Curse of the Daemon Beast

by Francis James Blair

  Something on the other side of the wall let out a snort, and Temperance nearly jumped out of her skin. She peeked over the wall, one of her grandfather’s guns in her hands before she even remembered she had brought them along. With everything else that had happened she had yet to even see if the guns were loaded, let alone with what kind of hexbullets.

  A long brown face and solid black eyes peered back over the stones at her. Temperance jumped again, then felt foolish. She clambered over the wall and walked towards the horse.

  The animal snorted again and skirted away from her. She settled hands on her hips and frowned. “I’m not going to hurt you. Come here already.”

  As the horse let out a huffing noise, it reminded Temperance of her mother when she was upset at her husband but didn’t want to out and tell him. She smiled at the memory for a second, but the smile slipped from her lips as the moment faded away.

  “You’re all alone out here too, aren’t you? Bet yesterday almost scared you out of your bones. I know it sure did the same for me.” She stood still and smiled at the animal. The horse regarded her, and took a cautious step. “There’s just you and me now. Maybe if we stick together, things won’t seem so bad.”

  The horse drew a little closer, then reached out and nuzzled her shoulder. She gave it an absent minded pat. “Look at me, talking to a horse. I’m going as crazy as poor Mister Dixon before the summer sickness took him. Think you’re up to following me back to town? I got work you would be mighty handy to have for help.”

  She regarded the horse, and could have sworn that it nodded its head at her. She blinked a few times and rubbed her eyes. “I am going crazy. Well, you best come along anyway.”

  They walked back to the main road, Temperance guiding the horse with a worn halter she found in a barn. She tried fitting a bridle, but the horse threw a fit when he saw it. After he near nipped a finger off, she tossed it aside and showed her empty hands. The horse settled back down, and they set off for the valley.

  “Don’t suppose you have a name you’d like to tell me?” she asked as they made their way towards the ruins of the training house. The horse made a nickering noise and looked at her. “Didn’t think so. How about Duchess? I’ve always wanted a horse named Duchess.”

  The horse let out a loud snort. Temperance glanced back and smirked. “No good? Alright, don’t get sick over it. I’ll think of something better.”

  They reached the clearing. Not much had changed since yesterday. Temperance surveyed the bodies, at a loss for where to begin.

  “Hell,” she said under her breath. The horse glanced at her, then cantered off further down the lane. Temperance was so surprised she let go of the lead rope. Before she could catch it the cursed animal had disappeared around a bend.

  She jogged after him, and found the horse a short ways down the road next to an old cart, boards stained but still in good shape. Must have been her grandfather’s, though why it wasn’t up near his house was anyone’s guess. Temperance ran her fingers along the wood grain and turned a considering eye towards her new companion.

  “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you? I suppose hooking you up to this beats slinging bodies over the saddle.” The horse nickered again, which sounded enough like agreement to suit Temperance.

  It took a while, but eventually she remembered how the hitch worked. Since they weren’t that far away she led animal and wagon both by hand rather than climb aboard. They slowly made their way back to the clearing. Temperance still didn’t want to face what awaited her, but now she wasn’t dreading the task near so much.

  The clearing hadn’t quite come into view when she heard the voices, loud with laughter mixed into them. Bringing the horse to a halt, she tied him off to a fence and snuck up the road. For reasons she couldn’t quite put words to, the voices gave her a bad feeling. Perhaps the events of the previous day were just too fresh for her mind to allow the possibility of happiness. She peered through a hedge, and almost bit her tongue in surprise and shock.

  There were seven men in the clearing. Temperance didn’t know their names, but she recognized a few in a vague sort of way. They were miners who lived in the hills around town during the summer months, working a claim owned by Gentleman Brisbane. Brisbane was the one who had also gifted this land to her grandfather, but his men had never exactly been welcome in town. Temperance had overheard her grandfather refer to them as “wardens and spies” on one occasion, though she had never understood what he meant.

  Perhaps the men had come down from the higher places for the winter. Perhaps the previous day’s noise and fires and smoke had caught their attention. Whatever the reason for their appearance, it should have been a welcome sight. It meant someone else to help bury the bodies, if nothing else.

  Still, that worried ache inside her refused to go away. She stayed half hidden by the hedge and watched what the men were up to.

  Whatever their reasons for coming down, they didn’t appear interested in helping. As she peered between the fence boards, Temperance saw them roll over one of her grandfather’s apprentices, patting down pockets and removing their guns.

  “Hooey, lookit here,” an immense miner said, holding up a mostly full bandolier. “Bet these will sell for some serious kos.”

  The man helping him, thin and with receding hair, glanced around. Temperance ducked back as his eyes passed over her hiding place. “I dunno Wex, what if somebody’s still alive? Shouldn’t we check the town first?”

  “Quit your complaining, Dale. If there were anybody left breathing, don’t you think they would’ve collected these here goodies by now?” Wex slid the bandolier over his head. It was too small for him, and he scrabbled at it a moment to readjust the loop. Further on, three more of the miners were arguing over another apprentice’s guns, tugging them back and forth.

  “Maybe they haven’t had the chance. Those fires burned a long time last night. I almost couldn’t sleep the light was so bright.” Dale tossed a gun to his companion, then rubbed his hand on his shirt, like it had left something unpleasant behind.

  “If you want to go look elsewhere, none of us are standing in your way. Just don’t expect a share of the loot when you get back. How often do you get to be a real Pistol Warlock?”

  Several of the miners laughed at Wex’s comment, and the big man walked over to the next body. With a start, Temperance realized it was her father.

  Wex looked down and shook his head, letting out a low curse that Temperance’s mother would never have approved of. “Looks like this one got himself a hotfoot and then some. Still got nice boots on him, though. C’mere and help me pull these off, Dale.”

  Dale hesitated, hovering at the edge of the clearing. “This isn’t right, Wex. We need to get over to Smithton, alert the marshals or something.”

  “And we will, soon as we’ve got anything worth having. These folks won’t need it no more, and if we don’t take it the first snow is gonna bury it for good. Now quit your bellyaching and get over here, would you?”

  When Dale still didn’t move, Wex let out a disgusted grunt. He leaned down and grasped one of the boots, giving a sharp tug.

  This was too much for Temperance. She burst from her hiding place. “You let go of him you filthy thief!”

  The miners all froze where they were. Wex looked up and dropped his hold on the boot with a grin. “My, my, what have we got here?”

  She ignored the question. “You keep your hands off my da!”

  Wex looked down at charred corpse by his feet. “Is that who this was? Looks like he didn’t do a good job keeping you all safe.” He gave the body a kick.

  “Stop that! All of you get, right this minute!”

  “No, I don’t think we’ll do that, not till we have enough to make it worth our time.” Wex turned back towards her. “Best behave yourself, little girl, it’s not safe for a young lady like you to be all alone in such a dangerous place.” He patted the new gun at his hip.

  Temperance could feel herself shakin
g, although whether from anger or fear she didn’t know. “I’m better off by myself than with scrum like you!”

  Wex’s expression darkened. “Who you calling scrum? I have half a mind to leave you here for the marshals to collect, girl. Or maybe you need a lesson in how a proper young lady should act?”

  He took a step towards her. Before any of the men could blink, Temperance had one of her grandfather’s guns raised and pointed at Wex’s head.

  “Is that supposed to scare me? You even fired a gun before?” Wex laughed and held out a hand. “Give ‘em here, now.”

  Out of the corner of her eye Temperance saw Dale edging towards her. She twisted in his direction and the man jumped back. “Last chance! Leave, now!”

  While she was distracted, Wex lunged at her. Temperance spun back, fingers so tight on the trigger she felt the ache of it all the way down her spine. She had never checked what bullets her grandfather loaded, but based on the last thing she had seen him fire . . . .

  “Fortana Mas Ilumar!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.

  Something must have been off in her pronunciation, for no horse burst from the revolver. Instead, a formless gout of blue flames poured outward, the heat of its exit enough that the skin on Temperance’s fingers turned red and blistered. She almost dropped the revolver as the pain washed over her, only holding on by sheer grit alone.

  Blue flames struck Wex in the center of his chest. The grin on his face turned to surprise, which faded into terror only seconds later. He beat at the flames, but they only stuck to his hands. He screamed and dropped to the ground, twisting about in the dirt. The fire spread over the rest of his body, and a smell like well cooked orak filled the air.

  The flames reached his face, and Wex’s scream bubbled away to nothing. He flailed a moment more before going still.

  Temperance looked around and saw all the miners staring at her in open horror. She swung her revolver between them, and each flinched as it passed them by.

  “What are you waiting for? Go!” she screamed.

  The men turned and fled, several casting away their newly acquired weapons as they ran. Only Dale remained long enough to say, “I’m sorry ‘bout everything.” Then he was gone too.

  Temperance stood there a moment, her mind awash in too many emotions to count. At last her eyes fell on the still smoking form of Wex. The enormity of what had just happened settled onto her.

  “I . . . I didn’t want to. Really I didn’t,” she murmured to herself. She looked at the corpse again. “I killed you.”

  She dropped to her hands and knees, vomiting on the hard earth. Her breakfast returned for a visit, the hard oats still not fully digested. The sight of it set her off again, and she dry heaved for several minutes until her belly calmed down.

  How long she huddled there, she didn’t know. After a time she felt a touch on her shoulder. She leapt up, gun already swinging around, only to stare into a brown face and black eyes for the second time today.

  “How did you get free?” she asked the horse. “Nevermind. I’m fine now, I think.”

  The horse nuzzled her shoulder, and she patted his cheek. “Yeah, yeah, I know. We’ve got work to do.”

  Even if I don’t want to do it, there’s nobody else. That thought almost broke her again, tears threatening to trail down her cheeks. She held them back, squared her shoulders, and set about collecting the bodies. It was what her grandfather would have wanted her to do.

  It took far longer to drag everyone to the wagon and hoist them in than she had expected. There were nine men, and each felt like they weighed as much as a mule train, with the baggage to boot. Several times Temperance got light-headed and had to sit down until it passed. The entire time, the horse—she decided she would call him Duchess after all—just stared at her with sad eyes. It was downright disconcerting.

  She wrapped what was left of her father in an old blanket from the back of the wagon. Even so, dragging him along felt . . . wrong somehow. He bounced and shook with every stone she passed. Lifting him into the wagon nearly did her in when she felt the sharp corners on his bones poking through the cloth. If she hadn’t emptied her guts already, she certainly would be doing so now.

  At last it was done. Only the bodies of the daemon and Wex remained in the clearing. She started to climb onto the buckboard, then turned around and approached the miner.

  “Sorry,” she said, her voice a mumbling whisper. She considered the corpse before her another moment, glancing between it and the cart. After letting out a sigh, she dragged the miner to the wagon as well.

  Mounting up, she cracked the reins and set off for Cold Valley’s graveyard. There was a long night of work ahead of her, and waiting would only make it worse.

  As for after that? Well, as her father always said: one problem at a time. One problem at a time.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Temperance rose with the sun the next morning, and for once she was the first awake. It appeared the Mason family was still sleeping off the last vestiges of harvest social.

  There were a few hard biscuits left on the table. Temperance took one with her and headed out into cool morning air. There was someone she needed to see.

  A few embers still burned in the pit left from the bonfire, the occasional tendril of smoke winding up to be tossed about in the breeze. Of the revelers there was no sign. They had even taken the time to clear the food away after Temperance and Ruth had left. She couldn’t believe the town had come together at all last night, what with all the tragedy. Ruth must have known what she was talking about.

  Past the clearing she wandered through trees that had only a smattering of leaves remaining. She gave it another week before winter came on full swing. If we haven’t made it out of here by then . . . no, best to just make sure we do.

  Past the forest, harvested lentil fields appeared, most of the plants already turned over into the soil. It seemed like despite everything this farm’s owner had stayed on top of his crops. Interesting, that.

  There were no lights inside the farmhouse that Temperance could see, but she knocked on the front door anyway. There was a clatter, then several scraping noises, and at last Sventa appeared at the door.

  “What? What?” He looked past Temperance, a thick furrow creasing his brow.

  “Morning, Mister Jacoben, mind if I come in? We have a lot to talk over.”

  “We do?” The man frowned at her. “Pardon, but we ain’t properly introduced. Name’s Sventa Jacoben—”

  Temperance brushed past the man as gently as she could and stepped inside. “I know who you are, and I reckon you know who I am as well.”

  “Sorry Miss, but me mind ain’t what it used to be. Can you—”

  “Mister Jacoben. Sventa. I know you’re a Pistol Warlock.” Temperance took a seat at the table. There was a pile of flapjacks sitting on a towel, still steaming from the griddle. She picked one up and took a bite, letting out a little moan of pleasure.

  Sventa let out a sigh, and the crazy look in his eyes faded away. When he sat down at the table, Temperance saw it had been replaced with a much more serious expression. More deadly too.

  I need to be careful how I tread here. Nobody likes their secrets bandied around.

  “How’d you figure it out?”

  “Hmm,” said Temperance, swallowing the last bite of flapjack and reaching for another. “The fact you fired a damn steelfire horse off your front porch was the biggest tip off, but honestly, I don’t think anyone else in town fits the profile.”

  She leaned back in the chair and eyed the old man. “Don’t know the reason for it, but my gut tells me you went looking to find me out in the hills. Only thing I don’t understand is—why? If you have steelfire, why not take out the daemon yourself?”

  “You mean, ‘sides how I’m an old man who can barely make it to the outhouse for a piss anymore?”

  “You seem to manage this farm just fine.”

  “Aye, but I’m getting more and more help from the Cu
llings boys in that regard. Still, I take your point. No, I’m not the daemon hunter you seem to take me for. If I ever were, that man died decades ago.” Sventa looked down at his hands, clenching them together. “When your horse rode in and told me what happened, I thought the Three themselves must have sent you. Just that morning someone leaves a message with daemon tracks all around it, and a couple hours later I hear a real Pistol Warlock is nearby? Too much for coincidence if you ask me.”

  “Wait,” Temperance set down the flapjack she was holding. “Astor spoke with you? He spoke with you.”

  “He did. I’ve still got the talent for that, at least. Weren’t always just a Pistol Warlock.” Sventa grinned at her. “I imagine you understand that better than most.”

  Of course. “The garden out back, that was your doing too, wasn’t it?”

  Sventa nodded. “Used to be I did favors for the town where I could. Small things, nothing that would draw much attention.”

  He let out a loud sigh. “I’m sorry I lied to you, and I’m sorry I hid your horse. I’m also sorry I can’t give you the answer I know you’re wanting to hear. Go on and ask it though.”

  “How do I kill the daemon wolf?”

  “I don’t know.” The old man had a profound look of sadness in his eyes.

  Temperance believed him, but still she pressed on. “The steelfire, if I had a few more of those—”

  “They still wouldn’t be enough. If one didn’t kill that thing, twelve more ain’t gonna make much difference. ‘Sides, that were the only one I got.”

  Temperance hung her head. She had suspected as much, but thinking a thing and hearing it were two different matters. “Do you know anything else I might do to stop it? Anything at all?”

  “Eh, I’ve got one old shell that could do some good. Come with me.”

  He led Temperance to the back of his house, and revealed a trapdoor next to his bedside. Temperance pulled it open. Beneath them was a rickety ladder leading to a small, wood paneled room, filled to the brim with dried herbs and jars of other, far less savory contents.