“You want to drive?” Killer asked.
Crazy! Killer knew horses inside and backwards, and he did not. So it was a hint, Killer trying very hard to play the unfamiliar role of loyal subordinate instead of giving orders. Jerry should have thought of it on his own.
“No,” he said, and clambered over the backrest to sit on the bench behind it, facing the rear.
The road had twisted— or reality had— and the sun was on their right. The trees grew thicker and became a spruce forest, thick and black as sable. A layer of needles muffled the sounds, and the air grew heavy with gummy scent— cool, moist, and dark. Jerry dug out one of the Uzis and loaded it with a clip of Mera’s own ammunition, silver-coated bullets. He himself was not convinced that silver was necessary, but Killer and many of the other swore by it.
Then the surface had changed imperceptibly, and the light. The temperature had fallen; the trees ended without warning. Jerry found that he was gripping the backrest as though it were a dangerous snake, and his head was swinging around constantly. Gravel beneath the wheels, grasslands in all directions…
“Dawn or dusk?” he asked, and hoped that it was the bouncing of the wagon that made his voice shaky. Let it be dawn!
“Dusk, I think.” Killer flicked the reins lightly, and they began to move faster. “Dusk and bad weather.” A gravel road winding gently across moorland— it could be anywhere or anytime, except that this much gravel must have come in trucks, so twentieth or later. No fences, no trees— indeed, no vegetation except grass, thistles, and low scrub waving eerily in a rising wind. Clouds hung low and ominous. The land rolled gently, and the road wound around in the bottoms, never providing a view. Jerry began to feel claustrophobic. Why couldn’t it have been a nice, cheerful dawn?
“Jerry?” Killer said, leaning his head back. “You don’t have to play mayhem if you’d rather not.”
Now what? “I know that,” Jerry said cautiously.
“You could be referee,” Killer said.
Jerry laughed; that was a trap for newcomers. He said. “Never! I’ll play for you and hope for a quick concussion.” Killer chuckled and did not reply.
Jerry pulled out the other Uzi and loaded that also, found the javelins— hopefully an entirely unnecessary precaution, but there could be several legions of demons behind those hills. More and more he was conscious of how much an amateur he was at this. Killer was the expert, and the band that had been at Sven’s house was the nucleus, the regulars. People like him were enlisted now and again for special cases. Why, this time, had the Oracle chosen to send the wand to him?
The landscape was bleak, unfriendly, and sinister. Killer was whistling happily.
Dusk certainly; the light was fading into an inflamed sore in the west, the sky turning black, the wind getting stronger. Puffs of dust watered his eyes, and his cloak flapped. He should have brought some warmer clothes; Killer reveled in discomfort. A few spots of rain…
“White,” Killer said. “Still tingles.”
Jerry glanced at the back of Killer’s head, but the light was too poor to see if his hair was still blue. No white and no black in Mera— to the regulars, the wands’ turning white was the first sign of being Outside. “How’s the ankle?” Killer said it was better, but even a wand would have needed longer than that to cure it.
More bouncing and shaking… flatter country…
“We’re here,” Killer said at his right ear, and Jerry twisted round to look.
The land was flat as ice, but now the light was too poor to make out distance. Straight ahead along the roadway, a solitary brilliance beckoned. There were no other lights anywhere; one light in a world of darkness. Jerry swung back to being rear gunner.
Then Killer pulled up, bringing stillness and silence. Only the wind moved. The light was ten minutes’ walk ahead, a blue-white glare from a high pole— some sort of fluorescent from after Jerry’s time— shining down on a cottage and a barn surrounded by hedge. The road ran straight to the gate— no arguments about destination— and Killer was untying the wand from his ankle and would be asking for orders.
Inside the yard the road led directly to the barn, the cottage set on the left side, a small outhouse between them. The whole yard was bright as day, but no lights shone in the windows. The wagon might be heard, even in this wind, and they would be walking ducks for watchers in the cottage. Steps leading up to the porch meant a raised floor inside and sightlines higher than the top of the hedge. They could leave the wagon and walk— but not on Killer’s ankle. He could have Killer cover him from behind the hedge as he went to the door— but there was nowhere to tether the mare except perhaps to a gatepost. She surely was not gun trained and on this pool-table landscape she could be gone for ever.
Killer passed back the wand, and there was still a slight tingle in it. Jerry scrabbled for a laser pistol and checked the charge— no reading. That meant no later than early twenty-first, and electric lights meant the guns would run. Good; swords were a bloody business.
“Where to, boss?” Killer asked.
“Straight down their throats,” Jerry said. “Or am I being stupid?” Killer’s reply was directed to the mare.
At the gate Jerry jumped down and opened it, then stepped aside as Killer ran the wagon in, flashed past the cottage door, and wheeled around like the expert charioteer he was, so that he was facing out again; and nobody had opened fire… Jerry walked up the steps and hammered on the door with the wand, stood to one side as he had been taught, and felt every pore tighten up, making his skin feel as if it had shrunk on him. He waited. There was firewood stacked on the porch and more nearby. Then he turned the handle at arm’s length and pushed the door away into blackness.
“Anyone home?”
He had a flashlight in his bag to use— if the battery was still good— but he had left it in the wagon. He reached round the jamb and found a light switch. The room was empty. He crossed it in quick strides, checked the two doors beyond, and found two bedrooms. Unless there were old ladies under the beds, the cottage was deserted. He went back and told Killer, who jumped off the wagon, stumbled, cursed, and then went in a fast half hop, half skip to check the outhouse and then the barn.
Rain began to splatter on the porch roof.
The piano was a surprise— a battered walnut upright. He hadn’t seen an upright piano in… more years than he wanted to think about.
This was more a vacation cottage than someone’s home; half of it a living room-kitchen, the other half split into two bedrooms, one large and one small, a dresser and bed in each. The main room held the piano, a table with four chairs around it, a sofa, and an armchair in front of a black iron range that would double for cooking and heat. The light came from a naked light bulb, but two oil lamps suggested that the power was unreliable, and he wondered where it came from— he had seen no power poles. The rain was getting louder, and he ought to be helping Killer. The icebox held three large steaks, six eggs, about a pound of bacon, milk… He was not expected to stay here for long.
The wagon rumbled forward until it was level with the porch. Jerry ran out, told Killer to stay where he was, and started to unload the weapons. Killer climbed into the back and passed the swords and javelins across to him. Jerry carried them in and heaped them on the sofa. He went back out, and Killer threw him a wadded bundle which was obviously his own clothes— he was standing naked in the growing deluge. Then he passed the Lee Enfields and the Uzis; the Gatling and the lasers stayed where they were, obsolete and premature, respectively. Killer handed over the Gatling ammunition and, after a second’s analysis, Jerry took it— the Gatling was still deadly and it would be lying in the wagon in the barn.