Chapter Five
The next day dawned clear and without a breath of wind. They set out at first light, eating in the saddle as they traveled. As the canyons drew ever closer, the surrounding plains faded from prairie to nothing but dust and rock. Other than the odd motte of trees to provide a moment of shade there was little to break the horizon.
As the morning progressed and the trail became more rough and uncivilized, Lalaish’s attitude shifted. First it was little more than a slight frown at the corners of his mouth. Eventually his lips drew tight, eyes flickering from side to side, studying the landscape.
“Something wrong, Lalaish?” Scrimshaw asked him at last.
“No, of course not, Marshal. It is just I thought . . . .” Lalaish did not finish, lapsing back into silence.
“Expecting to see the road about now? I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans. We’re taking the scenic route.”
Temperance watched Lalaish for any hints of surprise or anger, but the sorcerer merely shrugged, as much as he could through the confines of the chains. “It matters not to me, I welcome any chance to see more of this beautiful country.”
They reached the top of a small rise, and the land stretched away below them, all scrub brush and emaciated pine. In the distance they could see the start of the canyon, like a gaping maw laid upon the landscape to drive them down into its belly. A few more days to cross that, and Benson city would wait for them on the other side.
Temperance kept a tight grip on her reins as Astor descended the sandy slope, his hooves sinking down a foot or more with each step. The others fared even worse than she did, and Scrimshaw had to abandon his own mount to lead the sorcerer’s mule.
As they dusted themselves off at the bottom, Temperance heard something, just at the edge of her perception, so quiet she might have dismissed it on any other day. She froze in place and prayed to the Three it was just a trick of the wind, but the air remained dead still. A moment later the sound grew louder, and she knew with icy certainty it wasn’t in her head.
“Both of you, head for the trees!” Without waiting for Scrimshaw to respond she kicked Astor into a trot, riding across the rocky plain and diving inside the nearest cluster of pines. Their branches left dustings of yellow pollen on the sleeves of her jacket, and a smear of pitch got in her hair, but she barely noticed. A moment later the marshal burst through on his horse, followed by the mule.
“What—” Scrimshaw began, but stopped short as Temperance held a finger to her lips.
“Quick,” she hissed. “Get a gag on Lalaish.”
The marshal nodded and whipped a white cloth around Lalaish’s mouth so fast the sorcerer didn’t have a chance to react. They waited, only the heavy breathing of the horses to break the silence. As time stretched on, Temperance’s guts twisted themselves to knots, and she started to wonder if it had just been her imagination after all.
A moment later the sound returned, loud enough now even Scrimshaw heard it. His eyes widened, and he moved to the edge of the treeline to peer out. Temperance joined him, and together watched as a group of riders appeared on the hill.
By Temperance’s count there were fifteen at least, and the moment she laid eyes on them she knew they were Lalaish’s men. She sucked in her breath, heart hammering inside her chest.
“I don’t understand,” the marshal said in a whisper. “Did they track us from the cave?”
“No.” Temperance guts twisted again, only now it was a thousand times worse. “I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
Scrimshaw gave her a curious look, but she waved it away. “I’ll explain later. First, we have to get out of here. Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll pass right on by. If we’re not, be ready to run when I say so. I’ll see you have time to get away.”
“What are you plannin’ to do?”
“Better if you don’t know.” She gave him a wry smile. “I promise I won’t kill anyone, if that helps.”
Above, one rider appeared to be directing the others. Several horses broke off and headed either direction along the ridge, leaving only five to work their way down the sandy slope. The bandits’ descent fared poorly, and for a moment Temperance wondered if she should strike now, while they were mired in the dirt. The moment passed before she could act, and soon they remounted, making straight for the pine motte.
Temperance drew a deep breath and waited. The men drifted along, looking about the barren landscape. They clearly didn’t know Lalaish’s exact location, but must have sensed he was close. That was information she could work with later, but for now there were more pressing concerns.
The group drew closer. Forty feet, then twenty, then ten. In another second they would see her and the others, even with the trees to screen them. It was now or never. She drew her revolvers.
“Go!” she screamed.
Temperance launched herself from the saddle, sailing between the pines to land amid the rocks and scree beyond. As the bandits clung to the backs of their startled horses, she sent a pair of shots into their midst, each preceded by a shout of “Abayo!”
Both hexbullets found their marks, exploding into clouds of pink gas on impact. The bandits reached up to wave the clouds away, but froze with hands halfway to their faces, expressions twisting to scenes of contorted pain. A moment later they fell from their saddles, the twin thuds of their impact echoing across the plain.
The remaining riders drew and opened fire on her in a fusillade of shots. Temperance barely had time to raise arms to her face before the first bullet struck. Most of the shots went wild and passed her by, but several struck her across the chest. Their impacts sent shocks through her system like a punch to the gut, but the bullets themselves ricocheted off her jacket and embedded in the surrounding sands.
The second the last bandit spent his rounds, she was off. A quick brush of fingers along the jacket sent her flying into the air, and as the men reloaded she took down two others with cries of “Calpa!”
This time, as the sparking green bullets struck they warped and twisted, oozing around the riders and wrapping them in a web of leafy vines. The final man looked up just in time to see Temperance’s foot connecting with his face. He fell to the ground with an audible grunt.
As she landed on the stranger’s horse, Temperance grabbed the reins and twisted about. She slapped at the rumps of the remaining beasts, screaming at them until they were running in all directions. Then she was riding through the trees again and out the other side. Astor stood waiting in the shade, and while he nickered disapprovingly he still allowed her to leap from one saddle to his own. The other horse trotted off to the side before slowing to a halt.
Astor, meanwhile, galloped faster and faster. Temperance had to lean close for fear she might otherwise tumble off his back. Scrimshaw and his prisoner rode hard a short distance ahead, kicking up a plume of dust in their wake. Bulging through the cloud, she fell in alongside, Astor slowing his pace to that of a more ordinary horse. Together they raced across the plain.
Temperance risked a glance back. The remaining bandits had joined their beleaguered companions by the pine motte. Fortunately, they seemed more preoccupied with recovering horses and chopping away vines than they were with giving chase. A few moments later they were lost from view.
It wasn’t long before the marshal reduced their pace. Temperance glanced back again. “You sure you want to slow down already?”
“Afraid we have to. If we force the horses on much longer, we risk them not making the rest of the journey after the canyon.”
Temperance started to protest further, but after a moment she let it go. It was easy to forget that not all horses were like Astor. Besides which, she had bigger issues to occupy her thoughts.
Even with slowing down, they kept the horses to a brisk pace, too quick to do much talking. This gave Temperance plenty of time to consider her theories, and her options. When the marshal called a halt at midday, she was ready.
No sooner had Lalaish slid from his saddl
e than she was on him. A quick kick to his more tender places brought the sorcerer to his knees. She grabbed a handful of his suit jacket, squeezing until it hurt, and drew a knife with her off hand.
“Miss Whiteoak!” The marshal sounded shocked, or scandalized, or both. She didn’t care. “Stop that and release him this instant!”
“No,” she responded. Before Scrimshaw could intervene, she sliced a two foot line down the back of Lalaish’s suit. That accomplished, she tossed the knife to the side and ripped the fabric away.
There underneath, right where she had expected it to be, was a brand burned into the sorcerer’s skin. The pattern was a complex interweaving of swirls and angles, and the more she tried to follow it the more it seemed to writhe and twist in on itself. She tore her gaze away and turned towards Scrimshaw, the anger already building at the back of her throat.
“Didn’t you search him when you took him prisoner?” This time she didn’t bother to keep the acid out of her voice.
“Of course I did. Found more knives hidden on the man than you would have thought possible.” Scrimshaw frowned as he looked at the brand. “Why, that tattoo supposed to mean somethin’?”
Temperance froze, her anger momentarily blunted by the honesty in the marshal’s voice. “You . . . don’t know what this is.”
It wasn’t a question, but the marshal shook his head in response. “Never seen it before. Why, what does it represent?”
“It doesn’t represent anything, and it sure as hell isn’t a tattoo. Can’t you see how it’s burned into his flesh? That’s a tracking brand. Anyone with the right spell, or the right items, can follow its magical essence like a signal fire.” She let out a low curse. “That’s how his men have kept finding us. Even if they didn’t know where we were, they have something that keeps pointing them in the right direction.”
Scrimshaw stood silent for a moment. “I . . . I didn’t know,” he said at last, not brave enough to look her in the eyes.
Temperance felt her anger returning in full force. “Of course you didn’t.” She spat the words more than she spoke them. Lalaish tried to rise, but another solid kick brought him back to the earth. “You rode out here with your regulation bullets and your highfalutin badge and thought you understood how the world works, but you don’t have the common sense the gods gave a rock! You think knowing a few words of power makes you a Pistol Warlock like my grandpa, but all it does is show what a fake you really are! Now we’re both in danger because of you. Even as we speak, Lalaish’s men are headed straight for us. We’ll be lucky to last the day, let alone reach Benson City.”
“Is there any way to stop it?”
“Oh, stopping it is easy,” Temperance said. “We just cut a chunk of it away, and the spell should fade by sundown, assuming Lalaish’s men don’t kill us before then.”
At her words, Lalaish at last seemed to pay attention to the conversation. Even while Temperance had ripped into his suit, the sorcerer wore an expression of smug superiority. Now panic flashed in his eyes, and several muffled shouts worked their way through the gag.
The marshal shook his head. “Afraid that’s not possible. I can’t even begin to list all the codes that would violate.”
Lalaish sagged in relief. Temperance caught his eye as the sorcerer looked up. “Don’t go celebrating just yet, I might still have a few other ideas for what do with you. Haven’t decided anything, but I promise you won’t find any of them to be pleasant.”
Scrimshaw looked about to say something, but Temperance cut him off. “Not sure what to do about you, either, but my gut is telling me to cut and run. No bounty is worth going into a fight I can’t win, especially with you tying one of my arms behind my back at every turn.”
“Per regulation eighty-six point—” the marshal began.
“Oh, shove it with your Federation and its rules.” She looked off into the distance, watching for any signs of Lalaish’s men. For the moment, the plains looked empty. “We’re in the middle of the wilderness, and you know it. Out here those regulations aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on.”
When she looked at him again, the marshal had gone white as his coat. His eyes lost their usual humorous confidence, replaced by the terror one usually only saw on the faces of those destined for the gallows.
“Please,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “Don’t leave me. If you do, I’m dead before the next sunrise. I don’t have the strength to face Lalaish’s men on my own. You’re the only hope I have at this point.” He sank to the ground, and for a moment Temperance thought he would start groveling. Instead he sat there, staring at nothing.
Seeing Scrimshaw so broken, some of the fire went out of Temperance’s anger. A memory surfaced, of a time when she had been on hands and knees before another begging for something she had neither the place nor the right to ask. If Martin hadn’t taken pity on her that day, she would still be skulking around in the broken bones of her old family home, living on rats and ash. She surely had looked as much a lost cause then as the marshal did now.
One good turn deserves another. She hated herself for thinking it, but it was no less the truth.
Temperance let out a sigh, then collected her knife. “I won’t leave you, Mister Scrimshaw. Your laws may mean nothing to me, but my word is the only honor I have, and I don’t intend to lose it.”
“There is another option, Miss Whiteoak.” The sound of Lalaish’s voice caught Temperance and the marshal by surprise. She looked up to see he had worked the gag out of his mouth.
“Oh?” she asked. “What’s that?”
“You could let me go. I promise you my men will not follow once they have reclaimed me. We have business elsewhere that requires my devoted attention.”
The marshal glanced in Temperance’s direction, but she refused to meet his gaze. “No, I don’t think we’ll be doing that. You’ve caused far too much trouble to just go running off now. If nothing else, I need what your scrawny bones are worth to replenish my hexbullet supply.”
Only then did she glance at Scrimshaw. “We should get going, while there’s still light enough left to travel.”
They mounted again, midday meal uneaten, and rode on towards the canyons. Silence lay upon them like a funeral shroud, and Temperance couldn’t help but wonder if she had made the right call.
Chapter Six
The sun reached the far horizon, turning the sky a brilliant kaleidoscope of colors, but they rode on. Shadows stretched and swallowed the landscape, and further still they traveled. The canyon was now close at hand, and soon they would need to camp or risk a deadly fall in the dark.
From time to time Scrimshaw looked back at her, but remained silent. Temperance, for her own part, kept any counsel to herself. The landscape remained empty behind them, but the hills could have hid Lalaish’s men from her sight until the next time they reached a rise.
She kicked up Astor’s pace and canted alongside the marshal. “Can’t go much further tonight, no matter how much I’d rather push on.”
The marshal nodded, and looked at the landscape ahead. They rode in quiet as the sunlight slipped away.
When he spoke at last, Scrimshaw’s voice sounded tired beyond measure. “Were you bein’ sincere back there? Callin’ me a fake and all that?”
Temperance winced. “I shouldn’t have let my anger get the better of me like that.”
“What did you mean by it, though? I wouldn’t say I’m any different from the other Pistol Warlocks I’ve met.”
“You aren’t, and that’s the true problem.” She let out a soft sigh. “If anyone isn’t like other Pistol Warlocks, it’s me. My grandpa started teaching me about hexbullets before I could walk. After he and my parents . . . well, since then, it’s all I think about. I always assumed that’s how all warlocks would be, but most people I’ve met don’t care a whit about how their bullets work, so long as they do. They don’t worry about knowing the art that goes into them.”
Reaching to her bandoli
er, she removed a bullet and handed it to the marshal. “What does this smell like to you?”
He sniffed at it, then shrugged. “I don’t notice anythin’.”
“It’s elderflowers and volcanic ash,” she said, reclaiming her shot. “With the right word of power, it can snare a man’s legs and leave him trapped in place. With a different incantation it can knock him out cold for a day and a half.”
She handed him another. “This one is willow bark and mantis wings. It can create lightning, or flames, or a combination of the two depending on the order of your words. Crafting a shot like this takes a smith close to two days to get the runes placed correctly. Some more powerful ones in my belt can take weeks. They aren’t things that you should fire without a second thought.”
“I never realized.” Scrimshaw’s voice had gone breathy, a touch of awe to it. “How many different hexbullets are there?”
“No one knows,” Temperance said with a shrug. “My grandpa found hundreds of combinations during his life, but he claimed he had just scratched the surface. During ancient times there were entire libraries filled with sorcery spells. We’ve only begun to relearn everything that our ancestors lost or left behind back in Galinor.”
The marshal nodded. “Thank you for telling me all of this, Miss Whiteoak. You are an inspiration to Pistol Warlocks everywhere.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” Color crept into Temperance’s cheeks. She continued on, hoping Scrimshaw wouldn’t notice. “I’m surprised you haven’t picked up more of this during your time in the wilds. Hunting down sorcerers and all that.”
Scrimshaw was silent for a moment. “To be truthful, Lalaish is my first real experience with any sorcery. I finished cadet trainin’ only a few months before encounterin’ him. It was only blind luck I knew his face from a poster, and I’ve been over my head from the minute I grabbed him. That’s why I wrote to the sheriff in Rosea, hopin’ that someone more experienced might see me through to the end. I can’t fail now, when I’ve only just started my career.”
The Delivery of Flesh Page 4