Spellslinger--Legends of the Wild, Weird West Read online

  Leila meanwhile, was beginning to talk strategy, such as it was.

  Reining in this bunch would be quite a challenge, one I would not be undertaking.

  “For those going—and you are free to leave any time should you choose—there are, as I see it, three main options for the hunt.

  “I want you to think carefully about these alternatives so that we can decide on a course of action and flesh it out together.”

  She held up her index finger, “One, we can lure the dragon out and give chase if we do not defeat it in open combat.”

  Given what I anticipated would be an elegant chemistry among the three groups, I imagined this would be the primary option.

  But, given what little I knew of past events, this choice was probably very close to the ones they had already tried.

  “Two, we can lay a trap and attack when the dragon gives in to its hunger.”

  I saw quite a few hungry men and women, but their hunger was not the kind that leaned toward the patience of a trap, particularly the mercenaries.

  Nor did I see the ranchers eager to risk more of their lives and livestock in an effort to trap a beast that had already wounded them deeply.

  Leila held up a third finger. “Or three, we track the dragon to its lair under cover of enchantment and slay it in its home.”

  This last option, though appealing, would probably lead to the most deaths as individuals broke ranks, bickering and squabbling, giving us away without the protections and benefits of laying a trap or preparing ourselves for the dragon’s outright attack.

  Among the mercenaries, a stolid dwarf stood, striking the head of his greathammer to the ground with the peal of thunder.

  If this was not the mercenaries’ leader, then he had missed his calling as a conquering dictator. The dwarf stood about shoulder height to an average human but was almost as wide as he was tall. His pitted black armor held as many jagged twists and turns as dragon hide, which was probably what it was meant to mimic. The equal to his ornate maul, strapped across his back was a mighty guernden, a dwarven war gun.

  His deep voice was gravelly and low as though issuing from a yawning chasm. He glared around the room with an air of dismissive menace.

  “How many o’ ya have ever faced a dragon?

  “How many o’ ya have ever stood before tha fires o’ Hell and come out alive?”

  No one was particularly eager to volunteer an answer.

  But, in fairness to those gathered, his question didn’t exactly beg for audience participation.

  Nor did it seem to make anyone eager for a little sightseeing.

  He snorted. “This group cannot hope ta stand before tha charge o’ an ancient nüaer’daer.

  “Ya’re all askin’ ta die.

  “I am Doerne’dane Thunderhammer o’ tha Skyfire Clan, and I have spoken.”

  That was one way to get an adventure started.

  But it was not my way.

  I stood. “I have faced dragons and am still here to see your eyes with mine.”

  Doerne’dane’s glare, though ferocious, was decidedly less threatening than a dragon’s.

  And much less important than responding to the needs of my traveling companions, those whose spirits Doerne’dane had tried to crush, probably largely in an effort to fatten his purse.

  So much for staying beneath everyone’s notice.

  Sometimes, though, people need a little hope, even if it comes at my expense.

  I did not have much to give, but I could give that.

  Off on the Left Foot

  Doerne’dane glowered at me, his eyes sparks trying to set the very air alight.

  If his had been the magic to do so, he would have.

  In the days ahead, I anticipated other fires, however.

  “Though its powers are great, its knowledge ancient, and its strength to be feared, a dragon, even an ancient one, is flesh and blood.

  “Dragons bleed, the same as you and me.

  “Dragons have hearts as well.

  “Not all are bad, but when a being of such power shifts to wickedness, true evil follows in its wake.

  “We are gathered to right this wrong.

  “Together, we can rid the Wastes of this cancer at its heart.”

  I had not spoken so many words together in a long time.

  I was surprised that I still could.

  My tongue rebelled against this audacity, having been put through far too much work. It was eager to return to its state of indolent repose.

  Doerne’dane was not done, though I wished I was. “How, then, O Mighty Warrior, do ya propose ta slay a beast whose magics are greater than those o’ tha highest archmage?

  “Whose armor deflects all but tha sharpest enchanted blade?

  “Whose wings rouse storms rivalin’ hurricanes?

  “And whose breath unleashes eruptions more fearsome than tha gouts from the greatest volcanoes?”

  Despite all its prior misgivings, my tongue was not yet done, though, by this point, I was.

  “The eye sees, the mind alights.

  “Thought perceives, the mind wills.

  “Awareness encompasses, the mind kills.”

  Though I sensed none here knew it, this was a kuen, a mantra of true perception, among the ja’lel.

  Doerne’dane snorted, the fires in his eyes banking, somehow appeased. “Ya’re as crazy as a sun-addled Xerist.”

  I did not argue and took my seat.

  There was much wisdom to be found among the Xerists.

  Clearly, Doerne’dane had never truly shared water amongst their company.

  Sensing the tension had somehow lessened, if it had not been completely resolved, unlike the answer to our plight, Leila spoke firmly, as though no interruption or anything untoward had just transpired.

  “Our guns have kept the dragon at bay here at Sky’s End.

  “They will be just as effective on the range.

  “We have but to bring them to the dragon.

  “Or bring it to them.”

  She had a point or two there.

  And, judging by the nods of those around her, Leila’s points were a bit more intelligible than mine.

  I was not the least bit disappointed.

  This meant my tongue had gotten a reprieve from further exertions.

  At Home on the Range

  While the group debated the merits of their options, their words shifting back and forth like the rise and fall of the tide, I closed my eyes and tilted my hat down over my face.

  I had said my piece.

  This was, I decided, the perfect time for a nap.

  * * *

  My father and I stood outside our keep. The early morning air was laden with fog, a chill dusting tingling my face to wakefulness. Toward the horizon, ancient trees clustered in a nearly impenetrable barrier, a magical wode that defended our keep as effectively as any wall. Behind me, the sweating, moss-wreathed stones of the outer bailey lifted skyward, still and silent in the early morn. We were the first ones visibly awake.

  This was the perfect time to shoot.

  The motionless air filled my mind with the silence and peace of open space, joining observer and target in clear awareness.

  The eye finds what the mind encompasses.

  The gun shoots what the mind perceives.

  The mind and target join in silent perception.

  Father chose the time and place of our lessons deliberately.

  We had done this so many times, there was often little need for words or explanation.

  Beyond rote, habit, or ritual, our actions were as natural as the dawn and as easy as the rising sun.

  With a slight flick of his wrist, a glowing target appeared far away across the open expanse of grass.

  Long ago, he would offer exhortations like, “Embrace emptiness and encompass the target in your mind’s eye,” or, “Abide in stillness and your aim will always be true.”

  Now we did not speak.

  I knew what he wan
ted me to do.

  With another gesture, the target began flying back and forth randomly in an iridescent blur. From this distance, the target was but a speck casting an eerie light in the low-lying haze.

  To say that the morning erupted in thunderous sound would be a lie.

  That’s just how the moment felt.

  My guns were silent.

  The morning exploded into motion.

  The target was fast, but my hands were faster.

  The target was a blur, but my hands were streaks.

  Blue bolts blasted out from the barrels of my guns; arcane discharges lit the intervening space in an unbroken stream.

  The target wavered, for it was little more than an illusion, struck again and again, its motion unimpeded by the savage storm.

  Unwavering, my father held the target in his mind’s eye.

  Finally, he gave a brief nod. “Good.”

  Entire armies could have fallen beneath my mind’s eye, but, for me, there was only stillness.

  And the target.

  Up in Smoke

  I opened my eyes and slowly lifted my hat as silence gradually settled over the room, the ebb and flow of the evening’s tide grown still.

  The looks in their eyes told me exactly what had been decided.

  They were going to pursue the dragon.

  I couldn’t say I blamed them.

  They had every right to be angry, ready to exact revenge, to pursue recompense for their wrongs…even if it put them all in grave danger.

  I preferred to wait.

  Let the dragon come.

  Bide our time.

  Make ready.

  Strike on our terms rather than its.

  As much as I wanted vengeance, the yawning gulf inside that threatened to swallow me with the loss of my brother would not be filled by the dragon’s death.

  I could wait.

  The mob did have one point to their advantage, an argument that I could not counter, even if they did not voice it. Waiting only gave the dragon more time to wreak further havoc. Acting swiftly might curtail some of this risk…just not for us.

  With such sound reasoning, mostly my own, I could be swayed.

  I had come here for one reason: to find out about my brother. Now that I knew what had become of him, I was here for another reason. I was compelled to act, even if my actions weren’t exactly on my terms.

  I would have time in the days ahead to help adjust the group’s course.

  I hoped.

  I was not planning to die, and would do my best to make sure others did not, either.

  To that end, I motioned Leila over as she finished talking to some ranch hands.

  I had given my speech for the evening, but I was not quite finished for the night.

  Leila’s face was friendly, amused, as though she was slowly mulling a particularly interesting secret as she said, “You certainly know how to get people’s attention.”

  I shrugged. There was much that I could say but did not.

  Her smile, if anything, was even warmer now. She asked, “Is there anything else you’d like to say this evening, or have you said your piece?”

  “I will draw the dragon in. Let the others stay hidden while I capture its attention.”

  “Why do you want to do that? You’ve lost enough already, Koren.”

  “There’s no need for them to lose any more, Leila.”

  “You’ll just be putting yourself at risk…perhaps unnecessarily.”

  “It’s what I do.”

  She could see by the set of my jaw and the steel in my eyes that I was holding firm on this. “I’ll let the others know.”

  I tipped my hat in reply as I took my leave.

  As others filed out gradually into the almost refreshing night air, Doerne’dane caught my eye from where he had gathered with his pack of ruffians in the corner.

  Unlike the night, his glare had yet to cool.

  I tipped my hat companionably before ducking out of the tent.

  * * *

  As I made my way toward the ranch’s edge, the various buildings of Sky’s End glowed with diffuse, soft inner lights, their shifting forms only partially hinted at and defined in the evening gloaming. To my untrained eye, I was wandering through an otherworldly school of luminescent undersea creatures, their movements slightly out of tune with the gentle breeze brushing my cheeks.

  Only somewhat disturbed by the sounds of distant voices, the deep silence of the open desert grew the farther out I went away from the ranch.

  I gave a low whistle.

  Smoky gave a short snort in reply, iridescent flames caressing the evening air from where he stood several hundred paces away.

  I made my way over to see him, glad to be back with my friend and the companionable quiet of the open range.

  Smoky glared at me disapprovingly as I approached, the luminous orbs of his eyes flickering with inner flames.

  Apparently he had been taking glowering lessons from dwarves.

  He felt left out.

  I patted him gently on the neck, offering reassurance, the silken scales of his skin welcomingly cool beneath my fingers. “I am not making any plans without you.”

  A shake of his head and one look from his skeptical, liquid eyes told me he did not believe a word I said.

  “They made up their minds.

  “I had nothing to do with it.”

  He snorted again, reminding me that he could see more than I gave him credit for.

  “I helped them gather a bit of forward momentum when they were about to stall.

  “Nothing much, really.”

  He pawed at the ground with one of his cloven hooves, unappeased.

  “We’re going after the dragon.”

  I rested one hand soothingly on his shoulder just above the wing. All business now, I said, “We’ll have quite a few to look after, Smoky.

  “And the dragon may be the least of our concerns.

  “Or just the first.”

  His eyes told me clearly that he knew.

  Wasn’t that always the case?

  Riding Off into the Sunrise

  We gathered in the predawn silence, the ranch hands of Sky’s End already stirring with the beginning of another long day on the range.

  If this were a story told to teach younglings the merits of honor, chivalry, wisdom, and virtue, I would say that we were resplendent in the early morning light, the day’s first rays dazzling upon our horns, pommels, and stirrups, proud visages cast nobly forward in anticipation of the heroics to come.

  But that would be a lie.

  Our horses shifted nervously, raising small plumes of dust with each timid step, sensing the mood of their masters, more honest with their emotions than their riders.

  We were a sundry lot.

  The mercenaries resembled castoffs from some long-forgotten war, covered in dirt and grime and the leavings of a hundred battlefields—weapons and armor aged and worn but imminently practical, from guns to jagged blades.

  The ranchers from Sky’s End were no longer wearing the dusty clothes of their work around the farmstead. Now they bore functional attire suited to long days on the Wastes: full, rugged dusters, slung rifles and scabbarded blades. All their clothing bore offworld enchantments that made them safe against most guns, blades, and spells.

  Trading in lueffa definitely had its benefits.

  I longed for their protections to be enough.

  Shadowing their horses were automated, autonomous cannons, weapons ranging from items seemingly cast from delicate spun glass to ponderous contraptions better suited to an interstellar ship than a ranch hand. These, too, were paratechnological treasures from far Tellanon.

  If anything we carried could deter a dragon, it was to be found in the arsenal of Sky’s End.

  Taking the forward position, sitting stoically atop their horses, perhaps hardening themselves against what was to come, were the sheriff and his men. Like the ranchers, they were wearing a relatively consistent un
iform—dark, billowing dusters over well-kept mail, longswords sheathed at their sides, pistols holstered on their hips, and rifles slung over their backs.

  The sheriff’s men were ready and confident, having dealt with outlaws and the dangers of the Wastes for many years.

  Degan Baird, called Deathsbane by his posse for his uncanny ability to steer them clear of harm’s way, the sheriff of Ghost’s Gulch, was not a small man. He was riding a beast that was almost large enough to be a draught horse. Upon his back a great two-handed sword glistened with fell enchantments. At his hips were matching pistols the size of sawed-off shotguns. These, too, bristled with arcana. His eldritch rifle was strapped to his saddle in its tooled leather holster.

  Degan was a vain man, and proud. For all his strengths, he willingly put his own interests above those of the citizens he helped protect.

  I did not have to be told these things; I could see them in him and knew them to be true.

  Nonetheless, others looked to him and his fearlessness.

  Such signposts were needed in the Wastes.

  * * *

  Leila came out to send us off.

  She would be staying at the ranch, though I would rather have her at my side than any other here. She was capable and confident and could handle herself well in an encounter.

  Her aim was true and, just as I knew that Sheriff Degan would put his interests before others’, I knew that Leila would not miss once she had sighted her target.

  As much as we needed her, as much as she wanted to go, the ranch needed her more.

  And she always put the needs of the ranch before her own.

  As she rested calmly atop her proud mahogany bay, the sun did, in fact, glimmer and dance within her eyes and shine across the cold steel of her twin revolvers.

  “As much as I wish you success on your journey, I wish you safety all the more.

  “Fear not if you return unsuccessful in your cause, for I would rather you return alive, able to gift us with your presence, than dead, having sacrificed yourself to the mission.

  “In triumph or failure, I will greet you with open arms and call you friends upon your return.”