Ring of fire II (assiti shards)

by Eric Flint

  In the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a pair of legs. Looking over, she saw Noelle, with a very strained expression on her face.

  "Hey, look," she said defensively, "I'm sorry. We didn't know it was you."

  Belatedly, she realized that Noelle wasn't actually looking at her. She was looking over Denise's head at something off to the side.

  Denise swiveled, flopping onto her side in the process, and propped herself up on one elbow.

  "Oh, great."

  The something Noelle had been staring out turned out to be two men, with two horses not far away behind them.

  Both down-timers, obviously. Neither of them was smiling-hey, no kidding-so she couldn't see their teeth. That was usually the simplest indication, especially with a man somewhere in middle age like the one holding the very nasty looking and oh-so-very-up-time pump action shotgun, if not the younger one who was standing a little closer with a sword in his hand.

  But it didn't matter. Leaving aside the clothes they were wearing and the hair styles, she would have known just looking at the way the young one held the sword. She didn't know any up-timer who held a sword like that. Maybe somebody like Harry Lefferts did, by now, with all of his escapades. But Denise hadn't seen much of Harry in a long time, and on the few occasions she had seen him Harry had been carousing in one of Grantville's taverns with the wine, women and song that seemed to accompany him like pilot fish did a shark. The wine and women, with complete ease, the singing a whole lot less so since Harry had a nice natural voice and could even carry a tune but somewhere along the way had picked up the silly conviction that he was one of those old-style Irish tenors who could make nasal sound good but he couldn't.

  Her thoughts were veering all over the place, she realized, and she commanded them back to attention.

  Concentrate on the fucking sword, idiot.

  The damn thing didn't look any better when she did. This wasn't one of those fancy swords that a lot of down-time noblemen and wannabe noblemen carried about when they were trying to look impressive. Pretty, lots of decorations-even jewels, if they were rich enough-and looking as if they'd seen as much actual use as the kind of fancy china that people kept in a cabinet and didn't eat off of except once in a blue moon.

  No, this sword looked like her mother's favorite kitchen knife, allowing for a drastic increase in size. Solid, plain, sharp as a razor and so often honed that the blade wasn't a completely straight line anymore. And the bastard was holding it just the way her mother did, too-or the way her dad held a welding torch or a tool he was using to work on one of his bikes.

  Casually. The way no up-timer except maybe a few wild-ass screwballs like Harry could possibly hold a sword. The man wasn't flourishing it, wasn't brandishing it-didn't, really, even seem more than vaguely aware that he had it in his hand in the first place. A weapon so familiar and comfortable that it was just any other tool, used more by instinct than conscious thought.

  Some tools chopped onions, some tools chopped metal, and this one wasn't any different except it chopped off heads and limbs and from the look of the miserable son-of-a-bitch any part of a human body he felt like chopping off.

  She tore her eyes away from the sword and looked higher up, at the man's face. For a moment-one wild moment-she almost burst into laughter.

  He looked for all the world like a rock star!

  Dammit, it was true. Good-looking, in that sort of older-than-he-really-was way that indicated either dissipation or too much familiarity with the wicked ways of men-music recording executives in the case of rock stars; probably not in this guy's-and judging from the easy athleticism of his stance he didn't seem dissipated in the least, so scratch that theory.

  Long, curly, dark hair. Flowing fucking locks, fer chrissake. A flaring mustache and a neatly trimmed full beard that'd looked silly on almost anybody except genu-ine rock stars and guys who could hold a sword like that.

  Just to complete the picture, soulful brown eyes. The kind of eyes with which rock stars sang to the world of their sorrow at the faithlessness of women and guys like this bastard looked down upon the corpses they left behind.

  "Well, fuck," she said. "Just what it needed to make the day complete."

  In German, she added: "And who are you?"

  The swordsman had been staring back at Noelle the whole time Denise had been assessing him. Now he looked down at her.

  "My name is Janos Drugeth. From the family with the estates in Humenne. Homonna, as we Hungarians would call it. I am a cavalry officer in the service of the Austrian emperor."

  Hungarian. Denise didn't know much about Hungarians, but she knew they liked to call themselves "Magyars" because they were descended from a tribe of nomadic conquerors. Like some biker gangs liked to call themselves "the Huns."

  Perfect. Just perfect.

  To her surprise, he added: "We may speak in English, if you prefer."

  His English was good, too, if heavily accented.

  Noelle stood very straight. "My name is Noelle Stull. I am an official for the USE government. Well, the State of Thuringia-Franconia. And I-me and my partner, Eddie Junker, over there-"

  She pointed toward the demolished wagon, some distance away. "-are in pursuit of the criminals whom we believed to have been in possession of that vehicle. Please either assist us in that task or, at the very least, do not impede us in our duty."

  Bold as brass. Mentally, Denise doffed her hat in salute. Not that she ever wore a hat.

  The Drugeth fellow gave Noelle a sorrowful smile. "I will not dispute your characterization of the individuals in question. But I am afraid I cannot respond as you wish to either of your requests. Not only may I not assist you, I am afraid I shall have to detain you myself."

  He slid the sword back into its scabbard. The motion was swift, easy, practiced. He hadn't even looked at the sword and scabbard as he did it, just letting his left thumb and forefinger guide the blade into the opening. The fact that he'd chosen to sheathe the weapon while explaining what he was going to do just emphasized his complete confidence that nobody would think to dispute the matter.

  Which…

  In point of fact, nobody would. Sure as hell not Denise. That sword could come out just as quickly and smoothly as it went in. And leaving that aside, the other guy still had the shotgun in his hands and didn't seem to be in the least inclined to emulate his leader's example and put it away. True, he didn't have the barrel pointed at anybody, but it was obvious he could in a split-second. That was just good gun-handling, not carelessness.

  He didn't look like a rock star, either. More like a record producer. Shoot you as quick as he'd shell out payola or cheat singers out of their royalties.

  To Denise's alarm, she saw that Noelle's hand had moved to the vicinity of her holster.

  That was crazy. First, that was no quick-draw holster. It was a safe-and-sound holster with a flap, and the flap was buckled. By the time Noelle got the pistol out, the older guy with the shotgun could kill them all. Assuming the Hungarian nomad-cum-rock-star hadn't sliced them up already.

  And even if Noelle had been a quick-draw whizzeroo, so fucking what? The pistol was a dinky little.32 caliber and her marksmanship was something of a legend, in Grantville. The anti-Julie Sims. There were two schools of thought on the subject. The optimists insisted Noelle could hit the side of a barn. The other view was that she could only do it if she were inside the barn to begin with.

  "Uh, Noelle…"

  Fortunately, Noelle reconsidered. Her hand moved away. "This is an outrage!" she snapped. "You are on USE soil here, not Austrian. You have no right-"

  "Please," said Drugeth, holding up his hand. "You are wasting our time, and I believe you know it perfectly well. Although there have been no open hostilities in some time, Austria and the USE are enemies. I have been given the task of escorting the individuals in question to Vienna, and I intend to complete it successfully."

  Noelle glared at him. "And you won't stop at outright abduction." />
  "Hardly 'abduction,' I think." He shrugged. Like the dark eyes, the gesture was sorrowful. Not really-sad sorrowful, just what you might call philosophically sorrowful. Exactly the same way, Denise imagined, the guy contemplated the bodies of his foes after he sliced them up.

  "I will set you free, unharmed, as soon as we have reached a place where I can be confident you cannot bring troops in time to prevent our escape. If you will give me your parole, I shall not even disarm you. And please do not delay the matter any further. I point out"-here, he nodded toward Lannie and Keenan, and then toward the wagon-"that you have injured persons in your party, who should get medical attention. And I will also point out that none of the injuries were caused by me and my men."

  Noelle shifted the glare to Denise.

  "Hey, look, I said I was sorry. And he's right, Noelle."

  For a moment, she even thought Noelle might start cussing. But she didn't, of course.

  By the time they got back to the wagon, Keenan and Denise propping up Lannie along the way-he turned out to be okay except for a sprained ankle-Eddie Junker was up and moving.

  Well. Sitting up and fiddling uselessly with his busted arm. There was another shotgun-toting sidekick of Drugeth's there, watching Eddie carefully but making no effort to assist him. Drugeth had probably told him to do that, and by now it was clear enough that anybody who worked for Drugeth followed orders.

  "Cut it out, Eddie," said Noelle crossly, kneeling next to him. "It's broken. Denise, give me a hand."

  "Why me?"

  "Because you broke it, that's why."

  "I don't know squat about setting a broken arm. Have Keenan do it."

  Noelle looked at Keenan. Keenan looked alarmed. "I hate the sight of blood."

  "There's no blood," Denise pointed out.

  "I hate the sight of suffering. I'm not going to be any good at this."

  "Enough," said the Drugeth fellow. He motioned Keenan toward Eddie. "All you have to do is help hold him down. You ladies as well. This will be painful, for a time."

  Eddie looked alarmed. More by the sight of Drugeth approaching him with that sword on his hip than anything else, Denise thought.

  "It doesn't need to be amputated!" he protested.

  "Of course not," said Drugeth calmly. "Now do your best not to thrash around. Hold him, everyone."

  Drugeth set the arm just as swiftly and smoothly as he'd sheathed the sword. It seemed like zip-zip-zip and it was done. By then, his shotgun-toting cohorts had found a couple of pieces of wood broken off from the wagon that would serve as a temporary splint, along with one of Suzi Barclay's flamboyant costumes that, sliced up, would serve to bind them.

  One of the cohorts did the slicing, not Drugeth, using a simple knife he had in a scabbard. Clearly enough, the Hungarian's sword did not come out for any work less lofty than hacking flesh, still on the bone and twitching.

  By now, Drugeth didn't remind Denise of a rock star at all. Just a good-looking nomad barbarian, who'd never once lost that serenely-sorrowful expression even while Eddie had been screaming bloody murder. And who'd obviously set more than one broken limb in his day; which, given that he wasn't old enough to have seen all that many days, would indicate the days themselves had not been spent in the pursuit of serenity.

  "It's done," he said, coming back up to his feet. "Good enough for the time being, at least. It's a clean break, so it should heal well."

  Eddie was gasping, his heavy face pale and sweating. "You-you-" he said weakly, apparently searching for suitably vile cognomens to heap upon Drugeth. Then, he tightened his jaws. Then, looked up and nodded. "Thank you."

  That was classy, Denise thought. She hadn't known Eddie was that solid. Of course, she barely knew the guy.

  Drugeth nodded in return. "Let us be off then. Gage, retrieve that rifle over there." He indicated a spot not far away. Denise hadn't seen it until Drugeth pointed at the thing, but she recognized an up-time lever action rifle. Must have been Eddie's.

  "Then," the Hungarian continued, "you ride ahead and make sure the party we are escorting is ready to go when we arrive. Gardiner, you ride alongside Ms. Stull. Ms. Stull, I would appreciate it if you'd lead my horse."

  He even said it that way, too. "Miz," not "Miss." This guy knew Americans, somehow, even down to the subtle quirks of what you called career girls like Noelle.

  "For the rest of us," Drugeth continued, "I recommend walking, since we have injured persons."

  It was all done very courteously, but Denise didn't miss the fact that Drugeth's dispositions also meant he had all the USE loyalists under control. If Noelle tried to ride off, Cohort Gardiner could go in pursuit. He wasn't encumbered by having to lead another horse, and Denise didn't doubt for an instant he could ride better than Noelle as well as shoot better than she could.

  And by remaining on foot, Drugeth was there-with the damn sword-in case any of the others decided to try something tricky that might throw off a horseman for a time. Like…

  Who knows? Finding a hole dug by something bigger than a gopher-they had badgers in Europe-and trying to hide in it. Not likely, but Drugeth didn't seem like a guy who'd leave much to chance.

  Eddie's horse was still thrashing a little. Cohort Gardiner went over and looked down at the poor animal, then looked at Drugeth.

  The Hungarian officer nodded. Clickety-BOOM, and the horse was out of its misery.

  As they headed toward the forest, moving slowly because of Eddie and Lannie, Denise decided things weren't so bad. Perhaps oddly, the fact that Drugeth's cohorts seemed just as familiar and relaxed in their use of up-time shotguns as Drugeth himself did with a sword, was somehow reassuring.

  Whatever else they were, enemies of the USE or not, they obviously weren't wild-eyed desperadoes. Everything about them was experienced, controlled, disciplined-or self-disciplined, in the case of Drugeth.

  True, that same control might lead to a quick, relaxed, practiced and easy execution squad too. But if they'd wanted to do that, they would have done it already. And would a man planning to kill her in a few minutes have bothered to give Noelle a courteous helping hand getting onto her horse? Denise didn't think so.

  Besides, her assessment of Drugeth had shifted yet again. From rock star to nomad barbarian, it had tentatively come to rest on a label she was generally skeptical about but seemed accurate enough in this instance. Every now and then-not often-you did run across a down-time nobleman who actually lived up to the name instead of being a puffed-up thug with delusions of grandeur.

  Drugeth had told them he would release them once his expedition got far enough away from any chance of pursuit. Okay, he hadn't officially "given his word." But Denise was pretty sure that the genuine articles when it came to noblemen didn't bother with silly flippery like solemn vows, except on formal occasions. He'd said what he would do, and so he would. To do otherwise would be a transgression of a code he took seriously.

  Good enough, she decided, for a day that included bombing your own guys. Jesus, it'd take her years to live that down. Even Minnie would make fun of her, when she found out.

  But when they reached the small clearing where the defectors had been waiting, things immediately got tense.

  Unfortunately, even sober, Jay Barlow was nobody's idea of a nobleman-and he'd apparently spent the time since Drugeth left him with the others getting half-plastered. Him and Mickey Simmons. There was another prize for you.

  "That's the fucking bitch!" he shouted, when he spotted Noelle. He thrust a half-empty bottle into Mickey's hand and took several steps forward. To make things perfect, he had his hand dramatically positioned to yank out the silly cowboy gun on his hip. He looked like something out of Grade D western.

  Drugeth moved up in front of him. "Enough, Barlow. Get back on the wagon. Now. We have to be moving."

  "Fuck that!" Barlow pointed the forefinger of his right hand accusingly at Noelle. Unfortunately, he was left-handed and his left hand was now gripping the gun butt. "She's the one w
ent after Horace! I say we shoot her now and good riddance."

  Matching deed to word, he yanked the gun out of the holster.

  Keenan squawked. Denise probably did too. She wasn't sure, because whatever she'd been about to say was stifled in her throat by Drugeth's sword.

  Blurring like an arc. Barlow's gun and the hand holding it went sailing off somewhere. Barlow stared at the stump, gushing blood. His expression seemed one of amazement, not pain.

  But it was Drugeth's expression that mostly registered on Denise. The Hungarian seemed to be in some sort of weird brown study. Just standing there, the sword in his hand, point down, dripping a little blood from the tip, while he contemplated Jay Barlow.

  He shifted deftly to the side, the sword blurred again, and a fountain of blood gushed out of Barlow's neck. His whole throat looked to have been cut, from one ear to the other.

  Paralyzed by shock, Denise realized that Drugeth had just been calculating whether to keep Barlow alive or not. The decision having come up negative, he'd shifted to the side so he wouldn't get blood all over himself.

  And he didn't, not a drop. Barlow collapsed to his knees and then to the ground. He was effectively already dead.

  Mickey Simmons was shouting, and clawing for something in the wagon. A gun, Denise assumed.

  "Kill him," said Drugeth. Quietly, almost conversationally.

  Gage and Gardiner's shotguns seemed to go off simultaneously. The heavy slugs hammered Simmons into the side of the wagon. He collapsed to the ground.

  A lot of the American defectors were making noise now. Billie Jean Mase came running up to Drugeth, screaming at him. For a moment, Denise expected to see her throat sliced in half, too. But Drugeth simply planted a boot in her belly and that was that. She went down, gasping for air.

  "Silence," said Drugeth. Not hollering, exactly, but the word carried like nobody's business. "You will all be silent."

  That shut them up. Including Denise. Which was a good thing, or she might have giggled hysterically, because-well-there was something insanely amusing about the scene, if she ignored the gore. It was like watching a bunch of rabbits suddenly realize they'd pissed off a bobcat. Or a cougar.