“We still got a few hours of daylight left,” J.B. commented.
Ryan nodded. “That can work for us or against us, depending on how good the baron’s men are in the dark.”
“Home-ground advantage goes to the Slaggers, though.” A crooked smile framed the Armorer’s face. “And those bastard dogs.”
“We got too many problems inside this fort,” Ryan stated.
“I know.”
“Trader’d think me a fool for putting up with all of them for so long. I need to find out what kind of hold that witch has over Krysty, and who of these folks the baron’s men are after. Then I need to get us the hell out of here.”
“Mebbe.” J.B. took off his glasses and gave them a quick shine. “But I think back in those days when Trader was sharp, he’d have taken advantage of the rain, too.”
“Rain’s over,” Ryan said. Outside, only a light mist hazed the air. But it was still enough to give a man pause about going out into it. If enough of the airborne caustic liquid was breathed in, lungs could become inflamed, a breeding ground for pleurisy or another respiratory ailment that would end up in a long, hard death.
J.B. put his glasses back on. “Which problem you going to deal with first?”
“Krysty.”
“Could be hard going.”
“Already is,” Ryan admitted. “If I knew what to do, one way or the other, I could get it done.”
“Best way to do anything,” the Armorer said, “is to put the ace on the line and let the chips fall.”
Ryan knew that was true, but he also knew that doing that was going to risk Krysty. Somehow, though, he knew she wouldn’t want him to let the situation remained unresolved.
“ANY CHANGE?” RYAN ASKED.
Mildred shook her head. She sat next to Krysty’s pallet, the red head lying in her lap. She brushed at the prehensile hair, trying to calm it from the bunch of frayed knots it had twisted itself into. “She’s got a fever. Low grade and nothing’s that’s going to be dangerous, but it’s wearing her out.”
“How about the old woman?” Ryan cut his gaze over to Phlorin, who had woken and pierced him with her red-rimmed gaze filled with hate.
“Figured she’d be dead by now,” Mildred admitted, “with that hole in her chest. We’re talking about a lot of trauma to her system. She’s a stubborn woman.”
“If she dies, how do you think it’s going to affect Krysty?”
“Not any more than the baron’s men chilling her if they get their hands on her first. And she’s going to die anyway, Ryan. No way to save her. Mebbe her dying will ease the hold she has on Krysty.”
Ryan drew the panga. “Guess it’s time to find out.” He glanced at the old woman.
Phlorin stared back at him, a sarcastic smile somehow blossoming on the bloody lips through all the pain. “Come to me, man. Come ahead and do your worst. No matter what, I shall still survive!”
FOR A LONG TIME, Krysty knew she’d been floating in some kind of prison. It wasn’t the land of geysers and sulfur stench that Phlorin had first put her in when she took over her body and nearly killed Ryan. The place she’d been kept had been a white room almost ten feet in all directions. There had been no furniture, no decorations, no way to tell what was a floor, ceiling or wall.
There hadn’t been any gravity, either. At first, she’d run, slamming herself into the walls, the ceiling, the floor, whatever side of the cube she could throw herself at. She’d hoped she’d break something, find some way out. The walls had all held, and she felt that she was teetering toward madness.
In the background, always just within hearing, had been Phlorin’s voice. And it had never sounded human again. The voice oozed words like an infected wound oozed pus into healthy tissue. Krysty was certain the voice was finding the weak spots of her mind, prying into every nook and cranny it could, then insinuating itself and taking root. At times she thought she could feel the voice actually inching deeper inside herself.