Now, as the mercenary steering the craft killed the engine and allowed the airboat to glide up to the dock, Blade devoted his attention, for the umpteenth time, to his primary concern: escaping. He had toyed with the notion of leaping overboard while en route, but the airboat had been moving at such a great speed that he ran the risk of being injured in the attempt. To complicate matters, the mercenary was armed with a machine gun. And although the Directors were not carrying visible weapons, there was no telling what was concealed under their robes.
The three airboats coasted to the dock and the Directors busied themselves with the lines.
“On your feet,” Paolucci ordered the Warrior, rising.
Blade stood. “The Masters must not be here yet,” he mentioned. “I don’t see their airboats.”
“The Masters don’t dock here,” Paolucci divulged. “They have their own dock on the north side of the Shrine.”
“They don’t want to share a dock with lowly humans, huh?” Blade taunted.
“Quit wasting your breath,” Paolucci advised. He stepped onto the dock and beckoned for Blade to join him.
The Warrior complied, his cuffed hands in front of his body.
Paolucci looked at the mercenaries in the platform seats. “You will stay in your boats until we return. Understood?”
The trio nodded.
“Follow me,” Paolucci instructed the giant.
Blade resigned himself to obeying until he could get his bearings and formulate a plan. The twelve other Directors were trailing him as he moved along the dock on Paolucci’s heels. A well-worn path at the end of the dock wound in the direction of a large island 60 yards to the west, an island covered with trees and undergrowth.
“There is the Shrine,” Paolucci declared, nodding at the other island.
“Why is it called the Shrine?”
“What could be more fitting for the site of the sacrifices our Masters make?”
“You’ve never told me,” Blade noted. “Who or what do the Masters sacrifice to?”
“What do you mean?”
“It should be obvious. Do the Masters sacrifice to a deity? Sacrifices are usually made for a reason. What’s theirs?”
“I’ve never asked.”
“You’re despicable.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to comprehend the true meaning of the relationship we share with our Masters,” Paolucci said as they wended their way toward the large island.
“I comprehend, all right,” Blade stated. “You’ve enslaved the human population of southern Florida by fostering mass drug addiction, and all for mutant Masters who must view us as cattle. You’ve sold the human race down the tubes for power and prestige. You deserve to die.”
“How convenient! You’ve set yourself up as our judge and executioner!” Paolucci retorted.
They continued in silence.
Blade stared at the Bowies in Paolucci’s right hand. His life depended on getting those knives back, but timing would be everything. He must wait for the perfect moment. His gaze shifted to the island ahead, and he scrutinized the grove of trees. One consolation, he mentally noted, was that Hickok and Rikki were free. If worse came to worst, they could fly to the Home, call a meeting of the Federation, and lead a combined military force back to Miami to smash the Dragons.
The party reached an incline at the eastern edge of the island, with willows and myrtles on both sides of the trail. They ascended to the crest of the rise. Beyond was a spacious clearing containing granite pedestals and a low marble altar.
And seven waiting figures.
Blade advanced toward the forms, determined not to betray a hint of trepidation. He wouldn’t give the Masters any satisfaction by allowing dread or fear to register on his features. Setting his lips in a thin line, he boldly walked toward the clearing, studying the mutants.
All seven were exceptionally tall, averaging six and a half feet in height.
Each projected an ungainly appearance, enhanced by their disproportionately long limbs; their arms hung below their knees, and their legs, while on normal dimensions from their hips to their knees, were thin poles below the kneecaps. Their skin was a sickly, pale gray, with layers of excess flesh forming pronounced wrinkles on their neck. Four of the mutants were males, three females. The males wore red, skintight shorts, evidently made especially for their bizarre physiques. Red halters and short skirts clothed the females.
“Masters!” Arlo Paolucci called out happily.
One of the mutants came toward him.
Blade received the impression he was watching a skeleton on stilts. The mutant’s stride was peculiar, a rolling sort of gait. He noticed that the Master never straightened its legs as it walked; the knees were always bent. But the strangest aspect of all, one that filled the Warrior with loathing, was the bony visage.
Except for the folds of flesh at the neck, all of the Masters possesed thin, partially transparent, and extremely taut skin. Veins and arteries, even bones, could be seen just under the surface. The result was to transform their countenance into a hideous caricature of a human face. Each Master was hairless, their heads resembling animated skulls. Their eye sockets were deep, darl wells, their nostrils were slits, their lips wafer thin.
“Director One,” said the approaching Master, its voice gravely.
“Master Orm,” Paolucci responded.
The mutant called Orm halted, waiting for them.
As he drew closer, Blade distinguished additional ghastly characteristics. Orm’s rib cage was clearly visible, each rib distinct and seemingly pressing against the skin from within. The mutant’s knuckles were outsized knobs. And when Orm spoke, he revealed a mouth rimmed with pointed, white teeth.
Orm was returning the Warrior’s critical appraisal. “So this is the mighty Blade?” he asked derisively.
Paolucci bowed. “Yes, Master. Delivered as promised.”
“You said there were three Warriors.”
Paolucci, straightening, his hood only half over his head, blanched.
“The other two have not been apprehended.”
Orm looked at Paolucci. “This is most unfortunate. We were expecting you to bring all three.”
“My abject apology, Master.”
“Kiss his feet, why don’t you?” Blade quipped.
Orm cocked his head, his dark eyes flat and cold. “Defiant to the last, I take it.”
“I’m just getting warmed up,” Blade declared.
Orm motioned toward the marble altar and the granite pedestals.
“Shall we proceed?”
Paolucci nudged the Warrior. “Get moving.”
Blade moved slowly toward the center of the clearing. All of the Masters were watching him intently. The tallest, a mutant who radiated an air of menace, whose expression was baleful, sneered at the Warrior. “Are you the leader of the Masters?” he asked Orm. As he did, Orm stepped past him and he saw one of their backs for the first time.
Orm’s spinal column was a knobby succession of bony protuberances extending from the base of his skull to his waist, each knob progressively bigger than the one above it. The spine curved outward, magnifying the repellent aspect.
Disconcerted by his discovery, Blade abruptly realized the mutant was speaking to him.
“—not the leader of the Masters,” Orm was saying, “so much as I am the head of my Family.”
Blade gazed at the six mutants now six feet off. “This is your family?”
“Yes, Warrior.”
The tallest Master took a stride toward the Warrior. “I am Radnor, bastard!”