James Axler – Road Wars

“No.” The Armorer pulled a face. “I had some once. Kansas. My twenty-fifth birthday. Crew bought me a quart, ready-mixed. I tell you, Ryan, I don’t think I’ve ever, ever felt so sick in my life when I woke up next morning. Headache, right across my forehead so that even opening my eyes was like razor-wire, heated white. I started to throw up in just fifteen seconds, and I was still doing it eight hours later.”

The barkeep brought over their beers, smiling as he listened to J.B.’s recollection of spotioti. “Can lie a little sickly on the stomach if you aren’t used to it.”

Ryan nodded. “I remember some mix of fruit juice and honey and brandy and beef-fat with crushed bananas that brought on the dreaded rainbow yawns.”

“Nothing as bad as spotioti,” J.B. said, taking off his glasses to polish them. “I got to know the inside of that bucket better than the inside of my own blaster. Twisted my guts so bad I kept expecting to see my ass drop out of my mouth!”

“J.B.! That’s disgusting.”

“Yeah, Ryan, I know.”

The Armorer turned to one of the laughing sec men. “Baron Tenbos still collect blasters?”

“Only old stuff.”

“Not ready for a rebellion, then?” Ryan rarely encountered a baron who didn’t have contingency plans for a revolt against his or her authority. Not all that many barons eventually died in their beds.

“No. Doesn’t even have much ammo for them. Too much trouble to cast. Most things are” He stopped suddenly.

The barkeep straightened, picking up a cloth and starting to polish one of the row of goblets in front of him. Ryan caught the hasty gesture and guessed that they were about to meet Baron Hamish Tenbos.

Chapter Twenty-Six

As they sat and drank with Baron Tenbos, Ryan thought a lot about age and the passing of time. It was partly the excellent home-brewed beer that brought on the process of ruminative melancholy, and partly the shock of seeing what the passage of the years had done to the baron.

The memory of the ruddy, tanned figure with broad shoulders and deep chest, rushing about his ville, hearty and perpetually busy, was rudely dispelled by the man who walked slowly into the bar, leaning heavily on an ivory-handled cane.

Hamish Tenbos was probably still in his fifties, but he had the appearance of someone twenty years older. His back was stooped and he dragged one leg behind him, the worn boot scuffing on the flagstones. A few fronds of lank white hair straggled down both sides of his lined face, held in place with a neatly knotted ribbon of black velvet. One eye drooped, and a corner of the mouth was pulled down, giving Tenbos a look of permanent dissatisfaction.

“Stroke” was Ryan’s immediate reaction to the radical changes he saw in the baron, a reaction that was quickly proved to be correct.

“Mr. Ryan Cawdor, the number-one lieutenant of the hardest of the hard. How is Trader now? I heard he had been chilled in a skirmish with some renegade Cheyenne or some comancheros , down near Mazatlan. True?” He waved a clawed hand. “Doesn’t matter. Nothing much matters. You look well, Cawdor.”

Ryan had introduced J.B., explaining briefly the purpose of their quest to the Northwest. Tenbos listened quietly, once clicking the fingers of his good hand to attract the attention of the barkeep, who immediately brought a tray with three foaming glasses of beer.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dix. Heard of you. Best man on blasters in all of Deathlands. I must show you my own collection.” The ravaged face clouded suddenly. “What remains of it. Like their owner, my guns have suffered much over the past few years.”

“Mainly flintlocks and muzzle-loaders, I hear, Baron,” the Armorer said. “Nothing much after the middle part of the nineteenth century.”

“Correct. I used to strip and clean every gun at least once a month. But since my my ‘accident'” He touched his drooped eye with the withered hand. “Since this, I have rather lost my interest.” He paused, smiling wryly. “I figure that I’ve lost most of my interests.”

“Still be pleased to look at them.”