Chapter Eleven

 

"He will lie," said the female mutie, leaning on the table, "but believe every word."

Lunch long done with, Baron Jackson Polk looked up from the crumbling book on chemistry he was struggling to read and stared at the doomie. "What was that?" the man asked.

Althea said nothing for a moment, listening to the silence of the throne room. The predark auditorium was shaped like a seashell, with a raised dais at the apex of the truncated cone. Radiating outward across the room were hundreds of seats, and the softest whisper on stage would carry to the farthest reaches. Simply amazing. Many of the farmers and fishermen thought it was magic, and secretly worshiped the wizard baron. Knowing a good thing when he heard it, Polk did nothing to change their opinion, and having a doomie for a lover only helped his mystique of being more than just a man.

Her solid white eyes seeing nothing, the beautiful mutie came closer and took his hand. "The black man with one eye," Althea whispered, "he will lie, but believe every word. He has come to kill, has already killed and must kill more. His destiny is in blood and fire."

"An assassin?" Polk asked, probing for details.

"Yes and no. He hasn't come for you, doesn't know you, cares not for you. He seeks the sky killer who threatens the world."

"Sky killer. A plane?"

The woman wobbled on her feet, and the baron snapped his fingers. A servant appeared to slide a chair into place before she fell. Polk waited until Althea caught her breath. When he'd first found the mutie woman ten years ago, he took her to his bed because she was blind. His disfigurements were such that he couldn't stand to have another person see him without the robes of state. Then Polk learned of her gift and realized what a treasure the doomie was. Twice in his reign as baron, Althea had foretold of attacks by coldhearts, giving them enough time to prepare a deadly welcome for the raiders, and once she warned him of a close friend who plotted to chill him and become baron. Sadly, that also come true. Althea was always correct.

But now the baron wondered if her gift of seeing the shadows of the future had driven her over the edge into madness. Believe a liar—what was the point in that? Besides which, she always reminded him that the future wasn't set in stone. Sometimes when they were alone in his chambers, Althea spoke of karma, a person's destiny, but also of yarma, a person beating karma through courage and wisdom.

"Some water, my dear?" Polk suggested, pushing the carafe forward. There was no response. "Wine, then?"

"I need sleep," Althea whispered, and walked from the throne room holding her temples.

The moment she was gone, a sec man entered the throne room and shouted, "My lord, several of the fishing captains request an audience."

"Let them enter," Polk commanded, rolling his chair to the edge of the dais.

When the sailors arrived, they took seats in the first row and were forced to crane their necks to look at the baron. Polk could smell the salt and tar on them even from his elevated vantage point.

He glowered down at them. "Well?"

Twisting a cloth cap in craggy hands, a big man in rough-hewn clothes stood, "I'm Dwight Lane, captain of the Dixie Rebel. Baron Polk, the big swamp mutie aced another five of my men yesterday when it ripped apart my nets and stole a full day's catch of fish. My lord, our crews are starving, and each has lost kin to the mutie."

"Some of us have lost more than that," Polk stated forcibly, his anger readily present.

"Of course, sir," Lane said, smiling uncomfortably. "Now, what we would like, with your permission, is to organize the crews of our five ships, and the whole ville, into a single hunting party to track down and kill the thing!"

"Useless," the baron stated. "Without blasters, nobody stands a chance against the behemoth. Plus, there are the bugs to worry about. A hunting party that size could easily be thought of as an invasion force, and while we're hunting the beast, they're burning our homes."

"But something must be done!" Lane shouted.

Another captain stood, a grizzled sea dog with weathered skin like canvas. "I was born here, my lord, but I'll be leaving on the next high tide. Living be hard enough without working every other day to feed that hell demon!"

"Give us the secret of the black powder!" another shouted.

"We'll make blasters and hunt it down ourselves."

"Then turn against me," Polk stated.

"To kill ole Frank!"

"Don't bother," Ryan called, walking down the center aisle. "We already chilled the gator."

Murmurs ran through the crowd of people, some frightened, others disbelieving, as the ville sec men led the way for the heavily armed outlanders. The strangers were carrying more blasters than anyone had ever seen before.

Drawing a flintlock pistol from under his blanket, Polk used both hands to cock back the striking hammer. Their leader was a big man with hair black as midnight, and a patch covered one eye. But Althea spoke of a black man with one eye. This fellow was close, but clearly not the killer she spoke about.

"Who are you?" Polk demanded.

"Outlanders from the north, my lord," Anson announced. "They had some trouble with Fat Tom, a horse merchant who tried to steal their weapons."

"And they chilled him first," Polk deduced. "The man was a coward and a thief. Good riddance."

"What was that you said about ole Frank being dead?" Lane asked. "Is it true?"

"Lies," another sailor said scornfully. "They're not from here, why should they care?"

"We don't," Ryan replied. "It attacked, so we chilled it. Nothing more."

"Big words," Polk said slowly. "Prove it. Bring the body in here."

Ryan met the man's gaze. "How much is the reward?" A public statement was what the one-eyed man wanted, something the baron couldn't pretend had never been agreed upon. A man's word was often only as good as the number of people who heard it.

The baron rolled to the very edge of the stage, the front wheels of his chair hanging off the edge. "Everybody from the Dead Swamp to the ravine knows I posted a bounty on the mutie. What is it you want? Blasters? I'll pay you blasters."

"Got them, and better than you have," Ryan said in frank honesty. "But we could use some horses."

"One each," Polk stated. "My very best, with full tack."

"We also need to carry supplies."

Polk grew grim. "Enough haggling. Ten of my top animals and all the ammo and food you can carry without breaking your bones. Just prove to me it's dead!"

The man threw off the blanket, and his pant legs were flat with nothing inside. "He took my legs and my son on the same day. If you knew my hatred of the beast, you'd shit with fear. Now, if you truly took care of Frankenstein, I'll pay your price. But if this is a trick, you won't leave this room alive." Somehow, only those last words echoed throughout the auditorium.

Sliding the duffel bag off his shoulder, J.B. tossed it onto the floor. "There, all the proof you should need."

Impatiently, Baron Polk snapped his fingers, and servants rushed to gathered the bag. Opening it under his supervision, they removed the leathery roll and spread it across the stage.

It was thirty feet long, eight wide, the colors matched and there was the scar from his own pistol! The baron couldn't believe it. This was the hide of the monster, every bullet hole and ridge layer of rough hide forever burned into his memory from that awful day.

"How?" he weakly whispered.

"We joined forces with the beetle warriors," Ryan said. "They helped a lot. Mean fighters."

Lane sneered. "The clicks? Bah, man, nobody has seen them in years. They're breathing dirt."

"We fought side by side with their chief yesterday afternoon," Ryan stated. "Nice folks, once you get to know them."

Polk waved the trifle of the beetles aside. He didn't care if they laid claim to the Dead Swamp and Salt Lake. They were of no conceivable use to him.

"So it's finally over, the beast is dead. Truly dead." Polk sat up straight in his chair. "Name your price."

"Exactly what we agreed upon. Ten horses and supplies, blankets, food enough for a week. A tent if you have any."

"We don't."

"Then some canvas will do, and we'll make a tent."

"And explosives," J.B. added.

"Are you insane? "

"We had a deal," Ryan reminded harshly.

"And I will honor that," Polk retorted. "But not at the expense of my people. Horses, tack, food, blankets and such, all you can carry. Shine and women, all you want. But not one live round and no explosives of any kind. I won't have you strip this ville defenseless. Understood?"

"Black powder," Doc added. "One pound."

The man chewed his cheek for a while in thought. "Who says we got any?"

Doc glared. "I heard the earlier conversation as we entered, and I have seen your cannon, sir. It is a fully functioning weapon."

"That it is," Polk said with pride. "Half a pound, no more."

"Done?"

"Done," Ryan said.

Polk turned his attention to the others in the throne room. "Captain Lane, I believe we now have nothing further to discuss. So I shall expect the quota of fish delivered to my ville to be doubled by the next moon. Anything less will be considered theft from me and dealt with harshly."

"Of course, Baron," the man managed to say without stuttering.

As the fishermen took their leave, Polk turned to a waiting steward. "Get a carpenter and nail this on the wall behind my throne," he directed him. "Let everybody see that ole Frank is dead."

"At once, Baron," the liveried man said with a bow.

"Now, as for you outlanders," Polk said genially. "Please stay for dinner. I wish to hear the details of the matter."

Apprehensive, Ryan glanced at his friends. They seemed uneasy, too, but he couldn't think of a polite way to refuse.

"Certainly, Baron," he said. "Our pleasure. But we do need to leave first thing in the morning."

"Why the rush? Stay awhile. I have a great need for people with your talents."

"Sorry, but we have to find some friends," Ryan said evenly.

Polk nodded. "And chill them. Yes, I can see it in your faces. Fair enough. You did your part, and I will do mine."

THE COMPANIONS CHECKED the horses and supplies as they were delivered to the courtyard of the ville, and everything was in fine shape. Dinner proved to be sixteen different things done to fish, and a roasted opossum. The companions ate the food, but Jak was in heaven. He stuffed himself with four portions and had to loosen his belt when they finally left the table for cigars and brandy. Around midnight, Polk took his leave, and the companions were left to their own devices. Doc, Jak and Dean excused themselves, while the rest took advantage of the baron's liquor cabinet. The brandy was merely winter wine, but strong flavored with plenty of kick.

"Too bad Clem decided to stay at Front Royal," Mildred said, sipping her drink. "We could have used him fighting that damn mutie. The man is a hell of a shot."

"He wasn't so hot," J.B. muttered. "Just an unwashed mountain man. Completely useless."

Ryan and Krysty remained neutral to the conversation, sensing a personal matter going on.

Wiggling closer, Mildred pressed a warm hip against the man. "I know that Clem liked me," she said, "but there's my medical condition to consider."

Glasses in hand, J.B. stared at her in total confusion.

Mildred took his hand. "I have a very small heart, and there's only room for one man there."

Speechless, J.B. squeezed her hand with all of his strength. If it hurt, she said nothing. Releasing her, J.B. rose and strode out of the room. Mildred sighed and sipped at her drink again.

"Damn men and their idiot pride," Krysty said, sloshing her drink as she gestured. "You better go have your way with him right now."

"That was my plan," Mildred said with a smile, placing aside her unfinished brandy. "See you in the morning."

"Remember how shy I was when we first met?" Ryan said with a grin as the woman strode from the room.

Krysty stared at the man over the rim of her glass. "You damn near forced me on the spot. I barely was able to seduce you in time."

Reaching out a hand, Ryan gently stroked her living hair, and the woman trembled under his touch, "We should go to bed ourselves."

She hiccuped. "My plan exactly."

"Mebbe."

WALKING ALONE through the quiet street, Doc paused in the darkness just outside the circle of light from a crackling campfire.

"Hey, there," he called to the group, "mind if I join you?"

Dropping the chicken leg he had been gnawing, the overseer stood up with a hand on his bullwhip. The big man had his weight equally balanced on both feet, and Doc knew immediately this was a trained killer. He had expected no less.

"Whatcha want?" the overseer growled dangerously.

"To get warm." Doc grinned. "Maybe talk some business."

"Yeah?"

"Of course."

As Doc approached, the slaves whispered among themselves.

"Shut up," said the boss, not even glancing in their direction, and the slaves went immediately dead quiet.

Stepping into the light, the big man saw Doc was clearly armed with a blaster, but that only made them equal. In the right hands, a bullwhip could cut a man like an ax. All it required was the room to swing.

"What kind of business we talking here, whitehair?" the overseer asked, grinning. "Mebbe ya need something warm to pass the night? They ain't pretty, but they'll do what they're told, by thunder. Long as you don't chill them, you can do whatever you wish. You want a man or a woman?"

Disgusted, Doc went for his blaster. The plan had been to chat with the man, get his confidence, lure him into a false sense of security, then strike. But the odious callousness of the overseer was beyond his limits of endurance.

The blaster came out of the holster and the bullwhip cracked, the weapon slapped from his grasp.

"So this is jacking, eh?" the overseer snarled, the leather spinning about his body. "Nobody steals my animals!"

The whip lashed out, and Doc stabbed upward with his stick, the knotted leather wrapped around the ebony shaft. The overseer cursed and pulled hard to free his weapon. Doc resisted for a moment, then released the stick and it went flying toward the man. Caught by surprise, the slave master dropped the whip to dodge out of the way.

Still holding the handle, Doc lunged forward with the bare blade of his sword and stabbed it deeper into the man's belly, then twisted the blade to enlarge the hole. Blood gushed from the wound, and the overseer sighed as he fell to his knees and toppled to the ground.

Retrieving the ebony cane, Doc wiped the blade clean on the dead man before sheathing the sword. After locating his LeMat, the scholar rummaged through the fellow's clothing, unearthing a ring of keys and a tiny .22-caliber homemade blaster. Mildred called such things zip guns, but he had no idea why.

"Here," he said softly, tossing the keys to the first prisoner. "The guards at the gate are drunk on brandy I bought for them, but move fast. I do not know when the shift changes. The swamp mutie is dead, so lay a fake trail to the east, then double back and scatter into the forest."

Doc pressed the zip gun into the hand of a woman prisoner. "Know how to use this?"

She nodded and pulled back the rubber band to see if there was a cartridge inside the thin pipe.

"Here is a knife each," Doc said, dropping a bundle on the ground. "And some bread. It was the best I could do."

"Bless you," she whispered, hugging the weapon.

"Why?" a man asked gruffly, working the locks on his ankles. There was a click, and he stood free from the chains. Red rings circled his ankles from the constant rubbing of the iron cuff, scars that would never go away, inside or out.

"Did you like being a slave?" Doc shot back.

"No," the man spit.

"Neither did I. Good luck." Doc turned and walked into the shadows.

THERE WAS A KNOCK on the bedroom door.

Grabbing his longblaster, Ryan rolled naked out of bed, and Krysty leveled her own revolver at the door.

"Yeah?" Ryan asked, pretending to yawn.

"Me," a familiar voice said.

Sensing trouble, Ryan padded across the room and unbolted the door, letting Mildred slip through.

"What's the matter? Is the baron planning on robbing us?" Krysty asked, stepping into pants.

"Worse. The old coot freed the slaves," she said quickly.

His chest glistening with sweat, Ryan inhaled deeply. "I expected as much. Do the sec men know what happened?"

"Not yet, but they will soon."

Ryan laid the blaster on the warm bed and started to get dressed. "Wake the others and get the horses."

"Already done. They're downstairs packing food."

"Let's go."

Hurrying downstairs, the companions mounted their horses and rode casually to the front gate. The guards were snoring on the ground, and they passed through without hindrance.

Once outside the walls, they pressed the horses into a full gallop.

"Which way are the slaves heading?" Ryan demanded.

"The freed prisoners," Doc said, stressing the words, "are dispersing into the forest."

"That's east," Dean said, tightening the reins on his mare. "Good, because we're going north."

"West," his father corrected.

"But the closest Shiloh is in Tennessee," J.B. said, holding on to his fedora.

Just then, barking hounds sounded from the ville and a bell began to clang.

"I'll explain later," Ryan said, urging his mount to greater speed. Privately, the one-eyed man wanted to be furious at Doc for causing this unnecessary trouble, but he couldn't find a good reason. They had been planning on leaving in the morning anyway, and to be honest, Ryan had briefly considered freeing the slaves himself. He supposed there were just some things a man had to do no matter what the consequences.