Northstar Rising

by James Axler

  His tirade was followed by silence. Mildred met his gaze and nodded slowly. "Maybe you're right, Ryan. And you saved my ass back there so…so I thank you. But I don't know if I'll ever get used to Deathlands."

  Jak was staring past the smoldering ruin of what had been their hut, toward the far hillside. "Coming," he said. "Hear them."

  Ryan's worry was that the surviving Norsemen might try to cut them off before they could reach the ridge, or that they knew a quicker route that would bring them into the tropical jungle toward the redoubt faster than the companions could travel.

  There hadn't been time to carry out any sort of check on who had been chilled in the brief firefight, but he was sure that the Viking baron, Thoraldson, had escaped. So had the young warrior Erik Stonebiter. He guessed the better part of twenty able fighting men could pursue them.

  Then again, after such a devastating defeat and so many lost, it was even more possible that there would be no pursuit at all.

  "BY THE THREE KENNEDYS!"

  "Hi, Doc."

  "Upon my soul, Ryan, I swear that I nearly jumped out of my skin. I never heard you approaching."

  "Just grabbing a few seconds of eye-close, were you, Doc?" J.B. asked, his teeth gleaming white in the moonlight.

  "When I need your common insinuations, John Barrymore Dix, I shall most certainly ask you for them," Doc snapped.

  "What was that?" Mildred asked. "Was that John Barrymore Dix? Boy, no wonder you stick with J.B. Gotta remember that."

  They'd met up once again with Doc Tanner on the steep, snaking trail that rose crookedly from Markland toward the distant ridge. With the trees closing in around them, it was impossible to see more than a hundred yards in any direction. Both Krysty and Jak were agreed that they could no longer hear any sounds of pursuit, which could mean that the Vikings had chosen to remain behind in their ville and mourn their dead.

  A heavy shower of rain began, which in no time soaked them all and dampened their spirits. It also turned the path into a treacherous mud slide. Only Jak and Ryan avoided falling in the greasy furrows, picking their way through virtual darkness. The moon had waned, disappearing eventually behind swooping banks of thick chem clouds that had ridden in from the north.

  Another problem that slowed their progress was fog. It lay like a wide ribbon of silver-gray velvet across the expanse of the great lake, below them. But it was also gathering itself above them, near the ridge. It seeped over from the wide valley on the farther side, spilling silently between the trees, softening the stark silhouettes and dropping visibility to close to zero.

  Though Jak's eyesight wasn't that great in the brightness of day, he saw better at night than any of them, even better than Krysty with her mutie-enhanced vision. Now he took the lead, making his way cautiously up the slippery track, followed by the rest, who were guided by the beacon of his white mane of hair. But it was painfully slow progress.

  After Doc had fallen heavily, nearly spraining his ankle, Ryan called a halt.

  "Double-stupe to go on," he said. "Rain's starting again. Can't see properly. Trail's dangerous. Best wait up for first light."

  "What about the locals?" J.B. reminded, leaning against a tree and trying to wipe clotted mud off his boots.

  Ryan brushed rain from his forehead. "Yeah. Worries me, too. They'll know this place a lot better'n us. They'll know we're making for the top of the hill. Follow our marks easy in this mud."

  "Wait ambush fuckers" was Jak's suggestion.

  "No. If we were sure—real sure—they were coming this way, we could do that. Chop them down from cover. But we don't. Likely there's plenty of hunting trails up and over the top of the mountain. Who knows which one?"

  "Only the Shadow knows," Mildred said in a sepulchral tone.

  The combination of rain, driven from over the water on the teeth of a rising wind, and drifting slabs of bitter fog, made it a thoroughly miserable night for all of them. The temperature fell sharply after midnight, and Ryan insisted that they huddle together for warmth and protection.

  "If those mad Vikings want to come up in this weather and try and take me," Mildred said through chattering teeth, "then they're goddamned welcome to me."

  THE DAWN'S EARLY LIGHT brought virtually no improvement to conditions. The wind was close to gale force and carried the stinging bite of acid rain. Not the most acidic Ryan had ever experienced, but bad enough to irritate the eyes and taste sour on the skin, The fog had cleared, but the sun wasn't able to cut through the swaths of dark cloud.

  Parts of the path were sheeted in orange mud, and it took the companions another three hours to get close to the top of the hill.

  The tight mass of conifers had gradually thinned, and mud was replaced by loose stones. Out on the exposed flank of the mountain, the wind had risen to a ferocious howling that plucked at the clothes and made breathing difficult.

  "Once we get over the ridge," Ryan said, "it should ease a whole lot."

  Doc was doubled over, hands on knees, hawking up strings of pale spittle. He coughed, rackingly, his shoulders shaking. "I confess that I did not care overmuch for that fetid heat we encountered when we first came to Minnesota. Yet it would be thrice welcome after this damnable piercing wind." He turned to squint up the path. "How much farther, Ryan?"

  "Not far, Doc. Mebbe another quarter hour, and then it'll all be downhill."

  He was a touch optimistic. The last hundred yards had to be covered on hands and knees, the gale tearing at them, driving them toward the spine of the hill.

  One by one they crawled over the top, grateful to see the lush jungle ahead. Ryan was last over, gasping for breath. Even twenty feet down the other side, the lee of the slope protected them and life was hugely easier. "Yeah," Ryan said. "All downhill now."

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  "THIS CLIMATE'S like being in a Holiday Inn sauna," Mildred said. "But in a Holiday Inn it's a lot of fun."

  "I've stayed places like that," Doc told her, wiping sweat from his forehead with his swallow's-eye kerchief. "I recall that the best surprise was no surprise. Was that not their slogan? Or was it that they tried harder? I fear that all of this excitement has somewhat addled my brain."

  Ryan held up his hand to call a halt to the group. "Not far from the real serious jungle. This scrub's okay for safety. No chance of an ambush here. Coupla hundred feet lower down the path, things could get nasty."

  "And there's all kinds of wildlife in the forest down there," Krysty added. "Not home and safe yet. Double-care."

  "Make it triple," J.B. said.

  After the chill air near the lake and the banks of icy fog, the tropical heat farther down the trail was overwhelming. The sickly scent of exotic flowers swamped everyone's breathing, and the sweltering humidity reduced the friends to sweating misery.

  As soon as they reached the point where the path grew less steep and the lush foliage met in a dark green ceiling, it became an effort to continue walking. The butterflies were everywhere. Turquoise and gold. Maroon and dazzling green. Some of them as large as dinner plates, fluttering between the flowering shrubs that covered so much of the ground in the clearings.

  "No sign of the Vikings," Krysty said to Ryan.

  "If they came over the top on a different path, they'll likely not come at us until we reach that river near the freezie center."

  "Can we try and find a sidetrack?"

  "Yeah, but I guess we could be lost within fifty strides, jungle like this seems to grow while you watch it."

  Mildred called out to Ryan. "Can we take a break? Doc's kind of frayed around the edges."

  "If you want a rest, madam, then I suggest you ask for one for yourself. I can keep going as long as you can."

  Ryan grinned at Doc. "So you don't mind if we don't take a halt?"

  The old man shrugged his shoulders with a studied casualness. "A matter of scant concern to me, my dear fellow. But if the good lady here is feeling a touch frail…"

  Mildred flopped to the ground and
lay on her back, staring up at the sky through the thick green leaves.

  "All right, Doc. I'm bushed. At least I'm man enough to admit it."

  Doc folded himself beside her, knees cracking like small-caliber pistol shots. "I would confess that the heat is somewhat oppressive. How long before we reach the water, Ryan?"

  "It's late morning. I recall the river's not that far from here. But we have to be real careful."

  "Killer fishes?" Jak asked, tugging at the strands of hair that had become pasted across his face with perspiration.

  "Place like this could have fish, insects, animals, birds, snakes…" Ryan started to run out of breath. "You get the idea, folks. Just be careful about everything!"

  "LISTEN!"

  "What?"

  "Thought I… Quiet, everyone!" Krysty held up her hand, her head on one side.

  "Behind us?" Ryan asked.

  "No."

  "Ahead? Side?"

  She shook her head in irritation. "Can't tell. I can hear the river, close now. But I heard something else."

  Ryan pressed her. "But it wasn't behind us? You're sure on that?"

  "Think so, lover. But I can't swear to it. Guess it might have been a deer or something, moving through the brush."

  "Patrol red," Ryan said, glancing at Mildred. "That means we—"

  "My mother didn't raise any stupid children, Ryan."

  He smiled. "Sure. Sorry. I go first. J.B. comes last. Jak second, then you. Doc and Krysty at four and five. Blasters ready."

  "I'll be damned glad when you get me a decent gun, Ryan," she said. "I never was much into the NRA and all that God-given-right-to-bear-arms stuff. But I sure as hell feel naked without something on my hip around here."

  They soon arrived at the river. One thing Ryan had noticed was that the swath cut through the jungle by the marauding army of ants had almost totally disappeared under fresh, green growth.

  From there to the ruins of the Wendigo Institute of Botanical Research, incorporating the Black wood Center for Chemical and Neurological Research, Military Division, with the Shelley Cryonic Institute—Private, wasn't all that far.

  They saw few signs of life: a glimpse of what could have been a small pig or a large rodent, scurrying about its business, rooting among the leaf mold; fresh, seeping tracks of a massive snake, winding sinuously across their trail, so recent that water still oozed into the long furrows.

  As they moved down from the higher part of the mountain, they'd seen a lot of birds, including bright parakeets and tiny, darting budgerigars. But in the past ten minutes the birds had disappeared and the vast tract of jungle had fallen silent.

  Ryan held up his hand again. "Got a feeling there's company around."

  "We don't have a lot of time to wait them out," J.B. said. "We need water. If they hold the river, we're in serious trouble."

  "Can't we loop around them, if they're near that small bridge?" Krysty asked.

  Ryan shook his head. "One way or another we have to get over the river, and I'm not going to try swimming it. I'll go ahead on my own. See if I can spring the trap. Rest of you stay close, but not too close."

  "We got double-blaster on 'em," Jak said. "Chill 'em up front."

  "No. If it's Jorund and the rest of his men, they'll have picked up all their blasters from the ville on the way through. If we'd had time I'd have got them and heaved them all in the lake. The Vikings could've got over the ridge before the worst of the weather."

  J.B. agreed. "And in this kind of hostile terrain they could be dug in well. Sure, we got the firepower, Jak. But we won't have the chance to maximize it. Time and place give them the megacull facility over us. Ryan's right."

  "Why can we not attempt to sneak up behind them and ambush the ambushers?" Doc asked. "Hoist them with their own petard, as it were?"

  "Look at you, Doc. Look at Mildred. Look at all of us. We're real tired. Tired man makes mistakes. Make a mistake in this forest and it's your last. No. I'll go ahead. J.B., give me a word."

  The two men stood together, talking quietly and earnestly. J.B. took off his glasses and wiped them on his sleeve, looked up at the pink sky through them, then replaced them on the narrow bridge of his nose. He burrowed his hand into one of his deep pants pockets, then gave something to Ryan.

  Ryan took it and nodded, and they walked back to the others. "This is it. I go ahead. J.B. leads the rest of you behind. Keeps as close as he thinks safe. I'm gonna try to talk to them. Seems there's been enough chilling, and they may listen and let us go through. We'll see."

  Ryan half turned away, but Krysty took him by the arm. "Don't ever do that, lover."

  "What?"

  "Go someplace you might not come back from and don't at least say 'bye' to me."

  He half smiled, took her in his arms and kissed her very gently on the lips, the tip of his tongue just probing against her teeth. Then he broke from her. "Bye, lover."

  Ryan walked away, his rifle over his shoulder. The path cut to the left, and within seconds he was swallowed up by the dark green warmth.

  HE COULD SMELL the water before he actually saw it, a soft, earthy smell, sweet with long years of decay.

  Now the jungle was utterly silent. He stopped for a moment and listened. Not a breath of wind stirred the palmlike leaves of the trees around him. Not an insect buzzed after the rich pollen in the brilliant banks of flowers.

  Ryan had lived long enough in the Deathlands to be deadly sure that his life could now be measured in seconds. His sixth sense warned him of someone hiding in the undergrowth, twenty yards to his right. But he ignored it, carefully not looking in that direction. He continued to walk steadily ahead.

  Ryan paused when he finally caught a glimpse of the sullen sheen of muddy water. To his left, clear as a breaking twig, was the sound of someone belatedly cocking a cap and ball musket.

  "I'm here, Thoraldson!" Ryan called, stepping out into the clearing that overlooked the ruined bridge.

  Nothing happened. No shots were fired.

  "Come on! We're all wasting time. We know you and your men are in hiding. We knew it all along. Better talk first?"

  He waited, conscious of sweat trickling down the inside of his collar, running along his spine to the small of his back. Despite the oily brown sheen to it, the water looked tempting. Ryan swallowed hard, licking dry lips.

  "Nobody else is coming, Jorund Thoraldson. Not until I say so."

  "We could shoot you down, and they could do nothing to help you." .

  The voice came from ahead of him, behind some thick shrubs, decorated with yellow bell-like flowers.

  "True. And how would you get back to your ville, past five blasters?"

  This time there was a long stillness. Then Ryan heard other voices whispering. It seemed that one of the loudest was Erik Stonebiter's.

  Eventually Jorund spoke again. "This place is filled with dread, Outlander One-Eye. Perhaps you and I should talk."

  "Face-to-face. Let's see you. And the others. Unless you're frightened of one man."

  The long fronds of leaves trembled and quivered, and out stepped the baron of Markland. At least twenty of his men surrounded Ryan, each holding a blaster.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  THE NORSEMEN STILL WORE their ceremonial clothes, which were badly stained with clotted mud, an indication of their haste in leaving their ville and their desperate speed over the mountain to get ahead of Ryan and his companions.

  There'd been times in Markland when Ryan had regretted that he and his companions didn't have warmer clothes. Now he was relieved to be wearing more comfortable clothing than the sweltering Vikings.

  "Hail, outlander."

  Ryan nodded. "You willing to let us pass, or will there be more chilling?"

  "You have destroyed all our happiness. You and your friends, the false godling and the black woman of evil."

  There was a hysterical note to Jorund's voice, and his eyes were wide and staring. Ryan realized at that moment that he'd misjudged how
this confrontation would go. It hadn't entered his calculations that the baron had gone mad.

  "Your ville was doomed," Ryan replied, still trying for sanity and balance.

  "Lies."

  "No."

  "Yes, lies. Nothing was amiss with us."

  Erik Stonebiter, who stood at his karl's side, spoke up. "There was sickness before the coming of these outlanders, Jorund."

  The taller, older Viking swung around, his mouth working, the twin barrels of his scattergun aimed at Erik's midriff. "And you also lie!"

  "It's the water you drink and fish in," Ryan said, sensing the futility of it all. "Biggest hot spot I ever saw. Rad count off the scale. Move your ville, and some of you could still live."

  "Lies!" the baron screamed at the top of his voice. Ryan saw his finger whiten on the trigger of the scattergun and reached into his own pants pocket.

  Before he could act, one of the older Norsemen, on the far side of the clearing, threw his own dice into the game. And found snake eyes.

  "Harald said the water for his ale seemed to be fouled and—"

  The boom of the double-barrel was deafening. A gout of powder smoke erupted from both muzzles. The Viking who had just spoken was hit in the lower chest and stomach by the double charge, the impact lifting him off his feet and throwing him screaming and torn, ten paces back in the undergrowth.

  "No!" someone shouted, but Jorund was too deep in blood. He flicked out the spent cartridges and jammed in another pair, before anyone had properly registered the reality of the brutal chilling.

  Anyone but Ryan.

  He knew that the shouts and the thunder of the 12-gauge would have been enough to bring the other five at the run, and it was obvious that Jorund Thoraldson wasn't in the mood for further discussion.

  "Jorund!" he called, loud enough to attract the Viking leader's attention. "Here! Catch this!"