The Way of the Sword and Gun

by Stuart Jaffe

  Though clothed, his coat, shoes, sword, and gun had been removed and laid on the top of the dresser. He heard muffled voices coming up through the floorboards. Wherever he was, he was on the second floor.

  With shaky legs, he rose from the bed and put on his shoes. His mouth tasted of stale vomit, but he couldn't produce enough spit to change that. His body wavered, and he grabbed the dresser to steady himself.

  Pathetic. He had been too slow, too weak, to protect Chief Master. He had been worthless fighting against Brother X. He had to play dead like a coward. Walking miles alone until he reached a town only pounded in how worthless he was — the horses didn't even wait for him. And he got pissed-drunk.

  Owl put on his weapon belt, sheathed his sword, and picked up his gun. He stared at it a moment. From his pocket, he pulled out a red-painted bullet — the Honor Bullet.

  Everyone trained in the Way of the Sword and Gun carried an Honor Bullet. It was a totem, a reminder, and a threat. It was a symbol of one's accomplishments in training and of one's honor. And should one shame the name of the Way, it was to be used on oneself.

  Owl loaded the gun with the Honor Bullet. He inhaled sharply and placed the gun at his temple. He closed his eyes.

  "Chief Master," he whispered, "forgive me for failing you."

  Owl's finger put pressure on the trigger, but before he could set the gun off, someone knocked on the door.

  "You awake in there?" a soft voice asked. "Breakfast'll be ready in just a few minutes. Why don't you clean up and join us?"

  The savory aroma of cooking meat hit his senses — churning his stomach and sparking a memory from the night before. Somebody had helped him while he had wandered the streets. He was in somebody's home. He would only further his shame by committing an honor suicide here. And though his stomach rebelled, it was enough to lower Owl's hand.

  Besides, if he had learned anything growing up, it was never to walk away from a good meal. He wanted to find out who had done this cooking and what she wanted.

  He could kill himself later.

  Holstering his weapon, Owl opened the door, and headed downstairs. His balance had not fully returned, and he found negotiating the narrow stairs to be a challenge. But when he entered the kitchen, he knew he had done the right thing — this was no place for suicide.

  Watching the kitchen activity was like watching a song performed by expert musicians. A young lady moved from a wood stove to a chopping board and back, dashing ingredients and stirring a pot, cutting a vegetable and tasting a sauce — all with a dancer's grace. A wooden table took up the center of the room, and seated there, Owl saw an old couple. They also watched the young lady with expressions of admiration.

  When the old lady looked back and saw Owl, her face brightened. She brushed her forefinger across her forehead — a quick prayer — and said, "Praise Kryssta, you're okay."

  All eyes turned to Owl. The faces smiled. The old man, far more wrinkled than his wife, took her by the hand. With his free hand, he pushed back a chair. "Please, join us."

  Owl gratefully sat. His legs had already grown wobbly. The young lady plated breakfast and served the food — a mound of seasoned blue-roller eggs with a light vegetable sauce on top.

  "For my hero," she said. "Don't worry if you can't eat. You were quite unwell last night."

  "Your hero?" Owl asked. His stomach surprised him by suddenly craving the food. He dug in, the flavors delightful on his tongue — even if he needed a bit of water to get it down.

  "You don't remember? You saved me from those disgusting scum. Scared them off with your gun? I'm Galba. Remember?"

  Owl rubbed his head, his finger lingering on the small indent left from his gun. "Thank you for the food."

  "It's the least I can do."

  To the older couple, Owl said, "You've raised a fine daughter."

  They laughed. The old man said, "Galba's not ours. We rent a room upstairs."

  "We do have a child, though," the woman said with eagerness in her eyes. And sadness. Both glistened there in a way the worried Owl. "He's a man now, but he's always a child to me."

  The old man patted her hand. "Forgive us for imposing, but we couldn't help noticing your weapons. You are one of the Guardians of the Order of Kryssta, yes? The sword and gun?"

  Keeping his eyes on his food, Owl forced down a bite of egg and nodded. The old couple both let out a relieved sigh.

  "You see," Galba said to them. "I told you he's for real. He'll help. He's a true hero."

  Owl cringed inside.

  "I've always heard about you men," the old man said. "Lots of stories, but I figured there had to be some truth. I just never had the chance to travel the distance to find you."

  "Don't fawn, dear," his wife said.

  "Oh, sorry. She's right. I get carried away. But you're really here. Kryssta has helped us greatly today. So, let me get it out then. This is all about our son. He ran off to the Southern countries about a year ago," the man said. "I suppose he was looking for an adventure or was acting like a wild youth. I'm guessing a woman was involved."

  The man's wife hit his bicep, glanced at Galba, and dabbed at the tears on her cheeks. "We hear such terrible things about Corlin. That country is crazy. No police, no law, total anarchy. He could be killed and nobody would care."

  "Please, help us."

  Owl frowned. "What can I do?"

  "Only a strong man, a man trained in the Way, could survive down there. Please, go find our boy. Bring him back."

  Owl placed the forkful of eggs back on his plate and pushed away from the table. "I'm sorry," he said. "There's a lot that's happened and I don't think I'm the man you want."

  Panic filled the old woman's face. "You must. Please. I beg you. Our dear son. Our Fawbry. He's not a warrior. He's not brave like you. Those animals down there will destroy him. We heard that he might've even gone into the Freelands."

  "If he can go there, then he's stronger than you think."

  "It's that wretched whore he's with," the old woman said.

  The old man glanced at Galba, then spoke in a lower tone to Owl as if Galba couldn't hear in such a small room. "A merchant came up from Corlin a few months back and described this group of vigilantes led by some woman called Malja. A man in that group sounded a lot like our Fawbry."

  Owl's attention snapped into focus. "Did you say Malja?"

  "Supposedly she and Fawbry and some kid have been causing a lot of trouble down there."

  The old woman rubbed her red eyes but couldn't stop the tears from falling. "He's a good boy. He wouldn't be doing any of that on his own. She's manipulated him."

  "You're sure the name was Malja?"

  The couple nodded. They wanted to say more but Owl's sudden intensity stopped them. He could see it on their faces — hope.

  Owl had heard about Malja, the great warrior woman of the South. The Order always figured that any serious threat to Penmarvia would come from the South, and she was the name that continually found its way up to them. Part of his training had been in dealing with attacks from primitive warriors like her. The Masters always said that was the real threat. They never had expected to be hurt by their own Queen.

  Now they were all gone. All the Masters, all the Guardians, the entire Order. Only he and Brother X remained.

  And yet, like a sign from the brother god Kryssta, the name of Malja returns. If he could get her to help him, he could bring to Queen Salia the very attack the Northern countries feared. He could clean off his shame and put away his Honor Bullet. And if he died in this attempt, it would be with honor of its own.

  "Yes," he said to the stunned couple. "I'll find your boy."

  Malja

  Whoever had attacked Tommy made no effort to hide their tracks. Throughout the night Malja and Fawbry followed the hoof prints in the dirt road, and the trail never once left. When dawn arrived, they were able to ride faster.

  "What kind of idiots take a boy and just follow the road?" Fawbry asked.


  "They want to be found or they don't fear being found. Either way is not good."

  Throughout the night, Malja's focus had been on following the trail. She blotted all else out for fear of losing Tommy in the dark. With the sun up, seeing the trail with ease, her brain had the chance to wander, and though she wished otherwise, she kept seeing that portal, that woman, that world.

  Her Uncle Gregor — the man who found her in the wild and raised her as his own — taught her that she had to pay the dead their honor. He said that whenever she killed a man or a beast, she had to spend a little time thinking on this life she took. If not, the dead would haunt her. But the portal haunted her more.

  This wasn't a life she took, and no matter how much she thought on it, it wouldn't leave her. It only got worse. This was another world she had denied herself — sacrificed. That she had done so to save Tommy and to hurt the evil magicians Jarik and Callib, only heightened her sense of loss. After all, what choice did she really have?

  Except she had been truly tempted.

  If she had just stepped through, she would have been free from all this. She would be in a civilized world instead of traipsing through the morning, hoping not to see any more blood. She might even be happy. And, without a doubt, she wouldn't have to kill people or worry about paying them their honor.

  "Over here," Fawbry said, pointing to an opening in the trees.

  Malja had been so wrapped in her thoughts, she missed when the trail broke off. Fawbry didn't comment but she could tell he knew what she had been thinking about — when she was supposed to be looking for Tommy no less. Scowling, she turned her horse around and followed Fawbry into the forest. Within minutes, they heard voices.

  "Dismount," she whispered.

  They tied the horses to a tree and headed toward the sounds. Malja pulled Viper from its custom sheath. Fawbry crouched as they moved in, pulling out a skinning knife. When they heard an angry shout, they ducked behind some pines and spied on a small campfire surrounded by two horses, two men, and Tommy.

  "You ain't listening," the one man said. He had a thick beard that obscured his mouth and huge feet that stomped with each word. His unwashed odor permeated the camp and its surroundings. "This kid's no farmer."

  The other man, bony and unkempt, said, "Then why was he partying with a bunch of farmers? That make any sense? Of course not. Now calm down, have a drink, and let's stay with what we said."

  The bearded man squatted and passed gas loudly. "He's gonna be worth a lot, right?"

  "Those people love their kids. You'll see. They'll pay to get him back."

  "What if they don't? What if they don't like him and that's the reason he was out all alone last night? What if—"

  "Then we'll sell him. Always somebody looking for slaves. Relax. It'll be fine."

  The bearded man rubbed his backside and glanced at Tommy behind them. "I hope we can sell him. That bastard hurt me."

  Malja could see they had tied Tommy's hands behind his back and blindfolded him. Being shot by a bolt of conjured electricity does tend to make one cautious.

  Fawbry pursed his lips as he thought. "The way I see things, we've got two good options," he whispered. Malja kept a serious face. Fawbry was smart and worth listening to, even if he tended toward the less confrontational methods. "First, you can stay here, keep watch, while I hurry back to the town and get some people to come pay a ransom. Or we could wait until their asleep and—"

  "I've got a better idea," she said and stepped away from the tree. Sometimes confrontational was the most efficient choice.

  As she walked by Fawbry, he brushed his forefinger across his brow, glanced up to the brother god Kryssta, and said, "Please don't let her get me killed." He followed her, keeping several steps behind. That was another thing she liked about him — even though he whined about it and wanted his share of recognition, he stayed with her.

  Since Malja made no attempt to be quiet, the two kidnappers jumped to their feet at her approach.

  The bony man held a long piece of metal with the business end cut into jagged teeth. The bearded one picked up a large wooden club. They took a few steps toward her, leering as if they had not seen a woman in years.

  "Well, well," the bony man said. "What a fine present to send us. I think I'll enjoy—"

  "You have stolen that boy and that is against the law," Malja said.

  The bearded man scratched his belly. "What law?"

  "Law one — Do nothing to another that you would not want done to you. I think you boys wouldn't want people stealing you, tying you up, and threatening to sell you."

  Raising the metal weapon above his head, the bony one said, "I don't know no laws, but I know a sweet ass when I see one. You got a name? I like to call out a woman's name when I take her."

  Malja raised an eyebrow. "My name's Malja. I am the law."

  Both men froze. The bony one looked from Malja to Fawbry to Tommy, matching up the members of the crew and their descriptions with the stories he no doubt had heard. Then he took a hard appraisal of Viper. His head tilted back in recognition and he dropped his weapon.

  "What you doin'?" the bearded man said.

  "Shut up. This is her. The real Malja."

  The bearded man leaned forward and squinted. As his brain finally caught up with the situation, his mean countenance melted away. "Oh, lady, we're sorry. This your boy? We thought he was a dumb farmer. You can have him back. We didn't mean nothing."

  Malja kept watch on the man with the club. "Fawbry," she said, and Fawbry scurried by everyone to attend to Tommy. Malja side-stepped a few times to reposition the men away from Tommy. Just in case. "You two don't need to live like this anymore. I'm bringing laws to Corlin so that we can all be free to live like we want to without troubling each other."

  The bony one shrugged. "What if I want to rape women and steal kids? Am I free to do that?"

  Malja opened her mouth, ready to deliver all three laws, when a man with a sword and a gun dropped from the trees. He shouted loud as he sliced straight through the bony one. The bearded man stared dumbfounded at the bloody mess that had been his friend.

  Startled, Malja snapped Viper out in front. The man moved with grace and purpose like a well-trained dancer. In a swift, spinning motion, he cut open the bearded man's belly.

  And it was over.

  He sheathed his sword, holstered his gun, turned to Malja and bowed. "My name is Owl," he said. "I've traveled very far just to meet you."

  Owl

  Malja swung Viper overhead and came down in a clean ax cut. Owl dodged to the side, his face a soup of confusion.

  "No, no, I'm on your side," he said.

  Again, Malja attacked, but Owl had grown up evading great swordsmen — Brother X, for one. A grin rolled across his lips. He was being attacked by the great Malja and her famous weapon, Viper. But the fun of it passed just as quickly as the thought. She had massive power — he could feel Viper slice the air as it passed him by — and he wouldn't last too long just dodging.

  "You don't understand," he said.

  "Those men were no threat," Malja said, her body bristling with rage. Owl stepped back, amazed at the sheer power behind her eyes. She went on, "You murdered them, and I don't need a murderer on my side. Get out of here before I get really angry."

  "I'm from Penmarvia. Queen Salia is after you. You're in danger."

  "I fear no queen. I'll send her your head as a warning."

  Malja launched at Owl with a ferocious yell. In a blur, Viper streamed out from her side, heading right for Owl's neck. He stood his ground, watching every movement, keeping his breathing calm, letting his years of training gauge the timing.

  At the final moment, he snapped his sword out and up, clanging with the inner-crescent of Viper and stopping Malja from cutting off his head. She pressed hard and he pushed back. He had to use both hands on the sword — one at the hilt, one pressing against the back of the blade — to keep Viper from completing the cut. Metal against metal screech
ed. He locked eyes with her.

  Grunting out the words, he said, "I came here for your help."

  "I don't care." She barely had trouble speaking, and Owl wondered just how much strength she hadn't used yet.

  He saw her shoulder move just an inch, but it was enough to signal her release. A second later she broke off, attempting to knock him off balance by using his own force against him. But he had been ready — instead of stumbling forward, Owl broke off as well, moving in time with Malja as if dancing.

  "I thought you were a great warrior," he said, keeping his eyes on his opponent. "Aren't you trying to take over Corlin?"

  Malja scoffed. "I'm letting people be free enough to make their own choices. Nobody gets to rule over anybody."

  She lunged forward, but Owl anticipated the attack. He moved to the side and slapped Malja's shoulder with the flat of his blade. Since he couldn't match her strength, he'd have to settle for grace. He prayed Kryssta would let him outlast her and not slip up.

  "Queen Salia has taken over most of Penmarvia," he said. "She wants Corlin, too."

  "Tell her she can't have it."

  Twisting her body, Malja used Viper's outer-crescent as she pivoted around, sweeping low for the knees. Owl jumped over the attack, and tapped Malja's head with the flat of his blade. He said, "I don't work for her. And she tried to kill me." He could see the fury lighting her eyes. "I want you to help me free Penmarvia just as you are doing here."

  "Not interested," she said, stepping off and slicing at the waist. Owl moved aside, but Malja changed motions in the middle of her swing. She jabbed Viper forward, an astonishing shift in momentum, and cut through Owl's shirt, taking off a small bit of his skin.

  Owl had hoped to show her he was no threat, but Malja's face displayed such animalistic fervor, he had to admit he was wrong. This had been a bad idea. Too late now, though.

  Without hesitation, Owl launched into a flurry of attacks. Left side, right side, straight ahead — stepping forward with each strike. Malja parried the attacks with ease, but he was not interested in making contact. The sword was being used to open a path for him to get close.