Thorn the Bounty Hunter in The Amber Bones

by Brom Kearne

7

  Thorn lived in a log cabin he built by his own sweat on the edge of a deep forest in the far reaches of the Western Frontier. He grew most of his own food in a small garden and hunted game in the forest. He’d dug a well for fresh water and kept reserves in a cistern built over a fire pit for when he wanted it heated. Chopped firewood was piled nearby at the edge of the clearing.

  Inside the cabin was one large room divided by wooden partitions. He had a fireplace and a set of weights for working out. A small kitchen was partitioned in a corner, opposite a small bedroom and bath. The bath had a door to the outside to make it easier to haul in heated buckets of water from the cistern.

  Thorn didn’t have much in the way of decoration, although he did have a liking for landscape paintings, of which he had two hanging in his main room, and a short bookcase in his bedroom which housed the dog-eared adventure stories of Orren Oakes.

  His cabin was about a half-hour drive outside of Herrickstead over rugged and untamed terrain. Few people chose to live out here in the unclaimed and uncivilized wilderness, but this was exactly the kind of simple and rustic life that Thorn desired. His youth in Collective City had spoiled him from wanting to live too close to civilization, even though nothing in the Free Lands came close to the level of oppression that he had suffered in his home city for years.

  When Thorn awoke the next morning he was too restless to be in the mood for a bath. His muscles ached, his face was sore and swollen, and his arm was in even more pain than when he’d gone to sleep. He sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes flexing his fingers. They tingled all the way down.

  But Thorn wasn’t one to dwell on his pain and he figured the best way to deal with it was to go about business as usual and see if it didn’t go away on its own. The more he sat around thinking about his pain the more it hurt, so it was best to occupy his mind on something else.

  He dragged himself to the kitchen where he chopped up some leafy greens from the garden and blended them with freshly-pressed juice and raw eggs. He drank his mixture down in two gulps before going for a run through the forest. He felt awful and the last thing he wanted to do was go for a run, but he forced himself. He always forced himself, and the worse he felt the harder he pushed. As a bounty hunter he was frequently in positions where he had to push himself beyond the limits of his capabilities. If he didn’t treat his workouts with the same tenacity as he’d be facing in real life then he would have nothing from which to draw when he needed to. But these disciplinary concerns were secondary to his real reason for pushing himself so hard. The truth was that Thorn hated feeling bad and he hated feeling low. So when those feelings began coming upon him he was able to feel better through physical exertion to the point of exhaustion. He had spent a lot of time pounding out trails through the forest for different distances depending on what he was in the mood for. Today he ran the maximum distance.

  Thorn was feeling a lot better when he completed the circuit and returned to his cabin. He got out his tools and spent several hours working on pulling apart his buggy and the motorcycle, seeing what could be salvaged from the wreckage. Some of the parts were in decent enough condition to be sold, but most of it was just scrap. He’d take the scrap to the trade caravan later this afternoon and the rest he’d take to his mechanic. He would need a new buggy, that much was certain, but buggies didn’t come cheap and anything he could get knocked off the price by means of a trade-in would be very helpful.

  While he was working he was startled by the raucous cawing of a murder of crows in the trees around him. These were four crows that came to visit him at about the same time every day in their circuit of the forest. Thorn figured he was in their territory and while they made a lot of noise, they tolerated him well enough, especially when he threw them bread or peanuts. He went inside to retrieve a half a loaf of stale bread and began tearing pieces from it. The crows chattered amongst themselves, as if deciding who would be the one to go down. Finally one of them did, flying to the ground and hopping to peck at one of the pieces of bread. Thorn had no idea how to tell the sex of a crow, but he had thought of this one as a female because she was a little more slender than the others. He could always recognize her because she had one broken toe. She snapped up a piece of bread and hopped onto the rim of a bucket to soak it in water.

  “Maybe Keech was right,” Thorn said to her. “Maybe I am losing my edge. I mean, look at this. Look at my buggy. This was a stupid, desperate move and by the time I replace it this job will have cost me more than I made. Was it worth it just to bring in Arnold Keech? Am I really the only person who can do that? Bradenfield didn’t even bother to send the police to protect the people in their own province. I mean, they expect us to pay our taxes and live by their rules, but when someone over here needs help there’s none to be found, right? So it’s my responsibility to bring him in, at any cost, right? I guess the people are paying their taxes so the government can pay me to do it. It’s probably cheaper for them to pay a bounty hunter than it is to hire and train more police. But what if I just let him do what he wanted? It’s not like he’d come out here to harm me, is it?”

  The crow took her piece of soggy bread and flew up into the tree. Only now did the others come down, hopping along the ground and pecking at the remaining pieces.

  Thorn laughed. “Because I know that’s not the reason I do it. And I’d never give it up.”

  The crows finished taking what they wanted of the bread while Thorn turned his attention to the tractor buggy. If he was going to have to use it until he could find a replacement, the least he could do was make it livable. He sanded down the rust and painted over it, then did what he could to get rid of the caked-on slop fuel. Some of it was so ancient he could only make headway with a hammer and chisel. He found it difficult to hold his tool, however, with the pain in his arm and hand, and the more he tried to ignore it the more that pain flared up.

  It was late in the afternoon when Thorn finished up. He wanted to leave himself enough time to swing by the Browning caravan since they were in town and see what he could get for this scrap metal. And he was thinking that he might need to stop by the apothecary and get something for his arm. Pain was one thing, and he could suffer through it, but when that pain started interfering with his work then it was time to do something about it. At least, that’s how he rationalized it to himself.

  And of course he would have to spend the evening at the pub. The pub in Herrickstead didn’t have a name. It was called either Nate’s, on account of its owner, or simply “the pub” because it was the only pub in town and everyone knew what you were talking about. After every one of his hunts the entire town came out to listen to Thorn’s latest adventure. It was one of their chief entertainments. Thorn could get by taking a night off after a hunt, but not two. He figured if he tried that the entire town would be camped out on his front lawn until he gave them what they wanted.

  But first he got that bath. He started a fire under the cistern and carried in a few buckets of hot water to fill the tub. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief when he finally lowered himself into the water. As he soaked he sipped from the bottle of potato mash and was feeling a lot better by the time he got out.

  After his bath Thorn chopped some onions from the garden and fried them up with the potatoes he’d gotten from Crooked Crag. He’d never thought much about a potato, but he had to admit that these were some of the best he’d ever put in his mouth. He was sad to see them finished, and made a mental note to pick up some more next time he was out Crooked Crag’s way. When he was done he left the dishes in the sink because he could always clean up tomorrow. For now he needed to get to the trade caravan.

  The Browning Trade Caravan was set up in a field just outside of Herrickstead. The four main trade caravans owned land outside of cities and towns throughout the Free Lands, each leasing the use of it from the other three when they came through. The writing of the contract regulating this land was a long, complicated ordeal that had taken representatives from
the trade caravans over a year to hammer out, and included a very detailed list of rules for access to each of the co-owned parcels of land. The contract itself was over a thousand pages long. Each of the trade caravans kept a few copies and employed an expert who had the entire thing memorized, just in case one of the others ever breached it.

  Herrickstead had a carnival feel when a trade caravan came to town. It was the smallest and most remote town that the trade caravans stopped at. People traveled many miles to shop for the exotic wares that only the trade caravans could bring.

  Brown flags emblazoned with the gold tree and dove of the Browning family could be seen for miles. They were spun with threads of real gold by some of the finest artisans in the land.

  Thorn drove his tractor buggy through the gates and into the merchant’s city, trailing the pile of scrap metal behind him. Heavily armed and armored guards were stationed throughout the aisles, either watching on stands or patrolling among the shoppers on foot. Trade caravans were notorious for their private armies of the best trained and best armed troops in all the Free Lands. To Thorn their presence reminded him of the armed guards that kept the citizens of Collective City oppressed, and the reminder was not a pleasant one at all.

  Most people ignored the guards as they went about their shopping. And there was a lot of shopping. Rows and rows of merchants hocked their wares from colorful tents in a sprawl that was even larger than the town of Herrickstead itself. Merchants sold rare and valuable crystals from the Fiann, solid fuel cells, thick embroidered rugs from the weavers of Naemair Ridge, scrap parts that didn’t look like they went with anything, expensive erythronium batteries, glassware made by artisan glassblowers using the finest powdered sand from Level Shore, agricultural tools, discounted slop engines that looked to be in only slightly better shape than Thorn’s, earthenware cooking supplies, clothing made from all sorts of different fabrics catering to the wealthy and the poor alike, children’s toys, local and exotic foods. Just about anything you could imagine was for sale here, and most of it at very reasonable prices.

  What kept the trade caravans going was not only what they sold, but what they bought. And that was pretty much anything. They bought up everything they could get their hands on at each stop across the Free Lands so they could offer it for sale at the next place. Some towns in remote places like Naemair Ridge based their entire economy around the visits from the trade caravans. In recent years the rise of the shipping company had made transactions even easier, as they allowed for the buying and selling of goods without the necessity of a town visit. The largest shipping company, and the one that all the trade caravans used, was L & D, operating out of Webster Grove.

  Thorn’s first order of business was to find the aisle housing the apothecaries. They had one in town that he could have gone to, but Thorn’s pride wouldn’t allow it. He didn’t want word spreading through the small town of how badly he had been injured. Of course his intended secrecy was futile as everyone would know anyway. In a small town there was no escaping that, but Thorn could save a little face by having the rumors spread a little more slowly, if he could help it.

  A map and directory at the entrance indicated which way he needed to go. Thorn also made a mental note of where they sold buggies and accessories so he could go there and try to unload some of his scrap. It was very crowded this afternoon and it took Thorn a long time due to the number of pedestrians for whom he kept stopping. He didn’t know a lot of these people. They were homesteaders living outside of town, or they were from the other small towns dotted around the far side of the Western Frontier. He saw a few familiar faces from Herrickstead, though, and they were all eager for the same news: would he be at the pub this evening to tell the story of his latest hunt?

  Thorn left his tractor buggy and went on foot down the apothecary aisle. It wasn’t as crowded here, and the tents were more closely packed so it felt more sheltered. These apothecaries sold some very sensitive items, and they understood that their customers appreciated an air of anonymity, and so had designed this section of the merchant’s city to cater to those sensibilities. Thorn’s quest for a decent painkiller wasn’t as scandalous as some of the things they sold here, but it was sensitive enough to him personally that he didn’t like anyone else knowing. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

  It smelled of the combined aromas of incense and perfumes over the reek of sulfur and peroxide, with merchants calling out from their stalls touting the benefits of restorative elixirs, soothing balms, and powdered cures for just about anything. Thorn ignored every one of them that was openly calling out until he found a quiet merchant in a corner stall. The merchant had pale skin and long black hair tied back in a ponytail. After listening to Thorn describe the pain in his arm he took some herbs and some seeds and ground them together with a mortar and pestle. He had green tattoos on his arms that were visible below his sleeves when he reached for the items he put in the mixture. Once he was done powdering the medicine he cupped a piece of paper in a funnel shape to pour it into a brown packet.

  “Mix one fourth of this powder with a glass of water and take it every twelve hours until it’s empty,” he said as he passed the packet over.

  “Yeah, sure,” Thorn said and paid seventy-five cents for it.

  He slipped between the stalls into the narrow and cluttered alley behind them. It was stacked with boxes, most of which bore the L & D Shipping logo. Thorn tore open the packet and was about to pour the powder into his mouth when he heard giggling. He peered over a stack of boxes to see a young couple embracing each other. They were too involved with what they were doing to notice Thorn. They were just a couple of kids finding a moment to have a good time, anyway. It wasn’t any of his business.

  He also ignored the instructions of the apothecary as he tipped the packet to his lips and attempted to swallow the whole thing at once. He choked on it. The powder was shockingly bitter. It clogged his throat and nasal passages until he thought he was going to choke to death right here in the alley. He was coughing white clouds as his throat muscles tried to swallow, but without enough saliva to dissolve the mixture it clung to the surface of his mouth and throat. He wished he hadn’t done that, and right about then he would have given anything for a glass of water.

  His coughing attack attracted the attention of a roving guard who poked his pulse rifle into the alley. Thorn was working his tongue trying to manufacture enough spit to be able to swallow when the guard barged in demanding to know what was going on. Thorn glared at him, unable to speak before the guard became aware of the young couple behind the boxes.

  “Hey, you two, get out of there!” He shined a light on them and pointed the rifle over the boxes. They jumped and scrambled for their clothes, blushing deep red but giggling nonetheless as they ran by.

  Thorn, however, didn’t move. He remained fixed, eyeing the guard with contempt.

  The guard was in a full suit of body armor emblazoned with the Browning family insignia. He turned the gun back on Thorn. “Move along,” he ordered.

  Thorn fought the urge to cough as he attempted to stare down the guard. It was not easy when he could barely breathe. After a few seconds he lost the battle and began coughing again, exhaling a cloud of white smoke with each heave of his diaphragm.

  With the staring contest broken he moved along, back into the alley and up to where he’d left his buggy. The guard followed him all the way. Thorn didn’t like being ordered around, and he resented the feeling of power these guards held over him and everyone else shopping at the stalls. But there was nothing to be served by getting into a confrontation. And trade caravan guards were notorious for having an itchy trigger finger when it came to people who questioned their authority.

  “Thorn?” asked a female voice as he was mounting his tractor buggy at the end of the aisle.

  He turned to find Robyn Moore carrying a brown bag in one hand and holding the leash of Theosophilus, her great shaggy dog, with the other. She was Nate Moore’s daughter who, alo
ng with her twin brother Ryan, had taken over running the pub.

  “We missed you at the pub last night, unless you were doing a very good job of hiding.” She scanned the tractor buggy Thorn was riding. “New paint job? I didn’t know they sold such an authentic rust color.”

  Theosophilus panted and tucked his head against Thorn’s hand. Robyn had a deadpan sense of humor that most of the townspeople didn’t get, and that some people found to be mildly offensive. She seldom smiled, and she rarely laughed, so most people had a difficult time telling when she was joking, and assumed that she was frigid inside and socially inept. Thorn, however, knew better, as he had on more than one occasion noticed her punctuate her silly little jokes with a slight up-turning of the corner of her lips, and he had come to realize that she was just a little different in the way she expressed herself. He never had trouble understanding her, and he never took her jokes as malicious. These qualities had served as some of the main reasons that Robyn had been nursing a crush on Thorn ever since he had first settled here outside of town.

  Thorn was about to retort something that sounded clever in his head but he choked instead on the white powder, coughing a fresh cloud of it from his throat.

  “This will never do,” Robyn said, pulling out a flask from a pocket in her skirt. “I brought this water for Theo but it looks like you need it more than he does.” She set the brown bag on the ground and removed a crystal goblet from it, into which she poured some of the water.

  Thorn was grateful as she passed the goblet over. He swirled the water around in his mouth and gargled with it, hoping to dissolve every last speck of that foul powder before he swallowed. While he was doing that Robyn took out a matching crystal bowl and set it on the ground, pouring some water into it for Theosophilus.

  “I don’t think it matters what it is,” she said, “but if you’re consuming it, he wants it.”

  Theosophilus’ large ears and shaggy head completely obscured the bowl as he leaned over it and began lapping. Thorn had gotten enough of the powder out of his mouth and throat to be able to swallow, but that bitter taste was going to be with him for a while.

  “What were you trying to swallow?” Robyn asked.

  “Just my pride,” Thorn said with a smile. “It didn’t go down so well.”

  “Then it’s lucky Theo happened along. Do you like my new glassware?”

  Thorn held the goblet up to the sun to see it sparkle. “Seems a little fancy for the pub, isn’t it?”

  “These aren’t for the pub. These are for me. And for Theo. And for you if I ever find you choking on your pride again. If you like next time I could bake it into a pie. It might go down more easily.”

  Theosophiulus had finished drinking and rubbed his dripping wet mouth against Thorn’s pants. Robyn poured out what was left on the ground and put the bowl back in her bag. Thorn handed the goblet back to her and she put it in the bag as well.

  “I didn’t believe it when people said that you had destroyed your buggy taking down Arnold Keech. But here it is.”

  “What are they saying?”

  “They’re saying that you beat him half to death with it. That you picked it up like a club to wail on him and it broke over his hard head.”

  “I like that version better than what really happened.”

  “So which version are you going to tell at the pub tonight?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. Do you think it would make me look more heroic if I charged him down against all odds and wrecked my buggy in a blaze of glory, or if I got my rear handed to me so badly that the only way I could beat him was by sacrificing my buggy after I bailed out of it?”

  Robyn skewed her mouth to one side as she pretended to think. “I like it better that you picked up the buggy and beat him with it. Or perhaps if you used it as a conduit to call lightning from the sky. Of course, then you’d have a hard time explaining why your face is so bruised and swollen.”

  “I was hoping that nobody would notice.”

  Robyn couldn’t hide the concern in her eyes as they darted over Thorn’s face, reconstructing in her mind the physical beating he’d taken. “Well, you’d better think of something quickly. Everyone in town will be at the pub tonight to hear about it. And we have a lot of people from out of town staying with us because of the trade caravan. It’ll be a packed house. Speaking of which, I’ve left my brother alone long enough to make a sufficient mess to keep me occupied for a while. I hope you haven’t ruined your appetite by snacking on your pride. I’ve had pork slow-roasting all day. See you tonight.”

  She took her bag and Theosophilus’ leash and offered a smile over her shoulder as she walked away.

  On his way to find a merchant who might buy his scrap metal Thorn passed a tent vendor selling guns. He slowed the buggy so he could get a good look at them, glittering and powerful all lined up for sale in neat rows. He resisted the urge to stop. Guns were expensive and rare in the Free Lands. He knew he couldn’t afford one, especially when he needed a new buggy. Reliable transportation was far more important to him right now than owning a gun, but that didn’t make passing them by any easier.

  He passed through the buggy vendors with their rows and rows of new and used buggies, looking for a merchant with a fiery furnace capable of melting down or reworking metal scrap. He finally found one in the far corner, near to the trade caravans themselves. The merchant was surrounded by piles of scrap, and he was working hard melting them down and refining them into something that people may want to buy. He was a burly, no-nonsense kind of a man who didn’t look like he appreciated being interrupted in his work when Thorn drove up. He stood with his hands on his hips as he looked at the pile of scrap Thorn was offering.

  “Fifteen dollars,” he said.”

  “This is quality scrap right here, only freshly pulled off my buggy. It’s worth at least fifty.”

  The merchant waved a meaty hand at the piles of scrap surrounding his furnace. “It’s not like I’m wanting for it. Fifteen, take it or leave it.”

  Thorn grumbled as he folded the money in his pocket.

  Thorn could ride by the rows of buggies without feeling their call because he knew that he was going to visit his mechanic, and that the custom job he was going to get was better than anything they had to offer here. But the gun vendor offered an allure that he couldn’t pass by. He had to stop and take a look.

  Thorn shouldered in next to a tall thin man who was standing next to the stall looking down his nose at the guns. His contempt was obvious and he snorted as Thorn walked up.

  The gun merchant, however, smiled happily and shook Thorn’s hand. “Greetings friend,” he said, “and welcome to the finest gun shop you’ll find in the Free Lands. My name is Garman Browning and I’ll be helping you today. Are you looking for something in particular? I have everything from sparkers to concussion rifles.”

  “Every last one of these should be melted down,” the tall man said. “This is Crimson City tech and it’s illegal to transport them through Webster Grove. I’m sure you’re aware that they restricted the sale and transport of refurbished weaponry? Or do the trade caravans not have to obey the law like the rest of us?”

  “And how do you know we transported these through Webster Grove?” Garman asked.

  “All trade west of the Old Foss passes through Webster Grove. All trade north and south along the Old Foss passes through Webster Grove. I can’t believe that I need to give you, a trade family member, a lesson on the geological importance of Webster Grove. And that is why the Bradenfield government is so diligent when it comes to passing regulations on the trade that passes through there. And they have passed very strict regulations on the transport of these Crimson City death machines.”

  “Are you a representative from the government of Bradenfield, Mr. Nasint?” Garman asked.

  “Of course not. I just happen to care that the laws of our province are protected and administered equally. And that includes applying them to the trade caravans.”


  “Then file a complaint,” Garman said dismissively. “Now, as for you, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Thorn.”

  “Thorn. As for you, Mr. Thorn, you look like the kind of man who might appreciate a fine sparker pistol.” He picked one up and stroked it lovingly. “Sometimes called coilers or snake guns on account of the tightly-wound induction coil along the muzzle, these beauties, while not very accurate at range, are positively deadly at a distance of less than twenty feet. They don’t require charging or expensive battery replacements like some of the larger guns do, either.”

  “Well . . .” Thorn began.

  “Or perhaps you’re in the market for something a bit more robust,” Garman continued. He picked up a concussion rifle. “This is the D-138 model concussion rifle, capable of rapid fire concussive destruction. It uses a refined hedrous crystal as its power source, so it’s a bit more expensive than your average gun, but it’s worth it. You’ve got dual firing columns to keep it cool: one side fires while the other charges. You’ve got shock absorbers built into the stock to minimize recoil and give you a comfortable shooting experience. This baby right here could level a whole town if you so desired.”

  Mr. Nasint snorted.

  “Oh, I could have a lot of fun with that,” Thorn said. “I notice you have a lot of pulse rifles.” Thorn picked one up and peered through the sights.

  “Ah, yes, unfortunately we’re overstocked on those. But our overstock is your savings, right?”

  As they were talking a young man with a hood drawn up over his head sidled up to the end of the tent. Garman was distracted for a moment as he watched him. Thorn and Mr. Nasint both acknowledged him as well. Something didn’t feel right about him. He seemed too much on edge. Garman Browning glanced up and Thorn followed his gaze to a guard in a stand two tents down. The guard met Garman’s gaze and nodded slightly.

  “These are the PM III models,” Thorn said, turning his attention back to the rifle he was holding.

  “Yes, “Garman replied. He kept an eye on the young man at the corner as he addressed Thorn. “Are you familiar with them?”

  “I know they were discontinued in Crimson City due to a rather severe defect in their manufacture. That’s why there are so many of them and you’re overstocked, I’d wager. Crimson City had to throw out the whole lot of them.”

  “And what defect was that?” Mr. Nasint demanded.

  “The capacitor is prone to overheating,” Thorn said, “and it’s located far too close to the battery. If you leave it charging for more than a minute or two . . . boom.”

  Mr. Nasint’s eyebrows shot up and he took a couple of steps back, as if the gun might explode right then and there.

  “Now, it’s not quite that bad,” Garman said quickly. “The weapon in its raw state is indeed very dangerous, but when our technicians refurbish them they add a heat dampener between the capacitor and the battery that gives you at least five minutes before it explodes. If you don’t discharge the weapon within five minutes, well, there’s really no reason to be charging it in the first place, is there? And remember, this only affects the weapon when it’s set to maximum charge. For most practical purposes you’ll never want to go over halfway on it. That’s more than enough firepower to kill someone.”

  Mr. Nasint let out another audible groan. He looked even more terrorized than he had a moment ago.

  “How much would one of these set me back?” Thorn asked.

  “You can’t actually be considering buying one of those death machines?” Mr. Nasint demanded.

  Garman ignored him. “This right here will cost you seven hundred dollars.”

  Thorn whistled. “Seven hundred, huh? I’m afraid that’s just a bit out of my league at the moment.”

  Garman’s smile dropped in an instant. “I see,” he said as he reached over the table to take the gun back.

  “Do you at least have a shooting gallery where I could try one out? Could I maybe rent the concussion rifle for half an hour just to play with it?”

  Garman did not have time to tell him that renting one of these was out of the question, and even if it wasn’t it would certainly be out of his price range. As soon as he was distracted by reaching for the gun Thorn was holding, the young man in the hood snatched a sparker pistol from the display and took off running.

  He was fast, but the guard on the stand two tents down was faster.

  The young man was gunned down before he had taken three lunging steps. At once cleaners appeared from seemingly nowhere and removed the smoking body. The entire incident was over in seconds. None of the shoppers nearby even knew what had happened.

  Mr. Nasint was so flabbergasted that he was spluttering. “Did you . . . my God, did you see what just happened? They murdered that man in cold blood! In broad daylight! Did you see that? My God!”

  Garman Browning had moved to the end of the tent and was speaking softly with one of the cleaners. Mr. Nasint was becoming even more outraged as the whole incident had gone unnoticed by any of the other shoppers. He attached himself to Thorn and was attempting to get Thorn to share his outrage.

  Thorn threw a leg over the seat of his tractor buggy before firing the rumbling old beast up. “If he’d come into my place of business and tried to rob me, I’d probably have shot him too.”