A Lust For Lead

by Robert Davis

  ‘Ennis has a strong will.’ Whisperer explained. ‘He has the power to resist the gun’s allure. If he Descends and becomes a Cordite, he may become the first man to ever do so whilst still alive. All of the others killed themselves in the process. Or each other. A living Cordite would have greater freedom to come and go in this world. He would have more power than any of the others possess. He might even replace Priestley as their leader.’

  ‘And Priestley accepts this?’

  ‘Priestley does as his gun commands.’

  ‘And Chastity?’

  Whisperer shrugged. ‘She will only ever be a puppet to them.’

  ‘But she would have won the tournament!’

  ‘That has yet to be proven.’ Whisperer reminded him.

  Nathaniel slumped, his will gone out of him. ‘So what happens now?’ he asked.

  Whisperer regarded him emptily. ‘You came here to bargain with the Cordites,’ he said. ‘You can still try, if that is what you wish.’

  ‘But they are not bound.’

  ‘They are as bound as you could ever make them. You may not have the power to force their co-operation, but you may still strike a deal with them if you have the wit. And the courage,’ he added slyly, goading Nathaniel slightly. He gestured towards the door. ‘Shall we?’

  Nathaniel did not see that he had any other choice.

  They were waiting for him outside the Grande. All seven of them had gathered in a semi-circle facing the porch. The secret inner core of the Fastest Guns: the six triumphant contestants from the first tournament and the unholy messiah himself, Jacob Priestley.

  Nathaniel’s courage faltered at the sight of them. Despite that they had been human until only a few years ago, their Descendence had left its mark upon them and they radiated power like the smoke they seemed to sweat.

  The bodies of his invigilators lay scattered upon the streets for as far as he could see, the grey mist curling around them, exposing torsos that were shot full holes, heads that had been split open. It was like a battlefield. In the distance, Nathaniel could hear the voices of survivors calling out to one another, re-grouping, trying to find shelter or escape from town.

  The Cordites had allowed a temporary ceasefire in which to face him.

  Nathaniel could not see their eyes for they wore their hats tipped low, concealing the upper half of their faces in shadow, but he could feel the chill of their gaze. He looked back to Whisperer for support but the ancient sorcerer offered him none. He was on his own.

  He took a hesitant step forward and called out to them:

  ‘I, Nathaniel, created in the image of God, constrain you by the sacred names of God: Tetragrammaton, Adonai, Agla, and Jesus Christ; that the might of Hell be now conquered by the power of–’

  ‘Do not threaten us in His name.’ Priestley rasped.

  ‘It is you who has come to our world. We have not come to yours,’ a second Cordite said.

  Nathaniel felt his confidence waver. He summoned another passage from the lines he had memorised: ‘By all the things beneath the heavens, I offer you your wayward brother, Shane Ennis, and the girl, Chastity, who is worthy of your kind. I offer this tournament to you in your greatness, and the souls of those who have died. By this offering I invoke you powerfully in the name of those that strike fear and terror in you, that you shall grant me the power that is yours to grant. Grant me the power of eternal life.’

  They stared up at him resentfully. Nathaniel could feel the waves of their hatred assailing him like a psychic battering ram.

  ‘There are none who strike fear and terror in us,’ one said. ‘We will take Ennis for ourselves. He is not yours to offer.’

  Another spoke: ‘We will take the girl. You have nothing to offer us.’

  Not to be outdone, Nathaniel stepped to the edge of the porch and called out in a powerful voice: ‘By all your princes, kings, lords and superiors–’

  Priestley cut him off. ‘Their word is not heard here,’ he said. ‘We have no masters.’

  Nathaniel was taken aback. He finally understood what Whisperer had meant when, during the early stages of their preparation, he had warned that the Cordites were a young cacophony of demons, newly formed. At the time, Nathaniel had assumed that he had meant they were weak and easily-exploited; that had been his inference. But that was not the case at all. The fact that the Cordites were young simply meant that Hell’s legions had not yet figured out what to do with them. They were a minor power, as yet unclaimed; and so there was no one a sorcerer could call upon to constrain them to his will.

  Nathaniel’s heart sank. With despair, he finally grasped just what a mistake he had made.

  The Cordites began to move, the three on either side of Priestley retreating, forming a corridor down which Priestley faced Nathaniel in a stand-off. ‘If you want to join us,’ he said. ‘You will have to prove yourself.’ He beckoned Nathaniel down onto the crossroads.

  Nathaniel balked at the idea. ‘But I can’t beat you.’ he said. ‘My bullets can’t hurt you!’

  Priestley’s lipless mouth stretched in a grin. ‘That,’ he said in a voice that dripped with sadistic intent. ‘Is not my concern.’

  He took his mark on the crossroads and waited for Nathaniel to join him. Nathaniel twisted his neck around and glanced imploringly at Whisperer, who merely shook his head. There was no backing out now.

  Nathaniel swallowed nervously. His throat felt painfully dry. He walked down the steps with heavy feet and stepped out to take his place. As he passed between the first two Cordites, one of them hissed at him between its teeth, the sound like steam rising from a hot gun barrel. Nathaniel flinched away from it and the Cordite leered. In all other regards, they were eerily silent. They let him take his place opposite Priestley and Nathaniel kicked the dirt at his feet, levelling it. He shook his hands to try and hide the fact that they were trembling.

  He had never been very good with a gun. He could hit a target but he was no gunfighter. He could not draw fast and he could not shoot well. He stood no chance of winning.

  Perhaps they just want to test your mettle, he thought hopefully. See if you have the guts to stand-up to them.

  But again he was deluding himself, and he knew it this time. The Cordites did not respect courage; they only respected skill.

  Nathaniel’s courage deserted him. He turned and ran but had only taken three steps before Priestley’s shot thundered out over the crossroads. It hit him in the knee and Nathaniel fell to the ground, screaming. He rolled over and went to clutch at his wounded leg but one of the other Cordites shot him in the elbow. He howled in agony and rolled onto his back.

  The Cordites closed in to surround him. There were seven of them. They each fired a single shot and killed him one piece at a time.

  With smoke curling from the barrel of his gun, Jacob Priestley looked up from the Nathaniel’s bullet-riddled corpse and turned to face the Grande. Whisperer stepped slowly down off the porch.

  One by one, the Cordites parted before him, giving him leave to do as he pleased with Nathaniel’s body. ‘Take him.’ Priestley said. ‘And the others that we have agreed.’

  ‘Take them and leave,’ said another.

  Whisperer bowed his head to them in thanks. He crouched at Nathaniel’s side and reached out with one hand to brush the air above his chest. In his mind’s ear, he heard Nathaniel’s scream of outrage.

  Behind him, Priestley watched with darkly burning eyes. He said nothing and made no signal but the other Cordites sensed his mood and they closed in to surround Whisperer on all sides. This was the moment of betrayal that Whisperer had anticipated. He tightened his grip on Nathaniel’s soul and tore it from his cooling flesh.

  ‘We had a deal,’ he reminded Priestley.

  ‘Did you get it in writing?’ the Cordite replied sardonically.

  Whisperer reacted at once. Splitting the barrier between worlds with his bare hands, he pulled forth a dozen struggling figures, who were bound to him by ethereal chai
ns. Their bodies were like smoke and he weaved them about himself like a shield.

  The Cordites’ guns thundered and the shield was stripped apart, the wraithlike bodies that composed it flying into tatters. But their sacrifice spared Whisperer any lasting harm and he reached again into the space between worlds and yanked out more of the naked, emaciated creatures and set them upon the Cordites like rabid dogs. They charged in ghostly silence and leapt upon the Cordites and tried to strangle them with their chains. Gunfire blazed and the ghostly figures were cut down in seconds, but during that time Whisperer was able to break clear of the melee and escape.

  Lowering his smoking gun, Jacob Priestley extended his senses out through the town, feeling for Whisperer’s presence the way a spider feels for vibrations in its web. He could not find him; the soul-monger was somehow able to conceal himself, hiding his aura amongst the surviving invigilators.

  ‘Kill them all.’ Priestley demanded. ‘Find him.’

  Chapter 23

  Shane ran. Every few steps, he made an abrupt right-angle turn, ran a few more steps, then turned again, trying to keep Buchanan from getting a clear shot at him.

  Shots rang out frequently, some of them passing close enough that Madison yelped in panic. A quick glance over his shoulder told Shane that Buchanan was gaining on them.

  Shane was out of breath. He held Chastity tightly against his chest but he wasn’t used to sprinting with her extra weight and he knew that he could not keep it up for much longer. Blasting out of the alleyway, he emerged onto West Street and ran straight into the path of a group of invigilators. They were startled to see him but quickly recognised that he was not armed and therefore not a threat to them. Shane and Madison ran between them and sprinted on towards the far side of the street. Behind them, Buchanan let out a wordless bellow and fired off a volley of shots. One of the invigilators was caught in the line of fire and fell as a bullet punched through the side of his head. Startled, the others turned and brought their guns to bear upon Buchanan. They fired and he ducked back into the alley for cover. Their shots blew splinters out of the corner of the wall.

  Laughing maliciously to himself, Buchanan emerged again and fired from the hip. Both men carried breach-loading rifles that took time to reload. He shot one but his gun clicked empty before he could shoot the second.

  Angry, he closed the distance between them in a loping run and smashed the barrel of his revolver into the invigilator’s teeth. The man dropped to his knees and Buchanan floored him with a devastating kick, then stamped on his neck until he felt the man’s spine break beneath his heel. He spat on the corpse while he broke open his revolver and ejected the spent cartridges.

  Shane and Madison had reached the general store on the far side of the street meanwhile, and Buchanan saw them disappear inside.

  ‘Gotten tired of running, have you Shane?’ Buchanan crooned to himself, reloading fresh bullets into his revolver. ‘Think you can fight me, do you? Well, that’s good.’

  He snapped his revolver shut and advanced towards the store.

  ‘Let’s finish this properly.’

  Shane stood at one of the boarded-up windows, looking out through a gap in the boards as Buchanan crossed the street towards him.

  Madison was on the far side of the room. There was a door behind the counter that led into an alley out back. She had hold of Chastity’s hand and urgently gestured for Shane to follow her. ‘Come on!’ she hissed, but Shane stayed where he was.

  They would never escape from Covenant if they kept on running. Sooner or later, Buchanan would get a clear shot or, even worse, they would run into the Cordites. The only way they would ever get out of the town alive was if they started to take control of their circumstances, and that meant they had to deal with Buchanan.

  Shane glanced over his shoulder at Madison. ‘Hide!’ he told her.

  She ducked behind the counter and dragged Chastity down next to her. Shane edged to the side of the door and waited in the shadows. He did not experience the familiar calmness that usually came over him when he fought. Instead he felt a nervous chill.

  He was not accustomed to fighting without a gun.

  He listened to Buchanan’s footsteps as he mounted the boardwalk and approached the door. Buchanan was no fool. He could guess that Shane would be waiting for him. He hesitated at the threshold.

  ‘Are you in there, Shane?’

  He struck the doorframe with the palm of his mutilated hand, making a loud, sudden noise. He was trying to psyche Shane out and frighten him into making a move, but Shane kept his cool and waited in the dark, his hand on the hilt of his knife.

  Buchanan hit the doorframe again, harder and more aggressively than before. He had never been a patient man and Shane did not think he would wait out there for long. He gave the doorframe another strike, but when that failed to illicit a reaction, he strode inside.

  Shane sprang on him the moment he entered the door, chopping his knife down in a strike aimed at the back of Buchanan’s hand. It cut the skin and Buchanan dropped his revolver and swore. Shane reversed the direction of his cut and thrust the point of his knife at Buchanan’s belly, but his adversary had recovered from the surprise of his attack and managed to turn the blow with the back of his arm. He hit Shane with his elbow and knocked him staggering across the room. The knife slipped from Shane’s fingers and slid away across the floor.

  Buchanan roared in anger and charged him like a bull. He hit Shane low and scooped his legs off the ground. The wind was punched out of Shane’s lungs as Buchanan drove him backwards against a rack of shelving on the wall. Shelves broke and an assortment of dusty jars and empty bottles rained down onto them. Buchanan dumped Shane roughly on the floor and stamped on his belly.

  Shane somehow managed to get to his feet, fending off the blows with his arms. He ducked and weaved and managed to avoid Buchanan’s strikes long enough to get his measure. Buchanan was a fierce and aggressive fighter, but his movements were clumsy. He made up for the disadvantage of his mutilated right hand by striking with his elbows more often than his fists.

  Shane timed his moment and ducked under a wild haymaker. He seized hold of a broken shelf and swung it into the side of Buchanan’s head. The man let out a howl and staggered sideways, but he had taken enough beatings in the past that pain had little effect on him. He shook his head to clear it and waded back into the fight. Shane tried to hit him with the shelf again but this time Buchanan was expecting it. He lunged inside of Shane’s reach and hooked one arm around his head. Then, with scarcely any exertion on his part, he slammed Shane’s head against the wall.

  Shane managed to break free of his grip and danced backwards across the room. He ducked and weaved past Buchanan’s strikes and retaliated with a fierce punch that struck Buchanan square on the jaw. It stunned him for a moment and Shane pressed his advantage. He snapped two fast hooks into Buchanan’s kidneys and then swept a vicious uppercut into his solar plexus.

  Buchanan staggered up against the side of the counter and gave a hacking cough. He recovered quickly and caught Shane by surprise. Countering a punch, he hauled Shane in close and slammed him up against the counter. Buchanan was enraged now, and his face turned blood red. His eyes bulged and spittle flecked his lips. He cursed as he hit Shane with his elbows, driving each blow with numbing force. Shane felt his legs buckle beneath him.

  Buchanan got hold of him by the collar of his shirt and threw him against the wall. Shane smacked into it, too weak and too dazed to absorb the impact. He grabbed hold of a shelf and used it to steady himself, but Buchanan was upon him again in an instant. He drove his knee into Shane’s stomach and threw him across the room into the counter again. Shane hit it and slithered to the floor. He rolled over and tried to stand but his strength deserted him. He crumpled onto the floor, breathing heavily, his whole body in pain.

  ‘Did you think you could beat me, Shane?’ Buchanan asked.

  It took a moment for Shane to find his voice. ‘I did the last tim
e,’ he croaked.

  ‘You had a gun last time, fucker!’

  He swung a kick into Shane’s ribs.

  ‘Look at you! You’re nothing without a gun!’

  ‘What about you?’ Shane replied with a groan. ‘You’re nothing even with a gun.’ And he laughed, even though it hurt his ribs.

  Buchanan bellowed savagely and kicked him. ‘Let’s see you laugh in a minute, after I’ve ripped out your fucking tongue.’

  He was so intent on kicking Shane that he did not see Madison creep out from behind the counter, a wooden stool in her hands. She stole up carefully behind him and raised it above her head to strike. He whirled about abruptly.

  ‘I thought I smelled cunt,’ he snarled, and snatched the chair out of her hands.

  He punched her in the face and sent her to the floor, where she sprawled unconscious. Buchanan hurled the stool across the room and it broke against the wall.

  Shane tried to get to his feet but only made it as far as his knees before Buchanan kicked him back down. ‘I’ve waited a long time for this.’ Buchanan sneered, drawing a knife from his belt. It was long and the blade had a wickedly serrated edge.

  ‘I’m gonna carve you up slow, Shane. Starting with your fingers.’

  Shane tried to scramble away as Buchanan advanced on him but he was too weak and could not move fast enough. Buchanan slammed his knee onto Shane’s chest and sank his weight on top of it, pinning him down. His face was cut and bleeding from the few blows that Shane had landed, but he did not seem to be badly affected by them. He grinned, blood dribbling from his gums.

  He brandished his knife to the light, letting Shane take a good long look at it. Buchanan had never liked to kill his enemies too quickly. He much preferred to draw out their suffering, and with Shane he had a big grudge to settle.

  The gunshot was sudden and abrupt. It caught them both by surprise. Buchanan blinked and looked down at his chest, where a red stain had appeared and was rapidly getting bigger. He swore quietly and looked over his shoulder to see who had shot him, but his strength gave out and he collapsed onto the floor.