Spellslinger--Legends of the Wild, Weird West

by Joseph J. Bailey

  Luerl was lying on the ground perhaps thirty paces ahead, within the entry to a small side cave, his leg pinned under a large stone.

  Eustace stood over him, trying to pry his leg free.

  I heard a cracking sound overhead.

  My weira was a roar that could not be ignored.

  Too late, I realized the threat: the ceiling was now unsound.

  I dove.

  My foot slipped on the loose coins and debris at my feet.

  The crack of failing rock followed me.

  The pain of impact, something clipping the back of my head.

  The sound of more crashing rocks.

  Bright light, and then darkness.

  Bound and Determined

  “Ya made it too easy fer us, ’slinger.”

  Where was I?

  I could not move.

  My arms were bound tightly behind my back, my hands locked intimately together. My legs and feet were held firmly together by ropes or straps winding from top to bottom.

  I could not see.

  My eyes were shrouded, blindfolded securely with layers of dark fabric I could not see through.

  I could not speak.

  My mouth was bound and gagged, stuffed with foul cloth.

  My thoughts were slow, muted, dampened by some arcane suppression.

  “Ya saved us tha trouble o’ figurin’ out how ta get rid o’ ya.”

  I could feel the full heat of midday on my neck and back.

  We were somewhere in the desert.

  Perhaps still in the Wastes?

  Had they carried me out of the caves all the way down the mountain?

  Why bother?

  Too much work.

  They must have teleported here, wherever here was.

  Which meant Luerl was alive.

  Eustace could teleport about as well as he could shave.

  Perhaps this was a safe spot, a hideout, or a location they used to torture people and discard the bodies.

  Though Eustace had spoken, I could sense Luerl’s presence as well. “We lost too much, ’slinger.

  “Now we’re gonna get a bit o’ it back by takin’ yers.”

  They were going to kill me…slowly.

  In revenge for the loss of their companions: Fronus, Drute, and Scarlack.

  “Ya see, revenge is a reward earned.

  “We’ve come fer our due, ’slinger. I’m sure ya’ll understand.

  “After all, it was yer quest fer vengeance that ended up makin’ us seek ours.”

  Yes. My quest had included a terrible price: the loss of so many, from the sheriff and his men to the ranchers of Sky’s End. And Eustace’s crew.

  All gone.

  My selfishness cloaked in moral rectitude had cost more lives than the dragon had taken at Sky’s End.

  I was a greater danger than the dragon.

  They would have their revenge on me.

  Slowly.

  From the inside.

  “Now, as much as we’d like ta do this ourselves, we’ve a hoard ta claim. Understand, we’ll be glad ta know ya suffered, but we won’t be here ta do it.

  “We’ll let tha Wastes do tha work fer us.

  “I’m sure it can draw things out longer’n we could, anyway.”

  Exposure…the wearing away of all that was human.

  Did they not know there was nothing left?

  What could the Wastes take away that I had not already lost?

  I was dumped to the ground painfully. Air rushed out of my chest as I struggled to find my breath.

  “We’re not all bad, ’slinger.

  “We’re nice enough ta dig ya yer grave.

  “We’ll even set ya in it.

  “Seein’ as how we’ve work ta do, we’re not gonna finish it fer ya, but at least we’ll set ya in up ta yer neck.”

  Another drop, this time feet first as I was dumped into a hole, my boots scraping along one side until I hit the bottom jarringly.

  I could feel the cool earth surrounding me.

  After the heat of the sun on my back, the mild earth was welcome.

  Shoveled dirt hit my face, my neck, my chest, my legs, my back, and my feet.

  Each careless toss of earth was an insult, a slap to the face.

  “We’ve taken care o’ yer guns fer ya as well—threw ’em inta tha lava at tha bottom o’ tha dragon’s volcano. They’ll disappear inta memory, just like ya.”

  More dirt fell on me, slowly covering my thighs and buttocks.

  “Don’t ya worry, ’slinger. When all is said and done, we’ll be back ta check on ya, ta make sure tha earth hasn’t choked on yer rotten carcass.”

  At least they were thinking of me and my future.

  Good lads, Eustace and Luerl—the best.

  Eustace bent close. I could smell his rank breath and feel the putrid warmth of his exhalations, his words a curse in my ear. “I know ya’re an optimist, ’slinger. Ya think ya have everythin’ all figured out, that ya can get outta just about anythin’. But ya won’t be getting’ outta this.

  “No one’s comin’ fer ya.

  “No one’s gonna look fer ya.

  “When all is said and done, ol’ Luerl and I will look tha heroes, tellin’ everyone how ya died like all tha rest, burnt ta ash by tha dragon’s flames.

  “We’ll even let ’em have a service fer ya and all tha fallen.

  “Includin’ yer horse.”

  Smoky.

  They’d killed Smoky!

  “Yer demon steed won’t be comin’ ta save ya, ’slinger. Neither will anyone else. So best sit back, relax, and die like a man.

  “If ya have it in ya.”

  Eustace pulled my blindfold away roughly, jerking my head back as he ripped it off my head. “I’m gonna let ya see yer life leakin’ out. Think of it as my last gift.”

  As he stood, he delivered one last barb. “Seein’ as how ya like jerky so much, I thought ya’d like ta hear that mistral make excellent jerked meat.”

  The fires began to blaze within me then, white-hot.

  Heat and light exploded through me, burning everything away.

  All fear, all anger, all regret was gone in an instant.

  Time slowed and stretched; there was, in that infinite moment, only one thing left.

  Purpose.

  I heard the whistle of a swinging shovel and a sound akin to the ringing of a bell as pain exploded through the back of my skull.

  Once more I knew darkness and nothing else.

  Return

  The spell encumbering my mind faded.

  Everything came back to me in a flash of fire, anger, and pain.

  Clarity.

  Clarity settled over me in a shroud of peace and calm.

  They had killed my mystral.

  They had left me to die.

  And they were going to live the lives of heroes on a foundation of lies.

  I might not be much, but I could not let this happen.

  The world was better than this.

  As was I.

  * * *

  I summoned my sidearms.

  The fires of the sun could not tame Eiŕ and Eiŕ’hod.

  A volcano would do nothing.

  Eustace and Luerl had merely kept my guns safe.

  I could feel my revolvers from afar, to the south and west, and knew exactly where I would go when I got free.

  * * *

  I remembered who and what I was.

  I did not need to move my hands or lips to work magic; I just needed my will.

  Will I had aplenty.

  I visualized my intent, shaped my will, and realized my vision.

  Though I was much stronger with my guns, I was an able magician nonetheless.

  Magic was, after all, the heart of being a spellslinger.

  Without it, we were just gunmen, like Eustace.

  With magic and a gun, but without honor, ethics, and vision, we were just killers like Luerl.

  I was neither Eustace nor Luerl.

&n
bsp; I was a spellslinger, and I would have my vengeance, for my revenge made the world a better place.

  Casting off the dirt and shackles that bound me, I rose from the earth in a shroud of soil.

  I began to walk.

  Eiŕ and Eiŕ’hod would meet me along the way.

  Ahead an Ending

  Greed was a tether.

  It always brought the ones tied back.

  Even with teleportation, Eustace and Luerl would be making many trips to the dragon’s hoard.

  I would be there waiting for them upon their return…one last gift from the dragon.

  * * *

  To the south and east, but the faintest intimation on the horizon, hinted at by the massed line of clouds above them, the Hellfire Range marked the physical heart of the Skaelyrian Wastes.

  I started walking.

  For some, the journey would take weeks or months.

  I was ja’lel.

  What was impossible for some was not for me.

  I might not be able to teleport like a high mage, but I could stride.

  Far striding was an art of the ja’lel. Although many gunslingers used horses, with far striding they were not strictly necessary. Horses often allowed us to blend in with others without giving our identities and purpose away.

  Smoky gave me, or had given me, more flexibility and efficiency in movement even than far striding.

  But now Smoky was gone, so I strode.

  Each step was a blur, the near horizon landing beneath my heel with every stride. Time and distance were synonymous; each tread shortened both.

  Eiŕ and Eiŕ’hod called to me as I walked, their refrain the song of my fathers, of my line, and of my life. They told me of my betrayal, of Eustace and Luerl’s treachery, of the fallen dragon Kiersaegian’s legacy, teaching me the dragon’s tale and its terrors, and of all they would do when they were back in my hands.

  I reached for my guns and they came.

  * * *

  I warped through a part of the Wastes I had never seen.

  Given the immense expanse of the Wastes, most of the desolate reaches of the desert were tractless wilderness.

  The land here was far more alien than the area of arid rock and soil with which I was familiar.

  Large stone outcroppings were the dominant land feature, with shapes ranging from delicate arches to columns of irregular vertical stone. These rocks, and much of the ground between, were completely covered in myriad polyps, horns, tables, fans, pillars, and the tentacles and branches of aeryavores, subsiding on the ambient magical energies of the place since there was so little else to live on.

  I glimpsed the land in connected images, stills of time and place linked together to form a shifting picture, like flipping through a book.

  As rich as this portion of the Wastes appeared, I did not wish to find out what dangers it harbored.

  Even far striding, I was days away from Kiersaegian’s lair.

  Without the help of Eiŕ and Eiŕ’hod, I would not be able to maintain the power necessary to sustain a journey of such distance.

  With them, vengeance was possible.

  Kiersaegian’s Ghost

  Reaching the plateau at the foot of Kiersaegian’s mount was the most difficult part of this entire quest.

  Fighting dragons, facing down demons, losing allies—all were travails not to be wished on anyone. But the loss of a friend, of a companion that had shared much of my life and that I had thought would share so much more was insufferable.

  The hardest part was not seeing Smoky’s corpse laid out ignominiously on the bare rock. It was knowing I would have to wait to do anything to honor his memory outside the love I held for him in my heart.

  I could not yet afford to give away my position.

  When this foul business was done, when my conscience had been cleaned of all debts and obligations, then I would come back to give Smoky’s memory the true esteem he deserved.

  Until that time came, I would hold its promise dearly.

  I walked over to his corpse and patted my friend lovingly, offering the reassurance he no longer needed or desired, feelings that were, instead, mine.

  I left him with a heavy heart as I strode from the clearing, my eyes set on the cause of his untimely end and its rectification.

  * * *

  Even with far striding, I still had to climb to the summit to reach Kiersaegian’s lair. I could not risk an errant hand or foothold while skimming across the surface of a mountain.

  Far striding let me cover ground quickly.

  It would not stop a fall.

  My guns would do that, if needed. But I was in no hurry. Revenge was a dish best savored, relished over time.

  Without the imminent threat of a dragon’s attack, the climb up the mountain was almost pleasant, leisurely.

  If Eustace and Luerl were in the cave gloating over their winnings, I would kill them.

  If Eustace and Luerl were not yet in the cave, I would wait for them to return and then kill them.

  These were just two versions of the same outcome.

  I would take either, for they were one and the same.

  * * *

  Entering the tunnel we had first cleared of Kiersaegian’s wards and then the resultant rubble, my weira was silent. No danger was imminent, no fell creatures lurked around corners, and Eustace and Luerl were nowhere to be seen.

  I was, much to my own surprise, disappointed.

  Deep down, I must have wanted another fight, another charge through the enemy’s defenses to its inner sanctum, where I would enjoy a final battle.

  Alas, the ending of my imaginings was not to be.

  I had already had this ending in the battle with Kiersaegian.

  Wasn’t that enough?

  Was anything ever enough?

  Would vengeance be enough, or would I seek yet another cause until I could no longer go on?

  I shrugged and hummed a little tune, my dour mood lightening.

  I would take what I got, because that was all I would receive.

  * * *

  The journey inward to Kiersaegian’s den was uneventful.

  I wended through the debris in the outer tunnel until it ended in the spuming inner caldera, the heat, smell, and toxicity of the place far more noticeable now that a raging monstrosity was not harrowing me with potential death and dismemberment.

  The climb to Kiersaegian’s tunnel, the entry largely obliterated after the dragon had unleashed its cloud of annihilating magic, was far more challenging than before, but I had time and patience on my side to safely cross the gap.

  Entering the tunnel to Kiersaegian’s lair, I slowed my pace and extended my senses.

  No one.

  The air ahead was too still, the space too echoing in silence, for anyone to be present.

  Nonetheless, I approached cautiously.

  As I neared the dragon’s lair, the tunnel became brighter, filled with the light of miraculous arcane objects, treasures that would enrich generations.

  The only treasures that sparked my eye, however, were the ones I would pluck when they returned, for, as I had sensed, the chamber was empty.

  The tremendous bulk of Kiersaegian’s corpse lay coiled across the cavern, its scarlet scales still gleaming with eldritch glamor, its body strangely resistant to decay.

  I had no interest in trophies, either.

  Dragons shared a common bond, a mind that eschewed distance. All of them knew of Kiersaegian’s death, even if his mind was normally closed to them, for in death it opened or its absence filled a space once hidden. Carrying tokens of victory, even of the most vile dragons like Kiersaegian, was still an insult to civilized dragons across the realm, many of whom I knew and counted as friends and allies. I would not dishonor them by flaunting Kiersaegian’s death.

  I found a pleasant corner, one slightly out of the way with a suitable chalice to overturn and sit upon, and waited.

  I could sit so still and patiently that statues called me brother.<
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  * * *

  I accepted the fact that I was a cold-blooded killer.

  To sit and wait patiently, calmly, for one’s enemies with the intent to kill them mercilessly, told me I was nothing else.

  This was, however, who I had been since my father’s death.

  Cold and bloodied.

  Cold in heart for my foes and bloodied by their deaths at my hands.

  Childhood’s End

  The roar of gunfire.

  The flashing lights and terrible sounds of a magical assault.

  I sprinted up the hill from the target range toward the keep at full speed, the air burning in my lungs to keep up with the heat of my exertions.

  My weira told me this was bad, that there was danger here, that a wrong had been committed, a wrong that must be righted.

  A ring of cloaked men stood at the entrance to our keep, just across the open drawbridge, before the gatehouse. They each held their horse’s reins in one hand, sidearm in the other.

  My father’s body lay at their feet, his back toward them, his guns undrawn.

  Though I had never seen any of these men before, my father must have counted them as friends or peers.

  And they had murdered him, perhaps just after he had welcomed them, offering them fellowship and the right to enter his home.

  There was no smoke from the pistols.

  These were spellslingers.

  Other bodies hung limply from the shattered parapets, killed by guns and spells. They, too, must have trusted these men or had been instructed to trust them.

  In the silence, the spellslingers were surveying their handiwork.

  No alarm had yet been raised.

  The attack must have been muffled to those inside the keep.

  Before the ’slingers could react or turn, I opened fire.

  My bullets were true, each shot a matching pair—the first a kiss to shatter their arcane defenses, the second to blow them apart.

  I fired six shots that day.