Category Archives: Short Stories

Over the Broken Banks of Bannock Part 7

Kait got sick again which delayed my workout schedule which makes me forget what day it is. That is my excuse for the late Bannock post.

I thought hanging would be suitable until I saw a bunch of real life photos. Aaaaand that was a bad idea.

Detail of Saint George and the Princess of Trebizond by Pisanello (1436-1438)

They made quite the parade as the followed the voices. Felicity gripped the pistol in her hand, the deputy had his nose buried in his sleeve trying to staunch its flow, Laure juggled the heavy metal chains and Schroeder was left trying to put as much distance between his suit and the man’s fluids.

As they went, the speaking grew louder and louder. They rounded the general store to see a raised wood platform. A noose dangled ominously in the centre, the long bar capable of stringing nearly seven bodies at a time. It spoke to the town’s need to prosecute thieves and hinted at just how profitable their mining was.

Sheriff Plummer took the centre, addressing the gathered crowd. Behind him stood the accused. Felicity expected him to be screaming his innocence profusely but he had some distant look in his eyes as if he’d long accepted his fate. Ranger Hayes stood steely by his side, holding the rope bounding the outlaw’s hands and slowly twisting it in his gloves.

But the most dissatisfied individual on the stage was Nicolai himself. His fine suit of extravagant silk was beginning to darken along his pits and Felicity guessed it wasn’t just due to the heat. The magnate seemed to regard all the men on the stage with equal suspicion and disgust. Felicity slipped Schroeder’s pistol into the waist of her pants and took the manacles from Schroeder’s hand. She motioned for the sharpshooter to take a position before handing the restraints to Laure.

And that is when they heard the sheriff speak.

“My fine folk of Bannock, too long have we toiled beneath the fear and savagery of bandits and murderers. For too long have our children and businesses been ravaged by evils of lesser men. The crimes of this Mr. Hopkins are too numerous to mention. They extend far beyond a simple bridge or missing crate. They’re the monthly losses of good ole Malcolm trying to keep enough together to provide us with our simple basins and hoes. They’re the nights little Annie has to go hungry because Mr. Truestone can’t afford a simple loaf of bread with his wages snatched from impenetrable safes!

“But my people of Bannock, I – Sheriff Henry Plummer – have strove to end this suffering. I have cast far and wide in search of these outlaws. Endless hours and nights we’ve spent in our hunt. We would not let the fathomless expanses hide this villain. No dark hole was dark enough to keep him from justice. It was my duty, nay, my pleasure to serve you fine folk who toil daily to keep this the finest town on the frontier!

“Throughout the entire trial, this despicable Mr. Hopkins refused to speak a word against the heinous charges laid against him. He refused to acknowledge the terrible price he’d extracted from your hard labour. He didn’t defend his actions after the news of the destruction of the Glorious Belt Bridge. He would make a mockery of our systems and our justice. For that, only the heaviest punishment can be afforded. Only the graces of the Lord and his divines can judge the true weight of his sin. All we can do is hasten him to those white walls and golden gates. Let those of nobler spirit than ours see fit if he holds a place in the Kingdom or if he’s to be turned out to the Wilds amongst the untamed that he so embraces.

“If there be any man who finds our process unjust, then let him speak. Else bring the outlaw forward so that he may face divine retribution for the suffering he has wrought!”

Sheriff Plummer turned, motioning at the man and the noose. As Ranger Hayes forced him forward, the outlaw’s boots echoed against the wood boards. But another sound broke over the solemn silence. A great applause thundered through the proceeding, causing heads to turn and voices to whisper. Felicity stepped forward, the crowd parting to let her applause and clanking prisoner through.

At first the sheriff turned, a look of confused amusement on his face. But when he saw his deputy barely dressed with hands shackled and split shirt stained from his bloody nose down turned in embarrassment, the fat man’s smile waned.

“Remarkable speech, sheriff. I reckon, perhaps, you misjudge your place as humble lawman. You be better suited for the high halls of coastal magistracy with their double talk and betraying smiles.”

“What’s the meaning of this!” he huffed, his whiskers bristling. “You best have a good explanation for this depravity towards my fellow!”

Felicity ignored him, fetching the letters from her pocket and holding them proudly as she turned to address the crowd.

“I ask you, fine folk of Bannock, with your marauding bandit captured where is your stolen goods? Where are these riches that would drag your distant and uncaring magnate to your door?”

Nicolai seemed to stir at the barb but curiosity simmered his anger. However, as she approached the stage, two of Plummer’s men moved to intercept. She paused as they drew their weapons but when they made to take the letters, she pulled away.

“Let her pass.”

Nicolai’s voice broke the momentary tension. The goons turned to the sheriff who cast a quick glance at the Ranger. Felicity’s fingers unconsciously drifted towards the borrowed pistol.

At last, the sheriff nodded and Felicity began to climb the platform. The wood clattered beneath her boots as she took the steps two at a time. Sheriff Plummer looked absolutely fuming but raised not a word as she drew defiantly before him.

“Now what this about?” Nicolai demanded. Felicity held up the letters but didn’t turn from the sheriff.

“I hazard that, despite the cajoling of our good sheriff, he was unable to procure the location of your missing ore. And should Dirty Hopkins have elected to speak, I reckon he’d profess ignorance for any robbery of your line. But why would he when clearly the court arraigned against him ain’t no greater than a pony show with little interest in either truth or justice?”

A murmur rose from the gathered townsfolk. The sheriff eyed them warily before turning upon Felicity.

“Are you saying this man is no outlaw? You who brought him back to us, wounded by your own rough handling?”

“I make no claim towards his character,” Felicity spat. “He is both craven and merciless. If those be your charges then you can hand me the rope and I will string him myself for all those that have perished by his hand. But if my people are to die, it won’t be in vain.”

“This is a farce,” the sheriff said. “Remove her!”

Felicity turned to Nicolai but he didn’t immediately object as the sheriff’s boys came to her side. The two men that had intercepted her earlier flanked Laure, taking the deputy’s chains from her hands. Felicity pulled her coat free, turning to the Ranger as they snatched for the papers.

“The only farce is putting a scheming ne’er-do-well in charge of doling out justice! Your deputy has already confessed your sins, sheriff. Your plot’s been revealed.”

The sheriff turned to his manacled man, and his heavy gaze caused the sniffling deputy to cower further. But a shift was certainly affecting the crowd. No doubt the deputy had worn his fearsome mask in his dealings with them. This half undressed, soiled and simpering fool was a shade of the scarred lawman.

“I know not what tortures you’ve enacted upon him nor even what purpose you insinuate of my nature.”

“Murder and theft as well as an untamed scheme to bring ruin to the very folk you preach and preen before. In my hands I have correspondences with your buyer for the ores you stole and seek to pin on this man! These fetched from your desk beneath the direction of that blubbering caitiff.”

“I-I’m sorry, boss!” the deputy pleaded. “She… she is an untamed. Near slit my throat…!”

Laure kicked him unceremoniously to the ground, strangling his voice in a great cloud of dirt. He snivelled at the people’s feet as her guards pulled her roughly away. The sheriff rounded on Felicity.

“Salacious lies! Who are you to challenge my authority? You’re just some honour less bounty hunter preying on the weak and needy for your coin. Hand me those papers!”

“I think I look first,” Nicolai finally said.

“Sir, we should not entertain these deluded claims. No doubt she is in league with Hopkins himself and this is some scam to discredit our efforts and play you the fool!”

The sheriff snatched at the papers but Felicity dodged his hands. However, the sheriff’s men were many on the platform and were fast upon her: pinning her arms behind her back and claiming the documents for their leader.

“See here!” Nicolai cried.

But as he stepped forward, hands fell to weapons. The magnate’s look was as hard and steely as his office’s facade. But in that moment, it was clear he was outnumbered. His hired lawmen turned not to him but the sheriff. And their posturing was clear.

“Come now, sir Nicolai. Your gracious patronage has brought peace and order to this town. Let us do our duty and deal with these outlaws.”

“Sheriff Plummer…!”

But Nicolai held his reply as the sheriff’s men drew their guns.

“This will all be over soon,” Plummer cried. “Order will be restored to Bannock. Even if we must string up Hopkin’s conspirators as well!”

“Truly?” Felicty laughed. “And do you expect these people to forget that a Ranger has gone missing? Or you reckoned his murder would be forgotten once you had some necks to twist in your ropes?”

The sheriff spat as his men handed him the letters.

“You should have made your way from town once you had your pay,” the sheriff sneered, stepping close. His great stomach pressed against Felicity as he leaned in so his round face was inches from hers. “But perhaps you have some feelings for this degenerate. Seems you leave me little recourse than to string you up with him for your impetuousness.”

“Or maybe we’ll look at those documents before we make any hasty decisions.”

A click of the hammer caused the sheriff to straighten. Ranger Hayes had his rifle raised and leveraged at the fat man’s chest.

“You still have failed to explain my brother’s disappearance.”

The sheriff shrugged.

“How am I suppose to know where your kind go, Ranger? They prowl the endless plains. He could have run afoul of hostile savages. Or maybe he stumbled upon this villainous pair and they got the better of him. Perhaps they tossed his body unceremoniously into them canyons.”

“Then it won’t be an issue if we take a look at the little lady’s evidence,” Ranger Hayes replied, his gun unmoving.

The sheriff gave only the briefest of glances at the papers in his hand to confirm their identity. Then he shook his head and gave a hearty laugh.

“Likely forgeries, anyway. Why would I keep such incriminating documents if I were so devious?”

“Perhaps to blackmail your correspondent if he reneged on his end? Or maybe you ain’t so untamedly bright. But I reckon I’d rather peruse them then have a word with your deputy myself before we continue.”

The sheriff’s smile melted away as his thick lips churned his predicament. He looked at the deputy still lying face down in the dirt.

“You fool,” he sneered. “You lowly, heat stricken fool. Don’t think I won’t deal with you later for this.”

The sheriff reached quickly for his coat pocket but a sudden thunder clap broke the air. All attending flinched at the sound. Felicity regarded the Ranger’s rifle but it still laid cocked in his hands.

The wood at the sheriff’s feet was cracked from where the bullet struck. Still standing with hand in his coat and letters shaking slightly in his fingers, the fat man turned. A mass shifted upon the roof of the General Store as Schroeder made a show of adjusting his aim.

Felicity quickly disentangled herself from her captors’ hands, rushing the sheriff before he could wage his chances against the Ranger and the sharpshooter. She snatched into his pockets and fetched the gun from its holster. With him disarmed, Ranger Hayes approached and grabbed the letters from the sheriff’s hand. He then turned his rifle towards the sheriff’s lawmen ordering them to drop their weapons. Ever so slowly, they obliged, the guns clattering against the floor.

As the Ranger turned to the documents, Nicolai stepped boldly forward.

“What do they read?”

“It’s as the lady inferred,” Ranger Hayes said. “Appears the sheriff was stealing supplies all across town and selling them off for his own. Even makes mention of hiring an outlaw to blame the whole business upon.”

The magnate ripped them from the Ranger’s hands, looking them over as well. His face grew even redder as he read, his fingers shaking with rage and embarrassment.

“To think I listen to you all morning striding smug before me,” Nicolai growled. “And the destruction of the bridge, you blithely destroyed years of work and preparation! I want these men punished, Ranger! Punished! This… this is unacceptable!”

The governor spat on the sheriff’s fine suit.

“As if you’re any better,” Sheriff Plummer sneered. “You growing fat and wealthy with nary a consideration for the folk that do all the digging for you. You rail lords ain’t nothing but thieves in better dress. You twist the law to your bidding, ruling worse than the nobles back across the waters! You thought you the only one that could manipulate these people. You’re just as stupid as the rest of them.”

“Hang them! And squeeze this fat lout into the cage!” Nicolai’s brow twitched as he stood but inches from the sheriff, quivering with fury. “Your soul goes nowhere. Let vultures pick you clean like you picked me.”

The magnate turned, heading for the stairs. Ranger Hayes regarded the other lawmen, beginning to follow the magnate’s words. In that brief respite, the sheriff grew desperate. Laure called out, slipping her arms free and knocking over one of her guards with a swift strike of her wrench to his gut. Her hands fell upon the gun of the other and the weapon seemed to fall apart in her fast fingers. But the sheriff struck lightning quick, bringing his fist heavily upon Felicity’s hand. The sheriff’s pistol fell from her fingers and in that moment the sheriff snatched at the weapon tucked into her hip. He grabbed her roughly, angling her body between him and the sharpshooter as he raised the gun to her head.

“Die, whore!”

He pulled the trigger.

And he pulled it again.

And he pulled it a third time.

He blinked at this seemingly divine providence right before Felicity drove her elbow hard into his gut. Pain wretched him forward and she slammed her fist into his face, crunching his nose beneath her knuckles. A spatter of blood shot out as she grabbed the collar of his vest, pulling his retreating head into her forehead. The already softened cartilage crunched again as he howled in pain before she drove her leg hard into his groin, keeling him onto his knees.

She scooped up the guns on the ground and without a word, let loose a single shot right into his fat rump.

He squealed like a pig, collapsing on the ground and rolling in pain. His hands knew not where to go between the bloody mess of his face, his throbbing groin or the shot in his ass.

The Ranger regarded her.

“That really necessary?”

“Perhaps not,” Felicity shrugged. “But it’s satisfying. Ain’t nothing that’ll finish him and it’s the least Pacal deserves. Make sure justice is seen, lawman.”

She emptied the sheriff’s pistol over the edge of the stage before tossing it in the pile at the Ranger’s feet. Before anyone could say otherwise, she moved to the steps, walking quickly from the platform and through the crowd. Schroeder was already clamouring down from the store when Laure and Felicity reached his side.

“Well, that was thrilling!” Laure said.

Felicity paused, turning to Schroeder.

“Appreciated.”

She held out the pistol raised against her moments ago. Schroeder reached for it with a smile.

“So, what was that about me needing proper care? You could say I saved your life right there.”

She pulled it back, twirling the gun into her hand and raised it to his head before clicking the trigger.

“There, now it’s square,” she tossed the gun into his chest. “Don’t let it happen again else you might be able to do more than shoot up some wood.”

He fumbled his catch and as he picked it up, she gave one last glance back at the stage. With the sheriff incapacitated the rest of the lawmen easily bowed before the Ranger. Many of the townsfolk assisted with the arrests, almost a little too eager to bring the gang that once held order to heel.

Then Schroeder looked back at Felicity, calling out as they made their way towards the train, “Wait, that doesn’t makes us even at all!”

Over the Broken Banks of Bannock Part 6

It’s Friday so you know what that means. Actually, it doesn’t mean anything but I still have this short story kicking around incomplete on the site. So have some more Bannock!

Jails aren't really the sort of thing that survive through the ages, oddly enough.

Eaves Western Set Jail. Photo courtesy of nmfo and accessed from http://rs.locationshub.com/Slideshow.aspx?lid=013-10003765&id=35838.

“I’m confused. Don’t we hate, Hopkins.”

“I ain’t seeing the relevance.” Felicity stood on a crate, watching the deputy sitting in the office. He was an unsavoury sort with dark, shifting eyes and a large scar running down his cheek indicating he was no stranger to confrontations. But there was an edginess to his character highlighted by the dark leather vest that he wore. He busied himself with a small collection of woodblock prints of questionable content. They appeared most salacious: a variety of paintings of men and women in various compromising positions captured in the base painting style of the western colonies. Felicity had glimpsed a few more bloodier in nature. Those appeared as gratuitous depictions of violence and bloodshed and she wasn’t sure which the deputy found more entertaining.

“Well,” Schroeder said. “I don’t see why we’ve got to ruin a good thing. We’ve been paid. A criminal is going to hang. There’s nothing stopping us from just hopping on and going our merry way.”

“It’s the principal.”

“See, that’s the part where I struggle,” Schroeder said. “We’ve got nothing to prove. We did our job and were paid. I’m pretty ambivalent towards the Bian Chong. If you want to work with him, that’s fine. Coin is coin no matter what Empire it’s from.

“But I don’t see why we should be placing ourselves at unnecessary risk. Hopkins is an outlaw. A despicable man. Lots died in the explosion at the bridge and he didn’t so much as blink an eye.”

“He deserves to hang for what he’s done,” Laure said.

“I ain’t being played a fool.” Felicity’s eyes narrowed. “Pacal wouldn’t want a man to hang for the wrong reasons no matter how much he deserved it. I won’t see Hopkins punished just for gunning Pacal down. Though he ain’t stop the charges from going off he did stop Hopkins from getting away. If Sheriff Plummer had a hand in Pacal’s death – well I’ll see to it he gets the same that Hopkins does.”

“So this is about petty revenge and looking foolish,” Schroeder said.

“It’s about doing the right thing.”

“Right thing. An awfully quaint conceit from us, don’t you think?”

“No.”

“Of course not. When we rob and steal it’s wholly different.”

“Precisely.”

“So long as a line’s been drawn then.”

“Look, even a scoundrel can know the difference between wrong and necessity. What’s important ain’t each individual action but the net worth of our lives. We help those that need it and we avoid stealing from those that ain’t deserving.”

“Didn’t take you for the golden scales kind of gal,” Schroeder said. “Weight of one’s own sins and what not.”

“What else you propose?”

Schroeder shrugged.

“Wu wei. Be like the river and just float along.”

Felicity shook her head.

“Should have guessed. Think we can blow it?”

Laure rapped her knuckles against the stone wall and slowly shook her head. “They build them jails tighter than a hex nut on a vault front for that very reason.”

“It’s true,” Schroeder continued. “A criminal will commit crime. It is his nature. To fight against that nature is to enact your will on the greater cosmic harmony.”

“I ain’t reckoning that’s the priests’ preaching.”

“What would you know? Doesn’t the Lord say something about not killing?”

“I’m fairly certain, given the frame of the discourse, they ain’t agree to turn away from what’s just because the nature of a criminal is cowardice.”

“That’s because you aren’t aligning yourself with the pure force of the universe,” Schroeder said, closing his eyes. He began to weave his hands in stoic mimicry of the priests’ meditations, each limb moving about Felicity in languid, undulating motions as if he were little more than a leaf upon a river rushing to its end.

“I worry what you gather during our trips.”

“Do not fear the unknown,” he continued, his voice slow and peaceful. “Embrace the primordial state. Refuse the desire to assert your will and bend others to your authority.”

Felicity frowned and Schroeder felt the bare of her palm upside his head.

“You see, you disturb the natural balance!”

“Can’t help it – it’s my nature. Now come, your blathering inspired me to our proper course.”

“We’re returning to the train?” Laure asked.

“We should act like the outlaws we are.”

Felicity lifted the pistol in her hands and wove around the jail with the engineer in pursuit. She didn’t wait for the tardy Schroeder, rounding upon the wood front door and casting the briefest glance for watchers.

With a shatter, the latch broke from its hold beneath Felicity’s boot and the startled deputy fell back in his chair. His prints fluttered into the air, falling like thick white leaves about his head. He struggled to address this sudden assault, but as he disentangled from his chair his legs caught about his trousers still wrapped around his ankles. With a shout he tumbled, face cracking against the corner of the desk before he planted upon the floor.

Felicity walked over, pressing the cold tip of the pistol against his cheek.

“How about we not paint this floor today, hm?”

Twisting his lips to the side, the deputy protested.

“The mag already came by to take your money to your ship!”

Felicity heard Schroeder struggling to set the door back in place and motioned urgently for him. As Laure began searching for some restraints, Felicity directed Schroeder to the lawman’s lowered belt and the fop rescued the gun. Felicity took it for a second before pitching it in the dirt outside the jail.

“I’ll tell you how we’re proceeding,” Felicity said. “First thing: my man is going to lift your long johns…”

“Come on!”

“… and then you’re going to tell me which of these desks is the sheriff’s. While we bound your hands, you’ll co-operate yourself peacefully into one of these cells while we get the information we need.”

“We don’t got anything more, I swear!”

The deputy choked back further cries as Felicity pressed the gun harder against his cheek.

“We ain’t looking to steal. Least nothing legal.”

“This about the shipments? Plummer said you ain’t going to collect until the end of the month.”

Laure paused from searching the nearby hooks and even Schroeder turn to the captain at the deputy’s confession. Felicity wasn’t sure she had heard the deputy correctly either.

“You know about that then?”

“Do I?” the deputy asked in faked surprise.

Felicity released one of her two bullets into the floorboards by the deputy’s head. He flinched, giving a great deluge of apologies as his face turned away and his body quivered.

Felicity returned the smoking barrel to his other cheek.

“Must I explain the alternative? Because I reckon I can find what I need before that sham trial ends and still replicate at least one of these.”

She flipped through the wood prints with her boot until she found one particularly torturous one.

“I… what do you wa-want to know…”

Tears started to stream down his face in an unseemly manner. They mixed with the blood oozing from his nose to patter against the smooth floor. Laure located the sheriff’s manacles. The thick iron weighed more than she anticipated and she grunted as she lifted them over. She clasped the bracers around the deputy’s waiting wrists. With the manacles securely fastened, Felicity grabbed roughly at the chain binding them, pulling the deputy from the ground and pressing him up against a post. A quick flick of the chain and she had it wrapped securely about one of the hooks. A final tug confirmed they were solid before she extracted her new knife from her boot.

“What was on that print? Nose to navel?”

She ran the blade sharply down his front, splitting the buttons on his vest and cutting the whole cloth through. The deputy simpered, his entire body shaking violently against the chains.

“I’ll tell! I’ll tell! Please!”

Felicity stepped back. The deputy took four slow breaths, sniffling his bloodied nose as he steadied his heart. When he opened his eyes, he visibly squirmed at the knife tapping impatiently against her neck.

“Ain’t nobody suppose to know. Sheriff Plummer got it right in his head that we could start skimming some off the miners’ shipments. You know, a few crates here and there. Ain’t nobody going to miss a bit of ore. Given the bloody price they go for after awhile we’d have a nice, cozy profit.”

“I ain’t seeing where Hopkins comes in to this.”

“Well… the sheriff, see, he’s getting a little fat on the hog. He’s liking this scheme but reckons there’s more to squeeze. So he gets a couple of the boys together and we wrestle up some bandanas and big hats. Make ourselves like fancy brigands and what-have-you. Ain’t nobody going to question and we can just knock a few ships when they come for their loads.

“But the mag’ ain’t liking this. The bigger our take the more it cuts his profits, see? So he tells Plummer this needs proper concluding. Plummer says he’s doing all he can but the mag’ won’t be satisfied without a neck in the noose. So, Plummer convinces the fool that a few more men is needed for tracking these bandits. The suit agrees and now Plummer’s sitting on a big group of hooligans. More hands means more hauling from the ships when we come knocking.

“But the suit’s getting real angry now. That’s when the Rangers come. Start poking around, see? Guessing he got full of Plummer’s hamstringing and sought the lawmen on his own.”

“Ranger Hayes?” Schroeder asked.

“Naw, not him. First bloke came alone and discovered the sales deeds. Obviously, he gets right suspicious. Plummer gets him taken care of and sends him packing in a five foot hole. But that makes the suit even more irate. So then Plummer gets the brilliant idea to start laying the blame on some actual thieves. Offers some foolish sap way more than its worth to knock over a pointless post then catches him and strings him up.”

“So why was Hopkins sent to blow the Glorious Belt Bridge?” Felicity asked.

“I’m getting to that!” the deputy growled. “See, while the mag’ is happy to see some sap dangling from the cage he’s still right riffed there ain’t no sign of his ore. And the sheriff is prancing around in his fancies and the suit is all dusting for Plummer’s white powdered face. He’s saying that the sheriff best find his ore or heads will roll. sheriff decides it’s best to make it seem they ran the rocks over to the Jaders so the suit will rattle off his back. And what best way to do it than to have an outlaw attempt a daring escape while blowing the route to cover his trails!”

“And the bounty was just to legitimize the scam?” Schroeder asked.

“Naw, that was the Ranger’s idea. Guess offing one don’t get rid of the pack. This one’s even more ornery. At least the first would join us in the saloon from time to time. This Hayes fellow just scowls and heads off into the wilds on his own. Don’t seem none trustful.”

“So where are you keeping the goods?”

The deputy paused, licking dry lips.

“I… don’t rightly know.”

“That’s a shame. And you were doing so well.”

Felicity raised the knife again and the deputy howled before the blade even drew close.

“Check the desk!”

She slapped the deputy hard across the check.

“Which is his?”

Blubbering, the man pointed with his chin. Schroeder hurried over, rifling through the papers on top. But most were notices from townsfolk about petty disturbances or Nicolai frustrated with the lack of progress. Once he’d made a proper mess, Schroeder turned to the drawers, ripping them open and scattering the contents about the floor. But nothing looked like a proper bill of sale. However, as he went to rip the bottom drawer, it caught against the lock and no matter how hard he pulled he couldn’t work it free.

“The key?”

“Do-don’t know. The safe?”

“I ain’t got time for this,” Felicity sighed.

She whistled for Schroeder’s attention then tossed the pistol to him. Schroeder fumbled to catch the weapon, gritting his teeth worried it would discharge in his hands. Once he realized he hadn’t put a bullet through himself he looked back at his captain.

“Just get this done.”

Stepping back, Schroeder closed his eyes and leaned away from the weapon. The crack filled the entire room and a puff curled from the barrel. The bullet splintered wood and he sneaked a peep of his work.

“Not bad,” he smiled.

“What’s inside?”

He pulled the drawer right out from the desk and frowned at his prize.

“Nothing.”

Felicity turned back to the deputy, raising the knife high over her head. The man howled as she thrust it forward. Laure gave a sharp scream. The blade crunched as it bit into the wood. It took a few seconds for the deputy to process what happened and Felicity noted the stain growing along the leg of his long johns. She walked over, looking at the fruits of their labour.

She also frowned at the bare bottom of the drawer.

“That ain’t right. Who locks a naked drawer?”

Schroeder shrugged, leaning over the container and running a slow hand over the surface.

“Could be some sorcerer’s trickery. It’s not unheard of for a magnate to commission a ward or glamour to protect his most important documents. Doubtful the sheriff would be able or inclined, though.”

Felicity saw Schroeder pause, his brow raising curiously.

“You got something?”

“Not a reactant for an incantation. It’s smaller though, like a hole…”

The was a soft crack as he pried the entire bottom loose.

Beneath was a stuffed secret compartment.

A whole pile of paper was kept inside. Felicity snatched them up and as she scanned them she passed them to Schroeder. Stacks of letters and correspondences were jumbled together and as she scanned the spidery, flowing script she noticed they were an exchange between Sheriff Plummer and some cautious individual who only signed as Mr. Qv in a soft, flowing hand.

But the contents were clear enough. The fool went so far to even explain that it was pinched from the magnate’s shipments. Unfortunately, it lacked the location where the sheriff had it stashed and the only mention seemed to be for an exchange in a few days time.

“What do you make of it?”

“Certainly not a bill,” Schroeder said, “but I’d think damning enough. The correspondent is incredibly cautious but we got Plummer’s own confession in writing. Should weigh heavily in a court, I’d wager.”

Felicity stuffed them in her pocket.

“This will have to do,” she said. She motioned at the deputy. “Best bring him along too.”

She pulled the knife from the post, leaving the snivelling man to Schroeder and Laure.

Schroeder struggled to loosen the manacles from the nail and, when he finally did, he gave the man a sharp kick in the rump to get him moving. The deputy stumbled and tripped over his trousers still dragging on the ground but Schroeder refused to lift them. Laure gathered up some of the loose chain, trying to keep it from dragging. Felicity stepped into the street and searched for the town hall. But as the others emerged with the deputy, she could hear the echo of voices ringing through the abandoned town.

The trial had concluded.

Over the Broken Banks of Bannock Part 4

Working late or late working, eh?

Here’s more Bannock for the evening.

Taken from wikipedia. So it's creative commons!

Pioneertown, California. Specifically the saloon and bath house. Photo by Matthew Field

Felicity regarded herself in the mirror. After sorting the details with the manager, and passing Nicolai’s promissory along, she had purchased one night’s stay for her and her crew in a modest hotel. The first thing she did was run a bath. Even after soaking in the tin basin for hours, she was still finding smudges of filth. She spent most the morning hunting down the persistent marks of the rails. Dipping the cloth in the small water basin, she pressed against a dark stain, but it took a few wipes for her to realize it was a bruise and not dried blood or dirt.

“Looking awfully fine this morning, captain.”

“Stow it, Schroeder, else I’ll see you scrubbing the bilge tubes till the first snows fall over Huo Hanh.”

She could see him in the reflection of the mirror. The fop drew erect in the door frame, raising his hand in mock salute.

“Sir, yes sir! Just trying to compliment my captain on the benefits of a decent bath and some fresh clothes, sir!”

“Fresh water and a scum’s hanging ain’t luxuries we often enjoy. Might as well make the most of the day.”

“Really looking forward to Hopkin’s five foot shuffle?”

“Ain’t nothing unrighteous in enjoying a bit of justice,” Felicity shrugged.

“Considering our appetites, I don’t know if hungering for justice is a healthy craving.”

“Sure, the frontier ain’t the clearest on the right and the wrong but he ain’t done right by my people and for that I’m aiming to see him pay.”

“Awww,” Schroeder softened his features, “I’m touched captain. But it was only a sprain at best.”

“Get off it,” Felicity frowned. “You know very well I mean Pacal. Ain’t a fitting end for such a noble man. He deserved better.”

Schroeder’s grin vanished. He shifted on his feet, the weight of the unspoken words too much for him to bear. Twice he opened his mouth to respond but nothing came forth. At last he loosened his cravat and the adjustment seemed to free his tongue.

“Forgive me, captain. I didn’t mean anything disrespectful. Just wanted to say I’ve never seen you quite so fancy. If it weren’t for that hat, I may not recognize you at all.”

“I ain’t looking for a celebration. Just to do right by my own. He’d want to see a proper trial and that these folk got the justice they deserved.”

Schroeder nodded. “Well, it’s a good look. Quite the elegant frock and even I don’t have as nice of a twelve button bib. I’m sure even the giant would approve.”

Felicity dropped the cloth in the water and pushed into the hall.

“You coming?”

Laure was waiting outside the hotel, standing as still as a boulder waiting patiently for whatever mountain had dropped her in the dirt. She still wore her boy’s clothes and kept a sharp eye on those that passed by.

“Shiny day, captain,” she greeted.

“Sleep well?” Felicity asked.

“Best rest in months but it don’t beat the gentle thrum of an engine or the churn of a boiler at your side. Nights get awful cold no matter how many blankets you got.”

“Leave it to you to find a decent bed and not be able to use it,” Schroeder teased.

“I ain’t use to laying in one all day, unlike others.”

“We’ll be sure to depart shortly, once our business is concluded,” Felicity said, interrupting the exchange. “Meanwhile, tend to the ship. We still got our shipment and it could use some help getting on board.”

The engineer nodded but didn’t move to carry out her orders. Felicity looked at her expecting.

“There anything else?”

She didn’t respond right away, her eyes following the slow passage of the sun for a moment before she shook her head.

“Begging your pardon, captain, but I think S.J. is fully capable of handling the goods.”

“Who’s lazy now?” Schroeder accused.

“I would just like to join you is all.”

Felicity regarded her engineer closely. She had been awfully quiet since Pacal’s passing. At least, quieter than usual. Felicity rested her hand on the other woman’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“If you think it best.”

Schroeder yawned.

“I could use a saloon.”

“We don’t have time.”

“I hardly think a hanging on an empty stomach is going to be enjoyable.”

“Ain’t enough liquor on the continent to fill you,” Felicity said.

“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try!”

Felicity shook her head and turned to Laure.

“Get her running hot then come on down to the hall. We’ll put this town behind us soon enough.”

Laure nodded and made her way toward the train.

“Didn’t take her for the hanging type.”

“Let’s just get this done,” Felicity said. “I can’t rightly guess it but I’m reckoning there’s something rotten in Bannock.”

“You think it involves us?”

“I aim to keep it otherwise. Just make sure you keep that rifle close.”

She gave his gun’s shoulder strap a pat and stepped down from the hotel’s steps.

As they walked through the town, Schroeder gazed up at the Mound. His eyes traced the bare rock that burst through the loose soil like the bones of a giant torn open to bleach beneath the baking sun.

“It’s a curious landmark,” he said. “Quite the rise in an otherwise flat and unremarkable land. Unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I can see why the tribals would revere it. Something as grand as that doesn’t deserve to be so tarnished by those snaking mine carts and rails boring into its side. But leave it to the magnates to disregard beauty in their hunt for quick profits.”

Felicity turned to him.

“What do you know of Bernhard Nicolai?”

Schroeder blinked.

“Has a horrendous two-step.”

“I’m serious, Schroeder.”

“So am I. Heard he trod on poor Katherine Hampton’s toes. She likened it to being pitched beneath one of his great engines. Nicolai didn’t take kindly to the words and Mr. Hampton neither liked the reply. To this day both men keep trying to strangle the other out of business and peace. Why?”

“I appreciate knowing my allegiances. Thought maybe with your connections you’d have some insight.”

“My connections? You mean that ungrateful patrician who claims kinship?”

“Your father? Yes.”

“Well, I told you I don’t care for his business,” Schroeder said. “Doesn’t matter one wit to me if he’s managed to become the fourth biggest rail magnate or whatever title those doddering old men wrestle over. Petty game for petty men who have in their heads if they run the colonies like some hard nosed aristocrat they’ll earn themselves the fancy title to prove it.”

“Is that what it’s about?”

“More often than not. Some lay claim to the old lines that held names in jolly Thyre before King Horitius and his Star Chamber Trials sent most fleeing to spare their necks. They make it sound as if a stained name will ever be cleansed. But even with the Queen and her congratulations, it isn’t anything but appeasement and placation. Those nobles only care about the coin the magnates earn and if they think they’ll be seen as true blood then they’ve spent too long in a Jader’s fog.”

“Is Nicolai one of them?”

Schroeder turned to her and shrugged.

“Yes? Maybe? I don’t rightly know. My father and I never really talked business and the way he discussed his competitors makes them all blend together. You want to know about the business, best speak with one of my brothers. They are snapping at the collar to inherit the kingdom. But I could care less who lays the most track or gains the largest stake of the market. It’ll matter just as much as those that cornered the lumber and shipbuilding hundred’s of years prior.”

“And you don’t got a feeling of him from when you met?”

“Don’t know if I did. Not my interest and if my father did one thing right it was cutting me from business affairs. Anything else?”

“Very well.”

He sighed, thinking back on that life. Though Felicity knew most of the crew would always see him as the spoiled child of his namesake, he would pleasantly forget that world of deceitful sycophants and ambitious traitors if he could.

“He’s got guile,” Schroeder said after a moment. “More so than you’d expect from a magnate who typically wears his desires on his sleeve. I believe he connived my father into an unfavourable deal that stained his governorship. My father believed he was after his position and wouldn’t stop raving about it afterwards. Can’t say what the deal was and my father swore he’d never trust him again but that he garnered my father’s trust in the first place was a mark of a true manipulator.”

“So ain’t someone to trifle -”

Felicity stopped abruptly and Schroeder nearly tripped into her. He followed her gaze, his eyes immediately alighting upon a simple, squat building. The large sign bore the faded letters “Mitchell Wood’s.” It had the appearance of an old general store but beneath the sign hung a large savage’s weapon, swinging on a thick, rusted chain. The thin blade was chipped and stained as if it had been salvaged from a recent slaughter and pinned to the building immediately afterwards. A simple wooden barrel was propped near the door with an enticing sign reading “Free Lunch” set on top.

It was a saloon but Felicity wouldn’t stop for that.

Instead, there was a simple piece of paper nailed to the porch post and fluttering in the gentle breeze. It was long and thin and Felicity stepped forward to hold it stiff in her fingers. Two symbols were written in a thick, tapering black ink and stacked one above the other. They were a complex series of lines, crosses and squares that appeared more like some sort of arcane script than a written language.

But both recognized the Jader symbol immediately.

“Give me your gun.”

“My rifle? And where’s yours?” Schroeder cried.

“The pistol. Laure’s still working on mine. Your gun!”

Schroeder grumbled, reaching beneath his jacket and fetching the weapon from the holster strapped to his lower left shoulder. Felicity took it and flicked open the chamber, looking inside.

“Two shots?”

“It was a rough night.”

“What of the rifle?”

“Less.”

Felicity gave him a glowering look. Schroeder shrugged.

“The hotel had a bar!”

She snapped the chamber closed and tucked the weapon into the waist of her pants. She then tore the paper from the nail.

“We’re not actually thinking of looking for him.”

“This was left for us,” she said.

“How can you be sure!” Schroeder cried as she took to the steps.

“I thought you wanted a saloon!”

She pushed her way inside.

Over the Broken Banks of Bannock Part 3

I had other plans for posting today but it’s late and now I need to put something else. I promise Friday won’t be a brush off short story post though! At the very least, I think the Bannock short is interested.

Taken from wikipedia so it's creative commons, baby!

Interior of a Moundville, Alabama general store, 1936.

The General Store was a single story building with a large sign propped over its porch. The paint had begun to peel, flaking off in large chunks that tumbled to the stoop before being picked up by the wind and carried off. Felicity counted three rusting mining carts, some leaning against the sides and another upturned at the front, all turning a brilliant shade of orange. The dim evening light transformed the rust into vibrant spatters of blood. Only one bulb had been extended to the store. The exposed light was cracked, forming little teeth that seemed to grow from the thin metal plate suspending it.

“Surely we get a good price here. We ain’t got many options left,” Laure whispered. One of the windows was half-boarded, revealing a pile of pots stacked awkwardly on the other side. The second window had its curtains drawn closed but couldn’t hide the glow of the lantern within.

Felicity looked down at the promissory note.

“Desperation could inflate prices.”

“It’s curious. The town be prosperous with its mining and investments from the magnate and yet this ain’t the only building to look worse for wear.”

“From out meeting, I ain’t gathered he’s generous of spirit. So, try and keep things civil,” Felicity cautioned. “I betting they ain’t going to appreciate you pointing out the fact.”

Laure nodded, twisting the cap on her head and consulting her list. The engineer had dressed herself in a plain brown jacket and simple baggy kneed trousers tucked into a coal stained pair of socks. She often wore the part of a youthful male who had done little than steal away on the ship of a passing captain and was pressed into feeding the fires. She rarely said much and was quite happy with tending her own within the sweltering engine.

A bell rung at their entrance, the clerk bowing his head slowly as they pushed past the barrels, axles and linens crowding the front. Felicity took to the counter.

“Evening mist… pardon me, madame. You’ve made good time. I was just preparing to close shop for the eve. But I’ve always got time for a lovely customer such as yourself. How might I assist?”

The clerk gave a wary look to the seemingly young man piling mounds of supplies into his thin arms before reaching over and adjusting the nozzle on his gas lamp and bathing the counter with its orange glow. The flames hissed with the anger of a startled snake and for a moment Felicity felt the familiar wave of heat from gunfire wash over her face before fading into the recesses of her memories.

“My colleague and I desire to stock our ship whilst we’re moored. We’re hoping you can provide.”

“Ship you say? We ain’t have many of those come through recently. Afraid it’s affected my stock some but you’re welcome to whatever I got displayed.”

“Trouble on the rails?” Felicity asked.

The clerk sighed. “Truthful, we’re too far out to draw any serious attention.”

“Then what’s keeping your lines clear?”

“We’re a small community. Don’t like stirring the pot. We rather keep our troubles to ourselves.” The clerk removed his hat, running his hand over his scraggly hair and looking towards the window as if he expected to find someone peering between the boards.

Laure stepped to the counter, depositing the pile of sheets and cloths, metal cogs and wheels, bags of dry oats and wheat, bottles of alcohol and other food stuffs before the clerk. She laid the remainder of the list before him and he held the paper close to the lamp.

“I think I can get some of this. If you’re the ship in port, I can have the bigger things delivered to you by the morrow. Is that all?”

Felicity looked to Laure who nodded. She turned back to the clerk.

“There is one thing I’ve got personal interested in. Had a spot of trouble recently myself and I’ve misplaced my gun. Would reckon a fine store as yours would carry some.”

“We’re a peaceful mining town…” He looked her over, perhaps weighing the likelihood of a hold up from this rough looking woman and her thin fellow.

“I understand but even miners got family to watch.”

The clerk seemed to weigh the situation further. And while his poor streak would no doubt make the haggling difficult, it also opened doors that may have otherwise remained closed.

“Very well.”

He motioned towards the back, casting one last glance towards the window before snatching his lantern. Felicity and Laure followed him to a padlocked door, and the clerk fumbled in search of the key in his pocket.

“We don’t got a proper selection like any fancy city or nothing,” he warned. “But if it’s just the basics, you’re welcome to peruse.”

He pushed the door open to a small supply room. He led Felicity to a counter, removing a cloth over a pile of boxes.

“Can I interest you in something small? I’ve got a couple of pistols and perhaps a six shooter.”

“Where are your rifles?”

“That’s an awful mighty weapon for a little lady,” the clerk shrugged, pulling more cloth to the floor. Dust clouded the air. Clearly there weren’t many passing through but if the shipping was on hard times it seemed reasonable for the townsfolk to try and stock up on protection. Unless whatever plagued the lines was also affecting the miners.

“Got some simple pull levers. They got a bit of a kick though. Got to watch yourself else you could throw your whole shoulder.”

“Let me see the Colt revolver.”

“That? I wouldn’t recommend…”

Felicity held out her hand and the clerk obediently fetched it from the pile. She tested the weight, holding it up and looking down its sights. She fingered the firing mechanism, feeling its resistance. She then flipped the chambers, listening to the smoothness of their revolution.

“Thing about them is they got a nasty tendency to spray.”

“Yes and chain fire in inferior models. It’s an issue with all revolving chambers. Ain’t much a problem with pistols since your arm ain’t in front for balancing,” Felicity said. “But there be times when a faster shot is worth the risk.”

“You could seriously harm yourself, little lady,” the clerk warned.

“Only because manufacturers are limited in their creativity,” Laure spoke. Though her voice was barely a whisper, it drew the attention of both merchant and buyer. Slowly, the shy engineer took the weapon from Felicity’s fingers. Much like her captain, she turned the weapon in her hands. But she wasn’t checking to see if it was in good maintenance. She was checking the parts themselves.

Laure cracked open the barrel as if she were snapping the neck of a chicken. The clerk gave a quick shout but she turned her shoulder, blocking her actions from his view. Immediately flicking a few of the retaining clasps, she popped the chamber effortlessly free. She refitted part of the loading mechanism into the vacated hold, fishing from her pockets some tools to assist with the transformation. The clerk’s shock at her disassembling quieted into fascination as both he and the captain watched her attach a support cleft to balance the chamber allowing it to stick up from the top instead of hang below by the trigger hand.

“Eh, what are you on about there?”

“It’s such a simple design oversight,” Laure said. “You got your chamber set too low in the butt. Raise the firing mechanism and you won’t have your arm in danger. Like so.”

She held it up for the clerk.

“It work?”

“Not currently. It will once I have proper time to rejig with the new elevation. Ain’t nothing fancy and obstructs the vision if you ain’t used to it but hardly worth abandoning the principle. You can keep her faster fire and not burn your fingers.”

“Well, saddle me up to a may waggon and drive me about the pole,” the clerk said, looking over the device. “I don’t believe I ever seen such a thing.”

“No doubt,” Laure said. “Though it ain’t the first I’ve fashioned. How much you charging?”

“That runs about twenty I think.”

Laure shook her head.

“For a faulty design I got to fix before its got any use? I ain’t buying. You get her down to twelve and I may reconsider.”

“Twelve!” The clerk shook his head. “Excuse me but that’s nowhere near reasonable!”

“Very well.”

It happened too fast for the clerk or Felicity to follow. Laure’s fingers flashed over the makeshift fastener and the whole top portion of the gun seemed to fall into its constituent components. She rained the pieces upon the small table in a confounding pile and began to make her way towards the supplies left on the front counter.

Felicity watched the clerk stoop over the parts, tentatively taking one of the pieces and pressing it against the barrel as if the Lord’s will alone would fuse them together. He poked and prodded, trying to separate them into some sort of recognizable mess. After a few moments, it was clear he had no idea how to refashion the weapon into its original state.

And Felicity smiled.

“Wait!” the clerk called. Laure paused, the supplies piled in her arms. The clerk looked between the two woman who watched him expectantly. “You raise an excellent point. Quite unfair of me to not consider the value of your time in working with these fine pieces. Surely it worth… about sixteen? In its current state?”

“Awfully steep price for a gun that don’t fire,” Felicity said. She paused, her eyes roaming over the small pile of weapons. “I tell you what, you throw in that fine looking knife you got there and I think I could do about fourteen.”

The clerk ground his teeth and Felicity waited while he mulled over his options. With reluctance, he snatched the dagger, scooped the mechanical parts into his hand and carried the gun to the front.

“Shall I bundle it for you?”

“She’s as fine as the day she were born,” Felicity smiled. “I’ll pay for this now and the rest of my order once it’s delivered. I believe this should do nicely for the moment.”

She produced the promissory note and slid it across the counter. The clerk picked it up and held it to the lantern. His eyes widened.

“It is true then?”

“Pardon me?”

The clerk lowered the note, looking over the two women.

“You got the bandit? That Hopkins fellow? I hardly dared hope… what even with sir Nicolai coming to town and all…”

“I gather Mr. Nicolai ain’t one for parting with money easily,” Felicity said. “But yes, we got him.”

“Oh Lord’s blessings upon you!” the clerk sighed. An unexpected change washed over him and his face slid into a look of adoration. “Bless the both of you. I assure you, I will make sure to have your supplies to you by the morrow. I’ll even give you a discount for the service you’ve done this community!”

Felicity looked at Laure who simply shrugged.

“Not that I ain’t appreciative of your hospitality,” Felicity said, “but what exactly we done for your fair town?”

The clerk shook his head.

“That Hopkins… a right old villain he was. For months now, our shipments from port have been getting knocked just days from here. Old Bartholomew was saying that there’s been skimming from the mines but none of us took him seriously until every single one of the trains got hit. Seemed clear someone’s been cutting into our work. And it was doing wonders against our prosperity.”

The clerk turned to the window, walking over this time to draw open the curtain and hold his lantern aloft. He looked up and down the street before being satisfied enough to draw the curtains closed again and return to the waiting women. He leaned in close, his voice dropping low.

“Many been whispering it was an inside job, see. Lots of gossip in the streets that the Hopkins fellow was paying off some members to learn about them shipments and to make sure a blind eye was turned. But those trains weren’t just for taking our ore. When they returned, they brought the supplies we needed to support ourselves. That line’s the foundation of our town and Magnate Nicolai’s got full command of it. He makes sure none else come through. Without ore, we got nothing. With each shipment threatened, the magnate stopped ordering them altogether. No shipments means no goods for me and no pay for the miners. We’re broken.”

“Who’s been tipping off Hopkins then?” Felicity asked.

The clerk twisted his lips but shook his head.

“Can’t rightly say. Don’t know who would throw in with the untamed. All I know is the sheriff and his boys don’t appreciate too much talk on the matter.”

“Why is that?” Laure asked.

“Well, there are some who’ve never liked Plummer. Came in when the town was still struggling with its savages. Rode in bright as the day with that gang of his. They were suppose to be some steady shots. Ended up getting quite a few of the skinner’s heads for the magnate. Got appointment to office but he’s a hard man to follow. Order of the law ain’t his speciality if you catch my drift. Lots have been talking about his penchant for fancy suits, especially the newer ones he manages while the rest of the town’s been blanching beneath the drought. But then, from what I’ve been hearing, the magnate’s been sending him more to see that Hopkins gets caught right quick. I can’t rightly say I’ve seen the sheriff’s gang getting bigger so that money’s going somewhere.”

“Guessing he’s not one to take criticism lightly,” Felicity asked.

“You met him then?”

“Briefly. I ain’t saying he left a good impression.”

“Well, now that the ore’s been found, I’m sure things’ll pick up again,” the clerk smiled. “Like I said, you’ve done us a service, ma’am. One ain’t none of us can pay you proper for.”

“It was my pleasure,” Felicity smiled.

She gave a tip of her brim before motioning Laure out the door, clutching the core of her new rifle and carrying the rest of the pieces in her hand.

“I don’t recall you returning with any ore after catching Hopkins,” Laure said.

“We ain’t,” Felicity replied. “But more importantly, I ain’t reckoning I’ve ever seen this trick you’ve done with the rifle!”

And for the first time, the engineer blushed, turning her face to look across the street.

“It was nothing.”

“Was a damn fine play,” Felicity laughed. “I should get you to do more of my haggling. I’ll see to it that your next pay reflects it.”

“As I said, it was really nothing.”

“Well, don’t get none too excited. I ain’t picked it up yet. Unless the promissory will do you?”

“Honestly, I could use a new primer for the ignition more than any thing else.”

“You get this beauty fixed up,” Felicity said, patting her new gun, “and I’ll get you a whole stock of primers you can build a new bed from.”

 

Over the Broken Banks of Bannock Part 2

Well, the plan was to do a small rant on people and design as well as make off-handed mention to Felicia. Then I spent several hours going through and doing organizational work on the photos we upload to this site and suddenly I lost all time to make a real post. So here is part two of the Bannock short.

old bank

Old Citizens State Bank building 1907.

The man waved his white glove. Once each had entered, the dreadful squeal began again and Felicity turned to see a dark complexioned man in a very plain suit working feverishly at a large metal wheel. Sweat beaded his forehead as he cranked the device running up the side of the wall to the heavy hinges upon the door.

“Necessary precaution,” their host explained. “Come, we speak in my office.”

“Likely ensorcelled,” Schroeder whispered. Felicity examined the parts carefully as she passed but saw neither glyph nor mystic adornment attached to the cold steel.

Their host led them through polished doors and along expensive carpets. Gas lanterns hissed on the walls within copper braziers. Spaced between them were exquisite paintings the likes of which had no business being on the frontier. Expensive old world furniture was imported along with Jader porcelain placed on marble pedestals or polished mahogany tables. Brass handles finally opened into an impressive study. A green velvet high back chair faced a small semi-circle of plain wood chairs carved by less experienced hands. The desk was grand, incorporating old designs of the Lord’s resplendent aspects standing triumphantly over twisted untamed with anguished, bestial faces. Thick curtains framed the large window letting in what light still crept over the grand mound outside and casting the stained wood walls in a soft, reddish glow.

A few potted ferns filled the corners but what drew the greatest attention were the two men seated patiently before the desk.

They stood immediately at the older man’s entrance. The first was the sheriff. A large man with a grandiose belly barely contained within his tucked shirt. His pants were pulled well above his burgeoning gut held by a thick belt and bright gleaming clasp that shimmered in the dim sun. He wore uncharacteristically fancy pin stripped pants, a rubbed leather jacket, a gleaming gold star badge and magnificently polished boots. A silver pistol shimmered at his side.

“About time you got here,” he started, his voice heavy with anxiety. But he drew short of further protestations as Schroeder pulled the bound man into the office.

“That is him then?”

The third member hardly spoke above a whisper. No greater contrast could he make compared to Sheriff Plummer. The man wore a simple boiled stripped shirt tucked into riding pants flecked with dirt from the trail. He was a tall man but thin. His face was half concealed in a grand moustache that curled down to his jawline. A pair of gauntlet gloves covered his hands, the fingers worn from use and the wide cuffs stained with sweat. A fearsome rifle was slung over his back and a simple silver pin on his lapel identified him as a Ranger.

“Hide and hair,” Felicity said. She gestured and Schroeder held the cord out to the Ranger.

Their escort rounded on the large chair, pulling it aside and easing into it. He reached for a pipe resting upon the top, lifting it to his teeth as he produced a small match to reignite the cold herbs. He puffed a few breaths before expelling a soft cloud from his lips that encircled his head.

“Please, draw a seat,” their host said, waving at the chairs. “I wish to gather the measure of my heroes before concluding our business.”

Bernhard Nicolai conducted himself with the grandiose airs one would expect from a magnate. His suit was of impeccable quality, and one certainly worthy of Schroeder’s envy. All imported silk from the western colonies but designed and fitted with the precision of eastern craftsmen. Lavish breast kerchiefs stuck from his pocket, a small rainbow of complimentary colours in rich blue, purple and yellow. He wore a brightly patterned ascot running beneath the lapels of his coat. His sideburns covered the length of his chin, tapering to two separate points on either side of his jaw. They were slightly curly and dusted white from his ascending years. But the moustache poised and greased between was as brown and lively as a man nearly half the magnate’s age.

And his dark brown eyes held an energy and fire hardly seen in even the wildest outlaws. This was no aged gentleman used to cozy meetings and deals forged by pen instead of a gun. This was a man who made and created his empire on the frontier and the signs of slothfulness were more badges of his success than hints at a deteriorating state.

Beneath those brows burned a fury that never crept to his lips.

“Please, Henry Plummer, Ranger Hayes, have a seat.”

The Ranger pulled the outlaw to his side. Hopkins simply stood with head lowered as no chair remained for him. In the shadow of the mound, he appeared as little more than a misbehaving slave brought before his master for reprimand.

“It is a pity it come to this,” Nicolai said. “This situation never needed escalation. I invested too much into this enterprise to let such… disturbance ruin it.”

He paused, letting his genteel disgust weigh upon the gathered.

It was, of course, the sheriff who broke first.

“I told you, sir, if I only had-”

“Yes, I am well aware of your requests,” Nicolai interrupted. So quick had his earlier joviality disappeared. “But for all my money I sent in tracking this villain, your progress never made any headway.”

“Sir, the wasteland is a large expanse and…”

“Silence!”

He needn’t say anymore and the sheriff took his peace. A few more puffs of smoke encircled the older man’s head.

“If it would please you, Mr. Nicolai, I’d like to see this ruffian down to the jails,” Hayes drawled. “Must have him prepared for the trial.”

Nicolai turned slowly to the Ranger.

“And then there is you, Mr. Hayes. When I requested assistance of the Rangers, I expected results. Your band is suppose to be the best on the plains. And yet, the first of your order seemed to vanish in so much smoke and…”

“Yes, I am well aware. I continue to invest-”

“Please do not interrupt me again.”

Chilly was his response that even the hardened Hayes grew still. He gave a deferential bow of his head to the magnate.

“You turned up nicht. Nothing! I do not pay the Rangers to post wanted posters. I have many people who can. I expected results and I get but middle men.”

Ranger Hayes cleared his throat.

“The Rangers see that results get done,” he grumbled. “Even if that requires the aid of outsiders.”

“Come, take a look from my window,” Nicolai said, motioning with his pipe. The Ranger raised a brow but obliged. The pair looked at the grand mound lit with the dark red of the retreating sun slinking behind its edge.

“You see this. This town I forged with blood and steel. Before, this was nothing more than a small outpost supplying troops on the furthest lines.”

The pipe encircled the furthest edges of the township and the separate wooden compound half decaying into ruin. What had once housed soldiers, horses and supplies had long been purchased and turned into warehouses supporting the nearby town.

“But then a soldier stumble upon a magnificent discovery when climbing the Mound. You know what he thought, Mr. Hayes?”

“Why they ain’t build their fort on top?”

“Yes, precisely,” Nicolai smiled. “Why set an outpost at the base when you can’t see around. Half the day you are covered in shadow. Well, climbing its top, he found silver rock sticking from the ground as if dropped by flying birds. The soldier reckons he found a silver seam. He thinks he will be rich. But a soldier can’t afford to mine and he requests money and supplies. And do you know who gave those to him?”

“I be guessing it’s you, sir.”

“That’s right. I give the soldier his supplies so he could dig before the one who requested the outpost here. But yet neither sit in this office.

“You see, he found not silver in the earth. He found tin. But tin is not as valuable. Not as easy to find buyers. So, I find them for him. And you know what they say to me? That this not tin. This is wolframite. Do you know what wolframite is, Ranger?”

“I don’t, no.”

“Neither does the soldier. So, I tell him tin not as valuable but I will buy rights from him for more than it is worth. I assure him that I can turn decent profit if I build my own line but that it is not profit if I must split it. Which is true. He accepts and is happy with my price. He gets money and I get mine. And with mine, I get wolframite.

“For rocks are not good as they are. Rocks have more to them. You can look at a stone and see only so much on its surface. But those with keen eyes can find value where others can not. From wolframite you can get what mechanists call tungsten. And they are very happy with it. I have built this town from it. Those lights burn with it. This building is reinforced with it. It has many uses. And that is what makes it valuable. Even more valuable than silver. Now you know why this city built on steel.

“But there is another reason the soldiers build not on the Mound. And that is because the savages revere it. They think nonsense that it houses one of their great spirits. They grow angry that I come and take its wealth; wealth that belongs to their god. They attack my workers as they build my line and my mine.

“And now you know why this city is built on blood. They would not sell their Mound. So I am left with no other recourse than the sword.

“You see, not once did I pass on my responsibility. When the tin needed selling, I sold it. When the ore needed mining, I mined it. When the town needed defending, I defended it. Do you get my point?”

Ranger Hayes gave the magnate a bored look and nodded his head placating. Nicolai smiled, patted the man on the back, then walked to his desk. He picked up a letter opener, his smile never changing. Then he circled the desk and jammed the object square into Hopkin’s wounded shoulder.

The outlaw gave a great cry, falling to his knees and the Ranger shouted as he hurried to his side.

Nicolai simply tightened his grip around the letter opener, twisting it for one final scream from the outlaw and retracting it while wiping its edge with one of his kerchiefs.

“I do not appreciate those who steal from me,” he said. “You can tell your boss that I only pay half price for a half job. I will not be cheated by thieves or louts. Now go, and do your half job.”

Ranger Hayes stood with a terrible rage in his eyes. But he said nothing as he pulled the outlaw to his feet. They excused themselves and Nicolai rounded on the sheriff, his letter opener still in his hand.

“We are done.”

The sheriff stammered an apology and acknowledgement, getting to his feet and hurrying after the Ranger. Nicolai watched him with darkened eyes, never turning away until his study door closed behind them.

Then he finally regarded Felicity, his warm smile returning like a dawning sun.

“Now, to our business.”

“We just aim to be paid,” Felicity said.

“Yes, I know your kind well.”

He searched his bureau, pulling out a sheet of paper and dipping his quill into a sleek ink pot. As the tip scratched across the surface, he spoke though his eyes never left the note, “There is much to be learned in business, and not just the value of stone. Quality never depreciates in value. And one can always find a use for something of value even if others fail to recognize it themselves.”

Nicolai looked up, holding the slip for Felicity. She crossed the plush carpet to pick the note from his fingers. Written in impeccable script was a promissory for her services to be exchanged at the constabulary and through trade goods produced in the town. Nicolai’s signature drew elegantly across the bottom, framing the seal that made the document official.

“Much appreciated, sir.” Felicity added the last after a moment’s hesitation.

Nicolai leaned back, clutching his pipe and puffing a few clouds into the air.

“I do not begrudge you, fair hunter,” he said. “You perform your duty. Unlike the others, that money is well spent. It gets results and I care not how they achieved.”

He sighed, looking out the window for a moment.

“Competition breeds strength. While others may not notice, many tracks come to Bannock. Not all of them finished. Not all of them mine. Many have seen value in the Mound. It takes dirty hands to reap a harvest.”

He thrummed his fingers against the desk as if he were weighing some deeper consideration.

“By your leave, sir, I’d appreciate the chance to bear witness to Hopkin’s trial,” Felicity said.

Nicolai looked at her, his expression blank.

“You two have history?”

“Ain’t more than what it took to get him,” Felicity said. “Came at much a price I ain’t enjoy paying. And your generosity don’t cover some losses. I like to see my work to the end, sir, and there’s some satisfaction in seeing justice run its course. In my profession, it often to my benefit to know a job’s right and done.”

Nicolai nodded slowly.

“Very good. I will arrange your ship to harbour.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Over the Broken Banks of Bannock Part 1

I’ve been teasing pieces of my second novel, the Clockwork Caterpillar, and recently wrote a short story set in its world and ostensibly with some of its characters. It was for a competition which, sadly, I didn’t win but that just means you fine folk get to visit Bannock earlier than expect. So there’s a silver lining there.

bannack11

Over the Broken Bones of Bannock

The whistle gave its forlorn cry. It was the shriek of a bullet right before it tears through flesh and finds mortal rest deep in the bosom of a mighty warrior. The metal wailed as brakes ground against wheels; a morose dirge for the fallen accompanied the sparks hissing into the air as a final rifle salute. It was a cry for the end of a journey. The abrupt stop, though expected, always came too early. It caught its passengers off guard no matter what preparations they took. And no matter how often Felicity went through it, each time still stung as harshly as the first.

A cloud of steam puffed from the vents creating a shrouding fog that rose from the ground about the warm steel. But heavy was the itching smell of burnt coal that carried in the wind to sting eyes and rasp throats. The metal groaned as the great sectioned leviathan came clanking down the track. With a final, resolute shudder the steel beast drew to its rest. The feet of its passengers went to work about her but they were like ghosts drifting in and out of her memory. Faces blended together and echoing voices took on different names. She could see people that no longer worked the line. Some of them were faded and indistinct, just wisps of fleeing memories. One was a young soldier, his hair tinged with the first greys and clinging to a sweaty face struggling against the consuming flames. The next was a missionary, the wide brim of his cappello romano dotted with holes that cast soft beams on a pallid face.

She then felt a hand on her shoulder, its size and warmth causing her to jump in her seat. But when she turned, it wasn’t a golden face that looked down upon her. Instead, it was the blue eyes of her engineer looking concerned from a coal smeared and sweaty face.

“We’ve arrived, captain.”

“Thanks, Laure. Best tell Schroeder to get him then. Should look to replenish our supplies while we’re here too.”

She grabbed for a gun no longer there, cursing her absent mind. She settled on her wide black hat and threw on a long duster stained with the dirt and blood of the trails. It was a wild frontier beyond the steps of the tracks and very little of it could ever be scrubbed off those that wandered it. She looked at the indistinct shades while adjusting her collar. Some of those stains were her own. Many were not. Those were left from the holes she dug and only the darkening off the cuffs remained of their passage.

She shook the door open.

The station master stepped forward. He was clad in the faded black and white stripped shirt common for his profession. A worn cap pulled over wiry white hair and a spotted forehead. Dulling eyes followed the soft ticking hands of the pocket watch, waiting for the final whistle cry before dried lips shouted the announcement.

“Fourteen and two to the hour and nay a second more!”

He clapped the watch closed, tucking it into the breast pocket as he clasped his aged hands behind his jacket. The formality of his posture tickled the back of Felicity’s mind and it was easy in the clinging steam to see another person in the fog. The long shadows looked like thick feathers drained of their once vivid colour. Curls of smoke filled a frame until it created the outline of a giant man bound with thick muscles and adorned in faded jade of the southern tribes.

Then the steam disappeared and the aged station master turned to the door. His polished shoes tapped the smooth wood of the station’s deck while an anxious finger picked at the tail of his short jacket. He smiled at the sight of his first visitor.

“Greetings and welcome to the grand shores of Bannock.”

Felicity still held the door half in its frame. With the last wisps of smoke clearing from her long black hair, the master looked at the woman’s expressionless face.

“You… are the party Metticia?”

“S.J.!” she called, turning her thin neck towards the machine’s innards.

“Aye, captain?”

“Care to deal?”

The navigator appeared behind her shoulder, adjusting the thick spectacles upon his nose.

“Mr. Metticia?”

“Oh!” S.J. cried fumbling the papers in his hand. “Lord’s Graces, forgiveness I plead. Forgiveness!”

Felicity pressed to the side as the navigator stumbled down the steps.

“That’s right, we’re the scheduled ship. But, see, Metticia isn’t my name. We’re on the sheriff’s business. Fulfilling a request of his, we are. I’ve got the papers!”

The final declaration was committed after but a moment’s pause. He shuffled through the clutched stack, offering one but quickly rescinding as the station master’s hands began to settle.

“Sorry, forgiveness Graces, that’s for the Expanse. Bannock, right? You’re a Schroeder, nay, Nicolai line?”

He turned to the station for an answer. While the name of the town was displayed prominently in bold letters above the main double doors, a number of names and lists were posted on its wood exterior.

“We’re Nicolai,” the station master confirmed as he craned his neck to look over the papers in the other man’s hands.

But S.J. kept them from sight. The master’s shoes tapped an impatient beat, one that echoed in Felicity’s ears like the last shudders of a dying heart. The tap flooded her hands with the warmth of memory, the touch of blood covering her fingers while she cried vainly into haunting winds.

S.J.’s sheets fluttered between his fingers until he produced the permit. The station master took it, clearing his throat as he held the paper to the light of the afternoon sun. He scanned the document, eyes drifting over the letters themselves but paying closer attention to the seals and signatures for signs of duplicity or forgery.

Felicity shook her head of the clinging thoughts and stepped from the engine. She gave her navigator a pat on the back.

“Make sure this is properly sorted. And take care to see we lay in port for a good while. We wouldn’t want to rush the magnate.”

“The magnate?” the master asked. “You’re here to see him?”

“I would hope,” Felicity said. She snapped her fingers and gave a quick whistle. To the master’s surprise, a young man appeared as ridiculous as he was stylish. His hair was slicked and immaculately placed. A crisp suit with full breast pockets, polished shoes and high banded collar clasped his slender frame. His guise was professionally cut and more befitting the busy streets of the Old World than the dusty steps of a frontier station. But it wasn’t the allusion to wealth that stayed the master’s tongue but the long barrelled rifle slung over the sharpshooter’s back and the thick cord in his hands. With a tug, he produced the other end which bound an unsettling man in bloodied skins and a great bandage about his shoulder.

The station master looked questioning.

“We assist with deliveries,” Felicity explained.

The man was yanked unceremoniously from the train and the woman led their small party across the station’s deck. The master couldn’t help but stare.

“Is that him, then? Dirty Hopkins?”

The station master didn’t even wait for a proper response before spitting upon the man’s filthy clothes.

“If you had any decency, you’d have thrown yourself off the Glorious Belt and into the Lord’s arms!” the master shouted. The bound man snapped against his restraints. Felicity simply whistled and S.J. quietly lead the master inside to work out their details. She gave a sharp tug on the rope to bring her captive to heel.

“You best behaving. Caused enough commotion at the bridge and I don’t need to hand you over to the magnate. It ain’t too late to grab some rope, turn around and drag you behind on the way out.”

Hopkins ceased squirming and Felicity turned to the town. A great mound towered intimidatingly, casting a long shadow over the frontier shops and homes. Most were simple, squat structures with false fronts and single stories. Between them snaked thin lines leading to small metal plates with dangling glass bulbs. The crackle of electricity filled the air and the lights flickered with the timely beat of the currents. Uneven pools winked in the dark, overbearing shadow of the soaring earth.

One building loomed over the others, a veritable bastion of tarnished steel rising in defiance of the great bulge opposite it. Its metal façade dominated the neighbouring wood, like a steel plant had grown up from the rail running through the centre of town as if the connection with the extensive network snaking the plains was a great iron root. Steady white bulbs washed the bold name of Bernhard Nicolai L.P. printed in golden letters. Thick columns of steel imitated the Doric style of antiquity. Their trunks supported a wrought balcony fringed in gold leaf and wreathed with simple ivy. The front entrance itself was a great piece constructed of bright swirls with heavy iron handles. It was like approaching the entrance of a great fortified keep rather than a place of business.

Felicity waved the slicker and captive on and the three stepped carefully over the rail and to the front steps. Their boots struck against dried wood and she looked with surprise to her companion.

“Expected it to be steel too.”

“These men love their false finish,” Schroeder said. “Almost better than the real thing. At least if it’s cheap.”

She raised a hesitant hand to the iron front and pounded a loud greeting.

Her knuckles stung from the iron and she idly rubbed the bone as they waited. After a few minutes, they could hear movement on the other side. The footsteps proceeded a great screech of metal against metal as the door opened like the thick front of a vault. Felicity stepped out of the way as the interior was revealed before them.

Standing in the centre of the foyer was a man wearing a fine suit and a congenial smile.

“Ah, you must be honoured Felicity,” he said, stretching out his arms. His voice was thick with a heavy but unidentifiable Ilian accent. It was a curious blend of central eastern influences.

“Mr. Nicolai?” Felicity asked.

“Come, come.”

Kinslayer Chronicle Part 14

Good holiday news! We’re about halfway through the Kinslayer Chronicle! You don’t think I chose Chronicle just by happenstance, did you?

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Northern Lights. Not my picture but found on the Internet.

Chapter 10 – The Final Regret

His feet were heavy on the stairs as he came down. The hall was empty once more but sounds rang from the kitchen as if nothing had changed in that small inn. The Chronicler set his satchel upon the table, slipping onto the hard bench and clasping his hands together. He didn’t wait long before she emerged, kerchief tied about her head and face just as red as yesterday.

She sighed and rolled her eyes when she spotted him sitting at the table.

“I told you, I’m no wizard. I can’t know if you’re up if you don’t say nothing!”

She stomped back to the kitchen but the Chronicler was suspecting that this practised indignation was routine at this point. He rolled up his sleeves in preparation. This time he didn’t enquire about the bread or cheese and simply enjoyed it for what it was – a good, simple meal.

However, Lafnis didn’t return to her kitchen. She lingered by the table, looking at the Chronicler’s things.

“So this is it then.”

The Chronicler set down his fork, wiping his mouth on his sleeve as he looked at the woman. She seemed almost regretful despite displaying nothing but contempt earlier. Taking a slow drink from his ale, he motioned to the seat opposite him. She didn’t sit immediately, wiping her hands on her apron for a moment before sighing and easing onto the bench.

“I wanted to extend my gratitude…”

“If it’s about the storm -”

The Chronicler hushed her with an impatient wave of his hand.

“No, not just the storm. Though our time has been brief, you’re presence has been much appreciated. You’re quite the remarkable woman, Lafnis. Though you draw little attention to yourself, I can see your gentle touch all around me.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, for one, generous Koudi wouldn’t have this establishment running without you.”

“I really don’t-”

The Chronicler laughed. “You needn’t make a play at modesty. I can see in your demeanour that you feel the same. He is but a boy, still lost in the streets of his past dragged down by regret and remorse. He would hardly have the mind or patience for keeping such a place like this operating, let alone in isolated Janogradt. I’m sure your food helps bring some locals in to keep the door open… or closed as is customary for this strange land. And it is your service and presence that keeps him moving from day to day else he’d be consumed in the shadows of his own despair.”

She didn’t respond at first, taking a keen interest in the dirt gathered beneath her short nails.

“I think you read too much, Chronicler,” she said. But it was her turn to call his protests to heel. “The innkeeper and I… we do not share a tangled history. For all his shortcomings, this inn is his. I am merely the help for the time, before the seasons change and I leave on the last of the summer breeze.”

“You’ll be departing?”

“My stay was never intended to be long. This is not my home. I, like you, am merely a guest for a time in these halls.”

The Chronicler leaned back on his bench, crossing his arms in thought.

“And where shall you go next? Back home?”

And Lafnis laughed before abruptly catching herself.

“I fear not.”

“And why is that?”

“Truthfully?” She pondered her response for a moment. “I suppose I don’t know if my home is left for me. My memories of it are so scattered and few I may have already passed through without even noticing.”

“So you’re a Traveller?” he asked.

“Hardly. But I do find that my road takes a stranger path than I would have guessed.”

The Chronicler smiled to himself, shaking his head. Lafnis raised a curious brow.

“What is so humorous?”

“Most people I met, most people in these villages hardly ever travel beyond their own hills let alone their borders,” the Chronicler said, “and here I have two souls who can’t seem to keep to a single one.”

Lafnis shrugged as she stood.

“I suppose it takes all kinds.”

She made towards the kitchen but the Chronicler called out to her once more, opening his satchel. She paused, turning at the sound of his ink pot setting upon the table.

“What are you doing?”

He looked up at her as he shuffled his papers apart, finding and separating the clean sheaves from the written.

“I would be much appreciative if I could hear your tale,” he said, fetching his quill.

“No,” Lafnis said, shaking her head. “I told you I’d play no small part in your chronicles.”

“You said so yourself that those on the roads always have their stories to tell. I ache to know the story of yours and what brought such a curious creature as you so far north to Janogradt.”

“I said heroes and bards have their tales,” Lafnis dismissed. “I have nothing near as interesting as courtly intrigue or daring adventure. A mere woman on the path has but beasts and her safety to worry about. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“What is it that you flee, fair maid?”

She shook her head violently, her face flushed with emotion.

“I told you scribe, I have no story!”

“But so often do words mask truth. I can see something agitates you so, even now as you glimpse back to the solitude and safety of the kitchen. And it certainly can’t be I. You know I am unarmed. I pose you no threat.”

She took a deep breath, her face turning to the floor. For but a beat she almost appeared asleep for she hung so still and unmoving. When she finally looked up, her complexion had returned as did her look of impatience. She crossed the hall, her arms folding before her chest as she slumped before the Chronicler once more.

“Very well, scribe, what is it that you would know?”

“Your story.”

“I was born, I live, I’ll die. Is that all?”

“There is more than that.”

“Is there?”

Lafnis looked over the table, taking a piece of the parchment and holding it before her.

“Is there more to this? A common mercenary fleeing a life of poverty and servitude trying to drink his regret and sorrow away in a far corner of the globe? What chronicle shall you file this beneath? The Lavish Tales of Wintery Janogradt and its Fascinating Peoples?”

“Why do you disparage his life so? Though it may not be the Kinslayer, it has worth in of itself.”

“And that is why you leave today, then?”

The Chronicler couldn’t help but feel he’d been outmanoeuvred in a debate he wasn’t aware he’d even begun.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Lafnis shook her head, slapping the paper upon the table.

“As I’ve said, there is little value in your ‘truths.’ You’re just a bard with another story looking to amuse and entertain. The truth is that life does not carry the excitement and thrill of the sagas and songs. Our betrayals and weaknesses are such small, petty matters. Take your precious Kinslayer, what of him do you even know?”

“That is the point of my quest,” the Chronicler said, feeling the old frustration return. “The Kinslayer is such a controversial character, shrouded in conflicting reports of enormous generosity and unbelievable cruelty.”

“And given such conflict, how do you hope to even discover the truth? Is it your goal to stop all that you see, asking them if they are this Scarlet Heather in the hopes that the right one will make such a confession?”

“Just because a task is difficult does not make it unworthy.”

Lafnis leaned upon the table, tapping on the collection of stories spread before her.

“Have you sought all the rumours of the Kinslayer? Have you sifted through them in the hopes to catch some pattern or character that presides in all? At the sun’s set, traveller’s will re-purpose their stories, adding their own personal flair or faulty memory to the telling until nothing left of your hero exists. At this point, your Kinslayer no longer survives.”

“That’s not true,” the Chronicler said. “We know he must have killed his kin.”

Lafnis fell silent as she sat back on her bench. But the Chronicler saw the wisdom in his words and continued his thought.

“We can not sacrifice these people to the exaggerations of the storyteller because it makes for good coin about the fire. There can exist their actual deeds along side the mythical retelling. We needn’t live in a world forged by frightful fantasy and unresolved mystery when so much of it exists right before our eyes to see!”

Lafnis didn’t speak for a time. Her arms remained crossed while she shook her head as if to knock her thoughts free from her skull. At long last she sighed and stood.

“Then I shall wish you luck on your quest, master scribe.”

She moved to the door, fetching his travelling staff. The debate had ended and the Chronicler wasn’t even sure who had won. He gathered his supplies, laying them gently into his satchel before tossing it over his shoulder. Lafnis stood waiting with the staff and he took it while giving her a respectful bow of his head.

But as he stepped to the door, he paused.

“I did mean my words. Every one of them. You are a remarkable woman, and I hope the gods bless the stones beneath your feet for wherever they bear you.”

He stepped from the Stone Swan and looked up and down the street of small Talarheim. He took a long breath of its crisp air, watching the tree tops sway gently in the morning breeze. He gathered his cowl tight about him, pulling the hood over his head.

But as his feet moved down the worn steps, he heard the door creaking loudly behind. He turned, surprised to see Lafnis there, tugging the portal closed. She had her thick cloak wrapped about her shoulders and he gave her a questioning look as she slammed the wood and joined him.

“I thought I would walk with you for a spell,” she said. “See you safely out of Talarheim as it were.”

“Are we expecting much danger?”

“Of course not but I figured you’d appreciate the company.”

She looked at him as if daring an objection. But he merely smiled.

“You’re a hard lady, young Lafnis. I can see why the roads hold no concern for you.”

He fell along her side as they made their way past the smithy and tanner houses. For a while, they didn’t speak, listening only to the sounds of the creaking lantern upon the staff’s chain or the groan of the ancient trees in the forest.

At last, it was her that broke the silence between them.

“So what have you heard of the Kinslayer?”

The Chronicler frowned, considering the question.

“Much. More than there is to tell, really.”

“Very well. What do you believe about the Kinslayer?”

That was more difficult and the Chronicler shook his head uncertain of his response.

“I suppose I never gave it much thought. I had hoped to form an opinion once I met him. Though, as the months pass that proposition seems more and more unlikely. But that doesn’t answer your question, does it?

“I guess I expected to find a conflicted individual. So varied are the stories about him that I thought this would reflect on his very person. I don’t hold to such simple concepts as good and evil. Even the war between our mighty Aenir and Vanir demonstrate that the most villainous amongst us are capable of equal measures of bravery too. I don’t doubt that the Kinslayer has killed but that does not make him unique amongst men. An unfortunate state – the world we live in – where the greatest of his crimes is in raising his sword against his on flesh than it is to the innumerable nameless that fill the passing notes of his stories. He is said to be a butcher and hunter of men but it is the murder of his kin that ruins him.

“No, I suspect the Kinslayer has done some wicked deeds. Some truly monstrous actions. Scarlet Heather speaks too much to pillaging, banditry and kidnapping that the stories of terrorized merchant vessels bear far too much weight. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the high seas robbery are true. By most account, the Kinslayer is an accomplished sailor. They say he commanded five vessels at one time, manned by all sorts of wicked and terrifying individuals. So fearful were his crews that the moment his symbol raised, the merchant vessels would slam shut their cannon holes and hoist the white flag in the hopes of mercy and pity.

“Perhaps they found it too. Though most tell of the terrific butchery enacted on his victims, I was unable to find any truth to those accounts. But identifying merchants and fleets that had complied and were merely robbed were more numerous. All of them spoke of the fearsome Scarlet Heather with hair as if it were on fire and such fearsome weaponry as to be beyond comprehension. They say he could disarm a man from ten paces away with a mere flick of his wrist. A shot from his crossbow could release a terrible gas that would incapacitate even the hardiest mercenary.

“But he did not rely on bizarre tools alone. He must be incredibly clever. And not just because he is impossible to hunt down. I have heard of a story where he held a whole city ransom over the release of his lieutenant. Through wits and deceit he convinced a free port that he had an entire fleet stationed out in the mists prepared to reduce their pitiful homes to dust if his man wasn’t given to him. One popular telling says that by this time he was coinless and without any vessel of his own. Perhaps it is the wide-eyed wonder of my youth that makes me like that version the most. Even a man as obsessed with veracity as myself can find some enjoyment in the more unbelievable tales.”

He looked at her, wondering if that was enough of a response. When she didn’t speak, he posed his own question.

“And what of you? What have you heard about the Kinslayer?”

“Oh, much the same and much more,” Lafnis said. “Truthfully, I was more fond of the personal stories. So often are people excited to hear the Kinslayer’s exploits. But its the relationships that intrigue me. They say more about the person than some second-hand tale.”

The Chronicler nodded.

“I suppose that would get into the kin slaying, would it not? The issue with character over deeds is so many interpret however they want. One’s rescue is another’s kidnapping. And the more into their history, the harder it is to find any sense beyond the bias of the teller.

“But there is one. His lieutenant, Verga, served him on many adventures. Theirs was an unbreakable friendship that saw them past their earlier days of plunder and looting. Whenever one was in need, the other wasn’t far to be found. But old crew weren’t the only to rub shoulders with the terrifying Scarlet Heather. It is said that adventurers and heroes alike came into his sights. But the names of those wanderers paled to the importance of the Kinslayer himself.

“Which really leaves the matter of the most important deed that Scarlet Heather committed: fratricide. For many recoil at the thought of murdering one’s own brother as if it represented the greatest betrayal known to man. It’s a position I find intriguing, especially since so many of our legends and myths hinge on these very acts. The War of the Gods is little more than a heavenly conflict between kin. Nearly every state has histories of battles for thrones between family. It is so common that one would think it was the nature of man to come into conflict with those closest to him. In fact, few even stop to consider such actions unless it is pointed out to them. Would the Kinslayer’s brother be any more important if he wasn’t referred to as such? For a man who is rumoured to have killed so many, I think not.

“But it is the intrigue and everyone thinks, nay expects, the story to be shocking if it was to become an epitaph.”

“I heard he was quite a piece of work,” Lafnis said. “A tyrant and abuser. A monster in man’s flesh. That the kin slaying was not a crime of dark passion but a mercy upon the land. But for such a grace, the shame of the deed would forever be remember. Nothing could wipe its memory from the people who should have been most relieved by its execution.”

The Chronicler looked at Lafnis curiously.

“And where did you hear that?”

Lafnis shrugged.

“As I said, lots of bards and travellers come through taverns. To remember the face or name to the song would be to differentiate the birds in a flock. After awhile they all just blend together into a singular whole.”

“What else did this bard say?”

“Oh the usual. How clever the Kinslayer was. How brave. How beautiful. The usual.”

“On the matter of kin.”

“Let me think,” Lafnis said. She paused, drawing her cloak tightly about her as she looked up at the clouds. “I believed his name was Poul. Or Paol. Something to that affect. But to understand the son, I was told you first had to understand the father. Forgive my clumsiness, for I am no storyteller but I believe it went something like this…”

Kinslayer Chronicle Part 13

Good News Everyone!

Today marks the end of Derek’s semester. So if you were bored with my dry quibbling and boring story, then look forward to exciting content from him in the coming days. And don’t accept any other excuses. I know I won’t. To mark this  monumental moment, I present more Kinslayer Chronicle.

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End of the Trail by James Earle Fraser.

Chapter 9 – End of Days

The Chronicler’s quill fell quiet. He cracked sore fingers and shuffled the papers together. His eyes briefly scanned the passages and he turned to regard the innkeeper.

Koudi sat motionless on the bench, his gaze locked on a single sword hanging on the wall. Following his gaze, the Chronicler saw it was a simple blade with a slight curve to its design and its edge the most worn and rusted. The only thing remarkable about it was its seeming lack of black colouration. It was a standard issued sword of mediocre quality. The sort of thing a merchant would issue to a hired hand – sturdy enough to withstand some use but cheap enough that it was no great loss with its inevitable disappearance either through battle or abandonment.

He looked over the last of his recount, turning back to the innkeeper. But he didn’t seem waiting for a response. A silence had been unleashed. A silence long kept buried and locked away. There was nothing that could be said to drive it away. There was nothing that could be done to mend the hole it rent. The Chronicler sat in its uncomfortable presence. He turned from the innkeeper, finding himself unable to regard the man anymore. In his distraction, he didn’t catch the sudden burst from the man, or his hand catching at the mug and sending it tumbling across the room to clatter against the floor.

The explosive passage of the mug sliced through the heart of that silence and stirred the listeners from their fugue. The innkeeper was on his feet, kicking the bench noisily away as he stomped towards the stairs. The Chronicler cried out, but his response was simply to pound a post as he passed.

His boots crashed against each step as he retreated from view. The Chronicler turned to Lafnis still sitting at the bar. But gone were her dreary doldrums as she watched the passing of her master with passive eyes. When she turned to the Chronicler, she merely shook her head. She got to her feet, crossing over and gathering the mug and wiping up the spilled contents with her cloth.

“I suppose you have your account then?”

“I suppose I do.”

She went to the door, easing it closed. The sky was still bright with the sun but the first veins of its setting began to beat behind the clouds. As the heavy mechanism latched into place, she wiped her hands against her clothes and gave a weak smile.

“I suppose you’ll be leaving in the morning then?”

“I suppose I will be.”

She nodded her head.

“It’s for the best. Definitely for the best.”

She breathed a slow sigh, looking about the various weapons on the walls.

“Some histories you never really expect, do you?”

“No, I suppose not,” the Chronicler sighed. He turned to his satchel and began to pack his supplies. “Perhaps it’s true what they say.”

“And what’s that?”

“The Kinslayer never really existed.”

Lafnis looked at him curiously.

“What do you mean?”

The Chronicler chuckled to himself. Her simpleness never seemed so obvious. But he didn’t feel frustrated, just weary. All that coin and all that time spent for nothing. He snapped his satchel closed.

“For one, the story didn’t even make sense. Second, there was no claim to kin that could be slain. There was nothing there that suggested he was the Scarlet Heather – just a man, no more and no less.”

“You think he lied?” Lafnis asked.

“I think he’d like to believe himself a hero,” the Chronicler said with a laugh. “Wouldn’t we all?”

“I’m not so certain.”

The Chronicler raised a brow. “Oh?”

Lafnis looked at the mug in her hands, turning it slowly in her fingers as she watched the lone drop of ale crawl slowly across its surface.

“I have seen my fair share of heroes and adventurers. I have heard their stories and tales.” She looked up, an emotion the Chronicler couldn’t quite place reflected in her eyes. “So many come through these doors. So many lips are loosed by a kindly ear and a little drink. So few of them have nought but pain and suffering to share. The road is an unforgiving life. Those that take up arms to serve unknown masters and seek unknown places seem more to be fleeing than searching. And there’s only so much world they can try to hide from.

“Perhaps that is the morale of his story. Even the greatest hero is, as you said, just a man – nothing more and nothing less.”

She crossed the hall, pausing at the door as a thought occurred to her.

“But I suppose if they didn’t suffer then we wouldn’t have our tales. I wouldn’t have my evening entertainment and you wouldn’t have your chronicles.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” Lafnis said with a shake of her auburn hair. “I’m just a silly woman. But it’s something to consider, merchant of pain.”

She disappeared into the kitchen.

Kinslayer Chronicle Part 12

You thought this would be ending soon, didn’t you. There’s nothing that will end the Kinslayer Chronicle!

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Random desert photo. Not mine.

Chapter 8 – The City of Dreams Part 2

On those streets, there were many ways to survive. Shafra got what he wanted through a heavy fist or rotted plank. He extolled his prices from your hide if he could ever get his fingers on you. But there were other ways that were more insidious.

Her name was Saorla. She was one of the kin. Her red hair wasn’t as bright, covered as it was in muck and filth. Her green eyes were dull, lit only by that familiar hunger that kept us breathing amongst the streets. She moved along the rooftops and through the alleys with an unspoken sorrow. For while I knew nothing but the burning sun and begging hordes, she remembered. And those memories clung to her like a disease. It kept some children away, fearful that her words would stir something deep inside them. She kept those memories to herself, with almost a pitied look every time I asked.

But she had a smile. It was a small thing. Her lips turned just slightly in a manner equally haunting as it was comforting. There was a power within it. She knew this and turned that smile upon unsuspecting marks. She would approach with the tried pathetic moan of a child hungry and worn. Her fingers lifted, shaking just slightly to eyes that barely glimpsed her.

“Copper to spare, sir?”

They would turn away. Most wouldn’t even feign seeing her. Some would whisper an apology or command for her to move. It mattered not. She always gave the same reply.

“May Iomhair sing your graces.”

And then she would smile.

I don’t know how it worked. The foreign name would prickle their ears and they would turn to see her for the first time. And I mean truly see her. Their eyes would take in the half muddy hair, scratched nails, dried skin and dim eyes. But they always stopped at the smile. I always say they saw Gersemi’s face in those lips. And while most of them wouldn’t know the Vanir’s treasured name, they certainly felt her riches in that moment. It unfroze fingers and unlocked purses. Coins fell into her hands easier than any other.

And Saorla would thank them again. Their reward a respectful bow of her head and a fleeting playful laugh as she scampered away.

That was the power Maen Nkowainn mystique. Even the ignorant heathens of Divanhane were powerless to it. But she was no Mourning Lily kept in delicate ponds beneath the protective ferns of the most guarded apipaito. Many were those that thought Saorla an easy mark. She was, after all, just a girl on the deadly streets of Divanhane. Desperation always forces fools to overlook the obvious. No mere girl would survive as she did.

I remember the first man. She had long taken to the streets by herself, insisting I stay back in the safety of the nest. But as I grew bigger beneath her care, so too did my confidence. The first day I tried to follow her, I did exactly as she told. She had shown me how to keep hidden. She had taught me how to be as invisible as a rat. Surely she knew that I trailed her. Playful gifts were left in her wake: a handful of fresh dates, a shiny copper piece, a colourful ribbon tied to some broken wood.

Then I cam across the body. He was in a small plaza, lying in the centre of the cracked and broken tiles like some crumbled fountain statue. His blood ran thick across his face, pooling in a vibrant halo about his wide, empty eyes and gaping mouth.

It wasn’t the first corpse I had ever seen. Those litter the streets of the City of Dreams. But it was the first of hers. She wasn’t there, of course. With her brief start, she had disappeared from the scene to clean herself as best she could. She slid up to my side, gently coaxing me away from her work. She brushed my questions aside, never confessing her responsibility. But I knew. Blood still flecked the back of her neck. Fresh stains shone brightly along her sleeves.

No, Saorla was a cactus rose. To many, she appeared a simple, helpless child. But there were thorns hidden beneath her petals. And those that got close only realized too late how sharp they could be.

Saorla never worked in front of me. She always kept that hidden. Even after I struck out on my own, wanting to help with the burden of bringing back food and scraps for the nest, she never allowed me to join her. She always took my coin, tucking it away with a smile and apology. I had to learn to be the sneaky rat to follow her. She was attentive and quick. Days she caught me following she would simply disappear into the shuffling hordes and I wouldn’t see her until she crawled up to our nest with some bread or muscles in the evening. But there is nothing that is truly safe in Divanhane. Eventually, I learned how to track her without being seen. Then I saw her and her begging.

And I learned why she had kept that hidden from me.

Saorla did not squander her riches on fancy meals or little keepsakes for comfort like so many other beggars. She didn’t even bring her coin back to the nest for some secret stockpile. She sneaked off before the rise of the morning sun and worked long into the afternoon. I had watched others beg. I knew how successful most children were. And Saorla made in one day more than many would in a month. With pockets heavy and jingling with her coin, she turned and disappeared into the alleys.

Following her then was the hardest. She tracked through unfamiliar streets and beneath crumbling sections of those great outer walls. She tracked through some of the dark places – places I would never have dared to explore if it weren’t for the sudden flash of her red hair in their shadows.

She retreated into the Holes.

There are sections of city that the guards do not tread. There are places where even the bravest mercenary refuses to go. Only the addled or desperate would step foot within them. These were the oldest parts of Divanhane. It was where the primeval spirit of that forsaken place resided.

The oldest walls had sunken into the dark earth. Masonry lay shattered and broken as if the Aenir had tried to sunder that blighted pit from the earth. Rotted boards protected from bleached stone like cracked bones of an ancient skeleton. Newer barricades rose around them for no architect would dare hazard the crumbling tiles that collected in great heaps between the leaning husks of collapsed buildings. There were few entrances into the Holes and most of them were heavily guarded. But it wasn’t to keep others out.

For though they were derelict, the Holes were not abandoned. The foulest of Divanhane often found themselves within the sunken pits hiding beneath the collapsed roofs of the ancient settlement. The merchant princes delighted in throwing their most hated enemies in, knowing that what darkness clutched inside would dispose of their rivals more efficiently than they ever could. Stories abound of the place and most of the poor would instinctively shy away from those barren streets.

But the rats knew how to enter. The rats could scramble along the crumbling planks over the heads of anxious guards. They could scramble down walls that would collapse beneath the weight of a larger wanderer. They could squeeze through the tiniest of spaces and escape the dangers that prowled in the twilight.

With heart half in my throat, I ascended along the barricades. The stone crumbled beneath my feet and each skitter of a rock felt like a clarion bell to summon the monsters from the dark. The only reason I didn’t get lost was because Saorla also trod carefully through that district. She picked her way carefully between two buildings, heading towards the soaring outer wall. It was a dead end and I knew she would be trapped. My mind could only imagine the riches she must have saved by now. A veritable vault of coin must be tucked safely within the broken stone.

I scrambled to the ground and approached the alley with care. Fear of what dwelt in the area forced me to arm myself with a heavy piece of masonry crumbled at my feet. I proceeded carefully, unsure how I would confront her.

But as I drew to the end of the alley, I did not find Saorla and her treasure. Instead, I found a gaping hole. Saorla was nowhere to be found. I examined the walls, but they were far too unstable for her to have climbed. I drew a steadying breath and fought the nagging desire to run.

Hunger can override the sharpest of senses. And I had been hungry all my life.

I meant to charge in, but my feet caught on the crumbled brick and I fell into the darkness. The hole descended into the deep. Light was almost instantly swallowed in its depth and I stumbled for some sense of direction. My hand found the ragged wall and with careful fingers I proceeded. The path sloped downward and as I went, I felt moisture begin to cling to the rock.

The path suddenly gave away and I found myself in one of the yawning sewer tunnels. Water splashed along, a disgusting smell nearly overwhelming me. I looked about, my eyes trying to adjust to the gloom. I found a small edge that scrapped the filthy river and my bare toes wrapped around the edge of the jutting stone as I shimmied along. My back pressed against the sickeningly moist stone and I tried as hard as I could to breath through my mouth while holding my nostrils closed.

Wherever lay Saora’s nest, it was always well hidden. Surely, this was her own private sanctum and place hidden even from me. And no one would have followed her to it.

Eventually, my guiding hand slipped into nothingness and I almost fell from surprise. I knew not how long the sewer tunnel ran, but another hole had apparently been bored into the wall. Though as my fingers plucked its edges, it felt more like the tunnel had given out instead of someone ripping through. I scrambled inside, eager to escape the putrid waters and its overwhelming stench. I crawled along on hands and feet, but this journey wasn’t as long.

I pulled myself up into a small hold. The shadows clung heavy in that space, but I could see the dark mouths along the walls all around me. These mouths no doubt led into a veritable network of tunnels running under the city to this dim cellar. As I took a few tentative steps forward, I tripped over more broken stone, falling hard and banging my knee. I cried out.

There was movement in the dark and I felt hands fall to my thin arms. I didn’t resist, slowly raised to my feet as I turned to my helper. I found Saorla looking down at me confused.

“You shouldn’t have followed me,” she whispered.

“Is this where you’ve hidden it!” I demanded. I wanted to brandish my brick but it was now lost in the darkness. She just drew me close, whispering careful words and patting my matted hair. I pushed her away. I was furious and hurt. I felt betrayed.

“Is this where it’s hidden?!” I cried again. Tears rolled my face.

“Where what is hidden?” she asked. But a Maen Nkowainn was born with a deceitful spirit. They had always said as much.

“I’ve seen you beg. I’ve seen how much coin you make. We’re eating stale bread and stolen oysters while you make a king’s riches each day! What have you done with it! Where is it?!”

I pushed her aside, scrambling deeper into the shadows. She called after me but I ignored her. I was no child anymore. I knew betrayal. I knew the streets. You looked after yourself and no one else. She must be saving up enough to escape. She must have hidden it deep in here where no one would find it.

And as my eyes adjusted, I discovered we were not alone.

Old hands fell upon my shoulders as a wizened face hunched down to stare into me with milky eyes. A scraggly beard tore his face like a thousand dried worms had burrowed their way from his cheeks and neck to lie dead and limp from his skin. His hands were clammy to the touch and sent shivers down my spine.

“Beware the hour of the crying crow!” he hissed with urgency. “They come, they come! Bar the holes and lock your door. He knows – oh he knows!”

I cried, wrestling from his grasp and falling backwards. Saorla was at my side quickly, her hands falling on me in the dark.

I looked at her, uncomprehending. She could read my confusion. She could always read what I was thinking. She said I was like a book, despite the masks I tried to wear.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I should have told you. But I didn’t think you would understand.”

“Understand what?!” I cried.

“I have to do it,” she said. “I have to help him. Don’t be mad, little one. Sometimes the world has plans for us we don’t quite get. Sometimes the Gods ask of us the hardest sacrifices.”

And it was then I knew. The little rat was bringing her master every last coin. Coin that could have been used for proper food. Coin that could have been used for shelter and clothes and tools. Every time I came back from an apipaito, every time I fell before a litter and was given some coin to avoid going to the magistrate over my injuries, every time one of the few compassionate hearts parted with their copper for some cold and hungry child wandering the street she had just collected it and brought it here.

She brought her work to the wrinkled hands of Old Turt. She turned over her copper and silver to the half blind man who sat in the dark, gulping like a fish his incomprehensible gibberish to the rats and walls. Dirty and worn were his robes. His blistered and cracked feet stamped in dry wrappings. Bloat toes poked from the top bearing cracked, yellow nails. His wiry hair, though long, was kept tied tightly in a knot on his head. It was a style I saw worn by only one kind of person. The elusive priests in their tiered temples and never opened their doors for the sick and dying upon their stoop. But their hair was oiled and shiny, pulled and combed elegantly straight.

I left then, despite her protests. I ran the streets. I skirted the walls and I clamoured over the roofs. I climbed the Maiden’s Tower, balancing on the crumbling wall and looking over the miserable port with its miserable people. I wondered over the many years I had foolishly trusted her. I wondered where we could have been had she not been secreting away her money on some decrepit old man. We were reduced to beggars and thieves all the while she spent what little we earned on some wretched fool who should be long in the grave.

In my bitterness and pain, I thought of all the places we could have been. I thought of the lost homeland of our people and it’s cool, green pastures. I thought of the many kingdoms and lands far from Divanhane’s oppressive walls. I thought of all the places she had told me in the dark as I lay hungry and weeping. We could have been anywhere. But she had doomed us to some insufferable existence.

My hands clenched in tight fists. There was only one course left to me.

And in those following days I learned the hardest lesson of my life. You can’t trust anyone. Everyone will let you down eventually. The closer you are, the greater the betrayal. The only protection, the only safety was to go alone. The only chance to survive was on your own.

The biggest rat does not feed the weakest. They feed on them.

I returned to the boy I had spent so much of my life running from. I sought out Shafra on his turf. The inevitable beating was a small price to say my piece. And I promised him the bite of flesh that he was due.

For I was getting old enough to understand that men had needs. And Shafra had no girls in his band. Some needs were hard to see to when what little coin you get must be spent on quieting the rumbling in your tummy.

Saorla was always careful. She knew the streets and their dangers. But compassion is the most expensive virtue and she foolish tried to keep hers.

It was no small task, luring her from her grounds. She could sense trouble and would abandon a roost at the first indication of treachery. There was no point in leading Shafra to our nest, she would sniff him out in a moment and be gone. The key was to draw her out and to force her willingly into danger. And I knew of the only bait that she would fall for.

She trusted me and paid for it.

To make it believable, I had to cut myself. I needed my own blood, leaving it in spattered patches through the street. There were no blades or tools to be had. Just my own cracked nails and rotted teeth. The sense of preservation is strong. I remember the first attempts to pierce my own flesh. My teeth pressed uselessly against my skin. Any time my jaw began to bite, I felt my hand flit from my mouth unwillingly. Long did I stand there, hand growing slick with saliva from constantly returning to my lips.

The bite came when I least thought of it. In my mind I was far from Divanhane. I was sitting before a warm fire, surrounded by merriment. Music danced in the air and the smell of roasted meat wafted in my nose. Faces barely known but ringed in bright orange and red sang and smiled around me. Warm arms wrapped around my shoulders and hands playfully tussled my hair. Someone offered me a succulent piece of meat. I bit in, deeper and deeper, imagining the sweet juices running down my chin.

The rest wasn’t hard. Stumbling from our shelter I slid through the streets. Most make way for a wounded animal, some shred of humanity staying their hand until the body stops moving. I collapsed in a plaza quiet and alone. I lay on the dusty tiles, my mind still transported somewhere far away. Somewhere pleasant and cool.

The moon was rising when last she stepped into the square. I think I heard her voice. Her hands were upon me, rolling me over to investigate my wound. She turned my hand over and over, gently prodding the tear that had long since stopped bleeding. Then she raised a hand to my forehead, checking my temperature.

At last she gave me that sweet smile. “I think we’re going to be okay.”

They came from the dark then. And she bristled at their movement. Her hands clenched into fists as they circled about her, like a pack of hungry dogs circling a wounded calf. Shafra flashed his cruel smile, looking her up and down.

“Did you do this?” she cried, her voice hard with fury and rage. “I will tear you limb from limb!”

But Shafra merely laughed.

“Quite the spirited prize little Koudi brought us, eh boys? I think I’ll enjoy this more than I thought.”

And she turned upon me. I imagine her face looked much like I did when I entered Old Turt’s hole. I was already on my feet, ducking from their circle and heading towards the alley. Her face welled with tears as anger and shock swept her. I think there was something else there but what I will never know. That face will be etched forever in my memory. For it is how she is remembered; the last moment I saw her.

Shafra’s gang moved in for their reward and I heard the scrape begin. I didn’t wait to see the outcome. Saorla was by herself and there were five boys. The odds weren’t in her favour. But even if she miraculously succeeded, I wouldn’t wait for her fury to turn to me.

I raced to Old Turt’s hole. I had visions in my mind. Visions I would see become a reality and I had to get there before she could take another one of her hidden routes. I could picture it now, the old man sleeping upon a small fortune garnered from beggar children. I had seen madness before. Those that run dry, parched and desperate as they stumble frantically through the streets. Their behaviour erratic, they throw themselves pleadingly upon any nearby. The sun glares down and as more and more keep their distance the last vestiges of their inhibitions shred away until they are practically crawling naked through the dust. Sometimes the guard will come and make them disappear. Sometimes they croak and drag themselves until at last they stop moving and collapse in the dirt.

Then the rats come.

I was at Old Turt’s hole, guiding myself along the sewer wall with my tender hand. As I stepped into that small tunnel, I reached down and picked up a sizable stone. It wouldn’t take much. I had defended myself with less. A few raps to his head would take him down and then I would be free to find my hard earned coin. Then I could pay some caravan to take me far from here. Far from this damnable city and its miserable people.

As I emerged into his cellar, I heard movement and readied my offence. I stepped slowly, trying to keep my feet as soft and quiet as possible. As my eyes adjusted, I saw a mass shiver and shake in the dark. My muscles tensed. My soul was prepared.

I raised my stone but as the shape drew erect, I felt my fingers loosen.

It was just a babe, swaddled in cloth and resting in a basket. Confusion caught me the second time in that hold and I felt my weapon become disarmed. It clattered against my feet.

Its sound awoke a small chorus of cries. All in the dark were various bundles of rags and baskets. They each gave off a disgruntled wail, startling their neighbour and awakening the next. Down the line they went until all were shaking small fists in the dark. Toothless mouths called out into the night. They called out unanswered at the startled child standing amongst them.

There came a sound from further in, the scrapping of a door on stone. Shuffling in with wrapped feet and ragged robes came doting Old Turt. A crusty loaf of bread was carried in one hand and a small glass of milk in the other. About and about he went, tending each in turn. He’d dip the bread in the milk then raise it to their wailing mouths. He stammered and whispered as he went. Always some incomprehensible gibberish. When last he tended the crying babes he turned to me, looking at me mutely as he held out the remainder of the meal.

I took it, wordlessly and he cracked a crooked smile before shuffling off into the dark and through a door.

And perhaps then I began to understand why there were few children lost amongst the beggars. Even my earliest memories were of cold and stone – of squeaking in darkness.

I think I cried then. And some of those tears were over the realization that my fortune was not here. It never was. There are no riches to be found in Divanhane.

I fled that hole. I ran through the streets, distraught and alone. The next few nights were spent in unfamiliar quarters with unfamiliar dangers. But I dared not the deepest shadows. I feared finding hidden holes filed with awful revelations. More than once I attempted a careless pocket and was rewarded with a severe beating from the guards. Each kick and punch felt like penance justly earned.

I did search for Shafra later. Much later than I would care to admit. It was with sunken heart that from far observations I didn’t see Saorla amongst his number. I returned to her familiar territory, but the streets were bare of her presence. Even some of the regulars seemed to sense her absence. At long last I returned to our shelter but it had long been trashed and scavenged.

As the weeks went by, I searched farther and farther. I don’t know what I expected to find. Perhaps forgiveness, though I knew I deserved none. The weeks turned to months and the months turned to years. But Divanhane was a big city and you could spend a lifetime searching its darkest corners and still not find all that’s hidden.

Once I was larger clever, I followed Shafra. If there was one place I could earn my answers it was from him. I trailed him for weeks until I was able to slip past his natural suspicion. After many long days of distant watching and following, I finally found his little home carved cleverly in the rafters of a dockyard warehouse. I waited until the deepest of nightfall before I sneaked in. It had taken many months of scrimping and saving my earnings to afford the pure alcohol and match. But the reward was worth it. The pure but scented arak was known for its strength and ability to be missed by suspicious priests. I’d soaked his tattered pile of rags in it so even he didn’t realize what he nestled down in.

When last I was assured he was sound asleep, I dropped the match. He awoke quite quickly but the flames were faster. He was shouting and screaming, trying desperately to put them out. In his fear, he tumbled from the rafters to the warehouse floor. I quickly stamped out the blaze and descended after him. He lay groaning and broken on the ground below. I put out the fire still clinging to the remains of his clothes and pink flesh.

I asked after Saorla. But even after his fall, a shred of his street pride remained. He feigned ignorance, then he taunted me. But he was in no position to defend himself. And a boy can only defend against so much. I had long learned how to hurt. Shafra eventually divulged his answers. Saorla, it seemed, was far to scrappy for his boys to contend with. So they simply sold her to a passing trader. She had been beaten into unconsciousness so she didn’t even fetch a decent price.

I left him on the floor. Perhaps some worker found him in the morning. Or they found his body. I don’t know. I never saw him again.

A nameless, loosely described merchant is impossible to track. I searched as hard as I could, asking for a red-haired girl on the market. But none had memory for a transaction dealt so long ago. I would go to the markets every day asking. Months passed and the answer was always the same. After awhile, some merchants would share rumours of possible sightings far from the city. I can’t know if they were true or if they were just saying it to be rid of me.

When I was big enough to hold a sword intimidatingly, I took the path most who survived that long did. I sold myself as a guard and mercenary for a caravan. At long last, I finally got to put the walls of the City of Dreams behind me. And I’ve never looked back at them since.

I could die happy if I never see them again.

Kinslayer Chronicle Part 11

I may or may not have accidentally concussed myself over the last couple of days. Consequently, this next chapter of the Kinslayer Chronicle is a little late. I’m sorry, team.

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Arab City by Wassily Kandinsky (1905)

Chapter 8 – The City of Dreams

There exists on the coast of a great inner sea a city of such size as to appear like an encroaching mountain on the expansive shore. Still are the waters that lap against its dry piers as hungry eyes look over the ramparts to shores too distant to see from the worn stone. It is not a hospitable place. The first settlers were nought but simple herders and fishers looking to catch what they could from the waters and plains. But south of the city stretches a long steppe and control of it had long rested in the hands of a domineering warlord dynasty. Their’s was a harsh rule that drove many people to seek escape from the Dahrmour’s iron grasp. Many of the refugees fled north and came upon the small settlement. It claimed no fealty to the tyrant and its people preserved their independence through stalwart stubbornness and a valuable alliance with the local nomads. The walls of the city thickened and more hands held to its gates. In time, the nuisance of the village had grown into a troubling city. But the warlords couldn’t just siege and conquer. For the city had grown wealthy as well. Separating the Dahrmour’s plains was a large mountain range that proved problematic for traders hoping to continue east. The tariffs raised by the warlords grew worse and worse as their war campaigns drew longer and longer and alternative routes became more desirable. When once overland paths had become blocked, a guild of interested parties turned to plying the waves. And while wood for ships would have to be imported, there was but only one fortified and prepared location for such travel. Thus, the city of Divanhane was raised on the backs of foreign interests looking to subvert the control of the power-hungry Dahrmour. Its wealth was practically assured on the maiden voyage as the first ship pressed off into the salty depths. Even if the Dahrmour wished to interfere, they had long ignored the northern development on their doorstep. By the time the intrepid merchants had crossed and returned with wagons bursting with valuable commodities, it was far too late for the warlords. As their tariff revenue dried up, more and more wealth poured into the ancient walls. By the time the Dahrmour moved their forces to take what they thought was rightfully theirs, a sizable mercenary army was awaiting along the plains and salt coast. A fleet anchored just off-shore. The battle was short and the results conclusive. Divanhane was independent and independent it would remain. Thus, grew the City of Dreams. And grew it did. More and more came to its banks. Thicker and thicker burgeoned the walls. The city became a shuddering, bulging, bloated mass upon the enclosed sea and those that were drawn to its tales of splendour and wealth were just lured into its honeyed depths to feed an insatiable hunger that longed for more: more trade, more food and more people. The streets themselves were clogged with people. Shoulder to shoulder they shook despite the heat. Their frail bodies were clothed in nothing but dirty and bleached rags as they shambled on through the mindless crowd. The streets were clogged streams, filled with more waste than the choked stone tunnels that drained the sewers into the dead sea. Carts attempting to plow through were bogged by the filthy fingers that spilled over the rails. Cracked nails wormed with minds of their own, searching ever tirelessly for scraps and castoffs. I can scarcely remember my earliest days behind those stone walls. My oldest memories are wisps of sensations. Dominant was a dark cold that clammed the skin and made the smallest of teeth chatter in a city constantly gasping beneath its own heat. I have recollections of wandering the piers, dipping filthy feet into the staining waters choked with refuse pitched from the streets. The smell of salt and desperation hung heavy over the city like a perfume. So many came to its streets with dreams of riches and opportunity. The city was always in need of able bodies to man its walls. The merchants were always looking for hands to operate their ships. But when bodies were in great supply, skill became cheap. The merchants, ever saving more coin, paid less and less for labour forcing more and more families into the suffocating streets. And always were the walls under siege. But it was no uniformed army that assailed the faded gates, the stones once vibrant hues rubbed into nothingness. For beyond the rusted portcullis were the huddled, wailing hordes of refugees. They arrived, fleeing the tyranny of the Dahrmour. They arrived, seeking shelter from the sweltering expanse. They arrived, souls spurred by the long stale rumours of wealth and opportunity. They squatted before the gates and cried for entry. Those that were refused found what comfort they could on the short grass and waited for entrance – one way or another. Desperation was the only currency they exchanged. The stories of the Walls of Divanhane are infamous. Had I not seen it with my own eyes, even I would have never believed the tales of mothers tossing their babes through the closing gates knowing they would not raise until the morning and hoping some generosity would be spared for a mewling, abandoned child in the fair streets. If the walls were not so high nor so thick, perhaps those mothers would have held their children close. For passing the gate did not grant entrance into paradise. Upon the other side they swarmed like locusts – those that had managed to sneak through. Every measure was taken to bar them but the poor proved far more resourceful than the patrolling guards. Each gate opened into a veritable slum. It was impossible to pass without a legion of palms raised as husky mouths pleading for any charity. But most that walked by were destitute wanderers and workers themselves. However, exhaustion and hunger wore any recognition from the beggar’s eyes. While the streets were clogged, the alleys were impassable. Around every corner and beneath every shadow lay the boney, wrinkled legs sticking sickly from worn rags. These bodies, for they were little else, lay side beside like discarded dolls. Each limb slowly shook to life at the sound of approaching footsteps. Sunken eyes turned, lit by the barest glimmers of hope. Mouths agape, sounds wholly inhuman would echo from parched lips. Sometimes it was coherent but usually it was a scratchy, guttural cough and a moan of rasping despair. The lungs squeezed little else from hoarse throats that had long forgotten speech. It was impossible to distinguish man and woman in those masses. It was just a writhing carpet of flesh seeking brief respite in the shadows. But always the hands reached upturned, supported on brittle protruding bones that pressed against the dry sky as if they wished to escape the withering husk into the wide heavens. The first time time wandering across these “forsaken trails” was unsettling. Only the fleas were fat as they jumped from body to body. For it is said for every honest citizen of Divanhane, there are five begging. But when you wander the streets, you wonder if there are truly any honest citizens. It was impossible to not see the problem of the poor, but there was no outreach. Guards merely tried their best to pen them in their poor districts but even that proved impossible. So great was the destitution that it spilled to the wealthy sections of town, shambling rags just as common amongst the green vined homesteads as the mouldy wrecks of the docks. The merchant caste sought shelter in their heavy palanquins. Borne by many hands, they were lifted above the groaning masses secure behind heavy curtains. Most of these vehicles were borne by small bands. As mentioned, labour was cheap in Divanhane and it cost practically nothing to hire a personal train of six or eight men to bear a single member through the dusty streets. It was the wealthiest that had the fewest teams. Only they could afford the strongest or pay to keep them fed, watered and trained. While many watched from the stones at the colourful clothes and glittering adornments trying to gauge who carried the fattest purse, it was actually the health of its servants that was the real tell. So much coin was spent on cheap dyes and second rate cloth. And beggars were poor judges of quality. They would see the most worn wool as a sacred treasure, let alone be able to identify silk from angora or even coir. But as with everything, we tend to see what we wish and so many threw themselves before lesser merchants, pleading and begging for scraps that would never come. Not that the richest were benevolent. There is an art in begging and it comes from knowing your fellow man. You have to see beyond their disguise – the image they dust themselves in before they step from their door – and read into their hearts. The wealthiest were often the stingiest, their arrogance and selfishness forbidding them from ever assisting those dying beneath their noses. Their litters were more like fortresses and their carriers had a fierce, almost hungry look. You could see in their eyes and their arms that they were only rewarded for succeeding in their job. Marks of punishment or idleness were the signs of the greatest wastes of time. No, the palanquins to seek were the ones with the contented carriers. They were well cared, healthy and humoured. They spoke of a master that saw them more than just a beast to bear them above the unmentionables. Inside beat a heart that could see past the dirt and filth to see a fellow scraping along the streets. Compassion is the most expensive traits and those were the palanquins that you threw yourself before. Yes, scribe, I begged. I prostrated and I pleaded. I did what I must to survive. For there were only two kinds that skulked the streets of the City of Dreams. They were the rich and the poor in a sense. But the rich weren’t the ones with the most coin in their purse but the most food in their belly. The poor were simply the food for others. Inevitably, the rats were the rich but man is capable of much to keep themselves from being the poorest. If you were to ask me who was the wealthiest within Divanhane, I would tell you it was the mother rat. She was never wanting. Whether it was the stilled limbs of a forgotten body, abandoned and ignored in the shadows of the streets or the succulent wares of a merchant prince’s stores impossible to protect. Holes exist in every guard and no merchant could keep the vermin from slipping through. Things had a tendency to disappear in the crowded streets and no amount of coin could afford the unfaltering guard or the impenetrable lock. How they tried, though. How the rich locked themselves in their apipaito; the lavish mansions with terraced walls and green trellises that rose on what raised ground there was so they could survey over their city of dust. How they guarded their doors and windows with watchful eyes suspicious of every flitting shadow and skittering sound beneath their garden. Their quarters were like small military encampments, patrolled with such frequency by foreign mercenaries and guards who could tell little from locals and refugees. They were poor hounds, easily avoided or misled. For the clever rat, every home had a hole. For the observant rodent, one could watch and learn from others. So simple is a lock, a masterful piece of magic if ever there was one weaved. So many foolish people flock to its allure, putting faith in its false promise of security. But they are uncomplicated devices. To those who watch and listen, they can learn the tricks to make them as valuable as a pile of dirt. They can make them as secure as the wind on the plains. Yes, I stole. I snatched and I sneaked. I broke into those apipaito and even the homes or establishments of the less well to do. Wealth in Divanhane is a fluid thing, passing from the poor to the rich and back again. In the dust and the heat, it becomes clear that all is theft. The rich charge exorbitant prices to people who can barely afford them. They buy at such a point that it would make a beggar weep. They pay magistrates and city watch to twist the letters of their law to confiscate the property of their enemies. Those that they catch are interred in the Holes. They are sent to live amongst the rats. And in those dank pits, the rich and the poor blend together. But only one ever escapes. Only one ever gets out into the greater hole of the city. But a child isn’t born a thief. He isn’t brought into this world a liar. My earliest days on the streets of Divanhane are a blur of hunger, heat and misery. So quick is material wealth stripped from you. So fast are those that share your aching pain to turn upon you. Any memories of my parents were gone before I could remember them. There was just the hunger and the pain. There was the rough stones at night, and the groaning of grumbling stomachs and afflicted flesh. In the dark you seek what warmth you can, pressing up against strangers and strange bodies. In time, the fleas and flies become a second layer. You hardly notice the itch or the unconscious fingers as they search at widening holes in your shirt. In the morning you awake to resume your wanderings and your endless hunt. If you think there would be mercy for a child in those streets then you would be wrong. So often are they used. So often are they just tools for the more clever. Compassion pays the most to the lost ones and there are those with hungrier eyes and stronger fists that would press those hands into service. Bloodied and bruised make all the more pathetic. Shafra was his name. He was a boy nary six seasons my senior. A tall, lanky runt barely on the cusp of manhood. He had the dark hair and eyes of the locals. No one knew where he came from but he was not born into this life of filth and misery. Perhaps he had stolen away on one of the ships as they sailed across the dead sea. Maybe he had arrived with a hopeful merchant family that quickly got consumed by the wealthy merchant princes in their garden fortresses. Not that it mattered. He ended where so many others do but unlike those that form the forsaken trails, he learned quickly about life on the street. He found me on the steps to the docks, a half piece of fish clutched in my fingers. I can scarcely remember how I came to possess such a feast. Perhaps I had wrestled it from the birds. But just as I had stolen from those smaller than I, I too would become victim to the bigger animal. I can remember his face clearly emerging from the alley. It seemed to coalesce from that darkness. The eyes carried the shadows in them as he looked my way. A flash of yellow, crooked teeth and I knew. I sat for but a moment to enjoy the soft sea breeze before he fully formed from his emptiness. At his side were a few of his gang. Lesser boys but few that I recognized. Those that I did were meagre creatures that I had long written off to the suffocating alleys about the gates. But they found new life beneath the direction of Shafra even if they peered about in that distracted way that the weak always do. They looked without seeing. They were little more than extra hands for Shafra to command. But Shafra had no interest in their plays, and he strolled towards me, his long arms lanky at his side. I wasn’t sure what to do. I was like a scared little rabbit pressed against a corner. I had never seen such hunger before. At least, not that kind of hunger. I made to escape but the young ones never run fast. The older have longer legs and longer reach. I was tackled to the ground, the flesh of the fish crumbling between my fingers. Shafra drew to his feet, looming over me and grabbing for my prize. I foolishly tried to hold on to it. Between our brief struggle, the meal was ripped asunder and scattered to the ground in useless, crushed pieces. The birds were upon it, bold enough to wrest the scraps from the scrambling fingers of the children. Shafra regarded me with such ferocious disdain. “Flea ridden mule,” he hissed, his foot lashing out. His toes caught my ribs, striking again and again in the tattered rags of his shoe. “You stupid, flea ridden, pox-covered mule! Don’t you know whose territory you’re in?” “That was mine!” I cried. For my insolence, I got a pair of knuckles into my face. “You best get me some copper, mule!” Shafra ordered. “Ruining my lunch like that, you maggot. I want a copper for a stone of meat else I’ll take a stone’s worth from your own hide! You hear me! This is Shafra’s land and you will pay me for it!” They beat me that day. They beat me every day I stepped into their territory without his copper. I still have the mark where he bit me on my arm. Some marks stay with you your entire life. For it was not the guard that was the greatest threat to the rat. It was the other rats. We didn’t hold any reservations. In our eyes we didn’t see a destitute child. We only saw competition. Before the palanquins we were desperate darlings. But in the shadows and the alleys we were cruel overlords. Worst, we were the hardest to escape. Unlike the guards in the mail, we were small. We could follow through the cracks and the holes. We could scale the terraces and trellises and discover the cleverest holes in the rooftops. The bigger the rat, the harder the bit. The only way to survive was to be smarter. You couldn’t be quicker. You couldn’t be more pathetic. Whimpering and crying could stall the armoured fist of a mercenary, but the children just laughed at tears. They knew all the tricks. Shafra taught me an important lesson. He taught me that the biggest threats aren’t the obvious ones. Guards did sweeps in a vain attempt to bring some sort of law to the crowded streets of Divanhane. They had the weight of the law and the coin of the merchants behind them. But even though they were wrapped in steel, they didn’t know where to bite or punch to hurt the hardest. They didn’t how to scrape the fungus from the dank basements and mash it into a paste that you could spit in the eyes and cause blindness or delirium for days. They didn’t know how to follow you like an unwanted shadow, to watch and see where you crawled to hide from the city. They didn’t know how to wiggle into the darkest corners that you thought were safe. And they didn’t know how to make you really hurt.