by Sean Platt
“Are you okay?” said the gunslinger.
“Yar,” Edward said, nodding. “But…” His right front leg faltered, almost causing him to lose his balance.
“Can you fight?”
“I’ll be able to soon. It was a shallow fold. I’ll recover fast.”
Clint hopped down from Edward’s back, not wanting to burden the unicorn while he was already so weak — or risk being crushed if Edward’s balance gave out and he fell.
Edward’s head was moving side to side, taking in the town. “I don’t see anything,” he said. “Maybe you were wrong.”
“I wasn’t.”
As if on cue, a shot rang out from behind the bank. Clint watched a tiny bloom of white smoke — a commoner’s plume — and felt the slice of lead burn into his side. Whoever it was fired a second time, but this time a beautiful yellow flower of energy formed inches from Clint’s middle. Then the bullet struck something invisible and fell to the dirt.
“I never realized it before,” said Clint, clutching his hand to his side as blood gushed between his fingers, “but Teddy was right. Your magic is fruity.”
“I see,” said Edward, already starting to sound like his old self. “Would you prefer I let you die in a manly way, rather than use my fruity unicorn powers to pull that slug from your body?”
Clint winced. Two more shots struck their protective shield, and another pair of flowers (both a dusty lavender) bloomed. Two more bullets dropped into the dirt of the high street.
“Go ahead and pull it out,” he said. “But if you could do it with the sounds of a mighty steam engine, I’d prefer it.”
Edward’s horn glowed brighter, and Clint’s side became more liquid than flesh. His wound, including the clothes over it, shimmered and dipped as if a rock had been dropped into a tub of water. Then the ripples rose back to the surface, bringing the bullet on top of them. There was a small high-pitched noise, like that of a squeak toy, as his flesh congealed back into place. A blood-covered bullet fell to the dirt.
“Thankoo,” Clint said.
“We should get off the street,” said Edward, looking around. “Though I’ll admit, this is fun.”
“Nar,” Clint said. “Stay here.”
Another four shots struck the shield. Four slugs fell to the dirt.
Clint could see the shooters. There were four of them. After he was struck by the first bullet, the idiots had come out of hiding. The gunslinger recognized all of them from the stew hole. As he’d predicted, they had ridden around him, avoiding the High Rock entirely. But the fact that these were the same men told Clint that there probably weren’t any more members joining the party, which was good. Five hoods, one leader, and one dark magician would be plenty to take over the town if the marshal stayed away. But here he was, back a half-hour early.
Sorry to put sand in your plan, boys.
Clint wasn’t schooled in much more than marshaling, but could track shots better than the best sharks counted aces and kings. Two of the men had fired only a pair of shots, one had fired three, and one had fired only a single. All had extras, of course, but they’d need time to refill their revolvers once they were empty.
Clint, clutching his side and feigning injury, pointed at the man with three shots left. The gunmen kept their distance, but the farthest was only twenty yards off. They figured they had him.
“You!” Clint yelled to the man with three shots. “Are you not a man? You haven’t even hit me!”
The man fired.
“Ow!” Clint screamed.
The man fired again, and the other three fired once. Now, if he was smart, the man on empty would retreat and reload. But he was as dumb as the bandit he was, and wouldn’t know his status until he dry-fired the next time he pulled the trigger. So the gunslinger lay in the dirt, grabbing himself and screaming in pain, while the outlaw began to count his sixth of the town’s take.
“Act more anguished,” Edward suggested.
Clint clutched his stomach tighter, while screaming louder.
Outside the shield, the empty man tried to fire. His weapon went click, and his face turned red. He started shuffling backward.
“The clock is ticking,” Edward said.
Clint hopped to his feet and lurched forward.
“Now,” he said.
Edward dropped the shield.
Clint’s hands were on his guns, already unholstered and aimed. He fired a shot from each of his seven-shooters, so perfectly in sync they thundered through Solace with a single report. A cloud of dull red smoke belched from each muzzle.
His outstretched arms swiveled, and he fired again. Another twin puffs of smoke billowed from the barrels.
Four men lay dead. Stone and the remaining man would now only have to spilt the town’s spoils in half.
Clint holstered his guns and sighed, shoulders slowly rising and falling.
“Three left,” he said.
They cut away from the high street, knowing the sound of the battle would draw the others, if it hadn’t already. Edward asked Clint if he wanted him to raise the shield, but Clint shook his head. Kold’s bullets would sail through it anyhow, and he’d be surprised if Stone were willing to violate taboo and try to fire one of Kolt’s seven shooters. If he did, and if he was lucky, he might be able to get off a good shot before the firearm blew his hand into teethpaste.
Besides, Clint needed his unicorn sharp. Shields weren’t hard, but they did require tremendous energy to make and focus to hold. It had been a while since Edward had eaten.
They slipped behind the bank. Clint unholstered his guns, refilling his four empty chambers.
“You figured out their master plan?” Edward asked. “Any idea what Kold is after? Money?”
“Nar, not money. The bandits at the stew pool said Kold didn’t want a share, and I reckon that isn’t wrong. The dark marshal’s after something else.”
“He went to all this trouble to get you out of the way. If he knew you’d return shortly after…”
“… then whatever he wants is something he can grab and easily flee with,” Clint finished. “Before I return. Otherwise there’s no point. He might as well have ridden into town and faced us.”
“Maybe he wanted an early jump.”
“Stone, maybe,” Clint said. “Stone’s eyes are likely on the town. He and his men will rob the bank and businesses, then turn this place into their own private sweatshop. But I’d wager Kold wants something specific, and doesn’t plan to confront me.”
“Why not?”
Clint raised his eyebrow at Edward.
No one knew better than Edward that magic battles were messy. They were always risky and never certain. It wouldn’t matter what power Kold commanded. If he wanted to take a specific thing from the town, it was smarter to use subterfuge than to engage in a magical duel.
“Okay, fine,” Edward said. “So what does he want? And where is Stone and the other man?”
“You tell me.”
“I’ve been trying, but I can’t see them. It’s Cerberus. He must be with them.”
Clint nodded. It made sense. Unicorns were supposed to be full of magic. When they allowed a human to siphon it off, they became like black holes. The effect made it impossible for other magic users to see them, or to see others nearby.
Edward’s head twitched. “I can see the fifth bandit now. He doesn’t seem to be with Stone and Kold.”
“Where is he?”
“In the saloon.”
Clint took his back from the barrel and peeked around its side. The saloon was across the high street, past the four fallen bandits.
“Why didn’t he come out with the others?”
“There are people inside the saloon with him. Townspeople. Best guess is he watched what you did to his buddies and is now holed up in there with hostages, planning to bargain his way out of town without getting shot.”
“Where?”
“North wall. Beside the piano.”
“That’s the wa
ll over there, right?” Clint gestured to where he thought the unicorn meant.
“Correct.”
Clint held one of his guns toward the building with both hands, aiming to the left of the windows. His hands became rock steady, the barrel of the heavy revolver not jittering even a nanometer.
“Here?”
“Six feet left.”
“No way. That’s into the outer wall.”
“Which one of us has a magic horn?”
Clint inched his gun to the left, his arm moving as smoothly as a heavy iron door on a frictionless hinge. He was now sighting very near the building’s corner.
“There?”
“Okay, five-feet-nine. Back up three inches.”
“Told you,” said Clint, his arms swinging slightly back. Griff used eight-inch posts in the walls, not doubled two-bys. He looked over at Edward, gloating.
Edward rolled his eyes, a strange mannerism for an equine. Then he said, “Two inches up.”
“There?”
“Yar.”
“Good?”
“Wait. He turned. Go right another two inches.”
“There?”
“Yar.”
“Sure? Locked in?”
“Yar.”
Clint squeezed the trigger. The gun’s report was thunder, but Clint’s arms didn’t even shake. It was as if the bullet had been fired from a rifle on a tripod rather than a handgun with a kick that could kill. A cloud of dull red gunsmoke plumed through the air.
Clint holstered his gun and crossed the street to the saloon, poking his head through the double doors and shouting to the barman.
“Is he dead?”
The barman stared.
“Is he dead?” Clint repeated.
“Something came through the wall,” said the barman, his mouth hanging open. “His chest exploded.”
“So he’s dead.”
The barman nodded, but because nobody in the saloon was moving and they were all staring at the gunslinger, Clint decided he should check for himself. He found the fifth bandit in the corner, crumpled over the piano bench.
That made five.
On his way out of the saloon, Clint tipped his hat at the barman. The barman still stared.
Clint understood the barkeep’s confusion. Clint had never had occasion to shoot through a wall in Solace, so no one in town had ever seen that particular advantage of a marshal’s guns — how the magic powder kept a slug spinning true until it met an obstacle it couldn’t penetrate, no matter what it had to pass through along the way.
Edward was waiting outside. Clint reached the door before realizing the obvious. He returned to the bar, asked the barman for a slice of turkey pie and an apple brew, then took the food outside and delivered it to the unicorn. After Edward ate the food and drank the brew (Clint had gotten him a clutch of four straws), he looked much better.
“Thanks,” Edward said.
“See the others yet?”
“No. Still nothing. They may have fled, after what you did to their posse. I can’t see them at all.” Then he stopped, his ears twitching. His horn pulsed a dull yellow, idling like an engine. Clint was reminded of The Realm’s thinking machines, and how they pulsed when searching for information.
“What?”
“I see nothing.”
Clint shrugged. “Maybe Kold found what he wanted and skipped out. We’ll have to go building to building, or…”
“No,” Edward interrupted. “I meant, I see nothing. It’s like a hole where there should be something. A large and suspicious absence where people should be.”
A hole?
Clint realized what Edward was saying. Solace was a bustling town for as small as it was, and most of the buildings were occupied at any hour. Even buildings with businesses usually held people inside, since most had apartments stacked onto their second floor.
When Edward said he saw “a suspicious absence,” he was referring to the black hole created by Cerberus, the unicorn of a different color. He couldn’t see Cerberus or anyone near him. That void where there should be people was why Edward could see Cerberus.
“Where?” said Clint.
“The Otel.”
CHAPTER TEN:
TROUBLE AT THE OTEL
Dharma Kold and Hassle Stone are at the Otel.
The thought sent a chill up the gunslinger’s spine.
Mai was surely gone by now. She had to be. She said she’d be leaving hours ago, lathered in a fury over Clint’s stubbornness. She was giving up, since he’d given up on their hitching. Faced with an ultimatum, he’d chosen duty, like any marshal worth his bullets was prone to do.
Mai should be safely out of town, and on her way to a new life in Sojourn, and Teddy might even be with her.
Unless she was bluffing.
Clint could see her in his mind’s eye as he ran toward the Otel, on foot with Edward a few steps behind, lost in a memory from what felt like a long time ago: her smooth, clear skin, somehow saved from the ravages of the Sands’ harsh weather. Her brown hair — not tied in a pink headpiece for hitching, but piled up under a common rag instead. She’d wanted to paint. To paint. A woman who was half-magick, abandoned in the Sands as a child, seeking and never finding The Realm as he himself had done for years.
Mai’s hands were naked of scars; her legs were without a single splotch or bruise. Clint had never even seen his woman purple, and wasn’t sure she could. And yet here she was, this fragile-seeming-but-not-at-all-fragile creature with a rag on her head, on her hands and knees with a bucket of paint. She held a brush in her hand like a workwoman from the Sprawl’s outlying settlements.
Clint remembered how much the filthy job of changing the room’s color had excited her, and how little he’d wanted to help.
“Help me with this,” she’d said, handing him a brush.
“Marshals don’t paint,” he said, or probably growled.
“Marshals don’t paint.” She wore a stern, over-the-top expression while mocking him. “Get over here, gunslinger. This one does.”
Still, he refused, since painting a room was a task for anyone other than a proper Realm lady with her unique radiance, or for the town’s marshal. Besides, the paint stunk enough to get his head to swimming. Mai kept pushing. Clint continued to refuse.
Eventually she grew angry, and told Clint that if he wouldn’t help her, she’d hire Paul Wellings for the job. He’d charge more than they could afford, just to paint it brown. They never resolved the quarrel, and Clint left knowing he’d return to a brown room and a bill he couldn’t pay. Instead, he found the room painted a subtle yellow by the hand of a lady working alone ’til sundown. Mai was strong-willed and liked to win her way. She wasn’t above making threats to get it. Yet, in the end she was sensible, and seldom was rash out of anger.
Go, gunslinger, she’d said. Go to your death.
But she’d never left. She wouldn’t leave, because it was the wrong decision.
Mai knew who Clint was and always had. She wanted Clint to abandon Solace and the populace that didn’t deserve his protection, but she knew he never would. So when he’d left, she’d waited for the coach, stewing and hoping he’d change his mind against all odds, praying he’d meet her and they’d leave together.
But when he hadn’t come back to her, she’d sent the coach away and unpacked, watching the streets and waiting for evil to arrive and for her man to face it. Perhaps her half-magick side even whispered that the men were coming too late for her to warn Clint — that they’d tricked the mighty marshal into leaving the town undefended.
Then, if Clint knew Mai, she’d probably grabbed a gun.
The marshal didn’t need Edward’s magic — had it managed to penetrate the nothingness surrounding the Otel — to know that all of what he’d imagined had happened. Of course she’d stayed. Clint wished he’d realized it sooner, before it might be too late.
When the Otel’s facade came into view, Clint ducked behind a rain barrel in front of the s
tore, his right pistol drawn. Edward moved into position behind Clint, but since Edward was nearly a dozen feet long, the lowest point on his back was five feet from the ground, and he was bright white, there was little point in hiding.
“They know you’re here,” Edward said. “Kold can shoot through your cover. A unicorn’s magic nullifies shields and umbrellas.” Edward kicked Clint in the back with one of his forelegs. “So stand up and face them in plain sight. There’s no advantage in hiding like a coward.”
Clint stood. Then, as if he’d been waiting for a cue, Hassle Stone’s dusty shadow emerged from the blacksmith’s shop to the right of the Otel, his full figure right behind. Stone walked into the middle of the street, two dozen yards from Clint.
“Marshal,” he said.
Clint’s hands hung at his sides, both barrels holstered. Stone’s gun was already drawn, dead centered on Clint’s chest. Stone had already cocked the hammer, meaning a feather’s touch would fire the gun and leave Clint dying.
“Lay down your gun and I won’t hurt you,” said Clint, as if he were the one with the aimed gun.
“You’re too late,” Stone snarled. “Kold found what he came for while you were out playing patty-cake in the desert. Once you’re gone, I’m taking the rest for my own.”
“Taking?”
“Yar, taking. Or getting given. This town quails at the memory of me and my men.”
“Your five men took five shots and fewer seconds than that to dispatch,” said Clint, nodding toward the pile of bodies in the street behind him. Stone hadn’t noticed. Clint tried not to smile at the outlaw’s jittering gun when he did.
“Put down your weapon, Stone. I’ve had enough killing for today. My guns need rest.”
The marshal’s guns were in their holster. Stone’s six-shooter was still centered on Clint’s chest.
Clint started walking forward, toward Stone.