Doc Sidhe (29 page)

The drums blew with a shattering roar of anger. Doc saw a new column of light leap up into the sky, but this was fire, violently propelling warped and ruined metal drums into the air before it. Light and heat washed over him, knocking men down where they stood or ran, sending some of the cabinets tumbling down the hill.

The explosion blew Doc off his feet. He felt the hard earth of the hill slap his back, driving the wind out of him. There was no pain.

Burning wood and metal rained down around him. He lay where he'd fallen, all the strength gone from him, and impatiently waited to regain control of his limbs.

He'd promised lives. He had to take them . . . or the god would be angry with him. He groped around, found the butt of his gun, and opened his mind to the flood of greed for life and blood he could feel waiting beyond it.

Harris saw the bright light from beyond the cabinet ahead, heard the blow of the explosion. The wooden block leaned over toward him, toppled, and began bouncing end-over-end at him.

He rolled sideways, sliding down the slope, scraping cloth and flesh off elbows, knees, ribs. The cabinet smashed to pieces behind him.

The towering column of flame illuminated the hilltop, the slope, the treetops dozens of yards away. He saw three men—Jean-Pierre, Angus Powrie, and a skeletally thin man he did not recognize—grappling together, Jean-Pierre on Powrie's back, the redcap reaching around for him, the third man bound and caught up among them. They rolled out of sight over the crest of the hill further ahead.

The flash illuminated the lorries; Gaby and Joseph, out of sight between the rearmost two, looked up to see the gold-and-orange mushroom cloud climbing skyward.

"Oh, God."

"They'll be coming, Gabriela." Joseph turned to look toward the forest verge. "Be ready. Wherever you watch, I will watch the other way."

She didn't answer. She stared up at the flaming hilltop a long moment more, then worked the rifle's bolt to chamber a round. She propped the rifle on the lorry's fender and aimed up the hill.

Alastair stood behind one of the cabinets that remained stubbornly upright. He leaned out to the left, fired off a blind burst, then moved over to lean out right. This time he aimed, targeting a man whose back burned as he ran; a quick burst and that target was down, burning but unmoving.

"Beldon Royal Guard!" he shouted, a deep, commanding bellow unlike his true voice. "You're all prisoners of the Crown! First Unit, move up! Sixth Unit, move up!" He changed to a shrill tone: "Aye aye! Marksmen, target and fire at will!" Another voice, thick with the accent of Neckerdam: "Royals! Let's get out of here! Run—!" He punctuated his last shout by leaning and firing again, and cut off his own command with a scream of pain.

He had no more vocal ability than any man on the street, but maybe, may it please the gods, with bullets whistling, fires burning, and men screaming, the enemy would believe it all. He leaned out again and swept a burst across the silhouettes he saw moving before him.

Gaby saw the first two men running down the hill toward the trucks. She held her breath, aimed slow and sure as Jean-Pierre had taught her, put one man's chest in her sights, and squeezed the trigger.

The man's knee bent the wrong way when his weight came down on it. She heard his scream, saw him fall and roll a few yards, and suddenly she felt like puking into the grass.

Instead, she ejected the cartridge and chambered another one.

The second man continued down the hill. Him she missed; her bullet kicked up dirt a yard below him. He skidded to a halt, turned, and began racing back up the hill. His companion crawled slowly after him.

"Left," Joseph said. "Toward the roadway."

She shot the bolt, then aimed across the broad hood of the lorry and fired again.

Harris raced after Angus and Jean-Pierre, and was on them almost before he knew it.

Jean-Pierre lay in a pool of something white and revolting—his own vomit. The other man, old, thin, bespectacled, lay with his hands and feet bound; he stared imploringly at Harris.

Angus Powrie stood over the two of them. Blood ran down his left shoulder. He carried a double-barreled shotgun and pointed it at Jean-Pierre's face. His face, illuminated by fire from the hill, wore a smile so cold and hard Harris would have sworn it was cut from ice.

Harris skidded to a stop only half-a-dozen steps from them and took aim at Angus. "Drop it," he said. "Or I'll kill you." His words were punctuated by gunfire from the hilltop.

Angus didn't look at him. He continued to smile down at Jean-Pierre. "Smooth action on this trigger," he said. "Kill me, and the baby prince dies. Throw your own gun away and he won't."

Harris saw Jean-Pierre shaking his head. The prince was folded over like a piece of paper; Angus had to have hit him in the balls.

"I don't believe you," Harris said.

"Then he and I both die." Angus' gaze flicked up to Harris, then returned to Jean-Pierre. "Damned shame when it doesn't have to happen, boy. I can leave, he can leave, you can leave, we all meet later and kill each other. Or you can decide to be a hero and kill your friend."

Harris couldn't find it, the perfect solution. The only way everyone could be happy was if Angus was telling the truth . . . and if Harris did what he said. He could feel the eyes of the elderly man on him, too.

"I don't believe you."

Angus looked at him, though his gun remained aimed rock-steady at Jean-Pierre. His expression was solemn, open. "Son, I give you my word of honor. Throw your piece away and we all walk away from this."

Jean-Pierre shook his head and tried to get to his knees. He couldn't; he rocked in the pool of his vomit. His voice was a pained wheeze. "Don't. He has no honor. I'm dead, Harris. Kill him for me."

There was nothing but calm resolve in Angus' eyes.

Harris swore and tossed his gun down the hill. Jean-Pierre managed to get up to his knees.

"And the other one in your pocket. I'm not stupid, boy."

Harris complied.

Angus smiled, showing the points of his teeth. "But you are." He pulled both triggers.

The blast caught Jean-Pierre in the chest and face, blowing him over backwards.

Harris looked at his friend. Jean-Pierre's chest and half his head had been erased by a paintbrush dipped in dark, dark red. There was white noise, a scream of static, in Harris' head where his thoughts should be.

In slow motion, he turned to look at Angus Powrie.

The redcap was smiling at him. He had the shotgun broken open. He was pulling two new shells from his shirt pocket, moving them down to load them into the gun.

The static in Harris' head grew into a roar of hate. In slow motion, he forced his hand back to the holster over his kidney.

He got the pistol out, swung it in line, saw Angus' eyes widen with surprise.

He fired.

Darkness sprouted from Angus' gut.

He fired.

There was an explosion. The open shotgun went flying and Harris saw raw, red-black meat where Angus' left hand had been. Angus turned.

He fired. A dark circle appeared on Angus' back. Angus began running.

He fired. Angus lurched forward and rolled down the hill, arms and legs flailing. Then the redcap was up at the base of the hill and running toward the safety of the trees.

He fired.

He fired.

His gun began clicking, the noise of failure. Angus disappeared among the trees.

Harris looked at Jean-Pierre. The prince's one remaining eye was turned skyward.

And the white noise filling Harris' mind found expression in his voice, a roar of pain that stripped his throat raw.

Alastair saw motion in his peripheral vision. He dropped, aiming left as he fell, and fired. The burst caught the gangster in mid-aim. The man fell, a surprised look on his face. Alastair switched to single-shot and put a bullet between the man's eyes to make sure of him.

There was a thump from behind. He spun around.

A headless man stood there, arterial blood pumping up from his neck. His head was rolling away down the hill. He fell, revealing Noriko crouched behind. She held her blade in her right hand and an automatic pistol, doubtless picked up from one of the men, in her left.

Alastair nodded his thanks. He switched back on full auto, then scrambled around the left side of his cabinet.

A silhouette appeared before him, moving across his line of vision. Alastair aimed, then swung his barrel up as the firelight revealed the man's white, white hair.

It was Doc . . . and it wasn't. Alastair watched as his friend aimed without looking and put a bullet into the brain of a man directly behind him. Doc's arm swung around and the gun fired again, taking down a sniper Alastair hadn't even seen, but Doc never looked at the man he killed.

His face in the firelight was smiling, serene, perfect. His eyes did not blink.

Alastair shuddered. Doc was with the gods of blood and fire now.

Men ran down the hill. Gaby counted six of them. Two tripped, one after another, and rolled a good thirty yards. One got up and began limping; the other lay still.

She shot the one who ran toward the trucks. He, too, fell and did not move. She felt the knot in her stomach tighten again.

The other men were headed toward the trees. They waved and shouted at the men coming out of the forest, directing them to run.

There were two more gunshots from the top of the hill, then silence. Cabinets continued to burn. Gaby watched the last of the men move, reach the trees and disappear.

Joseph waited beside her. "It is a bad thing to be clumsy," he said. "I feel I have not helped much. Perhaps I should go up and see what has happened."

"Okay."

"Will you be—"

"Just go, dammit."

He began his long, lumbering walk up the hill.

They descended the hill toward her in a slow, single line.

Joseph carried Doc like a baby. She could see Doc jerk and twitch.

Alastair was next. He was talking to Jean-Pierre. But as they got closer Gaby realized that the thin man wasn't Jean-Pierre, but an older gentleman with glasses.

Harris came next. He staggered under the weight of the tarpaulin-wrapped mass he carried, but his face was fixed, his eyes unseeing.

Noriko brought up the rear. She wouldn't look up.

Gaby tried to make sense of it as Joseph reached the trucks. Where was Jean-Pierre? Then she saw the expression on Harris' face, on the faces of the others, and she knew. Her vision blurred under tears.

The old man, handsome in spite of his leanness, animated in spite of his grimness, was talking. "I'm sorry about your friend. I know his family. Fine people. We can't wait."

"One bell of our time is so precious?" Alastair asked, anger in his voice. "One bell?"

"A bell might be death for us all."

They passed Gaby. Alastair got to the rear of the truck and lowered the tailgate. Joseph set Doc down in the truck bed.

Harris didn't look at Gaby as he passed. He walked to the back and gently placed his precious cargo down beside Doc.

Alastair said, "Joseph, can you drive this?"

"I can."

"Drive. Back to the airfield. Forget about the other car." Alastair swung up into the rear of the truck. Harris and Noriko followed suit and lifted the tailgate.

Gaby, numb, got into the passenger side of the cab. Joseph was already in the driver's seat. "What happened?" she asked.

He told her.

Alastair inserted the hypodermic into Doc's vein and drove the plunger home. He withdrew the needle and set it aside.

Doc gave one final twitch, then heaved a sigh and relaxed. His eyes closed. His breathing slowed and became more regular.

Alastair silently cursed the gods that had brought him here.

With the forests of Cretanis disappearing behind them, one of their number, a good friend, was dead. One had left his mind in the land of the gods and was now drugged into a stupor. The rest were numbed by grief. And if what their new ally had hinted at was true, they needed more strength for what lay ahead.

He drew shut the drapes over Doc's bunk on the
Frog Prince
and went forward. Turbulence made the footing unsteady.

The others were arrayed in the lounge—except for Noriko, who flew the plane on its westward course, and Jean-Pierre, whose body now lay in the cargo compartment under most of the ice from the galley.

Someone had thoughtfully set out Jean-Pierre's decanters of spirits and several glasses, most of which were now in use. Alastair took a clean one, poured it full of uisge, and sat down to glare at Caster Roundcap. "Now," he said. "Your story."

The solemn old man cleared his throat and, in a clear voice and lilting accent, began.

"Forty years ago, I met a man. His name was Theo MacAllister. An odd-looking fellow; he was bald. I asked him if it was from an accident and he said no, just a characteristic of his family. And he'd laugh as though it were a grim joke.

"He was an inventor. He made a pocket knife with a can-opener as one of the blades. Earned a fortune from it and some other devices. And he was a prophet."

Alastair stirred. "What did he prophesy?"

"He predicted the Colonial War between Castilia and the League of Ardree, a year before the first sign of trouble. He predicted the World Crisis decades before anyone else.

"And the most interesting thing was this: He was completely immune to iron poisoning." The old man waited for some show of surprise from the others; he saw none. That seemed to satisfy him. He nodded, patted down his pockets, and brought out a pipe and a pouch full of tobacco.

"Anyway . . . He was prone to fits of loneliness. One time when he was in his cups I helped him home. He told me where he was from. The grim world. Of course I did not believe him. I didn't believe there
was
a grim world, much less that he was one of her sons. But he was able to convince me. Such conviction in his stories, such truth in his predictions.