Dies the Fire (38 page)

“Oooops,” Havel said in a normal conversational tone as more and more of them appeared, crawling from their nests of cloth or from under the crude sun-shades. “Guess they were more numerous than I thought.”

They milled about, blinking, scratching. The bushy-haired man finished pulling the ax out of the cottonwood stump and pointed up the slope with it.

“Food!” he shouted. “More food—he came to us!”

The others took it up in a second, a confused brabble of voices rising into a shrilling scream. They surged forward up the slope towards him, waving axes and tire irons and clubs and knives and a couple of improvised spears like the one he'd been holding.

“Let them get fairly close,” he went on, looking down at the white faces of his companions. “I don't see any distance weapons at all, but we can't afford to waste arrows. We're none of us what you'd call crack shots with these things yet.”

He picked up his bow and reached over his shoulder for a shaft.

“And I
really
hope Will gets the rest of the A-list here quickly,” he said.

 

 

 

Havel shouted the ancient battle cry as he rose and lunged. The cannibal grinned with yellow teeth, throwing himself backward and rolling downhill in a ball with the haft of his ax held across his stomach.

As he went, half a dozen others popped up from behind boulders or bushes and threw a barrage of rocks. Havel ducked down and lifted his shield, swearing, keeping his sword hilt and sword hand behind the targe as the fist-sized missiles banged and rattled painfully off his mail and shield and helmet. If he lost the use of his right arm they'd overrun the Bearkillers in minutes.

“Yuk-hei-saa-saa!” Eric shouted behind him, from where he sat—a bone-bruise on the right leg left him unable to stand. “Ho la, Odhinn!”

Gasping, Havel spared a second to grin at him. “Well, we've all got our traditions,” he said. “Keep an eye out for—”

The younger man's bow sounded, a flat
snap
through the clatter and shouting. A cannibal dropped her knife and fell, trying to drag herself off with the shaft through a thigh. The rest of the band ignored her in their hurry to dive for cover, which at least made it harder for them to throw rocks accurately. A hissing shout brought his head around completely; just in time to see the tip of Pamela's backsword nick through the tip of a nose as three tried to rush her.

That brought a squeal like a pig in a slaughter chute and panicked flight. The other cannibal attacking her dodged away with a shriek of terror as she repositioned in a spurt of dust and gravel, moving with terrifying speed and grace. The third ran into her targe and fell backward as if he'd rammed a brick wall; she killed him with a neat economical downward stab.

“Watch your own side, goddamnit!” she shouted as she moved.

It was good advice. A lump of stone glanced off Havel's helmet with a dull
bongggg
sound, and he whipped his gaze back to his section, shaking his head against the jarring impact. Cannibals were bobbing up from cover to throw and then down again, and the little party had—

“How many arrows left?” he asked.

“Six,” Eric said.

Couldn't tell he's hurting from the voice,
Havel thought with approval.
He really is shaping up good.

“Make 'em count,” he said. “There are a lot more of them than I thought.”

The rocks picked up again; the two mail-clad Bearkillers huddled back, protecting the more lightly armored Larsson, moving their shields to catch as many of the heavy stones as they could. After a moment Eric shot; a miss this time, but a close one, and the enemy grew cautious.

“Four left,” Eric said.

“I'm surprised they haven't run,” Pamela said. “We must have killed or crippled more than a third of them.”

“Nowhere to go,” Havel replied, keeping his eyes busy. “Wolves don't eat members of their pack who're injured. Men do, men and dogs, and I think literally here. Also that spring down there is probably the only water they know about.”

The rocks slowed for a moment. “And they're probably more than half mad by now,” Pamela panted, ducking low. She took a quick sip of water and carefully recorked her canteen. “Wanting to die on some level.”

“Then they could obligingly try to slug it out toe-to-toe,” Havel said, knocking a jagged four-pound lump of basalt out of the air with his shield, and feeling the weight all the way down his back. “We'd have killed them all if they'd kept on doing that.”

“I said they were crazy, not stupid,” Pamela said.

Well, if nobody turns up soon, we're toast. In fact, we're dinner,
Havel thought.

“Here they come,” he said a second later.

This time they were doing it smarter; half throwing rocks, the other half scuttling forward. Far too many . . .

They must have been recruiting among the people they attacked,
Havel thought.
Those who refused to turn cannibal going into the stewpot.

He saw the faces and the eyes now that they were closer; there was little human left in them. Animals, but cunning ones.

“Dinner's going to be expensive,” he snarled.
“Haakkaa paalle!”

Eric shot his last four arrows, and put two more of the enemy out of action. Then they were close, three in front of Havel with blades, more behind carrying stones—one woman in the tattered remains of a business outfit clasping a rock the size of her head, ready to sling it into him at close range.

He stepped forward, the downward slope giving added force to the cut. The backsword blurred down and caught the axman at the join of neck and shoulder, and the eyes in the dirt-smeared face went wide. Shock vibrated up his arm as bone parted with a greenstick snap.

He wrenched at the steel with desperate haste, beating aside a spearhead with his shield; the blade was fastened immovably by the dead man's convulsion and the sagging weight tore the braided-leather grip out of his hand.

The time lost let a man with a hatchet too close. He dodged and the spearhead from the other side went by his face; the hatchet skimmed off his shoulder, rattling along the rings of his armor. The hatchetman stepped in, trying to grapple, and Havel lashed out with his steel-clad forearm.

The vambrace took his enemy in the face. Bone crumbled. He snapped the
puukko
into his hand and struck as he stepped in towards the spearman, the vicious edge grating on bone as he slashed it down the haft of the spear, trying to ward off a third attacker with his shield. . . .

“You didn't come!” the woman with the big rock screamed. “You left us!”

Whatever the hell that meant, she was entirely too close, raising the rock in both hands, and he couldn't dodge—not in time. Two of the cannibals were swarming over Eric, one grabbing his hair to pull his head back while the other hacked clumsily with a bread-knife . . .

Then the one with the rock looked down at the point of the sword that had appeared through her chest, dropped the big stone on her own head and collapsed forward.

Signe stood there instead, revealed like a window when the shade rattled up, leaning forward in a perfect stepping lunge, her eyes going wider and wider as she looked down at the results. Havel took a pace back and clubbed the cannibal about to stab Eric in the throat with the metal-shod edge of his shield; it clunked into the man's neck and dropped him limp on the rocky ground.

The other turned to run, and had just time to scream when he saw the line of blades coming up the ridge. One scream, before Eric's fist closed on his ankle and dragged him back towards the knife.

Havel took the time to draw three heaving breaths, straining to pull air that felt like heated vacuum into his lungs, then stepped forward to plant a foot and wrench his sword free of the body of the cannibal he'd killed.

“Thanks,” he said to Signe.

“You're—” She bit back a heave. “You're welcome.”

Relief was like a trickle of cool air under his gambeson. The A-list of the Bearkillers swarmed up onto the ridge as the cannibals fled.

Then they sheathed their swords and unlimbered their bows.

“You're late for the party,” he said to Will.

The Texan shot; a shriek of pain followed right on the heels of the bowstring's slap against his vambrace.

“But not for the cleanup chores,” Will said.

 

 

 

“Well, I think we can assume
he's
innocent,” Havel said.

The man lying in a cage of barbed wire stank; he was also skeletally thin, and his left foot was missing, crudely bandaged with the remnants of a T-shirt. Enormous brown eyes looked out of a stubbled hawk-nosed face. Havel mentally subtracted twenty years and put him in his thirties.

“I should
hope
so,” the prisoner croaked. “Do I
look
like I've been eating well?” He waved the stump. “I've been
contributing
to the pot. Aaron Rothman's the name.”

“Mike Havel,” Havel said. Then: “Get him out of there.”

Two of the Bearkillers went in with a stretcher. Pam knelt beside it and soaked the bandage with her canteen, edging up one end of it. When she saw what lay beneath she swore and reached into her bag for a hypodermic.

“You're a doctor too?” Rothman said. “As well as the Amazon thing?”

“Vet, actually,” Pam replied. “Too? You
are
a doctor? Medical variety?”

“GP,” he confirmed and weakly held up a hand. “That's the only reason they didn't kill me, dearie, when I wouldn't . . . join up.”

“Thank goodness,” she said. “I've got to pull you through, then. We
really
need a doc.”

The wounded man looked around at the mail-and-leather clad Bearkillers, and at Howie Reines and Running Horse standing in horrified silence as the grim work of cleanup went on.

“Oh, I was
so
hoping this was all over,” he sighed. “If only you'd come in helicopters!”

“It isn't over,” Havel said grimly, as Pamela cleaned and rebandaged the gruesome wound. Red streaks went from it up the wasted calf. “In fact, it's probably just starting.”

Rothman sighed. “It could be worse. I used to live in New York.”

Havel looked around; there were half a dozen living captives, huddled under the Bearkiller blades. And about the same number of liberated prisoners getting help, counting Rothman and the girl who'd been screaming when he arrived—she huddled in a patch of shade, a blanket clutched around her shoulders and her eyes squeezed shut. A couple of young children, too—as far as he was concerned they were
all
prisoners, no questions asked.

“So, any of these innocent too?” Havel said, going down on one knee and putting an arm behind the doctor's shoulders, lifting him to a better vantage point on the presumptive cannibals.

The weight was featherlight. Rothman fumbled at his breast pocket—he was in the remains of slacks and shirt with pocket protector—and brought out a pair of glasses. He peered through them, and smiled with cracked and bleeding lips. It wasn't a particularly pleasant expression, and Havel didn't blame him one bit.

“Not a one, barring the children,” he said. “And I'll testify to that in court.”

“That won't be necessary, Dr. Rothman,” Havel said, lowering him gently back to the stretcher. “Things have gotten a little more . . . informal, since the Change.”

He looked up. There was a cottonwood growing out of the cliffside, dead and bleached but still strong; a convenient limb stretched out about ten feet up.

“Will!” he called. The Texan looked up; Havel jerked a thumb at the limb. “Get some ropes ready, would you? Three at a time ought to do.”

 

 

 

“I can't! I'm sorry, so sorry!”

They were on a low hillside above the camp, which was the only way you could get any privacy. Havel drew his hands backward as Signe fumbled to re-fasten her clothes. His long fingers knotted on his knees in the cool sage-smelling darkness; herbs and long grass crackled under the blanket, adding a bruised spicy smell to the night.

“OK!” Havel said, turning his back a bit while zippers and snaps fastened. “Look, it's OK!”

No it isn't,
he thought, and his voice probably gave his words the lie.

“I'm sorry. I thought I could—look, let's try—”

Havel made his gesture gentle. “No, we just tried to rush it, Signe,” he said. “I know it isn't easy to get over the sort of thing you went through. Head on back to camp and tell them I'll be down in a while, why don't you?”

“Mike—”

“Signe, I said
head on down.
”

He waited until her footsteps had faded in the darkness before he drew his sword and looked at the twisted stump at the foot of the rock that blocked off the view to the west.

“Is it worth the risk to the blade?” he murmured. “Yes.” A pause for thought. “
Hell
yes.”

Then he spent twenty minutes of methodical ferocity hacking the hard sun-dried wood into matchstick splinters.

 

 

 

“You sure this is a good idea, Eddie?” Mack said, as they walked into the built-up area of Portland from the west.

“Look, who does the thinking here?” Eddie Liu replied.