The Cyber Chronicles Book II: Death Zone (13 page)

"I don't know
why you offered to do this. What if something happens to you?"

Sabre raised a
brow. "Nothing will happen to me. I think I explained that once, in
a fit of anger. This time you definitely aren't coming with me,
either. It'll get me out of the way for a few days while you have
your rest here with your new friends. I offered to do it because
men who do things like that should be punished, and the only way to
ensure they don't do it again is to kill them."

"I thought you
didn't like killing?"

"I don't. I'm
not doing this for the fun of it, but in the interest of justice.
There's no law around here, that's why these men can rape and kill.
Death is a common punishment for murderers on many civilised
worlds. It might also teach these women that all men aren't bad,
and perhaps in time they'll change their ways. They'd be better off
if they had men to protect them. Right now they're easy prey, and
it's created a cycle of victimisation and hatred."

Her eyes met
his before she looked away. "But what if something does happen to
you? What about me?"

Sabre smiled.
"I'm touched by your concern. Stop being so pessimistic. You're
safe here; the Andarons will take care of you."

"I can take
care of myself!"

"Sure you can,
and so can I."

Tassin snorted
and re-entered the hut, slamming the door. When he was ready to
leave, Sabre knocked and informed her of his departure, but only
received a hostile grunt in reply. Slinging his pack over his
shoulder, he set off through the village in an easterly direction,
which took him across most of it. The women paused in their work to
watch him pass with unfriendly eyes. He thought he glimpsed Mishra
watching from a doorway, but did not turn his head to look.

Beyond the
village, he increased his pace to a jog trot, which ate up the
miles without tiring him. The men's tribe might be two days walk
away, but he intended to cover the distance a lot quicker. The
cyber flashed a warning light in his brain, indicating its dislike
for him leaving Tassin, but, since she was in no immediate danger,
it seemed to accept his decision.

At midday on
the second day, the cyber's scanners picked up a profusion of human
life signs ahead, indicating that he had found the men's village.
It proved to be a larger version of the Andarons', but more
disorganised and dirty; a sprawling collection of huts, shacks and
skin tents bordering muddy roads. Five giant trees had been felled
to create a grazing area for cattle and horses.

Many of the
buildings were clustered around the bases of trees, using the
massive trunks as walls. Ladders hung from the branches, and shacks
were built on platforms spanning the huge limbs. People thronged
the streets and scrawny dogs ran amongst them, yapping. Hammering
issued from a blacksmith's, and he glanced in at a muscular man
beating out a sword blade.

Weapons were
his main product, judging by the number in the racks around the
walls. A few women hurried by, laden with water or wood, and
slatterns lounged in doorways calling raucous invitations to
passers-by, eliciting equally coarse replies. Not many children
were in evidence, and men outnumbered the women two or three to
one. Quite a number of thin, dark-haired teenage boys hung around
in frowning gangs, swaggering and sniggering, which solved the
mystery of the fate of the Andarons' sons.

Sabre selected
one of the five names at random and approached a whore, deciding
that they would know most of the men in town. The thin,
brown-haired girl, garbed in a tattered wool dress, smiled
gap-toothed at him, offering her wares. Sabre glimpsed bruises on
her pale flesh before he looked away.

"I'm looking
for a man named Belom. Do you know him?"

"Sure do,
honey, but it'll cost you."

He shook his
head. "I have no money."

"What do you
want with him?"

Sabre
hesitated, gauging her loyalty to the village men, which, judging
by her battered appearance, would not be an issue. "I'm going to
kill him."

The harlot
smiled again. "Are you now? In that case, you'll find him at the
wood mill, that's where he works."

"Thank
you."

Evidently
Belom was not popular with the ladies, which spoke volumes about
his treatment of them. Sabre followed the sounds of chopping,
sawing and hammering that came from the edge of the village, and
wandered into the hive of activity that was clearly the village's
main source of income. The men dismembered one of the huge trees
that had been felled to make the grazing land, the seasoned wood as
black and shiny as polished ebony. They sawed the iron-hard wood
into planks, which were piled into stacks awaiting transport. He
collared a passing woodcutter.

"I'm looking
for Belom."

The woodcutter
pointed at two men sawing a plank, and Sabre strolled over to them.
From the amount of progress they were making, it would take days to
cut one plank, but they showed no sign of impatience. Their log
spanned a high scaffold, and one man stood atop it, the other
beneath. Between them stretched a shiny, well-oiled saw, which the
man on top pulled up and the other pulled down, locked into a
perfect rhythm, which, if disturbed, could snap the blade. They
stopped and looked around at his arrival.

"No work here,
buddy," the one on top said.

"I'm looking
for Belom."

The second
man, a brawny fellow with a thatch of black hair and a flattened
nose, released the saw handle. "Who're you, and what do you want
with me?"

Sabre glanced
at his companion. "Can we speak in private?"

Belom nodded
and walked away, leaving his partner to mop his brow and sip water
from a pottery jug. As soon as they were out of earshot, Belom
turned, but Sabre shook his head.

"Let's walk in
the forest a bit."

Belom followed
him into the trees, and when they were out of sight of the wood
mill, Sabre stopped.

"This is far
enough."

Belom leant
against a tree. "So, what's the deal?"

"Do you
remember assaulting two Andaron girls?"

The big man
smiled. "Yeah, we 'ad fun with them. Boy, they didn't half fight,
too!"

"Five men
against two girls."

"They were
Andarons, an' one of 'em still escaped."

"What happened
to the other one?" Sabre enquired.

"She died,
silly bitch."

"How?"

Belom
shrugged. "I dunno. Someone must 'ave thumped 'er too 'ard. Why do
you want to know?"

Sabre tensed.
"I have a message for you from the one who lived."

"Do yer now?"
He grinned. "Does she want another go around then?"

"She wants
your head, and I intend to give it to her."

Belom's jaw
dropped, then he bellowed and swung a fist. Sabre ducked and
retaliated, not holding back this time. His fist hit the side of
the man's head with a dull crunch, killing him instantly. Sabre
stared down at the crumpled corpse, his gut knotted with revulsion.
For him, killing was too easy, and doing it of his own volition, no
matter how justified, only served to remind him of what he was;
something he longed to forget. He used Belom's hunting knife to
sever the corpse's head, and wrapped his grisly trophy in the dead
man's shirt. Adding it to his pack, he tucked the knife into his
harness and returned to the village to find his second target.

Sabre made
sure that each man confessed to the crime without remorse before
killing them. By sundown, he had five heads in his pack, which he
hid in the forest between executions, and a sickness in the pit of
his stomach, partly from killing the men and partly from the
details he learnt about the crime. Although they deserved to die,
he was glad when the last one was despatched with a quick neck
twist. On many civilised planets, they would have been executed for
murder, but he did not like being an executioner. He used the dead
men's money to buy a meal before he set off for the Andaron
village.

Tassin
reclined in her hut, nibbling a bowl of cooked tubers in sweet
sauce. Although Sabre had only left the day before, she already
missed him. Shouts and screams outside made her pause, her blood
chilling in alarm. Putting aside the bowl, she went outside to
investigate the ruckus. Armoured men boiled into the village, and
the warrior women rallied to engage the marauders, but the men were
clearly good fighters. They divided their forces, and some fought
the women warriors while others dragged screaming pubescent girls
from their huts. Tassin turned to make a dash for the safety of the
forest, and almost bumped into a man with a brand. She drew her
dagger and thrust it at his belly, but he blocked it, receiving a
gash on his arm.

Dropping the
brand with a bellow, he knocked her down. The blow made lights
flash in her eyes, and he twisted the dagger from her grip. When
her vision cleared, she found him crouched over her, the dagger at
her throat. She thought he would kill her, but he yanked her to her
feet and hauled her towards the forest. She kicked him as hard as
she could, making him grunt in surprise.

The warrior
twisted her arm behind her, making further struggle futile. She
screamed for help, but the women were locked in battle with the
armoured raiders, outmatched in strength, skill and weaponry. The
men used swords to cut down the Andarons, who had only spears, with
merciless savagery. Tassin glimpsed a black-furred creature, which
resembled a massive, deformed cat with tusks, chasing fleeing
women. It looked like a Death Zone monster, yet its presence was
strange, especially since it only seemed to attack the
Andarons.

A knot of
warrior women protected Molla and Mishra, and, although some men
fell, more women died. Girls were dragged into the forest while the
women fought the contingent of men whose purpose it was obviously
to prevent any would-be rescuers from reaching them. Burning huts
added to the confusion and forced the girls who hid in them to flee
their shelter. The men captured unarmed girls and dispatched the
older women who tried to defend them.

The warrior
took Tassin into the forest, ignoring her shouts of abuse and
struggles, and the arm-lock prevented her from fighting. He pushed
her through the undergrowth, branches and thorns scratching her.
Leaves slapped her face and rough bark scraped her arms. The pain
of her twisted arm made her sick and faint, and when she sagged,
the man gripped her other arm and forced her to keep walking.

The warrior
thrust Tassin into a clearing where several men waited, each
holding one or two struggling, wild-eyed girls who kicked and bit
their captors. One prisoner's hysterical struggles tripped her
kidnapper, who almost lost his grip. She bit him in the ensuing
tussle, before he subdued her. Hauling her upright, he slapped her,
glancing sheepishly at his grinning fellows.

More warriors
emerged from the forest, some with captives. Many of the men were
wounded, and tended their injuries while they waited for their
comrades. The girls quieted once their hands were bound, and
Tassin's captor added her to their number. He fastened a rope
around her neck, and she glared at him, tossing back her hair,
which had escaped its bonds.

"You're going
to regret this, you mindless ape!" she snarled.

The warrior
grinned, but her words caught the interest of an older man, his
temples touched with grey. He wandered over, a hand on his sword
hilt, to inspect her.

"Where did you
get this one, Trom?" he asked her abductor, who shrugged.

"In the
village, coming out of a hut."

"She doesn't
look like an Andaron." His eyes fell on Trom's bleeding arm. "She
cut you?"

"Just a little
knife she had."

Tassin said,
"You're all going to be very sorry if you don't let me go right
now!"

The greying
man, who seemed to be the leader, raised his brows. "And why is
that?"

"I am a queen!
You cannot treat me like this. My abduction will be avenged, even
if I don't slit your throat first."

"Really?" The
leader smiled. "By whom?"

"Someone you
don't want to meet, even in your worst nightmare."

He snorted.
"One man? Look around; how many men do you see here?"

"I don't care
how many men you have! He'll kill you all for this, and I'll help
him."

"A little
thing like you?" He chuckled. "You won't be killing anyone, my
pretty. I'd like to meet this man, if he exists, but unfortunately
we must be going."

The leader
walked off, and her captor tied her to the other girls and led them
into the forest.

Gearn glared
at Murdor, who leant on his sword, smirking. It had taken two days
to find the trail that led away from the river, despite the wolf's
keen nose, for the frequent rain had washed away the scent. Murdor
had chanced upon the pile of ash left by a campfire, yet he looked
as smug as if he had used magic.

The wolf
sniffed around the ashes, but the trail blazed out of the clearing
was obvious, although older than it had been before. Gearn scowled
at Murdor, who grinned, clearly enjoying the magician's
exasperation. After two days of following Murdor through the dense
undergrowth, Gearn's aching legs, scratched arms and scraped shins
soured his mood. Murdor had not bothered to create such a wide,
easily-traversed trail as the warrior mage had.

Shooting
Murdor a last angry look, Gearn followed the wolf down the track,
glad to be following the wider one again. Murdor tramped after
them, swinging his sword and whistling, something that he had
discovered annoyed Gearn, so he did it almost constantly.

Sabre did not
make such good time on the return trip, and arrived at the Andaron
village in the afternoon, four days after his departure. Even
before he came within sight of the village, the stench of death
carried to him on the breeze, and he quickened his pace, foreboding
chilling his blood.