Brimstone and Lily (Legacy Stone Adventures) (22 page)

Tyrell had four shots left, by my count, and so did I. Our enemy still had around fifteen men to throw at us, if they had the stomach for it. Maybe they didn’t. The cellar door banged shut and for a few moments we sat in silence, ears ringing. Whispers and scratchings above told us that our foes hadn’t chosen to retreat yet.

“I guess five was enough to lose,” mused Tyrell. He turned to rummage in a pouch on his saddle. “Time to reload. If they try again it’ll be with something different.”

Truer words had never been spoken. While his back was to the door it snapped halfway open. Something round and heavy bounced down the steps, sparks spitting out behind it. They’d tossed a shell at us! Before I could think of what I was doing I’d shoved Tyrell face-down into the filthy floor and kept him there with my foot. Ignoring his outraged grunt of surprise, I squared off to the shell, tin cup swinging at it as it bounced one last time, clearing the barrier. By the time I made contact with it Morphageus had answered my wish. A silvery cricket bat swatted the cannonball back at the door, flying through the diminishing opening as the renegades tried to close it.

The instant the door shut a sharp crack split it down the middle. Screams of pain and fear, muffled by the damaged door, told us that somebody—several somebodies—had been hoisted with their own petard. Stinging smoke snaked through the cracked door. Our odds had improved some more. Maybe now they’d decide to cut their losses and go bother somebody else.

“What happened?” asked Tyrell, dusting himself off and looking up at the demolished door.

“They threw a shell, sir,” said Romulus, eyeing my bat in warning. I shrank it back into a cup before Tyrell could think to look my way. “Miss Mary shove you aside and throw it right back at ‘em. How ‘bout dat?”

Giving me a long, hard look, one eyebrow up, the Reb said, “Well, Miss Williams, there’s more sand in you than I first judged to be the case. Well done. But perhaps you should leave the real fighting to the men, hmm?”

It took a lot of effort to not roll my eyes at that, my experiences of the last couple of days being what they were. But blurting out something like ‘When was the last time
you
battled poison-spitting demons, Mr. Smarty-pants?’ wasn’t going to help our cause any. Besides, right then another shift in our fortunes drew my attention. While we’d been focused on repelling the assaults down the stairs, our enemies had been flanking us. A hole appeared in the ceiling with a tremendous screeching of nails.

“They pryin’ up the flo’!” Romulus hollered, launching himself behind us to where a filthy hand waved a Colt revolver in our direction. The saber snapped out at it. Just as the gun fired the hand, still clutching the weapon, flew into a corner of the cellar. Its owner yowled and fell back from the hole. Somebody else jammed a Springfield musket barrel in his place, only to jerk away when he felt the sword’s point in his face. I hoped they were out of cannon shells or our brave defense would have a sudden end.

“Lunacy!” Tyrell shouted, aiming up at the opening. “This makes no sense. Why do they want us so much? What do they think we have?”

Before he could take that thought far enough to start asking direct embarrassing questions of me, the door crashed open again and more renegades fired muskets at us. They missed as we hurled ourselves against the walls, but that just gave those above their chance. More boards wrenched free and three screaming men dropped amongst us.

Tyrell shouted for Romulus to deal with the falling attackers. I dove for the room’s opposite corner as my Marshal bodyguard took the head from the nearest foe. It bounced into my lap, blood splattering my face. Kicking it away, I lost my meager dinner beneath the pickle jars with a sour belly-lurch. The captain’s pistol roared four times. From the pained sounds that resulted it must have hit as many targets. Then I heard the hammer hit nothing. Reinforcements skidding down the oil-stairs shouted with malicious glee.
Oh-oh.

Another of the enemies from above went down, smashed into a wall by Romulus. That left one more, but another pair dropped down to his aid. All were armed with Bowie knives or hatchets. A ferocious four-way fight commenced, almost too fast for me to follow. Romulus snapped the knee of one man with a vicious whip of the scabbard, then used the shrieking fellow as a shield while he fought the other three. Blades gleamed in the weak lamplight from thrusts parried and cuts dodged. No one spoke taunting words like you read in novels. They only grunted from their efforts.

At the base of the stairs Tyrell defended himself with the old pitchfork against two attackers with bayonets, their muskets empty. His new weapon missed a tine and over a foot of its handle, but was serviceable. The Legion fighters weren’t used to close-quarter bayonet work and kept interfering with one another, to the Reb’s advantage. He managed to grab the barrel of one musket. When its owner tried to jerk it back, Tyrell pushed as hard as he could. The unexpected shove, added to the enemy’s own force, jabbed the musket’s butt into his belly. He sat down with an
oof.
Tyrell tried to take the gun from his stunned hands, but just then the other man lunged at him and he had to leap away.

While the vicious fighting continued I tried to think what I could do. Scurrying farther back into my corner was the first tactic I came up with. I bumped hard into the pickle rack. Luckily, none of the jars fell on my head. In fact, they didn’t budge an inch. One of Romulus’ opponents flew past me, his arm opened to the bone by the saber. More legs appeared in the ceiling hole and in the upstairs doorway. We were about to be overwhelmed. I gripped my pepperbox harder and thought about how best to use it, much as I didn’t want to shoot a man. Its legendary inaccuracy would make it as dangerous to friend as to foe.

That was when it registered that the pickle jars should have moved…at least a little.

I peered hard at the rack they stood on, then wiggled it.
Hmmm.
All of the jars were pinned to their shelves with angled nails at the base and copper wire at the top. My fingers traced up the side of the rack, feeling behind it.
Ah, a latch! I thought so.
With a quick jerk I freed the catch. The whole rack swung open on a well-oiled hinge on the far side. I peered in with my magicked eyes. A tunnel. An honest-to-goodness tunnel. I could see food stores and smell fresh air.
So that’s why the locals hated you folks so much. I bet this used to be an Underground Railroad station.Good for you, whoever you were. You’ve just saved our bacon.

“Hold!” a deep harsh voice hollered. I turned my head to see who it was. At the top of the stairs stood the leader of the men I’d bested earlier, during the first assault. His face was unexceptional, but scarred and cruel. The oil lamp swung back-and-forth from being bumped during the fighting, making his features even eerier. He wore a Union general’s hat, a Confederate artillery major’s shell jacket, and heavy civilian pants like I’d seen on teamsters. At his rough command the renegades ceased fighting. They had us all dead to rights anyway. Muskets poked through the doorway and through the ceiling gap. Our brave defense had failed.

No one looked my way yet. I closed the secret door until it just about latched again. A quick yank would open it. Romulus lowered his sword and Tyrell dropped his makeshift weapon. His pistol pointed straight at the leader’s face. The man didn’t blink. In fact, he grinned. It wasn’t one of those happy grins, though. More like the ones boys at school make just before they dip your pigtails in an inkwell.

“Nice try, but we all heard your hammer hit air. Drop it, if you please.”

With a shrug the captain gave him a little ‘Oh, well’ smile and tossed the Lemat away, about three feet in front of me. Romulus did the same with the cavalryman’s saber.
Now. Do it now.
I jumped up and ran to Tyrell, hugging him tight from behind and whimpering.

“Mister! Mister!” I blubbered, “whatever will happen to us now?”

His eyes grew wide for a split-second as he stared at me. I tried to send him a message with my own eyes, but couldn’t be sure it’d worked. He ducked under the swinging lamp, which nearly thunked him in the head.

“Mind the lamp, sir,” I added with a wink.
Think, Tyrell, think.

His mouth twitched as if holding back a smile. His hand squeezed mine, then his face grew nasty. “Stupid brat! What do you mean ‘us’? Look at the trouble you’ve got me into!” He shoved me away from him.

Right onto the Lemat. I rolled hard as if he’d pushed me with great force, which he hadn’t. I ended up by the pickle rack, Tyrell’s gun beneath my jacket. I howled in feigned misery. Romulus moved like he’d step to my aid, but I stopped him with a waggled finger. Then I looked at Tyrell. I read it in his eyes. He’d seen me take the gun. I just hoped he knew what happened next.

“Trouble!” said the enemy leader, not moving from his high vantage point. “Trouble’s right. I’ve lost better than half my force because of you. Bested by a Reb, a darky, and a little girl. Good thing the reward’s worth it.”

Tyrell frowned. “Reward? For me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, grayback. Fer her.” He nodded toward me. “Somebody wants that kid real bad. And they’re payin’ a chest of gold to whoever gets her.”

Oops…now I knew why they’d fought so hard to get to us. Should’ve known this was no accident. The Merchantry sure had a long arm.

Tyrell gave him a shrewd eye. “And my people will pay just as much to get me back in one piece.”

His people? Who were his people, I wondered. His rich family in Williamsburg? The Confederate government? Or somebody else?

The Legion commander laughed like an executioner who’d been offered a penny to just forget the whole thing. “Oh, I hardly think so. Any other time I might oblige you, but I’ve lost too many men. The boys here are itchin’ for a bit o’ retribution. Though fer you I might make it quick, fer a consideration. Call it professional courtesy.” He glared at Romulus. “Afraid this buck ain’t gonna get off so easy. Darky that size’ll make fer fine sport in the woods. We’ll hunt him like a bear the rest o’ the night. Might wear his skin fer a while. That’ll make an impression at our next raid.”

Everyone except Romulus thought that was mighty funny. While all of them laughed and pointed at him, I took advantage of their eyes being elsewhere. I stood, reached under my jacket, and pulled out the pistol. It felt heavy as an anvil in my little hands.

“No!” I barked, aiming the gun at the leader. “You won’t!”

Dead silence fell on the whole group. You could’ve cut it with the proverbial knife. Then it roared back into life again.

“Kid, you should leave fightin’ to the professionals,” the hard man at the top of the stairs warned me, wiping away a tear of mirth. “There ain’t no bullets in that gun.”

I pulled the trigger for effect, knowing that nothing would happen. The loud click sent them all off into giggles again, but it also served to distract them while I thumb-flipped a lever on the hammer to its lower position and cocked it again. The Hellfiend Legion was about to get a lesson in Rebel weaponry…and in overconfidence.

“And y’all should pay more attention to Confederate pistol design.” Tyrell inched backwards, knowing what was coming. “This here’s a LeMat revolver. Clever-designed pistol, it is. See, this here gun revolves around a tube, instead of a pin like you have on a Colt. And that tube happens to be, in this instance, a 16-guage shotgun barrel.”

With that I pulled the trigger. The kick nearly knocked me off my feet. The explosion of 00 buckshot made my sensitive ears ring. I hit my target dead center…not the man who’d taunted me, but the blazing oil lamp hanging just above the last stair. Flaming oil splashed onto the steps, setting the oil we’d spread on them alight. Fire swooshed up, along with black smoke. White gun smoke also filled the cellar. Together it all blinded and panicked the renegades. That was all the help we needed. Romulus dove for the saber, rolling up to a knee with it. He pushed me toward the pickle rack and began swinging the heavy blade at enemy shins. Men swore and howled. Guns fell to the floor.

While I yanked open the secret tunnel door, Tyrell whipped out the pepperbox, which I’d jammed into his waistband when I’d hugged him in pretended distress. One shot snapped out at the ceiling hole, hitting a musketman. The weapon dropped amongst the mass in the center of the room. His next shot searched for the leader, but he’d already dashed out the door and vanished upstairs. Both remaining bullets dropped men who’d recovered their wits and were aiming at me.
Thanks, Cap’n!
Pocketing the little gun and snatching the Lemat out of my hand, Tyrell kicked a renegade onto the blazing stairs, tapped Romulus on the shoulder, and followed me into the tunnel. The Marshal grabbed two of the spare bottles of oil and hurled them onto the steps. A wall of fire shot up, engulfing two more renegades. Screams split the hot air as all our enemies rushed for the ceiling hole, begging to be pulled up by their comrades. Flames swirled onto the walls and rafters. I choked on all the smoke. Soon the whole house would go up. We had to move, and quick.

An instant later we were on the other side of the pickle rack, securing three heavy bolts and catching our breaths. I wanted to hoot and holler about whupping up on the entire Hellfiend Legion, but remembered that I was supposed to be a frail Southern blossom and settled for crying instead. While playing my role I still managed to scout things with my Stone senses. Fresh cool air told me that an exit lay ahead, but quite a ways off. Tyrell led us toward it, putting as rapid distance between us and the burning house as he could while feeling his way in the total darkness. I pretended to be as blind, though to my eyes the tunnel looked about as bright as dusk on a summer evening.

Smoke had already begun to seep into the tunnel, which looked to be a good quarter-mile long. We seemed to be moving west and north, though it was hard to tell being underground. I hoped that the Legion didn’t know about the tunnel, or we might be blundering into a trap. Tyrell anticipated my worry.