Spellslinger--Legends of the Wild, Weird West

by Joseph J. Bailey

  I smiled in reply to their greeting, the unused, nearly forgotten muscles in my face remembering how to react almost in time and close enough to synchronization to make the expression appear mostly natural.

  “No honor here, ladies, at least not from me.”

  I held my poor imitation of a smile.

  Their looks told me they disagreed, but they held their tongues, if reluctantly.

  “There are a few things you should know and others you should relate to Leila.

  “You are bright, as is she, but I would rather tell you than risk having you figure these things out on your own.

  “As you know, your silence and invisibility will be little protection against the dragon, so you must remain on guard.

  “I will do my best to keep its interest, but you should expect the worst.

  “Since you now have little need for stealth in a confrontation with the dragon, let your guns fly. Your automatic weaponry need not respect your wards. Our caution in that regard was a failing that almost cost everyone’s life and may have ended the dragon’s.

  “The sentry drones and automatic guns you have in your possession should be used at full capacity. Do not hesitate or hold back.

  “Expect the dragon to be warded. You must counter the dragon’s shields to beat it back or kill it.

  “If I do not return, count upon the dragon to follow. I do not expect it to attempt an attack on Sky’s End with all the ranch’s defenses, but I would anticipate the operation to suffer under increased depredations.”

  Here my smile dropped. “The men now in my company are less than savory.

  “If they return without me, expect trouble, for that is what will have found me.

  “Treat them with as much trust as you would the dragon—perhaps less. At least you will have some idea of what to expect from the dragon.

  “The mercenaries are just as likely to bite, but will exhibit more caution doing so.

  “If I do not return, give Leila my thanks for all she did for Talen.

  “I wish you well.”

  If they had not been so young, I probably would not have said anything, expecting them to know.

  But expecting one to know and expecting one to do what you expect are both sure ways to an early death.

  Their smiles, unlike mine, were sure and practiced.

  I tipped my hat respectfully as the twins returned to the others from Sky’s End heading out.

  That, at least, I could do a bit easier than smile.

  * * *

  I watched the survivors ride away, their passage wiped away by the spells protecting them, wards that had done little to protect their friends from the dragon’s wrath.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me.”

  Smoky stood by my shoulder, my larger, more handsome, shadow.

  He snorted in agreement.

  For, though we were not alone, we might as well be.

  Doerne’dane and his lot hunkered yet around camp, if anything more eager now than when the quest began.

  Now they had fewer to share the spoils with should we somehow manage to kill the dragon.

  The dragon’s assault had probably saved them from some dirty work before returning to Sky’s End or skipping out entirely.

  Which did not bode well for me, should I succeed with them.

  “Doerne’dane, are you ready to break camp?

  “The day is not getting any cooler.”

  The Dwarf scowled as he rose, his squat frame as solid as the boulders strewn around us.

  “Aye, ’slinger, we’re ready.”

  That he knew what I was, and his accompanying disdain, were not altogether surprising, but they were words laced with caution nonetheless.

  “Might as well call me Eustace.

  “Everyone else does.”

  I gave a brief nod, keeping the smile from my face.

  Eustace the Dwarf.

  I wasn’t sure how he earned that name, but I bet there was a story in there somewhere.

  Glaring at his companions lazing about the camp, Doerne’dane barked, “Luerl, Scarlack, Fronus, and Drute, ya sorry ondar, get ta movin’! There’s dragons ta flay and gold ta claim!”

  On such a positive note was our quest renewed.

  I expected nothing less.

  * * *

  As we broke camp, guns were checked, readied, and armed.

  This time, we did not bother with illusions.

  Our purpose was clear.

  Especially to the dragon.

  Which was exactly our intent.

  * * *

  The mercenaries’ horses were about as rough and ill-kempt as their riders. Not all rough men preferred rough steeds, but Doerne’dane’s crew were not all men.

  In fact, there was not a man among them.

  I think they had to scrounge up some of the fiercest beasts around just to find animals willing to tolerate them.

  Not one to follow, Doerne’dane—Eustace—set off from the camp at a steady clip westward before all of his crew had managed to mount up.

  Luerl slid onto his horse with an easy, serpentine grace immediately behind Eustace and followed his leader, but he was no follower. He was a lustran, sitting astride his horse like a fallen angel, his dark skin laced with the barest hints of arcane energies and his eyes afire, licked by internal flames.

  He looked every bit as deadly as the dragon we were out to hunt.

  Of all of Doerne’dane’s crew, Luerl was perhaps the most dangerous, with his eldritch gifts and the uncanny abilities of his race.

  Off to the side, hunched over his colossal draught horse like a fallen mountain, Scarlack the Mighty moved with surprising ease atop his mount, belying his fearsome size. In a blood rage, I had no doubt the gornak could pick up his horse and throw it like a toy.

  I had no desire to see confirmation of my theory.

  Taking up the rear, their sibilant chatter a steady buzzing counterpoint to the Wastes’ steady winds, Fronus and Drute plotted incessantly. The furers were about as welcome as fleas and twice as ugly. One glance at their disfigured faces would give even a blood-enraged gornak like Scarlack pause.

  What fell rites had shaped them into their current sad state, I did not wish to guess.

  And I did not wish to know, either.

  Setting off with this merry band, I reckoned my chances of survival were about as high as the dragon’s.

  That might be overreaching.

  If they had their way, my chances of survival were probably quite a bit lower than the dragon’s.

  Word and Deed

  Father ruffled my hair lovingly as I nestled close to him for warmth in the cool night air.

  I cherished the times when my father was home; when he was not roaming the countryside serving justice; when I knew he was safe and near; when I did not feel his absence or our loss of Mother all the more.

  These were the times when I felt best—when I could feel my father’s love like the welcome warmth of an open campfire.

  Overhead, the sky was a velvet indigo lens strewn with more stars than I could imagine, many points of light home to further stars beyond counting. This lens let me see into the eyes of the universe and my place in it.

  I could feel how small and insignificant I was, but, with my father’s steady surety, I was safe to feel the sheer unbounded wonder of what was and how I lived through it and it lived through me.

  Nights like these were my father’s greatest gift.

  He helped me find my place in the world just as he helped me find out who I was that resided in it.

  I was a gunslinger-to-be.

  I was a maker of the present and a shaper of the future.

  I was a guardian of the present, a keeper of the past, and a guide for the future.

  I was merely a person with two guns, but I helped make the world just as I helped it come to be.

  I felt the power and opportunity of each moment, saw and judged their worth, and held each instant in highest esteem.
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  I learned the compassion to act and the will to preserve.

  I learned the value of perseverance and the wisdom of vision.

  I learned the cost of violence and the loss of grief.

  I learned the value of growth and the opportunity in mistakes.

  I learned what made a man and what unmade him.

  With my father’s steady guidance, I learned what it was to be.

  What Next?

  Despite the heavy anticipation and the pall of wariness, the day passed uneventfully.

  I learned a lifetime’s worth of new off-color jokes and insults to add to my arsenal should the need arise.

  Unlike the mercenaries, however, I believed that some weapons are best kept in reserve.

  * * *

  “What’re ya gonna get with yer take, Luerl?” Eustace called over his shoulder to his second, the lilt in his voice goading. “Some fancy new robes? A parasol fer tha sun?”

  Eustace enjoyed teasing call-and-response games with his gang. They were his way to keep them interested and focused on their goal and its rewards while still having a bit of fun, if harsh, playfulness to them.

  It was also one of the few times he tolerated jibes, at least those against himself.

  “Only if you’re in need of a new parasol, Eustace, seeing how you lost yours after you mistook your last date with a goat and it decided your parasol looked like lunch.

  “I know that’s more than you like to pay for a good time, so I thought you could use a few more.

  “We all know your fair skin needs protecting from the sun.”

  Eustace snorted dismissively. “It was a mule, and it didn’t eat my parasol. It ate my dress!”

  “I’ll be glad to buy you more of those as well,” Luerl mocked, his midnight hues positively aglow with humor. “What color would you prefer?

  “Pink?

  “Rose?

  “Lavender?”

  Eustace snorted. “Seems ta me ya know an awful lot about dresses, Luerl!”

  “I can’t help it when they’re all you’ll talk about!”

  “How about ya, Scarlack? What’re ya after?”

  Scarlack thought for some time, his features measured and composed, not marked by the humor glinting in Eustace or Luerl’s eyes.

  A steady smile slowly spread across Scarlack’s face. “Perhaps a new pair of boots.

  “Ones that fit.”

  Eustace looked down at Scarlack’s enormous feet. “Ya think there’s enough leather in all tha Wastes ta cover yer feet? Why not wear a pair o’ boats and be done with it?”

  “I’ve no need for boats. There’s not enough water here.

  “I said boots.”

  Eustace nodded sagely. “I see. Boot boats, ya’re after boot boats…”

  Not at all getting Eustace’s attempt at humor, Scarlack replied simply, “Just boots. Nice ones that fit.”

  “We’ll keep an eye out fer ya, Scarlack. There might just be enough skin on tha dragon ta make ya a pair…barely.”

  He turned to the furers, Fronus and Drute. “And you two? What fell abomination are ya after?

  “Tha blood o’ a virgin unicorn?

  “Hate’s essence?

  “Sacrificial daggers o’ bloodletting?

  “Tha tears o’ an unwed maiden?

  “A bottomless urn o’ unsullied blood?”

  Fronus and Drute regarded each other viciously, howling, barking, and screeching back and forth like two drunken hyenas.

  “No arguments! I’m sure ya’ll be able ta get it all, if ya wish!”

  Listening to Eustace’s crew banter, I could almost imagine that they were not dirty, underhanded lowlifes ready to double-cross their own mothers for treasure.

  Eustace turned to me. “And what about you?” He extended the words to make sure they were pronounced almost correctly, unlike his usual rolling banter. The effect only added additional layers of venom.

  “What does your heart desire, Koren, brother o’ Talen? What will ya do with yer share o’ tha dragon’s hoard?”

  I ignored the rancor in his voice and the challenge in his eye.

  “Perhaps ya’d like a horse that knows tha difference between grain and flesh?”

  I patted Smoky’s neck soothingly lest he breathe fiery death upon the impudent dwarf.

  “How about guns that would’ve protected yer brother before he died?”

  If Smoky could pat my shoulder to hold me back, he would have. Instead, he just whinnied softly, reassuringly.

  I could have drawn my guns and shot a warning in front of every one of his crew’s faces before they could blink.

  But that would just escalate their already high hostility toward me.

  I could return Eustace’s jab in kind, offering to buy him some tact and consideration, though such things were out of reach for one like him no matter how rich the dragon’s hoard.

  Instead, I answered truthfully. “I intend to give it away.”

  And that truth, as surprising as it was to men motivated by avarice, was enough to silence him…at least for a time.

  * * *

  About midday, when the heat of the Wastes beat down the spirit with the weight of a blacksmith’s anvil holding the weight of his forge, Eustace angled back to me and growled, “Whaddya reckon our best plan o’ attack is?”

  With most of our heavy armaments gone, particularly the autonomous weaponry that had proved so ineffectual when not given free rein, along with any element of surprise, Eustace’s question was a good one.

  And by good, I mean hard.

  The dragon, if it came for us, would come prepared, warded by an array of spells that we would have to cut through to have any hope of shooting it down.

  With the possible exceptions of Luerl and myself, we had few defensive counters to offset the dragon’s onslaught.

  Alternatively, the dragon could just let us come.

  It could pick us off at the moment of its choosing, singly or en masse.

  It could wait for us to enter its lair and fight us on its own ground, where it had the greatest tactical advantage.

  We, on the other hand, were just a ragtag band of misfits with guns almost as large as our egos.

  I liked the dragon’s chances.

  There were some positives to the situation, however.

  We knew what to expect…just not when.

  The game was simpler now, purer.

  We were on a hunt.

  Just who was hunting whom was a matter of potential debate, since we were both after each other.

  “We strike hard and fast with everything we have, with as much variety as we have, and hope something gets through.

  “I can hit him with anti-magic fire to try to break through his defenses to give us a better shot.

  “If we don’t bring him down, with any luck, his retreat will lead us to his lair.”

  Eustace snorted. “I don’t need any luck findin’ its lair. I can smell tha stink o’ nüaer’daer fer leagues.”

  The same could be said for his crew, but I held my tongue, partly because at this range, if I opened my mouth I would be eating his stench.

  Of course, in fairness, I was not much better.

  I had learned long ago that the first line of defense in hand-to-hand combat was noxious odor.

  A nice stench gave a man room to work…and use his guns.

  A Lifetime in the Desert

  The Wastes were more dangerous than any dragon.

  If we were not aided by magic, able to summon rations and supplies, we would have succumbed on the first day.

  As things stood, we were just miserable.

  I suppose if I had any sense, I could have used a few cantrips to alleviate my discomfort, but I was too stubborn, or stupid, to do so.

  Instead, I let the unwavering blast furnace of the desert toughen me up.

  I liked the leathered look.

  As far as the eye could see in all directions was a rocky, wind-swept sea of desolation. Rocks co
vered in scabrous, chitinous growths, the land cracked in jagged ravines, while irregular buttes and mesas resisted the desert’s call to collapse beneath a deadpan sky too intense to look at directly without the shade of a broad-brimmed hat.

  Those mesas were good role models, better than most I knew.

  I scanned them relentlessly, following the contours of their umber nooks and crannies, the vertical lines running alongside their weathered outcroppings, and the irregularities at their bases, looking for any caves or chasms that might be the dragon’s home.

  To the north, a spectral storm brewed, sending arcane energies to the heavens. Iridescent emeralds, shimmering azures, sultry reds, vibrant oranges, deep indigos, and myriad other colors for which I had no name sparkled and flashed, forked and exploded. The formidable nimbus of force resembled a cloud that could not decide on its shape or destiny, for the chimeric power of wild lueffa was chaos incarnate.

  As valuable as lueffa were, they were just as deadly in the wild.

  In the far western distance, the Hellfire Range belched acrid smoke incessantly to the heavens, a dragon of the earth more than likely sheltering from the sky.

  Although my eyes continually scanned the nearby geography for any signs of the dragon’s home, I knew better.

  We would find the dragon’s lair ahead in the obsidian-capped volcanoes, where the wyrm could bathe in rivers of lava and burn off the dust of depredation.

  As a dragon was wont to do.

  “If you don’t mind, I’m going to take to the air to see if I have any better luck spotting our quarry.

  “I won’t venture far.

  “If I come back quickly, I may have a dragon in tow, so be ready!”

  General nods and grunts of assent were all the reply I got.

  Not that they mattered.

  I was going nevertheless.

  Smoky and I needed some room to stretch and breathe. I could feel his subdued tension underneath me with each crunching step on the brittle earth.

  Taking to the skies would also help the dragon find us, which was a plus—if one imagines summoning arcane, plasma-belching winged death a positive.