"I saw the light flashing off the silver," he said, returning the weapon.

"Thank you, lad. Good show." Doc twisted the lion's-head handle and pulled out the sword for inspection. The steel was foggy with condensation, but otherwise undamaged.

Dean shrugged. "No prob."

His limp fedora perched on a stick to dry, J.B. was sitting on the undamaged raft, holding his glasses by the stems and rinsing them in the seawater.

Knife in hand, Jak stood nearby, staring hard at the desolate land stretching before them. It resembled his home of Louisiana.

"Clean blasters!" the pale teenager barked as an order.

Sliding the patch to the front of his face, Ryan looked about and saw nothing of possible menace. "Explain," he commanded.

Jak frowned. "Swamps alive. Lots life, snakes, rats. Not here, but could be."

Heeding the sage advice, the companions moved to the raft and got busy. Sparingly using the clean water from the canteens, they cleaned their weapons and made sure each was in working order. Then with guards posted, they attempted to clean themselves. Dean found a depression in the land two feet deep, and they washed as thoroughly as possible in the makeshift tub.

"What's wrong with the soap?" J.B. asked, trying to work up a lather in his hands.

"This is salt water," Mildred said, pouring another skimmed cup of swamp water over her hair. More silt rinsed out of her beaded plaits. "It takes a special kind of soap to foam in brine."

"Swell," he grumbled.

After the ablutions, somewhat cleaner and pounds lighter, the companions sat on the raft eating cold MRE rations. The warm water rose to their knees, and they closely watched the surface for undulating ripples that meant the presence of snakes. Swamps were the worst kind of terrain to cross. Mud weighed you down, great holes could open beneath you at any step, the air was thick and difficult to breathe, plus most of the animals were poisonous.

Chewing a ration bar, Dean glanced at the waterfall. "Looks like we walk from here."

"Where is here?" Krysty asked, her hair flexing and waxing around her as if drying itself in the pale gray sunlight.

"I checked earlier," J.B. replied around a mouthful of peanut butter and graham crackers. He took a pull of water to clear his throat. "We're still in North Carolina. About twenty miles from the Tennessee border."

"That's good news," Ryan said, wiping the inside of a metallic foil bag with a finger to get the last of the military cheese. The stuff was gray, but he knew that was the normal color of cheese. Carrot juice was normally added to make it more appetizing, but he guessed the MRE packs were designed to be cheap, as well as last forever.

Placing aside an empty envelope of corned-beef hash, Mildred rinsed her spoon clean and tucked it into a pocket. "Well, if it's any comfort, there's no way the blues will ever find us out here." She gestured at the empty expanse.

Removing her coat, Krysty hung the garment over a dead tree. It had felt as if she were carrying another person on her shoulders. "Hate to leave the supplies," she said, stretching. "But I suppose there's no way to haul them along."

"We can make backpacks," Ryan said, standing. Wading around the stationary raft, he peeled away the canvas sheet and took stock of the jumbled boxes. "Bare essentials. Only food and ammo. We each get one gren, J.B. gets the rest of the explosives, Mildred any medical supplies. Leave the rest."

"Dry socks," Jak added sternly. "Live in swamp, dry socks save feet."

"He's right," Mildred said, respectfully appraising the teenager. "This place is a breeding ground for fungus. We'll change our socks every time we break for food, and I'll spare some sulfur to try and keep out infections."

"Swamps," Doc muttered, fluffing the muddy frills of his shirt. "Sweet nature's toilet."

Everybody laughed, but it was Mildred's comment that struck a resonating cord within Ryan, and once again he debated the wisdom of their goal. Should they be heading for the town of Shiloh, or the site of the infamous Civil War battle? The historic Shiloh was only a few miles away from a redoubt. Shiloh ville won the debate because it was closer.

"Might as well get moving," J.B. said, wiping off his palms with a moist towelette included in the MRE pack. "Miles to go before we sleep and all that, eh, Doc?"

"Without a doubt, my friend."

As the companions rose, the raft moved unexpectedly, floating to the surface of the dirty water.

"Dark night," the man whispered in surprise. "Salt water is more buoyant than fresh."

"Is this deep enough?" Krysty asked, lifting a boot and inspecting the water-mark level.

Mildred pushed at the logs with a hand, and they moved. "Seems so, yeah."

"There's no current," Dean said, crossing his arms. "Are we going to drag it behind?"

Splashing closer, Ryan was already at the rear of the craft, lifting the mooring lines from the mulch and testing their strength. "Half of us will push," he stated, "the rest can drag."

ROWS UPON ROWS of cots filled the makeshift hospital of Front Royal, temporarily located inside the long dining hall of Cawdor Castle. The great table had been moved to the end of the hall and converted into a surgical bed, leather straps draped over the bloodstained surface to hold down the sec men who needed limbs removed or other major surgery. The ville's supply of predark ether had been used up the first day, and now the healer poured shine down the throats of his patients until they fell unconscious.

Thankfully, the screams of agony hadn't been heard in days. The seriously hurt were out of their misery, dead and buried, either from the wounds they received in battle, or from the meatball surgery trying to save them. The rest of the brown shirts and civilians lay on the simple cots, waiting for medical attention to their bullet wounds and stumps. The air reeked of feces, whiskey and blood, and the painful moaning never stopped, day or night.

Several of the local gaudy sluts moved among the patients emptying bedpans into a wheelbarrow they pushed along. In this time of emergency, everybody in the ville worked. On the other side of the long hall, a pair of children carried a steaming wooden bucket of freshly brewed tea from the kitchen. Carefully, they filled the cup next to each cot. If the cup was full, they dumped it on the floor and filled it with fresh. Made from old willow bark, Healer Mildred had said the brew would help some of the wounded with their pain. Amazingly, it did with some, but others not at all.

Kneeling alongside a sec man who had been crushed by falling rocks during the war, the new healer adjusted the folded blanket under his head. "There, is that better?" Sullivan asked softly.

"No," the sec man moaned. "Neck still hurts..."

Irritably, Sullivan grabbed the trooper by the throat and savagely twisted. There was a snap, and the patient went limp.

"See?" the mutie whispered in amusement. "I said that I could end your pain."

There was no reply.

Moving to the next patient, Sullivan found the man soundly asleep. Good. They should all fall asleep, then die. There were plenty of troops in the world to replace them, so why did Baron Cawdor worry about a few damaged people. It just made no sense. But then Sullivan's job wasn't to be logical or reasonable, just to murder the baron and leave. Nothing more. Of course, the baron was surrounded by a squad of trigger-happy sec men, so the chilling would take some special planning.

Awake, and carving a pipe from a corncob, the next patient merely had two broken legs that were setting nicely. Sullivan set the bones himself, and made the cast from leather belts and kindling. Pretending to be a healer was his easiest disguise. It was impossible to torture people for years and not to learn something about how to keep them alive. Being zealous in the questioning was a beginner's mistake. Cut off a man's hand, and he would bleed to death in minutes. Ah, but bind the arm with twine to retard the circulation, then cut off the hand, and your patient could live for days. Any damn fool could stab to death a man chained to the wall, but it took an artist to teasingly peel off every inch of skin and still keep the prisoner alive and sane.

The door to the kitchen eased open, and a woman rushed into the dining room. Adjusting the moist bandage on a burned face, Sullivan noted her arrival with interest. Few of the locals seemed to be in any hurry these days. It was as if the war had drained them of not only their strength, but also their very will to live.

The newcomer was plump and full breasted, highly attractive for her species. She looked over the hospital with obvious distaste, nose wrinkling at the pungent stink. Sullivan didn't like the smell, either. But it was either suffer the stink, or open the windows and have the patients freeze to death at night. Personally, he preferred the latter. Extremes of temperature meant little to his kind.

With a start, she saw him looming over a patient and hurried over, holding her skirts in a fist to keep the cloth from touching the dead and dying.

"Sullivan," she whispered, coming close. "They know! Run for the hills."

Placing aside the sharpened piece of reed he was using to drain a pus-filled wound, Sullivan slowly turned his head. Her eyes were lovely, and as cold and hard as his own.

"May I beg pardon?" he asked politely. "My name is Daniel Lissman and-" "They know who you are, and why you are here!" she whispered urgently, coming closer. "They call me Terry and I work in the gaudy house. Last night I heard a couple of the troopers talking. They're going to claim the baron's wife, Tabitha, is feeling poorly, fell off a horse or something, and when you go into that room, you ain't coming out!"

"Indeed," Sullivan murmured, stuffing his hands into his pockets and thumbing back the hammers on the two snub-nosed revolvers. "And why do you call me, what was the name...Sylvester?"

Glancing over a shoulder, Terry spoke fast. "Cut the shit. I also fucked Overton's men when they were here, and aside from Ryan, you were the only thing they feared. Big guy, no hair, likes to do the dead."

"Really now!"

She sidled closer, the thick smell of stale perfume and sweat radiating from her body. "I saw you last night at the graveyard, so don't tell me different."

Calmly, Sullivan debated the possibilities. This could be a trap by the baron to trick him into revealing himself. Or it could be the truth, a whore looking to connect to somebody more powerful for a better life.

Slowly standing to his full height, the mutie looked down at the big woman and spread his arms in a friendly manner.

"This is an interesting tale," Sullivan said, resting a hand on her shoulder. She trembled at the contact, as he increased the pressure until she thought the bones would break.

"We should discuss it in private," he added, lifting the woman a few inches off the floor and carrying her away.

Terry tried to speak, but the pain was too great.

Moving quickly, Sullivan headed for the door to the basement. Once out of sight, he could question this Terry thoroughly and learn the truth.

"Wait, Healer!" a man shouted.

Only a yard from the door, Sullivan stopped and turned, hugging Terry close to

him as if they were close friends.

Maneuvering through the maze of cots, a brown shirt was rushing toward them.

He was armed, but the blaster was holstered. Sullivan relaxed a little and smiled, his mind racing with new possibilities. Unexpectedly, Terry slid her arm about his

waist and shook her torso to make her ample breasts jiggle. She was playing his lover. How very interesting.

"How can I help you, Lieutenant?" the mutie asked politely.

The man gulped some air. "Lady Cawdor has fallen off her horse in the stables.

She can't breathe! Come quickly!"

"Oh, no!" Sullivan cried out, releasing his prisoner. Terry stayed next to him, breathing hard. He could feel the heat of her breasts through his clothing and was

repulsed. "Elevate her legs at once and loosen her clothing. I'll get some instruments and be right there!"

The sec man paused for a moment, unsure of what to do.

"Go!" Terry barked. "Every second you waste could mean her life, fool!"

With a grim expression, the sec man nodded and dashed away.

"See?" Terry stated, rubbing her bruised ribs.

"You were correct," he said. "What is the price of this assistance?"

Terry leaned forward, her face shiny with avarice. "Take me with you," she

demanded, almost pleading. "I'm nothing here but a slut. Somewhere else, with

your help, I could marry well, become a lady. Mebbe the wife of a baron!"

It was a fair price. He thought about the offer.

"Too much," Sullivan decided, and slapped her across the face, the bones audibly cracking. Her skull partially crushed, Terry slumped to the floor, burbling blood through the ruin of her mouth. Not caring if anybody else was watching, Sullivan then kicked the woman, caving in her chest. She tumbled across the floor, arms and legs flailing like a rag doll's.

Moving to a cabinet, he ripped open a duffel bag, the old canvas patched many times with different-colored cloth until it was almost a camou pattern. Reaching inside, he started withdrawing glass bottles filled with an oily liquid, greasy rags tied about the necks.

Lighting the rags, he threw the Molotov cocktails across the room in every direction. Flames engulfed the cots, and the patients started to scream, beating at the sticky fire covering their bodies with bandaged hands. Sec men rushed in and gasped in horror. Sullivan used the diversion to ruthlessly mow them down and steal a longblaster.

Stuffing the last two bottles into his jacket pockets, the mutie stepped outside and hosed the street, shooting anybody in sight. The screaming from inside the castle continued as he darted across the courtyard, spraying controlled bursts from the Kalashnikov at the rooftops and windows. No horses or wags were in sight, so he ran for the barbican, hoping to cross the drawbridge and reach the safety of the woods. Once he was among the trees, it would take an army of guards to find him again.

A brick-lined tunnel went through the barbican of the outer wall, and several men stood in a cluster near a smoking oil drum, the ragged holes in the sides of the metal allowing the heat of the fire inside to radiate outward. Without pause, Sullivan gunned them down, dropping his blaster when it clicked empty and grabbing another weapon from one of the dead men.

A swarm of brown shirts charged from the shadows, and Sullivan kicked one in the throat. One fired a pistol, the round scoring a bloody furrow along Sullivan's cheek. The mutie shot the norm in the groin, and shoved the wooden stock of the longblaster backward, crushing the chest of another. Then a wounded brown shirt lurched from the pile of corpses and tackled him around the legs. Furious, Sullivan kicked the man aside, and another grabbed his arm. The mutie buried his teeth into the norm's throat and ripped out a chunk of flesh. He was released instantly.

Sprinting from the tunnel, Sullivan scanned the other side of the drawbridge for an ambush, saw nothing and charged for the distant woods. Freedom was only a hundred yards of open field away. A flurry of motion in the air caught his attention, and Sullivan spun, firing upward. Unharmed by the bullets, the heavy fishing nets dropped across the bridge, pinning him in place. Dropping the blaster, the mutie grabbed the line and ripped a hole. But before he could wriggle through, more netting fell from the palisades overlooking the bridge, and then a third net, a forth and a fifth. Trapped under the layers, Sullivan crouched, fumbling for a weapon when a stunning blow drove him to the wooden planks. Dazed, the mutie drew his pocket pistols and got off two rounds, when the blasters were pounded from his grasp by a horde of sec men wielding clubs.

Roaring in wild fury, Sullivan managed to stand under the combination of nets and men, struggling to reach the edge of the drawbridge and the moat below. Already the gills in his throat were opening for oxygen. Sullivan could breathe underwater, but the pitiful humans would drown.

The brown shirts struck him from every direction, but he forged onward and reached the cobblestones edging the bridge. Searing pain lanced through his shoulder, and he saw the barbed point of an arrow sticking out of his shirt. Mentally forcing away the pain, he lurched forward again and another arrow slammed into his boot, pinning his foot to the planks.

Reaching through the netting, Sullivan grabbed a knife from a brown shirt and tried slashing his way loose, when another wave of humans swarmed over him.

Pain filling his universe, he fell to the planks, never losing consciousness as he was trussed with ropes, then bound with chains.

Cradling a broken arm, a sec man spit in Sullivan's face, and another aimed a handcannon. A sergeant slapped the blaster away.

"He's trapped now, so don't chill the bastard," the brown shirt growled. "We're gonna haul his ass to the docks and hang him before the whole ville. Baron Cawdor himself is gonna tie the rope around its stinking neck!"

Cheering in victory, the joyous brown shirts lifted their captive off the bridge and hauled him back inside the ville. Masked by the nets, the mutie managed to hide a smile and calmly waited to meet the man he had been sent to kill.