This book is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
DARKWALKER
© 2014 Duncan Eagleson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Cover illustration & design by Duncan Eagleson.
Published by Pink Narcissus Press
P.O. Box 303
Auburn, MA 01501
pinknarc.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013914501
ISBN: 978-1-939056-04-7
First trade paperback edition: January 2014
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MORE FROM DUNCAN EAGLESON
1. WOLF
“We’re being watched,” said Morgan, her voice tight and low. “From the bluff, ten o’clock.”
Rok slowed the jeep imperceptibly. I sat up from where I’d been dozing in the back seat. I peered at the bluff on the left ahead, and after a moment, I saw it. A flash of sunlight reflected off something, probably field glasses.
“What do you think?” said Rok. “Welcoming committee? Or Ravager ambush?”
I thought it over. Zone towns weren’t as paranoid as they used to be. These days, travelers were more likely to be traders than raiders, so most places didn’t keep regular lookouts anymore. But we’d heard Apache Run was having trouble with Ravagers, so it could be either.
“Good spot for an ambush, between those two bluffs,” said Morgan.
“We’re still out of range,” I said. “Pull over, pop the hood. We’ll make it look like we’ve got engine trouble. Give us a minute to take stock. If it’s a lookout from the Run, he’ll hail us, or come down to offer help.”
“If it’s Ravagers, they might pretend.”
“They might.”
Rok pulled over and got out. I went to the back of the jeep and made sure the heavier weapons were easily accessible. Checked the loads on the two shotguns and slammed a clip into Rok’s sniper rifle. Morgan joined me, slipping Darkwater into her back rig. Railwalker swords are short, like ninja-to, short enough that most of us can draw them from a low-slung back rig.
“Take your husband his,” I said, holding out The Fury.
“I’ll put it in the back seat,” she said. Swords were not Rok’s favorite weapon. She climbed back in the car, and from the shadows inside, scanned the bluff with her own field glasses. I joined Rok at the front. He was leaning under the hood, wedging a large cooking pot between the DC inverter and the electric traction unit. There were several small rocks in the pot.
“They’ve got to figure we’re armed,” he said. “If they’re Ravagers, and they’re smart, they won’t come to us. Not yet, anyway.”
I looked at the desert between us and the bluffs. He was right. They’d be too exposed. “You think if we don’t go forward, they’ll wait until dark.”
“Wouldn’t you?” He straightened, stretched. “Wish we knew how many and what weapons.”
I scanned the skies. To our south, there were two black specks sailing west. “Lemme go ask,” I said.
I climbed back in the jeep. Morgan just nodded—she’d seen the two crows on the horizon as well. I settled myself, closed my eyes, slowed my breathing.
Flying—there just isn’t any feeling like it. It’s too easy for me, when I do this, to get caught up in the flow of air through feathers, the wind in my face, the sheer joy of soaring in any direction, in four dimensions. I had to really concentrate to preserve my human agenda. I let myself go now for just a moment, reveling in my flight. I could feel the crow’s awareness of my joining him, and something like amusement. I brought my mind back to the job, and glanced toward the bluff. We banked and coasted toward it. The other crow, winging along beside us, sensed what was going on. She flew a little closer, tilting her wings at us, and I knew she’d stay with us and be patient with my use of her partner as long as I didn’t overstay my welcome.
I opened my eyes in the dim interior of the jeep. Shook myself. Morgan looked a question at me. I waited until Rok slammed the hood and got in behind the wheel.
“Six of them,” I said. “Four on the left bluff, two on the right. They’ve got two three-wheelers and a truck of some sort. Truck’s positioned ready to roadblock. Only saw one long weapon, on the left. The rest look to be handguns.”
“They’ll want to get in close, then,” said Rok. “See a convenient drop point?”
“Yeah. That big rock there on the right. With the creosote bush. You could get up the back of the right ridge unseen that way.”
“Left would be better. I could flank the larger group. And they’ve got the rifle.”
“Terrain doesn’t have enough concealment. They’d see you coming.”
“Okay,” he said, getting out. He kissed Morgan quickly.
“Take care, bear,” she said.
Rok climbed into the back, and I took the driver’s seat. Morgan and I slid our swords into the clips mounted above our heads, pommels toward our doors. That makes it much easier to draw as you exit a vehicle.
I started the engine. When I pulled back onto the road, the electric engine, normally a quiet purr, jangled and clanked.
“What the fuck?” said Morgan.
I laughed, remembering Rok’s pot full of rocks. “Why does the lion limp?” I said.
Morgan sighed. “Right, grasshopper,” she said. “To make the antelope think it’s safe.” She racked the slide on her Gunspire to put one in the chamber, dropped the clip, replaced the chambered bullet, and slapped the clip back in. I drove in fits and starts, trying to mimic an ailing engine. Near the big old stone and its creosote bush, I veered a bit, slowing down, and throwing up a lot of road dust. I felt the jeep shift as Rok’s weight left it.
When the rocky walls of the bluffs rose up on either side of us, I saw the battered old truck they had rolled across the road. The doors and one side panel were missing; it was barely a cab and a short bed on wheels, so rusted and dirty I wondered if they’d towed it here rather than driven it. When we were five or six yards from the clunker, a shot rang out. The bullet kicked up dust in front of us. I floored it for a second as if startled, bringing us within a couple of yards of the truck, and stopped. Figures appeared from the rocks on our left, three of them, pointing pistols in our direction. Gods, they were just kids, barely out of their teens. No one appeared from the right. The three, looking nervously at each other and glancing up to our left, ranged themselves out, one approaching me, the other two headed for the front of the jeep. One of them would have kept going to Morgan’s side, but she stepped out, Gunspire held low at her side, hidden by the jeep’s open door. He stopped, covering Morgan. The second kid, a pimply-faced blond, stood directly in front of the jeep, but couldn’t decide whether to cover me or Morgan.
“Sounds like you’re having a little trouble,” said the first guy, as he stopped by my door. He was the oldest, obviously the leader. My own Gunspire was in my hand, hidden below the window, trained on him through a hole we’d cut in the driver’s side door for just this purpose. You could shoot through the tin of the door, but it slowed the bullet’s travel slightly, and could affect its path a little, too.
“You don’t want to do this,” I said.
He laughed. “What’s up with the eye tattoos?” he said. His pistol drifted a bit as he squinted, peering at my face. “Some kind of gang sign?”
“You might say that,” I said. “Ever hear of the Railwalkers?”
He snorted. “Bullshit,�
�� he said. “The Railwalkers are all dead and gone.” He stepped forward, bringing the old six-shooter to bear on my face. I was about to fire when a shot rang out, and his head exploded. I stamped on the accelerator as I heard Morgan’s gun bark. The jeep jumped forward, pinning the blond guy against the old truck. He screamed, then jerked as Morgan put a bullet in his head. I leaped from the vehicle, drawing Windsteel. A shot pinged off the jeep, cracking one of the roof’s solar panels. I heard another shot from behind me, and a scream from up the bluff. Then all was quiet.
Morgan and I glanced at each other. Rok was coming out of the rocks on our right, carrying his rifle. He jerked his chin toward the bluffs on the other side.
“Pretty sure I got him,” he said.
“I’ll check,” I said.
As I started hiking up to the top of the bluff, I heard Rok say, “Shit. They were just kids.”
Morgan replied, “Rollins said their Ravagers were juvies. This must be them.”
Apache Run was on the edge of the zones, where the desert began to give way to a greener, damper climate. “Began” being the operative word. It was still dry and dusty by most standards, though the locals managed to raise corn and beans, and there was even a vineyard. By the time the outlying farms came into view, the landscape was less flat, the rising hills showing patches of green amidst the browns and golds. We were glad to be here. The jeep had needed some solar cells replaced even before the junior Ravager’s bullet had cracked one, and those were hard to come by out in the zones.
When our jeep came over a rise to give us our first glimpse of the town proper on the horizon it was still early afternoon, the sun spilling down into every niche and cranny. Which was how we saw the dust.
“Uh-oh,” said Morgan. “Two o’clock. Dust.”
I looked in the direction she’d gestured. Here and there in the mostly pale brown landscape you could just make out traces of the unnatural reddish-purple dust. In some spots it had turned brick red, like the natural dust you’d find to the northeast of here, as if it had dried out in the sun.
“It’s turning red already,” I said. “The storm was a few days ago.”
She held out a breathing filter. “You wanna roll those dice?”
I didn’t. Scaledust isn’t something you take chances with. At the sight of those distinctive purple clouds, you put your gas mask or breathing filter on and head for shelter. A day or two after the storm has passed, the dust it deposited undergoes some sort of change—the poisonous organisms in it die, or mutate, or something, and it turns from purple to a dull, rusty red. At that point it’s no longer dangerous. Scientists assure us that after the change, you could safely eat the stuff if you had a mind to, though it likely wouldn’t taste very good. Far as I know, no one has ever made that experiment.
As we rolled into Apache Run, you could tell right away we were on the fringes, leaving the zones. The local ball court showed patches of pale green grass in the outfield. There were actually a few planters with feeble flowers growing in them, and one or two attempts at something that might have been intended for a lawn. Out the other side of town, a dark shape against the horizon, a single Tesla distributor loomed. The few folks on the street were all wearing breathing filters or gas masks, though there was no sign of any scaledust on the streets. Crews with hand blowers would have chased it to collection points as soon as the storm had passed.
The proprietor of the one hotel checked us in.
“Where would we find Christine Rollins or Ivan Rowley?” I asked him.
“First Chair Rollins?” he said. “She’s most likely out to the plant.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the Tesla distributor we’d seen on the outskirts of town. “Ivan, he’ll be at his place, the Korner Kitchen, serving lunch.” He was staring at the tattoo over my left eye.
“Does Ms. Rollins carry a handset?”
“Yeah, but she usually leaves it switched off. You could try her, if you’ve a mind.” I nodded at Morgan, who brought out our handset and dialed Rollins.
“Offline,” she said.
“You’re the Railwalkers,” the clerk said. I nodded. “I’ll send the boy to fetch her,” he said.
“No big rush. We’d like to see our rooms, clean up.”
***
Wireless signals get pretty spotty in the zones, but the closer to the cities, generally, the better luck you have with them. When she set up in the hotel room, Morgan picked up our messages. She was seated at the rickety hotel table with her equipment spread out on it. Rok had stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head, and closed his eyes. I knew he wasn’t asleep, though.
“What have you got?” I asked.
Morgan didn’t look up from her screen. “Services for Wiley and Brock. Twilight tomorrow. Nothing about any more information.”
“Let it go, Morgan,” I said.
“Come on, guards from both Santa Brita and Monteague, along with a couple of Railwalkers? And no survivors on either side? Man, at least one Ravager, or maybe a turncoat guard, had to have hightailed it into the zones.”
“Hicks Junction is not our responsibility. What else you got?”
She scrolled the screen. “Roth requests our presence. Urgently.”
“Micah Roth? Bay City?”
“Wants us to meet his ornithopter at Maricopa Flats, ASAP. Damned city bosses think they own everybody’s time, like any obligations we have in the zones don’t mean anything.”
“We don’t have any obligations right now, so what’s the problem?”
“Don’t you think the locals expect us to be here for Summersend Night?”
“They didn’t formally request us for that, and Roth did. They called us to get rid of their Ravagers, and we’ve done that. Once we report that to one of the consensus chairs, our work here is done. Time to move.”
“That’s assuming those kids were the Ravagers they meant, right. Also, there was a message from Dahlia. She wants to know when you can visit Cairnhold.” Cairnhold was the headquarters of the order’s Western Warden.
“Tell her we don’t know.”
“It’s not like she’s calling you in for a reprimand. How long are you going to keep avoiding her? She’s older than Traveler. We don’t go see her soon, she could be gone.”
“That would be a pity,” I said, and I meant it. I liked Dahlia. She was one of the most moderate and level-headed of the order’s Ravens. But it was becoming clear she had her eye on me to replace her when she retired, and that kind of authority was the last thing I wanted.
I heard Rok give a soft snort. “What,” he said, “you want to see Grout as Warden? Or Kane? That would be real good for the order.”
“I don’t want that kind of post. I’m not Raven material,” I said. “My decisions affect enough people as it is. I don’t want more responsibility than I’ve already got.”
“But—” said Morgan
“End of discussion.”
The town had been trying hard to get into an appropriately festive mood for Summersend, with corn dollies hung about the streets and wheat wreaths on the doors. The news that the gang had been killed helped, though there was still a melancholy undertone to the air of celebration. They’d built a big old Corn Guy, one of the biggest I’d seen in a while. Most small towns out in the zones content themselves with a life-sized Guy, stuffing some old clothes with straw and cornstalks, adding a stuffed bag for a head, and tossing it onto a bonfire. Apache Run had built a Corn Guy nearly twelve feet tall, all cornstalks bound together on a bamboo frame.
Ivan Rowley walked up to where we were packing the jeep, getting ready to head for Maricopa Flats. He was staring down the street at the Guy as he spoke.
“Don’t seem fair,” he said. “We were all looking forward to having you folks do the Blessing of the Harvest for us. Summersend’s only a few days away.”
“Communication said it was urgent,” I said. “We got a responsibility to city folks, too.”
“They got all kinds of priests and of
ficials in the city to do their blessings for them.”
“It’s not about Summersend,” I said.
“No it ain’t,” said a woman’s voice. “It’s about killing.” Christine Rollins was precise and clipped behind her glasses. “You’ve heard the rumors, same as me,” she said to Rowley. “Killings in the streets of Bay City.”
“Those killed won’t be any more or any less dead after Summersend.”
“But others may die before then. Let’s be thanking the Railwalkers for what they done for us, and let them be on their way.”
“Folks,” I said, raising a hand, “I know City Boss Roth a little, and I don’t believe he’d call a situation urgent if it wasn’t. Truth is, it really doesn’t matter anyway. Our presence has been formally requested, and we’re going. End of story. I’m sorry we won’t be here for Summersend.”
“Hey,” said Rok, leaning out from the other side of the jeep. “Size of that Corn Guy, at least we’ll be able to see the flames all the way to Bay City.” Everyone laughed, or at least chuckled. “We’ll think on you.”
Storm clouds were gathering as we loaded our gear into the ’thopter. Fortunately they were the gray of the zone’s rare rainstorms, rather than the purple of scaledust.
We climbed in, and Guardsman Geary fired up the engine. There was a brief shudder as the wings shifted into flight position and began to pump, first slowly, then faster, as fast as the small propeller at the back. The ’thopter gave a lurch, and we lifted off, swinging around to head north by northwest as the first raindrops began to spatter the cupola. Geary said nothing, but his grim demeanor suggested Roth hadn’t been kidding about the urgency.
I had met Roth a few years back. As city bosses go, he seemed hard but fair. I wondered if Roth had summoned us because he knew me, or because we’re one of the last full Railwalker teams.
All three of us were in the regulation coats tonight. Yeah, they were a little dusty and wrinkled—what do you want from three Walkers out for weeks in the zones? Except for Rok’s. To look at him in work clothes or fighting leathers, you’d think he was just a big dumb woodchuck who didn’t care about how he looks. But of the three of us, Rok’s regulation Crow coat was the one that always looked like it just came from the dry cleaners. Damn if I could tell you how he managed that. Morgan’s head was on his shoulder, her portable comp unit in her lap.
Darkwalker: A Tale of the Urban Shaman Page 1
