by James Axler
“It’s how we got here,” J.B. stated, lifting the Uzi for the prisoners to see. The men gasped at the sight, and backed away deeper into their cell.
“Stop talking. We have to leave!” Ann urged, impatiently moving from foot to foot. The motion made her dress sway and exposed a lot of skin. There had been little of the dress remaining before she started ripping off pieces. “They can come back any tic. Hundreds of them!”
“Who the hell are you?” Ryan demanded, ignoring the interruption. Every minute wasted was ammo against them. But with more men they had a better chance of reaching the surface alive—if he could trust the prisoners not to throw the companions to the cannies to slow down pursuit. Better to travel alone than with enemies.
“I’m Cal Mitchum, sec man for Baron Thayer of Ratak ville. That’s the ville she was talking about on the far side of the island. There’s more, but they’re rad-pit dreck holes, without a single working blaster or a tin pot to piss in. But you want a ship, you got it. Just take us with you.”
“Big words. You got the powder to deliver that lead?” Ryan asked. The SIG-Sauer was still in his hand, the barrel pointing steadily at the stranger.
The others in the room stared longingly at the open doorway, but the dead black eye of Ryan’s blaster kept them at bay.
“Fucking right I do! I’ll get you a ship if I’ve got to steal one,” Mitchum stated forcibly.
He was too confident, too sure of himself, Ryan decided and took a chance. “Major, behind you!” he shouted, and pointed the blaster away from the sec man.
Mitchum spun, hands reaching for a blaster not there. Then he turned, his face a controlled mask of rage.
“Tricky bastard. Okay, I’m Colonel Mitchum,” he stated through grit teeth. “Sec chief for Ratak ville.”
“Ryan,” the Deathlands warrior said, “J.B. and Jak.”
“The rest of the prisoners are my troops. Can’t leave them behind.”
“Can and will,” Ryan stated firmly. “Unless I decide they’re useful.”
“Need them to get me,” Mitchum shot back.
A noise echoed down the corridor, and Jak moved out of sight.
“They’re coming back!” Ann whispered. “We must leave now!”
“Do we have a deal?” the sec man insisted, sweat on his brow.
Ryan knew he was negotiating for the lives of his troops. That said a lot about the man. “Deal,” Ryan said.
Relief easing his countenance, Mitchum exhaled. He extended his hand, and the men shook.
“Everybody start walking,” Ryan ordered. “We have horses at the surface. Lag behind and we leave you, deal or not.”
The companions herded the freed prisoners along the corridor, carefully retracing their steps. Ryan was very glad he had made a map. The scraps of cloth had been moved to new locations and they would have been seriously lost following those.
Rounding a corner, Ryan and Jak opened fire as a gang of teenagers burst out of a room, their arms full of flintlocks. The teens cried out as the SIG-Sauer and Colt Python took their lives, displaying their sharply filed teeth. Bleeding badly, a girl tried to bring a weapon to bear, but J.B. emptied the Uzi into her, driving the body backward under the brutal assault of the copper-jacketed rounds.
Stepping over the twitching bodies, Ryan checked the room they had come from and saw it was an armory. Big wooden barrels of black powder filled the room, wall racks held dozens of flintlock rifles and a barrel was jammed full of Navy cutlasses. The cannies had to have eaten a lot of pirates. Good for them. Ryan smiled as he noticed a couple of Firebirds on display, the lacquered tubes resting on wooden pegs jutting from the wall for fast access. He debated taking one, but the risk of their being booby-trapped was far too great. It’s what he would have done, and he always had to consider what the enemy could do, not what they might. However, the flintlocks should be safe.
“Everybody grab a blaster and ammo,” Ryan said, taking a pistol and tucking it into his belt. There was a post covered with short pegs, plump ammo pouches hanging conveniently near the door. Whoever the cannie quartermaster was, he knew his stuff.
“Flintlocks?” Jak said, arching an eyebrow.
“Take spares for Doc, and the others also,” he added.
“Camou. Gotcha,” J.B. said, his face brightening in understanding, and he shoved several handcannons into his munitions bag. Next he added a coiled length of dried grass as a fuse. Then he spied the S&W M-4000 shotgun on a table. Reclaiming his alley-sweeper, J.B. checked the weapon to make sure it was okay, then draped it over a shoulder. Back in business.
The sec men eagerly armed themselves, passing over a few of the flintlocks to take others. Mitchum tested the black powder by licking some from a palm, and nodded in approval. Trained hands loaded their weapons in amazing speed, and the group exited the armory with longblasters in their hands, and two handcannons tucked into every belt.
J.B. was the last to leave the room, and he spent a few moments breaking the lock on the door. Then he jammed a copper knife blade into the jamb and snapped off the handle.
“Wouldn’t open that easily,” he smirked, tossing the handle away.
“How long?” Ryan asked.
“Roughly minutes. It’s not my fuse, so I can’t know for sure. Might be eight, could be twelve.”
“Fair enough. Everybody, double time!” Ryan shouted, and took off at a run.
The group hustled through the zigzagging corridors, encountering no resistance until reaching the last intersection. Two cannies were dragging away the pile of dead dogs on a bamboo litter. The men dropped the animals and hastily ran away at the sight of the heavily armed party. Ruthlessly, the prisoners gunned down the cannies from behind, and spit on the corpses as they hurried by.
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 Judas Strike 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 fingers 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.
