March in Country (37 page)
Authors: EE Knight
“You got another fight on, buck,” his guard said.
On the way to the headquarters, they saw that festivities had spilled out in front of the headquarters, where a throng of Gray Ones and some men were gathered around parked vehicles.
“Hey, the roamin’ emporium’s set up already,” he said.
Valentine couldn’t believe they’d arrived so quickly. He’d figured it would be another few days at least.
They were parked there, bold as brass in a line of thick-wheeled trucks in the vehicle loading lot between headquarters and the motor pool. Valentine recognized two of the trailers from near Brostoff’s headquarters.
Frat rode on the hood of one, sitting cross-legged with yards of woven hair and necklaces of dog teeth and ear-reamers made out of shinbones. God knew where he accumulated the Grog trade goods, probably from some back room at Hobarth’s Truckstart and Trading Post.
“Name’s China Jack, they say,” the guard said. “Sergeant Major Quince knows him from Kansas City.”
Valentine wondered if this was some strange ability that went with Frat’s background as a Kurian agent. As far as these men were concerned, he was somebody they knew from way back.
“I met him south of Omaha. Got a great pair of boots,” the shotgun man said.
“Bought my kids a baseball and two gloves from him, couple years back, at Hannibal,” the rifleman put in. “He’s upgraded his vehicles since then. Used to be old truck frames pulled by horses.”
Bee rode shotgun in the first truck, Chieftain in the second. Chieftain had toned down his look a great deal, and wore some greasy mechanic’s overalls.
The third truck had ROOT BEER in giant black stencils on a white sheet. That had the largest crowd around it. Valentine almost smiled. The Baron’s headquarters was in for a wild night.
Already, the Gray Ones were lining up to buy.
They brought him to the atrium. A temporary wire cage had been set up, the sort of thing used to keep dogs in, about eight feet high.
The Baron looked down on it from a balcony.
Again, it was mostly Gray Ones on the main floor, though in the smaller atrium there was a good deal of shoving and standing on flower beds and other interior decor of the old church to get a view. Men and Gray One elders were ringing the balcony.
The Grogs were unusually agitated, pushing each other and snarling. Some were idly digging daggers into the woodwork.
Luckily there were few women in the Baron’s command. Valentine hoped Snake Arms wasn’t dancing in the moonlight tonight.
They turned down the lights and some brighter spots were focused on the white floor in the cage. Valentine was led in. He saw Bee outside the cage, looking at him, fighting off paws reaching for her. She snapped her teeth at the more aggressive suitors.
Snake Arms came into the cage and began to unlock his shackles with a key. They must have figured she wouldn’t kill him.
“We’ve arranged a special fight tonight,” the Baron said. He saw a commotion next to him, caught a flash of one of the Baron’s pet Reaper faces.
They threw a figure off the balcony. It pivoted neatly in fall, and landed on its feet.
Duvalier!
She had a bandage on her left hand and an ugly bruise on her chin, but otherwise looked healthy. Like Valentine, she was stripped to the waist. Unlike Valentine, she was armed, with a Kabar-style fighting knife.
“We caught one of Southern Command’s finest sneaking around the woods in civilian clothes,” the Baron said. “By rights, she can be shot as a spy. But we’ll give her a fighting chance against our champion, here. Only one of these two will leave the cage alive, tonight. The other’s head will go up on the ancient cross for Warmoon!”
“Sorry, Val,” Duvalier said. “Whaddya suppose they’ll do to us if we don’t fight.”
“That’s easy. You all three die. Snake Arms, too,” the Baron said.
Snake Arms flew to the cage’s door, but a chain closed it. “No, this isn’t part of the deal! I could be pregnant! You can’t—”
“We’ll fight, all right,” Valentine said. “Bee, tell the Gray Ones what I’m saying. Speak my words!”
Bee nodded. She swung up to the top of the cage, standing balanced at the joints with one arm bracing herself, like King Kong atop the Empire State Building.
Valentine smiled at the hubbub. The Gray Ones were putting their heads together and muttering.
“I’ll give you all a fight,” Valentine said. “I’ve mated with a woman under the Chief’s protection. I’m part of the Deathring Tribe now, and demand my rights.”
He patted Snake Arms on the belly. He had no idea if she might be pregnant, nor had enough time passed for her to have an inkling either, he suspected, but the Grogs understood the gesture.
“Don’t talk tribe to us, buck,” one of the Iowans said. “This is a military organization, not some Grog’s head hut.”
“To you, perhaps,” Valentine said. “I’m challenging the Chief’s leadership.” He switched to his poor Gray One dialect and repeated it. “Has he ever had to fight to win it or defend it?”
A few laughs broke out among the humans, but the Grogs began to go quiet. He spoke the words again, louder. Bee amplified them.
“When night stalkers come, does Chief protect? Does he give? Where are herds, where are wives? Deathring Tribe fight hard for no reward. Where are the wives?”
The excited Grogs digging their daggers into the woodwork and pawing at Bee looked up and began to bellow at the Gray Baron.
“You fucking idiot,” his dark assistant he called “Chuckles” said in his ear.
“Honor much. Weapons taken and kept,” the Baron said.
“Wives! Wives! Wives!” the Grogs chanted.
“Oh, screw that,” the Gray Baron said, reaching for his shoulder holster. He pulled his pistol and fired at Valentine.
Valentine needed every iota of his hair-trigger reflexes to throw himself sideways and down out of the path of the bullet.
A hail of plates, bones, and bottles rained on the Gray Baron and his officers.
One of the Chief’s clan had issued a challenge all could understand, and the Chief had neither pacified the malcontent nor met him in fair fight! No wonder his teeth had turned black and lies came from his mouth.
One of the Chief’s clan had issued a challenge all could understand, and the Chief had neither pacified the malcontent nor met him in fair fight! No wonder his teeth had turned black and lies came from his mouth.
The cage suddenly collapsed. Grogs pushed, prodded, and poked Valentine. It felt uncomfortably like the way he’d seen an old Wolf cook testing hung meat. Were they planning a mixed buffet barbecue?
A massive shape loomed over him, blotting out the light.
“Dvfud,” it mouthed.
Bee!
She reared up on her hind legs and shoved the Gray Ones apart. Valentine basked in the air and space that two muscular arms the length of a good road bike could provide.
Bee put her back to him and began to talk, loudly and quickly. To Valentine, Grog speech always sounded like old boards being pulled apart and melon-sized rocks being tossed into a pond.
Then Ahn-Kha was beside him. A hairy arm wrapped about his chest, took him carefully under the armpit, and lifted him clear of the mass of Grogs.
Valentine ignored Ahn-Kha’s rescue, mesmerized by the sight of Bee. Usually she remained quietly at heel, like a companionable older dog who simply enjoyed watching events rather than creating them. This new version of Bee might be mistaken for Snake Arms doing her dance. She talked with mouth, arms, fingers, and foot stomps, half dance and half speech.
“What’s Bee saying? Or is it just a protective display?”
“Her dialect is a little difficult to follow, my David, but in general, she’s saying that you put the moon in the sky. This is the first I’ve heard of you rescuing her from a circus.”
“I didn’t know warrior Grogs listened to females.”
“They do. Bee’s at a respectable age, where she becomes—the human word would be ‘Auntie.’ That is an important title.”
“Auntie Bee?” Valentine said. His head was swimming. “Why does that sound familiar?”
“You don’t speak much of your family. I am not sure. My David, did you intend for Gray Ones to come to Kentucky as well?”
“No, only your people.”
“Well, I don’t think Bee fully understands your plans. She is talking up the place in the manner of a—what is that title?—real estate salesman.”
Yips and hoots broke out among the Grogs.
“What excites them?”
“She’s talking about how many legworms there are, and that the humans are friendly and welcoming to Grogs.”
Valentine looked at the Gray Ones. They were spellbound. Or perhaps still under the influence of the Kurian aphrodisiacs. Bee had them riveted as she spoke to the ring, turning every moment or two on one vast forearm to face a different part of the audience.
The hundreds of Grogs broke out of their circle, forming groups, calling, pushing, pulling, and cajoling. Others loped off in a four-legged run to acquire friends and relatives for the scrum.
“I think a new Grog tribe is being formed, my David.”
“Would your people mind having them along, or does it mean interspecies warfare?”
“We look on the Gray Ones as rustics. Some we find charming and congenial, others—not so. As long as they are not high-handed. Some of the habits of the Gray Baron’s army will have to be changed.”
The camp was in chaos. Gray Ones were chasing the few available females. “Chuckles” was missing. Valentine hoped for her sake she’d made it out unmolested. But Gray Ones had been known to make do with human females and other livestock, when desperate ...
They’d patched up Valentine as best they could without a surgeon. He’d heal, if he could just eat and drink enough. He still felt light-headed, but he had to help bring order to the camp. The Golden Ones were freed, by Valentine’s word as new Stronghold Chieftain, and he’d promised Danger Close that once everyone who wanted to leave did, the headquarters would be his.
But first, he wanted to give the Baron the same chance he’d been given. Now it was his turn to feel the weight of shackles and uncertainty about the future.
“Okay, what happened?” the Baron asked. “How did you turn my army into a Spring Break party?”
Bee had told him that the threat to Snake Arms had also motivated them. She was strong juju, in charge of the spirits who’d died in the Baron’s service.
“The Root Beer,” Valentine said. “We dumped a case of Kurian aphrodisiacs in it. We weren’t sure of the pharmacological effects. By the books, by my beliefs, you’re my enemy. I don’t feel it in my guts, however. My gut tells me you’re a friend.”
“A friend?” the Gray Baron said. “Give me a knife, and I’ll spill your guts and have a look, see what the problem is.”
“I’ve taken a bullet from you. I wouldn’t want to return the experience.”
“One thing I know about the Kurians. They’re not a forgive-and-forget race. They’ll suck the life out of their own mother as soon as she reverts back to being a father, if the parent’s dumb enough to let them. I’ve sent as many of your forces in the field as I can get in touch with off to the west. It’s full spring now, and the Grogs in the Missouri Valley will be feeling their oats. How soon before they head north to make a warrior’s name for themselves?”
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