“Retreat!” Ryan shouted, walking dangerously backward until he was flat against the rockwall. The muties had a bomb or dynamite in there, maybe leftovers from the predark mining. “Cover your ears!” The companions slapped palms over their ears as protection from the concussion just as the wicker basket erupted in a tremendous explosion. The entire cavern seemed to shake as stalactites rained from the ceiling, then the granite bridge cracked, large pieces dropping off. The companions clawed at the sheer wall for any purchase, when the rock shattered, the painted plaster falling away in pieces to expose a hidden tunnel. Without hesitation, Ryan and the others swarmed into the new opening just as the shuddering granite bridge broke completely apart and fell into the inky blackness.
Chapter Nine
The dining hall of the fortress at Front Royal was brightly lit by a hundred thick candles and two roaring fireplaces. Servants carried in platters of food, serving the dirty sec men and grimy civilians hastily gobbling down the food on their plates.
At the head of the table sat Baron Nathan Cawdor. His clothes were patched, but clean, and blasters rode at each hip. A monstrously huge .50-caliber Desert Eagle pistol rested in a position of honor in a shoulder holster. The weapon had been pried from the cold gray hand of Overton, would-be baron of Front Royal, as he lay sprawled in the mud.
Nathan watched his troops consume the repast like muties at a fresh corpse. Thankfully, the hunters had done well, better than anyone had hoped for, and the ville had venison and bear meat by the ton in the smokehouses slowly being cured for the coming winter months.
The repairs to Front Royal were almost complete. Nathan had taken a great risk using sec men and civilians together on the task of rebuilding the keep and the barbican at the front gate, but the gamble had paid off. There had been no attacks by muties or coldhearts while his troops were busy with the construction and too tired to fight. Give the men a few days, and the ville would be able to properly defend itself again. That’s all, just a few more days.
“Anybody need a beer?” Nathan asked the assemblage, hoisting a tankard of bathtub ale. It was slightly green, but eminently drinkable.
“Down here, my lord!” a stone mason called out, waving a hand wrapped in rags in lieu of a glove.
Nathan rose from his chair with the tankard in a fist, and the sec men and civilians roared their disapproval. Even the servants looked askance.
“My lord!” the stone mason gasped, rising to block the man. “This isn’t allowed! A baron serving the troops?”
Nathan stared hard at the man. “I’m the baron,” he said succinctly, “and shall do as I please. When my workers are exhausted, I do what is needed.”
“Which is why we would die for you, my lord,” a sergeant said bluntly. “Any man of us, and happy to do so! But we’ll never let you do such a thing as this!”
The others murmured in agreement. “The day you serve us food,” the stone mason added, almost sounding angry, “is the day we revolt!”
Nathan slammed the tankard on the table, rattling dishes for yards. The Cawdor temper was as famous as it was deadly. “Those are hanging words, Corporal,” Nathan said gruffly.
The man remained adamant and shrugged. “Then hang me, Baron. But I’ll be rad-blasted before my baron brings me a drink!”
“And what about the lady?” a woman asked, entering the hall carrying a wooden tray of beer mugs. Lady Tabitha Cawdor wore her long hair free, the tresses almost reaching to her trim waist. She was in a loose gown of royal brown, heavy pants peeking out from below the pleated skirt. Boots and belt were without polish, and an M-16 longblaster was slung over a shoulder. Her hands were heavily scarred, as was one cheek. She moved stiffly, but with her head held high as befitting the wife of the local baron.
Clumsily, she moved to the table and placed down the tray with some difficulty. The men dared not speak. They knew the tortures she had gone through and considered her more than a lady.