James Axler – Shadowfall

“And that’s why you’re fascinated with Krysty’s and Jak’s hair?” Ryan laid both hands flat on the table, exercising careful control. “Just what do you want with them? You want to buy their hair?”

Straub licked his lips, showing the first real emotion that Ryan had detected. “I would pay any price for their tresses. I am jack-wealthy, and I know that I could obtain anything I wanted for a wig of fire or a wig of snow.”

Ryan stood up from the table, followed instantly by J.B. “Waste of both our times. There’s no way this would ever happen. Never.”

“Never say ‘never,’ outlander Cawdor,” Straub said, remaining seated.

“You try to take hair from anyone, and you’ll find yourself knee-deep in your own blood.”

Now Schickel was also on his feet, pointing angrily at the two outlanders. “You threaten me, here in my own camp, with three dozen armed men just a shout away?” He was hissing the words, like an enraged cottonmouth.

Ryan shook his head, fighting for his own self-control, feeling the crimson mist clouding his vision and his mind. He struggled against it, knowing that anger was weakness.

“No, Schickel. The threat comes from you. From Straub.”

“What threat?” The pale hands spread, the picture of injured innocence. “I said that I would pay a fair price in jack or trade if I could purchase the hair of two of your company. You have made it clear this can’t happen. How can there be any threat from us, Cawdor?”

J.B. was about to speak when Ryan placed a hand on his forearm, quieting him.

“No,” he said, almost to himself. “No, this is pointless. Nobody wants blood.” He looked across the table at Schickel. “We are grateful for your hospitality and the food and the beds for the night.”

“All right.” The war chief made no attempt to brighten his surly scowl. “All right.”

Straub finally got to his feet, brushing some imaginary specks of dust from his black shirt. “One more small thing.”

“What?”

“Baron Weyman. Schickel here’s told you about our plans to take over the ville.”

“Yeah, he told us.”

“You’ve eaten our food and taken our hospitality. In return we’d like you to help us. You’re well armed, and it’s kind of obvious you all know how to use your blasters. Use them for us, and you’ll not be sorry.”

“Meaning we’ll be sorry if we don’t help?” J.B. asked, easing the sling on the big Smith amp; Wesson scattergun across his shoulders.

“For us or against us?” Schickle queried. “No road runs down the middle.”

Ryan glanced at J.B., but it was impossible to judge the Armorer’s reaction. His eyes were invisible behind the dark lenses of his spectacles.

“Well?” Straub prompted, tapping one finger gently on the scarred wood of the table. “Our plans are not quite ready for us to move against Weyman. But it won’t be long.”

“You got to be with us,” Schickel said, now so angry that a thread of spittle sprayed from his open mouth. “Now you know what we intend.”

Straub turned and looked at him, staring for a long time, until the purple faded from the chief’s temples and cheeks. “That’s better, friend. Rage makes enemies of friends, doesn’t it? And none of us want that.”

“They could go tell the baron,” Schickel mumbled, but his words seemed to have been dragged from a long way off, barely audible to the outlanders.

“They won’t do that, will you, Cawdor?” Ryan didn’t answer. “Because they’re honorable men, Schickel. I understand that, even if you don’t.” Straub lifted his eyes toward the two outlanders. “Sit, Schickel,” he said, without looking around.

The war chief sat heavily, like a dumped sack of grain. He looked to be in a stupor, and Ryan recalled Krysty’s suspicion that Straub might be some kind of hypnotist.

“We’re going to bed now,” he said, turning away, followed by J.B.

Straub’s voice followed them into the darkness. “Sleep well and safe. You have my word of honor that not a hair of your heads will be harmed.”

When they were a safe distance away, J.B. spit in the dirt. “Honor,” he said. “Knows where he can put his honor. Where the sun don’t shine.”