FOUR OUTLAWS
CHAPTER 1
—
I
—
If ever there was a peaceful day on the Frontier, today was such a day. There were none of the winds from the north that carried airborne monsters and evil spirits, so a drunk with a bottle of cheap liquor in hand could walk from one end of Main Street to the other without breaking a sweat. Children were out on the school field engrossed in a rather rough new game that was said to be all the rage in the Capital. The sheriff, having finished his patrol about ten minutes earlier, was completing his reports on a couple of recent crimes, while the owner of the general store sat in the corner of his currently customer-free shop eagerly envisioning the fire-lizard races that would soon be held in the neighboring village. On a day like this, it seemed that even a lone flesh-eating rat crossing the street would’ve been enough to throw the entire town into a tumult.
Four cyborg horses halted in front of the Bossage Bank, and the riders dismounted, climbed the stairs, and disappeared through the doors. Their movements seemed well considered and rehearsed.
—
The account of the late security guard Chad Mostow
(as recounted by his medium-summoned ghost):
It was right about noon, and I was musing over whether me or my partner Gazelle Hugo would break for lunch first. I was pretty distracted, so when they came in, it was Gazelle that noticed ’em first. They just plugged me right between the eyes so I didn’t see anything, but now I know what happened.
As they came through the doors, they leveled their guns and opened up on me and Gazelle. All four of ’em had ladies’ stockings over their heads. I was hit by a shot from the repeating rifle a washed-up warrior named Zack Morrowbak carried, while Gazelle got it from a shotgun packed by another former warrior, who goes by the name of Scuda Corkly. I was taken out with just one shot, but even after taking a blast to the left side of his body, Gazelle returned fire on Scuda with his rifle, wrecking the outlaw’s right arm below the elbow before a third fella, Yuri Tataika, hit him with a shot from his crossbow. Now, since that bow had a fifty-horsepower motor drawing its string, it put an iron arrow right through Gazelle’s heart, killing him instantly. He’s right beside me now. And next to him is the six-year-old boy who caught the arrow that went through Gazelle in the neck—Peter, the baker’s son.
After the four outlaws had taken us out, Zack and Scuda covered the customers while Yuri and the other one jumped the counter and slipped into the office, where the other one took his longsword and cut down the head cashier, Tomak Len—who’d just turned all of twenty—and ordered bank manager Tom Nolan to open the safe. It was only natural that the manager hesitated. He figured the sound of gunfire would have the town’s vigilance committee and the sheriff’s department running there on the double.
And the outlaws must’ve known that, too. All of a sudden, the fourth one cut the heads off two tellers, Medelle Hisar and Matthew Nebresco. Both with the same swipe—that’s the kind of thing only a Noble or a dhampir could manage with a sword. The manager turned real pale and did like they said, then they grabbed the bags of money before taking the heads off Nolan and the rest of his staff—Matoya Pereslo and Jessica Nielsen. Now the lady teller, Jessica, she was a good ten feet from those other two, but again, they were all killed with the same stroke. Even though the fourth outlaw’s blade couldn’t have been more than three feet long.
While all that was happening, the two in the lobby tied up the bus driver Concho Hardley, housewives Beatrice Lachauer and Sara Schon, and Peter’s mother Katie Dolsenen, but as soon as Yuri and the other one came back with the bags of money, they gunned them all down in cold blood and cleared out.
I don’t know the fourth one’s name or anything about him. But even in my present state, he scares me. That fourth outlaw is possessed by something. And even though I’ve passed over to the other side, I still can’t begin to imagine what it is—but until you find out for sure what’s in him and destroy it, not even the best warrior will be able to slay him.
Oh, I feel cold all of a sudden . . . Ah, so that’s what it is. The thing that’s possessing him knows that I’m testifying. Oh, no . . . it’s found me! That’s it for me. This is the end.
Stay away! Don’t come near me! Ahhhhhhh!
—
Click!
Taking his finger from the button of an old-fashioned tape player, an old man with a gray beard to match his gray head of hair looked over the two people who’d joined him. This was a rather wealthy town where crops and livestock were traded, and considerable funds had been put into this lavish room, making it seem far from what one would expect to find in a simple Frontier town hall. The ceiling, walls, and floor were all literally covered by what could only be described as a gaudy collection of portraits and miniature paintings, and while the room had surely cost a great deal of money, when trying to hold a meeting or conference there it was difficult to relax for even a second, which left all the participants deathly tired.
However, both the woman who was seated about six feet from the gray-haired old man and the man leaning back against the far wall seemed relaxed and totally unaffected by the spell of the room. Like the man against the wall, the woman in the chair wore armor crafted from the soft but resilient scales of the fire dragon—an item that made it clear at a glance that one was a warrior—and over her left shoulder she had a sword of ordinary length. More than its strength, the selling point of her armor was the way the scales were attached to allow freedom of movement. She had the kind of beauty that would leave not only men but even other women staring in awe, but a long deep scar ran down her right cheek, lending her lovely features a fierce intensity. The woman’s form was free of earrings, necklaces, rings, or any other trinkets, and the only ornamentation on her armor, gloves, and leg protectors was cuts and scorch marks.
The man, by comparison, wore a navy-blue cape over a wine-red vest lavishly embroidered with silver and gold thread, and he had gold slacks on. In addition to a gold-handled dagger and some throwing knives, the heavily detailed combat belt around his waist also held a pair of bejeweled revolvers that looked more like works of art than practical weapons.
That wasn’t to say he had lousy taste: it was the sort of style any warrior on the Frontier might wear to get people’s notice. Wearing this kind of outfit to get work was rather dignified compared to the warriors who put on a real act, going down the main street every time they came into a new town, gunning birds and flying beasties out of the sky with a pair of pistols, finding the town or village lowlife so they could pick a fight with him and kill him, then waiting for a big job to land in their lap—usually acting as a bodyguard or killing someone.
You had to sell your skill at fighting—that’s all a warrior knew how to do, and your life could be heaven or hell depending on whether or not you caught the eye of the locals who called the shots. What warriors earned depended on their abilities and the strength and number of their opponents, but on average they were said to bring in about fifty dalas a day. Out on the Frontier, where one dala would buy a family of four a full-course dinner—with thunder beast or three-headed stag as the main dish—that was very good compensation, but it seemed fair for someone who was risking his life. Still, if he were to take part in something big—such as hunting down Nobility or taking on an immortal opponent—a warrior might be promised compensation on the order of hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of dalas, and that would serve him well in his life after retirement. It was little wonder that he might let his appearance become ostentatious, or his words and deeds exaggerated and overly theatrical.
“After that, the outlaws fought their way through some townsfolk and escaped to where we’d like to send you—the Flore
nce Highway, also known as Mercenary Road. That’s why I played that tape of the ghost’s testimony for you, even though that incident has nothing to do with this. It couldn’t hurt you to know that the mercenaries might not be your only foes out there.”
“That is good to know,” the warrior against the wall said, nodding. As befitted his face, his voice sounded like iron on steel.
The old man looked at the female warrior as if to ask, And how about you?
Though she looked like a hothouse blossom, her voice was cold as she said, “That fourth one—I wonder who he is.”
Her icy voice made the old man recoil, while the man against the wall donned a surprised expression. This was the first time the two warriors had heard each other speak.
“I don’t know. They’re supposed to be able to see everything from the land of the dead, but that ghost was still a wreck. More than the man himself, it’s whatever’s possessing that outlaw you have to watch out for. It’s not unusual for some evil spirits to give a person unnatural strength when they possess him. But I’m sure the two of you will manage something.”
“I wonder if it’ll go as smoothly as all that, Mr. Mayor.”
The eyes of the old man and the lovely woman focused on the younger man’s sun-bronzed face.
“What do you mean by that, Mr. Strider?”
“I’ve got a real nose for these things. For a second there, I sensed something. About what that fourth one is, I mean.”
“Bless my heart,” the female warrior remarked, surprise sneaking into her hitherto-neutral expression.
While female warriors weren’t uncommon on the Frontier, for the most part they made a conscious effort to speak and act just like men. Those who didn’t hide their femininity, like this woman, were a rare breed.
“In that case, you must know something about his nature. Would you be so kind as to share it with us?”
“Regretfully, I must decline. After all, it’s just a hunch. The feeling I got, though—it was almost like he was a dead man. But he’s alive.”
“That’s a strange way of putting it,” the woman said coolly but bemusedly. “Do you know anything else about him?”
“Not a thing. And I don’t want to, either. I just pray I don’t run into him.”
“You still intend to go?” the woman asked, staring at the man called Strider. “If you bailed out of this job, it’d mean more money for me.”
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing,” Strider confessed, smiling all the while. “My hunch is this won’t be any place for a woman. I don’t mean to tell you your business, but you should walk away.”
“Instead of this line of work, have you ever considered doing stage shows out in the boondocks?”
“What?”
“Well, I’m blinded by that wonderful costume of yours. It must be even harder to be the one wearing it. When the time comes, it might leave you too dizzy to fight.”
The mayor grinned wryly.
Tension filled the room.
—
II
—
“You’re one to talk, you third-rate warrior, leaving your back open like that! Please, honor me with some more of your great wisdom,” the man replied, hostility radiating from every inch of him.
Keeping your back covered was the first step in preventing someone from surprising you with an attack from behind.
The woman said frostily, “Having your back to the wall is all well and good, but what do you intend to do if you have to meet with an employer in a hall that seats ten thousand? Shout back and forth at each other for the entire exchange? By the time your meeting’s done, you’ll both be hoarse.”
The man pulled away from the wall. There was a faint sound from the longsword on his back—it was nearly six feet in length. Though it seemed a bit long for someone his height, the sword made it clear that guns weren’t his only weapons.
“We can’t have you fighting at a time like this, Mr. Strider and Ms. Stanza. After all, we haven’t had many applicants for this rescue mission,” the mayor said with displeasure in an attempt to stop them.
The man—Strider—went back to the wall. That was what a professional would do. Only an amateur got so hot under the collar he’d throw away a chance to make some money.
“Couldn’t you tell us what this gig entails, already? The deadline for applications is dawn tomorrow; am I right?”
At Strider’s sneers, the mayor shrugged his shoulders.
“Two days have passed since you started forming this rescue team. Any real daredevil warriors would be here by now. Give up, already. Time’s a-wasting.”
Looking up, the female warrior, Stanza, said, “Pardon me for saying so, Mr. Mayor, but the listing reads: Job: rescue, extremely dangerous. Compensation: ample. You’re not going to get many takers with that. Besides, there’s a gang war going on in Cactus, and pretty much anyone who thinks they’re any good has headed there to cash in on it.”
“Then you mean to tell me you two don’t think you’re any good?” the mayor said, a bitter grin on his face.
“I want to know what the situation is,” Stanza said, pressing for more information. “Do what you will, but people still see things and talk. Strange characters have shown up all over Mercenary Road, and they’re attacking farms and ranches—that much I’ve heard myself.”
“And troops from Cactus raced off to help, but were never heard from again,” said Strider.
As a native of the Frontier, the mayor had apparently expected this, and he showed no surprise at all as he said, “It was exactly five days ago we got word from the Slocum place along the highway. Two days after that, a hundred armed soldiers raced west along the highway from Cactus, and not a word’s been heard from them since. It would seem they were taken out before they could even get a messenger hound off. That’s why the authorities in Cactus haven’t been able to put down the gang violence. We waited another day after that before taking applications. There’s a carriage and driver standing by. I want you to set out tonight.”
“But what’s the situation?” Stanza inquired.
“According to an emergency carrier pigeon from Slocum’s house, what appear to be armored troops are massing on the highway, attacking each and every home they come to. Their family intended to flee to the ruins—that was all they could tell us.”
“When you say ruins on Mercenary Road—you mean that place?” Stanza asked, a terrible gleam in her eye.
Strider whistled.
Both of them were surprised—and afraid.
“And communication after that?”
“None whatsoever. To be honest, we don’t know if there are any survivors or not. So, it might be a complete waste sending you folks out there. Nevertheless, we’re willing to pay. Fifty thousand dalas apiece.”
Whistling again, Strider remarked, “Well, that’s most generous.”
“Double it.”
The mayor stared at Stanza. This time, he was practically glaring at her as he said, “Pardon me, but that’s well above the going rate.”
“Not for dealing with something like this. The mercenaries who appear from time to time on the Florence Highway are evil beings created by the Nobility and even feared by the same. It’d be hard enough to sneak by them and make it to the ruins, but then we’d have to make it back again. And I’ve only got one life to lose.”
“There’s no proof that these attackers are the same mercenaries,” the mayor protested in a beastly growl. “They’re just a legend, and died out long ago—some five millennia ago. You think they’d come back after all this time?”
“You do know the Nobles’ lives are eternal, don’t you? It wouldn’t be all that strange for them to breathe new life into these creations of theirs. At any rate, I expect to be paid a hundred thousand dalas. If you don’t like that, I guess I’m done here.”
Shifting the longsword she held to her left hand, Stanza got to her feet.
“I won’t work for peanuts, either,” Strider said, steppin
g away from the wall.
“W—wait! Just hold on,” the mayor stammered, hurriedly trying to stop them. Beneath a receding hairline, his brow glistened with sweat. “Innocent people are in need of your aid. As a human being, don’t you want to help them?”
“A human being?” Stanza said, a thin smile chiseled on her lips—a smile made of ice. “I used to be one of those, I suppose.”
“I’m with you. See you around, Mr. Mayor.”
“W—wait!”
“Are you gonna pay the hundred thousand?” Strider asked, leaning forward.
“I’ll have to consult our accountants. Digging a tunnel through the mountain chain to our west has left the town strapped for cash.”
“Then you’ll just have to sit back and live within your means, I guess,” Stanza said, turning toward the door.
“That’ll never do. Maintaining and safeguarding the highway is part of our town’s mandate.”
“That means you get special subsidies from the Capital, doesn’t it?”
The mayor gave the smirking Strider a look like he was calling him a third-rate swordsman.
“Ten million dalas a year, as I recall—and you wouldn’t wanna blow that, would you? Just pay out the hundred thousand dalas.”
As Stanza headed for the door, she said, “Talk to your bean counters. I’ll be at the hotel or in a bar.”
“Same goes for me,” said Strider.
After the two of them had left, the mayor said, “This was supposed to be a mission of mercy we were organizing. Money-grubbing bastards!”
Finally able to release his rage, he stomped his feet in anger.
—
Though the town’s finances might’ve been strained, things were hopping in the Silver Castle Saloon and everywhere else in the entertainment district. This particular establishment operated three separate businesses: a bar, a casino, and a whorehouse.
The scent of alcohol, drugs, and nicotine hung in the saloon like an iridescent haze, the coquettish voices of women jostled with the angry tones of men, and when the door to a gambling parlor that echoed with the sounds of roulette and cards and the cries of beasts opened, a bouncer hurried toward the exit with a bloodied patron who’d apparently lost his temper after a streak of losses, while a traveler or speculator who seemed to have won big climbed the stairs, accompanied by a bevy of women. Exchanges of gunfire rang out from time to time, but they soon died away, swallowed by the eddying mire of lust.
Mercenary Road Page 1
