The moment’s the man’s back was turned, Blade snaked forward a good arm’s length. He would have gone farther but the woodcutter looked back, then angrily came over and aimed a kick at his face. Jerking aside, Blade coiled, and when the woodcutter drew back his leg to kick him again, Blade swept his own legs against the man’s shins.
Squawking in consternation, the woodcutter crashed onto his stomach. The machete went clattering across the floor. Instantly, the man pressed his hands flat to push to his feet.
Blade couldn’t let that happen. Sweeping his legs high into the air, he slammed his boots down on the woodcutter’s head with all the force he could muster. Or that was his intention. But the man shifted and his boots slammed into the back of the woodcutter’s neck, instead. There was a sharp crack and the man went limp.
Blade felt no remorse. His captor had brought it on himself by his duplicity. He rolled to the machete and twisted so his back was to it so he could grip the hilt with both hands. Pressing the edge to the green rope, he began to slice up and down. He figured the machete would cut right through it. But when, after a bit, he stopped slicing and tested the rope again by straining with all his might, the rope was as tight as ever. Craning his neck around until it hurt, he saw that the machete hadn’t done more than scratch the entwined vines.
Blade grit his teeth and redoubled his efforts. As incentive he again pictured Jenny and Gabe in his mind’s eye. He sliced and sliced, and the next time he looked back, the blade had gone in a quarter of an inch. Once more he sought to break free by brute force but the vines only gave a little. They didn’t break.
Encouraged, Blade went at it again. He hoped the woman had to go a long way to reach whoever her husband sent her after.
Apparently not.
Voices sounded, that of the woman, low and quavering with fear, and that of something else, something not entirely human, something that filled the doorway, and then some.
Something that rooted Blade in amazement.
CHAPTER 30
Hickok became conscious of a dull pain in his head. He also became aware he was lying on his back. The last thing he recollected was the blue female pointing her trident at him. It had begun to glow, and just as he was about to cut loose with the Winchester, the world had blinked to black.
Shuffling noises suggested he wasn’t alone.
Hickok cracked his eyelids and wished he hadn’t. The bright glare of sunlight, streaming through a window with bars, caused him to wince.
He was in a large chamber, lying near one of three drab walls. A long row of iron bars composed the fourth side.
It was a jail, or a prison.
Hickok inhaled, and nearly gagged. The stink was awful. A pot overflowing with excrement explained why, just one of several. Slowly sitting up, he put his back to the wall and looked down at himself in dismay. His gunbelt—and his Colt Pythons—were gone. So was the Winchester. He hiked at his sleeve and bit off a few choice cuss words. His watch had been taken, as well. Sliding his hand into his boot, he groped for his hide-out. His derringer wasn’t there, either.
“Wonderful,” Hickok muttered.
The chamber contained over a score-or-so of occupants. Thais, men and women both, in the drab outfits of the poor. A neatly groomed younger man was an exception. He wore a fine suit, and was worriedly gnawing on his bottom lip.
Squinting at the window and then at the corridor beyond the bars, Hickok wondered aloud, “Where the blazes am I?”
It drew the interest of a woman in her fifties or sixties, seated nearby. A faded shift clung to her frail body. Her hair was matted with sweat and dirt and and stuck out at all angles like so many spikes. Bruises marked her face and forearms. When she smiled, most of her upper front teeth were missing. “English,” she said quietly.
“Howdy, ma’am,” Hickok replied. “Nice to make your acquaintance.”
The woman glanced at the others and said even more quietly, “It has been a very long time since I have heard English.”
“It’s my natural lingo,” Hickok informed her.
“Lingo?”
“It’s how I’ve been talkin’ since I was knee high to a mutated calf,” Hickok said. “I savvy some other tongues but not nearly as good. I don’t speak yours worth a lick.”
“You speak strangely.”
“It comes from bein’ born hundreds of years later than I should have.”
“Where are you from?”
“Folks used to call it America,” Hickok said. “I don’t know what they call it on this side of the pond these days.”
“Pond?”
“The Pacific Ocean. Or the Big Salty, as I like to think of it.”
The woman’s slender shoulders shook in silent mirth. “Are you always so…..funny?”
“My pard, Gerinomo, would say so. But then, he’s been pickin’ on me since we were toddlin’ around in diapers.”
“Toddlin’?”
“Baby walkin’,” Hickok said. “You ever seen how they do it? They sort of waddle. It’s cute as anything.”
“What is your name, funny one?”
Hickok told her, and asked hers.
“Kalaya.”
“Where the heck are we? The last I recall, I was out at the edge of the city and some blue gal with a big fork pointed it at me and my lights went out.”
Kalaya pressed a hand to her throat. “Heaven spare us! That sounds as if you encountered the great one, herself. The blue lady was Dhurga. We are in her temple.” She glumly added, “We are prisoners.”
“I gathered that much.” Hickok said. “How long have you been here?”
“I have lost count of the days.”
“What did you do to get stuck in this pigpen?”
“I was hungry,” Kalaya said sorrowfully. “I had not eaten in days so I stole some food. Only a handful of noodles with a few prawns, but that did not matter. We must never steal. It is Dhurga’s law.” She paused. “Why were you arrested?”
“I shot
