From the barred windows of the keep, the wives of the baron watched the tableau below. Their fingers wove silent words to one another as they discussed what was happening, and how best to make it serve their needs.
PAUSING AT THE temple door, the companions checked their blasters before entering the corridor that lead to the front exit.
“Okay, got any idea yet how we’re going to get out of the ville?” J.B. asked, racking the scattergun to exit a shell and then thumbing it back into the feeder slot. It was a habit he had developed recently to spread the lubrication inside the weapon and make sure it was feeding smoothly when there was going to be fighting in the desert. He knew how badly sand and blasters mixed.
“We blow up the temple as a distraction,” Ryan said, “then escape in the confusion.”
“That should do it.” The Armorer grinned and pulled out an implo gren. “I can rig all three to go simultaneously. That’ll level this whole place.”
“Save one to remove the gate,” Krysty advised. “Blood is the only way they’re going to let us leave.”
“Gotcha.”
“Wait a moment,” Doc cried, feeling the empty holster at his hip. “Has anybody seen my LeMat?”
Dean gestured at the dead men on the floor. “They didn’t have it,” he answered, then pulled a big bore revolver from his belt. “Want one of their wheelguns? No reloads, but it’s better than nothing.”
“I suppose that would be wise,” Doc stated, then frowned. “No, wait a moment. I remember somebody placing it inside a black statue, saying they would get it later.”
“Statue?” Jak asked, glancing at the fiberglass scorpion dominating the altar.
“Hiding it from Hawk to keep for themselves, is what he meant,” Ryan said, washing the light of the nukelamp along the side walls. “There’s going to be chilling, so we need every weapon. Let’s find it quick.”
In the clear beam of the headlight, the companions started back for the giant scorpion, then noticed a series of shallow alcoves lining both walls. Normally in a predark church those were filled with statues of Christian saints, but held the squat somber figures of iron maidens. Resembling a metal statue of a fat woman, the iron shells were actually hollow and hinged to open like a clam shell, the interior covered with sharp spikes. When a prisoner was forced inside and the hatch closed, the spikes would only penetrate their flesh a little bit, making even the slightest move in any direction yield untold agony. The victims often went insane after only a few days and threw themselves at the spikes to end their lives but slowly bleeding to death. Both Mildred and Doc knew that even the legendary Torquemada had considered them cruel machines and only used the iron maiden on his worst enemies.
“Which one was it?” Dean asked, studying the line of dark figures.
“That I do not recall,” Doc rumbled. “My attention was elsewhere.”
Feeling the pressure of the enemy outside the temple, Ryan started for the closest device. “Dean, start on the left, Doc take the right.”
Going to the first iron maiden, Ryan saw a pair of wrinkled eyes staring back from the viewing slit in the metal face. Dried and lifeless, the corpse inside was long dead. The next few held only skeletons. Across the temple, the others were having a similar lack of success.
Then peering inside an iron maiden, Ryan saw it was empty. What’s more, the spikes weren’t in evidence. Grabbing the handle, he twisted the locking bolt free and there was no sound, the metal well oiled. Suddenly alert, Ryan braced himself and was in front of the torture device when it started to swing aside. He stopped it purely as a precaution. A heartbeat later something slammed into the metal, knocking him backward. Even as Ryan drew his blaster, the door continued to swing open wide and a smashed wooden arrow fell to the floor with a clatter. Weighed on an angle, the oiled hatch swung closed once more with a muffled boom.
A boobie! The torture device was rigged with a trap to keep people out? What sense did that make? Unless it was a lot more than it seemed.