Haven's Blight (10 page)

A hippo-size foot caught him in the side. The kick was in slow motion yet monstrously powerful. It threw him up out of the water and onto his back on wet grass and hard dirt.

He heard bellowing, screams, shots. Shaking his head to clear his eye of water, he saw an unbelievable sight: a man as tall as himself, with a trim waist, powerful chest, bare from the waist up, his skin and long flying hair as albino-white as Jak Lauren’s, swinging a pair of swords at a group of swampies while other men surged out of the wind-whipped brush, holding spears, cutlasses and longblasters.

Then a pale fist the size of his head slammed into Ryan’s solar plexus. It doubled him like a dying caterpillar. The air erupted out of him, and he passed out.

Chapter Twelve

Ryan became aware of the world again. More precisely he became aware of pain: a dull ache that throbbed constantly in what seemed like every molecule of his body.

A deeper pain throbbed in his heart and soul: Krysty!

He felt as if he were swaddled in wet blankets. He could force his eyelids open no more than a slit. It seemed he saw an angel sitting beside the place where he lay, hair gleaming as black as obsidian surrounded by a halo, oval face pale and perfect.

“You’re beautiful,” he dreamed he heard the apparition say. “Perhaps you bring hope.”

Fade to black.

Sometime later, it seemed to Ryan that he dreamed of a second presence. Through slits, filtered by his eyelashes, he seemed to see a feminine figure, more substantial-seeming than the first ethereal angel, yet still slim: sitting primly upright, with dark brown hair drawn up into a severe bun. As with the first, he could open his eyes no more, nor make out more detail.

“You are beautiful,” this apparition said, in a voice tinged with French accent. “Yet I fear you bring chaos and confusion.”

That seemed a harsh thing for an angel to say about Ryan Cawdor, and him defenseless and all. But before he could work up any kind of heat about it, he went black again.

“O
KAY
, R
YAN
,” a familiar voice said, “you’ve been doing your malingering act long enough. Time to rouse your lazy ass out of bed.”

“Fuck you, J.B.,” he said, stubbornly refusing to open his eye. “And the wag you rode in on.”

He heard a grumpy throat-clearing he quickly identified as belonging to Mildred Wyeth. “We have company here, Ryan,” the physician said.

“Or to put it with considerably more precision,” Doc said, “we are the company, in the presence of our most generous host and hostess.”

Ryan heard a growl from Mildred, followed by a snicker that could only spring from the slender throat of Jak Lauren. Well, he thought with a relief that spread through him like the warmth of a good bed in wintertime, my friends are okay.

And then an ice spear shot right through his bowels into his vitals. Krysty!

He found himself sitting bolt upright. The name of his beloved still echoed in his ears. He had cried it aloud without meaning to. It made him feel naked, vulnerable. They were two feelings he scarcely knew.

He didn’t want to get better acquainted.

Looking rather wildly around, he noted that he was in a small, neat room, with cream-colored paper pinstriped in green, and little pictures of old-time people riding on horseback with dogs on the walls. His eye chose to fix and focus on the first human shape it hit.

“Jak?” he said. “Why’re you dressed up like that?”

As he spoke he realized it wasn’t his companion. It was a young man with the same milk-white skin, the almost silver-sheened hair hanging to his shoulders, the ruby eyes. But he was obviously older, bulked out from Jak’s adolescent leanness. Possibly Jak would look like that when he was twice as old as he was now. But even sitting it was obvious Jak would never be as tall as this man. Nor could Ryan easily wrap his mind around the notion of Jak dressed like that, in a dark suit pinstriped pale lavender, with a spray of lace at the throat.

Ryan would’ve thought the man somewhat soft, sitting with one slim leg crossed over the other, if it wasn’t for the width of the shoulders in that fine silk coat, the air of controlled panther power the man gave off even sitting smilingly relaxed. And the fact that Ryan was sure he’d seen the albino wading hip-deep through storm waters and a pack of pissed-off swampies, swinging a pair of broadswords like they were willow withes.

“Guess we owe you a debt for saving us,” Ryan said. His voice rasped as if the box was a gate grown rusty from disuse and in need of a good oiling. “I’m Ryan Cawdor.”

“Your friends have apprised me,” the man said in a startling deep baritone voice. “You are welcome, as they are.

“And it seems we owe you a debt as well, Mr. Cawdor.”

His gaze tracked to the other side of the bed. There was a table, on which stood a porcelain water pitcher with water droplets condensed on its fluted white sides, and a vase of purple glass with a spray of lilac blooms. A second figure sat beside the table: a woman, with jet-black hair held back by a brooch from a pale face with a widow’s peak. The face was achingly beautiful, the eyes big, a striking dark violet, and haunting. She wore a black dress, simple yet elegant, which emphasized both the narrowness of her waist and the thrust of her bosom. An air of fragile sadness seemed to hang around her, though her smile was as beautiful as any he had ever seen.

Even Krysty’s. His gut spasmed again.

“What about Krysty?” he asked.

“She’s…alive,” the woman said. Her voice seemed somehow familiar, but he couldn’t place it. “Please, lie back down.”

He started to get out of bed. “Take me to her,” he insisted.

“Lie the hell back down, Ryan,” Mildred ordered. “Or we’ll tackle you and tie you down. Krysty’s condition is stable. She’s in some kind of coma. I’d be more precise if I knew what was going on with her. And there’s nothing more certain on this godforsaken Earth than that there is nothing you can do to help her.”

His head started to spin. He found himself lying back to save himself the indignity of collapsing.

The humid heat didn’t help. He felt sweat sliming his face and his bare upper torso. The lilacs didn’t mask the smells of vinegar and ammonia used to clean the room, and those smells failed to hide the odors of mildew and old sweat.

At least his other four friends were present and not looking too badly dinged or scraped.

“How long have I been out?” he asked. “What the nuking hell was wrong with me?”

“You were, to put it technical-like, all beat to shit,” J.B. said. “Please pardon my language, ma’am,” he added to the raven-haired woman, who nodded.

“You suffered massive bruises and contusions, as well as several sprains,” Mildred said to Ryan in her precise clinician’s voice. “You also got some cracked ribs.”

“They’re still barking at me,” he acknowledged ruefully. He still hurt all over, for a fact. But the pain from his left side was sharper and more insistent.

“The ville healer, Dr. Mercier, kept you sedated.”

“Say what? I’ve been drugged all this time?” Outraged, he started to sit up again.

“
Lie down,
” Mildred ordered.

“Dr. Mercier advised it on the grounds that you wouldn’t otherwise permit your body the rest it required to heal rapidly. Despite the fact she is primarily a researcher and not a clinician, I was forced to agree.”

“She read you like a bill of sale, Ryan,” J.B. said.

“Forgive me,” the albino man said. “I forget my manners. I am Tobias Blackwood, baron of Haven. This is my sister, Elizabeth.”

Ryan nodded.

“You and your friends have rendered a signal service both to my ville and to me personally,” Tobias Blackwood said. “We would be honored if you were to remain as guests for as long as you care to.”

“It’s on the level, Ryan,” J.B. said. “They’ve been treating us right.”

“Exceptionally well, in fact,” Doc said.

“Not bad,” Jak said.

“Young Master Lauren has been availing himself of the fine hunting in the woods outside the ville,” Tobias said. “A compensation for the terrors they too often conceal.”

Ryan chuckled, despite the stab in the side it cost from his cracked ribs. “Even if it’s full of muties and monsters, the biggest danger you’re likely to find in the woods is Jak.”

“If only that were so, my friend,” Blackwood said. “If only that were so.”

He uncrossed his legs and rose, as supple as a dancer. “If you will excuse us, my sister and I have matters to attend to before dinner. At which I trust you will join us?”

“He says yes,” Mildred said. Both the baron and Ryan looked at her in surprise.

She shrugged. “With Krysty down I’m taking over temporarily as Ryan’s keeper,” she said. “I’ll make sure he acts civilized.”

Ryan scowled. J.B. laughed again. “It’s what Krysty would want, Ryan,” the Armorer said. “And you know it.”

“Yeah,” Ryan grunted. Cautiously he sat up again, as Tobias walked around the bed and gave his arm to his sister. She seemed to need his help to rise from the chair. She bestowed another sunrise-bright smile and let her brother squire her out of the room, subtly leaning against him for support.

“What’s wrong with her?” Ryan asked when he was sure they were out of earshot. “She sick or something?”

“‘Or something,’” Mildred said. “She has some kind of condition that weakens her. It’s apparently come and gone since childhood. It seems to be in an especially debilitating phase now.”

He took in a deep breath. “So what the hell happened?”

“I think you already know the high points,” J.B. said. “The storm and the swampies were kickin’ our asses. Then the baron led some of his sec men to the rescue. I think you saw that part, even though you were guest of honor at a swampie-stompin’ party at the time.”

“What about our Tech-nomad pals?”

“The good baron informs us his people believe several of them got away,” Doc said.

“They ran out on us, you mean?” Ryan said.

“Well,” J.B. replied, dragging out the word, “that’s certainly one way of looking at it. Another’s that we woulda done the same.”

“Didn’t we?” Mildred said. “When the hammer came down, the Tech-nomads stuck by their own. And so did we.”

“In the event it made little difference,” Doc said. “We would have been overwhelmed regardless. We
were
overwhelmed, but for the timely arrival of Baron Blackwood and his people.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said. He’d lost interest in this discussion. He seldom had much patience with words. At least not when he itched with the urgency to see Krysty for himself, see how she really was. He felt the irrational conviction that because he knew her better than anybody he might know something that would bring her back from…wherever she was.

He struggled out of bed. Doc grabbed an arm to steady him with his surprisingly strong grip. Mildred, scowling with disapproval, took his other arm.

“Thanks,” he said, nodding. He just stood for the space of three deep breaths, getting used to having his legs under him again.

Then he nodded briskly and pulled away from his friends. “I’m okay now,” he said. “Take me to see Krysty.”

“Your funeral,” Mildred said.

“K
RYS
—”
HE
SAID
. His voice cracked like a dry stick in his own ears.

He had made it by himself, down the hallway to the room farthest from the stairs where Krysty lay alone on a bed. Once he saw her, he sagged against the door frame for support.

The others knew better than to try to help him.

In a moment he’d recovered his iron self-control and willed himself to stand upright again. No matter how much effort it cost him to resist the jelly-like weakness in his legs. Then he walked to her side and gazed down.

She looked beautiful. Not that that was anything unusual for her. In his experience it sure was unusual for someone suffering the effects of a serious dose of snake venom. Her cheeks were perhaps paler than usual, her breathing shallower as she lay on her back beneath a white coverlet with little purple flowers embroidered on it, and her hair spilling across the pillow like blood. Her eyes were closed. Her full lips were set as if in effort.

“What’s the matter with her?” he rasped. “This isn’t like any snakebite I’ve ever seen.”

“Me neither,” Mildred said. “You killed the snake that bit her. What kind would you say it was?”

“Water moc,” he said. “Sure as slow rad death.”

She shook her head. “Could you be mistaken?”

“Don’t think so. Then again I’m no snake expert. Why?”

“A water moccasin is a pit viper,” she said. “Like rattlesnakes. They produce predominantly proteolytic venom. That means it destroys proteins—makes cells, including red blood cells, explode, basically. It’s associated with severe initial pain and massive tissue damage.”

Ryan frowned at Krysty’s leg, hidden beneath the flower coverlet. The idea of that flawless ivory flesh corrupted and decayed tore at him like wolf teeth. But she was his life’s partner, he thought fiercely. No matter what.

“The baron’s men were able to extract some of the poison,” Mildred said. “They told me later—none of us in much better shape than you. We’d all been running on adrenaline too long, plus getting beat on by weather and bad guys. But she seemed to instantly lose consciousness when she was bitten. And she’s been this way since.”

“So what’s the bottom line?”

Mildred shrugged. “I’m no snake expert, but I’d say the symptoms more resemble neurotoxin-heavy venom. Which is characteristic of elapids.”

“Meaning what?”

“They are the other major kind of poisonous serpent,” Doc said. “As opposed to the vipers, among whom the water moccasins are numbered.”

“The ville actually has some antivenin,” Mildred said. “Mainly for cottonmouth bites. But Dr. Mercier refused to administer it because Krysty doesn’t show any of the usual viper-bite symptoms.”