Blood Harvest (v5)

by James Axler

  “But, my dear Dr. Wyeth—” Raul’s blue eyes roved her body “—you are already intimately involved.”

  Mildred couldn’t suppress her shudder. She knew without doubt she had been better off back at the sec station with Constable Jorge-Teo and his sec men pulling a train on her than in the tender embrace of the demon in front of her. Mildred decided she wasn’t having either. She was twenty feet up, but as the ghost-faced son of a bitch had said, the sward was soft and her ZKR was down there somewhere. Failing that, and assuming she didn’t break her ankles, then fine. It was a foot race, and Mildred couldn’t help but wonder how fast a human being that big could really run or how much endurance he could have. All she needed was a head start.

  Mildred tipped over the bough and ejected.

  Raul lunged with grotesque speed. His hand closed around her throat and reeled her back in. His thumb and fingers pressed into her flesh like cold chisels. Mildred’s vision darkened as her carotid arteries squeezed shut. She fumbled for her knife, but her body refused to obey her as her brain starved for blood. Mildred scrabbled at Raul’s arm, but it was nearly as thick as the tree branch supporting her. Her vision went long and dark along the sides as she took that trip into oblivion.

  Raul eased his grip as Mildred went limp. He spent a few moments examining his catch. He had seen such dark skin only in a few books in his father’s library. Raul ran one huge paw experimentally through the beaded plaits of her hair and felt himself stirring in his breechclout. Had he not slaked his lust, thirst and hunger earlier, Dr. Wyeth might well be hanging in bloody gobbets strung in the tree branches like Christmas decorations. Raul smiled in the darkness and rain.

  There would be time for that later.

  Right now she was a valuable commodity, and two more remained to be caught. Raul slung Mildred over his shoulder, swung down on the rope like a great ape and loped off into the night with his prize.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ryan climbed up the back of the manse. He would have preferred to climb up the front where Mildred could cover him but it was darker back here. A lot of effort had been spent to prevent people from climbing up the side of the manse. It seemed like everyone on this isle had a predisposed fear of cuts and bleeding, and the spikes and razor wire were strung in thick boundaries on the second and third stories. Bells like those strung around the necks of the goats of the little island were strung throughout the wire to alert those inside of anyone trying to penetrate the defenses. Ryan had climbed some of the worst crags in the Deathlands free-hand out of sheer necessity. A patient man who didn’t mind a few cuts could creep his way through this.

  Ryan could outwait a rock, which was useful because in the rad-blasted wastes of Deathlands sometimes even the rocks weren’t what they appeared to be. Ryan had wrapped his hands in the long, weighted silk scarf that sometimes served him as a weapon, to grasp spikes. Wherever barbed wire bit into him or his clothing and gear, he had to stop with one hand on a spike or a bar and his feet jammed on a sill or wire strand, and reach back to slowly disentangle himself. Ryan crept through the vertical fortifications one handhold, one foothold and one sharpened obstacle at a time. The sec men passed beneath him but they kept their eyes and their blasters pointed out into the darkness beyond rather than up. It wasn’t a terribly technical climb if one didn’t mind getting a little shredded. His main enemies were rain, darkness and exhaustion.

  Ryan finally pulled himself over the rain gutter and crawled up the shingles. He moved to a smoking chimney and hugged the bricks for long moments, letting heat seep back into his body and feeling back into his bleeding fingers. Then he moved in a crouch to the observatory.

  The brass dome was like the top of a grain silo. A tiny, railed balcony let astronomers step out into the night. The French doors between them were no obstacle at all. Ryan picked the lock and stepped into the observatory. It was a converted loft. A cannonlike Dobsonian reflector telescope stood on a rotating platform. Astronomical charts covered the walls. A rack held various lenses and accessories. A table held notebooks and sketches. The bookcase was loaded with books on cosmology. He felt a need to follow the charts and steer his eye across the heavens through the telescope. The Deathlands could warp and change almost before a man’s eyes. The stars were one of the few comforting constants in Ryan’s world. Doc would love such a journey. He—

  Ryan slid his panga silently from its sheath as he moved toward the door. He spent long moments listening but heard no sounds without. Peering through the keyhole, he saw a hallway lit by candlelight. Ryan turned the handle slowly and silently opened the door. The wood paneling was fairly new and in good repair. He stepped onto the rug to quiet the sound of his boots and moved down the hall. He stopped at a door where he heard voices. One of them was the baron’s.

  The one-eyed man knelt and peered through the keyhole.

  Baron Barat and three other men stood around a table. One of them was huge and bore a strong resemblance to the baron. Two more big men stood with slung auto-blasters. The baron gestured at a map on his desk and pointed in various directions. The men nodded, then spoke their agreement. They all spoke Portuguese, but it was pretty clear to Ryan they were making battle plans. He smiled coldly. They were a day late and some jack short.

  Ryan silently opened the door and stepped in. The men were so intent on their strategy and tactics they didn’t notice the invader for several heartbeats. The big man suddenly jerked upright. His hands went for the huge revolvers strapped to his thighs. They froze as Ryan snapped his blaster out at arm’s length. The stunned sec men looked to their leader. Ryan could read the islanders’ minds. They were playing the numbers game in their heads. Their blasters were all slung or holstered and their swords sheathed, but they were all thinking one of them would get him if they all drew down. Ryan kept his eye on the big man but pointed his blaster at the baron’s face. “Chill your pa.”

  The big man’s black eyes flared wide. His hands hovered but he didn’t draw. He flicked his gaze toward his father. The baron stared down Ryan’s blaster with an admirable lack of fear. He slowly raised his left hand. “Wait, my son.”

  Ryan noted the matching bandages on both the baron and his son’s right hands and smiled without an ounce of warmth. “See you met Doc.” Ryan was rewarded with a snarl from both Barats. “Give him to me.”

  “Dr. Tanner is on the second floor, in the second guest room facing eastward,” the baron said.

  “I know where he is. I said give him to me, and our blasters.”

  “I do not negotiate with plebes.”

  Ryan pulled out a very old piece of swank. “I am Ryan Cawdor, son of Baron Titus Cawdor, uncle to Nathan Cawdor, current baron of Front Royal, installed by my hand.”

  “You know?” the baron said. “I believe you.”

  “Doc, and the blasters, now.”

  The baron regarded Ryan dryly. “And should I refuse?”

  “I chill you. Then I chill your son. Neither of you will clear leather. Mebbe your sec men take me, but you better ask yourself what happens to the succession after that.”

  A strange look passed across the baron’s face that Ryan didn’t like. “Why, then, I suppose my brother will renew his bid for the barony.”

  Ryan wasn’t interested in Barat family politics at the moment. “You’re going to give me Doc. Now.”

  Conversation stopped as a bell clanked dully from somewhere within the manse. Irony filled Barat’s voice. “Speak of the devil.”

  “What?”

  The baron smiled.

  Ryan snapped his blaster toward Sylvano’s face. “You tell me in two seconds or I shoot your son.”

  The baron raised his left hand again. “I do not doubt you.”

  “Then get to it.”

  “That bell has not rung in years,” the baron replied.

  “What does that mean?”

  “That would require my explaining a great deal of our island’s history to you. Let it suffice to say that on this islan
d, despite familial acrimony, certain channels of communication have been left open due to necessity. The last time that bell rang was late in the night, years ago, when pirates came raiding. They styled themselves as Vikings. They had found old ocean charts and decided there was a good chance the Atlantic island chains might have lain fallow after skydark and make easy pickings. As you can imagine they made significant inroads during the day.” The baron’s bleak expression was again disturbing. “They were not prepared for what befell them come nightfall.”

  “And it’s ringing now because…?”

  The baron exposed his long teeth. “I suspect my brother, Raul, has one or more of your people.” Ryan’s one-eyed glare stayed fixed but his guts went cold. The baron saw past Ryan’s poker face. “The black woman and the albino can be the only two. Which one waited outside to cover your escape? And which did you send to secure a boat? I think I can guess.”

  Ryan gave the baron a very cold smile of his own. “I’ll chill you all.”

  “You will try, but let us negotiate as men of quality, and let us negotiate realistically. You will chill myself and perhaps my son, but you will not leave this room alive. Should you be so lucky, you would still not leave my manse, much less this island alive. Upon my or my son’s death, Dr. Tanner’s demise is assured. He will be bled and slaughtered in the bed he is bound upon. As for the black woman? It is possible that I may be able to negotiate for her return in, how shall I put it, an unsullied state? But upon my death her fate will be brood mare or beefsteak to the sort of nightmare I believe you may have seen before in your Deathlands. As for the albino? He cannot fight an entire island or sail the great ocean alone.” The baron knew he held all the cards. “I suggest you think very carefully upon your next move.”

  Ryan shot Sylvano twice in the chest.

  He snapped his muzzle over and gave the baron two more of the same. The closest sec men ignored his slung longblaster and slapped leather for the double-blaster thrust through his belt. He was fast and Ryan staggered as two loads of rock salt ripped into him. Ryan repaid the favor in lead with a double tap of his own. The second sec man gave Ryan both barrels in the gut. Ryan grimaced in agony but kept his feet. The sec man dropped his double-blaster and spun his longblaster around on its sling. Ryan put his front sight on the sec man’s chest and double-tapped him. The room shook as the supersonic crack-crack-crack of rifle bullets whipped past Ryan’s head. Ryan’s third shot chilled the sec man cold and dropped him to the carpet.

  Ryan’s blaster racked open on a smoking, empty chamber.

  Barat and his son, Sylvano, both stood tall and apparently untouched with local blasters in their hands. “Alive, my son,” the baron said.

  The fireblasted bastards were wearing armor. Ryan flung his panga at the baron.

  Ryan’s aim went askew as Sylvano shot him in the face. Rock salt tore into Ryan’s brow, cheek and ripped along his ear and scalp. If he hadn’t been blind in that eye already he would have lost it. Ryan snarled at the inferno of pain in his face and reached for the spare mag thrust through his belt. Sylvano lowered his aim and fired his second barrel. The .75-caliber cloud of salt ripped into Ryan’s injured gun hand and the empty blaster fell to the floor. Sylvano dropped the double-blaster and drew his sword. Baron Barat took aim with his weapon and dropped hammer. Ryan staggered as he took a load of rock salt in the front of his right thigh and wobbled as Barat gave him the second in the meat of his left. Ryan could hear the pounding of boots and shouting throughout the house. He drew the slaughtering knife from his boot.

  Sylvano knelt by a fallen sec man and took up the double-blaster.

  Ryan tottered a step forward. Sylvano’s double discharge toppled Ryan out the door. The one-eyed man held on to his knife as he did a backroll and came up onto his feet. He wasn’t going to win a knife fight with a pair of swordsmen, and Doc was downstairs. Ryan charged down the hall on burning legs.

  A half-naked woman staggered out of a door in front of Ryan as if shoved. She screamed at the one-eyed, blood-covered chiller that came for her. Her hair was blond and her skin golden-brown from a life lived under the sun. She dropped to her knees in terror and covered her head with her hands. Ryan vaulted her terror-genuflected form. The man behind her was older, chill-pale and dressed in a nightshirt. His dagger wavered in fear as he gaped in long-toothed horror at the bloody avenger hurtling down upon him. Ryan twisted midleap away from the clumsy thrust, and his forearm clotheslined the man across the clavicles and slammed him to the floor in passing. Men were boiling up the stairs. Clearly the trap had been set for the bottom floors. Half a dozen men shouted as Ryan appeared at the top of the landing and raised blasters.

  Ryan leaped over the banister.

  He dropped two floors. Rock salt tore at him. Two screaming islanders were kind enough to be standing beneath his boots and break his fall. Ryan pushed himself up from the tangle of broken, moaning men. The floor next to him erupted in splinters as someone above took a shot at him with lead. Ryan scrambled to his feet as boots slammed down the stairs. Servants screamed and fled in his wake. Ryan pounded for the door. He flung it open and took the steps down four at a time. Whistles began blowing upstairs and were answered by the men outside guarding the perimeter. The wag driver stood by his vehicle and raised a blaster. Ryan charged across the gravel drive. If it was loaded with lead, he was a dead man.

  The driver fired a barrel and stinging fire ripped into Ryan’s shoulder. His lips skinned back from his teeth like a wolf’s. He almost stumbled as he took the second load center-body. The driver screamed and reached for something beneath his long coat. Ryan’s panga flashed across the driver’s throat and ended his caterwauling. Ryan slid behind the wheel of the wag. Any ville with a still could make alcohol for the purposes of either entertainment or fuel. The problem with getting a wag moving since skydark was that almost no one could produce batteries of any power. Most wags had been converted to hand-crank or cartridge ignition.

  Ryan grabbed for the keys. Three, small single-shot blasters and a powder horn lay in the well where the armrest had been. They were all the same caliber and had a locking lug for a front sight. He shoved the barrel of one down the hole where the cigarette lighter had been. The one-eyed man turned the blaster to lock it in place and pulled the trigger. The gunpowder charge sent its blast down the pipe and kicked the engine over. The cold engine coughed, sputtered and died. Ryan waited for the bursts from the auto-blasters to tear him apart as he ripped out the starter blaster, but maybe the sec men were reluctant to destroy what was perhaps the ville’s only working wag, much less the baron’s pride and joy. Ryan shoved in the second starter blaster, turned it and pulled the trigger. The smell of brimstone filled the wag interior and the engine turned over, sputtered and roared as Ryan gave it some juice.

  He caught motion in the corner of his eye.

  The driver’s window shattered beneath the pommel of a sword. Ryan snatched up the third starter blaster as the sec man drew his blade back for the killing thrust. Ryan pointed the weapon and fired. There was neither lead nor salt in the weapon but at two feet the starter charge sent superheated smoke and gas searing into the sec man’s face. He fell back screaming as Ryan shoved the wag into gear. He flung open the door and picked up the fallen sword. The act saved his life as glass erupted in geysers across the windshield. The sec men with auto-blasters had lost their shyness about shooting into the baron’s ride. Ryan flung the sword on the passenger seat. Gravel spit beneath the tires as he floored it straight for the gate. He kept his head down as bullets ripped through the rear windshield.

  The wag skewed as it hit the gate, but where the iron bars held the ancient mortar, the firmament holding them in place failed. Ryan rose and fought the wheel as the wag fishtailed on the wet road. The iron bars slewed off in a shower of sparks from the roof of the wag and Ryan brought his ride under control. He swung off the road and onto the grass of the grounds beyond the fence. The wheels tore up turf as he brought it to a halt be
neath the tree. Ryan leaped out. “Mildred!” He stared up the rope and saw nothing but darkness in the bole of the tree. Ryan almost went up the rope but his foot stepped on something hard. He picked Mildred’s target revolver out of the wet grass.

  Mildred was gone.

  Ryan flung himself back in the wag and stepped on it. He lost a rear window as longblasters cracked from the manse. A dozen armed men ran for the broken gates. Ryan roared past and the wag took a broadside, but it mostly resisted the rock salt and lead buckshot. In an instant Ryan was beyond the range of the lights of the manse and in the inky darkness beneath the trees. He made the curve in the road mostly by memory and hit the lights. Light bulbs were in short supply in the Deathlands and most wags’ headlights had been modified to a type. The push of a lever allowed some hot gas from the engine into the fuel of the lamp reservoirs. The lever next to it closed the damper and extinguished them. Ryan pushed the lever. The engine made a hiss and clicking noise. The oil lanterns burned into life and the reflectors behind them intensified and threw their yellow beams.

  Horror stood in the headlights.

  It was female with the gigantic breasts and belly of a fertility goddess. Its ghost-white features were Neanderthalic, and it had the grotesquely muscled shoulders and arms of a gorilla. It charged the wag screaming and wielding a club the size of a sapling. The wag’s engine roared as Ryan downshifted and stomped on the accelerator. Ryan rammed the she-thing dead-on. The hood crumpled and the besieged windshield buckled as the huge mutie made its tumbling run over the wag. Ryan didn’t look back. He was too busy fighting the wheel and trying to see out of the collapsing and spiderwebbed windshield. One headlight had been smashed and burning oil sputtered and smeared along the right fender with the wind of the wag’s passage.

  Ryan did some dead reckoning. Islands were all the same. They usually had one or two roads that crisscrossed out of the main ville, and most had a predark belt of road that circled the coastline. Ryan weighed his options. Mildred was missing and the hag-thing told him the night was uncertain at best. What was certain was that nothing but hundreds of islanders with blasters and swords waited for him back at the ville. Ryan chose the uncertainty of the night. He took the next turnoff on the road, which led into the hills.