by Kyra Halland
Jasik stood as well. It was dangerous for him to go into the town armed and ready for a fight. But if he died to stop these evil, murdering wizards, to atone for his people’s sins and his own, and to prevent more suffering, then he would die gladly. “I’ll come with you.”
“Good. We’ll drive those sheepknocking bastards out of my town and down to the hells where they belong.”
Jasik traced the meanings of the Grana phrases. “Sheepknocking bastards” was a favorite of Vendine’s, and the meaning it suggested was deeply insulting and bizarrely amusing at the same time. The concept of “hells” wasn’t entirely unfamiliar; though the A’ayimat knew different gods and a different afterlife than the Grana folk did, eternal punishment for the wicked was a truth that transcended customs and beliefs. On the whole, he agreed with Coltor’s feelings and intentions. He grinned. “We’ll do that.”
“Brinna, please fetch my gunbelts and revolvers,” Coltor said.
“Yes, dear.”
While the golden-haired woman was gone, a child ran into the room. She had A’ayimat skin, but her white hair was done in long curls instead of braids and she wore a dress in the style of the settler women. She stopped and stared at Jasik through eyes that were strangely dark instead of A’ayimat gold. Coltor’s eyes, as Vendine had said. They would have been eerie, almost frightening, except for the life sparkling in them.
The girl gave Jasik a gap-toothed grin. “You and my papa are going to stop the wicked men,” she said in the A’ayimat tongue.
“That we are going to do, daughter,” Jasik replied, also in his own language. Despite the eyes and the curls and the dress, she reminded him of his own daughters with her smile and her spirit.
She turned to Coltor. “You show them, Pa!” she said in the Grana language.
Coltor picked her up, and she kissed his cheeks. He kissed her forehead in return. “I’ll show them. You be good while I’m gone.”
“I’m always good.” At least, that was what Jasik thought she said, since she wasn’t in contact with the ground. It was what his own daughters would have said.
Coltor laughed and set her down with an affectionate pat on the head. His wife had returned and now stood next to him, holding two belts, each with a short firearm tucked into the pocket. She handed him the belts one at a time, and he fastened them around his hips.
“Be careful, dear,” she said. “Do what you have to do, but please be careful.”
A long look passed between them. Jasik looked away, out of respect for the couple’s emotions.
“I will,” Coltor finally said. He kissed his wife, then caught her and his daughter into an embrace. The three of them clung tightly to each other for a long time. Jasik’s heart warmed to see the Grana woman holding the half-A’ayimat girl as if she were her own child. Had the girl’s mother’s clan been so welcoming of the child? It shamed him on behalf of his people to think perhaps not, if the girl was living here. Or perhaps the mother had died. Of course, there was no polite way to ask.
“Remember,” Coltor said, his voice rough with emotion. “I’m doing this to keep the Wildings a good place for all of us to live,” He loosened his embrace and kissed his wife and daughter one more time. “Keep the chickroot brew hot for me, Brinna,” he said with a smile and wink at his wife. “This shouldn’t take long.”
Chapter 22
WITH THE A’AYIMAT warrior Jasik at his side, Brin rode for town, working out in his mind a strategy for dealing with these mages who were trying to take over his town. Usually his position as arguably the wealthiest rancher in the Wildings and the main benefactor of Bentwood Gulch made people listen to him; he wasn’t used to being shut out from matters of importance. His exclusion from the talks with these would-be protectors had been an unpleasant surprise. He had briefly questioned whether he was really as important and respected as he had thought he was, then he had decided it was more reasonable to question the sanity and intelligence of the mayor and the sheriff.
Jasik’s news about what had happened in Discovery put a different light on the matter. Clearly, these Hidden Council mages wanted to avoid being confronted with anyone who might seriously oppose them. Did they know he was a mage? He was careful with his shields, but Vendine and his wife had detected them, so he supposed it was possible that others might, too. Or maybe they just didn’t want to have to deal with a man who had his reputation for always having things his own way.
Over the years, he had managed to convince himself that the day would never come when he would have to reveal himself as a mage. Doing so could cost him everything – his land, his business, his home, even his life. The consequences for his family would be devastating. It still might not come to that now, he told himself. He would assert his authority, remind the folk of Bentwood Gulch of what he had done for them, assure them that he had the resources to protect them without having to rely on outsiders.
He would also tell them what Vendine and his wife had found at Thornwood and Stone Creek and Discovery. Vendine was generally respected in the Bentwood Valley for saving the herd that was the main source of the valley’s wealth; his word would be believed.
And maybe, Brin reflected, the time had finally come for him to reveal his personal connection to the A’ayimat of the Blueclouds, if that would give the folks here in the Bentwood Valley more confidence in his knowledge of the blueskins and his ability to protect the town. It would mean making Shayla’s existence public knowledge, but as the years went by and she got older, it would be harder to keep the secret, anyway, and probably not in her best interest to do so. It would be all right, he told himself. As his daughter, no one would dare harm her, even if they had trouble accepting her.
He looked at the warrior riding next to him, armed with sword and spear. Jasik had the hard, intelligent look of a skilled fighter. Brin himself was carrying two fully-loaded revolvers and plenty of extra bullets, and was no mean shot. There was a good chance that words and non-magical weapons would be enough to drive away the strangers who wanted to take over his town. Most likely, he wouldn’t have to take on these mages in a magical fight that he was ill-prepared for, a fight that would expose him, possibly destroy everything he had worked so hard for, and maybe even cost him his life.
Somehow, he had trouble convincing himself of that.
Reluctantly but with a sense of inevitability, Brin moved the gold ring that he had worn on the fourth finger of his right hand for more than fifteen years to the forefinger of that hand, and reached deep inside himself for the power that had lain mostly dormant, except to feed his shield, all that time. He caught at it, willed it to flow to his hand. It took more concentration than he remembered, but after a few moments his ring began to glow with a deep, pure green that matched the gemstone set in it.
Jasik took in a sharp breath. “Wizard?”
Brin nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“Good.”
They weren’t in contact with the ground, but the look of satisfaction on the warrior’s face made words unnecessary. Jasik expected that magic would be important in the upcoming confrontation. Brin let the glow die and moved his ring back to the finger where he always wore it. If bad came to worse, he could still use his power, but he prayed to all the gods and hoped to all the hells it wouldn’t come to that.
* * *
AS BRIN AND Jasik rode into Bentwood Gulch, the warrior drew stares and whispers. Most of them were unfriendly, but since he was with Brin, no one dared do more than stare. The town’s resolution to refrain from striking at the A’ayimat in the Bluecloud Mountains had been holding, though just barely. It hadn’t prevented talk of an attack against the Blueclouds clans as soon as – when, it was generally assumed, not if – word came from Vendine that it was indeed the blueskins who had broken the Compact and committed the first offense. Bringing the A’ayimat warrior into town in the current mood was akin to bringing a lit match within a hair’s-breadth of a pile of dry kindling. Brin only hoped he could maintain control over the s
ituation until he’d said what he had to say.
“Mr. Coltor!” Emul Stortsden, Brin’s man-of-business, came running over from the bank. He was one of seven people in the Wildings who knew Brin was a mage, the others being Mr. and Mrs. Vendine, Shayla, Aleet, Brinna, and now Jasik, not to mention everyone else in Aleet’s adopted clan, and… Oh, hells, Brin thought. At this point, he might as well tell the whole world.
Storts halted in front of Brin and looked at Jasik. “What –?”
“He’s with me,” Brin said. “He brought a message from Vendine. And now we’re off to have a word with these so-called Defenders who claim they’re here to protect our town. A man would do just as well to protect his wife’s virtue by handing her over to a gang of bandits. You with us?”
Storts was wearing his gunbelt; he always went armed. “Yes, sir.”
Brin and Jasik dismounted and left their horses at the Top Care Stables, where Brin paid a monthly fee to reserve several stalls. Then, accompanied by Storts, they headed for the town hall.
The sheriff wasn’t in his office on the ground floor, so Brin, followed by Jasik and Storts, stormed up to the mayor’s office on the second floor. “I’m sorry, Mr. Coltor,” protested the mayor’s clerk, seated at a desk outside the office, “I’m afraid you can’t –”
Brin, Storts, and Jasik strode right past him, and Brin slammed open the door to the office.
Inside, five men were sitting at a long, rectangular meeting table, the mayor, the sheriff, and three strangers. One of the strangers wore a well-tailored black suit and had the dark hair and moderately-tanned skin that could signify mixed Granadaian and Island heritage. The other two were decked out in outfits a shade more flamboyant than a ranch hand with a pocket fat with wages and a taste for fancification would buy for a big dance; not quite fancy enough to qualify as full-blown greenfoot suits, but not common daily wear in the Wildings. One of these two men had pale blond hair; the other one was bald with a long, black mustache curled at the ends. The bald, mustached mage wore a gunbelt with a revolver holstered in it. Brin would lay money that gun had never been fired.
From behind Brin, Jasik took in a quick, sharp breath, as though he recognized the men. From Stone Creek?
“Mr. Coltor!” the mayor exclaimed. “You – I – This really isn’t necessary –”
“What Mayor Warrit means to say,” the man in the black suit said in a crisp accent that marked him as newly-arrived from Granadaia, “is that your presence is unnecessary in these discussions. Surely you have more important business to take care of out at your ranch. You needn’t trouble yourself with –” He stopped short, his eyes growing wide and his mouth hanging open, as Jasik stepped up beside Brin.
The mayor sprang up from his chair. “You brought one of those murdering savages here? Foreston, arrest them!”
As the sheriff stood up, Brin placed his hands on the revolvers holstered at his hips. “You touch any of us, Storts, this warrior, or me, and you’ll have a fight on your hands. This man has a message from Vendine, from the town of Discovery, which he found under the so-called ‘protection’ of these fellows’ associates.”
“A message from Vendine?” the mayor asked as the blond stranger echoed, “Silas Vendine?”
“That’s – that’s impossible,” the black-suited man said. “We heard that Silas and Lainie Vendine perished in an avalanche in the Gap…” His voice trailed off and he and his two associates looked at each other. “Your Honor,” he said to the mayor, “you shouldn’t trust this blueskin, claiming to bring word from a man who died three months ago.”
“If the Vendines died in the Gap three months ago, those were some mighty solid-looking ghosts I was entertaining at my house this winter,” Brin said. “And that spoke at our town meeting a month ago.”
The three strangers looked at each other again. “I wonder if we were intentionally given incorrect information,” the blond man said.
“It doesn’t matter now,” the black-suited man said. He turned back to the mayor. “In any case, Your Honor, whether or not Silas Vendine is alive is of no concern. Your concern is, do you want to protect your town from being attacked by the blueskins?”
“Of course I’m concerned about that,” the mayor said. “But I think it would be wise to listen to what this blueskin has to say. Vendine did promise to send word as soon as he learned what was going on.”
“This savage will tell you nothing but lies!” the mustached man protested.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” the mayor said. “If Brin Coltor vouches for him, then I’ll hear him out. I don’t promise to believe him, but I’ll listen to him.”
“Thank you,” Jasik said. “The message is, these men are wizards of Granadaia.” His words seemed hesitant; the magic that allowed the A’ayimat to understand the Granadaian language must be weak in this upper-story room, forcing him to rely mostly on his non-magical memory of the language. “They kill A’ayimat children, make trouble between A’ayimat and settlers, then say they will protect towns. They want power over towns; soon they have power over all Wildings.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” the black-suited man burst out.
“You are from Granadaia, though, aren’t you?” Brin said. “No one in the Wildings talks like you fellows, or dresses like that.” He gestured at the other two men in their fancy almost-greenfoot suits.
“We’ve been in the Wildings as long as any of you folks!” the blond man said.
“Prove it,” Brin said. “Man against man, gun against gun. You should know that’s how we settle things here in the Wildings, if you’ve really been out here that long. That fellow against me in a quick draw duel.” He grinned at the mustached mage, the one with the gun. “Come on, I’m not that fast.” He felt no concern in issuing the challenge. Even if he really wasn’t that fast – and he was – the greenfoot would still have to figure out which end of the gun was which and how the trigger worked before Brin fired his shot.
“Now see here, Coltor,” the mayor protested, “you can’t go starting a shootout in my office!”
“Don’t worry, Your Honor. Not in here. Down in the street, where everyone can see how honest and capable these fellows are.”
“This is an outrage!” the black-suited man protested.
“It seems reasonable to me,” the mayor said. “So long as you aren’t shooting in my office. Mr. Coltor and the blueskin have made some pretty serious charges against you. If you’ve told us the truth and have nothing to hide, you should have no objection to defending yourself against them and proving your ability to protect my town.”
The three strangers looked at each other. The one Brin had challenged licked his lips, his eyes darting from Brin then back to his associates. They were in a bad spot. They could refuse the challenge and prove themselves cowards unworthy of the job of protecting the town, or they could accept the challenge and risk getting their gunman shot or killed, or they could accept and then reveal themselves as mages by protecting their man with a shield. Any way you looked at it, Brin would win the question.
Unless the mustached man did happen to have a fast draw and a good aim, which didn’t seem likely for someone as new in the Wildings as he was and as scared as he looked. Those three greenfoots must be mighty slick talkers to have made it this far, or the people of the town were more scared than Brin had thought, and the mayor and sheriff more desperate.
Finally, Black Suit said, “We accept your challenge.” The mage with the gun frowned unhappily beneath his long mustache, but didn’t say anything.
Chapter 23
WITH THE SHERIFF and the mayor leading the way, Brin and the other men went downstairs and out into the street. The sheriff began herding the people and animals in the street over to the sidewalks, out of the way. Those folks were joined by more curious people drifting over to see what was happening. A buzz of excitement arose from the onlookers; though gun duels weren’t nearly as common as Brin had suggested, they were a
lways a great source of entertainment.
The mayor told Brin and the armed mage to go out into the street and stand back to back. To Jasik, Storts, and the other two mages, he said, “You gentlemen stay by me, over here to the side. There is to be no interference in the duel.”
“No interference,” Jasik agreed.
“Of course not,” Black Suit said.
Storts just stared down his long, thin nose at the mayor, who finally looked away.
The sheriff walked over to where Brin and the mustached mage were standing in the middle of the street. “Take twenty paces, then turn and face each other,” he told them. “Draw and fire on the count of three; don’t touch your guns before then. And aim for the feet; I got enough troubles without you fool boys gettin’ yourselfs killed.”
“Understood,” Brin said. At his back, he felt the other man nod, but he knew better than to expect him to follow the rules. Would he shoot to kill? Brin supposed there might be a small chance the Granadaian man could accidentally hit him in an important place. Or would he use magic?
Brin wanted to unleash his mage senses; rusty as they were, they would still give him warning that magic was about to be used. But, on the off chance that these mages didn’t know about his power, he judged it wiser to keep it as a surprise to be revealed only if absolutely necessary. He would shoot at the mage’s strong hand, he decided, following the spirit if not the letter of the sheriff’s instructions, to disable and disarm him without killing him, and be prepared to defend himself further if he had to.
As the sheriff counted out loud, Brin walked off the twenty paces, then turned to face his foe. He kept his right elbow slightly bent, hand loose and in position to make the draw. The mage, he noted, had his hand too low, all wrong for a good draw. Either he really didn’t know anything, or he wasn’t expecting to have to shoot.
