From his vantage point, Jak could see that there were nine people in the party approaching. All were men aged from their early teens to their late twenties. There were no veterans among them—in fact, the age tended more toward the younger end of the scale—and this, allied to their seeming inability to use stealth, was a good sign. All the same, they still outnumbered the companions. The strangest thing about them was that they made no attempt to camouflage themselves. In fact, their garb was some of the strangest that Jak had seen from men who were his opponents. They were all dressed in white robes that were cut short, toga-style, rimmed in thick red trim. Their legs were encased in leather thongs that were crisscrossed and tied up to the knees. They carried daggers in sheaths and a variety of handblasters. Jak thought he could pick out a Walther PPK, a Vortak precision pistol and a Browning Hi-Power like the one Dean had used before he’d gone missing. All good blasters, but ones that needed a degree of skill. Looks could be deceptive, but Jak doubted that these strangely attired men had the skill to be effective—not if their shooting echoed their stalking skills.
Jak scrambled down the tree and outlined the position to the companions beneath. Although secreted, they were close enough to hear him as he rapidly gave them the requisite information before taking cover himself.
All they had to do was to wait for the hunting party to come upon them. Why they were in the woods was a mystery. If they knew that the companions were there—and how was another matter—then they were making a poor task of concealing themselves. They were easy to track as they closed on the area where the companions were taking cover.
The nine men had spread themselves out among the twisting gaps through the trees, making it hard to take them all in one attack; and yet they were too close to risk blasterfire once the companions engaged with them. Too far apart to take out, too close to take out. It was more luck than judgment, that much was clear, but it was enough to make the companions’ task harder.
Ryan signaled with a sharp whistle and the six friends shot from their hiding places as the strangely garbed hunting party passed them. It was a measure of how inexperienced the strangers were that they seemed to be completely unaware that they had the companions in their midst until they had already been attacked.
It was a swift and brutal battle. Unwilling to risk blasterfire that may hit their own people with stray shells, Ryan, Jak and J.B. had opted to use their blades. Mildred and Krysty used their bare hands. However, even in this they had the drop on their opponents, who had kept their daggers sheathed. The two men that the women chose to attack both fumbled for their blades rather than defend themselves, and both found themselves on the end of crushing blows. Krysty delivered a kick to the groin that was made more painful by the sharp silver point on her blue cowboy boots, whereas Mildred took out her man with a roundhouse punch that connected perfectly on the top of the jaw, just beneath the ear. The man’s eyes rolled into his head as his skull snapped back.
Doc was the only one who held back. So many thoughts raced through his head, some of which he was obscurely ashamed of. Should he join the fray or see who won? What would benefit him in his long-term aim? But surely he should help his friends—ah, but had they been of any help to him, not allowing him to return to his destiny? All of this spun around his head, freezing him until the moment when he was actually attacked. A burly man with a blond beard to match his mop of curls snarled and thrust at Doc with his dagger. The old man smoothly withdrew the razored blade of Toledo steel from its cane sheath and parried the blow, countering with a thrust that swept across the man’s chest, ripping his toga and drawing a line of blood from beneath.
At six on eight, the odds were already beginning to even up a little. They took another turn for the good when one man howled in agony, his arm sliced vertically by a blow from Ryan’s panga. The flesh hung from his upper arm, blood splattering on the foliage around him. He was fortunate that it missed his artery, but nonetheless he recoiled and took no further part in the fray.
‘It’s not them…it’s not them,’ the cry was echoed around the hunting party, much to the confusion of the companions. They didn’t stop fighting, but now found that instead of standing toe-to-toe they were driving their attackers back, as though the hunting party was deliberately retreating.
The strangely attired men pulled back enough to turn and flee. Jak was about to give chase when Ryan stayed him. Still the cry of ‘not them…not them…’ echoed from the retreating men.
As the sounds faded into the distance, the companions exchanged bemused glances. Who had the hunters thought they might be, and did that mean they weren’t alone in the woodlands?
There was one way to find out. The man on whom Mildred had landed the perfect punch was still unconscious, sprawled on the ground.
Ryan strode over and pulled the man to his feet. The movement made him stir and his return to consciousness was aided by the open-palmed slaps Ryan delivered across his face. His eyes opened, bleary and unfocused.
‘Wake up,’ Ryan grated. ‘You’ve got a lot to tell us, and you’d better do it quick.’
Chapter Five
His eyes opened, although they were not as yet focused, and they showed the naked fear that he felt in the midst of the group.
‘Are you going to talk?’ Ryan snarled. He had little time for those who attacked him without reason, and even less for those who showed the cowardice of this man. He looked as though he was about to defend himself.
‘Don’t even think about that,’ the one-eyed man growled.
‘I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,’ the young man returned. Now that he was beginning to take in his surroundings, and that reason was returning to his muddled senses, he was growing in courage. He took in the half dozen people surrounding him. They weren’t the ones his people had sought, although they had fought hard and were understandably angry. If he told them what they wanted to know, then perhaps he would be able to negotiate with them. After all, as he looked around he could see that there were no chilled bodies scattered around. They hadn’t wantonly slaughtered the rest of the party.
His surreptitious glance didn’t escape Ryan. ‘I’ll cut you a deal,’ the one-eyed warrior stated. ‘You tell me what I want to know, and you can go free.’
‘You must think me a fool to agree to such a blatant untruth.’ The young man spit.
Ryan allowed a grin to crease his weathered features. ‘Fair point, but it works like this. We want to get through to the coast without being attacked. You come with us, to make sure that doesn’t happen, and you’re free to go. Your people obviously weren’t attacking us—it was a mistake. Fireblasted stupe one, as it could have got us chilled, but this shit happens.’
The young man studied Ryan’s face intently. In turn, the leader studied him. It was an open, soft face. The man was obviously just out of his teens, his long, dark hair and short beard showing the softness of youthful growth. His skin was clear and his eyes a blue almost as piercing as Ryan’s single orb. There were traces of puppy fat still on him, suggesting he came from a ville that had plentiful supplies—which was worth knowing—and his bearing was strong. Despite the position in which he was held, and the fear that had temporarily assailed him on first coming around, he now held himself defiantly. It was probably a pose, but one he used to try to bluff his way past his fear.
Ryan couldn’t help but like him. He had balls. Enough to not answer immediately, as though he truly had options to consider.
‘Very well, I will answer your questions on the understanding that I will aid you with safe passage to the coast and insure that you aren’t attacked by my people—however, I should add that it is still likely that you will be a target, particularly on the route that you wish to take, for my people aren’t the only ones who are