“The boy?” Ryan asked in a low voice.
“Fever broke,” Jak replied. “Couple, three hours ago. Keeps water down now. A little bread. He’ll live.”
“Good. We’re going forward for a look-see. Horses will make too much bastard noise.”
“Boy says we get close.”
“Kind of figured it that way myself.” Ryan moved forward. “Fifteen feet apart, always able to see each other. On double yellow. Quiet as we can make it.”
Jak nodded, blades naked in his fists.
Ryan kept his grip on the Steyr. It wasn’t silenced, but it made a mean club if he needed it to. And the stopping power of the 7.62 mm slug at close range was nothing short of formidable if keeping silent wasn’t possible. He moved through the brush without making a sound, as much a night predator as anything hunting around him.
They were almost at the lip of the drop-off when he heard the shushing noise. It was the only warning Ryan got. He stepped back and brought up the Steyr. A vine flashed by his face, then coiled with a snap around a tree that was close enough for him to reach out and touch.
He kept moving, swiveling his head to track the continued motion. For an instant he thought a snake had dropped from the trees because there was so much action. Keeping the Steyr up to block if there was a need, he slipped the panga free.
“Plants,” Jak said.
Another tendril whipped at Ryan, the deadly spur exposed in the vegetable flesh and dripping ichor. Moonlight vanished against the dark sheen of the poison. Crouching and twisting to avoid the lunge of the tangler, Ryan raked the panga through the green tentacle, lopping off a good two feet.
The amputated tendril flopped to the ground and writhed in wicked animation, thick sap mixing in with the dirt.
“Fireblast,” Ryan said, stepping back farther, suddenly aware that the forest around the companions was alive with the things. He shrugged out of his backpack and took out an oil torch wrapped in plastic. “Burn them,” he told Jak. “Keep them back off us.”
The albino drew out a torch, as well, moving like a white wraith in the shadows.
Ryan wasn’t pleased with the turn of events. Setting half the hilltop ablaze above the Celtic ville was going to tear hell out of any element of surprise.
“Wait, lover,” Krysty called.
Ryan hesitated, the tanglers spreading their vines through the trees like giant pythons. He had a sudden and newfound respect for Gehrig and his men. Taking the things by surprise had to have been difficult. And the one they’d shoved in his face at the Bent Rose had evidently been one of the smaller tanglers.
He glanced back at the red-haired woman, saw her helping Tarragon forward. The boy had more color in his cheeks now, and his eyes didn’t look so feverish.
“He says he can help,” Krysty said.
Ryan shifted, allowing the boy to pass, but keeping a self-light at the ready beside the torch. With the dew glistening on the ground and the patches of snow around them, he knew the brush wouldn’t burn well, but it might buy them some time.
Tarragon went forward among the darting limbs of the tanglers. His voice, weakened by his fever and sickness, burst forth in low song.
Even yards away Ryan felt the hypnotic pull of the ululation as the boy’s voice rose and fell. He moved a step closer, unwilling to let the young Celt sacrifice himself if the tanglers failed to react.
The tangler vines whipped into a frenzy, snaking through the trees and the brush to sail at Tarragon. The boy held his hands up slowly, keeping very still. Some of the tanglers threaded around his arms, sending smaller tendrils wrapping through his fingers. All of the plants kept their spurs bared, a dozen of them hovering only inches in front of the boy’s face.
“Upon my soul,” Doc breathed at Ryan’s side.
Ryan glanced at the skinny old man. “Ever seen anything like that?” Even after Gehrig had told him the Celts could talk to the plants, he hadn’t been prepared to see it actually happen.