1637: The Peacock Throne, стр. 36

a knife so big it might as well be a sword and shouted over his shoulder. For help, if the response from his friends was any indication: three more of the raiders drew various blades and started moving to meet the up-timers.

“Couple more steps?” Ricky asked.

Bobby groaned, doubled over, and farted wetly.

Ricky would have laughed if he wasn’t so scared his friend might have caught some deadly disease and the raiders hadn’t started to charge at that moment.

Unable to see to his friend, Ricky shouldered the Remington and dropped the bead over the first bandit’s naked torso. Pushing the safety off, he stroked the trigger with his finger. The high-base shell made the gun kick him in the shoulder, hard, and launch its load with a heavy bark and flash as the buckshot exited the barrel.

A spark went up from the man’s sword, followed closely by the swordsman himself slumping to the ground with a wet, coughing sob.

The others, scattered in a loose group a few steps from each other and behind the first, paused a moment, then one of them started shouting.

Ricky cycled the action and drew a bead on his next target.

The raiders were sprinting at him now, unaware he had five more in the tube and thinking to cut him down as he tried to reload.

Another man staggered, fell as soon as Ricky pulled the trigger.

Ricky didn’t bother to aim now, just cycled and stroked the trigger. He was left unsure if he’d hit or not, as the man now leading the pack didn’t slow.

By now close enough Ricky could see his eyes glittering in the firelight, Ricky watched the growing round O of fear the man’s mouth pulled into as he cycled the action once more and fired.

This time the man went down, sliding across the damp grass of the camp to a boneless stop almost at his feet.

Again he cycled the action, but the fourth man was already on top of him, swinging a sword overhand at his head. Ricky ducked, desperately throwing his shotgun up to parry the descending blade. The sword clanged against the receiver somewhere near the loading gate. The raider pulled back for another swing.

Bobby’s gun barked at Ricky’s hip, surprising both combatants.

The raider fell, revealing the back of the last man as he ran for the water’s edge.

Ricky lowered his still-smoking gun. He felt a surge of excitement, a feeling of invincibility, of being entirely there.

Unnerved by the sensations, Ricky looked around, moving his head to be sure he could actually see what he needed to see. From the absence of torches at the edge of the camp and the fading hoofbeats, the horsemen were fleeing, having distracted the caravan guards.

He looked to where the other raiders had been on the shore and dimly saw shapes on the water. After a moment he realized it was a boat being poled rapidly downstream.

The sound of Bobby puking reached him.

He swung around and knelt beside his friend. “You okay?”

“No. Sick. Soooo sick.” He paused a moment, then mumbled, “I think I shit myself.”

“Me too!” Ricky laughed, a note of panic he didn’t like edging the words.

“Reload,” Bobby groaned, thumbing a shell into the loading gate of his own weapon.

“Oh, yeah.” Ricky found his hands were steadying as he took the first shell out of the vest he wore and thumbed it into the loading gate. His thumb caught on the deep scratch in the metal left behind by the sword stroke he’d parried. The thought of how close he’d come to getting stabbed made Ricky’s hands start to shake once more. The shells seemed slippery and the gun heavy and awkward, making the loading take longer than it should have. He managed, though, despite the stink coming from either Bobby or the bodies at his feet.

The pair of them ignored the moans of one of the men Ricky had shot. Not out of cruelty, but because there was almost nothing to be done for the man—and what did a guy ready to kill people just to take their property deserve in the way of care, anyway?

It wasn’t the first time he’d had to kill someone, and he didn’t know how he’d feel about it tomorrow, but for now he was okay with leaving the son of a bitch to die.

“Ricky? Bobby?” Jadu called.

“Here, Jadu.”

The merchant strode up the slope, his footman and body servant, Vikram, carrying a torch aloft for him. Two guards were on his heels as he joined the up-timers.

He wasn’t even breathing all that hard, despite the slight paunch he sported and the fact Ricky hadn’t seen him exercise or train once in the weeks they’d spent on the road.

“Are you well?”

Ricky gestured with the shotgun. “Bobby’s still sick, but we managed to keep from getting cut to pieces.”

“So. Sick,” Bobby groaned.

“But not injured in the attack?”

“No.”

Nodding, Jadu knelt and examined the man dying at their feet. After a moment he stood and walked down to where the goods and supplies had been dropped when they turned to attack the up-timers.

Ricky helped Bobby to his feet, intending to take him back to his tent.

“No, man. I’m good enough here. Besides, I want to hear firsthand what’s up.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I have to wash in the river anyway.”

Eyes tearing from the stink coming from Bobby’s pants, Ricky said, “Yes, yes you do.”

They took a few steps, and Ricky couldn’t resist a jab at Bobby’s expense: “But isn’t that how you took sick in the first place?”

“Might be,” Bobby mumbled, taking the question seriously. “But I won’t open my mouth this time, not even if I have to scream for help.”

“Right,” Ricky said. Deciding not to make any more fun, he simply supported his sick friend on the way to meet the merchant.

Jadu addressed the up-timers as they approached. “Thanks to your intervention, it looks like they weren’t able to get more than some of the indigo we bought and some cotton cloth I was planning to sell soon anyway, prices being