Chapter Twenty-Eight

Ryan came across Jak less than fifty yards on. The albino lay low in the tall grass, choking the life from a mutie snake nearly six feet long that wrapped around the youth's arm.

"Bite you?" Ryan asked.

Jak snorted derisively. "Never had chance. Got him before got me." He nodded ahead of them. "Run out of cover."

Ryan scanned the free line as Jak threw the dead snake away. They were at the outer perimeter. Beyond it was the open space leading to the drop-off where the rope bridges to the boat were.

"Got no choice," Ryan said as the rest of the companions came up around them. "Without the boat, we're too far away from anywhere we want to be."

"You planning on going out there?" Elmore asked incredulously.

"Yeah."

"Going to get us all chilled."

"No. Going to get us out of here." Ryan gave instructions, spreading the companions out and building a skirmish line. Callton's sec forces had dug themselves into the forest on the other side of the clearing, and in the area more toward the trading post in the area where Ryan and the companions were.

Three coldhearts bolted from the forest on their side. J.B. opened up with the Uzi as they started firing and yelling to the others, attracting attention. The Armorer's vicious figure eight lifted the three men from their feet and sent them spinning away.

"Cat's out of the bag now," Mildred said, picking off two more coldhearts who'd turned their attention on the companions. "We move, or we die right here." She moved her ZKR 551 and fired again, taking out a third man.

"Jak," Ryan growled, "you got the lead. Chances are some of the coldhearts are aboard the boat, holding it in case they have to retreat."

The albino grinned thinly. "Not hold it long."

"Doc, you're next. We can use that big blaster of yours to clear the way. Mildred, J.B., you're bringing up drag. Dean, Krysty, keep the others moving along."

Elmore pulled a sullen face. "You can't make me go out into that."

More bullets from Callton's men were starting to rip bark from the branches and tree trunks nearby. Other men crept through the forest, closing in on their position.

Ryan looked at his son. "If that triple-stupe bastard doesn't move when you tell him, you put a round through his head, make sure he's chilled."

"I'll do it, Dad."

"Now get them up and let's move." Ryan pushed himself up, bringing the Steyr to his shoulder. He fired into the approaching line of coldhearts, putting two men down immediately and causing the others to go to ground.

Jak broke cover and stayed low, followed immediately by Doc. Callton's men shot at them at once, but Ryan, J.B. and Mildred blasted into them, their bullets finding targets with unerring precision. At the same time, the gunners manning the trading post caught their attackers in a cross fire. In the next instant, Annie laid down a fierce barrage with the 20 mm cannon. The big rounds chewed holes in the ground and toppled trees, breaking some of them and leaving trunks four or five feet tall.

Ryan held his position until J.B. and Mildred got clear. Jak plunged over the edge in the distance, racing down the rope ladder. The sounds of blasterfire slammed up from below, letting Ryan know he'd been correct in assuming there'd be men positioned there.

He reloaded the Steyr, then raced after the companions. Instead of heading for the bridge area, he stayed along the tree line, driving his feet hard against the ground.

Two coldhearts pursued him. They whipped through the underbrush, closing on him like hounds scenting the kill. Ryan raced on, ignoring them for a moment. Running like they were, they weren't able to effectively use their weapons.

Reaching the edge of the precipice overlooking the pier, Ryan threw himself down in a diving roll. He came up on one knee, pulling the Steyr to his shoulder. When the open sights underneath the telescopic lens centered on the lead man's chest, Ryan squeezed the trigger and rode out the recoil.

The bullet smashed through the man's heart, tearing out a section of his spine as it punched through.

Ryan moved to the second target, tracking the man's efforts to take cover. The coldheart dived into the brush headfirst. Unable to get a clear shot at the gunner's head, Ryan settled for shooting him twice in the groin. Even if the man lived, he'd be too busy holding himself together to do much more fighting.

Rolling on toward the precipice, Ryan peered down. The boat was still tied up at the pier, a promising sign in its own right. But coldhearts were aboard it, shooting at the companions as they made their way down the rope ladders.

Ryan had expected the attempted ambush, and he'd known the companions were going to be vulnerable. But there'd been no choice.

He pulled the Steyr to his shoulder and aimed at a gunner aboard Junie as a 20 mm cannon round exploded close enough to shower him with dirt. He ignored it, concentrating on picking up the targets aboard the boat.

Bullets ripped through the rope ladders, splintering some of the planks and making others jump like live things.

Ryan's first round took the man in the throat, nearly decapitating him before he fell overboard. Two more rounds were necessary to take out the gunner riding the unruly prow as the boat bucked in the raging torrent of the river. Whitecaps danced on the water, twisting and turning before going under and reappearing.

J.B. accounted for a third as Ryan made the shift. The Armorer's rounds tracked across the deck, throwing up splinters and leaving pockmarks behind, then smashed into the gunner.

The fourth man hid back by the wheel as Ryan chased him into cover. Jak was on the final set of steps leading to the pier when the thick black smoke curled up from the boat.

"Fifeblast!" Ryan snarled. He didn't have a chance to see how bad the fire was before bullets drove him to cover himself. He cursed some more, feeding shells into the Steyr. Glancing back at the trading post, he discovered the attack by Callton's coldhearts had all but broken off. Dead men draped the broken terrain.

Judging by the sudden interest the coldhearts had in him, Ryan decided he'd been selected as a consolation prize.

Down the precipice, Jak had reached the boat. The albino dashed belowdecks and came back up with a water bucket. He ran across the two corpses left on deck and dipped up a bucket of water. By the time he sluiced it across the deck, trying to combat the flame, the coldhearts had closed in on Ryan. There was nowhere to go.

KRYSTY'S VISION BLURRED from the pain throbbing inside her head. She heard Phlorin's voice whispering in the back of her mind, but she didn't understand a thing the dead woman said.

She knew at once that Ryan was in danger, though. She felt it with every fiber of her being. Pausing on the last set of rough timber steps, she peered back up at the drop-off.

"Dear lady," Doc said from in front of her, "is something wrong?"

"Ryan," she replied in a dulled voice, struggling in vain to pull her vision into focus. "He's in trouble."

As if to bear out her words, a riptide of shots opened up above. In the next moment, Ryan's body came tumbling over the edge, arms and legs flailing.

"Oh, Gaia!" Krysty's breath locked in her throat as she watched Ryan fall, then disappear under the raging river. Then she felt Doc's hand on her forearm, tugging her along, Dean behind her, pushing forward.

"No time," Dean said. "He's going to be all right, but that river's going to pull him along. We've got to get the boat moving. It's his only chance."

He's dead, whore, Phlorin cackled in the back of Krysty's mind. Dead and gone. You're never going to see him again. He's never going to have the chance to defile you again, never have the chance to defile one of the Chosen again.

Krysty refused to believe that. If Ryan was dead, she'd know. Her gift would allow her that. Gaia would see to it that she knew.

But she stared out at the rushing water and felt only icy cold hope nestled around her heart.

"Krysty," Doc said gently.

She let him lead her, managing the steps with real effort. Somehow Doc got her into a run, and she felt the rope ladder sway beneath her feet. Only then did she notice the smoke aboard the boat.

RYAN PLUMMETED into the river feet first, absorbing most of the shock through his boot heels. The water, though, was still cold enough to take his breath away. His left shoulder was on fire. Before he'd managed the leap from the dropoff, a bullet had found him. He didn't know how bad the wound was, but the pain was enough to cause him problems with the arm.

His gear and the Steyr slung over his back worked to drag him under. Water filled his boots, near freezing in intensity. For a moment, he figured he was going to smash into the river bottom, not knowing for sure how deep it was where he'd been able to jump, and not knowing how far down his drop would put him.

By the time his downward momentum was spent, his lungs felt like bursting, burning for the need for oxygen. He looked up but he couldn't see through the dirty water enough to know where the surface was.

He made his left arm work, stroking upward. With the current carrying him along, he knew he wasn't going to come up anywhere near the boat. In fact, after struggling with the river, he thought it was going to be a miracle if he came up at all. The current seemed intent on dragging him five or six feet forward for every foot he pulled himself up, dragging him back down again.

Black spots were floating in his vision when he made it to the surface. He wheeled desperately, trying to get his bearings. As deep as he was, tossed by the current and savaged by the cold, he spotted the boat's masts. But they were staying put and he was moving away from them fast.

"KEEP THEM COVERED, Millie," J.B. said.

Mildred knew the Armorer wasn't talking about the coldhearts pouring down the rope ladders. Bullets peppered the water and the boat, but Morse and his boys were the ones J.B. was talking about.

"Get the boat moving," J.B. ordered.

"I move out there, I'm going to get shot," Morse protested, hiding by the door to belowdecks.

"You stay where you are," Mildred promised, "I'll shoot you myself."

The Armorer stepped up to the man and backhanded him, turning his head completely to the side even with the short blow. "And if she doesn't do it," J.B. put in, "those fuckers coming down those ladders will do it. Now get your ass in gear."

Morse yelled at his boys, staying low as he started unfurling the sails. Bullets chopped at them, delaying their work.

Dean stayed with Krysty and kept his blaster leveled on Elmore.

"You've got to find Ryan, J.B.," Krysty said in a weak voice.

"Going to," J.B. replied. He slipped one of the machetes mounted on the boat's railing free, then ran to the mooring rope holding the prow to the pier.

Mildred kept the .38 loose, watching as J.B. slashed through the mooring ropes, prow and stern, and through the rope holding the anchor, as well. The boat was swept out into the river's current at once, almost listing sideways, stopping just short of capsizing as the rushing water took it into its embrace.

Hanging on to the railing, Mildred watched as the river water surged up, slopping over the side. Her feet were drenched, turning cold at once. She no longer had to cover the Morse family; they were all locked into survival together.

"Do you see him?" J.B. asked.

Mildred strained to see across the river as the next current caught them and boosted them up. "No. Dammit, can't see much of anything."

"Bastard river's taken him downstream," J.B. replied.

The sails filled overhead, cracking in the breeze. Mildred felt the boat surge, like a horse fighting the tether.

"There!" Doc called. "I see him!" He stood, holding Krysty tight at his side.

Looking farther down river, Mildred spotted Ryan. The one-eyed man disappeared under the water for a moment, then came bobbing back up. "Get us over there," she ordered Morse.

"This current," Morse replied, "ain't making this boat any too easy to handle."

Still, he managed to get Junie close enough to Ryan for J.B. to hand down one of the sheared remains of a mooring rope. Ryan somehow found the strength to hang on as they hauled him up.

Mildred got some blankets from belowdecks and draped them across Ryan's shoulders. She also found and popped a self-heat of chicken-noodle soup. By that time, the boat was well into the current, running for all she was worth.

The threat of the coldhearts died away, as they were pounded further into submission by the trading post's 20 mm cannon.

Crossing the deck to where Ryan lay, Mildred dropped to her knees, her body rolling with the frantic pitch of the boat. She looked at his injured shoulder, at the blood spreading across the shirt material. She unbuttoned the shirt and pulled it back.

"Ruined the shirt, didn't it?" Ryan asked.

"Got your old one in the gear." Mildred examined the bullet hole. The round had cored through the outer deltoid muscle atop Ryan's left shoulder. It was more messy than damaging. "Through and through. You got lucky."

"Real lucky, Dad," Dean said. "Thought that bastard river had taken you for sure. Glad it didn't."

"Me, too." Ryan tried to sit up, managing it with help from Mildred and Dean.

Mildred pulled the blanket tighter around Ryan, noting his pallid complexion. It wasn't from the shock of the wound; it was the chill of the water. "Eat your soup. Get your temperature back up before you get the chills or end up getting sick. I've got to pack that wound, get the bleeding stopped."

Ryan did as he was instructed, ignoring the spoon he'd been given and drinking the soup straight from the container.

Mildred took gauze from the first-aid supplies and plugged the entry and exit wounds on the one-eyed man's shoulder. Ryan, being the indomitable hardass he was, didn't say a word during the whole procedure.

"After exposure to that water, I'm going to pump you full of vitamin B, too." Mildred took one of the few ampoules they'd found in a recent visit to a redoubt and injected him. "You might run a slight fever with this, but you'll be okay."

RYAN SAT BESIDE KRYSTY, nursing another self-heat of chicken-noodle soup as he watched her sleep. Hours had passed, and he'd slept some of them himself, but for a few minutes here and there, he'd talked with Krysty and with the other companions.

After his rescue, Ryan had instructed Morse to turn up-river again. The coldhearts were no longer a threat, and the companions passed the fort without incident. The river had calmed as they'd sailed, but with the sun hanging so low in the sky and the coastline so uncertain, there was no choice about dropping anchor for the night. Too much debris washing down from upriver created hazards. Morse had already had his boys working to patch the leaks from the bullet rounds that had cored through the decks. The boat had taken on a foot and a half of water before they'd been able to get most of them stopped. The boys, spelled by Jak, Dean, Doc and J.B., worked a hand bilge pump to clear the water. Ryan had even taken a couple turns himself, not wanting his wounded arm to stiffen too much.

"Got any of that soup left, lover?" Krysty croaked.

"Yeah." Ryan handed it over, but she was too weak to sit up and take it.

"Sorry," she said. "Stomach's rolling. I'm hungry, but I'm too weak to take care of it myself."

Ryan helped her sit, then patiently spoon-fed her. "Talked to Elmore earlier," he said. "We're mebbe four days out from where Donovan's supposed to be up in the mountains around the Heimdall Foundation."

"Long time," Krysty said. "And a long way."

"Seen longer times and longer ways," Ryan replied. "We'll see this one through just the same."

"Wish I believed that as much as you do, lover. But I hear that bitch's voice in the back of my mind just eating at me. It could be that by the time we get there, there won't be much of me left."

"You have a hard time believing in that," Ryan told her, keeping his voice strong, "then you just believe in me. I ain't never let you down before."

"Haven't, lover," she corrected him gently. "You haven't ever let me down."

"Haven't," he said agreeably. "And I ain't about to start now." He thought she might correct him again, but instead she was asleep in his arms. He held her despite the pain it caused in his wounded shoulder, knowing it would be nothing like the agony he'd feel if he lost her.

Four days, but they could measure a lifetime—Krysty's.

He concentrated on her breathing as he held her, hearing it even above the constant smack of waves against the boat's hull and the crack of sailcloth.