by James Axler
Although the men and women ate separately, the ville didn’t request the same of Ryan’s group, and once they had helped themselves from the large tureen nearby, they sat together and discussed the situation.
“Well, what you think?” J.B. asked between bites.
Ryan blew on a spoonful of soup before eating it. “Donfil hasn’t changed a bit since we parted ways on the coast.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
“Yeah, yeah. Been thinking about it all.”
“It’s just after that pretty speech you gave upstairs, I figured you’d be hell-bent to go out there and save them from whatever’s causing the trouble.”
Ryan stared at the bespectacled man over his soup bowl. “Mebbe we’ll just use you for bait, see what comes out to nibble on your toes.”
The corner of J.B.’s mouth twitched in acknowledgment of the joke, and he returned to his own meal.
“Donfil’s a friend, and that carries some weight. But if these people are about to be destroyed by some kind of natural disaster, what’s the point of helping them now? Hell, what we ought to be doing is packing up and hitting the road, before whatever’s coming for them catches us, too.”
Mildred stifled an unladylike burp behind her hand. “Yeah, but the elder said only some things the fish-man saw came true. What if our presence here is the thing that stops it?”
Ryan fixed her with his cold blue stare. “Yeah, and what if our presence here is the change that causes it?”
The woman didn’t back down, holding his gaze with her warm brown eyes. “Stalemate, Ryan. You can’t prove your idea is true, and I can’t prove mine is either. I’ve seen a lot of weird stuff since y’all thawed me out, and the only thing I can say with certainty is that there isn’t any certainty in this world. No one bats one hundred percent, not back in my time, and sure as hell not now. Maybe that doomie is right about the killer wave, but it might not happen for years, maybe long after this generation is dead and gone. And if you think you’re going to wipe out a town just by entering it, then you got a pretty high opinion of yourself, mister.”
Ryan’s face didn’t even change expression as he replied. “Tell that to the good people of Poynette.”
Mildred opened her mouth, then closed it again with a snap. Her lip curled like she wanted to cuss Ryan out, but instead she returned her attention to her bowl, scooping up succulent chunks of seafood and shoveling them into her mouth.
“Friend Ryan,” Doc said suddenly, “If these people are in need of our assistance, would it not be remiss to neglect them in their direst hour?”
Ryan tossed his spoon on the table, his appetite gone. “Fireblast! You know, lately between the three of you, it’s like I’m surrounded by walking consciences every minute of every single fuckin’ day.”
His eye fell on Jak, who was busy scraping the bottom of his second bowl. “What about you—you must have something to say about all this.”
The albino youth flipped a lock of lank, white hair out of his face and grinned. “Boats look like fun.”
“That’s about what I figured. What about you, Krysty, since this has suddenly turned into some kind of communal democracy?”
Doc opened his mouth, no doubt about to point out the impossibility of Ryan’s statement, when he winced and grabbed at his shin, his face grimacing in pain as Mildred, sitting next to him, smoothed her features into the picture of innocence.
“You don’t need my take on it. You’re going to do what you like anyway—just like Poynette.” Krysty turned her level green gaze on Ryan, and he felt that same strange flutter inside, just as he had the very first time he’d first seen those emerald eyes. “However, my mother always told me the sign of a true man—or woman—is when they see the path they want to take clearly before them, but they turn onto the right path whether or not it was what they’d wanted.”
“Hell, that’s just as bad.” Ryan ran his hand through his hair. “And I suppose someone here has a plan to take care of the problem, too?”
J.B. cleared his throat. “Not till you mentioned the idea of hangin’ me out for bait—”
“Even more tempting now,” Ryan growled.
“We’ll make a bait boat instead. Send out a couple, all within sight of each other, and put two or three of us on each one. Haven’t seen a decent blaster here yet, so ours should make the difference. Lizard men come up, we put a round into their scaly foreheads, and send the bodies back down to wherever they came from. Problem solved.”
“Works for me,” Mildred said.
Ryan held back the first remark he thought of—naturally she’d agree with J.B. The only problem was that he was inclined to agree with it, too. As usual, the pragmatic Armorer had come up with a very practical solution to the problem. If they couldn’t bring the lizard-things to them, then they’d have to go to where the lizard-things were.
He nodded. “We can stay here a day or two, help Donfil and his ville out. I suppose you all want to head right out there after lunch, see if we can’t mop this up before dinner?”
J.B.’s eyebrow lifted in surprise. “If you’re so all-fired up to get back on the road again, I figure that’d fit your plans just fine.”
“I think we’re forgetting one thing,” Krysty said. “What makes any of you think that just stopping these creatures on one or two boats will prevent them from coming back once we’re gone? If they are a threat to this ville, someone would have to track them back to their home and deal with them there.”
J.B. pushed his empty bowl away and picked up his fedora. “Not necessarily. If these things have at least rudimentary intelligence, the presence of a better-armed and capable force that stops them from attacking the boats could drive them to seek easier pickings elsewhere.”
“We wont know either way until we find out what’s going on.” Spotting Donfil walking toward them, Ryan pushed his chair back and stood. “Sooner we get to it, the better.”
The skinny shaman greeted all of them with nods. “I hope your meal was enjoyable?”
“Really good, thanks. Haven’t had anything like that in a long time.”
Donfil hesitated, rocking back and forth on his heels, as if unsure how to continue. “Ryan, I just wanted you to know that it was not my plan to get you involved in what is happening here. It’s just that, well…”
Ryan reached out and clapped the other man’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.” He let his gaze fall upon the rest of the group. “We’ve decided to see what we can do to help.”
The tall Apache stared at Ryan like he didn’t believe what he had just heard, then quickly nodded. “Thank you. Our thanks to all of you.”
Ryan cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Save it for when we’ve actually done something, okay?” He took a few seconds to outline their plan. “Why don’t you take us down to the boats so we can get a look at what we’re going to be riding on?”
Donfil’s face split into a genuine grin. “Your thoughts and ours are as one. I was hoping that might be your next request. I want you to meet the captain of the two boats that have already volunteered to serve as your decoys this afternoon.”
Turning, he waved to someone behind Ryan. A few seconds later, a relatively normal-looking man walked up to them, his face browned from exposure to the sun and weather. Ryan was debating whether to say anything about his average appearance when he stepped into the sunlight. Under the bright afternoon beams, his skin gleamed as if he was covered in silver. After shading his eyes from the glare, Ryan blinking a couple of times and refocused on the man, who was covered in what appeared to be thousands of tiny fish scales that flashed iridescent in the light.
“Ryan Cawdor, meet Saire, the best fisherman in town. If he can’t find them, the fish are simply not to be found.”
Ryan extended his hand, finding the other man’s grip to be exactly as he expected—callused and hard from years of working on the lake. “Donfil told you it’s not fish we’re going after this time.”
Saire nodded. “Lost my first mate to those scaly bastards a few days ago. Been achin’ to get some payback.”
Ryan turned back to Donfil. “Well, then, let’s go fishing.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
After lunch, Saire led the group through the ville to the docks. Donfil had begged off accompanying them, saying he had things to attend to. Ryan wasn’t sure if that was the truth, or if Donfil was really afraid his presence would affect the trip—or what they hoped to find. Either way, he didn’t blame the man. If the boats they’d be sailing on were anything like the usual vessels, Donfil’s height would be more of a minus than a plus.
Other than the ever present, slightly brackish smell of the nearby lake, the ville was neat and orderly, reminding Ryan uncomfortably of Poynette. But he dismissed his twinge by the simple fact that Donfil would never have fallen in with cannies, and it was obvious that they all subsisted on and made their living from the wide-open expanse of water stretching beyond the horizon.
The sturdy wooden dock shook under their feet as they walked out to take a look at the craft they’d be using. The ship was about forty-five-feet long, and appeared to be flat bottomed, with a main mast containing two reefed sails, a large one on a jib in front, and a smaller one behind the mast. What at first glance looked to be a crazy tangle of lines snaking every which way turned out to be, upon closer examination, neat groups of ropes that controlled the sails and held the mast in place. There was a very small belowdecks area, but no cabin that Ryan could see. It looked large enough for about a half-dozen people to work comfortably. Four men bustled about on the deck, clearing lines and readying the vessel to make way.
“A Dutch barge!” Doc exclaimed. “I haven’t seen one of these for—well, a long time, anyway.”
Saire nodded approvingly at the old man. “You know your boats, white-hair. The Lament was hand-built by my father from the plans we’ve kept safe for the past seven generations. She’s the sturdiest, fastest vessel on the lake, and should be the perfect bait for those things.”
J.B. slowly walked from the foredeck to the aft section, most likely measuring lines of fire. He glanced up after his inspection. “Got any idea where we’ll most likely run into them?”
Saire nodded at a boat with faded red sails on the other side of the long dock. “Those boys who returned before lunch, part of the Gravelax’s crew, said the one they took the arm from was found north of here, ’bout ten miles up. Figured we’d start there and work our way down the coast, see what we reel in either way—fish, amphibian or both.”
“Donfil said you had two boats. Any objection to sending them both out, that way if one’s in trouble, we have backup from the other?”
Saire nodded at the ship next to his, which might have been the Lament’s twin. “No one goes out alone anymore, not since these attacks began. The Banshee’s ready to sail, too, so all we need is to figure out who’s going on which boat.”
Ryan stroked his chin as he pondered that exact same question. If he had his druthers, he would have left Doc on shore, maybe Mildred as well. However, she would be good in the event anyone got injured, and Doc… Well, even Ryan had to admit that, as much as he liked him, sometimes the old man seemed sort of like a millstone around his neck. But, just when he thought the old man’s train had finally gone off the rails for good, he pulled something out of his hat—like that crazy torch in the rat’s lair, without which Ryan was sure none of them would be standing here right now. With a shrug, he assigned their places.
“Krysty, you and Jak’ll sail with me on the Lament. J.B., you, Mildred and Doc will go on the Banshee. Everyone got what they need?” After everyone nodded, Ryan turned to Saire. “Ready when you are.”
The other man leaped aboard, his exposed skin flashing in the sunlight. “Welcome aboard the Lament. As soon as you’re secure, we’ll cast off.”
Ryan stepped onto the barge, expecting to feel the boat shift under his feet, but was pleasantly surprised to find the deck solid and sound underfoot. The boat rocked a bit on the water, but overall felt as sturdy as the dock itself. He extended a hand to Krysty, who stepped aboard a bit gingerly, her face lighting up as her boots touched the deck. Jak vaulted the low rail with a flourish and leaped up to the roof of the cabin, already scanning the horizon for their planned route.
“Prepare to cast off!” Saire walked to the captain’s wheel at the rear of the boat and snapped out more commands. “Cast off bow line! Cast off aft line! Hoist sail!” After each one, the crew moved in perfect synchronicity to prepare the small ship for sailing. With the last command, the furled sail was released from its gaskets and raised to catch the wind. Saire guided them away from the dock with minute movements of the wheel. In a few minutes, the barge was heading smartly out to deep water, leaving the coast farther behind. Behind them, the Banshee trailed about a quarter mile off the port side.
For the first part of the trip, Ryan concentrated on getting his sea legs. The lake was calm, and the boat’s keel cut through the water smoothly, but he knew fighting at sea was tricky at best and lethal at worst. While he’d never consider himself entirely at home on the water, so far this was the most pleasant experience he’d had, particularly compared to previous encounters. Being attacked by the loathsome Pyra Quadde on her whaling ship in Claggartville where they’d left Donfil, or getting caught in a power struggle among various pirate empires in a chain of tropical islands was not his idea of a good time. This, however, with the warm afternoon sun on his face and the barge slicing through the placid water, was pretty close to perfect at the moment.
Lost in his memories, he almost missed Krysty’s light touch on his arm. “You might want to watch this before Jak does something really stupe.”
Shading his eyes from the late afternoon sun, Ryan looked over to see the albino teen balancing on the narrow rail of the boat as easily as if he was out for a stroll after lunch. As if he knew eyes were upon him, he arched back into a graceful handstand, walking back and forth on his palms. One of the crewmen was watching in open admiration, but Saire wasn’t nearly as amused.
“Cawdor! Get your man off my rail! We tack over and he’s not ready, he’ll end up in the drink, and you can go in after him!”
Ryan was loath to stop the teen’s fun—he figured Jak could probably handle the change in direction better than some of the crew—but called over anyway. “Jak!”
Without looking at him, the youth pushed off the railing high into the air, turning a complete somersault before landing on the deck with hardly a sound, just as Saire called to the crew.
“Ready bait lines!”
The others picked up wooden poles as thick around as Ryan’s wrist and set them in heavy-duty metal brackets bolted to the deck. Each had a thin line attached to one end, and the other end of the line held a large, steel, three-pronged hook, about as big as Ryan’s closed fist. As he watched, the men baited the hooks with large chunks of fish, then readied them to go overboard.
One of the mates, a lanky fellow named Rubon, noticed Ryan’s attention. “Now you’ll see how we bring them up on the lakes, lubber!”
“Cast bait lines!” Saire shouted. As one, the four men tossed the hooks overboard, the meat-laden snares vanishing into the green-blue depths.
“We troll for the large ones out here. The bait hooks moving through the water attracts the fish’s attention, it moves in for what it thinks is a tasty snack, and wham—” Rubon smacked his hands together “—we got him. Then the real fun begins.”
Ryan thought of the large hook, and of the size of a fish that would take that bait. He started to reach for his holstered blaster for backup, but stopped at the other man’s snort of laughter.
“Don’t even bother using that pea-shooter. It’d barely bother the fish we catch.” He picked up a nasty-looking harpoon, a two-handed weapon easily six feet long, with a triple-barbed iron head at the end. “We have to play them until they get tired and surface, then finish them off with this.”
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br /> “Sounds like fun—” Ryan’s words were cut off by the other man.
“Got one!” Just as he announced it, the boat heeled over sharply, resisting Saire’s efforts to hold the wheel steady. Rubon felt the taut line and grinned. “A big one!”
“Stop yawpin’ and get on the winch!” Saire snapped. “I’m not letting the best fish we’ve caught in three weeks get away!”
Rubon looped the free end of the line with the fish on it to a large cylinder with a handle on the end. Once lashed tight, he began cranking on the handle, drawing in the line with each turn.
The winch clicked with each revolution, and Ryan saw that it had teeth to lock the cylinder in place, so the line couldn’t play back out unless the operator released a small catch. The tight line quivered as Rubon played it back and forth. Then it suddenly slackened, dropping to the deck.
Ryan frowned. “What happened? You lose him?”
The whipcord-thin man scooped up the harpoon and went to the side. “Nope. He’s comin’ up. There!”
Ryan looked out in time to see a slim, torpedo-shaped fish burst from the water about twenty yards away and arch, wriggling, into the air. It was a dull brown monster, easily twenty feet long, and he marveled at its size as it reached the apex of its leap and fell back into the lake.
“Huge muskie! Get on the winch!” Rubon hefted the harpoon in his other hand and waved Ryan at the crank. “Take in the slack!”
Grabbing the handle, Ryan turned it as fast as he could, watching the line tighten again as he cranked. Shouts from the other side of the boat told him they had something else hooked as well. The boat shook as the pair of huge fish pulled it one way, then the other.
“He’s coming up again! If he’s close enough, I’ll try to spear him!” Rubon leaned over the side of the barge, harpoon at the ready. The line slackened again, and Ryan cranked hard on it, trying to draw the huge fish as close to the boat as possible.