Kovo spoke into the mike, but Voss couldn’t hear him as a shell rumbled overhead. It was stupid to stay on the knoll. He realized that now. A short round could kill him and the rest of the command party. But he couldn’t leave without losing face, sending the wrong signal to his troops, or both. So Voss sat tall in the saddle and did his best to look unconcerned as the shells continued to fall.
The howitzers were capable of firing four or even five rounds per minute in experienced hands. But that wasn’t the case here. Voss figured the guns were putting out one round per minute on average. Most of the shells were on target, and the barrage was taking a toll. One tractor was a smoking wreck, another was badly damaged, and it was only a matter of time before the rest took hits. He was winning!
“Drones are attacking the guns,” Kovo announced. “But the missiles brought two of them down.”
Voss looked west but couldn’t see anything. That was when Sara spoke. “Look left!”
The warning came just in time. A dozen Ronin had been able to work their way through the maze on foot. And now, with the enemy leader in sight, they swarmed up out of a brushy ravine, firing as they came.
Kovo was snatched out of the saddle, and a second merc fell. Voss fired his pistol as a Ronin charged him. The bullet smashed into the mercenary’s face but failed to kill him. He fell, but his right boot was caught in a stirrup. The Ronin’s horse dragged him away.
Meanwhile Sara grabbed hold of the lead that controlled her horse, gave a jerk, and felt the rope come free as the merc assigned to guard her took a slug in the chest. Sara kicked her horse into motion and rode straight out into the area where the artillery shells had been falling. But the guns were out of ammo by then.
Voss caught up with Sara, grabbed her reins, and brought the roan under control. Only then did he turn to look south. The area in front of him looked like a moonscape. Craters overlapped one another and a carpet of black-clad bodies littered the battlefield. Beyond that, what remained of Hashi’s army was in full retreat, the irony being that the guns were out of ammo, and had the Ronin pressed forward they would have been able to clear the maze and enter the valley beyond. “What will you do now?” Sara wanted to know.
“Chase them,” Voss said grimly, “all the way to Sage. I need a buffer.”
“So,” he said, as their eyes met. “You were wrong. You said I would win, and you said I would lose. I won.”
Sara smiled. “Ah, but it isn’t over yet.”
Chapter Thirteen
It had been raining on and off all morning, and Tre could sense that the all-too-brief summer was coming to an end as he stood at the edge of the pit and peered down into the muddy depths. Two weeks had passed since the garbage mine had been liberated, and a great deal had changed, not the least of which was the fact that all the mine’s diggers, sorters, and haulers were employees rather than slaves and free to leave whenever they wanted to go. And hundreds had. That was a loss in a way, but an advantage too, since every one of them would be singing Crow’s praises. And word of mouth was very important in post apocalyptic America.
But some, about three hundred in all, had elected to stay and work for Crow. He had promised to feed them and pay a bullet a day in exchange for their labor. More than that, Crow planned to use whatever profits there might be to further what he called the New Revolution.
That sounded good to Tre. Real good. But as with so many things Crow came up with, very little thought had been given to how things would work. The mine was valuable—so who would defend it? Now Crow had employees to feed. Where would the food come from? Which food lord should he form an alliance with? Once the word began to spread, more people would come. How many was too many? Tre was troubled by those questions and many more.
Crow had a tendency to become annoyed when Tre mentioned such problems, but that was the nature of their relationship. And, because Crow had a tendency to assign Tre responsibility for any issue he raised, the younger man was fast becoming the de facto second in command—a position he hadn’t asked for, didn’t want, and was seemingly stuck with.
Meanwhile, rather than focus on the mine the way Tre wanted him to, Crow was talking about a return to Star Valley. And that, Tre had decided, was something he would object to. So he turned away from the pit, walked the short distance to the headquarters building, and went inside. The lobby had been colonized by Knife, Bones, Smoke, and the others, so it was a mess. The only person present was Freak, who rushed over to take Tre’s arm. “Berry patch,” she said brightly, and beamed up at him.
“Same to you,” Tre said as he freed himself. “Where’s your bow? Someone should guard Crow.”
“Milk cans,” Freak replied, and left to get her bow.
During the weeks since the bandits had taken control of the mine, Kimble’s extremely tidy office had been transformed into what Bones called the Crow’s nest. It was an untidy jumble of papers, weapons, and filthy clothing. Tre entered to find Crow looking his way. “There you are. Henry, this is Tre… He thinks it would be crazy to attack Voss right now. Tell him why he’s wrong.”
Henry was probably in his thirties but looked twenty years older. He had beady eyes and leathery skin. The combination was reminiscent of a snake. And when he spoke it was with a voice so hoarse there was clearly something wrong with him. “Half of Lord Voss’s mercenaries are escorting food caravans east,” Henry said. “That was before Lord Hashi attacked him from the south. Voss had no choice but to take three hundred militiamen and ride south.”
Tre looked to Crow and back to Henry. “And the rest of the mercs?”
Henry’s eyes blinked rapidly. “About a quarter of them followed the militiamen. A backstop, so to speak. The rest were left behind to keep the slaves in line.”
“And you know these things because?” Tre inquired skeptically.
“He knows those things because I pay him to know those things,” Crow interjected.
Tre looked into Crow’s eyes and saw the challenge there. Crow wasn’t the best planner in the world, but he was an excellent strategist. The attack on the garbage mine had been his idea, not Tre’s. Nor was the younger man privy to all of Crow’s machinations. Henry was a good example of that. “Got it.”
Crow’s expression softened. “Thanks, Henry. Here’s your pay. Stay safe and I’ll see you soon.” Tre saw a full box of ammo change hands and realized that Henry was more than he appeared to be. The scarecrow look was a carefully calculated ruse, and the spy probably had a large stash of ammo somewhere.
Henry took the box, said, “Thanks,” and left. Freak blew him a kiss on the way out. “You’ve got that look again,” Crow said as he sat in what had been Kimble’s chair.
“What look?”
“The ‘I have a stick up my butt’ look. You heard Henry… This is the perfect time to attack.”
“No,” Tre said firmly, “it isn’t. We need more fighters.”
“I recruited fifty of them. Twenty-five for Knife and twenty-five for this mission. You know that.”
“I also know that they aren’t trained,” Tre responded.
“Oh, yeah? Well, you weren’t trained either,” Crow replied. “These people are survivors. They know how to fight.”