Everything continued to shake, and as it did, to shake apart. Concrete dust streamed from the ceiling above him; he knew it was going to come down, and before he could reach the doorway, it did. Doc lost his grip on his swordstick as the debris buried him.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Ryan the passenger watched from the wheelhouse of the S.S. Cawdor as Baron Crecca beat the scout’s head to a pulp. He was standing close enough to be hit by some of the back splatter, brains or blood, or both. He could feel it dripping down the side of his face, but he couldn’t make his hand move to wipe it away.
The hallucinations of his father and Trader had faded into the gathering darkness, so he knew that the combined effects of the spores and the bounty were wearing off. However, the odor of the bounty that was roasting unattended on the burn barrel was making his mouth water. His body wanted its share. Passenger Ryan fought against the urge. Fought successfully.
Thunder rolled and flashes of green lit the slope above the ville. The sky started to spit a few tentative spores.
It was coming again, he knew. The pool was about to reestablish control over its slaves.
Ryan forced his fingers to move. A twitch was all he could muster, but it was a start.
Then Crecca called for another volunteer, and Dean stepped forward. Ryan wanted to cry out a warning, but couldn’t. His hands closed into fists at his side. Dean took a seat in the chair and allowed himself to be strapped down. There was a commotion to his left. He managed to turn his head far enough to see Doc Tanner fighting to break through the crowd and save his son from execution. Ryan tried to help, but only got a step or two in the right direction before the rousties seized Doc and threw him back.
The other companions were struggling as he was; Ryan could see that from the strain and anguish in their faces.
Ryan turned the full force of his effort to reaching the chair and the red-coated chiller before he could bring down the pipe. It was like walking through molasses. He had to beat back the heaviness and lethargy that infused his limbs. But with each step, it got a little easier.
The new baron watched his slow-motion approach with amusement. “What do you think you’re doing, Cawdor?” he said. “Do you think you can get here in time to stop me?”
Ryan didn’t answer. He didn’t want to waste his energy or divert his focus from what he had to do.
“Well, you’d better hurry up, then,” Crecca told him. “Get a fucking move on.”
It took minutes for Ryan to cross the short stretch of ground. Minutes while the former carny master watched and waited with a leer on his face, confident that he had the upper hand, confident that he could smash the boy’s skull with a single blow, even as his father reached out to save him.
Sweat poured off Ryan’s face, chest and back. Though it hadn’t started to snow in earnest yet, the tiny granules were peppering the square, and the thunder was an almost constant rumble.
He was still ten feet away, and moving at a crawl, when Crecca lightly tapped the top of Dean’s head with the end of the pipe, measuring the range to his target. Then he reared back, cocking the bludgeon over his shoulder, coiling himself to swing for the center field fence.
A deep growl shook the ground, making Crecca stagger and lose his balance. He caught himself on the chair back to keep from falling.
Earthquake! Ryan thought as he continued to move.
But it wasn’t.
With a howitzer-like boom, water and dirt exploded from the base of the mountain, about one hundred yards from where they all stood. Ahead of the twin plumes of black water, flying through the air like artillery shells, were chunks of broken limestone. As the rock crashed down and bounced around them, the water’s howl grew much louder. Seventy-five feet from the mouths of the hidden culverts that had unleashed them, the two torrents coalesced, funneling, twisting together, plowing headlong into the earth with their combined might. They blasted through, sending a wall of water and debris ten feet high racing downhill toward the square.