Chapter Fifteen

 

 

Mildred Wyeth woke with a pounding headache and a disagreeable taste in her mouth. She was tied to a chair in an empty room that looked as if it had been hollowed out of a giant tree. The walls were coarse and dark, with age rings and grain running through them in various shades.

 

A dim light filled the room. She turned her head, seeking the source. On the walls, in three different places, were growths that looked like molds and were as big as heads of cabbage. They glowed a greenish blue and were the source of the light. As she watched them, they looked as if they pulsed, as though they were breathing.

 

She tested her bonds, but they were tight.

 

Glancing down at herself, she saw that she was still wearing her own clothes. She felt relieved. Rapists, as a general rule, didn't bother putting their victims' clothes back on after they were finished. So there had to be another reason for the headache and the bad taste in her mouth.

 

She hawked up a gob of phlegm and spit it on the floor near her right foot. She was able to move her foot just enough to smear the blob of liquid across the sanded floor. Most of the wood was even, leaving only a few depressions.

 

Without warning, something slammed into her side. The sudden jolt sent fresh pain corkscrewing up her back. She screamed, which she found out quickly enough, wasn't a good idea at all, then moaned as she banged onto the floor on her side.

 

"What the hell is going on?" she shouted, letting her anger get ahead of her fear. "If you're going to kill me, get on with it!"

 

She twisted her neck, trying to see. Shadows were moving there, shifting against the walls.

 

"Get her up," a cultured voice said.

 

"At once, Prince Boldt. But I thought she was going to do a scrying spell."

 

A big man, wearing the same green homespun clothes as the group she'd seen earlier, stepped in front of Mildred. Without preamble he reached down for her and yanked her roughly upright again. He settled the chair on the floor with a thud.

 

Mildred spit into his face. If they hadn't killed her yet, after she'd killed some of them, chances were they weren't going to kill her for a while. She couldn't get away, but she didn't have to make it easy on them.

 

The big man roared in rage, swiping a big paw over his face. "You bitch! You'll pay for that!" He drew back his hand.

 

"Bodb, leave her alone or suffer my wrath." The words were delivered coldly.

 

Bodb hesitated, torn between the threat and his own rage. He straightened, then dropped his hand to the hilt of the broad-bladed knife sheathed at his waist. "Going to be another time, witch. And when there is, you're going to go out cursing your mother for ever bearing you. I swear that by Lugh Silverhand's eyes."

 

"Leave us," the other man ordered.

 

The big man hesitated, then turned and stamped away.

 

Breathing in through her nose and releasing it through her mouth, Mildred made herself remain quiet. She didn't try to look over her shoulder to see the other man.

 

Clothing rustled behind her, and the light from the glowing mold changed. "What makes you so certain we won't kill you?" the man asked.

 

"The hell with you," Mildred said. "You aren't doing me any favors."

 

"No? Without my intervention, Bodb would have had the head from your shoulders."

 

"You saving me for yourself, then?"

 

"Your speech is pathetic. I had been expecting more from someone as trained as yourself."

 

Mildred made herself relax in the chair. She'd have new bruises on her arms and legs where the ropes bound her. "Must be all the inspiration I got around me at the moment."

 

"Do you know who I am?"

 

"Our buddy Bodb called you Prince, so if that isn't your name, it must be a title. You take it for yourself, Prince? Didn't like the idea of a barony?"

 

"I inherited the title," the man said. "From my father. Along with his sacred mission."

 

Mildred let that pass.

 

"So you don't know who I am?"

 

"Let me guess," Mildred said. "This isn't Sherwood Forest."

 

"No."

 

"Means you aren't Robin Hood or Errol Flynn."

 

The man laughed sarcastically. "Nor even Douglas Fairbanks, Jr."

 

That caught Mildred's attention, causing her to fall silent. Not many would know the movie stars of the pre-dark age.

 

"That made you think, didn't it, Mildred Wyeth?"

 

Mildred sat back in her chair, relaxing as much as she could. If the chance presented itself to take any action, she would. But until then, she needed to know where she stood in the present scheme of things.

 

"Yes," Boldt said. "I know your name. And I know you were a doctor."

 

The man stepped around in front of her. He was tall and lean, sallow in complexion, and looked like a poster child for a famine. His clothes were jeans and hiking boots, a sleeveless jade sweater over a yellow Oxford with the collar neatly buttoned down. His cape was a silvery material that reflected the weak light and seemed to glow from an inner source, hanging to the tops of the hiking boots. A crown wrapped around his head, gold braid intricately woven into various leaf shapes, sporting a large purple crystal that hung on his broad forehead between his eyes. He held a staff as tall as he was, the top of it forming an oval where the main body of the shaft split, then became one again, leaving an open space slightly over a foot in length and nearly that in breadth. Metal wires were worked into the polished wood, sometimes on top of the polished grain and sometimes just under it.

 

"You drugged me." Mildred dragged her foot across the particles she'd spit out in the phlegm.

 

"There are some who call what I domagic."

 

"I'm not one of them." Mildred managed to spit out a small piece of something in her saliva. Her eyesight was better now, and she was able to see the porous cells in the piece. "Mushroom?"

 

"Toadstool," Boldt corrected. "Poisonous rather than simply hallucinogenic. A great degree of skill is necessary in order to keep from crossing that thin line of death." He walked closer to her, and the shadows peeled away from him, revealing the .44 pistol he had snugged in shoulder leather. "I do hope you'll prove more civil now that you've had a chance to vent your rancor. I would like to talk to you, especially now that I know you're from the predark times."

 

Mildred just studied the man.

 

"But," he said softly, "I am just as unforgiving as Bodb. And I am the Prince here at Wildroot. There is no one to say me nay and stay my hand." He raised his eyebrows. "Do we understand each other?"

 

"Sure," Mildred said. "Clear as a goddamn bell. But you haven't told me why I should worry about dying later instead of dying now."

 

"Because," Boldt said, "I've not decided whether you should die at all. Yet. You amuse me, and you represent a gateway, of sorts, to the past. A link to the world my father knew and hated." He snapped his fingers.

 

Two guards stepped into the room, dressed in green but wearing silver-worked patches on their blouses. One of them drew a knife and slashed at the ropes that bound her to the chair.

 

"Come," Boldt said imperiously, turning his back and striding down the hollowed-out hallway. Another guard stepped in front of him, uncovering the bull's-eye of a large lantern and banishing the darkness in the blue glow.

 

Mildred rubbed circulation back into her arms as needles of pain tracked through her legs when she stood. She wanted to ask about J.B., Doc, Ryan and the others, but she had the feeling the man wouldn't reply. Instead, she followed.

 

 

 

NEW LONDON RESEMBLED a growth sprouting out of dead scars. What Ryan guessed was the center of the ville featured leaning and broken stone buildings sometimes as high as five and six stories. Most of them had sheared off somewhere around their midpoints, leaving broken and blunted fangs pointed skyward.

 

He studied the ville from the back of the jeep as Gehrig lit another cigar. Ryan felt all talked out from the past two hours of constant grilling by the raider captain. The jeep continued following the well-traveled dirt road leading into New London, passing horse-drawn wags and ox carts going both ways. Most of the wag drivers and cart drivers got over readily enough, but none of them appeared especially glad to see Gehrig or his men.

 

"Thorpe started from survivors gathering in the ruins," Gehrig said over the roar of the jeep's transmission. He shifted in the seat, putting a foot up against the dashboard and heaving out a long streamer of smoke. "Right after the nukestorm. When I was a kid, I talked to some of the old men who lived through those times as small brats themselves. Children were considered a liability in those days. Not many of them made it. But the ones who did, mate, they can tell some stories."

 

Ryan ran his eye over the area. A ten-foot wall surrounded the ville, put together with metal scraps, stone and wood. Barbed wire curled along the top of it.

 

"Not much food to be had here for a while," the raider captain said. "Thorpe's founders turned to cannibalism for a time. Started 'finding' a lot of dead kids who'd perished from one misadventure or another. According to the old-timers, it was easier for a young sprout to have a misadventure than some middle-aged, distrusting soul armed with a blaster of his own."

 

The jeep rumbled across the road and came to a stop at a heavily guarded checkpoint. Steel barricades blocked the entrance.

 

Glancing up, Ryan saw the guard posts were heavily occupied. "Ville seems capable of supporting a lot of people now."

 

"Yeah," Gehrig agreed. "Took some time. Way things worked around here, most of the foodstuffs were canned and dried right here. Close enough to the sea that fish was a staple, but there was a number of bios weapons that got ruptured in the nukestorm. Leftover bastard shit from World War II that was never claimed because of international treaties about the stocking of such things, then couldn't be gotten rid of easily without embarrassment. When the bios ruptured, they poured mists and fogs down into the low places that lasted for months and sometimes years. Wiped out the fishermen, and the folk left over had to relearn most everything. Drove all of the fish deeper out into the seas, too."

 

The post guards scanned the caravan. Ryan watched as the twin .50-caliber machine guns and a 20 mm cannon farther up the wall stayed trained on the vehicles. A half-dozen guards came from under a trapdoor in a berm and created two groups of three, working their way hurriedly down the sides of the caravan.

 

When they finished, the man in charge came up beside Gehrig. "Have a nice run?"

 

"Well enough," the raider captain replied.

 

"You vouching for the new people?"

 

Gehrig nodded. "If that changes, I'll let you know."

 

"That include the dryad?"

 

"Yeah. He's their pet for now. Prince Boldt seized one of their own. These people are hoping to set up some kind of swap."

 

The guard grinned coldly. "Fat chance of that. Boldt's got all the followers he needs. More than likely, their mate has already been killed outright. Who's in charge of this group?"

 

Gehrig jerked a thumb at Ryan.

 

"Going to be holding you responsible for that little bugger," the guard said. "He gets out, does anything he's not supposed to do, it's on your head. We don't go easy on things like that here in New London."

 

"I understand," Ryan said.

 

Gehrig clapped his driver on the shoulder. The jeep rocked forward as the gates opened.

 

"They keep things tight around here," Ryan commented.

 

"Like the underpants on a fat woman," the raider captain agreed.

 

Additional buildings, most only one story tall, had been constructed from the wreckage of the previous ville. Farther along, more of the buildings showed signs of polish and craftsmanship, using shaped stone, as well as wood. Only there did the spaces between the ramshackle buildings grow from twisting, narrow allies to full-size roads.

 

The caravan wound through New London. Gaily painted signs decorated shop windows. Different goods were behind glass panes, arranged for persuasive viewing. The road remained primarily dirt, but a lot of effort had gone into setting broken stone into the groundprobably during the rainy season, Ryan supposedto create streets after a fashion.

 

Along the outer hub of the ville, the buildings rose two and three stories, all built with verandas and upper walks that peered out over the streets. Some of it was for decoration and enjoyment, the one-eyed man knew, but he also knew snipers waited along the way. He could feel them staring at the back of his neck.

 

"Those men up there on the buildings," Ryan said.

 

Gehrig looked at him curiously.

 

"They yours, or do they belong to somebody else?"

 

The raider captain smiled broadly. "They belong to me. You spot one of them, mate? 'Cause if you did, I'll have the hide off any man caught slacking."

 

Ryan shook his head. "Didn't see them. Just felt them."

 

Gehrig looked at him, as if trying to decide whether to believe him. "If you don't find a way back to your Deathlands, I can always use a man like you here, mate."

 

Ryan nodded, not wanting to offend. He wasn't being polite; he was just concentrating on survival. Gehrig was a man with an ego, and getting it all ruffled up wasn't a wise thing to do. "I'll keep that in mind."

 

"You do that."

 

But Ryan knew it would never happen. The Trader was the last man he'd ever willingly follow. And that time was done, too.

 

The jeep came to a stop in front of a wooden building three stories tall. A hand-painted sign over the double doors announced The Bent Rose.

 

"I'll stand you to a pint of the best beer to be had, mate," Gehrig said. "If you're interested."

 

Ryan nodded. As soon as he was able, though, he intended to get off to himself with his friends and see to planning what they were going to do about Mildred.

 

Boosting himself out of his seat, Gehrig landed with a jingle and a thud against the hard-packed earth, spooking the three horses tied up in front of the building. He reached back into the jeep for his assault rifle and took it with him.

 

Ryan vaulted out of the vehicle, too, grateful to be standing instead of all cramped up in the back seat. Krysty and J.B. managed Tarragon between them, while Jak and Doc took care of watching their backs.

 

Enough of Gehrig's men apparently didn't have anything to do except follow the companions, and Ryan knew they weren't going to be trusted.

 

The one-eyed man walked back to the truck and took out one of the equipment packs they'd prepared and slid it over his shoulders, then he fisted a second one. He kept the Steyr at hand, the safety off.

 

"What's going on?" Krysty asked in a quiet voice that didn't carry.

 

"Man's going to buy me a beer," Ryan said.

 

"What are you going to do?"

 

"Me? I'm going to let him."

 

"Ryan, this boy needs some attention. He's burning up with fever."

 

Nodding, Ryan said, "I'm going to see to that, too." He started up the steps after the raider captain.

 

Gehrig led the way inside the building.

 

Ryan already knew from the smell and the lively music coming from inside that the Bent Rose was a gaudy. He didn't worry about Krysty being offended by what was inside, and if there'd been rules against women coming in, Gehrig would have said something.

 

The interior was fanciful, decorated with daringly colored chiffons and silks and other fabrics Ryan couldn't identify. A stage, raised above the hardwood floor by three feet, was flanked by two bars at three o'clock and nine o'clock. Men in clean white shirts worked behind the bars pushing drinks at scantily clad women.

 

On the stage a dancer performed a languorous striptease act in front of the midafternoon crowd, which hooted enthusiastically. She was tall, blond and statuesque in a way that defied gravity, with breasts as big as melons.

 

"Upon my soul," Doc said reverently, taking the woman in at a glance with difficulty, "if dear old Isaac Newton could only see this vision before us, I daresay he'd have to do some refiguring."

 

"Close your mouth, Doc," Krysty said dryly. "You're going to strangle on a fly."

 

"This is my place," Gehrig said proudly. "One of them, anyway." He led the party to a booth in the corner that was conspicuously empty.

 

"Your seat," Ryan said.

 

"Always." The raider captain's men spread out around the room, effectively sealing off all exits. The crowd readily gave way to them.

 

Ryan swept the accommodations with a glance, keeping his face impassive. "Got the distinct feeling you're wanting to keep me underfoot."

 

Gehrig waved to a booth across from him as he sat. "I'm a blunt man, mate, and I've got the feeling you're pretty much the same. I believe your story about the Deathlands and how you come to be here, but I've got a lot here to protect."

 

Ryan nodded. "I've come to see over the years that the more a man takes for himself from others, the more he worries that some others are going to come along and take from him. Doesn't make for an easy mind."

 

" 'Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,' " Gehrig quoted.

 

"That is Shakespeare," Doc said.

 

The raider captain looked at the old man. "You know of the Bard?"

 

Doc brushed dirt from the lapels of his frock coat. "Indeed I do. Tell me, then, have all his works survived?"

 

"I don't know about all of them," Gehrig said. "But a lot of the street people keep his stuff alive down at the Globe."

 

"The Globe? Surely it cannot be the same theater where so many of the master's works were first trod upon the boards."

 

Gehrig shook his head. "No. This is just a small place, mostly kept alive by the locals."

 

"True art," Doc said, "will always out." He glanced at Ryan. "Friend Cawdor, if I may?"

 

Ryan nodded. He wasn't Doc's keeper, and it was good to see the old man excited about something again.

 

Doc didn't waste any time clearing out. The afternoon crowd surrounding the center stage summoned up a lively round of applause as the dancer finished her set and a lean brunette covered with body tattoos took her place.

 

A woman came over from the nearest bar carrying a tray full of drinks. She slipped them onto the table and walked away.

 

"Sit," Gehrig said.

 

"I need a room for us," Ryan stated.

 

Gehrig lit a cigar, then leaned back and pushed a plume of smoke through his lips. "There's rooms upstairs, and there should be some empty."

 

"How much?" Ryan asked.

 

"We can discuss that later."

 

Ryan shook his head. "I'm a man believes in settling up as I go along."

 

Rubbing his chin, Gehrig kept his eyes locked on Ryan. "You helped my men and me escape the trap the Prince laid for us today at the gap. You spend the day and the night in one of those rooms, or as many rooms as you like, drink and eat what you will of the fare offered here, and I figure we're even."

 

Ryan didn't hesitate over the deal. But he knew that there was the underlying threat that the raider captain wouldn't feel beholden anymore, either. "Done."

 

"Good enough." Gehrig snapped his fingers, and one of the waitresses hovering nearby came over. "Take them upstairs and get them settled in."

 

The woman appeared hesitant. "Even the dryad?" She acted as if she couldn't believe it.

 

"Yeah," Gehrig said, turning his burning gaze on her.

 

She looked away hurriedly. "At once." She retreated a little ways off, then stood nervously waiting.

 

"Go on up," Ryan told Krysty. "I'll be along after a while."

 

Even though most of the people watching wouldn't have seen her glance of disapproval, Ryan knew that was exactly what she'd intended him to see. Without a word she shifted the unconscious boy's weight across her shoulders, then she and J.B. turned toward the waitress.

 

Ryan halted Jak with a hand signal. The albino looked up expectantly. "Doc," the one-eyed man said.

 

The teenager nodded, then strode out of the gaudy and into the street. Keeping Doc when he wanted to go wasn't an option. However, keeping an eye on him was.

 

Ryan slid in behind the polished table, feeling the smooth material of the tablecloth against his fingertips. He set the Steyr to one side on the booth, where it would be easy to get to.

 

Gehrig passed over a beaten tin mug. "To your health, mate."

 

Taking up the mug, Ryan returned to gesture, then drank down the contents. It was strong and sour, almost acrid to the taste. He set the mug back on the table. "Something you didn't exactly talk about during our little chat while we were on our way here."

 

"Name it."

 

"What were you and your men doing in the Celt country if you're such bitter enemies?" Ryan asked.

 

"DeChancie, go get one of those baskets out of the truck."

 

A man peeled off from the group and exited through the door. While he was gone, a waitress deposited a large bowl of fried meats and breads on the table.

 

"Squab," Gehrig said, taking a small breast for himself. He tore the white meat from the bone and popped it into his mouth. "Eat up. When's the last time you had something that didn't come out of a self-heat?"

 

"A while," Ryan acknowledged. He picked up a piece of meat and started working on it, finding it easy to separate from the bone. It was covered in spices, too, gentle things that encouraged chewing and tasting.

 

In a few minutes DeChancie returned with a basket. It was wicker, almost two feet across and nearly the same deep. Rope bound the lid on it, wrapping securely around projections that had been designed for just that purpose.

 

For a moment Ryan thought the man was shaking the basket, then realized it was only reflecting the movements from whatever was trapped inside.

 

"Sit it down and open it up," Gehrig said.

 

DeChancie clearly wasn't happy about the idea. But he put the basket down. Men cleared out from around him. The basket shifted restlessly, sometimes rocking violently as something struck the wall from inside. Taking his knife from the sheath on his hip, DeChancie sliced the ropes holding the lid down, then tried to jump back.

 

Before the man could get away, though, snakelike appendages exploded out of the basket and wrapped around him.

 

Ryan had only a moment to take it all in, then his attention was focused on the tentacle streaking toward his face. He was grimly aware of the vicious stinger at the end of the tentacle as it lashed at him.