Spellslinger--Legends of the Wild, Weird West

by Joseph J. Bailey

  That was enough.

  My ride was on its way.

  Tilting my hat down farther over my forehead and leaning back against a convenient post, I closed my eyes while I waited.

  The sound of wings beating, the whoosh of air rushing in chaotic currents, and the surprisingly soft sound of hooves alighting on packed earth told me Smoky had arrived.

  There are those who say a man on the range without a good horse is as good as dead.

  There are others who say a man is only as good as his horse.

  I didn’t have a horse.

  I had a mystral.

  Which meant I must be quite a bit better than good.

  And I was still alive.

  Sometimes called a demon steed, the mystral have more in common with dragons than demons.

  Regardless of what anyone else may fear or think, mystrals are marvelous beasts appearing like nothing so much as the merger of a mighty stallion and a sinuous dragon with the best traits of both.

  Smoky’s sooty scales shone in the sunlight with an inner radiance belying their dark surface. Elegant muscles rippled beneath the liquid scales, powering his descent to a graceful halt directly in front of me, his vast, veined wings folding to his sides as he transitioned naturally from the heavens to the earth.

  With a fiery snort, licks of green flame shooting out from his flaring nostrils, Smoky gave me a brief nod of acknowledgement—one equal recognizing another.

  Truth be told, Smoky was smarter than I was.

  He just had less to say.

  On the Range

  With the sun setting in a seething yellow-gold cauldron on the horizon, I let Smoky take me where he would.

  So long as it’s not already occupied, one spot in the Wastes is just about as good as another.

  Which is a polite way of saying miserable, drier’n the sun-facing side of a scalding rock, and as likely to kill you as a posse of armed bandits.

  But I was likely to find more peace in the wilds than in town.

  Being peaceable by nature, I chose the wilderness.

  In the morning, I would seek out the Sky’s End Ranch and see what I could learn of Talen.

  Passionate and eager, he had promised to message me after the season’s roundup.

  When no word came and my scryings went unanswered, I had known something was up.

  Sadly, I feared it wasn’t Talen.

  We touched down in a rush of air and dust, the native elements of the Wastes, amidst a lovely patch of arid soil that stretched barren and lifeless to the horizon.

  First glances being what they are, just a scratch on the surface of the truth, that was a lie.

  A thing of understated beauty, the earth, like the sky, was alive in color, subtle rainbow tones blending in with the predominant ochres, tans, and reds, fading from bright earth tones to darker blues and purples toward the skyline.

  The desert was alive with more creatures than I could count or would care to.

  Most of them were capable in one way or another of making the most of any fresh meat that happened upon their territory, so I stepped lightly and carefully, not eager to become part of the desert myself.

  As the sky darkened and the air cooled, even the sand came to life. Waves of gauzy iridescence wavered above the desert floor as if winter’s auroras in the far north had come to the Wastes for a reprieve from the cold. The very air cracked and hummed with magical energies and myriad creatures along with it.

  Using the worn heel of my boot as a convenient tool, I inscribed a ward in the soil around us to keep Smoky and myself in and whatever might come to visit out.

  That done, I reached into the lone pouch affixed to Smoky’s side, its latch responding only to my touch, and retrieved my bedroll, the utensils and fixings for my dinner, and a large slab of dried meat for Smoky.

  While Smoky tore into his meal with abandon, his sharp fangs flashing savagely as he chewed, I slowly cooked mine, savoring the smells of wood fire and steaming victuals.

  I could have taken just about whatever I wanted from within the pouch—I had yet to find its bottom—but I generally chose something simple for myself.

  Smoky was as easily pleased as I.

  The stars overhead danced around twin moons while I sat back and sipped on my stew, mirrored eyes always watching from afar, keeping me safe in a world filled with danger.

  Or so I imagined.

  * * *

  The darkness around me was alive with more than just pretty lights.

  Monsters seethed, scurried, and skulked in the shadows.

  There was a reason almost no one ventured out at night into the Wastes.

  Lots of them, in fact.

  At least no one who wanted to live very long...if they weren’t prepared.

  But I wasn’t just anyone, and I wasn’t unprepared.

  I was one of the things that went bump in the night.

  At least my guns were.

  If the overwhelming sense of being watched, coupled with my feelings that things just weren’t right, was not enough, the pack of floating red eyes circling my encampment was a dead giveaway.

  The eager, growling yips from ghostly throats modulating in frequencies flesh could not replicate were also a clue.

  Albeit a minor one.

  There’s nothing like being stalked by spectral wolves.

  The wolves’ jagged shadows slid through the darkness around the camp—deep, alien pools of violent hunger ready to savage the unwary.

  I snorted derisively and slowly chewed my supper.

  If demonic hounds were the worst the night could throw at me, I would rest easily.

  The spectral wolves should be thankful I had erected my ward.

  I didn’t want to kill the wildlife unless I had to.

  I had better things to do.

  Like rest.

  My meal done, I cleaned up with a quick cantrip and lay down on my bedroll for the night.

  The wolves could have me another day.

  * * *

  Minutes after closing my eyes and tipping my hat over my face, I went to sleep.

  If the sun didn’t wake me, the heat would.

  To Sky’s End

  I woke up to a boiling cauldron in the sky, the sun a blindly oppressive weight pouring molten air over my head and down my shoulders as I rose from my bedroll.

  And this was just morning.

  The heat would only get worse.

  Best to take to the air and let the wind and heights relieve some of the dangers of the day’s exposure.

  As much as I would like breakfast in the saddle, seeing no danger on the horizon and offering Smoky the option to leave should he choose, I broke my ward with the heel of my boot and gave Smoky the choice of breakfast next to bed or something he foraged.

  Patting his sleek scales while I rummaged for my own breakfast supplies in my satchel, I asked, “What would you like for breakfast? Something in or out?”

  Smoky gave a dismissive snort and threw his head back excitedly.

  Enjoying my suffering and always looking for the opportunity to soar high in the sky free and at ease, he swept up from the camp without a backward glance amidst a plume of billowing dust.

  So much for company.

  Anticipating just this response, I had already begun my own breakfast, sitting down to eat a bowl of oats before he dwindled away in the distance.

  Although not quite as exciting as the night, daylight brought its own host of dangers, not the least of which was the unrelenting heat.

  Not wishing to relent myself, I pushed through my porridge while I eyed the desert, wary of any morning excitement that might arise.

  * * *

  Smoky was not gone long.

  I heard the powerful beat of his wings from beneath the brim of my hat as I worked the last few spoonfuls from my bowl.

  He was polite enough to buffet only a few handfuls of dust and debris into the remnants of my breakfast.

  Something large and reptilian plopp
ed to the ground at my feet.

  When I made no move to grab the carcass, Smoky nudged the body forward and gave it a light roasting with a gout of emerald-green fire.

  “I’ll stick with my oats, thanks.”

  I scratched him behind the horns to show my appreciation, however.

  Smoky’s gesture really was kind, but I would rather let him enjoy the fruits of his labors.

  He needed the energy much more than I.

  He was the one doing the flying.

  * * *

  I leapt onto Smoky’s back as he broke into a gallop with all the excitement and exuberance of a pent-up colt. The muscles of his back and chest flexed fluidly beneath me as his wings opened and we exploded skyward, the thunder of his hooves vanishing before the gale force of his flight.

  With each powerful beat of his wings, the stark granularity of the desert faded into gentle swathes of color. Plants, rocks, and washes were all swept away with the heights as my view of the world broadened.

  * * *

  As we flew, the horizon rushed to meet us but always remained out of reach. Sky’s End Ranch, however, was another story.

  Situated at the bottom of a broad mesa, Sky’s End Ranch shimmered in the day’s heat like a dream ready to burst. Outbuildings were scattered across the Wastes as haphazardly as debris after a storm. Several large, iridescent domes sheltering the ranch’s herds from roaming predators looked as fragile and tremulous as bubbles of soap exposed to the full heat of the sun.

  I knew this fragility was belied by the strength of their magical fortifications. Given the scope and nature of those domes, if I were a betting man, like most of my erstwhile companions in Ghost Gulch, I would say they were offworlder magic. Few wizards on Ilaeria could muster a similar shielding, much less make it abide for extended periods.

  This confirmed two facts I already knew. One, Sky’s End had dealings with aliens. And, two, the owners of the ranch had deep pockets.

  Knowing what cattle the ranch owners had explained both.

  Where There’s a Will

  “As you grow older, you may hear others say, ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way.’”

  My father paused, his words as soft as the gentle morning air. “They are correct, but this is not our way, the way of the ja’lel, only part of it.

  “Will makes more than just action or endeavor possible.

  “Will is more than a means to an end.

  “Where there’s a will, there’s magic.”

  My father stood with me, watching the sun rising above the hills surrounding the estate.

  Still gray fog colored pale blue and opalescent pink danced among the contours where light reflected amongst the hovering water droplets.

  “Will is the fuel for vision, for imagination, and for the realization of your inner vision.

  “Will is the genesis of magic.

  “Will is the bridge between you and unlimited possibility.

  “This possibility is, in part, magic.”

  He stopped speaking for a time as the rising birds and fey creatures gradually joined together in a perfect, variegated chorus to welcome the sun.

  “The more powerful your will, your oden’el, the more effective you shall be both as a person and as a ja’lel.

  “We will cultivate your will as a thing unto itself, for that is exactly what it is.

  “When you can bend your mind to your will, then the way of the ja’lel will open for you and your enemies will fall like drops of spring rain.

  “When your oden’el is a thing unto itself, creation itself will bow to your needs.”

  My father never turned to me or gazed upon me, but I felt his purpose filling me, the strength of his vision around me, and knew that his oden’el was as brilliant as the dawn.

  Lueffa

  Within each dome, roiling on the ground and in the air like miniature thunderheads, all spectral turbulence and flashing lights, was the source of Sky’s End’s wealth.

  Conduits for magical energies, the lueffa were found nowhere but on the wide-open steppes of the Wastes, drifting across the landscape like small, arcane tempests.

  They were, at least to me, the magical equivalent of tumbleweed shifting here and there with the elements...one arcane manifestation among many in a world alive with magic.

  To the best of my knowledge, Sky’s End Ranch was the only operation that had figured out how to breed lueffa in captivity.

  Traders came from far and wide, from all across Ilaeria and beyond, to barter for lueffa filaments.

  Lueffa filaments were used in eldritch rituals of immense power, magnifying the effect of a great many incantations. This utility, in turn, created whole secondary markets that might not exist otherwise on Ilaeria.

  I supposed lueffa filaments were a bit like wool in this regard, except that almost nobody wore them and they were infinitely more valuable.

  These markets stayed as far away from the Wastes as possible.

  I think everyone was happier this way.

  Me most especially.

  * * *

  The storied guns holstered at my hips held several kings’ ransoms of enchanted lueffa filaments inextricably woven throughout, from the mechanisms and barrel to the polished dragonbone handles.

  The lueffa added to their punch but not their kick.

  My guns had been in my family for generations, handed from one ’slinger down to the next in an unbroken succession that had seen many rises and falls in the D’uene clan.

  But the guns persisted.

  As did our willingness to use them.

  The guns abided.

  As did our need to wield them.

  They were Eiŕ and Eiŕ’hod, the father and the son, life and from life, the beginning and end of justice.

  I can’t say if we made the world a better place through our dedication to the way of the gun, but we certainly made our mark.

  These guns had guarded kings, overthrown dictators, and felled horrific monstrosities from the black gulfs of the Abyss.

  They had also broken families, torn love asunder, and ended more dreams than one man or a legion of men would care to remember.

  My guns were my way in the world, my path ahead, and my legacy behind.

  In the days and years to come, I might be forgotten, but my guns never would.

  Therein lay my responsibility and my duty: to use my guns with honor and foresight, with thought and care, that not only would the will to use them remain but a world worth enduring for would persist as well.

  The blazing arcs of my guns’ bullets carved a future that I prayed I had the discernment to justify.

  And live.

  For if I would not live in the world I had created, who would?

  * * *

  Smoky’s soft whinny roused me from my feeble ruminations, as much a caution against my distraction as a comment on the sad state of my mental affairs.

  His warning was welcome.

  My guns were not the only ones in the air.

  Autonomous floating sentries, some offworld gadgetry of manifold retractable guns, blades, and appendages, warded the ranch’s perimeter like angry hornets about a disturbed nest.

  My respect for the ranch increased a notch then. They were, at least, prepared for some of the horrors the Wastes might throw at them.

  I was not, however, surprised, given the success and persistence of their operation.

  As the glimmeringly polished sentry drones zipped toward me, an amplified voice boomed out in chorus from the approaching drones while others held back and defended the perimeter. “Please state your name and the nature of your business at the Sky’s End Ranch.”

  At least they didn’t ask me to hold my hands up.

  Then I might think I was being robbed.

  At least of my dignity.

  “Koren D’uene, brother to Talen D’uene. I have come to inquire about my brother’s health and whereabouts.”

  There was a significant pause before the sentries
responded. This time a new voice answered, one much softer and more nuanced. I could actually feel her compassion. “You have been expected, Master D’uene.

  “Please follow the drones.

  “The drones will guide you in, where you will be made welcome and all your questions will be answered.”

  After but a moment’s pause, she added warmly, her tone brightening, “And welcome to the Sky’s End Ranch.”

  The flight down to the ranch’s receiving area only increased my respect for the facility. What I could only imagine were wind, water, sunlight, and arcane energy harvesters vied for space with outbuildings holding ranch hands of every stripe and sort gathered from the width and breadth of Ilaeria.

  The structures themselves were modest yet functional, some kind of resilient, billowing material that looked as much like grounded clouds as static, formalized architecture. The buildings had a subtle beauty to them that matched that of the surrounding desert. I also imagined they could be broken down quickly at need and relocated with minimal effort should the need arise.

  Surprisingly, there was much in the way of greenery and vegetation between the buildings. Quite a bit of it appeared largely aesthetic, although I could not know for certain without closer inspection, which certainly was an anomaly in the Wastes. Such attention to detail harkened to more civilized times and places and gave me the impression that the ranch cared as much about the place and the people in it as it did about the operation itself.

  Or I could be getting old, soft, and sentimental.

  I’d learn one way or the other soon enough.

  In contrast to the welcoming spaces between the billowing buildings, complementing the drones were hovering gunboats, turrets, and mounted firing stations of more types and varieties than I recognized. There were also assorted manned and unmanned vehicles of forms that went far beyond the bounds of my familiarity.