Spellslinger--Legends of the Wild, Weird West

by Joseph J. Bailey

  A constant source of irritation to myself and others, I rather fancied the idea of aggravating the dragon.

  Any trouble, irritation, or suffering I could give were boons that repaid me double.

  After a few sure galloping steps away from the group, Smoky burst skyward with the beat of powerful wings, the wind of his ascent pushing back the sweltering, still air of the blast furnace and bringing a welcome, almost forgotten, breeze.

  Thanks to sweat-slick hair and a little magic, my hat managed to stay firmly in place.

  We spiraled upward in lazy circles, Smoky content to stretch his wings and enjoy his freedom.

  I was not much different…minus the wings.

  We had been on the ground too long, constrained by a failed plan, dark hearts, and gloomy reminiscing. All that fell away with the help of my friend, at least for a time.

  The desert revealed itself in all its glory as we soared upward, its stark majesty no longer colored by my fell mood. Scarlet, ochre, umber, azure, and opalescent hues blended together in a liquid mosaic, the land a molten jewel below us.

  We were not alone in the skies. Many other creatures took to the air in the desert, singly and in flocks, but none were the dragon.

  Content to enjoy the limitless, depthless peace of the ride, I was glad, for once, that my quest for vengeance could be put on hold, at least for a few minutes.

  * * *

  On the horizon, perhaps thirty to fifty leagues westward, the Hellfire Range spewed forth vitriol from Ilaeria’s molten heart.

  Aptly named, the Hellfire Range rose from the ashes of the Wastes like the tailings of hell’s own forge. As dark as the reaches between the stars, the peaks cut heavenward in terrible serrated rows—the blood-drenched teeth of some unimaginable beast bursting upward from the earth’s depths, ready to tear down the heavens.

  Although sharp, my eyes could not pick out any signs of the dragon within the peaks.

  For once, I was glad for the delay.

  * * *

  Smoky took us down gently, a leaf spiraling earthward with no fear for its future.

  I landed some distance from Eustace’s crew, who were creeping across the desert’s floor in a bedraggled line like some mangled centipede in search of shelter.

  I drew up and raised a hand. “Ho! Eustace!”

  I heard the dwarf’s grunt in reply.

  The mercenaries did not pick up their pace to meet me, nor did they offer much in the way of greeting when they arrived. Covered in rust-tinged dust, their tattered clothing and worn faces brought to mind long-suffering mendicants. If not for an army’s worth of weaponry on their backs, I might even guess they were on a trying, if necessary, pilgrimage.

  Eustace, as much as the others, had little patience for me. I could see it in his eyes and feel it in his heart. I was, to them, something to be tolerated briefly, then cast aside without care or remorse as they moved on.

  “What is it?” he barked, as though my return were interrupting important personal business.

  The Wastes were getting to them.

  “We are less than fifty leagues from the Hellfire Range.”

  He barely batted an eye at this news.

  “At our current pace, we should be within reach of the dragon’s lair in just a few days.”

  Scarlack growled, baring sharp, discolored teeth.

  Eustace squinted past me fiercely. “That’s a few days too long, by my reckonin’.”

  “You could always turn back.”

  His glare turned to me.

  I read its meaning, the threat implied by his gaze. In his mind, I was questioning not just his commitment but his ability, his bravery, and his willingness to finish what he had started.

  “Once I get started, I do not stop, ’slinger.”

  He spat, wasting precious water. “Do not fear. We will be here ta protect ya ’til tha bitter end.”

  A fearsome chorus of hoarse chortles, crazed jackals yipping at carrion’s heel, echoed his words.

  I should have flown off then and left them to their fate, but I didn’t. I was, to my detriment, an honorable man.

  I saw my commitments through until the end and I respected my bargains, even though they often cost me dearly.

  Words Without Saying

  Father sat across the clearing from me on a fallen log, the corded wood covered with variegated lichen and aeryavores.

  A simmering stew was brewing over a low fire, the smell promising nourishment and comfort after a long day in the saddle.

  Overhead, ancient trees rustled in the low wind, their branches offering a soothing song at the day’s end. Vines threaded the canopy, weaving the trees together in a luminous lattice that would grow all the brighter after nightfall.

  Heavy clouds reluctant to part with their moisture floated lazily above. Painted the subdued hues of evening gloaming, they appeared ready to bed down for the night with us.

  Father had not spoken to me all day.

  I knew his silence was not from anger or disappointment in me. Rather, it was his nature. He was a man of patience whose every action radiated from a central calm.

  This inner stillness was his greatest strength. Through some inner alchemy, he could transform this tranquility into sudden, unexpected action.

  What others might deem an almost lazy economy of motion, I understood to be deadly.

  His serenity was in no way intended to be a threat; it was how he interacted with the world. But I knew what it could represent.

  I had seen the liquid motions of his shots when bandits and monsters tried to assault our keep.

  I had observed his technique when shooting, when the elegant economy of his motion belied his amazing speed and accuracy.

  I had felt the inner power guiding his hand when he had held mine.

  He was a wonderful inspiration and guide, and I was fortunate to have him, especially in a world as wild and untamed as Ilaeria.

  I think this was the source of much of his strength, for he was as wild and untamed as the land he lived in. He had made peace with the world and reflected it in himself—all of Ilaeria’s dangers, contradictions, and wonders were echoed in his heart.

  In many ways, his patient quietude was his way of teaching me, his way of showing me how to be without using any words.

  And though I often struggled against it, I did my best to listen.

  A Party Divided

  We set up camp for the night far away from any significant topography.

  We did not want to risk another surprise attack from above or below. A confrontation with a dragon in the confines of a ravine could be even more deadly than one from above.

  If our mood had ever been even remotely tolerant of one another, that had gone south after I had left to scout.

  Or, to be a bit more accurate, the group’s tolerance of me appeared to have lessened in my absence.

  I recognized Eustace’s crew as the band of traitorous, self-serving ruffians that they were.

  “I’ll take the first watch.”

  I volunteered not to garner additional goodwill—there was none of that to be had at present, based on the glares and sideways glances I was receiving—but to be ready for any threats that might arise whether inside the camp or out.

  “No need. Luerl’ll take the first watch. His arcane vision’ll serve us well in tha dark, as will my dwarven sight.”

  Eustace was trying to assert his will over the group, or, more specifically, me.

  “Thanks. But I’ll take the first watch.

  “You and Luerl can go after me, when the night’s darker.”

  I didn’t need to argue. I could let them take the whole night’s watch. There were easily enough of them to share the burden. They also wanted the task, though whether to create mischief or something more nefarious, I did not care.

  But I would not let Eustace assert his will over me.

  It was that simple.

  Dwarves weren’t the only ones who could be stubborn.


  A change in the group’s power structure was part of what Eustace was after.

  And I was not about to let him have it.

  I was not above a bit of diplomacy, however.

  Also, as deplorable as the mercenaries were, I did not want to see any more lives lost.

  “Would you like my protection around your camp?”

  With most groups, sharing magical protections was a given, but I did not anticipate Eustace wanted any help from me. Perhaps Eustace felt he had lost face by taking aid from an outsider, that he had lost some measure of respect by helping selflessly after the disastrous attack, or that his credulity had been undermined by being caught unawares by the assault and he was trying to earn some back by being obstinate.

  Whatever the reason, I did not care.

  He could take my offer of help or leave it in the dust.

  Either way, I would be ready for more subterfuge, whether from him or the dragon.

  “Luerl’ll ward us, thanks.”

  Luerl’s unnatural eyes burned with hatred as he regarded me disdainfully.

  “We’ll wake ya up when tha time comes.”

  “There will be no need. I will be ready.”

  With that, I left the company of outlaws for my own camp.

  And a group that had been one, at least in appearance, now became two.

  A Man and His Guns

  We stood in the central courtyard of our keep. Thick walls towered overhead, carving the unblemished azure sky into regular geometric shapes. Even taller trees spread their lofty branches toward the firmament, the gentle rustling of their leaves a musical counterpoint to the steady hum of insects and faeries.

  I held my father’s guns gently, lovingly, one in each hand.

  The sun reflecting on their shimmering surfaces was only outshone by the light within.

  The guns were alive, full of vibrancy and intent, two unrivaled vehicles for the expression of human purpose.

  They were not bringers of destruction.

  They were bringers of possibility.

  “Your guns are your life.

  “They are your purpose.

  “They are an extension of your will.

  “They augment your power.

  “They are your wands.

  “They channel your spells into their ultimate expression.

  “Never underestimate their utility.

  “Always understand their importance.

  “It is through your guns that you will live, and it is through your guns that you will die.”

  To my young eyes, my father stood as tall as the loftiest trees and as sturdy as the strongest walls.

  His words were truth.

  And, in his death, my life began.

  Things That Go Bang in the Night

  The harsh laughter of the mercenaries floated through the still night air, incongruous with the liquid smoothness of the sounds of the desert, the slow brush of the wind, the sure beat of my heart, the hush of quietude only briefly interrupted.

  I could feel their eyes on me, watching when they should be resting, squandering an opportunity given like a true gift.

  In times of travail, sleep can be the greatest of gifts. It should not be abandoned lightly, for one never knows when its blessing will return.

  Eustace’s men flaunted their wakefulness like a trophy won in battle, one that might take its revenge later when it failed them under duress, when they succumbed to exhaustion and their foe.

  I did not need to lay my eyes on their scornful faces to see the rancor directed at me, nor did I need to hear their words to understand that I was the butt of their jests and jibes. These were things I could feel, that surrounded me like the vast sweep of the desert. Unlike the desert, these taunts and ill will were insignificant.

  They were signs of weakness that was not my own.

  I watched.

  I waited.

  When the time came, I would rest.

  They could not touch me.

  Their actions only reflected the true nature of their selves.

  On the morrow, if not sooner, there would be a reckoning.

  I sensed the building purpose within them.

  Whatever their feigned cause, they would strike against me.

  When your gut talks, it is best to listen.

  My ears were wide open.

  * * *

  I fell asleep to the chorus of their laughter, content to let Eustace’s crew watch the camp while I rested after my watch.

  The stars overhead invited me to join their distant lights in the tranquility of the void.

  I dove willingly into the depths.

  I would not squander the gift of sleep.

  * * *

  The night screamed violently in protest, a harsh surge of eldritch energies ripping the silence of the Wastes apart. A blighted scarlet gash tore through the protesting air while I rolled to my feet, drew my guns, and leapt onto Smoky’s waiting back.

  Luerl responded to the ruckus with feline grace, leaping over the blanketed forms of his fellows as he drew his guns.

  Quick to follow, Eustace drew his guernden, aiming its thick barrel at the seething rift as he clambered to his feet.

  Scarlack roared as he threw back his blankets, already firing luminescent rounds from Degan’s rifle into the breach.

  Fronus and Drute cursed as they got to their knees, laying down heavy suppressive fire from brutish hand cannons into the portal.

  The things that lurched, skittered, and oozed from the wound between dimensions were not fit for mortal eyes or human description.

  I saw a nebulous cloud of sickly greenish-brown flicker outward with grasping, semi-solid tendrils drawing everything they contacted from air to ground into a writhing central orifice. Warping over the all-consuming cloud, an asymmetrical, multidimensional polyhedron transformed from one impossibly eye-watering shape to another, each alteration of form followed by violent releases of explosive arcana. Something that resembled a wagon-sized, nightmare hybrid between an octopus, a crab, and a spider leapt upward, ejecting ropey, wrist-thick jets of hardening saliva. Other abominations followed, screaming, clawing and rending their way forward, their entrance into this world met with a hail of bullets.

  While Eustace laid down wave after wave of arcane suppressive fire from his guernden, mowing down any monstrosity that neared, Luerl wove luminous protective incantations whilst firing with a ready ease that belied the efforts of his spellcasting. The echoing reports of Degan’s enchanted rifle, appearing the size of a sidearm in Scarlack’s enormous hands, tolled explosive destruction on those demons just emerging from the portal. Fronus and Drute howled as maniacally as any devil as they whooped and hollered wildly with each shot from their oversized cannons.

  Taking to the skies on Smoky’s back, sensing their danger, I called out in warning, but it was too late.

  My voice, even augmented by magic, was lost amongst the din and the immediate demands of life and death.

  The distraction of the portal’s appearance caused the mercenaries to miss the dragon.

  Despite the animosity between us, or, rather, the animosity within them toward me, I would not leave their backs unprotected.

  As I arced heavenward, the dragon’s challenging roar met my ascent, its scream shattering any illusion that the situation on the ground was under control.

  When a dragon took to the skies, all bets were off.

  With a flick of my guns and a brief summoning of power, my effort enlivened and amplified by the weapons’ deft enchantments, a shimmering orb of force glimmered into being around us as Smoky’s wings beat upward.

  I could see the faint licks of fire dancing around the dragon’s jaws as it plummeted from the firmament, a blazing star crashing to the earth, bringing a violent end to those fighting below.

  Not content to let our companions die undefended, Smoky banked his flight into a spiral as I let loose a heated barrage of magic-nullifying missiles, a multitude of which impacted the dragon’s el
dritch protections, cracking away at its etheric armor in a relentless shower of bullets.

  Each report of my guns was a command for its armor to fall.

  And eventually it did.

  With a howl of pain and disbelief, the dragon roared, unleashing a gout of livid, living magical flames that temporarily brought broad daylight to night’s darkness as they lingered across the sky like a new constellation.

  Before the dragon could recover, I summoned forth explosive flachette rounds into my guns’ chambers to tear through the membranes of its wings. Report after report found their mark, but the dragon was too far away, its armor too thick, its scales too large, and its motions too quick for me to down it. With an elegant twist of its body, the dragon spiraled earthward as it brought its wings inward, swimming liquidly through the air like a snake, shielded by its body and a renewed protective shield, my bullets no longer hitting their mark.

  They had, however, forced the dragon to flee.

  No longer threatened from the back, I directed my attention earthward as Smoky circled above, firing off round after round of summoned shots, each hitting the target though not all causing the mark to fall. When the first shot failed, I rotated through round types—arcane missiles, explosive shot, scintillating starfire, projectiles, freezing shards, concussive bursts, electrical bolts, superheated gases, and concentrated light, among many others—until one finally succeeded.

  There were few entities that could survive direct shots that penetrated their defenses, especially when those shots would continue raining down until they fell.

  My guns lit the night in peels of thunder.

  The demons responded with wails of pain.

  Hellfire Before the Range

  When all was said and done, there were more corpses around the mercenaries’ camp than in many battlefields.

  Luerl had finally managed to staunch the flow of extradimensional effluent by closing the rift before more horrors could expand its reach.