‘Now, Drift.’ The big gang leader’s scarred visage frowned as he looked down from his elevated seat. ‘I’m sitting there in a bar in Low Under, minding my own business, when I hear me some surprising news. Seems that I’m dead, and that you’re to blame.’
‘Opinions vary on whether it was me who pulled the trigger on you,’ Drift replied, trying not to let his eyes stray around too much.
‘Ah yes,’ Xanth nodded. ‘Your partner. It must have taken some balls to front up to the lawmen in High and claim you’d killed me, knowing that if your lie were found out then they’d string you up. Even bigger balls actually, given that you surely knew I’d hear and would want to disabuse people of the notion o’ my demise. And given I know that deep down you’re a cowardly lickspittle, Drift, it must’ve been your partner what came up with the plan.’
The theatrically conversational tone in his voice, pitched to carry to the observers behind door jambs and peeking out through curtains all around, abruptly disappeared. What was left was the verbal equivalent of a knife, bare and sharp and about as friendly. ‘Where’s the bitch, Drift?’
‘That’s no way to talk about a lady,’ Drift shrugged.
He didn’t even see the blow coming. He was simply aware of Xanth doing something with his hand, and then one of the spider-walker’s metal legs lashed up and knocked him backwards some six feet, leaving him sprawling in the dirt.
‘Not talking about a lady, Drift,’ Xanth growled. ‘I know ladies. I’ve met ’em, dined ’em and bedded ’em. Even loved one, once upon a time. I’m talking about that bitch you run with, who ain’t no more of a lady than I am. Where’s Tamara Rourke?’
There were a few seconds of uneasy silence, while Drift tried to get his breath back and disguise the fact that by propping himself up on one elbow his right hand was once more straying close to the butt of a pistol. However, he was saved having to answer by the appearance of a small red dot on Xanth’s left temple.
‘Here.’
Drift risked a look to his right. There, Crusader 920 rifle raised to her shoulder and trained on Gideon Xanth as she walked steadily forwards, was Rourke. She was short and slight, dressed in a dark green bodysuit which would have merely emphasised the boyish nature of her figure had it not been drowned in the billowing depths of a long coat. Her hat was pulled low, and her eyes glinted in her dark-skinned face as she flicked her gaze along the length of the Wild Spiders’ line. Half of them switched their aim to cover her, but they weren’t fool enough to start firing when she had a bead on their boss. Tamara Rourke’s reputation as a deadshot was well-earned.
‘Rourke, you shouldn’t be as loyal as you are,’ Xanth snarled. The gang leader wasn’t even pretending to be conversational now there was a weapon pointing at his head, which Drift couldn’t really fault him for. ‘Might be you could’ve got outta this hole while we were busy with this worm, but you had to come sticking your nose in again.’
‘You’d only have chased me down anyway,’ Rourke retorted, somehow managing to shrug without losing her aim. ‘Could say the same about you, though. You were reported as dead to the authorities. You could have given up terrorising war widows and extorting merchants and crawled off to a retirement somewhere with the money you stole. You wouldn’t have been the first.’
‘And maybe I woulda done that,’ Xanth growled, ‘gone off and laughed up my sleeve at the Justices while I was spending my money, but there’s some things you don’t let lie. One thing would be the two of you claiming that you killed me.’ His scarred face set into an expression of murderous hatred. ‘The other is that you needed a body to claim that bounty, and there was only one man this side of the surface who was as big as me. You bastards killed my boy Abe, and dragged his corpse to those scum-suckers in High Under.’
‘Told you we should’ve shaved a dead bear and put it in a coat,’ Drift remarked, looking sidelong at his partner.
‘The import costs would’ve swallowed the bounty,’ Rourke replied evenly.
‘Shut up, you!’ one of the Spiders snapped at her, trying to aim his shotgun even more emphatically. Drift attempted to match him against the descriptions circulated of Xanth’s known associates, and failed. Either a relatively new recruit, then, or simply someone no one had ever bothered to identify.
‘Or you’ll do what?’ Rourke demanded. ‘One of you so much as sneezes, Gideon here’s missing his head.’
‘You think I care about that?’ Xanth roared. ‘You killed my boy! You can shoot me, but the two of you ain’t leaving here alive!’
Had it been Ichabod Drift on the other end of that firearm, he would have said something snappy. Something memorable. Something that anyone who’d heard it would have been forced to repeat so the story would have grown in the telling, and listeners would have been astounded at his wit in a dangerous situation.
Of course, that would have given the Spiders a second or so of warning, and Tamara Rourke had never been a gambler. As a result, the moment the last syllable signing their death warrant had left Gideon Xanth’s lips, the Crusader barked once and half of the big man’s skull exploded sideways in a shower of blood, bone and displaced neurones.
The Wild Spiders, crucially, hesitated for half a second. They were gang fighters and used to bullying barkeeps, extorting tolls from travellers or engaging in piecemeal shootouts with others like themselves, preferably when they had a numerical advantage. The notion of a lone woman casually shooting their leader dead was completely alien to them.
As a result, none of them reacted in time.
Drift hauled his pistols out and started blazing away; he saw two Spiders drop from hits of some sort, but then he had to roll desperately aside as Xanth’s bulk slumped forwards onto the controls of his walker and sent the gyroscopically stabilised machine stamping forwards, directly towards him. His weren’t the only shots to ring out, however; a hailstorm of fire exploded from the buildings around them, with the suddenly exposed Spiders at its centre. Several of the gang started shooting back, but their misguided attempt at making a stand came to an abrupt end when a whistling noise heralded the arrival of a shell which detonated on the back of one of their number. Virulent orange flames licked up instantly, and the splash from the blast set alight the clothing and flesh of two more.
Some spatters of volatile gel landed mere inches from Drift and he scrambled away from them, cursing Micah as he did so. The immolation cannon carried by the former soldier was far from a precise weapon; it was, however, a devastatingly effective one. As the howling, burning gang member’s futile attempt at flight was cut short by a merciful bullet to the head from someone somewhere, the surviving gang members not currently flailing at flames on their own bodies hurriedly threw down their guns and thrust their hands determinedly into the air.
The shooting stopped. Drift got back to his feet, holstered his guns and dusted himself down. He caught sight of one of the Spiders glowering at him.
‘What?’
‘Everyone said your crew’d left you!’ the man accused, his tone one of a six-year-old being told that there was no pudding after all. ‘You was meant to have stiffed them on a share of the bounty!’ Figures were emerging from the buildings around them; Micah still covering the cowed gangers with the intimidating mouth of his weapon, Apirana’s rifle looking like a toy in his huge hands, the Chang siblings carrying pistols like they might even know how to use them and, alongside them, the half-dozen black-clad and mirror-visored Justices with whom they’d planned this whole sting.
‘Well,’ Drift sighed, ‘I guess that’s what you get for listening to rumours.’ [GdM]
The King Beneath the Waves
Peter Fugazzotto
Werting could not break free.
The frigid sea held the boy, his feet churning, tired arms paddling. The rocky shore, so close, taunted him with every swell. His lame foot felt heavy as a stone.
Just as he was ready to give up, a wave lifted him. The water folded and he t
umbled head over heels against sand and stone, grey sky replaced by a veil of bubbles and froth.
His hands dug at broken shells and shiny weed and he crawled out of the embrace of the sea. The water pulled at him but it could no longer drag him back. He would not join Hreoth and the long ship in the depths.
Blood and seawater dripped into a tide pool, disturbing the reflection of his emaciated face, his pale hair, the gash across his forehead.
‘Look, the little shit got spit out from the sea. Can’t escape us that easy.’ Oslaf, the only one Werting wished would have drowned, shuffled across the sand. Behind the old man, six others that survived were stripping off sodden furs and breaches, hanging them from branches, and slapping bare skin. One of them gathered salvaged axes and shields in a pile.
‘Get wood, Oslaf. You and the waif,’ said Roogar, his wet, greying beard clinging to the old scars on his chest. ‘We need fire or we'll die.’
* * *
By the time the sun slashed orange across the horizon, Werting was finally dry enough that he no longer shook uncontrollably. Fat Henging had found a few mussels and they boiled them in Emod's shiny helmet. The young clan warrior grumbled that the helmet was a gift and it would be ruined.
Werting was still hungry but he knew better than to say anything.
‘Hreoth was an idiot,’ said Emod, glancing in a small shard of mirror and smoothing his blonde beard. ‘Any fool could have seen the storm brewing. He should have stepped aside for someone whose eyes hadn't failed.’
‘Someone wearing a shiny helmet?’ said Roogar. He sat with his sword on his lap, his whetstone singing.
‘Why the fuck not?’ Emod kicked the pile of discarded shells. ‘Three miserable months, village after village, and what? Copper coins and rusted axes.’
‘Don't forget Maeve.’ Fat Henging hid his snickering behind a fist. His red hair curled like flames.
‘His fucking pet crow. Maybe it’s better the fool sunk the ship. We go raiding and we return with a bird.’
‘No bird now,’ said Fat Henging.
Roogar shook his head. ‘Leave it. The man made a mistake. Elders should be respected.’
Emod burst out laughing.
* * *
Dawn brought dark swirling skies and the eight survivors began plodding north on the shingle.
At first, the clansmen bunched together, laughing and telling stories, but as the day dragged and the rain returned in sudden squalls, they stretched along the beach.
Black clouds, piled thick, ate the sun.
The boy Werting with his lame foot brought up the rear. Ahead of him walking side-by-side were Roogar, Yrm, and Wulf, who had managed to swim to shore with his prized axe. Further ahead shuffled old Oslaf, his mouth moving in silent curses. At the front marched Emod, his helmet shiny in the gloom, and at his heels Fat Henging and the baby-faced giant, Hrolf.
They were a four-day trudge from the river mouth. Then another two days to the clan village.
Werting wondered how far they were from his own village. If he ran south, would they come after him?
Werting's gaze drifted between the ragged sea and the dark wall of trees beyond the dunes.
Hreoth, the drowned captain, had been the one who kidnapped him. A seven-year old boy dragged from his house. His mother's screams piercing the laughter of the raiders. His last memory of the village, black smoke against a bright blue sky.
Werting stopped walking.
The other men stopped a quarter of a mile ahead when they noticed he was no longer with them. They shouted. They waved. They cursed.
Eventually, they sent Oslaf.
‘You stupid little shit!’
Werting turned his head just enough that the blow caught him on the skull rather than his ear.
‘Making me walk back to get you.’
The sea slid around the boy's ankles. The tide had pulled back exposing writhing sand crabs.
‘I should break your other foot.’
Werting remembered that day. He had thought that they would not come after him. He was no prize—a malnourished, undersized boy. But his captors had sent Oslaf. When the old man caught up with him in the pines, he smashed Werting's foot with a stone to keep him from running. Returning to the village, Oslaf said the boy had fallen, and was lucky that trusty Oslaf had found him.
Werting and Oslaf were almost caught up to the others when Werting stopped and pointed. From beneath the waves, a ring-whorled prow jutted out of the black waters. A once-golden banner sloughed from the mast.
Yrm squinted across the clapping waves. ‘A boat of the Spear People. Ruined now.’
‘Hidden by the tides,’ said Roogar. He unbelted his sword and pulled off his boots. ‘I'll see what bounty she holds.’
‘We'll all see,’ said Emod, also quickly shedding his clothes.
‘I'll watch the gear,’ said Henging.
‘You, too, boy,’ said Roogar to Werting. ‘You come help me.’ Then the scarred warrior was in the waves, wading towards the old shipwrecked vessel.
The boy had his shirt pulled over his head when he heard Emod whispering to Henging. ‘Acts like the boy's his servant now. Thinks he’s captain now. Another old fool to sink the next boat.’
The fat man chuckled. ‘Out with the old. I'll raise my sword for you. Follow you far into the night.’
Werting was the last to unclothe. Roogar and Emod had already reached the boat. The others were nearly there. The water slapped Werting's shins. He turned to Henging. The fat man was slipping slimy kelp into Wulf's oversized boots. He lifted a conspiratorial finger to his lips.
Despite the retreat of the tide, when the boy reached the boat, the water was at chest level.
The wood of the prow was sea blackened, mottled with mussels. From beyond the shoals, it would have looked like a rock along the shore. When the tide was fully in, the boat would have been completely submerged except for the mast.
The raiders stood on the boat, laughing and shouting.
Werting pulled himself onto the deck.
Hrolf stood over a chest split by Wulf’s axe, spreading a chain mail tunic between his hands. ‘Look at this, boys.’
Roogar hefted a sword in his hand, sighting the line of the blade. ‘After all these years and it still shines.’
The others hacked open the remaining chests. Bladed weapons, coats of arms, and war tack. Yrm's hand emerged from a leather sack, fat coins leaking between his fingers.
Oslaf hoisted an iron knife, its wooden hilt covered in ornate runes, and gambolled from foot to foot. ‘Look at this beauty!’
Roogar slapped the knife out of the old man's hand. It rattled on the deck then slid past Werting into the dark waters, the heavy iron head dragging it down.
Roogar drove a thick finger into Oslaf's chest. ‘The plunder is for the men of the Shark Clan, not for slaves.’
* * *
The clan warriors sprawled on the beach in a loose circle. When they had discovered barrels of mead in the hold, they decided the rest of their loot was not going anywhere.
Werting returned to the fire with an armload of branches scavenged from the forest floor. The woods were dark and cold, a place where the sun rarely warmed the spongy earth. He wondered how the trees did not topple, rising from such rot.
Oslaf squatted among the warriors. They had dressed him up in a woman’s fur robe and embroidered slippers taken from one of the chests. A blow from Emod had quelled his protests.
‘The bounty of the fucking gods,’ Roogar howled, dribbling mead into his grey beard.
The others raised their cups.
‘Getting hungry,’ said Henning, his hands spread over his ample belly.
‘More lovely seaweed and mussel soup,’ chimed Hrolf.
‘As long as the young king of the world doesn't mind us using his helmet.’ Yrm sneered.
Emod belched. ‘Boy, come get my bucket.’
Werting came to his s
ide, brushing splinters from his hands.
‘Sit, boy!’ Emod's breath seeped of sweet honey. ‘I'll let you prove yourself,’ he hissed into Werting’s ear. ‘When I lead the clan, any who prove their worth will be one of us. Learn to wield a blade, drive a ship through the breakers. Even you. An equal. The old ways have to go.’
‘Stop your lover's whispers,’ said Henning. ‘Send the boy for mussels. My belly is rumbling.’
* * *
The sea had receded. Midnight blue crabs skittered around the exposed rocks and the air stank from stranded seaweed. Where the retreating wash collided with the waves, the water hissed. Werting’s bad foot ached deep in the bone. The old witch told him it might mend, but he doubted it. Oslaf had crippled him for life.
He would never escape.
Icy water swirled around his waist. The mussels held fast to the hull of the boat. Werting’s fingers bled with the effort of prying them free. Then he remembered the iron knife that Roogar had slapped out of Oslaf's hand.
The low tide exposed the vessel, nearly to where the dark wood had splintered on the rocks. He climbed onto the deck and searched. The iron knife rested against a large unopened wooden chest that had been beneath the sea when the clansmen were looting.
The knife was heavy. He swiped at the air, then jabbed. In his mind, he saw the Shark clansmen, his iron knife plunging between ribs and slashing throats.
He scraped the blade against the deck and a mussel peeled off. It clanged into the bottom of the helm. Would they take the knife from him when he got back? Emod might let him keep it.
Most likely Oslaf would smack Werting and snatch the weapon.
Grimdark Magazine Issue #3 ePUB Page 4