“Don’t chill me!” he pleaded, crawling away on the seat of his pants, a hand raised to ward off the expected blow.
From his ragged clothing and demeanor, Krysty could tell he was no sailor or guard. His hands were rough, the knuckles swollen and she made a guess.
“Carpenter,” the redhead stated, aiming her blaster.
“Ship’s c-carpenter,” he stammered, inching away. “Look, that meat is mine. A gift from a friend. I’m no thief!”
Not a good one, anyway. “Talk fast,” Krysty ordered, cocking her piece. “Where is the baron’s house?”
Badly frightened, the man pointed with a shaky finger. “Two blocks over and up a flight of stairs. Big place, lots of guards.”
The two women exchanged glances. That description matched the fortress they had seen on the low hill from the window of the gaudy house.
Stiffly bending, Jak shoved the man’s head against the side of the brick house, knocking him unconscious. Yanking off the knotted rope the carpenter was using as a belt, the teen gave it to Mildred, who tied a tourniquet around the man’s leg. When she was done, he retrieved the blade. The Cajun had no objections to chilling an enemy, but the terrified worker was no threat to the companions. Even in the Deathlands, there were lines that couldn’t be crossed if a man considered himself a man, and not a coldheart. The differences were small, but to the companions extremely important.
Just then, the sound of marching boots filled the street and the companions slipped into a tavern to hide. More troops passed by, the sailors loading their longblasters on the run. Clothing was disheveled, faces stubbly with beard, and it was painfully clear the men had been roused from their sleep.
“The battle must be going bad,” Krysty said, peeking out the wooden shutters covering the windows, “if they’re calling in the reserve troops already.”
“Firebirds against cannons isn’t a fight,” Mildred stated, watching from the front door. “That’s just a slaughter.”
Jak could only mumble in agreement, his mouth stuffed with food from the abandoned plates on the score of deserted tables.
As the sailors hurried out of sight, the companions followed in their wake, heading toward the baron’s fortress. Everywhere, people were running about in panic, and several homes had been broken into and looted, clothing and such scattered in the cobblestone streets.
Smoke was rising from something burning in the distance. Cannons roared as Firebirds streaked across the sky, flintlocks discharging continuously. Half a dozen times, the companions were forced to hide rather than engage the squads of armed pirates, the sailors only seeming to travel in groups of ten or more. Then they found several chilled officers partially buried under the bricks and timbers of exploded buildings, the mashed gun racks and beds in the wreckage indicating this had been a barracks. Unfortunately, the longblasters of the officers were bent and useless, but their pepper boxes and shotguns were undamaged. The companions took the weapons, and the next group of sailors was ruthlessly cut to ribbons by the triple shotgun blasts, then the bleeding bodies looted of all the ammo they could carry.
Locating the flight of stairs, the women and teenager slowed and proceeded carefully up the hill. Cresting the ridge, they found a low stone wall dotted with cannons. Warily, they crept forward, the reloaded shotguns sweeping for targets. Even if most of the guards had gone to defend the ville, some would always stay at their posts. Fanatics and fools were the essential backbone of any baron’s regime.
“There it is!” Mildred cried out when the fortress came into sight. A sandbag wall surrounded the structure on the ground, the rooftop foamy with coils of barbed wire. Beyond the fortress rose the escarpment of the towering mesa, the ruins on top lost in the haze of sheer distance.
Oddly, no guards were in sight, and that made the companions suspicious enough to drop and take cover. Had everybody gone to the ville walls, or were folks already fleeing the ville to escape into the deadly jungle? Rad craters dotted the island, and without a rad counter, any journey through the dense foliage would end quickly in screaming agony.