Spellslinger--Legends of the Wild, Weird West

by Joseph J. Bailey

  Her voice rose, filled with emotion. “Be well!

  “Be safe!

  “Be victorious!

  “May your aim be true and your hearts clear.”

  The gathered men and women cheered.

  I would have smiled, but the sight might have scared them into silence.

  * * *

  Between the ranch hands, the sheriff’s men, and the mercenaries, there were well over twenty of us, Smoky and I not included. More importantly, there were at least four who called themselves mages—three among those from Sky’s End and one from among the lawmen. None among the mercenaries were exactly forthcoming about their magical abilities, but I sensed several casters among the bunch, particularly the lustran, who looked quite capable. These magicians were tasked with keeping us unobserved by the dragon.

  I did not envy them their task. There were few wizards among men who could match the power and skill of a dragon, much less a mature wyrm.

  Two of the ranchers, Phinea and Delphine, twin sisters as tough and rugged as the saddles they were riding on, seemed especially competent. They looked to be two sides of one storm. Morgran, a young deputy from Ghost’s Gulch, looked to have quite a bit of potential, too, but he was young and untried, the most junior of the sheriff’s band. The fourth magician was a loner, a cowboy named Legen, as quiet as the hills, who kept to himself.

  The twins deferred to him like students to a teacher.

  I would offer them what guidance I could.

  * * *

  The air was palpable with eager anticipation.

  Revenge and restitution were close at hand.

  So, while the mages worked, layering diaphanous shrouds of invisibility, muffling spells of silence, spells of concealment to mask their passage, and protective shields against physical and eldritch assault, I chewed on a blade of sourgrass, the thick, bitter sap holding water in my mouth, delaying dehydration under the early morning sun.

  I was the first to receive spellshields, but I was also to remain visible and vulnerable, leaving me feeling quite exposed despite the spells enveloping me in fey forces.

  There was not much magic a dragon could not overcome.

  * * *

  Setting out, my primary concerns were twofold.

  Did we have the firepower to take the dragon down before it destroyed us, wreaking havoc on our lines, breaking us before we felled the beast?

  Did we have the arcane ability to stave off the overwhelming ferocity of the dragon’s fiery breath, magical assaults, and physical attacks while marshaling our attack?

  Was this strength enough to penetrate its defenses?

  If we could kill the dragon quickly, then our risks were minimal.

  If the fight was prolonged, then the likelihood of injury and death increased significantly.

  Given the high probability that our wizards would be tied up countering the dragon’s magical assaults in a fight and that we had no dedicated healers, we would have little ability to restore ourselves and recover during combat.

  Much hinged on our first encounter.

  In order to improve our odds during the initial attack, my plan was to lure the dragon off, distracting it and leaving it open and as vulnerable as possible.

  Which meant I needed to draw the dragon’s attention quickly.

  Having once roused its ire, I was certain I could do so again.

  So, while my companions started off across the barren Wastes under the cover of invisibility, Smoky and I trotted off open and exposed.

  Now I knew how bait must feel stuck on the end of a hook, waiting for an approaching leviathan.

  It wasn’t anything new.

  But it still wasn’t exactly pleasant.

  But neither was I.

  Leave-Taking

  If you think going fishing in the desert is odd, then you’ve never been to the desert...or at least the parts with water.

  And, yes, there are parts of deserts with water.

  If there’s water, chances are there are fish.

  If there are fish, chances are, you can go fishing.

  And if you’re fishing, you’ll need bait.

  So there I was, bobbing along the surface of the ochre sand, a lure on the end of a hidden line, trying to catch a fish.

  A really big fish.

  A fish that could devour a devilshark, a dragonfish, or just about anything it chose.

  And I wanted it to try to devour me.

  Insofar as hunting a dragon can ever be considered a good plan, we had a solid one.

  But hunting a dragon is never really a good plan.

  * * *

  Smoky’s steady, rolling gait kept the image of a cork bobbing on open water in mind along with the anticipation of the fish’s impending strike on the line: the endless calm of waiting, and the sudden impact of the hit.

  Following a brief wave and a tip of my hat to Leila and her crew remaining at the ranch, these images of a much different, far wetter, place were the accompaniment to our departure from Sky’s End.

  At least in my mind.

  I could not say what was going through the minds of those others strung out behind me.

  As keen as my senses were, I could neither see nor hear them.

  This, too, was to further the illusion of my isolation, to make the trap more enticing.

  In truth, I could, with but a simple thought, bring my traveling companions back in view at any time without spoiling their outward invisibility and silence.

  I could return them to the anonymity of invisibility just as easily.

  If I gave in to this urge without need, however, then I might give some telltale clues to anyone or anything observing that I was not, in fact, truly alone.

  Dragons, being far more intelligent, patient, and keen than most sentient beings, were even more likely to see through this ruse.

  So, though I had a small army at my back, I set out into the desert alone, at least in spirit, seeking out a horror capable of rending us all to shreds, arcane cloaks and shields or no.

  * * *

  Watching small pillars of dust swirl from around Smoky’s hooves like the eddies of lost storms, I did my best to keep a straight face. As much as visions of undisturbed ponds with eager fish danced through my mind, equally persistent were images of my concealed companions taunting me from behind, offering perverse jibes, emphatic gestures, and making colorful faces at my back with me unaware of the mocking.

  Aside from doing their best to keep an eye out for the dragon, honing their weapons, and perhaps appreciating the view, that was probably the best use of their time.

  If I were in their position, I knew that I would certainly avail myself of the opportunity.

  Some things never get old.

  Especially a good joke at someone else’s expense.

  Even if it was me.

  So, followed by an army of invisible clowns jeering my every step, Smoky and I cantered off into the desert ready to begin another adventure bathed in blood.

  One Man, Two Guns

  My father’s steely arms held mine in place, his long fingers following my own along the grip of my gun.

  The morning air was cool, moist and crisp, sounds as yet unbroken by the rising of birds or the calls of workers around the keep.

  Following his guidance, I took aim at a distant target, a series of arcane lights my father had summoned when we first stepped onto the range.

  The steady measure of his words rolled from his mouth to my mind, a mantra that stilled and calmed me, clarifying my vision, solidifying my intent, and grounding my purpose.

  There was no gun.

  There was no target.

  There was only this moment.

  “To shoot a gun, one’s mind should be as clear as the sunlit sky and as still as a stone.”

  My index fingers rested on the triggers, one for each gun held at arm’s length in the circle of my father’s arms.

  “There is magic in every shot, that of the world choosing its target.
Your only aim is to not interfere.”

  The twin barrels showed the way to my target, a connection made but not yet completed.

  “When you interfere with your shot, though you hit your mark, your aim will no longer be true.”

  His words were a whisper.

  “You will just be a man with a gun…”

  The explosive report of my pistols shattered the morning silence.

  A flock of loenes flew into the air.

  First Camp

  Heading due west, toward the place where I had been waylaid by the fell wyrm, we made good time the first day.

  I say we, but really I had no idea whether any we was involved.

  For all I knew, I was alone and everyone else had gone back to Sky’s End.

  My traveling companions could all be having drinks right now, toasting my foolhardy bullheadedness, and I would be none the wiser.

  So, I was fairly certain that we had made good time but I resisted the inclination to ascertain whether or not ‘we’ was just Smoky and I.

  I was so used to flying on Smoky, which certainly would have left my companions far behind, that I spent much of the day appreciating the little details I usually missed arcing through the heavens—the sound of Smoky’s hooves settling into the bare soil as we rode, the gentle undulations and contours of the land sculpted by time and colored by the seasons, the resilient tenacity of life scrabbling for a hold on even the harshest outcroppings and most exposed points, the vast sound of silence unbroken but by footfalls, the wind, and the wavering rattlings of our own breath.

  We were but two miniscule specks on a land wider than our imaginations and far richer.

  Our passage through the Wastes’ harsh environs gifted us with the perspective of deep appreciation, even if it was tinged by wariness for the hidden dangers that lay in wait within the desert’s folds.

  “I think this’ll do.”

  I pulled Smoky up gently in the shadow of a crusty old mesa, one of many towering desert fathers stubbornly resisting the pressure of the elements, the gentle slope at its base quickly transitioning to sheer verticality. The wavering umber contours of the mesa’s dizzying heights looked to be the resilient stump of some ancient, sky-spanning forest giant.

  Perhaps in time immemorial, the desert had been home to trees that drank directly from the clouds.

  On Ilaeria, stranger things had happened.

  I was but one example.

  How many places in the macroverse had castoff knight-errants who dedicated their lives to the gun?

  None that I knew.

  But I was far from the best judge of such things.

  I tried not to judge unless life was on the line.

  Then I became judge, jury, and executioner.

  Which seldom answered questions about my place or uniqueness in the multiverse.

  * * *

  Smoky snorted insistently and I gave a short nod in reply.

  When a mystral was hungry, the last thing I wanted to do was stand between him and supper.

  Not knowing how long he would be gone, I took my satchel and bedroll from his back and gave him a pat on the neck.

  I appreciated everything Smoky did for me. Not only was he my traveling companion, he was, more often than not, my lifeline, the one who pulled me back from the brink.

  Although the gesture was small, it always meant far more.

  Being smarter than me by half, Smoky knew this and tolerated my sappy sentimentality with a patience verging on sainthood.

  With a low whinny and a bob of his head, Smoky took off with a flick of his tail and thunder under his hooves.

  After a brief moment of taking in the ease and majesty of his flight, I hunkered down to making camp.

  Although the mesa was serene now, there was no telling what it would be like at night, or even the next moment.

  So, as was my habit, I laid out the wards around the camp that would protect me from most predators and assorted dangers, and warn me of threats.

  Dragging the heel of my boot through the reluctant soil, I carved out a circle of protection roughly ten paces across, enough space to give myself room to work should I need it, one side protected by the lee of the mesa above. With a quick channeling of power augmented by my guns, an arcane shield sprang to life, only visible as a faint wavering of the air.

  To any looking, and I hoped this still included my comrades in arms, I would appear surrounded by a faint, localized heat haze. Anyone with hostile intent attempting to cross the boundary would find his way barred by almost impenetrable arcana. The same held for attacks from those same sources.

  If asked how the spell worked, I could not truly say. It was magic, and the spell expressed my intent. Beyond that, the theory was better left to members of the arcana empyrium. Their knowledge was far greater than mine.

  Thus protected, I settled down to an exciting evening of eating dried jerky, dehydrated fruits and vegetables, and watching the sun’s lazy decline in the glowing embers of the west.

  Art and Artifice

  We had ridden all morning, through the lush forests around our home, up the nearby sleeping hills, and finally onto the slopes of the encircling, cloud-enshrouded peaks.

  Turning toward me on the back of his horse while we cantered, the magnificent stallion’s dark coat luminous in the morning light, my father gestured broadly with a sweep of his arm. Ridgeline after jagged ridgeline slowly dissolved into the distance beneath the motion of his arm. “The world is filled with artificers, magicians of every shape and sort.

  “From the great wizards with their high arts to the lowest hedge wizard, magic finds its expression in any form the imagination allows, and waits in many more besides.

  “There is, however, only one magical path dedicated to the way of the gun.

  “These are the ja’lel, the gun knights, and you are one.”

  I was no higher than my father’s waist, perhaps five or six years of age. His words made sense, but I did not grasp their full significance.

  Though I did not understand the import of all he said, I remembered well enough that I could recall his words until the time when I could.

  “Ilaeria is a resplendent jewel in the cosmos arrayed in all its magical finery.

  “Jewels are one of nature’s treasures—highly valued and highly prized.

  “Jewels are often stolen.

  “Jewels are often the target of malicious intent.

  “Jewels are often manipulated to serve the ends of the greedy and short-sighted.

  “You, and others like you, are here to make certain that does not happen.

  “You are a gun knight, and it is your duty to uphold the law where it is just, remake the law where it is flawed, and be the law where there is none.

  “You are the land’s protector and the people’s shield.

  “You are right where there is wrong.

  “You are a ja’lel, and the future is in your hands.

  “Hold it with great care.

  “Fashion it with utmost wisdom.

  “Uplift it with deepest compassion.”

  I felt like the world was balanced precariously on a finger, and that finger was my own…on the trigger of a gun.

  Fierce resolve began to burn in my chest, embers slowly growing into flames.

  Thus began my introduction into the way of the gun.

  Illusions Shattered

  Ghost lights played upon the Wastes, a sea of stars drifting in riotous profusion in the evening gloaming, echoing the twinkling of thousands upon thousands of stars overhead, a reflection from another universe.

  Despite their soothing beauty and otherworldly allure, I knew not to swim in those iridescent waters, for sharks prowled hungrily in the depths. Instead, I nestled down beneath my blankets and appreciated the show.

  Scrub bushes lit up with eerie luminescence, undersea coral transported to arid desert. The parched earth and rocks beneath the struggling branches of wind and sun-shaped plants glowed with an inner
radiance as the ghost light gave birth to a new world.

  This was the Wastes, resplendent in all their wonder, full of all their hidden dangers.

  Although beautiful, even the ghost light was not entirely benign. There were species that willingly led lost travelers to their doom, luring the unsuspecting over cliffs or into the maws of fearsome beasts.

  So, despite the ghost lights’ draw, my appreciation was tinged with dark recognition.

  * * *

  After letting my supper settle, I lay down under my blankets and tipped my hat over my face to dim the eerie radiance of the desert lights.

  As I fell asleep, I let my senses extend outward around me, a wash of soft awareness enveloping me in quiet calm and security.

  Following the breath, I let it lead me to slumber.

  In darkness, I knew sleep.

  * * *

  My heart hammering, pumping enlivening blood through my system in anticipation, I burst upward from my bedroll as I threw back the covers and rolled forward while simultaneously placing my hat firmly on my head and silently drawing my guns.

  Something was not right.

  I sensed it like a cool wind on the back of my neck.

  When my gut spoke, I listened.

  I pivoted on the balls of my feet from a crouch, presenting a low profile but ready to move should I need to react.

  The night was still but my weira, my gunman’s intuition, roared.

  I could feel the night vibrating under heightened tension, the strings on an instrument screwed so tightly they were about to snap. The depthless stillness of the desert only made this feeling more overpowering.

  The locus of this tension was somewhere above.

  Quickly scanning the night sky, I saw and felt nothing.

  But something was there.

  Like a divining rod, I honed in on the source of the disturbance as my heart sank in chill recognition.