Just then a line of servants arrived with baskets of fresh bread and brimming tureens of stew, the chunks of meat and vegetables swimming in gravy thicker than winter mud. It was food for workers, not dainty tidbits for barons.
“More soup?” a maid asked, gesturing with a ladle.
“Rads, no,” a burly sec man replied, wiping his mouth. “Two bowls of your stew is all any man can hold.”
“Some men have bigger appetites than others,” the redhead whispered provocatively.
The sergeant laughed and winked at her. She tousled his hair playfully, then walked away to serve the stew to other workers.
Suddenly, there was a commotion at the far end of the hall, and the servants danced out of the way of a hurrying sec man. His clothes were dappled with mud from hard riding, most of the loops in his belt and bandoleer empty of rounds. There was a half-healed wound on his neck, a dirty rag serving as a bandage.
Nathan lowered his mug as the man approached.
“Baron Nathan, bad news,” he announced in a single breath.
“Report.”
“Scouts have reported they spotted Baron Henderson alive in the woods!”
The dining hall grew quiet as Nathan frowned. “Impossible. His ville was melted! Who reported such a thing?”
“Me,” Clem said, striding forward. The sec chief was as lean and brown as a starving bear, and considered twice as dangerous. The mountain man was dressed completely in fur, including his boots. A wide leather belt circled his waist, carrying a pouch and a hatchet, his chosen weapon for in-fighting. A bolt-action Enfield longblaster rested on a wide shoulder, and a bandoleer of ammo was slung across his chest.
Without removing his hat or blaster, Clem took a chair and grabbed a mug, only to find it empty. “Shit!” he cursed.
Tabitha pushed a tankard to Nathan, who relayed the beer closer. “Then I must accept the report as true,” the baron stated. “So the old devil is still alive, eh? His grandson and so-called healer, also?”
Ignoring the mug, Clem lifted the tankard, draining it in a series of steady swallows, a little of the green beer dribbling down his chin. Placing the empty container aside, he belched mightily. “Dark night, I needed that. T’ain’t shine, but it’ll keep your heart pumping.”
“Glad to hear it,” Nathan said, motioning a servant to fetch another tankard. “Give me details.”
Pulling out a plug of tobacco, Clem bite off a chaw. “Yeah, Baron Henderson and his weird offspring are both alive,” he said while chewing. “They got about fifty sec men. No wags, no slaves, no sign of that crazy healer. Must have perished in the attack of whatever the hell it is that’s been melting these villes.”
“At least it has stopped,” Tabitha said, nibbling on a small piece of bread.
Removing his coonskin cap, Clem scratched his beard. “At least for the moment. Baron, just in case our ville starts melting, do we have supplies hidden outside?”
“In Overton’s cave,” Nathan replied, drawing his blaster and checking the load. Satisfied, he bolstered the piece. “It’s a good spot, and I saw no reason not to use it.”
“Agreed. Then I guess we’re ready for trouble.”
“Chief, what if Henderson attacks?” a lieutenant asked bluntly.
Nathan answered instead. “With only fifty men? I wish he would!”
Clem wasn’t so sure about that Henderson was a crafty bastard, but he said nothing. It had been a long day, and something told him it promised to be an even longer night.
WALKING THE WESTERN parapet of Front Royal, a sec man in a brown shirt paused to squint at a disturbance in the trees, while carving a tiny ship out of a piece of scrap wood. There seemed to be a group of men coming toward the ville with wags and horses. It might be traders or immigrants, but at that range he couldn’t tell. Better safe than dead, as the old saying went.
Sheathing his knife, the sec man pocketed the partially carved ship and slid the M-16 blaster off his shoulder. With weapon in hand, the man strode toward the warning bell, then staggered as a terrible pain took him in the side. Glancing down, he saw the feathered end of an arrow jutting from just above his belt. As he opened his mouth to shout, blood flowed over his lips, and he gagged for air, a wave of weakness washing over him. Instinctively, the guard knew he was dying. A cold clammy feeling filled his belly from the volume of blood flowing out of the wound. His guts had to be slashed to ribbons.
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