was no reaction from the strangers walking with their horses. Still they were new, and that was nice. The gaudy slut smiled at the prospect of meeting outlanders, and for a moment the twin tips of her forked tongue darted into view. She could almost taste them already.
Then the boy in the group glanced her way and gasped. She smiled gently, letting her robe part to expose her perfect breasts. A knock on the bedroom door made her turn away, and in walked a grisly sec men and an old skinny woman.
"There you go, Lieutenant," the madam of the gaudy house announced. "You pay for the best, you get the best."
"Fantastic," he exhaled in admiration.
The slut by the window had the figure of a nubile young girl barely in her teens, but when she turned there was the face of an adult. Long black hair reached to her knees, and her shape was something out of a predark girlie mag.
He'd been saving a long time for this. She cost a lot, and only the baron had her on a regular basis. But now that the sec man saw her, he knew she was worth it for looks alone. And if the tales were true about two tongues, one in her mouth and the other elsewhere, this was going to be one hell of a ride. Sure, she was a mutie, but he wasn't here to breed with the slut. Just bed her.
