by Toby Bennett
“No need to scowl like that, citizen,” the Pardoner practically spat as he said the last word. “I only asked you to drop your pants, we can’t be too careful, can we?”
“You want to do this here, in the street?” The seven fingered man asks, a note of distaste slipping past his iron restraint and colouring his quiet voice.
“You think the ladies will mind do you?” Another Pardoner chimes. “Don’t worry, there are geldings on the rail over there, they’re as likely to look at those animals as a beast like you.”
In spite of their attempts to provoke him, the man’s face is still calm. No doubt this is not the first time he has had to deal with this kind of abuse.
“If I do this, you will leave me to go about my business?”
“What else would we do? It is the law, after all.”
“Very well.” The mutant answers with a restraint that belies the hatred that Sam can sense boiling off of the man. Without further complaint the mutant reaches for his belt buckle and loosens it with a deft use of all seven fingers, an unnatural movement that does not go unnoticed by the outraged Pardoners. His trousers fall, to reveal a mass of old scar tissue, which confirms that whoever had raised him had followed the law and ensured that he would never pass on his mutation.
“Have you seen enough now?” he asks, pulling up the sagging trousers and fastening the heavy gun belt with a speed that even Sam finds impressive.
“Did I say you could pull them up, citizen?” The lead Pardoner asks sweetly.
“What more could you need to see?” The mutant asks defiantly, “I though it was agreed that I could go about my business once you were satisfied.”
“But I am not satisfied, citizen. I saw a lot of scarring, but that doesn’t mean it’s not working.”
Blake can barely believe his ears when the Pardoner says this. The lie is blatant, since even from a distance, it had been clear that the man’s genitals had been mutilated beyond any hope of functioning. The wonder was rather that he had, somehow, walked away from such terrible wounds alive.
“There’s no telling without a closer examination, especially with your type, you’ve got extra fingers who knows what else you might have spare.”
The mutant stiffens at the sound of laughter from the crowd. The Pardoners are too pious to show their enjoyment of their spokesman’s wit.
“No need to take it that way, friend, just fulfilling our trust. I assure you we will take no pleasure in what we might have to do, but it is your soul’s sin or the sins of your parents, which have made this necessary. Indeed, I ask your Christian forgiveness for what might yet prove necessary.” The Pardoner says producing a curved knife from the recesses of his robes.
“You have no forgiveness from me and I assure you that the mob that did this to me when I was fourteen was very through,” the mutant snarls, “what they didn’t cut they burnt away.” His face becomes glazed at the memory of unimaginable pain. “You’ve had your fun, now leave me be. I am no threat to your daughters nor your ruthless Christ.”
Sam winces at the blasphemy. Not because it upsets him, the truths of his life are pretty much set, another’s lack of faith has nothing to do with his knowledge of good and evil or his absolute certainty of his own damnation but he knows that this is just what the Pardoners have been pushing for, an excuse to expunge the mutant.
“How dare you take our Lord’s name in vain, you filth?” The sandy haired Pardoner, who up to this point had been silent, barks, whipping out a pistol with the speed of a gunslinger.
Sam watches the mutant’s reaction, his own enhanced senses telling him that the mutant had registered the move and could have returned fire even faster than the snake like Pardoner. Instead he takes off his hat in a blurred flourish, revealing an unnaturally high forehead framed by close cropped dark hair, a flicker of light reflected from something behind the fleshy ridges of the man’s forehead give same some hint of what is to come.
The Pardoners are too obsessed with the mutant’s seven fingers to look at the horizontal slit on his forehead and too used to meeting no resistance from the poor wretches who nature had similarly betrayed, to expect this mutant to be able to defend himself. The sandy haired man squeezes the trigger, with every intent of simply dispatching another insult to the Christ man and the purity of the race. Instead his own eyes widen as a third eye snaps open in the middle of the mutant’s forehead. The mutant sways like a sapling in the wind, stepping past the bullet as if he could somehow see it. A scream from his horse behind him echoes down the street, even as his own unique pistols clear their holsters. Sam cannot help but appreciate the smooth, quick motion that marks the mutant as every inch a gunslinger. More than half the skill in that profession relies not on speed per se but on aim and Sam has no doubt that the three eyes darting in the mutant’s head give him an advantage the sandy haired bully simply cannot match. His gun barks once, spitting fire and the Pardoners’ gunman grips his hand, cursing as the butt of his own weapon and one of his fingers shatter under the impact of the mutant’s bullet.
Apart from the cries of the wounded horse and the Pardoner the street is silent now; the crowd, which had been enjoying the spectacle, seems to suddenly melt away. The mutant keeps his guns trained on the Pardoners in front of him and takes a quick glance back at his horse, his third eye swivels in the opposite direction, keeping his enemies in his sights. It takes him only a second to ascertain his horse’s condition, he whispers an apology to the wounded animal, then the gun in his left hand bucks twice and the horse keels over, released from its agony. The face that he turns back on the Pardoners is dark with rage, made all the more terrible by the alien aspect of the third eye glowering from his forehead.
“There was no need for this,” the mutant spits, “I was leaving anyway, if you value your lives then you will let me go. If you meant to cause me pain then you have done so.” With deft hands Sam ties the horses to the rail, draws a rifle from the saddle and adopts a crouched position in the alley. For all he seems to have had experience with harassment and violence, the mutant clearly has no understanding of how the true fanatics of the Inquisition operate. There is no possibility of them letting him simply walk away and Sam very much doubts that there are only four of them involved in this.
“There is every need for this!” The sandy haired gunman shrieks. “God’s children should not have to endure abominations such as you.”
Blood leaks from the man’s ruined hand, as he waves it in the mutant’s direction.
“Your sin is written upon your Hellspawn face.”
Crimson drops spill inches from the mutant’s face, causing him to involuntarily step backwards. Whatever sensory advantages the mutant has, he is not watching for the movement in the second story window across the street, Sam, on the other hand has been waiting for just this sort of attack. Before the shadow at the window can take aim at the distracted gunfighter, Sam drops it with a single shot. At the sound of the shot the mutant retreats into the doorway of the inn and the Pardoners scatter. The sound of shattering glass comes from the buildings across the street, followed by a volley of shots that explode around the crouched figure in the doorway and the entrance to the alleyway. Seconds later, Sam unleashes a withering series of shots of his own, hitting at least one of the Inquisitors in the ambush across the road and causing him to slump forward in the window. As soon as the seven fingered gunman realizes that the first shot had been from an unlooked for ally, he turns his attention entirely back to the Pardoners dashing across the street. Two fall before they can make the safety of the building, even under the cover of their brothers’ deadly fire.
Lillian hears the first shots hit the side of the building, even from the back room. It takes a few prods with the knife to turn the landlord’s attention from the sound of breaking glass and shouting patrons, back to the safe. Reluctantly the man opens the heavy steel door to reveal a pitiful collection of personal treasures. By far the most valuable item is the silver plated, black handled
pistol, marked with the insignia of the Carter family. Keeping the knife in the small of the innkeeper’s back, Lillian snatches up her prized weapon with her free hand. An unexpected kick to the landlord’s buttocks sees him spilled forward onto the floor; by the time he has regained himself, Lillian is tightening the gun belt at her waist’
“Do I need to remind you that I am quick with this?” She asks, fondly stroking the ebony handle of the pistol.
“N-no,” the landlord says, shaking his head.
“Good, now I see you found my wallet as well,” Lillian says, putting her hand into the safe and drawing forth the bag of coins that Father Rugan had thrust into her hands at their last meeting, “so all that’s left is for you to quickly show me to my room, there’s something I forgot.”
Outside more gunfire rakes the front of the inn, causing the innkeeper to look pained. “Don’t worry I won’t need you much longer and then you can go and see about that other commotion.”
“I don’t know how you’re planning to get away with this,” the innkeeper says over his shoulder as he precedes her from the room, “they’ve been watching this place for days.”
“I thought you said they didn’t find anything.”
“They didn’t, but Ned Brown hasn’t stopped talking about the strange girl, who pulled a pistol on him last week.”
“Why didn’t you mention it before?”
“I didn’t recognize you before, not with no hair and dressed like a boy. I thought you were just a thief who’d listened to Ned’s stories, like they all did and figured I still had the gun, but you knew that purse and you didn’t take anything else. I can guess who you are.”
“Not a good idea…”
“Don’t worry I won’t tell anyone, in fact I have to tell you something.”
“What is that?” Lillian asks, crouching low behind innkeeper, as they pick their way past the chaos in the adjoining common room and make their way upstairs.
“One of them is still up there, I think he’s waiting for you.”
“Since when?”
“Last night. It was him who brought the Inquisitors here.”
The sporadic gunfire outside stops and so does the innkeeper, he turns and looks Lillian in the eye, “I don’t know if what they’re saying is true, my lady. You may be possessed or in the power of darkness, I do not know, certainly I don’t know how to account for what seems to be happening to you…” More shots from outside drown out the next couple of words, “ … but go while you still can, there’s no reason to go back to your room. I don’t know if you can trust the Inquisitors to help you, once they think they’ve got the smell of something rotten, they’re as likely to kill you as cure.”
“I am not looking for their help and I must go back to my room. If there’s only one of them he shouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“All the same just pitching up like that the night before you come back and knowing to wait; doesn’t that seem like a trap?”
“Why should you care if I’ve been possessed? Wouldn’t you want me stopped like any good citizen?”
“My lady, I am a man of the Carter barony first and from what I’ve seen you could as easily be a girl running from an unwanted match as a servant of the unholy.”
“You’re unusually perceptive.” Lillian concedes.
“No more than many barkeepers, my lady.”
“Well, thank you for your advice and I am sorry for your rough treatment at my hands. There is something I must retrieve from my room. You say you didn’t see any of the other Inquisitors bringing anything out?”
“Quite sure. I had a couple of the kitchen boys watch them in case they tried to steal any of my furnishings. I have little love for the Inquisition, my brother died in their wars and I could never appreciate the madness that drove him or any of the rest of them. Marcus was a man as good and as bad as any other, no matter what they told him and I know that a religious man’s just as likely to steal good bed linen as a pagan, more likely if they can hide behind the cross and get away with it; so I had the boys watch them, they took nothing big enough that it could not fit in their pockets.”
“Then I must go and regain what I left and we must go quickly I don’t think I have much time.” Lillian winces at the sound of yet more shooting from outside.
“Please, my lady, I’m sure the door is open you don’t need me to go further. Let me go back.”
“Very well, then.” Lillian relents stepping to one side to allow the man back down the stairs. Her mind is already occupied with who might be waiting in the room at the top of the stairs, so she is completely unprepared for the innkeeper to make a lunge for her as he passes her on the stair. She has barely any time to curse her naiveté before his weight is pressing her against the wall of the stairwell.
“Aristocrat bitch!” The man snarls, launching a heavy blow into her stomach, causing her to double over. “So quick to think everyone’s your bondsman, that we all owe you allegiance; if it’s not those religious fanatics it’s your kind who thinks we should scrape their boots. Well, they’ll reward me well enough for you and,” a hand fumbles around at her waist and the Innkeeper draws back with the gun in his hand. “until they do I’m going to spend my time making you sorry that you kicked me down.”
Chapter 10:
“Blinded by the Light”
The look of triumph on the innkeeper’s face contorts suddenly in a grimace of pain, as Lillian uncoils and thrusts Blake’s thick bladed knife up and into the heavy set man’s chest. His finger reflexively tightens on the trigger and a bullet tears a hole into the wall just above Lillian’s head. Blinking from the powdered plaster and gun smoke, her head ringing from the sound of the shot in a narrow space, Lillian still has the presence of mind to grab the warm pistol from the dying man’s hand before he keels over and tumbles down the stairs. Lillian replaces the weapon in its holster with a practiced motion and pricks up her ears for any response, slow seconds pass and there seem to be no attempts to investigate the commotion on the stairs either from above or below and Lillian breathes a sigh of relief. She forces herself forward when the sporadic gunfire from out side renews itself, reminding her that there is little time to waste if she is to retrieve the book.
She proceeds with caution, though now she cannot help but wonder whether the man the innkeeper told her was waiting, had been nothing more than a means of gaining her trust. A scream of pain from outside spurs her up the last two stairs in a single stride, her hand hovering over her recently fired gun. When she reaches the landing, she scans the corridor for signs of life but all the doors are closed, apart from the third on her left which gapes like the dark space in a gap toothed smile. She does not need to look at the brass numbers on the doors next to it to know that the room was once hers and a sense of foreboding creeps over her, it seems that there might really be someone there after all, waiting in the darkened room. Were they really waiting in the unlit room with the shades drawn, which would be ominous enough, or were they using the open door to draw her attention while they waited behind one of the apparently closed doors hoping to catch her off guard? There is only the slightest scrape of leather as Lillian draws her gun and softly creeps across the quiet hallway. Her eyes flit back and forth looking for the tell tale tremor of a door held ajar or lengthening shadows caused by movement behind her but there is nothing; just the metallic tang of gun smoke in her nostrils, the early morning light pouring through the window set high at the opposite end of the landing and the sound of her heart pounding in her straining ears.
At last the doorway stands in front of her and the roar and pop of the gunfight below has either ended or been smothered by the carpets beneath her feet. Shadow grips the room, narrowing her pupils to tiny points as she searches the darkness. Suddenly the room is bathed in light! There is no striking of a match or smell of oil, instead light seems to simply flood from a globe held by a figure sitting on the bed across from her. Lillian fires off three shots wildly but the blazing light has don
e its work, everything in the room is a purple tinged blur.
“No need for that, Lillian,” the man on the bed says jovially.
Lillian stiffens at the sound of the voice, “Nathaniel!” She hisses.
“Very quick, my lady, most people would have been too disorientated to recognize an acquaintance so readily. Should I be flattered?”
“No.” Lillian replies, using her free hand to find the wall behind her.
“If that is how you wish it to be,” the Chief Pardoner says calmly, “what you feel is of little consequence to me or to the General for that matter, just so long as you do as you are told.”
“I’m not going back there with you.” Lillian promises, firing another bullet in the direction of the Inquisitor.
“A bit closer that time, that means your eyes are getting better, that’s good, not everyone recovers when we are forced to use the flash globe. One of my master’s cunning toys but not without its risks. No!” Nathaniel snaps, registering the anger on Lillian’s face, “do not think for a moment that I take any risk to your august personage lightly but if you will insist on being ornary, then what choice do you leave me? I have no wish to be shot and no doubt you would shoot me quite heartily.”
