James Axler – Shadowfall

Ryan had already realized that. But it gave Trader some self-respect if he announced that kind of news. Like he was still real sharp, despite his age.

Which he undeniably was, despite a slight blurring around the fighting edge.

“Don’t look in-laws,” Jak said. “Wolf’s-heads in brushwood. Step careful if go in. Don’t trust far as spitting.”

Ryan nodded at that, too. “No argument with that. How about weapons?”

Predictably it was the Armorer who’d been paying particular attention to that.

“Children nothing, unless you count three or four little short-bladed hunting knives. Most of the women down there are wearing knives.” He took off his hat and scratched his head. “Kind of strange that, when you think about it. Virtually everyone’s got a blade of some kind. Three or four of them are also wearing tomahawks at their belts.”

“Men all got knives,” Jak interrupted. “Some got two. Working blades and fighting blades.”

“Not many blasters. One’s wearing an AK-47. He’s” J.B. paused. “No. Sorry. Couldn’t see it properly. It’s the AK-74 not the 47. Folding stock.”

“Never could work out what the difference was,” Trader said.

“One of the main differences is in the ammo,” the Armorer replied, locked into his favorite topic of conversation. “The newer 5.45 mm has a flatter trajectory than the 7.62 mm. Means you got better aim around the four-hundred-paces mark. Very tight rifling, so it spins quicker.”

“Makes it more stable?” Ryan asked.

“Right. But it has a relatively low muzzle velocity. Below three thousand fps. The M-16 goes around three two-fifty. But here’s where the Ruskies got clever. Cunning Old Mikhail Timofeyevich Kalashnikov. Basic cartridge has a mild steel jacket. That covers a lead sheath. Then a core of mild steel about fifteen millimeters long. The base of that’s at the base of the jacket. Then comes a three millimeter plug of lead. Right in the nose is simply five millimeters of air. So, it’s a bottom heavy round, with the center of gravity tilled much closer to the rear of the bullet than usual.”

“Because it’s unbalanced, it starts to tumble immediately after it hits anything more solid than air. Dumps all of its kinetic energy and rips apart flesh. Big high-velocity round goes in and straight out the other side and doesn’t do much damage. I saw some pix in an old mag of test-firing into jelly blocks. Tore them apart, the 74 did.”

“Anything else interesting?” Abe asked. “I haven’t see one of them Russkie blasters in a ‘coon’s age. Seen lots of the old 47s.”

J.B. nodded. “Yeah. The muzzle brake’s a lot better. Cuts down on noise and flash. And it also counters some of the recoil with a movement that’s slightly down and forward. Brilliant piece of blaster design.”

“I saw three muzzle-loading muskets, just inside one of the tents,” Dean said. “And three of the men have got handblasters holstered.”

“Still doesn’t explain where all of the men from the camp have gone.” Krysty looked around, almost as though she were tasting the air.

Trader leaned toward Ryan. “Men are out hunting or raiding,” he guessed.

“Unless they work for a local baron.” Another thought occurred to him. “Could they have been chilled in some way?”

Trader considered the two possibilities, slowly nodding. “Could be either of them.”

“We going down, lover?” Krysty asked. “I can smell baking bread.”

Ryan had also noticed, a fresh, delicious odor that was already doing something to scrape away at the harsh layers of sulfur from his taste buds.

“I’ll go on down there, just with Dean and Abe. Talk some. Let them know we got some armed forces watching. Kind of test the water.”

“Careful, lover. I can’t catch the feeling properly, but it’s not all friendly.”

DESPITE KRYSTY’S reservations, the greeting was largely hospitable.

The first warning came in a cry of “Strangers!” from one of the smallest children, which brought the men together, some with blasters cocked and ready, while the women gathered all the little ones, shepherding them into the hide tents.

Ryan introduced himself and the others, saying that they were from a group of traders who’d been sailing up the coast. A freak storm had turned over their boat, and several of the party had been lost.