by Travis Smith
Brandon was tossed to the muddy earth. By the time he was able to stand and look up, he was trapped within a tight circle of countless jeering guards. The ones in front raised their weapons at the boys; the shouting that was all directed toward the center of the circle was deafening. Jake stood before him, looking shell shocked but not altogether different from his normal state. His beard had finally begun coming in full now, and he towered above Brandon in the beaming sun that had broken through the seemingly unending monsoon clouds.
“I won’t fight you,” Brandon repeated, but his voice was drowned among the shouts surrounding them.
Before he could stand upright, Jake had brought a heavy boot across his middle. The blow struck Brandon square in the chest and drove him backward off his hands and knees. He stumbled back against the wall of guards around him, gasping for air as the breath had been knocked from his lungs.
“Get up, boy! I got fifty paga ridin’ on ye!” someone shouted in his ear. A pair of harsh hands grabbed Brandon’s shoulders and ripped him upright onto unsteady feet.
The world swayed in and out of existence as he struggled to take a full breath into his quivering lungs. A heavy fist came down upon his cheek, sending a white-hot burst of pain through his swimmy head and driving him back down into the mud.
“Stand up and fight!” Jake knelt and bellowed in his face. He brought his fists together and swung them both downward atop Brandon’s unprotected shoulders.
“Get off me, ya big bastard!” Brandon shrieked. “Ya wanna kill me?”
Their shouts at one another brought the guards’ hollering to a crescendo, but just as the volume peaked, a booming explosion rocked the world around them. The very earth seemed to sink downward as one hundred men dropped to their knees. The gleeful shouting came to a halt as all turned toward the source of the explosion.
3
Bernard hardly noticed the deafening explosion across the prison from him. He stared in disbelief into the empty cell with the double-circle symbols scrawled all in the mud, as if his mysterious confidant back in Krake were taunting him, even from this far away. Had he himself vanished Bernard’s own brother into a black puff of nothingness?
Before he could stew for more than a moment, uproar erupted in the prison courtyard. Ceaseless gunfire followed the explosion, and the ill-equipped guards began to scatter from the prison center, many leaving their powerful weapons behind.
The Baron’s entourage began firing into the scattering crowds of Fanxel guards, dropping many of them in their tracks.
“Who the fuck is shooting whom?” The Baron bellowed into the cacophony. One of his men stepped in front of him and shoved him backward out of harm’s way. A few—but not many—of his crew took bullets themselves and were blown backward into the mud, blood spraying from the large holes in their chests and backs.
“This way!” a voice called into The Baron’s ear. He felt a coarse hand tug at his arm, and he did not question it. He followed with his head tucked in his own arms and his eyes closed as he was led around the side of the cells and away from the chaos. They hooked around a nearby lean-to, and he was ushered into a dilapidated old dwelling within Fanxel’s barracks.
“You!” he growled once a calm settled in and he looked up as the cabin door was pushed closed behind him. It was the familiar simpering sewer rat who called himself Skuttler. Bernard lunged forward as the helpless man dropped to his knees before him, arms raised in a gesture of surrender. But Bernard shoved him against the wall and drew his small pistol from his waist, placing the barrel against the man’s head.
“Please,” Skuttler managed to choke. The Baron’s knee was planted into his neck, pinning his head against the wall. “He was here. The king was here.” He pointed outside toward the cell from which they had just fled.
“Never refer to him as such!” The Baron screamed into the man’s pock-ridden face.
“I’m sorry,” Skuttler rasped. “The Stranger. He was in that cell. I seen ’im.”
“Where is he?” The Baron demanded. He cocked the hammer on the gun as his men stormed around outside in search of him.
“I don’ know. All’s I know is ’e was there this morn’. I c’n find ’im.”
“I wouldn’t trust you to find your dick in a whorehouse,” The Baron growled. “I’m here!” he called to his men outside. The gunfire was spreading out all around the prison and barracks surrounding them in every direction.
One of his men kicked in the shoddy door and pointed a machine gun at Skuttler, who raised his hands in front of his face with futility.
The Baron raised a hand to stay the man’s trigger finger.
“How will you find him?” he demanded.
“Let up,” he begged. “Let up, I cain’t breathe!”
Bernard withdrew his knee by the slightest degree. Skuttler gasped thirstily at the air he was now afforded.
When he caught a bit of his breath, he spoke again. “I tracked ’im twice ’ere, sir, di’n’ I?”
“Why weren’t you reporting this to me directly? Why must I have heard it through rumor?”
“I tried, m’ sire!” Skuttler shrieked. “They don’ w—w—wan’ me ’avin’ any t—talks wiv Boss ’round ’ere. I t—t—tried. H—h—hones’, I tried.”
The Baron thought for a long while. The battles outside were only growing in intensity, and he had no intention of staying in this forsaken land another moment longer than he had to.
“You’ll bring him directly to me,” The Baron said at last. “Or kill him yourself.”
Skuttler nodded with zeal. “’T would be m—my genuine pleasure.”
“I want his head if you can’t take him alive.” The Baron thought for a moment before adding: “And his hands.”
“Jus’ g—get m—m—me a g—gun, an’ I’ll ’ave ’im dead ’fore sundown.”
The Baron looked at his crewman and motioned for the man to remove his weapon from his shoulder. The man was incredulous, but only for a moment, as he was stung by the ire within his boss’s eyes.
Skuttler reached forth, opening and closing his palms spasmodically like an infant begging for sweets.
The Baron did not move his pistol from Skuttler’s temple or even relax his arm once the deal was made. “Now get the fuck out of my sight.”
4
“Are ya ready for your chat with the boss?” Brandon had asked. He held his porridge bowl through the bars of his cell and received a ladleful from Skuttler, who normally never placed a dollop without the prisoners’ backs against the far wall.
“Wot’s yer plan?” Skuttler asked.
“First, let me tell you my bargain.”
Skuttler nodded and paused his rounds, looking around to ensure that no one else was eavesdropping.
“You give me one of those devices from the crates around the corner …”
Skuttler’s eyes narrowed, but Brandon held his palms up to stay the man’s rebuttal.
“Hear me out. I scheme best when I tinker. Lemme quietly figure out what it’s for, and maybe it’ll be of some use to Boss that he don’t know. Just think how obliged he’ll feel.” Skuttler pondered this with clear interest. “With somethin’ in my hands to get my wheels turnin’, ye’ll hear a plan by sundown tomorrow. That, I can guarantee ya!” Brandon smiled his endearing white smile.
“Tomorrow?” Skuttler asked, wary.
“You will speak with the boss tomorrow,” he assured him.
“Why’s it s’ damn import’n’ ye get wots in them crates?” Skuttler asked again.
Brandon shrugged and flashed another innocent smile. “What am I getting out of this deal? All I ask is something t’ break up the boring spells I spend in this cell. Other ’n that, just knowin’ an honorable man like yourself is in charge will help me sleep soundly each night.”
Skuttler rolled his eyes at the forced flattery, but he accepted it nonetheless. He shuffled over to the barracks and retrieved one of the devices.
“Thanks!” Brandon s
aid with genuine gratitude as Skuttler passed the device through the cell bars.
“Dunno wot a couple o’ brats like ye’ll make o’ such wonders,” Skuttler growled. “Musta come from some other world, ’s far ’s I’m concerned.”
“Perhaps nothing,” Brandon lied, rolling the heavy brick in his hands, “but it’s better ’n sticks ’n’ mud, aye?”
“Sundown tomorrow,” Skuttler warned. He pointed a dirty finger in Brandon’s face. “Or I’m draggin’ ye outta here meself ’n’ havin’ my way wiv ya.”
Brandon nodded. As the lackey walked away, he continued to twirl the familiar block, identical to those he’d found long before rescuing Patrick. He marveled anew at the strange text printed upon the device. EXPLOSIVE, it read.
5
Brandon did not have to crawl far on his hands and knees before he reached a heavy machine gun that had been dropped by a frantic guard in the confusion. He rolled over onto his back and swung the gun around before him. As his finger depressed the trigger, an unbelievable spray of explosions burst forth from the tip of the machine. His familiar left hand slid halfway down the barrel to steady the weapon with each recoil. The dense horde of guards in the path of the bullets collapsed one-by-one in a satisfying spray of blood and gore that rained down atop Brandon.
When the clip ran empty and the gun stopped firing, Brandon dropped it as his friend grabbed beneath both his armpits and hoisted him upright.
“I told ya not to hit so fuckin’ hard, ya dopey bear. Ya coulda killed me!” he screamed at Jake over the uproar.
“I rubbed that damned rock against the bars ’til my fingers bled ’fore I got a spark t’ light the slow fire ’round yer bomb. Guess we’re even,” Jake retorted.
“I thought it wasn’t gonna go off,” Brandon laughed.
“Just in time.”
“Yeah, I’ll fuckin’ say!” He wiped away a thick tendril of blood that was flowing from his broken nose.
Brandon seized a nearby weapon that hadn’t been fired empty as Jake hurled his heavy frame atop two nearby lackeys who were scrambling to climb away over the fallen bodies. He rendered them unconscious with a single blow from each arm, and Brandon realized the large boy may have been holding back when he hit him after all.
“Come on, open that cell!” Brandon tossed Jake a set of keys and backed up against his friend to provide cover fire in all directions.
“Get out! Grab a gun an’ keys, an’ open yer neighbors’ cell!” Jake hollered at the stunned prisoners he was freeing.
Many of the guards had caught wind of what was befalling by the time Jake had opened only one cell, and an organized onslaught was forming at the edges of the barracks nearby.
“Wot’s this!” a familiar animal voice growled nearby.
Brandon turned his weapon toward Skuttler to see a face so dark with vengeance that it was nearly unrecognizable. “Thanks for the bomb, dickpit!” he cried.
“Little worms reneged on me!” he yelped.
Brandon pulled the trigger, sending a flourish of bullets toward him, but Skuttler retreated into nearby darkness as countless more formidable foes were closing in.
6
Corina Delgor ushered her three children—one boy and two young girls—out into the afternoon sun to play.
“Don’t let me see ya again ’fore sundown,” she warned gently. “I’ll have supper ready then!”
Her youngest daughter had done quite well on her new diet. After the nearby healer spent the better part of three days with the girl while Rictere was away, she had come home like a new girl. The improvements would not last, of course, with their bland and homogenous diet that was wreaking havoc on the girl’s insides. But Rictere had returned from Lexen with a bounty. He’d carried fresh fruits and meats that Corina had never even tasted herself. On his lengthy journey, he had become involved with a group of visionaries who sought to assist an usurper overseas and create new world order. He’d appeared concerned shortly after his return, but the new diet was helping their children beyond wonder. Things quickly returned to normal.
Now, Rictere was in a side room with a small group of strange men who had arrived around midday. They carried unfamiliar weapons and vials with mysterious substances in burlap bags.
Corina entered the discussion after sending her children out to play.
“Sorry, lass, jus’ boys talkin’ business in ’ere,” one of the men crowed at her with a wide, slobbery grin.
“And I tend to half of the affairs in this home, thank you,” Corina replied with a tone that wiped the grin off the man’s dirty face.
Rictere nodded as she entered.
Another of the rag-tag men picked up his conversation in a thick western accent where he’d left off before the interruption. “When the king’s fallen, ay’s a man who looks t’ make life more fair for the likes o’ us.” He motioned at the men standing around the table.
“And for us,” Corina corrected, indicating that she and her husband suffered a different set of woes than the criminal networks in Fordar.
“Aye,” the man agreed, clearly not understanding. “O’ course not e’rybody gon’ be so eager t’ give up their riches an’ bend to the will o’ some new king …”
Rictere picked up from there. “We were just discussing the options for reducing public backlash once word makes its way to these lands.”
One of the scraggly men held up a large mechanical weapon and waved it in Corina’s face. “These beauts’ll be a right nice firs’ step!” he cawed.
After the palaver had concluded and the unsavory men left, Corina sat beside her husband and placed a hand on his thigh.
“I don’t much care for the likes of those men,” she told him.
Rictere shrugged. “Well, they are the ones picked by the leaders across the desert. Ultimately it is they who will implement a new way of life for the people of Fordar and beyond.”
“And you trust that it will be a better way of life?”
“You said it yourself,” he reminded her. “We are forgotten here. They vow to treat all lands fairly and to represent us as a people with unique needs.”
Corina pondered this for a moment before nodding in acceptance. “And we are provided with the imports we need to feed our children?”
Rictere paused.
“What?” she asked sharply. Sudden images of her limp, dying daughter shivering in her arms flashed through her mind.
“I have agreed to help them in exchange for their continued assistance.”
“Help with what?”
He tilted his head to motion toward the door where the meeting had been held.
7
Brandon crouched in the prison courtyard behind a crate. He fired his weapon into the droves of organizing guards who were coming from every direction. Bodies collapsed to the ground one after the next as he closed one eye and squeezed off singular, deadly accurate shots from the automatic weapon. He dropped six guards in moments and twirled with a mastery he had honed since leaving his home. Facing the other end of the prison, he fired into the approaching onslaught from that direction.
“Hurry it up!” he called to Jake, who was unlocking more cells behind. “Gonna need to move up soon! They’re closing in fast!”
Jake ignored his friend and hollered to the less feeble of the inmates coming out of the cells. “Pick up a gun, an’ fire it at anybody shootin’ at you!”
Brandon smiled as a shaky man seized a gun larger than his arms and squatted by the crate next to him. The man squeezed the trigger and shrieked as a rapid blast of explosions erupted from the gun’s barrel. “Nice and easy,” Brandon coached. “If you squeeze slo—”
His speech halted, and he winced as the man’s head exploded in a spray of blood and brain matter all over his face.
“Fuck!” he screamed over the growing chaos. “We gotta go! Jake! Across the courtyard, now!”
“Get a gun!” Jake yelled at the freed prisoners. “Get their keys ’n’ open ’s many cells a
s ye can!” He returned to Brandon’s side and aimed his weapon in the opposing direction, firing off shots that were only slightly less accurate than Brandon’s own.
The duo rushed across the prison’s courtyard as two groups of guards closed in from both sides. They approached the cell on the opposite end of the prison from their own. There was a striking scarcity of guards in that position. As they passed the locked cell, Brandon noticed that it, too, was vacant. And he noticed something else inside …
The two tucked behind the clay wall at the end of the row of cells. Jake began firing at the group of guards coming from the opposite row of cells, and Brandon peeked around the wall and took aim at the larger group coalescing in the center of the prison’s courtyard. The prisoners were scattering, some seizing weapons and firing wildly into the guards, some rushing at the armed guards with nothing but their fury, and others fleeing for their lives into the barracks. As Brandon watched, a few looted the fallen bodies and tore away keys and weapons. Brandon used the cell’s wall as cover as he fired slow and deliberate shots at any guard he could see closing in on or taking aim at another prisoner.
“Give me those keys, Jake!” he called, stealing another glance around the clay wall and into the empty cell. There was a hole in the ground.
“What?” Jake screamed over the deafening gunfire all around.
“The keys!” Brandon screamed back, swatting at his friend’s hip pockets, where they were stowed. “If we can get in here and lock the cell, there’s an escape tunnel inside!”
Jake’s face lit up, and he handed the keys to Brandon, never taking his eyes off the onslaught of guards. Their inaccurate and unmeasured bullets whizzed through the air nearby.
Brandon put the key in the door and turned it. No sooner had he opened the door than he heard Jake yelp behind him. The boy’s gunfire ceased, and Brandon turned to find him thrust to the ground. A smaller, handheld pistol was forced painfully under his chin, and a gruff hand grabbed the back of his neck. His eyes traced the tall figure upward and met the familiar murderous gaze of Olivia’s father, Resin.