Porridge was about to object again, but Nox silenced him with a puff of black smoke from his mask. “Trust me,” he rasped. And boy did you trust him when he told you with gravel, because you never wanted him to tell you with a pistol. They say you should listen to a man with a voice of grit, or you might find yourself breathing gravel of a different kind. They do say a lot, don't they?
Porridge brought the Dandyman down the tunnel, and Nox set up the mechanical arm so that it burrowed into the ceiling and grasped on there like a grappling hook. Inside, the Coilhunter manned the controls, while Porridge fainted at the sight of his poor vessel being abused in such a manner. The ball swung back, then forward, bashing into the wall. It lost a propeller on the first impact, but it lost those plenty on its travels. Again it bashed, and again, until the bricks tumbled. Soon enough, the makeshift wrecking ball had revealed a way into the large chamber that housed the hamster wheel.
“Oh! A bit of luck at last!” Porridge cried.
It was then that they heard the sound of a grate opening. Light streamed into the chamber, illuminating the silhouettes of many collared wolves. It seemed they were like the Coilhunter. They didn't give up the chase.
31 – THE HAMSTER WHEEL
The wolves looked towards them, and Nox looked towards the towering wooden wheel, rotating slowly. He gauged the distance to it, and the distance to the wolves, and thought the latter a little shorter. But he wasn't going to run to them. He wasn't going to fight them and kill them again, if they were even the same wolves as before.
“Quick!” Nox shouted, grabbing Porridge by the arm. He ran, and he pulled the scavenger with him. They dashed towards the wheel, and the wolves darted towards them. Porridge's heels echoed in the chamber, and his yelps and cries punctuated the percussion. It was the music of terror. It was a music well known in the Wild North.
The game of who would get there first played out in almost time-slowed seconds. You could count them clear, maybe because they might be the last ones you got. They say Death comes swift and sudden in the Wild North, but Death is no gunslinger. He'll drag out your final moments by making the seconds count down all the slower. He'll give you just long enough to see him, to feel the terror before the blackness. Well now, that's what folk said about the Coilhunter too.
Two wolves advanced ahead of the pack, their legs vanishing into a blur. Their mouths became wider. Their snarls became louder. Nox and Porridge could see now that they weren't quite running away from those beasts, but towards them, to that point of union in the middle, that big old creaking wheel. Folk said things about wheels too. Grim things. Like how more often than not the wheel of life'd roll right over you.
But not if you were inside the wheel.
Just as the wolves came within biting distance, Nox grabbed a hold of Porridge's arm, then punched his left arm forward, launching the grapnel up towards the wheel. It caught in the spokes and tugged them up and out of the gaping maws of the beasts below. The wolves leaped, snapping at Nox's buckled boots.
“Oh!” Porridge cried, trying desperately to get a good hold of Nox's sleeve. They hadn't had time to grasp each other's hands. They hadn't had time to brace their muscles for the pull of gravity, that tug-of-war they knew they couldn't win.
They dangled there, swaying above the waiting wolves, some of which continued to leap up and bite at the air between them. Others scratched and pawed at the wheel. It continued its slow rotation, bringing Nox and Porridge higher, but the higher it went, the more gravity tugged back.
“Oh, don't drop me, berry!” Porridge cried, alternating between looking up at Nox and down at the wolves. “Oh! I'm not made for this! I'm not meant for dog food! Oh!”
The moment caused his scarf to unfurl, revealing his collar. He scrambled with one arm to catch it, but the scarf fluttered down delicately, waving in the air like a flag of peace. The movement was so at odds with the one that followed. The wolves pounced on it and shredded it to pieces.
It was then, as Nox felt Porridge slip a little more, that the Coilhunter saw another image that Death put in his head. He saw the colourful trader plummeting down and being torn apart by the mob of brown and black below. He saw all the vibrant, mismatching colours turn to red. He saw it all play out in those same time-slowed seconds, until he was forced to look away.
Who then would call him plum? Who then would call him peach? Some said the Dandyman could travel to any place, but could it travel to the afterlife? Would it be Porridge's copper-plated coffin? Would it take him to places where he would find other lost souls? Would it take him to the true Lostlands, where neither Death nor Life could wander?
All of these thoughts played out in those harrowing moments, just like they played out for the Coilhunter in his dreadful memories of his family's murder. Just like they played out in his sleep. The nightmares overran him and shoved out the dreams, just like Death had shoved out his family. Folk said Death didn't have a face, but that didn't stop Nox from making a Wanted poster all the same. Dead or Alive was moot then. Double Dead wasn't.
But Death hadn't yet claimed Porridge. Nox hoped the image wasn't a premonition. He promised himself it wouldn't be. He hated making promises he wasn't sure he could keep.
“Oh!” Porridge cried as he slipped further. Nox's leather gloves were good for many things, but they didn't give him the grip he needed here.
“Oh, Nox!” Porridge fell another inch. The trader called him by his real name. Not plum. Not cabbage. This was no time for endearment. It was time for desperation.
Porridge's arm slid gradually through the Coilhunter's grasp. There wasn't much Nox could do but wait. One arm was pulled up by the grapnel, the other down by Porridge. He was like a scarecrow, waiting for the crows to peck.
Their hands came close together now, and it was time to grasp the other. It had to be perfectly timed, because Death was a perfectionist. They say the Devil's in the details. Well, if you look closely, you'll see Death there as well. The careless and the clumsy were gunned down long before anyone else, long before the watchful and the prepared. But long or short, Death got you all the same. He didn't just wait for the perfect moments. He made them.
Now was one of them.
Gravity yanked all the harder. The wolves salivated below.
The moment came when Porridge slipped several inches, and their fingers grazed each other. They clung on, forming a tenuous grasp. Already, even with the renewed vigour of their interlocked hands, they could feel the slipping continue. There were no other hands to grasp now. Just the hand of God. And there was one thing you learned quick in the Wild North. God would let you fall.
“Don't let me go, Nox!”
Nox breathed out an exasperated plume of smoke. He didn't say anything. He didn't make a further promise. He didn't tell Porridge he would hold on forever. He didn't waste his energy with words when the veins and sinews in his arms bulged.
Then Nox felt his glove edging down his fingers. His own sweat betrayed him and nudged the glove down a little further. It didn't entirely matter how tightly Porridge clung. He would fall with glove in hand. That fashionless, brown glove. They say there was no accounting for taste. Well, tell that to the salivating wolves.
Porridge glanced up at Nox, but now he didn't say anything either. He could feel the shifting glove. He could feel his own body shifting too. The hamster wheel brought them higher, high enough to make the fall deeper. That was how Death did it in the Wild North. He let you escape the gunslinger's bullet, only to die to the scorpion's sting.
Porridge took a deep breath. His eyes watered. “Keep on drifting,” he whispered, in case Death overheard. But Death heard everything.
Nox didn't have time to shout “No!” He didn't have time to make a last ditch effort to grasp at nothing. All he had time for was what Death allowed in the time-slowed seconds. Time enough to see Porridge fall.
32 – THE WHEEL OF LIFE AND DE
ATH
Porridge tumbled. It was fitting, perhaps, because that's how he went through life in the Dandyman. Folk said there wasn't much you could do about death, but you could go out in a fitting manner. That was how you made your death honour your life. Well, the robbers often went out robbing. The gunmen often went out gunning. Few would say there was any honour in that.
But Nox had dug too many graves. He wasn't digging another one for Porridge.
He fired the grapnel from his right arm down, letting the wire wrap around Porridge's foot before the hook latched into place. It was a move he'd practised a thousand times before, but it never removed that little moment of doubt, that little worry that the hook wouldn't live up to its name.
Porridge screamed as he swooped above the head of the wolves. They jumped, coming mere inches from his face. One of them landed with a golden-brown curl in its fangs.
“Pull me up! Pull me up! Oh! I'm no pendulum!”
Nox grunted from the strain. “Oh, you're gonna have to be.”
Nox swung Porridge from side to side, gaining speed and distance with each swing. Higher now. Faster. Porridge shrieked as he swung out of the gnashing teeth of the wolves, and then shrieked all the louder as he steered back into them. The wolves paced back and forth with every swing. Then, with a final effort, Nox swung him up to one of the spokes of the wheel, where Porridge grasped on tight.
“Take it off your leg!” Nox shouted.
“Oh, I can't, pumpkin! I'll fall! Oh!”
“Take it off! Now!”
What Porridge didn't realise was that the part of the wheel Nox's first grapnel hooked onto had reached the top and was now starting to go down again. They thought they'd dangled close to the wolves before, but they could always dangle closer.
“We're goin' down!” Nox yelled.
That was enough to motivate Porridge, as was the tug of the wire on his leg. He reached with one hand to free it, but the wire pulled his leg up more, until it was horizontal. Then it pulled further, until he was horizontal too, clinging onto the spoke with all his might.
“Oh! Oh! Help! Help!”
Nox manoeuvred himself so that he could stretch down towards his arm and unstrap the grapnel launcher with his teeth. It flung away, until it snapped against Porridge's leg. The scavenger almost toppled from his position.
“Use it to get up here,” Nox shouted down. He was already climbing the wheel, using the other grappling hook to pull him up.
Porridge strapped the grapnel launcher onto his arm, finding it wasn't a good fit, and certainly wasn't fashionable. He was tempted to grasp the wire for extra surety, but decided against it when an image of his rope-burned hands came into his head. He aimed, clung onto the launcher with his other hand, and fired. The hook blasted into thin air, then came hurtling back down, past the shrieking Porridge, and knocked out one of the wolves below. The other wolves backed away from this new metal predator.
“Again!” Nox shouted. He was almost at the top of the wheel now. Folk said the top was a precarious location, because it seemed like the best place to be. But the wheel was always turning, which meant it'd be the bottom soon enough. So, the wise would say that maybe when you were on top, you shouldn't go sneering at the folk below.
Porridge bashed the buttons on the launcher, triggering the recoil. The hook latched back into place and he tried again. This time he hit the mark, and the hook hauled him up, kicking and screaming, towards one of the higher spokes. From there, he was just a helping hand away from Nox's position. The Coilhunter might've had a spare set of gloves, but he offered his bare hand this time.
“Don't drop me again,” Porridge urged.
Nox pulled him up, and both of them straddled the top of the wheel, walking in place against its rotations.
“Remind me to leave the adventures to you, peach,” Porridge said. “Oh! I'm all but done for!”
“You're not done yet,” Nox said. He took back the grapnel from Porridge and fastened it on his arm. Then he grabbed Porridge by the waist, fired upwards, and let the wire haul them up into the open hatch. They climbed up, leaving the wolves pacing and howling below.
“Now,” Nox said, striking a match. It illuminated a small room with granite walls. It could've been anywhere, but Nox could already feel that presence a little stronger. They were out of the cellars and into the main levels now.
The castle of sand, Nox thought. He couldn't help but think of the sand castles the children made. His children made. There were few oceans to wash them away, but most crumbled to the wind and the sandstorms, or to landship treads, or thick, leather boots. He thought this abode of the Man with the Silver Mane would have to fall to his own.
33 – THE BACK DOOR GUARD
With many lairs, you could expect less resistance if you went in the back door. This was some lair though, and Nox expected little resistance at all. After all, the Man with the Silver Mane wanted him to return. It'd all but suit to leave the back door open.
And it was open.
The light streamed in from the other room, where three figures huddled around a table, playing cards. They had stacks of coils to their names. They didn't bet in halves and quarters. Nox was familiar with that. And their names? Well, Nox was familiar with those too.
There was Hammerback Harry, who, unsurprisingly, had a big old two-handed hammer strapped to his back. In the olden days, folk said there was only honour in sword and shield. In the days of the gunslinger, folk said there was only honour in the fastest draw. Well, Hammerback Harry had no time for honour. He smashed it with his hammer like he smashed the skulls of folk who said too much.
Then there was Rustbucket Riley, who wore a helmet made from an old mop bucket. He claimed to be descended from an old family of knights, and this was his way of paying homage to his ancestors. He could talk for hours about heraldry and chivalry. He even had a sword. But when it came down to it, he fought with a pistol all the same.
And there was Buckhorn Bobby, also known as Boomin' Bray, because he had a voice like thunder. Folk said you couldn't help but fall for him if you heard him holler, and some said women queued up by the dozen to hear him say their name. What wasn't just rumour though was that he could tell a mean old tale. And boy did he tell them. It seemed like he had a new one every day.
Together, this trio made up the Back Door Guard, an oddball bunch hired by the Man with the Silver Mane to guard the underground entrance to his fortress. They were among the lost too, sure enough, but the difference was they didn't want to be found. They had a chequered past, like most in the Wild North, but they wanted to keep it chequered, not change it all to black or white. They weren't a bad bunch, as far as the Wild North went, but they had a habit of being hired by the bad. They were happy to hide away here in the dark cellars, chugging down beer, sharing stories, and staying out of the spotlight.
Well, Nox wasn't just the law. He was, as some folk dubbed him, the Man Who Shines in the Shadows. When you faced him, you knew damn well you were going to be dragged into the light.
“What's that?” Rustbucket Riley said, shifting suddenly in his seat.
“Probably just that tin head o' yours,” Hammerback Harry said.
“Surprised he can hear anything rollin' 'round in there at all!” Buckhorn Bobby hollered, and he let out a boisterous laugh.
“I'm tellin' ya, I heard somethin'.”
Hammerback Harry plucked an eyebrow and stared at it. “You're always hearin' things.”
They didn't notice Nox in the shadows of the doorway, guitar in hand. He played his signature tune, which some played in taverns across the Wild North, singing bone-rattling songs of the Man with a Thousand Names. The music had a sinister twang. It told you the Coilhunter was coming. It told you he was coming for you.
The Back Door Guard almost toppled from their chairs. Cards went flying, but just as quick came the weapons. Hammerback Harry h
eaved his heavy hammer into hand. Rustbucket Riley had one hand on his sheathed sword, but the other on his drawn pistol. Buckhorn Bobby had his rifle out, replete with an iron sight for accuracy. You might've heard him coming, but the bullets would come first.
Smoke billowed into the room, pouring out of Nox's guitar. He vanished into the haze, casting two noisemakers in either direction. They mimicked the sound of his boots. But the Back Door Guard knew that. They'd encountered him before. That's why they hid out here in the Lostlands, hoping they'd never encounter him again. They turned in every direction, standing now back to back, pointing their weapons east and west, and north and south. They didn't swing wildly or waste bullets at phantom sounds or spectral sights. They knew Nox was patient. They knew they'd have to be patient too.
“Come out, you Gosh-darn Masked Menace!” Buckhorn Bobby shouted. The sound rattled off the walls, drowning out the noisemakers. Dust crumbled from the cracks in the ceiling.
Rustbucket Riley put a hand on Bobby's shoulder. He gestured with his head towards the door. He heard another sound there. The sound of someone approaching.
They turned to the door, weapons at the ready. The footsteps came closer. That's how they knew it wasn't a noisemaker, unless Nox was still out there, rolling one of those distractions their way. Hammerback Harry patted his hand with his hammer. Rustbucket Riley pointed his shuddering pistol. Buckhorn Bobby squinted into the sight on his rifle.
Then he emerged from the doorway. First he was just a silhouette, but he didn't quite seem as intimidating as they remembered. Then, as the light hit and penetrated through the smoke, they saw him in all his terrible glory.
Well, what a sight he was.
“Oh!” Porridge exclaimed, putting both hands to his lips. “Were you expecting someone else, honeybushes?”
The Back Door Guard blinked, incredulous. Then Nox's hands emerged from the smoke behind them, seizing Rustbucket Riley by the helmet. He quickly swivelled it around, until the eye sockets faced the wrong way, then wrapped his unstrapped grapnel launcher around the handle of Hammerback Harry's weapon. Just as they turned to fight, he fired the hook upwards, letting it grasp the chandelier. Harry never did let go of that hammer easy, so he went upwards with the recoil, his feet dangling over the bumbling of his fellows below.
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