The Delivery of Flesh

by Francis James Blair

  She glanced over at the marshal, and for the first time since they met she looked at him, truly looked at him. He was much younger than she had first thought, perhaps a year or two older than herself. Without the stern expression of authority he typically wore, he looked little more than a scared boy on his father’s horse.

  The last of the anger that had been smoldering in her belly snuffed itself out. She reached out a hand and patted Scrimshaw’s shoulder. He looked up in surprise. “Don’t worry,” she assured him. “We will make it, one way or another.”

  Looking over, she noticed the sorcerer was not watching them, but instead staring off at the low hills. She followed his gaze, then cursed.

  “Time to ride, Marshal!” she yelled, whipping Astor’s flank. “Lalaish’s men are coming in fast!”

  A group of riders broke over the top of the hill, the twilight sun casting their long shadows against the sand. They shouted as Temperance and the others came into view, a few loosing wild shots in their direction. She looked back and saw the marshal had placed himself between the sorcerer and his men, so she dropped back as well. It wouldn’t be right to leave them behind now, even if she could feel Astor fighting against her to do just that.

  They galloped across the plain, Lalaish’s men hot behind them. At first Temperance feared that the mule might not be able to keep pace with the horses, but the animal proved far more nimble over the uneven terrain than she would have believed. The beast had a wild look to its eyes, and she took a moment to murmur a prayer of thanks that she had Astor instead of the sorcerer’s daemonic ride.

  With every glance back she could tell the bandits were gaining, and from the increased hoots and hollers they knew it as well. A shot bounced off the shoulder of her jacket, too close to her bare neck for comfort. She returned fire, knocking one man from his horse in a sudden burst of green vines and leaves.

  Up ahead, the marshal leaned in so close to his horse it looked as if he might melt into its flesh. “Can’t you take them out already?” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “I haven’t got the shots left, unless you want me to kill them,” she yelled back. “Why aren’t you shooting?”

  Scrimshaw risked a glance back in her direction. “We aren’t all as bulletproof as you!” Despite this comment, he swung his shotgun around and fired into the mass of riders. A sudden scream told Temperance that the marshal had hit something at least, but the group of riders hardly looked diminished.

  Walls of solid stone rose to either side as they reached the entrance of the canyon. Rocks sprang at them from the shadows, and soon they would have to slow the horses or risk breaking their necks.

  The bandits drew even closer. In the slices of red light cutting through the cliffs Temperance clearly saw the sneers on their faces, the color of their belts, and how many buttons were missing from the dirt-smeared clothing they wore.

  Not many good options left at this point. We might have to make a stand, but there’s only one way that ends for us. Dead running or dead standing, we’re caught between hot iron and a lodestone here.

  Stones. An idea shivered its way through her brain. It was risky, but she was out of better options.

  She let herself drop back, until Astor’s nose was in line with the mule’s tail. She hadn’t wanted to resort to something like this, but it was better than death, that much was certain. Her horse sensed what she was about to do and let out a warning whinny between labored breaths. She ignored him, clearing her mind of distractions.

  Reaching into her pouch, she withdrew a leather bag tied closed with twine. Runes were burned into the bag’s exterior like the brand on Lalaish’s flesh. These ones, however, served a rather different purpose.

  The timing would have to be perfect or she risked killing everyone, herself included. Temperance watched as the stone walls drew closer, the path trimming down to a tunnel only a dozen feet across. She let go of the bag.

  “Rendeso Qui Palovar Un,” she said as loud as she dared. Behind her, dark smoke flooded from the ground, forming a black wall between the sides of the tunnel. A fraction of a heartbeat later the smoke coalesced into a jumble of stones, each one the size of her head. They hovered in the air a moment before dropping to the ground, filling the space between her and Lalaish’s men.

  The effect was beyond her wildest hopes. She heard screams and curses as the men crashed into the rock pile. There was a loud wail that drowned out the other noises, and a hand fluttered at the top of the rocks before sliding back out of sight.

  The cry caught the marshal’s attention, and he reined in his horse to look back. “What happened?”

  “Didn’t you hear me firing?” she asked, trying to sound as innocent as possible. “I must have triggered a landslide. That should cut off their pursuit for a while.”

  Lalaish frowned at this, but Scrimshaw merely looked relieved. “That’s a miracle if I ever saw one, thank the Three. If we’re lucky, we can get through the canyons before they have time to circle around.”

  “Won’t accomplish that standing around here. Let’s get as far as we can with what little light is left. I don’t relish any more surprises.”

  The marshal nodded his agreement, and they set off at a much slower pace, the twin moons rising in the distance to light their way.

  Chapter Seven

  They stopped for the night under an alcove, right where the path sloped downward and the cliffs began. Even in the dark Temperance sensed the sheer drop waiting just a few strides away from their camp. If ever there was a bad time to discover she was a sleepwalker, it would be tonight.

  Sliding from her saddle, she breathed a moan that was half pleasure, half pain. She had thought the weeks chasing the daemon had been bad, but it was nothing compared to this. Between the hard riding and the last few fights, every one of her muscles felt twisted and wrung out like an old sponge. Adding to her troubles, there was a gash across her cheek where a stray bullet had left its kiss. She tried not to think about how if that shot had been any closer it might have been the end of her. Unfortunately, her grandfather’s jacket only protected what it could cover.

  Across from her, the men didn’t appear in much better shape. Scrimshaw’s clothes showed travel stains at last, dark smudges that sucked in the moonslight. The marshal limped about their camp from a gash on his leg, but given how little blood stained his pants the wound didn’t appear to be any worse than her own.

  Lalaish appeared unhurt, but his lapels were in an even greater state of disarray, and one of his coattails had torn off since Temperance last deigned to scrutinize the man. All things considered though, they were in better shape than they had any right to be.

  As she secured the horses, the marshal gathered wood from nearby and started a fire beneath the overhang. The light from the sudden flames caught Temperance unaware, and she shielded her eyes as the tinder ignited, setting the larger logs burning.

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she asked.

  Scrimshaw shrugged without looking in her direction. “Way I see it, if any of Lalaish’s boys clamber their way over those rocks, they know where we are, fire or no. Not like there are many paths to take once the walls start climbin’.”

  Temperance nodded. This should have already occurred to her, but she was tired and her head wasn’t in the right place. All the more reason to finish this delivery as soon as possible before she made the wrong call that got them all killed.

  That put a thought in her head. “Why are we still alive, you suppose? The men back there were close enough to spit on us, they should have had us dead to rights.”

  “Too much risk of hittin’ Lalaish, I suppose. Most of their shots seemed more warnin’ than anythin’ else. Probably their way of havin’ a bit of fun.”

  Temperance put a hand to her cheek. “Didn’t seem like much fun to me.”

  “Naw, I imagine it wasn’t.” Scrimshaw smiled at her. “Come over here, let me have a look at that.”

  “I’ve got my own bandages
,” Temperance protested, but still came and sat next to the marshal. He took her head in his hands and peered at the bullet wound. The touch of his fingers sent an odd flush coursing through her. Heat raced up her cheeks, though for all the money in Korvana she couldn’t have said why. If Scrimshaw noticed, he didn’t make note.

  “Be glad it’s nothing serious, at least. Might leave a nice lookin’ scar though.” He dug into his saddlebag and came back with some ointment and linens. “Not sure if it’s reassurin’ or worrisome that you’re not so bulletproof after all.”

  Temperance winced as the ointment stung her face. “I’m not bulletproof. My coat is, for the most, but the rest of me is as fleshy as you, I promise.”

  “Still, no reason for you to be takin’ unnecessary risks. I need you alive if you want to collect the other half of your fee.” Scrimshaw finished up on her face, then turned his attention to his own leg. Temperance had forgotten about the marshal’s wound, and in the firelight she could see it was worse than she had thought. A flush of guilt ran through her as she realized that the man had dealt with her inconsequential injuries before his own.

  “Here, let me help with that.” She pulled Scrimshaw’s boot off, and he let out a sigh at its release. Temperance inspected his leg and determined that the bullet had passed clean through. That was something, at least, but the wound was still bleeding more than she would have liked. Also, while the marshal might put weight on it, he would not be running any time soon. With luck he wouldn’t need to.

  Scrimshaw waved away her further efforts to assist. “I may not know much about sorcery, Miss Whiteoak, but take my word for it when I say first aid is somethin’ I am more than qualified to practice.”

  Temperance pursed her lips. “If that wound turns sour . . . .”

  “It won’t, I promise you. Besides several ointments, I have a dozen other field supplies on hand for just this occasion. The Federation may not train me for everythin’, but they know not to scrimp on the basics.”

  “What about me?” Temperance jumped as the sorcerer’s voice cut between herself and the marshal. “Don’t I deserve to have my wounds tended?”

  The marshal spit off to the side. “Go boil your shirt, Lalaish. You haven’t got a scratch on you.”

  The sorcerer grinned and sat down across from them. The wavering light from the fire gave his expression a gruesome appearance, reminding Temperance of nothing more than Belial right before she blew its head off.

  She rose and moved towards the edge of the firelight to collect her saddlebags. As she brushed against Astor, the horse let out a snort and gave her a long look.

  “What?” she whispered to him as loud as she dared, though it was unlikely that either of the men would hear her over the crackling of the campfire.

  Why are we still here?

  “No other path to take at this point. Unless you have some ability to climb cliffs I haven’t seen before.”

  You know what I mean, Temperance. Astor nickered. You made me a promise. Today could have seen either of us killed a dozen ways over. We need to leave this marshal and his powder keg of a prisoner before it’s too late.

  “I never promised you I would leave.” The horse glowered at her, but she stared him back down. “I didn’t. I told you I would make sure it didn’t come to that. Still hasn’t, by my reckoning, and I intend to see this through.”

  She wasn’t sure where this sudden determination had come from, and the surprise of it shook her to the bones. She continued on before the horse noticed her discomfort. “We’re almost there. Just through the canyon and across the plains, and this task is done.”

  I still say this marshal is bad business.

  “He has a name, you know,” she reminded the horse.

  Oh? And what is that again?

  “It’s—” She had to stop and think a moment. “Peter. His name is Peter.” Before the horse said any more, she moved back to the fire and sat down on a knobby log.

  Lalaish looked at her from across the crackling flames. “What were you and your horse talking about?”

  Temperance froze. “You can hear him?” The words tumbled from her mouth before she could stop herself.

  “Of course not.” Lalaish shifted against his bonds. “However, I felt the pressure along my spine that tells me you must be communicating with your familiar. Unless there’s an owl hiding around here somewhere, the answer is rather obvious.”

  “What’s he going on about?” Scrimshaw asked, looking back and forth between them, his brow furrowed in confusion. Temperance didn’t answer, barely even breathed as she sat dead still, unsure what to do.

  Bloody Hell, why did I respond to the sorcerer’s question? Why did this have to happen now?

  Lalaish ignored the marshal as well, refusing to break his eye contact with Temperance. “I have a familiar of my own, a beautiful silver tabby named Dimeter. She ran and hid during my abduction, but I can still sense her calling, if only the faintest of cries on the wind. She mourns for me already. Can you imagine the agony you would suffer if you separated from your familiar, Miss Whiteoak? I promise you, it is a thousand times more painful than you’ve even been led to believe.” His voice trailed off to a whisper.

  “I—” Temperance dropped her gaze. “I’m sorry.”

  “Somebody tell me what in the name of the Three you’re talkin’ about,” Scrimshaw demanded.

  Temperance tried to find her voice, but the sorcerer beat her to it. “Miss Whiteoak has been lying to you, Marshal. To both of us, it seems.”

  “I didn’t lie,” Temperance said, finding her voice at last.

  “No, you did not,” Lalaish conceded. “But you did not tell us the whole truth, either.” He chuckled, and the sound grew to a full-bellied laugh that rolled off the canyon walls and bounced in Temperance’s ears until it was too painful to bear.

  Lalaish got himself under control and looked at the marshal again. “All this time, you have borne such hate in your heart for me, for my kind. Yet here you rely on the same powers you claim to despise, just so you can bring me to justice.” He let out another little chuckle. “The gods must have a fine sense of humor.”

  “Please,” Temperance said, her voice barely audible, yet somehow she knew the sorcerer heard every word. “Just, please. Stop.”

  “Too late for that, I’m afraid. Much too late.” Lalaish looked over at Scrimshaw, who still wore an expression of utter confusion. “She has been using sorcery. I thought I sensed something earlier, when that rockslide appeared out of nowhere, but hearing her converse with her familiar confirmed it. Oh, what fun this whole ordeal has turned out to be.” He laughed again.

  Scrimshaw looked over at Temperance. “The rock slide earlier, that was you? You’re a sorcerer?”

  “I told you, the proper term is ‘witch’.” Lalaish’s laughter cut off with the finality of a hangman’s noose. “It appears that was a more appropriate name than we ever knew.”

  Temperance found her voice at last, and her anger came with it, hot and unrestrained. “Yes, it’s true. I don’t just keep my spells to the bullets I wear. I carry them in other forms, even letting them flow through me when required.” She turned to Scrimshaw and stared daggers at the man until he looked away. “I use sorcery, just as my grandpa taught me to. As he taught all of his apprentices to do.”

  “Your grandfather? You mean he was also a—”

  “Of course he was,” Temperance said, lips pulling tight. Her rage boiled at the surface, but an endless well of sadness lay just beneath. “Hexbullets were one of many tools he carried in his belt. All the men he trained had to learn to wield as many forms of powers as possible. Yet the rest of this country has decided that only one magic is ‘civilized’, and everything else my grandpa ever preached has been swept aside like storm dust. Now men ride around calling themselves warlocks when they’re nothing more than the palest imitation of what he meant them to be.”

  She slumped forward, the full weight of the last few days hitting he
r at last. Her anger burned away, and now she only felt pangs of grief, for everything that her grandfather had represented, and for Scrimshaw—no, Peter—seeing her for what she truly was.

  She couldn’t bring herself to look at the men any further, and instead wrapped her blanket around herself and moved to the edge of the camp. “I’ll take first watch. We have a tough journey in the morning, I suggest you get what sleep you can.”

  As Temperance settled against a rough shelf just out of sight of the fire, she couldn’t help but grind her teeth over the stupidity of the situation. Her powers had saved them. If anything, the marshal should be thanking her, instead of looking like she’d turned into some sort of snake.

  The part that stuck in her craw the worst, though, was that Lalaish’s revelation bothered her at all. She couldn’t for the life of herself understand why she cared what this straight-laced Federation Marshal thought of her. Still, knowing her secret was out had left her on the verge of tears.

  Standing there in the dark, Astor’s presence floated unbidden into her mind. Even though sadness tinged the horse’s voice, his words still bit to the core. In all fairness, I tried to warn you.

  Chapter Eight

  It started as a slash of gray over the cliff line. Like the embers of a fire burning in reverse, the gray brightened, tinging the lightest shade of orange at the edges. This spread and deepened, until it filled enough of the skyline that the color reflected into the canyon, bouncing between the walls and multiplying the fiery palette a thousandfold. By the time Temperance awoke, everything around her looked like it had been bathed in blood and flame. Altogether a rather ominous start to the day.

  She rolled over. Scrimshaw—no, Peter—was already up. As she watched, the marshal delivered a solid kick to Lalaish, jolting him awake. The sorcerer looked around with sleepy eyes. When his gaze settled on Temperance, he pulled his lips back into a sneer.