By: Joel 'Cop' Furches
Chapter 1: Bushwhacked
“From mountain hinds and misty brines
Spin mortal tales of woes
On dusty trails with starry veils
A seabird’s song voice goes
On broken wing, still doth he sing
For singing’s in his blood
The journey long, weak wings the song
And soon, soon comes the flood.”
The dark rider mounted the last hillock onto the small mountain town on an enormous stallion. The first sight welcoming him to the town was a great wooden structure of crossbeams and ropes pulled taut to hold the monstrous construct in place in the blustery mountain winds. It was the largest gallows the Rider had ever seen.
The wooden sign that creaked in the wind on the crude arch that had been nailed over the entrance to town was faded, the name of the town more a memory than readable. Rushing from high, the rider could hear a great river washing down from the mountain top in a springtime heave.
The water wheels of the mighty mountain mill kept running pretty nigh unto all year round. But in the springtime, great chunks of ice came rushing down the rivers from higher up in the mountains, and the millers shifted the cleverly constructed water wheel off the stream for a while to avoid damage. With no millwork to do, the men sat in town and drank and fought and paraded around as if they were warriors and gunfighters. The Rider suspected he had, in classic fashion, ridden into town at the worst possible time.
He stabled his horse, and headed over to the trading post to restock his supplies before he arranged for lodgings for the night. The town seemed in full bustle, even at this point in the afternoon. The air was cool and pleasant, flowing down from the visible snow-crested mountain peaks rising over the town, piles of fir trees mounting the summit. Rider’s consideration of natural beauty, something he was not generally given to, was interrupted by an all too familiar sense of paranoia. Someone was watching him. Well, of course someone was watching him. He had come riding into town on a giant horse, the like of which had never been seen this far south of Flagland. He was dressed in mercenary fashion, a ragged black duster belted tightly at the waist and fastened up the breast so that only the long tail of the coat swayed free around his calves. Much of the fringe of the ancient duster consisted of tatters and holes that flapped and rustled as he walked. The wide brim of his dark hat was pulled low so that his eyes were hidden in the shadow on his face, and the nickel emblems that dotted the brim of his hat sparkled in the mountain sun. He was clearly alien to this land of burly millers in their long, leather coats and woolen clothing shipped in from the plains of Landfall, from the sheep herds of Durdsbury. So yes, more than a fair share of stray glances where awarded him as he strolled stiffly down the street, scanning the buildings to see if he could make out what was what.
It was immediately obvious that this town had no notion of entertaining the tourist trade. The buildings were built well, but plainly. The usual art or style that people gave their shops and homes seemed all but completely absent. An obligatory cross had been tacked up on the church which more than likely doubled for a schoolhouse. Beyond that, Rider was hard-pressed to find a well-turned lattice, a white-painted porch fence, an Eastman Luck sign, a fashionable Southern Blanket, or a Scrayling Dreamweave. Anything that would signify that these people had made this their home and had celebrated their living with any sort of simple art, bought or handmade.
Rider’s eyes caught those of the man relieving himself in the watering trough outside the bar. Rider had sensed the man’s gaze before he met it, and the man slowly let his eyes weave downward to where his business was wrapping up. The man buttoned up his pants with a great deal of fumbling and staggered back into the bar once more.
The slow stroll to the trading post was a study in furtive glances from the townsfolk. A schoolboy bounding round the corner with eyes that seemed to follow Rider’s stride, a bonneted woman with hard lines in her face sweeping one spot on a porch over and over as her eyes darted up at Rider now and again, and so on and so on. Rider sighed inwardly. This was more than just curiosity about a newcomer. Curiosity was naked and honest. These glances were stolen and hard. And there was something like fear behind them. Rider strode on, his stubbly jaw clenched, shoulders hunched, and hands shoved deep into the pockets of his ancient duster.
He found the trading post because it was the only decorative building on the hillside. Deer antlers were hung over the porch and a wagon wheel had been mounted beside the door with lanterns hanging from it. Besides that, there were an abundance of barrels in the weeds around the porch and several on the porch itself. He strode in as casually as he could manage with his sore legs and tried milling about. He gave it up after only a minute because the moment he entered everyone stopped what they were doing and watched him intently as if he were The Baron himself.
Rider walked up to the counter and pushed his hat back, meeting the poker-faced gaze of the bald, stocky shopkeep.
“I need some supplies,” Rider spoke in a rasp that indicated he had not spoken for a long while to anyone.
The shopkeep nodded, sniffed, and wiped his nose with his apron. Staring at Rider, he held his peace. Rider shrugged.
“I need some lantern oil and matches, if you have any. I also need some baking soda and two weeks trail rations. Jerky, or whatever you got. Some lye soap, and about twenty yards of cattle-rope. That’ll do me.”
“No bullets?”
“Beg pardon?”
“You don’t want no bullets?”
Rider shook his head and set to leaning back on the counter, letting his gaze wander as if already bored with the shopkeeper and the whole conversation. The question the shopkeep asked had nailed the nagging question of what these people thought of him. They were suspicious and wary, no doubt, seeing him as some sort of desperado or brigand. He hoped this would work for him rather than against. He only needed one nights peace and then he would be moving again. It might be nice if the good citizens of whatever-this-town-was kept their distance and let him be out of fear. But as the shadows began to grow at the doorway, he admitted to himself that this was unlikely.
Rider tried to decide what it would be. A savage beating, most likely. Out-and-out lynching seemed unlikely, he’d given them no cause. He guessed most of these people still packed powder in their guns, revolvers were the toys of the wealthy and the professional, which meant they probably wouldn’t shoot him. Too expensive.
Rider drummed his gloved fingers on the edge of the counter in consideration, and then hailed the shopkeeper who was expertly pulling items from his inventory.
“Have that stuff bagged and sent over to the stable when you’re done. The girl there will know which horse is mine.”
“This is a Trading Post, Mister, not a delivery service.”
Rider nodded, pulled a drawstring sack from his duster, and slowly extracted five gold coins from within, letting each glint in the light. He jingled the gold in his fist. The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow and shrugged.
“If its worth that much to you, Mister…”
Rider slapped the coins on the counter and touched his hat brim. He then disappeared behind the counter and was out the back door before the shopkeeper could protest.
Rider slipped soundlessly around the corner of the Trading Post, which was no small feat for a man wearing boots and spurs. Just as he figured, there was a crowd of burly men loitering around the front door, several with long rifles. A particularly stylish man among them had a shining revolver stuck into his belt. Rider pulled his hat brim down, stuck his hands into his duster pockets, and turned to head toward the stables. It looked as if his stay was going to be short.
As he turned, the sound of a gun-hammer cocking into position brought his attention directly in front of him. A kid of no more than ten had him at barrels end. The boy’s hand was steady as a rock, his aim dead between Rider’s eyes. The boy had a look of righteous determination on his face. Rider was startled in spite of himself. The boy had managed to sneak up on him, a feat of which most men could be said to be incapable.
“Who are you?” Rider said in a dead tone.
“You’ll be wanting to take your hands out of that trail-coat slowly, Sir.” The boy spoke with both respect and determination.
“You got me dead-eye and you ain’t taking chances,” Rider said, complying with the kid’s request. “Good for you. Though truth be told, you’re already the better man in this fight, son.”
“Most men would try to talk this gun out of my hand, figurin’ me for stupid,” the kid said evenly. “I get the idea you’re being truthsome, though.”
“Still, you ain’t letting your guard down. Well done.” And then Rider’s face fell and for a moment, a bottomless sorrow came to his eyes, “You’ll make one brilliant gunman, kid.”
The kid was smart. Smarter than smart. But something in this last sentence didn’t make sense to him, and it showed in his face.
“I don’t know what business you got here, Sir, but I have to ask you to walk slowly to the front of the Trading Post. Keep grabbing sunshine on your way. I will shoot.”
“I believe you.”
Bushwacked. The men laughed as they pushed him to the ground, rough. It was all Rider could do to keep from falling face first.
“Let’s see what kind of shooters he’s got under that ratty trail-coat,” the one with the fancy revolver leered. One enormous bearded monstrosity brushed Rider’s duster aside with the but of his long-barrel. A little cloud of dirt settled aside to show the crisscrossed gunbelts at Rider’s waste. Each was plain, but well-oiled and in good condition. Each loop in the belt for bullets was empty as the sky. No pistols were to be found in the hollow holsters.
“Well I’ll be hung,” fancy-belt said, “He must’ve been in a peaceable mood. What’d you leave yer daisies in your saddle-bag?”
Rider kept his peace. Receiving no answer, fancy-belt backhanded Rider across the face. The force of the backhand was vicious, but Rider jerked his head aside so quickly that his hand barely brushed Rider’s cheek. The hat danced away from Rider’s head in the breeze and fancy-belt (whose name was Cliff) nearly lost his balance from his viscous swing.
“That give you a reason to fight?” Cliff said, ludicrously trying to regain his balance at the same time.
Rider snagged his hat from the ground, brushed the dust from it, and plopped it on his windblown, black hair. He adjusted the rim and then looked directly into Cliff’s eyes.
“You going to shoot me where I sit, or are you fixin’ to talk me to death?”
Cliff felt himself dislodged by the dark, piercing eyes of the stranger.
“I’m not a murderer, stranger. I’m a gunslinger.”
Rider raised an eyebrow. “That so? Bouvou, Muskethom. Por tu de codex?”
“What?”
Rider smirked, “You’re no gunslinger. The boy over there is more gunslinger than you will ever be.”
Rider could see the surprised smile flicker across the boy’s face. Then the boy quickly lowered his head submissively. Cliff glanced at the kid, a snarl forming on his face. Rider observed with mild interest.
“Peter, you get on! You should be minding the wheel! Or do you want to lose the money we’re paying you to do your duty? You think your Paw can make it without the medicine you’re buying?” he grinned wickedly, “I, myself wouldn’t mind seeing your Maw a single woman again.”
The words were still leaving his lips when Rider shot up from his knees, pulling the gun from Cliffs belt, and flinging it in the face of the bearded man with the long gun. The gun smacked the man with a ‘CRACK’ to the forehead and the man fell to his knees with wide eyes, his mouth working like a fish’s. Rider grabbed the barrel of one of the rifles trained on him and pulled it until it was pointing in Cliff’s face. With his other hand, Rider grabbed a fist-full of Cliff’s shirt and pushed him hard against the oaken porch of the Trading post. The crowd stood in stunned silence. The stranger had moved like black lightning.
“Mister, you got yourself a right mean disposition,” Rider said coolly in Cliff’s face. “Now you do whatever you got in mind for me, but you mistreat that kid and you may find that a puppy grows teeth in time.”
So saying, Rider let go of the rifle and the man’s coat, and resumed his prayer-like position on the ground. There was fear in the Cliff’s eyes. He glanced around at the crowd that he had so recently been in full control of.
“Give me my smoke-pole, and stick one in this man’s belt,” Cliff barked breathlessly, “This fella think’s he’s quick. He ain’t seen quick!”
Someone jammed a gun into Rider’s belt. Rider took a glance at the weapon. It was an ancient model and looked in poor repair. It would likely explode, jam, or misfire if he pulled the trigger. He looked up at Cliff who was stuffing his gun back into his belt with a clenched jaw. He walked to the center of the street and shook his hands, loosening them up. The crowd quickly dispersed to both sides of the street, and Rider noticed the balding shopkeeper hobble through the door of the trading post with a sack of supplies, and lean up against the porch watching the event expressionlessly. Rider climbed wearily to his feet and marched out to the center of the street. Sap-bugs buzzed from the fir trees and people gazed silently from windows, porches, and from behind barrels. Rider noted from the corners of his eyes that five different rifles were trained on him from the shadows. So that’s how they won gunfights around here. Cliff removed his gloves and stuffed them in his back pocket. Rider’s gloves remained on his hands. Cliff spread his stance and his hands hovered near his belt.
Rider recalled Mr. Stephen’s lesson. Mr. Stephen was bald, but still handsome and charismatic in a way Rider had never learned to be. On a windy November day, Rider and 26 other children were gathered at the edge of the range as Mr. Stephen’s tall, lean figure paced up to the line, strapping a gun-belt to his hip. He flashed the children a winning smile. The children were all relaxed and attentive except Rider. Rider stood pensively at the edge of the group awaiting Mr. Steven’s lesson with the beginnings of a frown. Mr. Steven was always acutely aware of Rider’s gaze, those young eyes that searched his every step for error. So far there had been none. Mr. Steven was one of the best. In fact, Mr. Steven seemed to welcome Rider’s scrutiny as if to say, “Look to your heart’s content, kid, ain’t no kinks in this line.”
Mr. Steven got his gun-belt into position and motioned to a kid named Andrew.
“Chuck me that six, would you?”
Andrew tossed the pistol to Mr. Steven who lazily plucked it from the air, spun it on his finger, and shot it down into the holster at his hip.
“Now let’s see… I need a volunteer.”
Hands shot up around the field. Rider, however, simply crossed his arms. Mr. Steven made a show of eyeballing the volunteers muttering “hmm, lessee now…”
His eyes settled on Rider.
“Eric Rider, front and center.”
Rider shuffled reluctantly to the line. Mr. Steven swung a gun-belt at him.
“Strap this on quick, boy.”
Eric struggled the belt into position.
“Now the object of this lesson is to…DRAW!” the man shouted and Rider found a gun barrel under his nose the instant the words were spoken. He frowned up at Mr. Steven.
“That ain’t exactly fair, sir. You knew when you were going to draw, and didn’t give me a chance to get ready.”
Mr. Steven smiled.
“Well that’s my fault, son. After all, everyone who faces you down with a gun is going to make good and sure you’re READY for them.”
The children chortled. Rider persisted.
“How am I supposed to keep from getting shot, then?”
“That’s the question, now isn’t it? Let me say this nice and loud so none of you misses it,” He turned to the gathered children and spoke above the whistling wind, “The only way to make absolutely sure that you don’t get shot is to put a bullet in the other guy first.”
“What if I’m unarmed? How do I keep him from shooting me then?”
Mr. Steven put a hand on Rider’s shoulder and looked him straight in the eye.
“The ONLY way to make SURE that you don’t get shot is…to…shoot…first.”
Rider returned his look and said.
“There HAS to be another way.”
Rider placed a leg back supporting his weight, and his hands came up defensively as if he was about to fist-fight. His gaze meandered to his left and he found the boy, Peter, looking eagerly from behind the Trading Post porch. He threw the boy a wink. Instantly, Cliff’s hand dropped to his belt and the revolver came up flashing a shot at Rider. But already Rider had dropped, rolling under the shot, and pulling the gun in his own belt, he flung it in one fluid motion. It went spinning toward his opponent in a blur. Before the weapon could hit, Rider was charging after it, feet pumping the ground and shots exploding the dirt behind him as riflemen tried to peg the quick stranger. Cliff barely dodged the flying weapon, but was immediately clotheslined by Rider’s arm as he charged past. Cliff hit the ground hard, and as he struggled to draw breath, he could see the tattered black tail of the stranger’s duster flicking up and over the railing of the second story of the hotel like a living creature.
Rider had often heard as a child that the rooftops of the tightly packed suburbs of his hometown, Stella-Terra, were a thief’s highway. Having heard it so often, he and two friends had stolen away in the night and climbed the drainage pipes and windowsills to the roof of a tenement building. They had run from building to building until nearly dawn, laughing like mad men as the moon hung eerily large over the rim of the great crater, lighting the jumbled heaps of The Pylons with razor-blue edges. The rooftops of THIS town were not like that. They had not been designed with flat tops and drainage pipes. They were not five or ten stories in height, nor were they constructed from brick. The rooftops of this town were sloped to allow rain to pour off and made from tin sheets that burned through the thick, black leather souls of his silver-trimmed boots. He had scaled the two-story building with inhuman leaps and now stood uneasily on the tin roof, shifting his weight as his boots slipped slowly and steadily toward the downhill edge that lead to a chasm of grasping pine branches. He clenched his jaw, tugged his hat to secure it on his head, and made a mad charge across one roof to leap the six or eight feet in between the buildings, rolling as he hit the next roof and slipping nearly to the edge before digging the spurs on his heels into the tin, sending sparks flying as he tried to wedge his gloved hands along the ridges. When he was finally stopped, his tattered duster hung flapping over the edge like an abandoned banner. Rider took two breaths, then pushed himself forward hard with a force that came from the center of his chest, adding the power of his legs as he flew head-first from the building. His hands groped the empty air in front of him as the jagged, broken boulders that formed the border between the town and the hundred-mile woods rushed up at him. A branch caught him under the crook of the arm, and he reflexively wrapped his arm around it. It bent with a sickening rubbery feeling and he found himself gazing at gray-green bark on the body of the tree blossom in jagged green cracks that wept greenish sap. His boots were now dangling two feet above the ground and the armpit full of tree-branch was screaming. He let go and landed softly in the reddish mounds of dead pine needles and the tree sprung back upright, sprinkling him with sticky sap in the process. The sap-bugs roared their displeasure and flew in an angry criss-cross pattern about his head. Rider turned with a sweep of his dark duster and disappeared over the edge of the boulders into the dark woods.
“Not exactly a quiet run,” He muttered, wondering that no shouts or shots had followed him. In fact, no one had seen his escape. Except, of course, for the boy.
Peter’s eyes felt as wide as the sky, and a good bit of that sky was burning into them. Tears were forming around the rims of his eyes, and he still couldn’t get them to close.
“Tarnation!” he exclaimed under his breath, tasting the word. He had read it in a magazine from the delivery cart. He didn’t know what it meant, only that it wasn’t quite a curse-word, but close enough to the purposes of one. The stranger was FAST!
“That sidewinder was greased-lightning!” he said. That was the way the men in the magazine talked. But the fact was, the words ‘black-lightning’ seemed to be a better way of describing the man. Peter was fairly sure he had been the only one to see everything the way it happened, and he was sure he had missed something himself. Peter always thought that Cliff was a quick-draw. Mostly on account of Cliff always bragging about what a quick draw he was. He kept saying that some day he was going to get one of those gun holsters and REALLY show ‘em how the gunslingers did it.
All Peter knew was that, the moment Cliff pulled the Black-eyed Susan from his belt, the stranger was in motion, miles ahead of the bullet. Cliff was a quick draw. This man was quicker with his whole body than Cliff was with his good hand. Peter could swear, swear on the life of his Father! That the man had actually dodged the bullet. Then the man had flown, bullet-fast, at Cliff and taken him down on the run. The dark stranger had leapt one story, and didn’t stop there. Oh no. He just grabbed the banister and swung up to the roof. Taking off across the roof, the man had hurled himself an incredible distance between buildings, swung down on a tree, and disappeared into the woods.
If he’s stupid, Peter thought, he will head straight for the stables to try to get his horse. If he’s quick, he just may make it. This man is quick, but he’s not stupid. And following these thoughts, as Peter raced toward the stables, came another thought. If it takes my whole life, I want to be like that man.
Lilly
had been changing the hay in the unoccupied stables when the stranger rode
in. It was a little before
Hiding was the last thing in Lily’s head when the rider came in, though. The sun had just hit the point were its beam shown down through the window of the loft, and strolling into the sunbeam came De Azrod. One thousand pounds of majesty on hoof cantered dead into the sunbeam, looked directly into her startled blue eyes, and shook its long and tangled mien. The dust in the sun seemed to curl and wisp its way to either side of Azrod like a curtain. He may have been a horse, but his eyes were human and he looked her up and down before she saw him pass judgment. He snorted, and his tensed and rippling muscles seemed to relax. She was acceptable. Her stable would be palace enough for a night. God could take her where she stood, she thought, and she would meet the almighty with pride.
It was only then that she noticed, with a more practical side of her brain, the man dismounting the horse. As the horse was light, this man was shadow. An incidental figure that looked both comfortable and distinctly wrong sitting astride this legend. He tossed a small sack of coins her direction, but her nimbleness had left her and it hit her clumsily on the shoulder and jingled to the floor. The man seemed to take no notice.
“That should do. Stable my horse for the night, and treat him well.”
With that, the man was gone. It was just she and the stranger. She could not meet the beast’s gaze, looking instead to his saddle.
“What game are you about, that you let some man saddle you?” she whispered.
Horses, like most men that rode them, were largely simple creatures, and easily followed when lead. In the case of De Azrod, Lilly knew that there was nothing she could persuade the fearsome stallion to do that he did not wish to do. Lilly lead Pickle, a small mare and frequent customer, out of her much-favored stable into an unoccupied section of the barn. Pickle didn’t seem terribly interested in moving, but once she caught sight of the enormous animal that sat in the middle of the building, casually watching all that Lilly did, Pickle stopped entirely, unheeding of the tugging and coaxing of her keeper. Pickle had become a statue, her quivering eyes fixed on the fabled King of Horses. Azrod spared a glance at Pickle who snorted in terrified question. Azrod nodded to her, and she let out a loud whiney. Long faces fell into the light at stable door after stable door. Mares and stallions all strove for a look at De Azrod. Loud whinnies and snorts sounded throughout the building. The enormous visitor endured this for a time before letting out a trumpeting whiney himself. Instantly the stable quieted as all the horses continued to watch intently Azrod’s every move.
Lilly saw quite clearly all that was happening before her eyes, but a voice within her told her she was being very silly. The legend of De Azrod was an old one, and this horse was clearly no more than seven years, and probably closer to five. There were large work horses in the valleys of Flagland, and the man who rode in had come from the North. Her dear sweet mother had told her of De Azrod when she was a child, and she had scribbled crude images of the horse on her slate in school. Her father had found this amusing and made her a stick horse, which she pretended to ride in the crude style of the cowboys whenever her mother wasn’t looking. She was never allowed to ride the horses in the stable, because they belonged to the townspeople, and no one thought it wise to let a girl risk their horse on the mountainside.
When she was twelve and working the stable full-time alongside her father, she sang the Ballad of De Azrod constantly from morning until eve. When she didn’t sing it, she hummed it. And she still kept her stick-horse, the hilt of which had her carving of the great horse’s name etched deeply into it. At night she would keep the toy in bed beside her, tracing the name with her fingertips. She had never really learned to draw well, but she continued to try sketching horses. Her father tolerated this behavior from her, but she could tell that he found it silly and girlish. The muscles in his jaw were frequently clenched against her singing of the ballad and he talked to her only as much as he had to in order to get through the days work.
This was the year that the stranger rode into town on an exhausted horse that fell dead beneath him as he collapsed half-dead of thirst off the horse, freshly healing burns covering parts of his arms, chest and face. A couple of Scraylings, a wrinkled old man and his squaw, his wife, ran the trading post at the time. They took the stranger in and nursed him back to health.
Lilly often visited the Scraylings at the trading post and would chat with them for longer than her father preferred her to be gone. They were cheerful folk who smiled toothlessly to everyone who passed through and would relate old Scrayling legends to anyone who had the time of day to listen. They had their own version of the De Azrod legend calling the great horse Poi Lamba-Iquie. They claimed to be from the lost tribe of Torakit from the basin the settlers called Landfall, but their legends were the same as the Benaquin. They said that the great horse-spirit strode across the wave-swept ocean in ancient times and announced the coming of the Dead-faces. The horse-spirit said that the Dead-faces would bring four evils: war, famine, disease, and death. But he told the Scraylings not to fear, for they would overcome all of these if they declared peace between the six tribes. The great horse-spirit also said that with the Dead-faces would come a gift. When the frightened Scraylings asked what was this gift so great that it outweighed the four evils, the great beast reared up and shook its mane splitting the clouds and bringing the heaven-beams, shouting “I am this gift.”
When Lilly visited the trading post a few days after the Scraylings took in the stranger, she saw him up and walking around. His name, he said, was Charles Tavery. He would not say much more. Tavery was a short, hefty man who was already losing his hair in his late thirties. His face, when it had an expression, was almost comically stern, like a school-marm. Charles Tavery would eventually take to running the Trading Post as if it was his own. But by then everything had changed.
It was about a week after the much talked-about arrival of Tavery, the burnt and mysterious stranger, when the troop of Riflemen rode into town on small, quick horses with fire in their eyes. The lead rider of these riflemen was neither wearing the uniform of the cavalrymen, nor was he sporting a rifle. He carried, instead, a pair of monstrous six-shooters, one strapped at the small of his back and one holstered directly at his waist. His age was impossible to determine. His face looked hard and infinitely experienced, yet it was free from wrinkles. Still, white hair hung down from his head, spilling over his shoulders and drifting too and fro in the breeze.
“The valley of Stella-Terra has fallen,” the rider in the lead announced to the gathering townspeople with no particular tone in his voice, “The Baron now controls all of Flagland. The shipping embargo has been lifted; your profits should double in this town. A representative for the Baron will be placed here a fortnight from now to oversee shipping and distribution of funds to this town.”
“We’ve always controlled our own business,” the mayor spoke up timidly. Usually a loudmouth, the mayor was apparently having difficulty mustering his usual bombast in the presence of all these wicked, bayonet-tipped rifles. The riflemen’s leader glanced coldly in the direction of the mayor.
“You are potentate of this village?”
“I… I’m the mayor of this here town. Nobody outside o’ here has ever told us where to ship our lumber.”
“My men will be taking advantage of the quarters here. You can provide rooms or we will take our own, it makes no difference.”
“But…” the mayor tried to muster a feeble argument, but the rider was already gigging his horse toward the stable, his troop following suit. Before they rode very far, though, the lead rider hauled back on his reigns. Glancing over his shoulder, he spoke in a voice as soft and cold as a winter’s wind.
“There is one other piece of business we have. A certain man fled the battle of Stella-Terra and we believe he was heading in this direction. Did he happen to wander through this town?”
Lilly was watching this entire scene with a frightened fascination, hidden behind the woodpile outside the Blacksmith’s. Ordinarily she would not have ventured close to the woodpiles, which harbored copperheads and black widows, but her fear of all things crawly was pale compared to her fear of the white-haired leader who rode before the riflemen. Something about the man was wrong. As fearful as the riflemen were, with the oversized, shovel-like blades at the ends of their smoke-poles (and those tubes on top! Such things were used for aiming at men from a distance and shooting them in the back, she’d heard), this man who was not even in a uniform seemed to hold everyone’s eyes as he straddled his stamping steed. He wore a respectable silken-white shirt and a black vest, dark pants, and shiny, black boots of the kind gentlemen wore. There was no duster to keep the dirt from the trail off his finery, yet he seemed unsoiled from riding.
The mayor stammered at the man, no doubt formulating some weak denial to the man’s last question, but before the words could leave his mouth, a voice rose above the stammering mayor, the murmuring crowd, and the shifting, snorting horses.
“Ogallaquie do doe-andri iquie, poit hoga, poi quie tri tandri; troddo, tri doe andri!”
Lilly looked in amazement at the hunched and wobbling figure of the Scrayling making his painful but determined way out of his trading post as he shouted what sounded like a Scrayling poem. He was wrapped from long and braided hair to doe-skinned feet in a black and red Scrayling blanket that she had often seen his wife weaving on, but never wearing. The words, though no one understood them, seemed to have a powerful affect on the crowd. The horses, too, began to go unsteady beneath their riders. The white-haired leader squinted in the Scrayling’s direction and gave a wisp of a smile. He opened his mouth and, to Lilly’s surprise, answered the Scrayling in his own, musical tongue.
“Trin ogalla-troballa, trit tan tri chich.”
The Scrayling nodded, “Ho.”
“Tri, trin joodicki, tral isporotti.”
Again the Scrayling nodded, “Ho.”
The leader turned to his men who were all doing their best to hide their looks of confusion.
“The man who fled was nothing but a blacksmith. He is not worth your effort, nor mine.”
The faces of the riflemen revealed their confusion. The white haired rider seemed to ignore this, gigging his horse for the second time, and then, when it had take a few trotting steps, he pulled back on the reigns. Wind blew dust like a curtain behind him and a hanging, wooden sign creaked in the gust. Twinkling black eyes watched the rider from beneath the shadow of the Scrayling’s blanket. In fact, all eyes were fixed on the vested man. He sat there, his back to the crowd, his long, white hair shifting in the wind and hanging raggedly around his slumped shoulders. Lilly could feel within her a building anxiety, a terror mounting like the anvil-head of a thundercloud.
And then the cloud broke. In a motion almost too fast to follow, the white-haired rider twirled his hair spiraling around his head, his hands twisting before and behind him drawing the guns, spinning, spinning, two shots sounding as one, spinning and holstered. All in the blink of an eye.
“No! It’s The Dust Devil! The Tenten Twister man!” someone whispered in horror. The red and black blanket wrapped tightly around the Scrayling’s body began to grow two dark patches. The Scrayling slumped silently to his knees and then on his face.
There was a sharp click and Lilly watched with a mixture of pride and anxiety as her very father walked slowly down the street with his old shotgun aimed at the white haired gunman.
“You leave our town now, mister, you got no business here.”
Lilly could see his fear, but also his determination. Without even looking at him, the gunman said, “Best put your shooter away, sir. The Scrayling and I had business, that business is none of yours, and is concluded now.”
“You get out of my town!” Lilly’s father shouted, brandishing his gun toward the stranger. Without so much as a shrug or a thought, the man on the horse pulled his gun, shot her father and holstered it once again.
A thousand feelings and thoughts tried to crowed Lilly’s head all at once. She just stood there, looking at her dead father for what seemed like hours before running to him, throwing herself on his chest, and sobbing “Daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy…” over and over.
“I keep shooting them and more keep running out here,” a bemused voice commented behind her. She looked up at the man, her heart utterly numb. The white haired stranger pulled his gun slowly this time, cocking it with his thumb and tilting his head till his eyes stared directly into hers.
“There is no hope,” he spoke as if commenting on the weather.
“No.”
Lilly looked back toward the voice to see, unbelievably, the dead Scrayling climbing to his feet. The white haired stranger seemed to take notice of this and leaned on the saddle, his arms crossed as the lumpy figure in the blanket slowly took his feet. One naked, red-skinned leg extended from the blanket as the Scrayling took what looked like a furious stance. Then he stood still as if he had died in that position. The wind picked up and a cloud passed over the sun.
“Well?” the white haired stranger commented, “It’s your move Ogalla Isrean.”
“You kill no more,” spoke the ancient voice of the Scrayling.
“You mean like this?”
The gunman moved quickly, as his gun swung toward Lilly’s head, but just as quickly, the Scrayling’s hand, gnarled and claw-like, shot out of the cloak. Twin ribbons of dust shot up from the street as a force like a hurricane or an earthquake rippled out from the Scrayling toward the gunman. The man’s horse toppled beneath him and Lilly tumbled across the street falling to rest amidst the grass. Rain began to fall. Through it, Lilly could see the gunman standing stock upright as the force rippled away. A bit of a smile creased his lips.
“I am the servant of the Baron.”
The Scrayling remained standing, his claw straight before him. The gunman dropped his pistol, pulled his second from the holster and dropped it likewise.
“I will kill no more this day. Now go back to the grave where you belong.”
The Scrayling’s body sagged and then toppled to the ground.
Lilly caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Charles Tavery had come limping out of the Trading Post. He surveyed the bloody scene and looked up at the white haired gunman in sorrow.
“Take me. Kill me. Whatever you must do. Only don’t kill any more innocent people.”
The White Haired gunman looked long and hard at Tavery. Finally he said, “You will live this day, blacksmith. Stay in this town. Take up your trade again if you like. Only know this: this town is your prison. As penalty for fleeing rather than fighting, and for hiding like a coward, you brought death to this town, now you must live with the consequences. Oh, and should you try to leave, I will know. And I will return long enough to raze this town like I razed Stella Terra.” Then the gunman turned to his calvary, “Shake the dust off your boots, boys, we’re leaving this place.”
Charles Tavery fell to his knees in the street and wept, but all his tears could not match how hard Lilly herself cried that day. And it was there, at the apex of her bottomless anguish, that she clearly remembered first hearing that whispered rumor from the lips of some frightened onlooker.
“They say a Hero will save us…”
Lilly’s ordeal with De Azrod had come to an anticlimactic end. Pickles had relented her stable to the masterful stallion, and the stallion himself had bedded down and fallen asleep. Even the sounds of gunfire up the street had caused the great horse to simply flick his ears, as if the affairs of men in their lead-trade did not greatly concern him.
Lilly was still admiring the horse in his slumber when the boy, Peter from the mill, stumbled in with a drawn pistol, out of breath and wide-eyed.
“Where is he?” the boy called out to Lilly.
“Calm down, Peter, and tell me who you’re talking about.”
“The man in the dark coat! The newcomer! He came through here, didn’t he?”
“Last man through here was Mr. Cooper from the Smithy, and that was over two hours ago. What is going on, boy?”
Instead of responding, Peter tucked his gun away absentmindedly in his belt and began looking up in the haylofts and around the corners of the stable in a slow and calculating way. He took slow steps forward as he glanced over each of the stalls until he got to the stable of the enormous sleeping stallion where Lilly stood. He shot an excited look up at Lilly, and she nearly laughed at the pure boyishness that yet remained inside his all-too-hardened hide.
“What kind of horse is THAT?”
Much as Lilly would have liked to entertain the kid with stories about the King of Horses, she knew better than to blurt her secret fantasies.
“It’s a work-horse from the Flaglands. They’re bred to pull stumps and plow fields. Not a great riding horse, though. The poor sod who rode this mount into town must not have had much option at the time.”
Peter continued to ogle the great horse with a sort of awe that she completely understood.
“It’s his horse, isn’t it?”
“Whose?”
The kid looked at her with exasperation.
“The RIDER! The man in the chewed-up duster!”
Lilly gave this some thought.
“Seems to me that’s what the man riding it looked like.”
“You didn’t get his name?”
Lilly looked embarrassed.
“I must have been daydreaming. He paid me anyway.”
“Tarnation, Lilly, how could you forget this guy?”
The boy kicked a patch on the ground. Lilly shrugged and was about to respond when a mean lot of men from town showed up at the door, guns drawn.
Cliff Barnigan was not a complete fool. In fact, he was quite shrewd when his ego wasn’t getting the best of him. He had not seen a man move as quickly or fluently as the strange rider since the day the Dust Devil came to town and shot the old Scrayling and the Stableman. When the man had scurried up to the rooftops, a few of Cliff’s cronies had begun struggling uncertainly to scramble up after the maniac. Cliff had climbed to his feet sucking air into his lungs as he struggled to catch his breath and grunted after the men.
“Quit being such idiots and embarrassing me in front of all these people! You’ll never catch that blacksnake on the roof. He’ll be heading into the woods by now. That or he’ll go for his horse at the stable and try to high-tail it out of town. If we hurry, we can get down there before he does.”
To himself, Cliff mumbled, “I reckon the Judge will be mighty interested in this feller.”
Cliff and his gang arrived at the stable ready to sneak in and catch the stranger by surprise. A few peeks around, though, showed that no one was there but the girl who worked the stable and that nosey little runt, Peter. Cliff signaled his men into position and came into the stable, guns drawn.
“What’s going on here?” the woman shouted angrily as the men surrounded her.
“Now, Lilly, lets be civil, girl. I want you and the kid to keep your mouths tight shut. A friend of ours is going to be along soon, and we want to throw him a surprise party.”
“Get out of my stable!” Lilly screamed even louder, defiance in her eyes. Cliff could see the fear behind her bravery, though. He knew this woman was going to cause trouble. He took two quick steps toward her and the kid, and plucked the gun from the kid’s hands.
“Now that that’s taken care of, lets get something straight. I hear another peep out of either of you two and I’m going to thump you on the head with this here Tenten Hammer,” he smiled wickedly, holding up Peter’s gun-butt. His hostages knew he meant business and he saw their opposition drain from them. The kid had not said a word since the men had burst in, but Cliff saw the boy’s eyes darting around the men and the room in a way that seemed just a bit too calculating for Cliff’s taste. Cliff walked up to the boy.
“I told you to stay out of this. I guarantee that if you try anything smart I will go do your old man in myself. Make it look like an accident. Do you think the Judge gives a spit about you or your family?”
The boy said nothing, but it was clear that Cliff’s words rattled him. He looked at the floor submissively. Cliff’s annoyance lifted, and he grinned.
“Well now, we have a right smart party going here, don’t we boys? Let’s get these two tied up.”
One of the men went for a rope and began wrapping it around the two quickly. While he was doing this, he said, “Once we get them tied up, we can hang them up about ten feet from the rafters. That way if they squirm free, they got nowhere to go but down.”
Cliff nodded distractedly. He was walking slowly along the stables peering over the doors.
“Good plan, Chuck… ah, here we go. Boy but that man rides a monster of a horse, doesn’t he?”
The giant stallion looked up at Cliff calmly in an unnervingly intelligent way. Cliff briefly considered shooting the beast, but decided against it. This horse could be mighty valuable if he took it off its dead owner’s hands. His plan of tying the horse down disappeared, though. He felt fairly sure this particular horse could tear the stables down if it so chose.
Cliff shot impatient glances in all directions, then slapped the stable door.
“Boys, I got a feeling this fella ain’t inclined to show up for our party. I need all of you to stay here for a spell just in case he decides to show. He’s quick, but you may be able to take the fight out of him if you threaten these folks.” He waved a hand idly at the boy and the girl strung up in the middle of the stable.
“In the meanwhile time, I’m going to go have a word with The Judge. He might be persuaded to release The Bloodhounds if I tell him what this man can do.”
“That ain’t such a good idea, Cliff,” an older man named Roger huffed nervously, “The Judge don’t much take kindly to being disturbed.”
Cliff scowled.
“I ain’t afraid of him.”
Cliff was afraid. He walked haltingly through the streets in an uphill climb toward the only stone building in the lumber town. Under the administration of the Last Great President of the Western Wheel, a frequent complaint of the frontier towns was that lawlessness prevailed. When the Baron had mounted his insurrection, however, the worst of times came. With the Capital of the nation under siege for forty years, the only law that frontier towns had was that which the citizens were willing to meet out. Vigilantes and scoundrels dealt death with tragic frequency.
About ten years ago, Stella-Terra fell to the mysterious servant of the Baron who people called the Dust Devil or sometimes the Tenten Twister man. Cliff remembered very well because he had been chasing a stray dog with a group of boys who had snuck a bottle of whiskey from their father’s possession and were now tipsy and in search of crude entertainment. He had sobered quickly when he saw the Dust Devil gun down two men without a thought. The Devil had then stared down the Scrayling who had returned from the dead to defend a helpless girl. Fourteen days later the Judge had come to town.
The Judges were the Baron’s answer to the lawlessness of the small towns that dotted the massive and largely unsettled West Wheel. A battalion of the black-and-silver-garbed Riflemen had ridden into town with instructions that the citizens should dig up and hew massive granite stones. The work was backbreaking, and no compensation had been offered. While the citizens constructed the stone edifice, the riflemen raised an enormous platform with fifteen nooses dangling over trapdoors. The first gallows the town had ever seen.
When the riflemen rode away, a large stone building, more a sepulcher than a courthouse, stood solemnly at the edge of town, a massive gallows creaking and swaying before it.
No one can say when the Judge actually took residence in the Court. Some believed he came in the dark of the night, while others say that he was simply one of the Riflemen who had dressed in a dark cloak and remained behind. Cliff himself had this nightmarish image of the hooded Judge rising from the bowels of the earth within the edifice that was erected for him. At times he chided himself for such foolishness, but at others he could swear that everyone in town had the same idea, only no one wanted to say it… for fear of the Bloodhounds.
Cliff paused at the gate to the crypt-like Courthouse. An involuntary shudder passed through his body. A wind came out of the blue sky and dust fluttered past the stone archway. Cliff grabbed at his hat and shoved it further down on his skull. Some pudgy kid was gawking at him.
“Get lost!” Cliff kicked dust at the kid who squawked and set at a full-paced waddle back toward town.
Cliff yanked his revolver out of his pants, feeling its comforting weight and cold, steel in his hand steadied him. He flipped it on his finger, reversing it, and hammered its butt against the wrought-iron gate.
“Judge-Plinkton!” (For Judges were named for the towns they governed) “I got some information for you,” Cliff shouted, “Open up!”
There was no immediate response, but Cliff had not expected one. The Judge would open the gates when he was good and ready. Cliff cursed under his breath and surveyed the streets behind him. Passers-by were stealing glances at him, none daring to be caught in their gaze. He knew what they were thinking, and it only added to his agitation. He had every reason to talk to the Judge. These fools expected to see him twisting in the wind by sunset. He would show them.
When Cliff turned back to the gate, he nearly screamed as his face brushed the soot-black robe of the seven-foot tall Judge. The gate was wide open and the looming figure stood above him unmoving as a statue.
“I… got… somethin’… to… to..” the words came out as a croak dwindling rapidly to a teary whisper. It was only out of sheer force of will Cliff kept himself from falling to his knees and weeping before the Judge. The figure stood impassively above him.
Cliff could not rightly say afterward how long he stood before the figure fighting to keep from running away. Finally the Judge beckoned with an arm entirely enshrouded in dark robe, and Cliff dumbly followed his swaying hulk into the dark Courtroom.
The ropes dug into Lilly’s skin as she hung swaying an uncomfortable distance above the stable floor. Ordinarily she would not be bothered by this distance. She knew how to leap out of the loft and roll without hurting herself. But she had never attempted this feat tied to a teenage boy. The men paced impatiently beneath them. It was clear to them that if the stranger was returning to the stables, it was not going to be today. In fact, the man who had raised this ruckus seemed to have disappeared as mysteriously as he had come. Still, their leader had not returned, and none of them seemed willing to abandon their post just yet.
For his part, Peter had not said a word since the men had entered the stable. He had not seemed frightened, and even now she could feel him moving mechanically, testing the ropes. She had to admit that, of all the people in town, she was glad that it was this kid that she was stuck with. Just as she thought this, the boy’s head turned, straining upward to her ear.
“I think we may catch a break soon,” Peter broke his silence with these whispered words, then glanced at the men. None of them looked up.
“What do you mean,” Lilly whispered back.
“The man from the general store is coming down this way. I seen him through the slats in the barn wall. If we’re gonna try to get away, we should do it when he comes in.”
Lilly contemplated this for a moment.
“Alright. As soon as the men down there are distracted, swing your legs back and forth with me. If we can swing as far as that post over there, I think I can wrap my legs around it.”
She felt the boy nodding. “I got this whittling-knife my dad gave me in my back pocket. If you can reach it, you might be able to cut the ropes.”
Lilly strained to reach the boy’s pocket. As she did so, Charles Tavery came limping up to the stable door.
“Hey, Stable’s closed. Come back later,” one of Cliff’s ruffians, a man everyone called Buck, tried to bully the old man away. Tavery hauled the sack off his shoulder and let it clatter to the ground in front of him, still clutched limply in his meaty hand.
“I just gotta drop these supplies off, then I’ll be out of your hair,” Tavery muttered.
“Tell you what, Chuck, we’ll just grab this bag for you, and set it in the stable, okay?”
“Sure,” Charles smiled, “You could do that. But first, let the girl and the boy go.”
“Aw, see, now you’ve done gone and made a little mistake. ‘Cause we’re gonna have to tie you up, too.”
Quite suddenly, a pistol was pressed into the ruffian’s chest. Charles continued to smile.
“Tell your men to let them down.”
“How… how’d you…”
“I may have been a simple blacksmith, but remember I AM from the Valley of Stella-Terra. We were all taught in the Way of the Gun.”
In her ear, Lilly heard the boy whisper “Now!” and begin swinging his legs. Lilly started to protest, caught up in the action occurring below, and more than a little scared, but the boy was already kicking him in his attempts to swing. She began joining him and they started getting a momentum built up surprisingly quickly.
On the ground, the man looking down the barrel of Charles’ revolver smirked.
“The gunslinger’s day is over, old man. Nowadays any fool can chuck lead.” Tavery began to respond, but before he could, the younger man caught his hand with an iron grasp, and kneed him in the stomach. “Get him, boys!” Buck shouted.
Above them, Peter had caught a beam between his knees and wrapped his legs around it. Lilly was sawing away at the ropes as best she could in her awkward position. She felt something slick and warm begin coating the ropes and Peter tensed behind her.
“What’s wrong?” she squeaked in a scared, half-whisper.
“You cut me a little,” he grunted, and then urgently, “keep cutting!”
The Courtroom was dark as a tomb. Even in daytime, very little light found its way into these chambers. Cliff had been here only once before. Trials were not public spectacles, though hangings most definitely were. Usually during a trial the accused was summoned alone. Occasionally a witness or an accuser was called into the chambers as well, but generally to little effect. All who were tried were hanged.
The Judge ascended to his throne behind a tower-like stone bench, accompanied by a rush of stale air and a flapping sound as the sickening smell of mildew issued from his robe. Settling, the Judge then sat for a long, long time without speaking, as Cliff felt the cold air ebb and flow from the room like breathing. At last a rasping whisper filled the Courtroom.
“Speak,” the voiceless word commanded.
Cliff faltered. He knew he MUST speak as commanded, but he was finding it impossible to summon the necessary words to begin. How do you address a judge, anyway? Somehow ‘Sir’ didn’t seem sufficiently respectful. Wasn’t there a title for judges? Cliff sensed the robed figures growing impatience and blurted, “A man came to town!”
The judge made no response.
“He was dressed in dark clothes,” Cliff continued, encouraged by the silence, “a long tattered duster and nickel emblems in his hat rim. He had two gun belts hanging low at his hips, but didn’t carry any pistols on him. He may have left them on his horse. Great monster of a horse. I… I challenged this man to a gunfight. Kinda stacked the odds in my favor just in case. Can’t be too careful. He never fired a shot. Didn’t even take his gloves off to draw. He just chucked the pistol I gave him and ran for the rooftops. We lost track of him, and he never came back for his horse.”
The more Cliff talked, the more he wondered why he had bothered to concern the Judge with this trivia. The Judge had certainly hung men for lesser offenses than being a stranger, the chief of these being impertinence.
“His hands…” the Judge hissed.
“Wh… I… I beg your pardon… Sir?”
“Did you see the palms of his hands?” The Judge asked.
“No sir. He never took his gloves off, like I was sayin’.”
“Where did the man ride out of?”
“He came on the road from the north.”
“Headed south
then, along the road to
“Don’t know where he’s headed, sir. Could be Quillan.”
“And he wore the garb of the Pistoleer. The Gunslingers of old.”
Cliff fought the look of incredulity that sought purchase on his face.
“Ain’t none of them left.
They was all slaughtered by the Dust Devil and
his riflemen in the
“I need no lesson in history.” There was an underlying menace in the Judge’s hiss, and Cliff suddenly wished to leave very quickly. The Judge spoke again.
“You do not know it, but your information has been most valuable. Return to town and sound the bell. If any of you value your lives you will seek shelter in your houses. Now go!”
Cliff sprinted from the Courtroom stroking his throat in gratitude. He knew what the bell meant. There was only one thing it COULD mean. The Judge was going to send out the Bloodhounds.
Hanging high in the cool, dark corner of the courtroom, a motionless figure had heard the entire exchange between Cliff and the ominous Judge. Rider’s dark cloths blended well with the shadowy corners of the Judge’s Courtroom, and by pressing his hands and knees against the supportive arches, he was able to hang in a calm and stable position well out of sight but within earshot.
Whenever Rider chanced to observe a new person or beast, some monstrously inhuman portion of his mind would immediately and compulsively calculate exactly how to kill them. He knew why this portion of his mind existed, knew exactly what had driven him to this behavior, but could never accept it. One of his more benevolent teachers, and one of the few women who he had ever tutored under, had once told her students that a sawbones (she called him a ‘surgeon’) would use sharp and wicked looking instruments to heal a body. She compared the art of the Muskethom, the Gunslinger, to the trade of the surgeon. A Gunslinger, she said, should never raise his weapon on the innocent or guiltless. It was the oppressive and evil that needed weeding from society.
Of course, Rider had found that life was never quite so simple. Everyone he met seemed to carry some wickedness. Even so, most people had good qualities it was not easy to dismiss.
Rider had immediately disliked Cliff when they had briefly met, and not because the man tried to take his life. Cliff was a small man who had never bothered looking outside himself. But Rider did not see this as a trait worthy of death. As he had charged Cliff in the street, he foresaw himself making a sudden stab forward with his right elbow, driving the hard bone of his arm into the soft cartilage of Cliff’s nose. The bone in Cliff’s skull would shatter and lance into his brainpan. His life would extinguish before he even felt it pass. Again as Cliff stood below him in the Judge’s chamber, Rider considered a silent drop and a quick snap of Cliff’s neck. Rider was able to dismiss these thoughts as a simple survival instinct. Not so easy to dismiss, however, was when the boy had drawn a gun on him, in his mind he dropped to his knee, driving the boy’s gun arm down across his leg and breaking it in three places. Two fingers jabbed between the boy’s ribs then stopped his heart. It was thoughts like these that made Rider see himself for some kind of beast. He silently wondered how thin the membrane was that kept him from actually descending to the level of violence that he was truly capable of.
The Judge was something different. Rider had heard of the Judges, but never actually seen one. While he had allowed a brief consideration of Cliff, most of his attention was focused on the towering robed figure. What was he? Rider did not know. His eyes could not determine whether there was a human form beneath the robe or not. When it moved, it did not lurch or sway the way a person does when they walk. However, Rider had seen a number of people so graceful they seemed to glide. Rider knew he should leave, indeed MUST leave very soon. But that callused and calculating portion of his brain devoted to destruction itched and burned, indeed possessed him unwilling to release him until he discovered this Judge’s weakness. As Cliff hurried away to warn the people of the coming of the Bloodhounds, Rider saw the Judge turn and float deeper into the shadows of the stone structure. Rider dropped soundlessly from his perch, landing on the balls of his feet, and followed the Judge stealthily, hugging the walls and the floor.
Old man Tavery twisted and pulled himself away from the grasp of the younger man as the group of rabble-rousers pulled their rifles and circled in on him. Most of these men had snuck candy from his store-counter as kids. They were about to shoot him now without another thought. What poison, Charles wondered, is eating this town? A rifle roared and pain blossomed in Charles left shoulder as blood and gore shot out behind him. Clenching his teeth, Charles thumbed the hammer on his revolver and neatly picked off the next rifle-totter while the first one was ejecting his shell and re-loading. His left arm hung dead at his side, and he knew he would not be able to fan his shots. He thumbed the hammer again and shot the man in front of him. By this time, two more men were in position to shoot him, and he knew it was over. He only hoped the kid and the girl had been able to escape.
The two men with the rifles quite suddenly let out sharp cries and fell, their weapons clattering to the ground. Peter and Lilly stood behind them. Peter held a branding iron while Lilly was clutching a horseshoe. The men at their feet groaned and clutched their heads. Peter retrieved one of their rifles, expertly opening the chamber and checking it’s round, then covering the two downed men. Lilly ran to Tavery’s side, tears streaming down her face.
“Someone heard the shots. Somebody had too. Hush now, help will be here soon,” Lilly muttered over Tavery as she ripped at her dress, trying to bind his bleeding shoulder. Tavery grimaced hard and spoke through gritted teeth.
“You and the boy best get out of here. Someone will be here alright, but prob’ly not to help. Did the man ever come back here?”
“No, no he never did.”
Just then the village bell began ringing loud and frantic. Peter’s eyes shot up toward the street.
“The Hounds!” he shouted. They all knew what the bell must mean. Lilly began trying to drag Tavery in toward the stable while Peter grabbed the stable doors and pulled them desperately toward close, the whole time urging Lilly to hurry.
“Leave me!” Charles howled as Lilly lurched and yanked at him, “Get the boy to safety, woman.”
Regretfully, Lilly laid him to the ground. Before leaving him in the street she whispered in his ear the only words that had ever brought her comfort, “They say a Hero will save us.”
Then Charles Tavery lay alone.
The robe, seemingly draped on thin air, glided down through a labyrinth of dark hallways and corridors. Rider had to rely on the rustle of the Judge’s garment to guide him as the light became but a distant memory.
Moving silently was an old Scrayling trick that Rider had never really mastered. Scraylings, although they seemed almost supernaturally stealthy, were greatly aided in their silent movement by their footwear, which was usually doeskin or frequently their naked feet. Rider had learned a cheaper trick of moving only when other sounds covered up the ones you made. He coolly ticked off each left and right turn, creating a mental map for the journey back to the surface. Finally the robe drifted into what Rider assumed to be a large chamber by the echoes within.
“Lord Baron,” the Judge’s hollow voice sounded in the darkness.
“Ah, good Judge Plinkton, what have you to report?” came a lilting voice that echoed up as if from some eternal tunnel. Rider cocked his head. In a distant part of his mind, he wondered if the Judge was truly speaking to the Baron, and if so, was he here in this cave or was this some sort of witchcraft? More immediate on his mind was the itching feeling that the voice that spoke back to the Judge was somehow familiar. It was a beautiful voice. He found it enticing, on the verge of sensual, and he had to grit his teeth and focus to keep from drifting on the sound of the voice.
“A stranger has come to town,” the Judge continued.
“One of two great stories. The other, of course being: a boy goes on a journey. I wonder, in this case, if they are not in fact the same story?”
“The evidence is not conclusive, but it is possible that this may be the son of Jack Rider.”
“Jack Rider, the old fool. Did this stranger make trouble?”
“More likely the men of Plinkton gave him trouble. From what I gathered he did not so much fight as run. Still, he rode in from the north, and Plinkton is one of the towns on the passageway to Quillan and the Great Library.”
There was a long pause. Then the harmonious voice said, “It was my understanding that Eric Rider was broken. I have assurances from my loyal servant that that boy would never have the strength of his father. Yet one of the infuriating traits of our adversary is that he often does great things through the weak and insignificant.”
The voice was silent. The Judge did not stir. Rider pulled his bandana up around his nose to muffle his breath from the echoing cavern.
“Very well,” the voice spoke at last, “I have made a decision in this matter. Hound Eric Rider. Have your dogs do their trick and let this matter be closed once and for all.”
“As you will, so I do, my Lord.”
So saying, the Judge rushed out of the cavernous room with a roar of air that almost lifted Rider’s hat from his head.
Rider sat a spell, listening for stirrings within the dark. When he was content that everything lay still, he produced a sulfur match from his sleeve and struck it on a rock. It flared brightly sending out chokingly bitter fumes. The cavern was large, though not as big as Rider had imagined it. It was unevenly hewn granite, and Rider could see spots along the wall that indicated dynamite may have been used to blast this opening. He suspected he was now beneath the mountain somewhere, probably an area that had been used to quarry the granite blocks that had constructed the Courthouse. In the center of the cavern stood a well. It was startlingly well-constructed, even blocks stacked in a staggered, symmetrical manner. He saw no evidence of anyone else actually being in the room. He rose from where he crouched behind a small boulder and strode casually toward the well. As he walked, he used the toe of his boot to flip a rock into the air, then snatched it with his hand. He held the match over the opening of the well. His small and flickering light did not reach very far into the darkness beneath. He dropped the rock into the shaft and listened for a plunk. After what seemed to be minutes, he could hear the rock striking another rock echoing up from the well, the sound seeming deceptively close to his ear. Instantly a voice floated up from the interior.
“Who is there?”
Without thinking, Rider grabbed the flame of his match in his gloved fist, choking it away. It was the same musical voice the Judge had addressed as the Baron. Rider did not respond. He thought about leaving. Why he didn’t leave, he could not say.
“That is not Rider, is it? Eric? The lost son of Stella-Terra?”
“What do you want from me?” Rider growled.
“It IS
you! I thought perhaps I had just
requested the execution of an innocent man.
I was told you died by the madness in the town of
“Do I know you?”
“No. But I know YOU. I have had my eye on you for some time, Eric. Do you know only three people survived the massacre of Stella-Terra? One of them lives right there in Plinkton. You might have time to look him up before the Bloodhounds find you.”
“Why can’t you just leave me be?” Rider breathed between gritted teeth.
“You disgrace yourself young Rider. I would mind my words if I were you. You are the son of Jack Rider, the great unifier of the West Wheel. You would do well to act like it. You may yet survive the Bloodhounds of Plinkton. If you do, I should warn you that the Great Library of Quillan is under siege by ten battalions of Riflemen. They are not as seasoned as the ones who destroyed your valley, and the Librarians of Quillan are zealous defenders of their knowledge-trove. But as we speak, my loyal servant, known as the Dust Devil, is riding hard and fast toward the Great Library. When he arrives, he will lead the massacre of Quillan just as he lead the troop into your valley ten years ago. And the Great Library will fall. The books within will burn, their records lost forever.”
“You lie.”
“When it serves my purpose. But I assure you what I have told you is very much the truth. The sun is sinking in the West, young Rider. Your time is short and many obstacles lie in your path.”
“What makes you think I am even interested in the Library? I’m just a rambler, trying to make my way in the world.”
The voice laughed lightly.
“I know what you seek, Young Rider. I know all about your plan. I can assure you that you will fail. You are near the end of your path. There is no hope.”
“They say a Hero will save us.”
“Yes, I know. I personally started that rumor. False hope is an excellent excuse for complacence.”
“You WILL pay, monster,” Rider said coldly, turning on his heal to go. As he crept from the chamber, he heard a voice echoing up behind him, “Get along, little cowpoke. Already the hounds are nipping at your heals.” This followed by lilting laughter. Rider would not sleep well ever again.
The howls rose like sirens, they sank right down into a man’s soul and lay there like a sharp bone caught in the throat. Charles Tavery drifted in and out of awareness. The howls brought him out of his pain-hazy stupor as he lay bleeding in the street. He knew what the sounds were, knew what they meant, knew that they would not limit their appetites to whatever prey they had been commanded to pursue. Most men gave themselves over rather than to run from the Bloodhounds. Many innocent people had died in their path, people in the wrong place at the wrong time. Charles was vaguely aware of the ruffians Lilly and Peter had felled rising groggily to their feet and trying to stumble away. He heard them take a few steps. He faded away into the gray, swirling void for a moment.
When he came to again, the young men were screaming gurgling cries that were cut short by horribly wet, snapping noises and loud grunting.
Charles must have faded again, because next time he came about, he could see them. Enormous, dark dogs, as large as bears, circled him, sniffing at the ground around him. Pink-tinted drool and gore dripped from their yellowing maws. He knew his end had come, and he willed himself back into unconsciousness.
Unlikely though it seemed, Charles came around a forth time. The dogs were gone as if they had never been there. He thought he heard the ghost of a howl in the distance, but he wondered if he hadn’t dreamed the whole thing. He felt himself being dragged and suddenly the world dimmed as he was pulled indoors out of the sun.
“You’re lucky, old man. The bullet went clean through and hit nothing but muscle and bone…”
Pain hit him like a second bullet, and Charles’ scream was mercifully muffled by a hand stuffing a rag over his mouth.
“Didn’t think you’d like that. The whiskey I just poured on the hole in your arm will hopefully keep you from getting infected. Now try to keep quiet while I wrap you up.”
Charles felt himself being shoved roughly this way and that as cloth soaked in whiskey was wrapped about his rifle injury. At last, the man propped him up and he felt the tip of a bottle pressed against his lips. The strong fumes told him it was the same whiskey that had been poured into his wound. He closed his mouth and turned away.
“Water.”
His blurry eyes told him the figure shrugged and disappeared for a moment. Soon a canteen was at his mouth and he slurped at it thirstily. The water was surprisingly cold as if fresh from the well, and his head cleared a bit.
Only then did he get a good look at his savior. It was the young man from the store. The young man who had been hassled into a street-fight. The young man he recognized from a long time ago. The boy now a man. The son of the last President of the West Wheel.
“Thanks, Eric.”
“Thank my hopeless sentimentality, Blacksmith. I should have let you die.”
“You got a world of trouble coming here, son.”
“Reckon so.”
“I heard they branded you.”
Eric winced at this.
“They did.”
“You’d best make tracks if you want to live, son. I dropped your supplies out on the street somewhere.”
Eric rose and strode toward the door.
“They say a Hero will save us,” the old blacksmith of Stella-Terra called after him. At first Rider gave no indication that he had heard the man. But as he pulled the door open, he turned. His eyes were hidden in the shadow of his wide hat.
“I ain’t your hero, old man.”
And then he was gone.
