James Axler – Cold Asylum

J.B. tried to stab the third guard, who parried the blow with one of the brass lamps, the steel ringing off the bowl. His mouth was opening to shout for help when Doc killed him with one savage thrust of the rapier, piercing his heart.

“Stamp on those lights,” Ryan hissed to his son, watching as the boy quickly trod out the naked flames before they had time to ignite the pool of spilled oil that reeked among the broken glass of the lamps.

There was a neat sign, in ornate lettering, nailed to the wall at the entrance to a room that resembled the picture gallery The Nathan Mandeville Armory.

A couple more oil lamps stood on a wooden table a little way into the long room, both lighted. Ryan picked up one, J.B. taking the other.

“Let’s get our blasters back,” he said.

CURSING AT THE TOP of his voice, Sec Sergeant Harry Guiteau eventually managed to heel his horse nearer to the mounts of the baron and his daughter. During the time it took him, he’d also checked his chron.

Close to ten minutes had elapsed since he’d given the outlanders the signal to run for their lives, ten minutes that had been nothing but a bedlam of noise, rain and uncontrollable animals, canine and equine.

“Baron!”

“What is it!?” Mandeville’s white beard had lost its spring and curl and now looked like some desperate Arctic animal clinging to his chin for protection. The merry little blue eyes were like chips of ice.

“I can’t see lights in the ville.”

“So what?”

Guiteau realized that his lord was way beyond any sort of sense or reason, locked into a blind rage.

“So, I think Cawdor’s fucked the power mill.”

“Bastard liar.” Mandeville swung at his face with the crop, the barbed steel tip missing Guiteau by less than an inch as he swayed back out of range.

“Imbecile!” The cold, vicious fury in Marie Mandeville’s voice penetrated through the crimson mist of her father’s insensate anger, rising above the neighing of the horses and the baying of the dogs.

“Don’t talk to me like” he began, quailing as he met his daughter’s eyes.

“Guiteau.”

“Lady?”

“I believe you’re right.”

“I can take a few good men and go to the mill.”

“We’ll come with you.” A thought occurred to her. “Take twenty. No more. And send the rest of the blundering stupes back to the main gate of the ville. Tell them what might have happened. I think they’re going for their blasters. We might still be in time to cut them off at the mill.”

THERE WAS NO OTHER SIGN of life within the ville as the seven companions moved slowly into the entrance of the gallery, the two lamps casting pools of yellow light for a few yards ahead and behind them.

Ryan told Michael, as their best hand-to-hand fighter and fastest mover, to remain behind on the dark landing with the spilled oil and the three corpses to listen for any sign of danger.

“I’ll get your Texas Longhorn Border Special for you,” he said to the teenager.

“I’ll stay with him, Dad.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Ryan’s fingers clenched and his knuckles whitened, but Krysty felt his surge of anger and spoke quickly to the boy.

“Do like you’re told, Dean.”

“Sorry.”

GUTTEAU EMERGED from the darkness of the mill, his face tense, voice tight. Lightning flickered around the ville, making his cheeks glow with a ghostly pallor. The horsemen and Marie Mandeville waited.

“Yeah,” he reported. “Broken the main drive gearing. Takes days to repair. And chilled the two men.”

“So where are they now?” Mandeville spat.

All eyes turned toward the looming bulk of Sun Crest.

Guiteau pointed, blinking away the rain. “There. Lights moving in the north tower,” he shouted.

Chapter Thirty-Four

John Dix was showing more emotion than Ryan had ever seen from the sallow-faced Annorer. Twice he stopped, putting down the smoky lamp to wipe his spectacles again.

“We got to move, J.B., you know.”

“Of course, of course.”

The room that seemed to be at least forty paces in length was simply filled with armaments. There were all manner of bows, spears, swords and daggers, dating from every period of history, all jumbled together in the same way that the collection of paintings had been.