“Sure.” The Armorer nodded. And he outlined his theory that perhaps a force outside the camp was responsible before explaining that he didn’t want his notion to get back to Baron Silas via Crow. “So I figure that our best shot is to hit the well and refinery tonight, see what happens. Besides, it’ll be good to recce it in the dark and get used to it.”
That was something with which they could all agree, and when Myall returned from patrol Ryan was able to agree on a patrol roster. They would take the first watch at the work site and would travel to it via a roundabout route through the camp.
“I STILL DON’T GET why we have to go this way,” Dean whispered as the procession of horses made its way through the Haigh section of the camp and cut across to go past the Mandrake section.
“Because, my dear boy, it is a show of strength, a display, if you will, of our presence,” Doc returned in a low voice. He was riding directly in front of Dean, with Mildred and J.B. at the rear behind the younger Cawdor, and Jak and Krysty in front of Doc, with Ryan in the lead.
“But they know we’re here, especially in this place,” Dean added, taking in the glares they were receiving from the men and women of Mandrake, accompanied by low muttering.
“Yes, but they also have to know that we are— right now—on our way out to the work site. Word will spread, and then we will see if they have the nerve to attack. Or, indeed, if it is anyone from here.”
“Guess you’re right,” Dean said uneasily, “but I can see us getting into a firefight here and leaving the work site unprotected.”
“A first-night risk,” Doc returned. “I suspect Ryan has weighed the odds.”
But what about the odds on stumbling onto an interville fight? The one-eyed man had expected an attack on themselves, but what happened next hadn’t occurred to him.
As they left the Mandrake sector and were about to cross into the Salvation sector, all hell broke loose.
At the crossroads that marked the clear delineation between the villes, a bunch of men were standing on the Salvation side. They were drunk on home brew, and Jak’s keen night vision could detect that their eyes, in the flickering lamplight of the camp, were dark with the effects of jolt. They watched the seven horses cross, and also the posse of Mandrake workers that had followed at a distance, a tactic that had failed to spook the companions or their mounts, but set up the Mandrake men for what followed.
“Hey, assholes,” yelled one of the Salvation men, “I hear your women got beaten by the new sec women.” When there was no answer from the sullen Mandrake men, he continued, “I guess the women could take you as well, right? You are a bunch of shit, right?”
As one, the companions stopped their horses, Ryan wheeling his around to face his people. He didn’t have to speak. One look at them told him that they could all sniff the danger in the air and the trouble that was about to break.
Behind them, the Mandrake men were muttering among themselves. They weren’t replying to the taunts of the Salvation drunk, but were obviously contemplating a response.
And in the middle were the seven horses and their riders, waiting for the storm to break. It didn’t take more than a second.
“Yeah, bunch of shit.” The Salvation man laughed, turning to his friends. It was as he turned away that the knife skimmed past his ear, nicking the skin enough for blood to flow like a stream down his neck, before embedding itself in the arm of a man behind him. Caught unawares, with the sharp blade embedding itself in the muscle and sinew of his biceps as he stood there, the shock and pain made the man scream in a frantic, high-pitched tone.
“Fireblast! Get them,” Ryan yelled, swinging himself off his mount.
With a chorus of yells and whoops, the Mandrake men charged across the space between themselves and the startled and temporarily wrong-footed Salvation men. In the middle were the companions, who were prepared to make this a fight without blasters unless necessary. Mildred, Krysty and Dean would have to fight unarmed, while Jak palmed a leaf-bladed knife into each hand. Doc’s silver lion’s-head stick revealed the blade of finely honed Toledo steel that was hidden within. J.B. and Ryan, at each end of the line, were prepared with their blades, J.B. his Tekna and Ryan his trusty panga. Each of the companions picked a direction in which to face the oncoming mob, knowing that the adjacent companion covered his or her back.