James Axler - Death Hunt

“Okay, you win,” he said softly, raising his arm and gesturing.

From their concealment, the companions came forth, until it seemed that Jak, Krysty, Mildred, Doc and J.B. had joined Ryan in forming a circle around the baron. All of them were careful to keep their arms by their sides, hands free of weapons.

Ethan studied them. “That all?” he queried. Ryan nodded and the baron gave a low whistle. “Now that’s what I call interesting damage you caused out here,” he added almost to himself. Then, seeming to remember where he was and what he was supposed to be doing, he whistled again—this time sharper and harder, the sound piercing the forest.

The foliage began to rustle and ripple as though it were alive with movement. Through the blanket of cover emerged a dozen riders, all clad similarly to their baron. The horses were a mix of squat pony stock and sleeker beasts. Similarly, the compose of the sec party itself was a mix. Short and tall, fat and thin, black, white and all shades between. Whatever kind of a ville Pleasantville may be, it certainly had no problem with ideas of physical difference.

It crossed Mildred’s mind that the Pilatu could have done with such an example. But then she remembered that Dean had been with them then and experienced a sense of loss she hadn’t felt for a long while. What, she wondered, must Ryan be feeling?

The riders surrounded the companions so that Ethan now sat in the middle of two rings: the inner a possible threat, the outer his protection. In truth, the clearing wasn’t large enough to accommodate all the horses and people that were now gathered there, and the companions could quite literally feel the breath of the horses down their necks as the animals jostled, the smell of death unsettling the beasts.

“This really all of them?” Ethan asked his men. Ryan knew that the one who answered would be the second in command. He made a mental note of who that sec chief may be. He was a hook-nosed, craggy man, with long dreadlocks down his back. He looked to be part white, part black and part Native American. But all mean…He had the still, calm air of a born mercie who would have no problem chilling everyone in the clearing—friend or foe—without a second thought.

The man shook his head. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, ain’t no others. They’re good, give ’em that.”

“Some are a whole lot better than others, if y’ask me,” another rider said lasciviously. He was a squat, fat man with one clouded eye and scars across his forehead. He smiled, but looked about as far from the idea of a jolly fat guy as it was possible to get. He nudged the side of his mount with his heel and the horse’s head came down, pushing at Krysty’s shoulder. “I’m betting this one could be real good, y’know what I’m saying?”

It wasn’t just the words, it was the way that they were used. There was something in his tone that couldn’t be ignored. Krysty focused on this and forgot that they were surrounded and outnumbered by a hostile group.

“Watch what you’re doing, fat boy,” she growled, stepping to one side.

“Whoo-hoo. What do we have here?” he jeered. “She’s a real feisty one, ain’t she?”

“Cut it out, Jonno,” the sec chief said wearily. But there was no real authority in his tone. It was something he was saying for the sake of it, not because he meant it.

“C’mon, Horse, it’s just a little fun,” the fat man whined before leering at Krysty. “Could be a whole lot more fun, though…”

Krysty backed away from the horse, her body tensing. Her Titian mane had closed around her neck and shoulders protectively, signaling her sense that she was in some kind of danger.

The companions tensed with her. They knew that they were hopelessly outnumbered, but they would always defend one of their own.

Ryan kept his eye fixed on Ethan. The baron was watching the developments with interest. The one-eyed man guessed that he was using this situation as a yardstick for how they would react, how stupe or smart they would be. Imperceptibly, Ryan signaled to the others to stay. They were watching him for a lead, and although they had the desire to fight, they knew that he was playing the odds.

The sec chief—Horse—sighed heavily. “Jonno, cut it out. Do I have to give you more bastard scars than you already got?”

“Shit, you big-haired fucker, it’s only some fun. Right, Baron?” the fat man asked, looking across at Ethan. The baron stayed impassive, which the fat man took as a sign of assent. “Yeah, only some fun,” he added, almost to himself. He leaned forward over the front of the horse and reached out for Krysty. “Just a little fun, honey. Now you-all ain’t gonna do anything with all your friends here about to get chilled if they get in the way, are you?”

He reached out and looped his fingers in her hair, trying to tug her toward him. The strength of the prehensile mane surprised him and a flicker of a frown crossed his face. He allowed it to pass, paused until he thought he had the measure of her strength, and then tried to pull her to him.

At first Krysty held back, making him tug harder, sit farther forward on his saddle. Then she acquiesced, moving a few steps closer and letting him believe that he had the upper hand.

It worked. He was still seated forward on the saddle and was complacent. He would offer little in the way of resistance.

Timing her actions, she waited until he was at the optimum point, then stepped back suddenly, wrenching her head, straining her neck muscles and feeling the hair tug on her scalp. The sentient tresses had encircled his hand to hold it in a viselike grip. It wasn’t something she could do consciously, but as a result of the fear and adrenaline that coursed through her body. She felt a searing pain as her neck muscles protested. Her hair, protective of her body and strength, let loose of the fat man’s hand.

It was enough. His balance completely thrown, he fell forward with a startled yelp, crashing onto the ground at her feet, landing heavily on a dead stickie. The yelp turned into a yell of disgust as he struggled to his feet, eyes blazing.

The mounted riders reached for their weapons, but a gesture from Horse stopped them. The sec chief could see that the baron was studying this with interest. Likewise, Ryan stayed his people. Krysty would have to deal with this on her own and he had no doubts about her capabilities.

The fat man was facing her. She backed off him to give herself more room to maneuver. He took this as a sign of weakness and a savage grin crossed his features.

“You won’t be so pretty—or so keen to fight back—when I’ve finished with you,” he snarled, pulling a long-bladed hunting knife from beneath the layers of skins and furs.

Krysty allowed herself the smallest of grins. He was telegraphing his intentions far too much, and taking him out would be easier than she thought. A fact that became obvious as he lunged at her with all the finesse of a runaway rhino—except that he had none of the danger. She moved aside to allow his arm to thrust past her harmlessly, then caught him at the elbow, snapping his arm backward and at the same time kicking back with the heel of one silver-tipped cowboy boot so that it cracked into his shin and raked down, splitting the cloth and flesh and hammering into the bone.

The fat man howled in pain and toppled over. Krysty took the knife from his hand and dug one knee in the middle of his back, pinning him to the ground. She pulled his head up by his hair with one hand and held the blade of the knife against his throat.

“One good reason,” she whispered. “Just one…”

The click of blasters being drawn and beaded answered her. The riders had been still long enough and now their weapons were trained on her. Horse held his hand aloft to stop them firing.