A number of outbuildings and barns and courtyards were set among spreading woodlands. But the high wall, set with spikes and electrified wires-powered by a big water generator-was the main defensive feature that struck Ryan’s eye as they trudged the last hundred yards toward the spread.
Joaquin had reined back to walk his horse alongside the outlanders.
“Impressive, huh?”
“Can’t argue with that,” Ryan said. “You get a lot of trouble here?”
The sec sergeant laughed. “Josh, you tell him.”
“What happened yesterday was the first serious incident we had for about a year.”
Joaquin corrected him. “Closer to eighteen months. Mob of Hole ghoulies, stoned on the jolt they bought from the man with steel eyes.”
“Steel eyes?” said Ryan.
“You heard of him? Called the Magus.”
“Also known as the Warlock.”
“And the Sorcerer,” J.B. added. “Used to pick up stickies and sell them on to Gert Wolfram. Fat bastard used to use them in his traveling freak show. So the Magus is still around peddling his dirt?”
Joaquin clicked his tongue, setting spurs into his gelding’s flanks, moving it on again. “Yeah. Controls most of the jolt in Deathlands.”
“And this mob attacked your ville?” Ryan asked.
Morgan replied. “Came out of the night. Raving and screaming. Stormed the wall. Plenty got chilled on the wire. Until their corpses blew all of the main fuses. Few of them managed to get through and we took some losses. More than an hour to clear the scum away.”
“The ghoulies tend to stick in the heart of the old ruins, do they?” Krysty asked.
Again it was Morgan who replied. “Not really ruins. I been around and seen the black canyons of Newyork. Those are what I call ruins. Washington Hole isn’t much more than what the name says. Big hole. Ash and fused lava glass. Biggest crater in the world some say. High rad count. Get some triple-serious muties there, which is good news for Baron Sharpe with his-”
“Enough, Josh,” Joaquin said sharply. “Don’t let your tongue taste so much air.”
He pushed the horse ahead at a faster walk, leaving Ryan and the others behind him.
BARON SEAN SHARPE was waiting for his returning sec men as soon as the heavy gates swung open. He stood in the main courtyard, hands locked behind his back, wearing nondescript shirt and pants of dull beige with worn knee boots.
Ryan’s first glance went automatically to see how the man was armed, that being one of the most important things to check out in Deathlands.
It was a satin-finish Ruger revolver, stuck in a workmanlike holster on the left side of the belt.
“The GP-160,” J.B. said at his side. “Double-action, six-round,.357 Magnum. Live rubber stocks. Handy blaster.”
The man himself stood a little over six feet, broad shouldered and deep-seated, with the easy stance of someone who kept himself in top shape. Ryan’s guess put Sharpe at around thirty years old. His blond hair was cropped, and his eyes were the chilling milky blue of Sierra meltwater. He was strikingly good-looking.
The horsemen reined in around him, but nobody spoke a word. Ryan led his party in a few yards behind, stopping and waiting. The silence was broken only by the shuffling of the animals, the jingle of harness and by the rising wind that carried a few spots of rain in its teeth.
Sharpe looked around, his eyes taking in everything, lingering on Jak and then on Krysty.
“Well,” he finally said. “Well, I see you alone, Joshua, with marks on your face that tell me we have stickies on our lands. Best hear your initial report, Sergeant.” He turned slowly to look at Joaquin.
Sitting stiffly upright in his saddle, the man gave a concise account of what had happened: the ambush and the slaughter of the other members of the first scouting party, the rescue by the outlanders that had resulted in the deaths of all of the muties and the freeing of Joshua Morgan.
The baron stood very still, listening. When Joaquin fell silent, he still didn’t speak. Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan could see that Emma was trembling. It could have been exhaustion.