by James Axler
The carotid artery was severed and hot blood fountained in the air, brilliantly lit by the backdrop of the flames.
J.B. took out the second warrior who held a shotgun. Pushing aside the blaster with his left hand, the slightly built Armorer jammed his stiletto deep into the man's guts, twisting his wrist with a savage determination. A great gash ripped through the man's jerkin, as well as through skin and muscle. J.B. felt the heat of spilled intestines against his wrist as he withdrew the blade and pushed the dying Norseman away from him.
A third man started to back away as he saw the dreaded figure of Doc Tanner, running toward him with his rapier, his frock coat flying open.
Despite Doc's age, the old-timer was fast enough over a short distance. He reached the Viking and killed him with a single, careful thrust through the heart. The man dropped to the earth, his sword falling from his fingers. Doc withdrew his own blade and bowed slightly. "Touche."
Krysty, with hair so red in the glow of the blazing hut that it seemed as if her head were on fire, charged at her chosen victim. Since she was last into the open, the three remaining guards had been given a few precious heartbeats to ready themselves.
But the elderly warrior who faced her was totally unprepared for the lightning speed and demonic ferocity of the tall, emerald-eyed valkyrie who came charging at him. "Odin!" he began to yell, his great ax half-lifted.
Krysty sent him to meet his gods with that prayer frozen on his lips. The Tekna opened him from breastbone to groin. The bloodied blade hacked at his throat as he fell to his knees, clutching his ghastly wound, his ax ringing on stones near his feet.
Krysty stood breathing hard by the dying man, edging back a few paces to prevent the scarlet stream from dappling the toes of her boots.
Ryan had followed through onto the fifth of the old warriors, brushing away the feeble lunge of a shaking sword. He pushed the stubby end of his own blade into the man's open mouth. Teeth shattered like frail icicles. The edge of the steel panga opened the lips several inches wider on the right.
Ryan pulled out the cleaver and aimed a short, chopping blow at the side of his opponent's head. The Viking's skull split open like a dry gourd, and he fell to the ground.
Ryan turned, checking to see if J.B. needed help with the sixth and last of the sentries. The Armorer was kneeling astride his man, cutting his throat as calmly as if he were hacking himself off a slice of breakfast ham at a riverside camp meeting.
"That's it," Ryan said. "Let's go get our blasters."
THE IRON CHAINS were cold against Mildred's skin. The Vikings had stretched her out, ankles secured to the bottom corners of the great slab, wrists pulled far apart and manacled at the top.
She'd been forced to remove her clothes, and they lay on the flattened turf at the head of the altar.
"Nobody's seen me this way since my last gyno checkup," she said. But she was talking to herself only. Nobody was close enough to hear her.
If she turned her head, she could just see Jak Lauren. Jorund Thoraldson had his arm around the boy's shoulders and was giving him something to drink out of an ornate golden goblet.
Mildred felt a shiver of pure terror.
"SO FAR SO GOOD, my dear Ryan," Doc announced as they stepped out of the longhouse into the open center of the steading. They could just make out the large bronze gong that was used to signal mealtimes for the people of Markland. And beside it stood the frail, bent figure of an old man they'd all seen hobbling around the place. Almost blind, hands clawed over his walking stick.
"Fireblast!" Ryan breathed.
The old man also held the long padded stick that was used to beat out the signal. They'd all previously heard the deep, thrilling sound of the gong, ringing across the ville and way up into the hills when it was beaten. If the old man struck it a single blow, the noise would surely carry up to the hillside where the entire population of Markland was gathered.
The gong was about one hundred paces away from them, beyond the distorting flames of the big bonfire that glowed and crackled.
It wouldn't have been that difficult a shot, normally.
Ryan leveled his rifle, then hesitated, his finger taut on the trigger. Sparks and smoke were billowing up from the fire, making the figure of the old man quiver like a ghost.
"Me," Krysty said quietly. She holstered her pistol and started to walk steadily toward the gong. The old man watched her, the heavy stick still lifted, ready to bring the Vikings down from the mountain.
Ryan began to edge sideways, so that he could get a clear shot, but the elderly Norseman saw the movement and made a threatening gesture toward the gong. Ryan stopped in his tracks.
Krysty closed the gap to fifty paces. Above the noise of the burning logs, the only sound was her boot heels on the shingle.
The great bronze disk remained mute as the woman came within twenty yards. Her hair, reflecting the dancing lights of the fire, looked like a tumbling halo of purest flame.
"Stop, or I will rouse the steading from the sacrifice," the old man called in a frail, quavering voice.
"Please don't make a noise," Krysty urged, "or blood will be spilled."
"You slew the six men set to watch over you," the elderly Viking accused.
"Yes."
"One was my son," he said. The old man was now only a stride away from Krysty, and she saw that his eyes were filled with tears.
For a moment she thought about her own father. Then she thought about Mildred, plucked from the freezing, and about Jak, Doc, J.B. and Ryan.
"No closer, witch woman," the Norseman mumbled, lifting a hand in front of his face.
"I'm sorry," Krysty said, and she meant it.
The blow was inch-perfect. The hard outer edge of her right hand cut upward, striking the old Viking at the base of his nose. Shards of jagged facial bone were driven into the brain cavity, instantly bringing the dark mystery of death.
"Chilled?" Ryan called.
"Yeah," she said, looking down at the twitching corpse.
"Then, let's go!"
Chapter Thirty-Four
DOC REMAINED in the deserted ville, with seven fresh corpses for company.
"It's a hard run all the way, and then a sprint for life afterward. Some of them might come after us." Ryan corrected himself. "Will come after us. Then it'll be the haul through the zigzag path toward the ridge. Enough moon to see by."
"I could cover a retreat," Doc suggested.
"No time to argue this. Stay here. Listen out. Soon as the crap jams the silo you take off up there. We'll catch up with you."
"What if, perchance, you should fail in this venture?"
J.B. slapped him on the shoulder. "Then you're on your own, Doc. Good luck."
"And you, my friends."
Then they were gone, vanishing like wraiths into the darkness around the ville.
THE LONG CEREMONY was approaching its climactic finale. There had been songs and speeches, and an endless incantation from the old wisewoman, which drew on the names of every Norse god Mildred Wyeth had ever heard of, and a lot more she hadn't. A kind of resinous incense was burned, and the scented smoke drifted around the arena, hanging beneath the dark lower branches of the trees.
Jak had been drawn gradually toward the center of the ritual. A knife had been pressed into his hands, the stubby blade streaked with silver moonlight. With an effort Mildred had been able to squint around and see the teenager sipping from the antique goblet. His eyes were half-closed and he was swaying on his feet, supported now by Jorund on one side and young Erik Stonebiter on the other. Mildred had no doubt at all that the ichor probably contained some opiate to dull the boy's senses.
From her point of view it didn't really make that much difference who slit her throat or what state that person was in. Her blood would still flow over the cold altar stone and down into the waiting earth beneath.
"Odin, great father of our people, we beg you to take this offering at these our hands!" The voice belonged to Jorund Thoraldson
.
There wasn't much time left.
DESPITE THE MUFFLING SCREEN of the forest, Ryan could faintly hear the bellowed, echoing words. The friends were off the main track from the village, running fast along the narrower side trail. "Not much time," he panted.
Timing had always been the most difficult element of Ryan's plan. Move too soon and they wouldn't be able to hit the crowd when they were locked into their ritual. Move too late and they'd only be able to mop up the blood. And spill a little in revenge.
The unexpected appearance of the old man by the warning gong had thrown off the timing, and by the sound of it, the ceremony was more advanced than Ryan had hoped.
"Slow down," he said.
"We gotta get there quick," J.B. argued.
"Going t'be shooting. Way I am this second, I couldn't hit a shithouse door, even if I was inside it at the time. Slow down. Jog in careful."
"Will they have sentries?" Krysty asked.
"No reason to. They figure we're sealed up tight. Muties got their asses kicked all the way out. There's no threat to them."
They moved forward more slowly, picking their way between the trees, hearing the sounds of the ceremony growing gradually closer and louder.
MILDRED LOOKED UP into the glowing coals of Jak Lauren's eyes and read her death in them, knowing at that moment that rescue wouldn't come and that her race was run.
"Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my soul," she whispered through dry lips.
The small red-hilted knife was poised above her exposed neck. Jak's body was trembling, and he looked as if he might faint at any moment.
The wisewoman had plucked a small bird from a tiny wicker cage and brought it to her lips as if to kiss the sharp beak. Then, with no change of expression, she ripped the head clean off, smearing the creature's blood over her own face.
Now it was Mildred's turn.
"Take her evil spirit, Odin, and let your people go free of pain and of the shadow of the grave. Take her, take her, take her!"
Mildred closed her eyes, wondering, oddly, which of her friends back in her earlier life would have acquired her collection of books on movies.
"Now, godling, now!"
The voice of the wisewoman was an eldritch screech that filled the arena, causing every man, woman and child to hold their breath. Jak gripped the knife, high above his head, completely motionless.
IF HE'D HAD TIME to think about it, Ryan would probably have figured it as the best shot he'd ever made in his life.
At more than fifty yards, in shifting moonlight, his target was the four-inch blade of the sacrificial knife. The laser-enhanced sniper scope was steadied, the rifle rock-still, stock against his cheek. Ryan held his breath and squeezed the trigger. The Heckler & Koch was set on single-shot. In the silence, the crack of the assault blaster was shockingly loud.
The 4.7 mm round pinged off the steel, kicking the knife spinning from Jak's fingers, then ricocheted into the trees.
Mildred opened her eyes, staring straight into the teenager's shocked, bone-white face.
"What fuck was…" He shook his head in bewilderment.
Then the world exploded into bloody, screaming chaos.
AFTER THAT FIRST single shot, Ryan had slid the control on the G-12 to triple-shot. J.B.'s MP-7 SD-8 was also on triple, its silencer muffling the noise of the bullets. Krysty's P7A-13 Heckler & Koch pistol filled her right hand, and she was ready to follow the two men as they charged the mass of people.
In the first fifteen seconds, without a single hand being raised against them, they chilled more than twenty of the villagers. All three tried to avoid shooting the children, but it wasn't a time for conventional niceness. The killing floor wasn't a place for careful moral consideration. The Vikings would have wasted them if the roles had been reversed,.
Ryan, firing from the hip, tried to shoot Jorund Thoraldson, but the warrior baron was quick. He dived for cover at the first shot, scurrying on hands and knees into the trees on the farther side of the large clearing. Erik Stonebiter half turned to Mildred, hefting the large, polished ceremonial ax he carried. For a moment she thought he was going to gut her with the heavy steel, but the clatter of the rifles disconcerted him, and he dropped the weapon, joining the screaming rush for cover.
Jak had drawn one of his own knives and stood staring at the naked, chained woman, as if he didn't quite recognize her.
"Jak."
His eyes still seemed blurred and unfocused, and he leaned over her, his breath spiced and bitter on her cheek. "You?" he said questioningly. "Who you? Who?"
"Stop sounding like a goddamned owl and get the chains off me, kid."
"Don't call…" He brandished the knife threatening, then his eyes cleared and a grin slipped into place. "Hey, know you. You're all right, Mildred."
"Sure. Get me out of here, Jak. Please."
"Use ax," he replied. He picked up the weapon that Erik had let fall and he hefted it to shoulder height, grunting with the effort.
Out of the corner of his eye Ryan saw the gesture and began to turn, thinking the albino boy had gone crazed and was about to hack Mildred apart. But he saw in the next moment what was happening.
"Get her free and dressed, Jak! Gotta get out of this place."
"I'll second that," Mildred said fervently, gritting her teeth as the ax blade howled off the iron chain, striking sparks from the stone altar.
J.B. saw the problem and sprinted over to the sacrificial block, hurdling the dead and the dying, blood splashing across his legs. He leveled his rifle and blew apart the links from Mildred's ankles and wrists. He grabbed her by the arm and helped her to stand.
"Good to see you guys," she managed to get out, leaning on the altar to recover her balance.
Miraculously the amphitheater was almost deserted.
Terrified by the sudden appearance of the three outlanders, their blasters providing instant tickets to Valhalla, the Norsemen and their families had fled into the forest. Ryan and his friends could hear them shouting and screaming as they ran deeper into the trees.
"Everyone okay?" Ryan called.
"In another couple of seconds I'd have been the first course in a Viking pizza feast. Jak looked like he was going to go through with it."
The boy nodded. "True, Mildred. Sorry. Gave drink. Fucked head."
"Better now?" Krysty asked.
"Yeah. Better. Where's Doc? Not chilled?"
"He's fine. We got out of the ville all right. Left him to watch out for us. Told him to start off up the trail. When these mothers realize they still have numbers on their side, I reckon they could come after us."
"So we should move more and talk less, lover," Krysty suggested with a smile.
Ryan gave her the finger. "Sure. Ready, Mildred?"
The freezie was dressed again, in the same clothes she'd taken from the cryo-center. "Ready. Any spare guns around? This Deathlands seems a place where the gun rules, yet I can't get my hands on a decent pistol."
"You will, Mildred," J.B. promised. "You will."
Ryan led the way out of the trampled, bloodied circle, leaving behind the moaning wounded. Mildred, walking second, was whispering to herself. "'The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, but I have promises to—'"
The stunted figure of the wisewoman suddenly rushed out of the blackness at her, screaming, and holding an open, straight-edged razor.
Chapter Thirty-Five
IN HER BLACK SKIRT and jacket, the wisewoman was almost invisible among the lowering wall of pine trees. But the razor caught the filtered silver of the moon, giving a moment of warning of the threat behind the screeched attack.
Ryan spun around and Jak, coming next in line, also tried to grab at the wisewoman, missing her by scant inches.
Mildred was able to knock the cutthroat aside with the edge of her hand, but the impetus of the attack bowled her over and she fell down, tangled with the old Norsewoman.
Ryan stepped in closer, the panga glittering coldly in his hand. But
Mildred saw him. "No!" she gasped. "Mine!"
It was a short, almost silent fight. Despite the lingering effects of the long freezing, Mildred was an unusually strong woman and quickly managed to shake the razor loose from her opponent's grip. She slapped the hag several times across the side of the head, ringing, jarring blows that quieted the woman and left her like a limp doll in Mildred's hands.
Mildred stood, keeping a hold on the side of the Viking seer's neck, pressing her fingers in just below and behind the ear.
"You evil, blood-eyed old bitch," she hissed, tightening her grip.
None of the others tried to interfere in the chilling process, which was very swift. Mildred's practiced fingers located the arteries and choked off the supply of blood to the brain. The hag's eyes protruded and her tongue, purpling, thrust between her swollen lips. There was a harsh rattle from her throat and she went limp. Mildred opened her hands and allowed the shrunken corpse to drop to the dirt.
She straightened and looked around at the faces of the other four. "She deserved to die."
"Surely," Krysty agreed.
Then the tears came, flowing down Mildred's cheeks. She shook her head, refusing comfort from any of them. "No, I'll be all right. It's delayed shock. Oh, God, but this Deathlands is a dreadful place. Dreadful. I've just killed a woman with my bare hands!"
"But she deserved to die," Ryan protested.
Mildred rounded on him. "But I'm a doctor, for Christ's sake!"
THEY SAW AND HEARD no one as they moved at their best pace down the main trail toward the deserted ville.
The corpses lay where they'd fallen, and the bonfire had slumbered to glowing ashes. Mildred had recovered some of her composure, but the sight of yet more bodies upset her.
"Do flowers die where you set your foot, Ryan Cawdor?"
His anger, short-fused, flared. "Your world wasn't so great, was it? Don't utter your stupid moralizing here, Mildred! These people, like many in Deathlands, dislike outsiders. Outlanders. So far we've been lucky on this jump. None of us have been chilled. But I've lost friends…too many to count. When it comes down to it, you either pull the trigger or you swallow the bullet. That's all there is."