“And we sure as hell aren’t going build the new capital of America in the middle of a mutie pit, either,” the lieutenant said softly, the mountain winds carrying away his words long before anybody else could hear.
IN THE CENTER OF Front Royal, a stout tower rose from amid the lesser structures of the imposing ville. Thick growths of ivy climbed the walls as if trying to consume a foe, and sec men stood guard on the rooftop alongside ancient gargoyles, imported from Ireland generations earlier to do exactly their jobprotect the keep from evil.
Orange clouds heavily laden with toxic chems flowed across the horizon, thunder rumbling softly in a purple sky streaked with fiery slashes of yellow. A low wind from the south moaned over the ville, bringing the first hints of true winter. Splintery and gray from the acid rains, the thick oak shutters covering the windows were closed tight on every level, except to the fifth floor. There the wood was thrown open wide, admitting what sunlight there was, and offering a commanding view of the green fields and even hints of the distant shanty-towns.
The window glass was long gone, consumed by the world-shattering flash and concussion when Washington, D.C., reaped the reward of its foolishness, but stout iron bars still protected the openings from climbing intruders. The breezes wafting into the top floor of the keep smelled faintly of boiling laundry, wood smoke, baking bread and horse manure. Somewhere in the ville below came the sound of troops marching, a horse neighing, slaves singing a work song, a woman crying, a fistfight, chopping wood, a gas engine sputtering into life and then dying.
In the top room of the keep, several men stood around an old table studying the maps and charts spread out over its smooth surface. Their clothes were clean and without patches, their boots shiny with polish. Well-oiled blasters jutted from every belt and shoulder holster.
Behind them, the walls were lined with wooden racks holding rifles with scopes, wax-covered boxes of ammo stacked neatly underneath for easy access. Next to the only door, a small plastic box rested in a wall niche, the joining edges of the case sealed with candle wax, making it absolutely airtight. Battered wooden chests near the windows were packed with Molotov cocktails, and plastic buckets of sand stood guard in wall niches ready to quench any accidental fires from spills. A chandelier of six oil lanterns hung from the rafters of the room, and more stood unlit in wall niches. A tapestry bearing the crest of the Cawdor family covered one section of the walls; another bore a tattered flag of the United States retrieved from a burning library.
This was the war room of the fortress, although few called it that anymore, aside from the newcomers who stood belligerently among the local chiefs and sec men. The room was full, but nobody stood side by side. A respectful distance was maintained between every occupant. The distance also gave the men room to draw weapons should the need arise.
Nathan Freeman Cawdor sat at the head of the table. His elbows rested on the chair arms as he bent forward to study the detailed maps and charts strewed across the tabletop.
On the opposite side, Overton impatiently watched the baron shift the papers as if dealing cards. The others in the room stood quietly while their leaders decided an outcome to the matter.
“This treaty will assure us peace for a hundred years,” Overton stated forcibly, brandishing a fist “We’ll be strong, invincible!”
“Yes, I can see the many advantages,” Nathan said slowly, sitting back in his chair. His face was heavily lined from lack of sleep, but his voice was still strong. “A mutual-defense pact is a clever ideaI don’t know if it has ever been done before. If somebody attacks Casanova, BullRun and Front Royal come to their aid, and then each does the same. Combining our strengths would make this triad of baronies absolute rulers of the entire Shen area from the ocean to the Blue Ridge Mountains.”
“Exactly!”
Nathan pulled a chart closer, then tossed it into the middle of the table. “However, it will never work. Mutie attacks never last for longer than a few hours, and there hasn’t been a coldheart mob large enough to threaten the ville for years.”