"Said gods didn't fuck old women," Jak muttered embarrassedly.

"Good one. Ace right on the line for her," J.B. said. "But did she tell you about tonight? What's going to go down?"

"Mildred's on altar. I cut throat. End story."

"Yeah. End of story," Mildred agreed.

They came at dusk, when the gray mist lay upon the sullen waters of the lake and the sun had all but disappeared.

The entire population of the ville seemed to be there, other than a half dozen grizzled warriors left behind to guard the outlanders.

Mildred's farewell to her friends was one of restrained emotion. She hugged them all, one by one, finishing with Ryan. There were no tears from any of them. The Vikings watched approvingly, though the capering wisewoman couldn't hide her disappointment that there was no weeping and tearing of hair.

Jak stood aside from it, simply giving the black woman a cursory embrace, his face set like carved ivory.

Jorund Thoraldson and the senior men wore their greatest finery: horned helmets, the brass glittering like beaten gold; cloaks of leather, trimmed with white fur or with layers of heron feathers; high boots, laced to the knee; their best swords or long-handled war-axes, blades polished like mirrors. But Ryan noticed that very few of them carried blasters to the ritual.

He wondered whether all of their blasters were still stored in the longhouse by the blazing bonfire at the center of the ville. The friends had their knives, but against the armed mass of Vikings, knives would be little use.

"After the..." Jorund hesitated a moment over precisely what he might call it. He tried again. "After the ceremony is concluded, we will celebrate with a great feast. It would be better if you outlanders remained within this hut. Food will be supplied to you. Then, at first light on the morrow, you will all go free. As we have agreed, Jak will stay with us as a token against further harm to the steading. Is all of this well, Ryan Cawdor?"

Without looking at his companions, Ryan simply nodded his head.

At a signal from the karl, one of the warriors began the slow beating of a slack-skinned drum, the hollow and sonorous sound carrying the melody of death.

Mildred walked into the cool evening air and threw her head back, taking a deep breath. The Vikings surrounded her and led her away. Jak kept pace at the side of the Norse chief. The procession quickly wound its way out of sight. Ryan and the others stood in the doorway until one of the older men gently gestured for them to go inside the hut.

The door was closed and they were left with only the flickering light of the candles.

Ryan looked at his companions. "Now we wait."

Chapter Thirty-Three

Timing was everything. Too soon, and Mildred would still die; too late and she would be dead.

The four friends sat in silence, while Ryan kept a careful eye on his wrist chron, counting the seconds away.

"Now?" Krysty asked, breaking the long stillness.

He nodded. "Now."

The sacrificial procession had reached the point on the main trail where the side path wound its way toward the natural amphitheater and the high stone above it. Nobody had said anything to Mildred, and the villagers made sure that they didn't get close enough to accidentally brush against her evil skin or catch a glance from her evil eyes.

The women and children surrounded her, and carried smoky torches that filled the evening with the tang of burned pine resin. Even by the flaring light, she could see in the people more evidence of the dreadful, pernicious seepage from the age-old storage site. It was the children who seemed to be suffering most. Several of them had ghastly sores around their mouths, cracked lips and bleeding gums. Some had weeping chancres near their eyes, and a toddler close to her on the left was struggling to carry his torch, because he'd lost most of the nails from his fingers.

Mildred couldn't see Jak, though she knew he was marching with the baron and the principal warriors of the ville.

As she'd been in this area once before with Ryan and Krysty, Mildred guessed they'd reach the oblong block of bloodstained stone in less than a quarter of an hour.

The dried grass and straw that filled the canvas mattresses caught fire easily — dangerously easily. Thick smoke surged to fill the hut, and the bright flames began to catch at the wattle and daub walls.

"Help. Candle knocked over! Fire!" The four companions began to yell and scream for help, coughing and choking in the darkness.

For one heart-gripping moment, Ryan wondered whether the men on guard duty would simply stand by and let them burn to death, deciding it was the safest option. The fire had caught hold with a ferocious intensity. Ryan was almost ready to try to charge through it and break through the back walls.

It wasn't the plan, but neither was being burned alive.

"Help us!"

It might have been Krysty's screams that finally tipped the balance in their favor. The bolts crashed back and the wooden door was flung wide open, showing the darkness of evening beyond.

"Now!" Ryan shouted.

He'd stressed to Doc and Krysty — no need with J.B. — that total violence at the fastest possible speed was their only chance. They knew they had at least six opponents, skilled fighting men, who would be on the watch for an escape.

Ryan had his panga; J.B. gripped his narrow flensing knife, held point up; Doc had dropped the ebony case to his swordstick, and flourished the rapier blade by its silver, lion's-head hilt; Krysty had borrowed J.B.'s broad, saw-edged Tekna knife.

The Vikings stood in a loose circle around the open door, staring at the inferno of flames and smoke. There were six men, the youngest of whom looked at least forty. Two held battered sawed-off scatterguns. The rest carried axes or swords.

Ryan was first out, his fighter's eye spotting the two blasters. He went for the closer bearded Norseman who was leveling his weapon.

If either Viking got off a shot, the noise would carry miles on a quiet windless night. And that would be the end of Mildred.

During their discussions, when Ryan outlined his plan, he'd made it clear that if anything went wrong at this stage in the ville, it would mean every man for himself.

His panga thudded home against the side of the man's throat, with a satisfying jar that ran clear to Ryan's shoulder. The edge of the blade grated between the vertebrae, nearly slicing all the way through.

The carotid artery was severed and hot blood fountained in the air, brilliantly lit by the backdrop of the flames.

J.B. took out the second warrior who held a shotgun. Pushing aside the blaster with his left hand, the slightly built Armorer jammed his stiletto deep into the man's guts, twisting his wrist with a savage determination. A great gash ripped through the man's jerkin, as well as through skin and muscle. J.B. felt the heat of spilled intestines against his wrist as he withdrew the blade and pushed the dying Norseman away from him.

A third man started to back away as he saw the dreaded figure of Doc Tanner, running toward him with his rapier, his frock coat flying open.

Despite Doc's age, the old-timer was fast enough over a short distance. He reached the Viking and killed him with a single, careful thrust through the heart. The man dropped to the earth, his sword falling from his fingers. Doc withdrew his own blade and bowed slightly. "Touche."

Krysty, with hair so red in the glow of the blazing hut that it seemed as if her head were on fire, charged at her chosen victim. Since she was last into the open, the three remaining guards had been given a few precious heartbeats to ready themselves.