“That was from the roof!” a sergeant exclaimed.
“The first of hundreds,” Kinnison said slowly, trying to heighten the tension. Their fear was the only tool he had to regain the throne. This trick either worked, or he died. It was that simple. All or nothing. Victory or death.
Holstering his piece, a young corporal went to one knee. “We are yours to command, Lord Baron,” he said.
Kinnison spent precious moments studying the sec man. He had to be a new recruit as the face was unknown. Clean shaved and bald, the sec man moved with the grace of a jungle cat, only small scars marking his face. His gun belt was woven canvas, not the usual black leather, and the handles of his handcannons were heavily carved. Some sort of a tattoo peeked out from under a sleeve, and a gold earring hung from a lobe. A former sailor. How interesting.
“What’s your name?” the baron ordered, fighting off a stomach spasm. His need for more jolt was making itself known again.
“Rochar Langford, my lord,” the young man answered calmly.
Kinnison was impressed; the man wasn’t afraid. Amazing, and potentially useful. The baron grandly gestured. “Your oath is accepted. Rise, Chancellor Rochar Langford.”
“Ch-chancellor?” Langford gasped, then collected himself and gave a salute. “Sir, yes, sir!”
Realizing the untenable position of indecision, the rest of the people in attendance also knelt and swore to obey the baron. The pledges of fidelity were strong, and well delivered. But Kinnison coldly remembered when they had given the exact same oath many years ago, before the revolt. His grandfather used to say that promises were like pie crusts, made to be broken.
“My lord, what about the Firebirds?” a major asked anxiously, glancing at the ceiling as if he could see the missiles streaking through the air.
“They have been neutralized,” Kinnison stated, and waited. There was a long dramatic pause, and the baron feared he had timed the blast wrong when a powerful explosion sounded from outside.
Surreptitiously, the sec men exchanged glances, wondering how the hell the fat man could control the Firebirds without speaking directly to them. Settling into his throne, Kinnison was pleased to see the fear of his unknown abilities fill their faces. Excellent. It would be quite a while before he was challenged again.
“Chancellor!” Baron Kinnison snapped.
Directing some servants to drag away the body of Griffin, Langford turned. “My lord?”
“Send a squad of sec men to collect the escaped prisoners and chain them in the powder mill. We will need their cells. Soon enough the dungeon will be packed with traitors waiting for execution.”
The crowd of barons and officers didn’t take that news well, and several began to quietly slip out of the throne room.
“I’ll handle it personally, sir,” Langford replied, watching the door close behind the officers. “Sergeant, take a squad and follow those men. Don’t let them leave the island without my direct authorization.”
“Yes, sir,” the sec man said, saluting.
Kinnison smiled. Competent help, at last. “Good man. Then release the carrier falcons to our peteys and sailing ships. They are to stop hunting pirates and muties to concentrate on locating the outlander Ryan and his group. I want a recce of every ville within a five-day sail.”
“Sir!”
“And increase the reward to weapons, powder and slaves.”
“It will be done.”
A lieutenant cleared his throat. “My lord, Griffin ordered their immediate deaths. Should we now have the troops try to capture them alive?”
“No! Chill them all on sight,” Baron Kinnison declared with a frown. “Except for the two women. Break their arms to keep them from escaping and bring them to Maturo Island.”
“Yes, my lord!”
As the guard raced away with the orders, Kinnison smiled to himself. Yes, the outlander sluts were perfect. Under torture they might tell many important things. And if they knew nothing useful, well, he needed new wives to start trying again for a son. Maybe several this time. Fresh meat should do the job nicely.
That was, for as long as they lived.
Chapter Thirteen
“Try it again!” Ryan shouted, putting his weight behind the tree branch and shoving the end deeper into the mud under the stuck tire. Getting ready, the rest of the companions put their shoulders to the mired bus and dug in their boots.