Chapter Twenty-Two

 

 

Ryan led his horse, the Steyr hanging loose and comfortable in his right hand. In the past six hours the companions had put a lot of miles of hard terrain behind them. The animals were getting badly worn by the constant pace and from the cold ghosting across the land under the pale quarter moon.

 

He glanced back and saw that Krysty was staying about fifty yards behind him. Close enough to cover him if she needed to, and far enough back that she stood a chance of escape in case he was brought down.

 

Ahead of him the land gradually rose, losing itself in the trees and brush and thick gray fog that had coiled in from the sea. Seventy yards up, it seemed to drop off.

 

Ryan tied the reins to a sapling, leaving them in a slipknot he could disengage with a yank. He stepped away from the horse and signaled to Krysty to send Jak up and let J.B. know they were holding their present position.

 

Krysty passed the message back. In less than a minute the albino was at Ryan's side.

 

"The boy?" Ryan asked in a low voice.

 

"Fever broke," Jak replied. "Couple, three hours ago. Keeps water down now. A little bread. He'll live."

 

"Good. We're going forward for a look-see. Horses will make too much bastard noise."

 

"Boy says we get close."

 

"Kind of figured it that way myself." Ryan moved forward. "Fifteen feet apart, always able to see each other. On double yellow. Quiet as we can make it."

 

Jak nodded, blades naked in his fists.

 

Ryan kept his grip on the Steyr. It wasn't silenced, but it made a mean club if he needed it to. And the stopping power of the 7.62 mm slug at close range was nothing short of formidable if keeping silent wasn't possible. He moved through the brush without making a sound, as much a night predator as anything hunting around him.

 

They were almost at the lip of the drop-off when he heard the shushing noise. It was the only warning Ryan got. He stepped back and brought up the Steyr. A vine flashed by his face, then coiled with a snap around a tree that was close enough for him to reach out and touch.

 

He kept moving, swiveling his head to track the continued motion. For an instant he thought a snake had dropped from the trees because there was so much action. Keeping the Steyr up to block if there was a need, he slipped the panga free.

 

"Plants," Jak said.

 

Another tendril whipped at Ryan, the deadly spur exposed in the vegetable flesh and dripping ichor. Moonlight vanished against the dark sheen of the poison. Crouching and twisting to avoid the lunge of the tangler, Ryan raked the panga through the green tentacle, lopping off a good two feet.

 

The amputated tendril flopped to the ground and writhed in wicked animation, thick sap mixing in with the dirt.

 

"Fireblast," Ryan said, stepping back farther, suddenly aware that the forest around the companions was alive with the things. He shrugged out of his backpack and took out an oil torch wrapped in plastic. "Burn them," he told Jak. "Keep them back off us."

 

The albino drew out a torch, as well, moving like a white wraith in the shadows.

 

Ryan wasn't pleased with the turn of events. Setting half the hilltop ablaze above the Celtic ville was going to tear hell out of any element of surprise.

 

"Wait, lover," Krysty called.

 

Ryan hesitated, the tanglers spreading their vines through the trees like giant pythons. He had a sudden and newfound respect for Gehrig and his men. Taking the things by surprise had to have been difficult. And the one they'd shoved in his face at the Bent Rose had evidently been one of the smaller tanglers.

 

He glanced back at the red-haired woman, saw her helping Tarragon forward. The boy had more color in his cheeks now, and his eyes didn't look so feverish.

 

"He says he can help," Krysty said.

 

Ryan shifted, allowing the boy to pass, but keeping a self-light at the ready beside the torch. With the dew glistening on the ground and the patches of snow around them, he knew the brush wouldn't burn well, but it might buy them some time.

 

Tarragon went forward among the darting limbs of the tanglers. His voice, weakened by his fever and sickness, burst forth in low song.

 

Even yards away Ryan felt the hypnotic pull of the ululation as the boy's voice rose and fell. He moved a step closer, unwilling to let the young Celt sacrifice himself if the tanglers failed to react.

 

The tangler vines whipped into a frenzy, snaking through the trees and the brush to sail at Tarragon. The boy held his hands up slowly, keeping very still. Some of the tanglers threaded around his arms, sending smaller tendrils wrapping through his fingers. All of the plants kept their spurs bared, a dozen of them hovering only inches in front of the boy's face.

 

"Upon my soul," Doc breathed at Ryan's side.

 

Ryan glanced at the skinny old man. "Ever seen anything like that?" Even after Gehrig had told him the Celts could talk to the plants, he hadn't been prepared to see it actually happen.

 

"Never," Doc replied. "I had always heard that talking to plants improves their performance, but never anything like this. Dear Ryan, this is full communication, going both ways. The things these people must be able to do." He shook his head in wonderment.

 

Tarragon touched a number of the tanglers, soothing them. Docilely the plants pulled back but remained within striking distance.

 

"It's all right," the boy said, turning to them. "They'll let us pass now."

 

Ryan didn't much like the idea even after he saw the boy standing there unharmed. "Mebbe there's another way around."

 

"No," Tarragon replied. "Wildroot is surrounded by the tanglers. They are there to keep others out."

 

"Jak," Ryan said softly.

 

"Ready," the albino replied.

 

Carefully Ryan went forward, telling the others to stay behind. He kept the torch and the self-light in his hands, walking on the balls of his feet so he could dodge instantly.

 

The tangler vines scrambled around him, digging through the loose brush and leaves, slithering through the snow patches. They touched his feet, then turned and ran up his boots.

 

"Don't act hostile," Tarragon advised. "They sense emotions. They know you're not one of us."

 

Ryan moved slowly, bringing the torch level with his face as the tanglers roped around his chest and skated for his head. Three of them drew level with his eye, the poisonous spurs bared and threatening.

 

"Don't move," Tarragon said in a quiet voice. "It's your only chance."

 

Ryan felt his own heart beating at his temples and his neck. He made himself think of Dean, of how getting through the tanglers might allow him to get back to the Deathlands and his son. He thought of Mildred, too.

 

Tarragon started singing again, and gradually the grip of the tanglers loosened. The spurs dropped away and the vines uncoiled, going back into the shadows and the hiding places they had there.

 

"They'll know you now," Tarragon said. "If you should pass this way again."

 

"How?" Doc asked, obviously intrigued.

 

"Scent," the Celt boy answered. "They've been bred to respond to pheromones."

 

"Pheromones? Then the more frightened someone is of them"

 

"The more vicious and unrelenting their attack would be on a victim." Tarragon nodded.

 

"Nasty little buggers, then," Doc observed.

 

"Each of you come on through them," the boy said. "One at a time until I get them used to you."

 

Ryan stepped away from the tangler area, feeling the cold sweat dappled along the back of his neck. "Unsaddle the horses," he told the others. "We can't take them any farther. And leaving them here is no option, either. Anybody's tracking us, they'll know where we came through. If Boldt's got guards out"

 

"He does," Tarragon said.

 

"They would notice horses tied up out here real easy," Ryan finished. He walked back to join J.B. while Krysty walked into the deadly embrace of the tanglers.

 

The Armorer was already unsaddling his mount. "Somebody's out there."

 

"Seen him?" Ryan asked, digging out his night glasses.

 

"Yeah. Couple times. Being right quiet about it, though."

 

Ryan trained the night glasses back along the declining terrain. He spotted nothing but the twisted shadows strewed across the brush and trees.

 

"Flash every now and then," J.B. said. "Most likely moonlight on metal."

 

"Careless," Ryan commented.

 

"Not if they want us to know they're there."

 

"Putting the squeeze on us?"

 

"Could be. They probably figure we aren't going to get a welcome from Prince Boldt."

 

"Mebbe they got it inside their heads that the boy's leading us into a trap. Plan on catching us as we're trying to make a getaway from here."

 

The Armorer took his glasses off and cleaned them. "If there isn't a mat-trans unit inside that fortress, could be exactly what happens."

 

 

 

THE LAND HOLLOWED OUT over the ridge, becoming a giant cup. A thin stream wound through the flat bed of the cul-de-sac, catching glimmerings of reflected moonlight. Guards moved around the area, too, but none of them appeared especially alert. By his own admission, Gehrig had never penetrated the Celtic ville's defenses.

 

Most of Boldt's patrols seemed to be concentrated around the houses that stood close together along the stream. Fragrant breezes blew back from the gardens. Dawn was still almost two hours away.

 

Ryan, lying prone and watching out over the ville, reached out and grabbed Krysty's hand. "Need you to stay here with the others while me and the boy go on ahead. Make sure we get welcomed instead of chased."

 

"We'll be here, lover." The red-haired woman gave him a tight grin. "As far as sec guards go, these men haven't impressed me." She leaned forward and kissed him. "Be careful. Rebels aren't always so brave close to home where they can't hide their crimes."

 

Ryan nodded, then crawled up beside Tarragon. "Let's go."

 

"Quietly," the boy admonished. "These men know me by sight. If they see that you're with me, it will mean death for both of us."

 

Ryan followed the boy's lead, crawling through the brush for another sixty yards, waiting until clouds scudded across the face of the moon. He breathed in through his nose, keeping his senses on edge as they headed across open territory.

 

"There." The boy pointed at one of the small houses in the back of the row in front of Ryan. They'd made their way around a quarter of the cul-de-sac and were close enough to the stream that Ryan could hear the gurgling as it flowed over the rocky dam that had been built up to make a small reservoir.

 

The house was a single-story frame building. A narrow chimney stuck through the roof at an angle, belching a streamer of gray smoke across the dark sky. Like all the other homes, this one had a small garden in the back, as well as an even smaller fenced-in area occupied by a goat, chicken coops and rabbit hutches.

 

The waxed-paper windows glowed with the cheery warmth of oil lanterns. Occasionally shadows moved across them.

 

"Okay," Ryan said. "Move out."

 

Tarragon took the lead. Ryan followed him, hunkered down and carrying the Steyr in both hands. In seconds they were at the back door of the little home.

 

Ryan fell in beside the door with the assault rifle at the ready in front of him. Though the boy was certain he could trust the man inside, Ryan didn't hold that belief.

 

The goat bleated a little, causing some of the other animals to shift and call out nervously.

 

Tarragon knocked quietly. "Cardamom," the boy called softly, "it's Tarragon."

 

"Tarragon?" The man's rough voice sounded querulous and doubting.

 

"Yes, sir," Tarragon replied.

 

"I'd heard you were dead, boy."

 

"Nearly was," Tarragon said. "Pepper and his band killed Bean."

 

The door opened slightly, and a thin, wizened man peered out. His eyes were close set, and his nose was a third again longer than it had any need of being. "I know they killed Bean, lad. Pepper brought that boy's body back this morning, then burned it out in the open in front of his father and mother. Kept him from becoming part of Lugh Silverhand's blessed cycle."

 

"I'm sorry."

 

"You're not to blame." Cardamom laid a gentle hand on the shoulder of the boy, just then glancing up to see Ryan standing at the door. He didn't look away as their eyes met.

 

"I shouldn't have let Bean follow me," Tarragon said.

 

"He was nearly as grown as you. Would have been nigh impossible for you to have stopped him, and him not wanting to be stopped. Why don't you introduce me to your friend?"

 

Ryan noticed the old man's voice never shifted out of being friendly, but Cardamom also reached behind the door. Ryan figured it to be a knife or some kind of short sword. From what Tarragon had said, only Boldt's sec people went armed with blasters.

 

"Ryan Cawdor," the Celtic boy said. "He's here to try to take back his friend. The Prince has her."

 

"You're referring to the black woman?" Cardamom asked.

 

"Yeah," Ryan said. "She's still alive?"

 

"As of this afternoon, yes." Cardamom kept his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Where'd you meet up with this man, Tarragon?"

 

Ryan could tell from the way the old man was gripping the boy that he was prepared to use him as a shield against any attack.

 

Quickly Tarragon related his adventures from the time Bean had been killed and how he'd ended up with Ryan and the companions in New London.

 

"You're an enemy of the Prince's, then?" Cardamom asked Ryan when the boy had finished.

 

"No," Ryan replied honestly. "But the boy's told us about the plague. I got people back where I come from that I wouldn't want to see anything happen to. We're going into that fortress, come hell or high water, to take Mildred back if she's alive, and chill the people responsible if she isn't. I'm figuring if we work it right, Boldt is going to catch the last train west when we're done. And if there's a way to be done with this plague, then we'll see to that, too."

 

Cardamom eyed the Steyr with respect. "You have weapons?"

 

"All of us," Ryan answered. "And a few more besides."

 

"We've been kept to knives," the old man said. "None longer than from our elbows to the tips of our fingers."

 

"Makes the guards harder to kill," Ryan observed grimly.

 

"That it does. But there's some of us got staffs ready to hook the knives to. They make mean spears. And we've got bows and arrows." Cardamom looked out over the dark terrain. "How many are you?"

 

"Me and four more."

 

"Not hardly the army the Prince has at his beck and call."

 

"When he's dead, I figure mebbe some of the threat goes with him," Ryan said.

 

"Probably true."

 

"He got a second-in-command?"

 

"Boldt doesn't believe in laying the groundwork for a rival," Cardamom said. "The closest there is to a second is Pepper."

 

"Met him," Ryan replied. "Briefly, and in passing." He faced the man more directly. "Tarragon suggested there might be some help in this for me and my people. Since we're both aiming on chilling the same person, mebbe something mutual could be worked out."

 

Heated lights gleamed in the old man's eyes. "I figure something can be arranged. The Time of the Great Uprooting is nearly upon us. We've all seen how the Prince is behaving of late, and we know he's been getting ready. The last raid really put him on the defensive. He was hardly out of his fortress at all today, which isn't usual for him. Come on inside."

 

Ryan signaled for the others and covered them as they threaded their way to the house while watching out for the roving guards. In only a few minutes they were all together.

 

 

 

"IT WOULD MEAN DEATH if these cellars were discovered," Cardamom said as he pushed the hand-carved dining table and chairs aside in the small kitchen. He'd dimmed the lantern and thrown a towel over the room's only window. "Boldt has his sec people search regularly."

 

"You haven't been found out?" Krysty asked.

 

Ryan knew all of the companions were feeling slightly claustrophobic, closed in as they were in the small house in the heartland of their enemy with potential death roving outside. He kept his hand close to his blaster.

 

"No." Cardamom counted boards from the side of the house, then put his heel down on one of them. "Things aren't quite as you think, lass." He added weight to the foot. The wooden plank creaked a couple times, then it sounded as though something popped into place. "Spending all this time with Prince Boldt, we dissenters have had to become a bit more clever over the years. Only a handful of people know about the digging we've done over the years. After tonight it's not going to matter anymore. We can't wait any longer, either."

 

The old man walked out of the dining room and into the tiny bedroom. His wife, lean and angular, her long gray hair pulled back out of her ruddy face in a ponytail, stood at the wall to the left of the sway-backed bed. A long, double-edged knife was partially hidden in the folds of her dress.

 

Ryan gazed around the room, noting the lack of personal items. The existence the Celts had under Boldt was stripped down to essentials.

 

Cardamom's wife hooked her fingers behind a wall and pulled it open, revealing a narrow set of stairs that corkscrewed down into the earth beneath the small house.

 

"In the kitchen," the old man explained, "the floors may creak a bit, but the Prince's soldiers have never found this."

 

"Counterweights?" Doc asked.

 

"Yes," Cardamom answered, taking up a torch from where it hung on the wall just inside the small entryway.

 

Ryan followed the old man down into the tunnel. It went on much farther than he'd guessed. "Surprised you didn't hit water," he stated. After J.B. brought up the rear, the old man's wife shut the door behind them. It locked with a dry click.

 

"In some places," Cardamom assured him, "we did. A few of them we were able to shore up with rock and keep dry. But it wasn't possible with others."

 

At least twenty feet below the surface, the winding staircase came to a fairly level point. Cardamom kept the torch ahead of him, not having room to raise it above his head.

 

The trapped smoke burned Ryan's eye and caused it to tear. He kept his hand on his blaster. It was a bad place to be if the sec men came across them. A little plas ex in the right places, and they might as well have crawled into their own graves.

 

"Boldt doesn't know about these tunnels?" Krysty asked.

 

"No. We keep our secrets. They're all we have left these days."

 

"If Boldt has only been around for the last forty years," Doc asked, "how is it you're so old?"

 

"My wife and I were both among the original clones that were accelerated past our childhoods and adolescence."

 

"You missed some very magic times, friend Cardamom," Doc said.

 

"We thought we'd stolen some of it back when we had a child of our own twelve years ago," the old man said. "He was one of the children ferreted out by Boldt's spies. He wasn't quite two years old when the Prince discovered his existencealong with the existence of other childrenand had him drowned publicly by his raid people. Their bodies were given to the beasts that haunt the forests beyond our border."

 

"I am truly sorry," Doc said.

 

Ryan studied the men waiting on their arrival. None of them appeared happy about the meeting.

 

"We were not so united in our purpose in those days," Cardamom said. "Some of us would have died for our children. But we were not allowed. Our own friends and neighbors guarded Boldt from our rage and need for vengeance because they feared he would turn on all of us. In spite of the deaths of the children, they felt him capable of mercy."

 

A man easily fifty pounds heavier than Ryan and a couple inches taller was evidently the spokesman for the trio. His tangled auburn hair was streaked with silver, as was the fierce beard that hung down to his chest.

 

"Cardamom," the big man rumbled, "what is the meaning of this?"

 

"Forgive his rude and abrupt manner," Cardamom said. "These past years have made us all lax in our social graces." He set the torch into a sconce near a flue built into the ceiling. "Basil, this is Ryan Cawdor and his companions. They're here to free the woman."

 

"Her name is Mildred," Ryan said. Giving the other rebels the woman's name would perhaps put them at ease, let them know Mildred meant something to the band. He introduced the others briefly.

 

The other two men with Basil were Sage and Marjoram.

 

"Why should we trust you?" the big man grunted. His eyes were narrow slits.

 

"If we were here to hurt you or just find out about these tunnels," Ryan stated, "it'd already be done. Us finding these tunnels, not much could be worse. You think it would take Peppereven as stupe as he lookslong to figure out all he'd have to do to find the main part of the rebellion effort was to track down these tunnels and kill whoever he found at the other end?"

 

Basil looked at the other two men, then at Cardamom.

 

"And I don't see us keeping quiet for the moment to mean we're afraid of you. Besides being outnumbered six to four, you boys brought knives to a gunfightif it come to that sudden-like."

 

Basil crossed his hands over his broad chest. "What do you want from us?"

 

Ryan hooked a thumb at Tarragon. "Boy seems to think you people have a back way into the Prince's fortress. I want to know where it is. If you're up to it, and mebbe you got a few friends, could be we can put a raiding party together while we're at it."

 

"You could be leading us to our deaths," Basil said.

 

Ryan let a cold grin twist his mouth. "If that was the case, you'd already be there. And the deal is, me and my people go into the fortress ahead of you and yours. In case you got any traitors in your own nest."

 

"Besides," J.B. spoke up, "we're without a doubt a lot better at skulking and chilling than you people. I never lived a day of my life in subjugation. Got a natural disinclination against the whole system."

 

The word might have been big, but Ryan knew the Celts recognized it from the bright spots of anger that suddenly flamed their cheeks.

 

"You're suggesting that none of us could keep up with you once you're inside the Prince's fortress," Basil replied.

 

"Smart man," Ryan commented to Cardamom. "Fireblast, you get a couple dozen more like him, you people might have stood a chance against the bastard Prince without us."

 

Basil stepped toward Ryan, sliding his knife into the open, his face knotted in anger.

 

Ryan didn't flinch. Before the big man could blink, he was staring down the barrel of the SIG-Sauer. "I figure I could put a round through your eye before you could make a move with that knife. Want to find out?"

 

"No." Basil froze in place, but he breathed in great drafts, barely restraining himself.

 

"You're one paranoid son of a bitch," Ryan said. "I don't blame you. But don't be a triple stupe. Me and mine can do what you people have only been dreaming of doing for years. Or mebbe come closer to it than you ever would have. And we're properly motivated. Mildred is one of us. We don't leave our people behind. You understanding that?"

 

Reluctantly the big man nodded.

 

"How about you put the pig-sticker away and I'll put the blaster away?" Ryan suggested.

 

Basil pushed the knife back into the sheath under his jacket. "You're not an easy man to get along with. Or even like."

 

"People tell me I got a rough side to me," Ryan said agreeably, putting the blaster away. "But I always stick to what I say. So when I tell you I'm here for a piece of Boldt and to get my friend out, that's how it is."

 

Basil nodded.

 

"I figure we got enough problems with this Time of the Great Uprooting you people are concerned about," Ryan said, "without adding to it."

 

"You're right."

 

"I know it." Ryan swept the four Celt men with his gaze. "Now, about that back way into Boldt's fortress"