Chapter Seventeen

 

 

Ryan awoke at dawn, feeling as if all the bones in his body were stitched together at the joints by wire. Everyone was awake, and they crowded into the room he shared with Krysty.

 

Mildred brought him coffee, and J.B. handed over the eighteen-inch panga. "I've spent the last hour sharpening it," he said. "It ought to cut through plate steel."

 

"Or that bitch's throat," Krysty said coldly.

 

Heavy footfalls sounded out in the hall, and a knock came at the door. Ryan opened it. Six sec men, all holding Tec-10 machine pistols, stood there. Phil was in the lead, though because of his freshly shorn appearance, Ryan didn't recognize him at first. His scalp was crisscrossed with tiny scabbed-over lacerations. He wore one of the corduroy vests decorated with locks and hanks of his own hair.

 

"I like the new look," Ryan said. "Suits you."

 

"We're here to escort you to the track," he said in a clipped, businesslike tone, not responding to the gibe. "Everybody leaves their blasters here."

 

Ryan exchanged a long, warning look with Krysty. Her finger tensed on the trigger of her Smith amp; Wesson, but with a curse she tossed the weapon onto the bed.

 

Phil jerked his head toward the hallway. "Let's go."

 

"Is the escort a courtesy?" Doc asked. "Or a guard detail?"

 

"None of your fucking business, you old sack of shit."

 

Doc smiled gently and rapped the ferrule of his swordstick against the floor. "I shall remember you said that, my good man."

 

There was a carnival air around the gathering in the large open field a half mile outside of Helskel. Children squealed and chased one another, climbing over the mothers who were dressed in holiday finery. There were scarfs, headbands, shawls and quilted cloaks of every conceivable color and style. The men wore deerskin tunics, ruffled silk shirts and talismans of animal claws and mummified human fingers.

 

Ryan shivered in the chill air of early morning and inspected the field of battle. It was the same area where Zadfrak had been cremated a few nights before, but all signs of the huge funeral pyre had been removed, except for the raised dais. A dozen poles, ornamented with colored glass prisms and feathers, formed the boundaries of a giant circle, at least five hundred yards in diameter.

 

Two motorcycles were parked at opposite ends of the field. J.B. identified them as a Husqvarna 450 and a Honda Motosport 250 trail bike. Both were clean and seemingly in good running condition.

 

Phil indicated the Motosport with the barrel of his blaster. "That one is yours, Cawdor."

 

Ryan and his people walked over to it. J.B. gave it a quick inspection, checking the tire treads, the gas tank and the transmission gearing. "Looks in good shape, Ryan, probably easier to maneuver than that Husky. So far, I think they're playing fair."

 

"Just don't try to pop a wheelie," Mildred stated.

 

"I won't," Ryan replied. "Sounds like it could hurt."

 

Hellstrom arrived, borne in his chair by a three-man detail. They placed him atop the dais, which Ryan noticed was positioned directly in the center of the field. It presented an obstacle as well as a viewing station. Hellstrom caught his eye and beckoned to him with a finger.

 

After giving Ryan a quick hug and kiss, Krysty led the rest of the companions toward the throng at the sidelines.

 

Ryan joined Fleur as she stood before Hellstrom. There were no words of encouragement, no briefing concerning rules. He merely studied them silently with his hooded eyes, then raised a hand. A great shout was voiced from the eager throng ringing the field, and the two combatants trotted toward their mounts.

 

Fleur jogged toward the far end of the field and straddled the seat of her motorcycle. She quickly kicked it into roaring life, and a man handed her a whip and her bowie knife. She grasped the whip in her right hand and placed the long knife between her teeth.

 

Taking a deep breath, Ryan received the whip from a sec man, coiled it in his right hand and slid the sheathed panga halfway between his crotch and the motorcycle's seat. He experimented with it until he had the weapon in a position where he could easily and quickly grasp the handle.

 

"Begin!" Hellstrom shouted.

 

Ryan kick-started his Motosport and shifted it into gear. At the opposite end of the field, Fleur rode toward him, engine roaring. He moved out, revving the engine, testing the gears, heading toward his adversary at an oblique angle.

 

Fleur turned straight toward him, on a collision course, the whip lashing out. Ryan evaded the steel tip by ducking low over the fuel tank, shifting gears and jumping the cycle out of her path. Fleur hurtled past, almost to the edge of the field.

 

Swerving expertly, lifting her bike up on its rear wheel, she brought it around without the front tire touching the ground. A volley of cheers and a medley of whistles broke from the spectators.

 

Ryan was impressed, but he wasted no time gaping at her. Throttling up, he crouched behind the handlebars and swooped at Fleur before she could set her wheels firmly and upshift to a higher gear.

 

She evidently expected such a tactic, because her whip flailed out and opened a rent in the left sleeve of Ryan's shirt. It stung like liquid fire, but the skin remained intact. As he turned the handlebars, abruptly changing direction, his cycle's front wheel struck Fleur's machine a glancing blow. She swayed in the saddle but managed to keep her balance.

 

Whirling the whip over his head, Ryan snapped its weighted end toward her, aiming for her face. She avoided it by leaning gracefully to one side.

 

The two motorcycles whirled apart, churning up a great cloud of dust. Fleur roared up the field. Ryan massaged his left arm and directed his Motosport to follow in her wake. The observers shouted their approval.

 

The battle of skill went on as the sun rose higher over the arid field. The Motosport and the Husky circled, feinted, raced at each other, hurtled at appallingly unsafe speeds around the field. Twice Ryan was nearly forced out of the ring by Fleur's bikemanship. Once, she nearly caused him to pile up on the support posts of the dais.

 

Dust hung heavily in the air, like curtains of dirty chiffon. Ryan rolled through one of the curtains, which induced a short coughing spell. With his right hand, he tried to wave the grit and dirt particles away from his face.

 

Fleur chose that instant to ride up on his right side, his blind side, lashing at him all the while, her hair flying in tangled witch locks around her head. The whip ripped Ryan's pants and the thigh beneath it. Another stroke shredded his shirtfront and raised a welt across his rib cage. He managed to catch the snaking metal end of the whip. He gave it a yank, at the same time feeding the Motosport more throttle. Fleur had to release the whip's handle or be pulled from her mount.

 

She relinquished it with a screamed obscenity, then pursued him with her bowie knife held aloft. Sweat pouring down his face, the wind whistling in his throat, Ryan kept up the acceleration, roaring up, then down, then diagonally across the field, never giving Fleur a clear opportunity with her knife. He was beginning to feel his vitality ooze from the wounds he had received from Fleur's whip and those from Dog's manhandling less than twelve hours before.

 

Fleur came abreast of him, on his left, and struck with her knife. Ryan managed to block the disemboweling thrust with the handle of his whip, but in doing so he was nearly unseated. He was forced to drop the lash to keep from laying down his bike. He unsheathed the panga but was unable to use it. He had to keep both hands on the handlebar grips to maintain his balance on the wobbling machine.

 

Fleur crowded him, backing the Motosport to the edge of the field. She hacked at him with her bowie, and he parried her thrusts with his knife. Though the panga was longer, it was all Ryan could do to block her swipes and stabbing thrusts. A couple got through his guard and opened superficial cuts on his right forearm.

 

Trying to maneuver away from her, he felt himself slipping out of the saddle, losing control of the bike. All Fleur had to do was ride hard and bump the Husky into the Motosport, and he would be sprawled out on the ground, helpless. Ryan fought to hang on, to keep the bowie from spilling his guts all over the field.

 

She slashed at him again, the knife inscribing a figure-eight pattern through the air, and he felt the cold fire of a graze across his left shoulder blade. Ignoring the ticklish sensation of flowing blood, he raised the panga to parry another thrust from the bowie, and steel hilt locked against steel hilt with a clear musical note. She maintained the pressure, pushing against his knife with all her strength, their sweaty, dirt-streaked faces only inches away from each other.

 

The strain against the force exerted by Fleur overbalanced him, and Ryan had no choice but to drop his blade or fall. Letting go of the panga, he twisted his torso to one side, and the bowie blade skimmed past his upper arm, the point snagging and tearing the cloth.

 

Fleur was unable to react in time, and she nearly toppled face first from the saddle. Putting both hands on the grips and twisting the front wheel to the right, Ryan cut back on the throttle at the same time.

 

The woman sped past him and Ryan slipped out of the trap, riding off in the opposite direction. He regained control of his mount, wincing at the pain in his shoulder blade, concentrating on a new problem.

 

Fleur knew he had dropped his weapon, and when she charged him again, she would be completely on the offensive, doing her best to slice, stab, eviscerate and decapitate him.

 

Ryan's quick assessment was correct. Fleur staged sortie after sortie, swinging her bowie, her single eye ablaze with triumph and fury.

 

To evade her savage slashes, Ryan leaned forward, then backward, at one juncture almost lying prone while he rode his Motosport in an ever-tightening circle. Fleur dogged him all along, her blade slicing and snicking through the air.

 

This went on long enough for Ryan to note that at the end of every stroke, the momentum of her arm would pull up her far knee and loosen the grip of her thighs on the saddle.

 

As Fleur veered toward him again, swinging the Bowie in a downward chopping arc, Ryan planted the sole of his boot against her rib cage. All things considered, it was more of a prod than a kick, and not very powerful since he had only the motorcycle to brace against. Nevertheless, his foot jolted her sideways. She shrieked, struggling to maintain her balance and keep her grip on the knife.

 

Ryan broke away from the circle and rocketed in a straight line across the field. He leaned down, at full speed, and retrieved his fallen panga. Even as he did so he heard her Husky roaring in pursuit. Spinning the Motosport about, he turned to face the infuriated Fleur.

 

She rode toward him full tilt, throttle wide open, engine moaning, knife held out like an accusing finger. Before Ryan could maneuver, the Motosport and the Husky collided with a screech of metal tearing into metal. Fleur struck at him, Ryan parried with the panga, then both of them were hurled to the ground.

 

Though he tried to shoulder roll, he hit the ground with his head. The shock of impact jarred Ryan, causing the sky to grow dim for an instant and set his head to throbbing. He rolled over just as Fleur, knuckling grit from her eye, arose and rushed at him, knife plunging downward.

 

Ryan moved to one side, and the bowie bit into bare earth. At the same time, he threw up one leg, and the toe of his boot sank into her lower belly. She jackknifed over his foot and fell, snapping desperately at air.

 

Ryan was on his feet in an instant, and as the woman started to rise, he side-kicked the hand that held the bowie. Wrist bones popped, Fleur screamed and the long knife skittered across the ground, finally plopping into the dust.

 

She gaped at him in horrified surprise, then lunged sideways, scrabbling with her good hand across the ground, reaching for the knife. Ryan brought the heel of his boot down on the back of her hand. She screamed again as he pressed down with all of his weight. When he heard the delicate bones crunching, he removed his foot.

 

Fleur, hissing curses in an aspirated voice, tried to get to her feet again, using only her legs. This time the heel of Ryan's boot connected squarely against her forehead. Her one eye rolled back in her head, and she flopped flatly on her back.

 

Ryan stared down at her, the panga hanging from his hand. The onlookers went berserk, screaming and shouting, "Knife her! Chill her! Kill the bitch!"

 

The screams whirled and spun in the air around him. His body ached, his shirttail was a sodden, soaking mass from the blood leaking from his shoulder wound, and he was expected to kill an unconscious woman.

 

Ryan surprised the spectators and, to an extent, himself. He slid the knife through his belt, turned and started walking toward the dais where Hellstrom sat.

 

People swarmed out onto the field, yelling, laughing and shouting congratulations. Ryan looked around and saw Krysty and Jak in the crowd. He hoped J.B., Doc and Mildred were nearby.

 

As Ryan reached the foot of the platform, Hellstrom waved a hand. "This is it, Cawdor. Fleur is yours. Chop her to fish bait or take her as a slave. Your prerogative."

 

He glanced over his shoulder. Two men had propped up Fleur and were dragging her forward. Glancing back to Hellstrom, Ryan muttered, "The law of the jungle with a relish."

 

Hellstrom smiled in genuine amusement. "The law of Charlie, the law of Helskel. The law of Deathlands."

 

Someone handed him Fleur's knife. Ryan turned as the woman was dumped unceremoniously at his feet. She was conscious now, though dazed and disoriented. She stared up at him as he stood over her. Her one eye expressed fear, but her lips curled in a sneer.

 

Ryan looked at her for a very long moment, from the soles of her dusty boots to the top of her tangled mass of hair. Finally he rested his gaze on her hands. They were discolored, swollen, twisted at unnatural angles.

 

He stooped over, not averting his eye from her face. He laid the bowie knife beneath the heel of his boot, stamped down and yanked up sharply on the handle at the same time. The blade snapped at the hilt with a chiming sound.

 

Turning away, Ryan dropped the useless hilt on her lap and turned back to face Hellstrom, who was smiling a faint smile of bemusement.

 

"Let's hear your decision, Cawdor."