I was not alone.
The dragon had found me.
The Gun and Only the Gun
I held in my hands the guns of my fathers.
Light glinted and danced on their burnished surface, the argent starshine playing upon their curves visible in the full brightness of day.
The tooling, the craftsmanship, was truly divine, the highest art and epitome of gunsmithing. The subtle arcana embodied within was complete and worthy of the highest heavens.
As a seven-year-old, aware of all the awe, history, and majesty within these twin treasures, I was overjoyed and filled with wonderment not for what the guns were but what they represented—they were my father’s and I was holding them.
What could be better?
More marvelous?
My father’s resonant voice grounded me in the lesson, for our time together was seldom idle. “Some wizards use wands. Some magicians use staves. Some sorcerers use familiars.
“We use guns.
“Our magic is expressed through our guns.
“Our magic is our guns.
“We are our guns.”
I looked from the impossible beauty of my father’s sidearms to his flinty eyes and then back again.
I was not yet my guns, but I was my father’s.
What he loved, I loved.
What he was, I was.
Without pressure, without urging or incentive, I willingly became my father’s words, for his vision was mine.
My true tutelage began.
And I became my guns.
Havoc
I stayed my hand in anticipation, praying the dragon would pass, that its circling overhead was just part of its normal hunting patrol, but fearing the worst.
The echoing rumble of thunder, the reverberating popping of stone cracking, and the rattling of crumbling stone falling along the mesa’s side confirmed my dread anticipation.
Hoping the dragon was only after me, that I could somehow distract the beast if it were not, I sprinted away from camp into the desert firing off concussive volleys of hardened aether.
I knew without sending that my shots had found their mark, for the sky split in a mighty roar as the dragon raged in fury, painting the beast in all the hues of hell with its fearsome breath.
Sadly, my efforts were in vain.
Despite my drawing its ire, the dragon had no interest in me. My attempts to capture its attention were doomed from the start.
With a terrible boom, a great slab of the mesa gave way beneath the dragon’s tremendous claws, the rain of crimson plasma I spewed along the monster’s flank from all the distance between us doing little to distract its purpose, the rock’s monumental fall appearing slow and graceful in the evening’s phosphorescence.
For all the good it did, I screamed as I fired.
I screamed out a warning.
I screamed out a curse.
I screamed out a sob, sensing what was to come.
“Run! Run! For the love of all you hold dear, move!”
Too late to matter, for the dragon had banked away, putting the mesa between us. No longer maintaining the pierced veil of quiet invisibility, the autonomous weaponry of Sky’s End lit the night in lurid hues, attempting to blast the both the dragon and the falling rocks from the heavens.
In moments counted in eternities, the dreadful tableau lit by the erratic lights of automated weaponry firing too quickly to fully register, the massive, collapsing rock wall fell to the desert floor in a series of horrifying thuds.
The entire campsite disappeared in a billowing plume of rock and debris.
Still screaming, I continued to fire heavenward, alternating arcane missiles, superheated plasma, hardened flachettes, and concussive blasts.
Shielded by its own arcana and the untouched bulk of the remaining tableland, with all the interest one might have in a crushed ant’s nest, the dragon merely flew away.
I was left to check on the devastation.
* * *
I had been on many failed quests, misguided ventures, and ill-fated debacles. I had not thought this, the revenge of my brother’s murder, was going to be one of them.
As I sprinted back to the camp, ready to be of what service I could to the survivors, the hole in my heart grew ever wider, becoming a yawning abyss threatening to suck my entire world within.
The camp—or what was left of it—was eerily quiet.
There were no screams or groans, just the fragile silence of the desert as I approached.
Confused by the eerie stillness, I saw nothing but a massive pile of shattered boulders strewn across what had once been the area around my camp.
Out of place amidst the bedlam, the clean lines of my wards still held in the ground, an island of normalcy amidst cataclysm.
Where was everyone?
Were they all buried within the avalanche?
Had they survived under their own magical protections?
Then I realized my mistake.
Cursing my stupidity in the confusion, I cast off the magical blinders preventing me from seeing what was real and true before me.
The sight brought tears to my eyes.
Bodies were strewn about the campsite like so much rubble, broken and shattered, the layers of dust and debris covering them giving the illusion that this tragedy had happened some time ago.
There was no movement on the side of camp bordering my own.
I ran around the rock pile, extending my senses outward, hoping against the truth of the tragedy before my eyes that all was not in ruins, that some yet lived.
Though the rockslide was now settled and the camp was unsettlingly quiet, I heard my companions screaming in my mind.
* * *
What do you do when a quest has failed before it has even begun?
What do you do when your spirit is crushed with no hope of redemption?
What do you do when the steely purpose that gave you resolve crumbles to dust?
You keep going.
There is no other choice.
More Desolate than the Desert
I was as broken as the stones at my feet, my spirit drier than the desert.
I felt the loss within the still-shifting avalanche and knew it as my own.
Too many...
I should have gone alone.
I should have done what came naturally, leaving the others behind to take matters into my own hands, for when I offered my hand to others, only death and desolation followed.
Letting the pity and self-recriminations go—they would work their poisonous assault whether I paid them any heed or not—and sensing motion, I ran to the far side of the pile, the one farthest from my campsite.
There were survivors.
Just far too few.
* * *
I heard coughing.
A deep, gravelly voice asked, “Eustace, ya there?”
Another cough and a growl, accompanied by the thudding of moving rocks.
Covered in cloying, light-umber grit from head to toe, Doerne’dane Thunderhammer, called Eustace by his fellows, offered a hand to one of the other mercenaries who had taken shelter next to the irregular, sloping wall of the mesa.
Separated from the others in the camp, the bounty hunters appeared to have made it through the ambush relatively unscathed.
Fortunately, they were not alone.
I sensed more survivors beneath the rocks.
I waved as I approached, showing my hands lest the outlaws get the wrong impression. “Doerne’dane, help me search for more survivors.”
I did not let the dwarf’s hostile grimace distract me from my purpose.
Drawing my guns, letting their magic augment my own, I began sweeping rocks aside as carefully as I could, taking as much care as possible to avoid further harm to any potential survivors beneath the boulders.
Rocks slid down and away from the pile reluctantly, slowly revealing a perfect silvery dome untouched by the layers of residual dust underneath the naked stone.<
br />
I could see the tired smiles of Phinea and Delphine through the magical barrier.
Of Legen, their mentor, I could see no sign.
A few others from Sky’s End had sheltered with them.
Far too many had not.
As I cleared the rubble to a safe distance, the sisters let the barrier fall so that the survivors could crawl out.
Climbing onto the pile, I offered a hand first to Delphine and then to Phinea, giving them praise for their quick thinking and quicker reactions. “I am glad you made it. Good work.
“Where were the others camped?
“Where was the sheriff?”
Phinea coughed, looking frail and much younger than her already young visage implied. “They were in front, closest to you.”
Delphine nodded in agreement while she helped others from the hole alongside her sister. “I don’t think they made it.”
Their bravery and resilience was commendable.
Eustace and his crew of assorted monsters were surprisingly tender, helping the other survivors get their bearings as they clamored unsteadily over the rocks.
“And Legen?”
Phinea’s eyes welled up. “I don’t think he…”
Delphine wrapped a supportive arm around her sister’s shoulders, her eyes shining in the night as well.
Where Phinea’s voice quavered, Delphine’s was firm. “A rock took him down before he knew what was happening.”
Already heading back toward the side of the pile nearest to my camp while horrific, guilt-laden visions of collapsing boulders raining down on my comrades filled my mind, I asked, “Did you see Degan or Morgran or any of the sheriff’s men?
“Anyone else from Sky’s End?”
The twins shook their heads forlornly in tandem as I left.
Despite their apparent frailty, I could see the strength radiating within them and knew they would tend to the survivors with far more care and compassion than I could.
I left them to use gifts I did not possess.
Emptiness Inside and Out
There were no more survivors.
With the help of Eustace and his crew, I moved enough rubble to tell me what my senses had known all along.
There were only broken bodies and lost dreams beneath the cracked stone, lives lost without a fitting end.
Though the task was grim, I did not stop until everyone was accounted for, far past the point where exhaustion first swept me up in its tender arms and beckoned me to rest.
Smoky had returned sometime in the night, and offered silent vigil should the dragon return.
His somber, steadfast presence was welcome, for, as he did his job, I could do mine.
Degan Baird’s body was the last we found in the pile. He had died between his proud horse and Morgran, whose magic had failed to protect the sheriff’s men and their steeds from this, their final ambush.
I would never get to ask him the questions I had intended about his motivations.
Just as I would never get to know the tales of those lost.
I had too little of their lives in mine.
As heart-wrenching as the deaths of the men and women of this venture were, the loss of the animals hurt all the more.
They were the true innocents in all this.
And now they, too, were gone like yesterday’s dreams.
I dusted my chaps and shirt with finality, cleansing myself of the night’s horrors as much as I could with a simple gesture.
I offered my hand to Doerne’dane in grim thanks. He had stood beside me in all this, shadowing me, helping where there was no help to truly give, as steady as stone. “You and your men have done well.
“Thankee.
“If there is aught here that will serve you, take it, for the days ahead will be rough and the nights rougher.”
Doerne’dane grunted a terse, “Ya’re welcome,” in response, gave a quick flick of his forefingers as his men appeared like summoned ghosts in answer to his silent command, and then turned his attention to scavenging.
The prizes found on the sheriff’s men might be as great as any in the dragon’s horde.
Although I was loathe to put more destruction in the mercenaries’ hands, we would need all the firepower we could get in the days ahead.
With that, I turned and went back to where the rest of the survivors were huddled to offer what reassurance and aid I could before succumbing to the exhaustion I had fought for too long.
* * *
We burned the bodies later that day.
Delphine and Phinea made the decision, having grown into adulthood overnight. They explained that the dead would not want to encumber the living, that the departed would want to pay their last respects to the desert that was their livelihood by giving something of their lives to it.
There were no cairns or pits because anything left in the Wastes would not remain long…even attempts to capture the memory of the lost.
Watching the heavy gray smoke of the funeral pyre roil upward toward the heavens, I couldn’t say I would have honored them differently.
A Life Between Worlds
I lived on the edge.
I do not mean on the edge of life and death, though that was a frequent occurrence.
Bullets shoot both ways.
I do not mean on the edge, in the sense of imminent danger or inordinate risk.
Just because a thing happens frequently does not mean it happens by choice.
Nor do I reference some ill-advised thrill-seeking behavior.
Pursuits that put one’s life in jeopardy should be undertaken with utmost concern, especially when one’s life pursuit is to put one’s life in jeopardy.
I mean that I lived on the edge of society, in the boundary between worlds, where all these other edges come into play every day. This border, the ragged edge of civilized organization, is exactly what we ’slingers strive to define and what we fight to keep from fraying and falling apart.
There were good reasons some called us edgewalkers.
I just wasn’t one of them.
Onward but Not Upward
Surrounded by the tired, bedraggled survivors of the dragon’s terrible assault, I was well and truly alone. Everyone was lost in their own inner reflections, running through the night before in their minds’ eyes, exploring what could have been, what should have been, and what they wished now was.
Stew was passed around from a common pot, but all that accompanied its passage were a few grunts and sullen glances.
I stood apart.
Even with everyone lost to themselves and their inner demons, I could sense my isolation. This was my natural condition. I did not run from it.
That others now had a small glimpse into my world was not heartening or uplifting. I did not wish my remoteness or loss upon them or anyone. They did not deserve my lot. Nor should they live with it.
I stood.
In the stillness of the cool evening air, all eyes fell upon me.
I was not here to make friends. I was here to survive, and make sure that those who remained did as well.
I was here to fill the hole punched through my heart with vengeance, no matter how much I lost in the attempt.
But I could try to make sure my companions did more than just survive.
Eyes turned reluctantly toward me.
My words were not kind, but they were true.
“You will never get last night back, so stop worrying about it.
“Some knots cannot be untangled. Don’t waste your time.
“As unfortunate as last night was, be thankful you’re still here.
“You still have a chance to make a difference, whether here or elsewhere.
“There is still time to go back and rejoin the others at the ranch if that is your wish, but if you stay, you must be here now. If you aren’t, you might as well join your friends in the ground now, because the dragon will cut you down while you wallow in regret.
“To defeat a dragon, you must be ready t
o meet death face-to-face, eye-to-eye, not looking back over your shoulder while running away or full of self-doubt.
“You must be certain of your worth, the equal of your fears and doubts, because in the moment you do face the dragon, you will only have yourself to rely on.
“If you cannot take your measure and overcome your shortcomings, the dragon will do it for you.
“And, chances are, the outcome will be no better than it was for our friends and allies last night.”
There.
That was better.
A pep talk was always helpful.
Even if there was little pep in the talk.
Although I received little more than grunts in reply, I could see the steel slowly returning to many an eye that had been adrift.
Whether they would stay or go, I could not say, but at least they were on their way back from the brink of despair, for, once lost, they might never be found.
* * *
In the morning, after spending some time outfitting and reassuring the surviving horses, led by Phinea and Delphine, the remnants of the band from Sky’s End left to return to the ranch.
Their lives were worth more than this.
Though I missed the chance to get to know them better, to see their worth in word and deed, I saw them off gladly, eager not to have more deaths on my hands.
Before the survivors of Sky’s End rode out, I gestured Phinea and Delphine over to have a few final words.
Although weary, distraught, and uncertain, the twins bore themselves with growing confidence and surety.
I was glad that they were growing into themselves even if I was not happy about how it had happened.
Each sitting gracefully and in command atop her horse, the twins gave warm nods and smiles as they rode over to me.
“What does us the honor of your company, Koren?”
Spellslinger--Legends of the Wild, Weird West Page 7