He carved up that remnant of his monowheel, fashioning it into a pair of metal legs. He ran the wires though them and made himself into a witch doctor for a day. They say old dogs don't learn new tricks, but Nox's fingers were dancing now. Or maybe he was just barking.
By the end of it, which came far quicker than it should've, that blonde sorrel had a new pair of legs. The test, and it was a big one, was if they weren't just to make him pretty. Nox helped the horse up onto his unsteady limbs. For a while, it just looked like he was resting on those metal stilts. Then he took a step forward, and the metal moved.
“Adoo alla kanna,” Nox said to Old Reliable, who whinnied playfully.
That was when he heard a different voice, the voice of the tribeswoman Umna.
“We are all connected,” she said, and he turned to see her, but she wasn't there.
8 – CANINES AND CANYONS
Old Reliable had a new set of stompers, but that didn't mean he had steady feet. He trembled and stumbled like a foal taking his first steps. Nox guided him as much as he'd been guided to this strange discovery. He wasn't quite sure if he'd made an abomination himself, or an abomination of himself, but what he did know was that he'd need Old Reliable to help him find his way home.
Nox had a hurried lunch with a can of beans, exposing the scarred skin around his mouth to the sun, which'd be happy to do a little more scarring. He didn't have to hide his appearance from Old Reliable, who didn't judge him, and might've been a little self-conscious of his own. They were two of a kind now, the scarred and the ugly. Nox gave the horse some sunflower seeds from one of his pouches, but the sorrel was more focused on getting used to his new legs than anything else.
And it was just as well, because he'd need them soon enough.
Nox started when he heard a far-off howl. He cast the bean can in the direction of the sound, as if it were just another one of his gadgets. Oh, he'd made some like that before, especially early on. Folk said beans could be explosive, and they really were when Nox bundled dynamite into the can. But right now, it was just good old-fashioned tin and a worn-off label. The Coilhunter knew he'd have to save his gadgets.
He raced to Old Reliable, who was looking frantically back and forth for the direction of the howl. He was still unsteady on his feet, but he got a lot steadier in the moment. Fear had a way of doing that. Panic had a way of doing it fast.
“I'd have given you more time,” Nox said, “but they're not givin' us any.”
He climbed on slowly, out of courtesy for the horse's new limbs, even though he wanted to hop on fast. Old Reliable's legs almost buckled, just like Nox's did when he first awoke in the Lostlands. The Coilhunter hopped down, now painfully aware that he hadn't fully shaken off his own aches. He spun the barrel of his revolver, eyeing the bullets solemnly. He grew more solemn when he heard a chorus of howls following the first. He hadn't enough for the choir.
The wolves appeared on the horizon, gathering in a formidable line of silhouettes. There, against the backdrop of the sun, they looked a little more deathly, even if most, or all, of them were still living their first life. There was something about them that wasn't right. Nox could almost see it from here: the glint of sunlight off their iron collars.
Are you huntin' me? he asked the Man with the Silver Mane. 'Cause I'm huntin' you.
The wall of darkness advanced, dropping down a dune like a black waterfall. Nox looked into Old Reliable's eyes and pleaded with his own. He knew he couldn't outrun the tide on foot. He wasn't even sure about doing it on horseback. But maybe, just maybe, those iron legs'd help.
Old Reliable was aptly named, because he bowed his head towards the Coilhunter, nudging him to get on. The horse could still smell the scent of Chance Oakley on Nox. Maybe he thought that the Coilhunter was his breadcrumb back to him. Or maybe he just wanted to run from the wolves.
Well, he ran.
Old Reliable ramped up from trot to canter to gallop in just a dozen or so strides. There was something in those iron legs alright. Maybe there were spirits there after all.
The wolves came after them swiftly and frenzied. They kicked up the sand as they went, until the dust danced like devils between them. Their eyes were red and manic. Their maws were wide and gaping, just waiting to swallow their prey, rider and all.
Nox rode on, faster, urging Old Reliable on with his own, not-quite-iron legs. He didn't whip or lash, and he was never a man to wear spurs—but then his typical iron steeds never needed them. All he needed was a connection with the animal, and the unified fear of what came hounding behind them.
They almost tumbled down one dune, then struggled up another. They were momentarily calmed by an open expanse, until the expanse showed the dozen demonic hounds behind them. They raced south—until the south began to drop away.
They came suddenly through a sandy haze to find the land cracked in great chasms, where the yellow and red sands fell down into shadowy abysses. The gaps varied, some just millimetres apart, others the size of a hand, and others still several feet across. They wormed through the earth, thinner here and fatter there, like monsters of nothingness. They were perfect for the Lostlands.
9 – THE MONSTERS OF NOTHINGNESS
It was too late to halt, and far too late to turn back. The tide had come in, and it was black. Nox drove Old Reliable like that sorrel was a monowheel. He yanked the reins like levers. He shifted his weight like he did inside the frame of his old vehicle. He made that horse turn and tilt as the land gave way around it.
They leaped, and the jump seemed like forever. Nox felt himself rise out of the saddle, and he clutched the reins all the tighter. Old Reliable came down hard on the other side of the first, two-foot ravine. He almost skidded, but Nox leaned him into the skid, drove those stumbling legs into another gallop. They'd cleared the first hurdle, but the course before them had many more. The race would be tight. The winners'd get to keep their lives.
They jumped again, this time over a smaller gap, which was followed by a series of tiny cracks the horse could ride across freely. If Nox'd had his monowheel, those thick landship treads might've bridged the distance, and if they didn't, he had spring-loaded grapnel hooks to get to the other side. But he didn't have his monowheel. He had a living, breathing creature, who tired and hungered, who feared and faltered, and who didn't run on diesel.
Well, run on fear, boy, Nox urged. Now, there was a lash that worked.
He rode Old Reliable not just over the varying gaps, but left and right as they narrowed and opened to varying degrees. This wasn't just to find the shortest holes to jump, but to confuse and split the wolves, and hopefully see one or two of them tumble down below.
But these wolves had that odd look in their eyes, like they were not altogether wild, but a caged wild. A wild that moves at the lash of another. Nox could see the Man with the Silver Mane in their stare.
The wolves howled, and their howls seemed to encourage the slower of them to pick up speed, and the quicker of them to become a little faster. It was their battle cry. All Nox had for a battle cry now was gunpowder, and he didn't want to waste that on warning shots. They'd already gotten a warning. The problem was: death wasn't warning enough.
“Go, boy,” Nox said, as Old Reliable baulked at an eighteen-foot drop ahead of them. He was no Ootana horse, so he didn't scare easy, but you didn't need to scare easy to not want to risk a jump like that. Yet, when death is hot as hell on your heels, you either toss the coin in hopes of life ahead, or you turn around and sign that guarantee.
Nox's voice gathered up enough grit to be grim. “Go.”
That horse's name wasn't just a title—it was a mission. He must've known he'd have to almost step off the edge before making the jump, in case he leaped too early, and leaped into an early grave. He damn well just rode off into the ravine, launching himself across at the final second, just barely making it to the other side.
Old Reliable skidded to a halt, turning sharply. That gave Nox time enough to see one wolf attempting the jump. It failed, and fell. The howl seemed to go on forever into the blackness below. The other wolves sulked and scowled, pacing to and fro on the other side.
Nox almost smiled beneath his mask, and Old Reliable had no mask to hide his toothy grin. They took this moment to catch their long-held breaths. For now, the land had saved them.
Nox should've known the land would never do that.
10 – THE LAND
The land quaked suddenly. The fissures widened in places and shrank in others. It was no longer good enough to zig-zag through the obstacle course, because now the course was changing. Now, this was more like the land Nox knew.
He dragged hard on the reins, pulling Old Reliable back from the brink of a new-found fissure. The horse halted fast, then rode lengthways across the new opening until they came to a narrower gap. He jumped, and even as he jumped, the gap opened beneath him, like the maw of the earth eager for a bite. They made it to the other side, and the land closed again behind them, in time for the wolves to follow with ease.
Yes, this was the land Nox knew. For now, it was the ally of the wolves.
Nox rode on, harder now, pushing those iron limbs to their limit. They pocked the earth like bullet holes. Maybe that was why the earth fought back.
Then suddenly the ground gave way beneath Old Reliable's hind legs. The horse slipped and his hind fell into a small crevice. He tried to climb up, but the more he scrambled, the more the earth crumbled away nearby. Nox leaped off and pulled on the reins, helping Old Reliable back onto more solid land. As Nox climbed on again, he knew not to gloat at snatching back the food from the earth. The land had many mouths.
They rode on, traversing gaps that grew and shrank at a moment's notice. Nox started to get a feel for them, the same kind of instinct that told him when to draw a gun. He communicated this gut feeling to Old Reliable with a thug of the reins, leading him right, now left, urging him on, and holding him back. It all played out in a matter of seconds, just like death did for most. You learned to act on your gut, and act quick, or you often never got to act at all.
Ahead, Nox spotted a field of bodies, long rotten, yet not long revealed by the sand. There were dozens of them, possibly from some old battle, or maybe bundled together over time like the tumbleweed of the dead. Maybe they were an omen, a sign pointing to go back, but there was nowhere to go back to. The Lostlands might as well've not had directions at all.
The land continued to shift, cracking here, sealing cracks there. A skeleton arm dangled down into a ravine, and the body followed swiftly after as the land crumbled away beneath it. Maybe it thought: Finally, a grave.
They rode on, trampling the bones. The torn clothes and crumpled hats became more torn and crumpled beneath the horse's feet. Maybe it was desecration. All Nox knew was that it was survival. He promised not to add another body to the pile. The best promises weren't the ones you said, but the ones you walked and hobbled and ran. At least then you got closer to fulfilling them.
Even as he tried to focus on the path ahead, his gunslinger eyes spotted the fallen guns near their fallen masters. The men had spent their blood, but they hadn't spent all their bullets. He wrapped the reins tight around his right wrist. Then he leaned left, until he shifted out of the saddle and hung parallel to the ground. It must've been quite a sight, like he was riding the horse sideways, and yet in the topsy-turvy world he'd found himself in, nothing was quite out of the ordinary. He held out his left arm, letting the fingers graze the sand. Old Reliable charged on, right through the bodies and the guns. Nox scooped up a break action rifle as he neared it, then yanked himself back up into the saddle. He thumbed the lever to let the barrel of the rifle tilt open, saw there was still a round inside, and then flicked it closed again.
A wolf raced along beside them, pulling closer, biting at the air nearby. It should've been careful, because the wind knew how to bite back. Nox rested the barrel on one arm, aimed, and then took that pup out of the race. Yet, another came up fast, and Nox knew there wasn't another round to fire in the single-shot rifle. So he fired the rifle itself. He swung it hard and heavy, right at the approaching wolf, which was almost smiling with glee at coming so close. The gun struck it in the jaw, and it yelped and stumbled away.
Nox scoured the landscape for another firearm. He scooped up a shotgun, but a wolf launched itself at him as he did. It caught the barrel in its teeth and almost yanked Nox off the horse altogether. So the Coilhunter let it have that gun. He promised it'd have another one soon enough. Well, it came pretty soon in the form of a revolver, nestled lightly in its holster, just ripe for the picking. Nox didn't even check for ammunition. Firing was another way of checking. The wolf that was still carrying the shotgun in its jaws rolled into a dead heap, and another skidded into a pile of bodies as Nox fired the remaining round. Then it clicked empty, but Nox had a whole field of guns to choose from. There was a long-dead criminal called Nine-finger Nancy who would've given another finger for an arsenal like this.
But the field was fading. The bodies were growing thinner on the ground. That was saying something, as there must've been a hundred of them there in total. Nox could've pushed Old Reliable to keep running, but he could feel the sorrel slowing down. No, now was the time to stand their ground and fight. Well, he'd do it like a good old-fashioned wagon train, fighting in a circle. And he'd make that circle on the field of bodies.
He turned sharply, sharper maybe than those wolves expected, because a few of them skidded to a halt. He picked up guns, firing some of them before he'd even hoisted himself back up into the saddle. The wolves fell, and some of them got up and fell again. Nox knew there'd be more ammunition. Men usually killed each other before they clicked dead. You see, you didn't just have a bullet with your name on it. You had a lot of bullets spelling those letters out.
The land continued to crack, taking a body here and there, though not before Nox'd taken their guns. The earth might've thought it was fast—if it could think, and a lot of tribes said it could—but it didn't have the swiftness of a gunslinger. It didn't have the resourcefulness of a tinker. It didn't have the determination of a bounty hunter. Nox led Old Reliable through the maze of cracks and crevices, all the while whittling down the numbers of the wolves.
By the end of it, there were far fewer human bodies, and far more bodies of wolves. Nox had a single round left in his newly-plucked rifle, and there was one more coyote to kill. It circled them just as much as they circled the battlefield. This was a smart one. A careful one. A killing one. This was one that Nox knew wouldn't die just once. He could see the shimmer of lights on its collar, illuminating some strange symbols. Nox still had bullets in his own guns, but he'd promised to save them for the Man with the Silver Mane. He could see in the wolf's eyes that that man wanted to make him break his promise.
But the wolf wasn't the only clever animal. Old Reliable lured the wolf close to an emerging crack, then reared and bashed it with his iron legs. The wolf stumbled back, then slipped into the growing chasm. It didn't matter how many lives it had. It could live them all out in the dark below.
The land suddenly quietened, and the quakes faded into a dim earthen thunder. Old Reliable halted, and both he and his rider panted heavily. Nox watched for more wolves, but no more came. The land no longer shook. The earth no longer crumbled. Everything was peaceful now, but the Coilhunter couldn't help but wonder how long that would last. Past lessons told him: not long enough.
11 – THE SHIFTING GRAVEYARD
They rested for a moment, but Nox wasn't keen on resting at a place where the earth breaks. It'd be evil luck to survive the battle only to fall into a ravine during the twists and turns of sleep. But then Nox left luck to the gamblers. When he went out to kill, he made sure he had all six rounds in his revolver.
The day was wearing on, and with it came a dust cloud that
made it harder to rest and even more reckless to rest in the field of bodies. Nox led Old Reliable on by foot, making for what he thought was south. The needle of his compass acted erratically in the Lostlands, landing at random directions.
Nox paused when he heard a clunk. His foot hit the edge of something hard, something stone. Then, as the wind died down and the sand settled, he saw it.
A graveyard.
The tombstones went on for what seemed liked miles, though much of that was the mirage of the dead. They tilted here and there, and some were flat. But this was no ordinary burial ground. It was the Shifting Graveyard, a site that was once settled, but now seemed to roam across the vastness of the Wild North on the rolling dunes and whirling sands. Some said it followed you. Some said it travelled ahead of you, marking out your trail of life with the edge of a tombstone. The names were worn down to nothing by the castigating winds, those same winds that rebuked the living and the dead. Some said the names had worn off for a reason—so the desert could carve yours there instead.
Amidst the mausoleum was a man, hunched over and resting his hands on a shovel. He was dishevelled, with long hair, some black and some grey, and of all varying lengths, as if some of it had been eaten by the wind. His face was craggy, and his nose was bent. All of his features looked like they were trying to collapse in on themselves. His back hunched. His arms hunched. His nose hunched.
Nox got back into the saddle, happy for the higher ground, and happier for the chance to ride away quick. Something about this gravedigger was off. Maybe it was because there really shouldn't have been a grave here. Nox slipped his pistol out quietly. As far as he was concerned, that shovel wasn't just for digging—it was a weapon.
“What is this place?” Nox asked. He'd heard tales of it before, but truth and tales mixed in the Wild North like there was no difference. Often, there wasn't. Sometimes you doubted the truth and believed the lies. Well, the land'd fix that for you. It'd make a lesson out of you.
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