Death to the Witch-Queen!: A Post-Apocalyptic Western Steampunk Space Opera (The Avenjurs of Williym Blaik & the Cyborg Qilliara Across the Ruins of Space-Time Book 1)

by P. K. Lentz

  Qilliara nodded curtly.

  Blaik took a fresh look at the nine armed, black-hatted Murshals and assorted others. Pity was no longer anywhere in his estimation.

  “Sure,” he said at length, inhaling deeply. “Leave it to me. I've got this...”

  He did not, he knew.

  He eyed jealously the weapon on Qilliara's hip. “Could I possibly borrow one of—”

  “No.”

  “That's fine. Just asking. Don't need it.” He flexed his arms, checked his grip on the borrowed saber and stepped forward, feeling rather like he had some minutes earlier while standing over the trapdoor with the Sheriff's hand on the lever.

  This woman would just stand there and watch him get killed, wouldn't she?

  What a bitch.

  A big Murshal let out a guttural roar, and the assembled minions of the Witch-Queen raised their weapons and charged. A few bowmen loosed bolts from crossbows, but these were aimed—sensibly, from the enemy's point of view—at the greater threat, Qilliara. Her fearsome weapons cracked and flashed, and Blaik saw the bowmen fall.

  Qilliara might not assist him, it seemed, but neither was she about to tolerate attacks on her person.

  Blaik's own present concerns required facing front. Loosing a roar of his own, he dashed forward with blade poised.

  He first encountered a hairy-faced Warpy whose chest he opened with a slashing stroke. Dodging a thrust from another's pole-ax, Blaik buried his blade's point in the wielder's neck, tugged it free and aimed the backswing at a frog-looking Sheriff's deputy. The deputy blocked that attack, but not Blaik's next, and frog-man fell back with a swampy gurgle.

  Next he cut down a human at the knees with a non-fatal blow. He hesitated an instant at the thought that Qilliara might count the death of a human against him, since she hadn't killed any herself—but it was them or him, and so Blaik pierced the man's abdomen. Better to err on the side of not dying than please her and become a corpse.

  By now, the servants of Her Majestrix had recognized that the lesser of the two threats was in fact the more immediate one, causing a concerning number of them to head in Blaik's direction. Most of the Murshals, thankfully, continued on toward Qilliara, but Blaik had not the luxury of watching that impending massacre unfold. He had his own to perpetrate. Or try to.

  Three was the greatest number of lawmen Blaik had ever fought simultaneously and emerged victorious. As a rule, he fought only when he had no choice, and then only for as long as was necessary to make an escape.

  Flight remained an option now, too, but all he would escape with on that path was his life. The path to real escape, escape from this world, was reachable only by standing his ground.

  Not literally standing, however. Staying still would get him killed.

  Racing to the facade of a potter's shop, Blaik leaped up on a parked donkey cart, spun and kicked the face of first Warpy pursuer to arrive, then hopped down and grabbed the same Warpy's throat. Before he could resist, Blaik shoved him into two others rushing up from behind, unbalancing them enough to let Blaik slash one's neck. The other stumbled but managed a clumsy swing of his blade, which Blaik's living shield obligingly absorbed with his life before Blaik's saber put the rest to rest.

  As the corpses' companions arrived, Blaik vaulted back over the cart and resumed running along the creaky boardwalk that passed under the awnings of the several tradesmen's workshops lining this part of the street. Behind him came at least six human and Warpy pursuers, some under the awning, others racing obliquely so as to cut him off.

  Blaik felt a pang of worry take root in his chest, and he cast his gaze frantically in search of something to dispel it. He found it in the form of a not-very solid-looking support post holding up the wooden awning above. Altering his course just slightly and twisting to give his shoulder the brunt of the impact, he collided with it.

  The post gave way, and the groan of old wood behind Blaik said his aim was accomplished. While his changed course brought him out from under the awning in time to avoid its collapse, at least three of his pursuers vanished in a billowing cloud of dust and debris.

  His new course put him directly in the path of several other pursuers who had run an intercepting angle. Blaik's mind and eye settled on the broken support beam which had just come to rest on the dry ground. Scooping up the nearest end of it in two arms, without dropping his saber, he swung the beam in a wide arc which caught first one and then a second of his pursuers. Both went down. A third, a lanky, greasy-haired human, ducked the beam and kept coming.

  Releasing the makeshift weapon, Blaik swung his blade to force the greasy man back, breaking his momentum. He blocked the next attack, and the next, and made two of his own. Sounds of scraping from the pile of planks and shingles behind Blaik suggested that at least one of his buried enemies was emerging alive. More were coming, too, from the main body of the enemy.

  Past them, Qilliara stood in the same spot as before, ringed by a circle of bodies in the dust.

  Seeing that she was watching him prompted Blaik to loose another roar, accompanying it with a crushing assault that startled his human opponent, breaking his guard and all but cleaving the man's head in two. Whirling round, still yelling, Blaik next dispatched a Warpy emerging from the wreckage of the awning with a stroke that caught him right between his pug noses.

  The next to wet his stolen blade were the two he had knocked down with the beam, one of whom had just begun to clamber to his feet. Blaik was seeking his next opponent when a fresh series of cracks and bright blue flashes sent his gaze to Qilliara.

  She had drawn one of her blaster-things, each rapid shot from which heralded the fall of a man or Warpy who once had stood blocking their path. By the time the flash-cracks ceased, Blaik and the newcomer were, for a second time, the only two left alive on a dusty field littered with the bodies of servants of the Witch-Queen.

  Standing with his inferior weapon in hand, breathing hard from exertion as Qilliara casually returned her much better one to its place on her hip, Blaik had one overriding thought:

  The Witch-Queen no longer ruled this world.

  Quickly bringing his breath under control so as to appear less winded, Blaik walked to meet Qilliara as she stepped over bodies in the street to resume her walk into Scratch. On his way, Blaik recognized one of the dead as the human deputy who'd stolen his coat right after his arrest. He spared a moment to retrieve it: a calf-length brown duster he had worn since having been forced to kill its owner many turns ago. He put it on, looked thoughtfully at Qilliara and then stooped to strip another of the dead of its plain brown hooded poncho. Rushing to catch up, he thrust the poncho at her.

  “You might draw less attention in this,” he explained. “In the next town, anyway.”

  She took it, tossed it on the ground, and continued walking. Blaik fell in alongside.

  “Those weapons of yours are... magnificent,” he said. “I was doing fine, though.”

  “I was sure you'd die. That you didn't is not entirely unimpressive, considering you're only human.”

  “Human. True. And you are...”

  “Better.”

  “Can't argue with that,” Blaik conceded. “Wait, so you wanted me to d—”

  “You showed you might be moderately useful. Now, prove it by showing me a place that serves a decent meal, if one exists in this rathole.”

  “I know just the place. Follow me.” Blaik laughed. “You must be starving to set aside time to eat before wiping out the rest of the town.”

  “I can go sixty days without food. It's only been forty, give or take. Last three layer fragments I searched were even less civilized. I don't have much hope for the cuisine here, but I've had decent meals in worse places.”

  “Searched? You mean, for this Mind Collapser thing? What kind of name is that for a weapon? And what's a layer fragment? And what's a day? The people who were about to execute me weren't in your way, but you killed them. But only the Warpies. Why?”

  “I tho
ught you agreed to shut up for six minutes.”

  “I don't know that I won't be dead in however long that is. Staying near you is the smartest thing I can do, or the dumbest. I'm not sure I care which.”

  Since their arrival, Scratch had become a town of ghosts, its residents reduced to flitting shadows doing their best not to be seen.

  Blaik pointed down one of Scratch's handful of empty side streets. “Down here.”

  They reached the Stuck Pig unaccosted and entered through a set of slatted double doors which swung open easily. Inside, a small number of humans and Warpies cowered behind tables and the long bar. Blaik aimed a smile at the thickly muscled, bald-headed human standing frozen behind the bar.

  “Hello, Wirzel,” Blaik said in greeting, then dropped the smile before addressing the entire establishment. “Anyone who doesn't work here might do best to leave now.”

  The half dozen or so patrons who must have been dining in the Stuck Pig at the time the main street had filled with armed men, and shortly thereafter the screams of said men, and then their corpses, hastened for the exit and were gone by the time the two arrivals took seats at the bar. The few staff slipped out with them, leaving just Wirzel looking at them across the bar with furrowed brow.

  “My friend here hasn't eaten in forty-odd somethings and is in need of a good meal,” Blaik said. “Naturally, I brought her here. Treat her right...” He added, for the sake of the man's own safety: “Please.”

  “No meat,” Qilliara said.

  “No meat,” Blaik echoed unthinkingly. “Wait, what?” His head swung to face her.

  “No meat. I don't eat it.”

  “I've never heard of that. Not even crow?”

  “Not even.”

  “Why not?”

  “None of your business. I like animals.”

  “Oh,” Blaik said. “Makes sense. People you can kill by the dozen, but...” He trailed off rubbing his throat, wary of giving offense. “You heard her, Wirzel. Your best, no meat. Plus another plate with, if you would.”

  Poor Wirzel looked puzzled, but he was wise enough to just turn and disappear into the kitchen, hopefully to return.

  “So...” Blaik addressed his companion.

  “Just be quiet. I do actually need your help, believe it or not. But you need to talk less. Much less.”

  It occurred to Blaik to tell Qilliara that if she would just answer his basic questions, he wouldn't need to talk so much. But instead he only smiled, satisfied with the possibility that his usefulness might warrant eventual repayment.

  Sounds coming from the kitchen gave evidence that Wirzel had not fled out the back, but did in fact intend to serve them. He was a good man, Wirzel. Brave. Maybe not so bright.

  Blaik's tongue strained against an ensuing silence. Maybe Qilliara was right, and he did talk too much.

  He noticed something in those few moments: Qilliara did not breathe.

  In the end, she saved him from having to be the one to break the silence.

  “The reason I need you,” she began. “Or need someone who happens to be you.... the one and only reason...” She stared straight ahead as she spoke, seeming reluctant, almost embarrassed, to continue.

  She got no further, for Wirzel, damn him, chose that moment to reemerge from the kitchen with a large wooden bowl in each hand. He set them on the bar, one in front of each of his two customers. The brown, lumpy contents were familiar to Blaik as snake and rabbit stew, a dish for which the Stuck Pig was well known in Scratch.

  “Ah, Wirzel,” Blaik said nervously. “She said no meat.”

  “Picked it out of hers.”

  “Oh, well, perfect then,” Blaik said, taking one of the spoons Wirzel offered.

  He began eating. Qilliara did not, staring down her neat little nose at the bowl with a mild sneer.

  “Try it,” Blaik urged. “Tastes much better than it looks, trust—”

  As he spoke, Qilliara's sneer uncurled, her strangely colored eyes went blank, and her head began a lifeless descent toward the bar. Blaik's hand moved just quickly enough to slide her bowl out of the way, so that when her head crashed down it only grazed the bowl's rim, splashing a small amount of its contents onto her hair. Blaik's mind, meanwhile, moved quickly enough to decide it best to exhibit no surprise in front of a witness who might choose to run and inform an angry town that one of its two most wanted enemies had just fallen victim to a bowl of snake-less and rabbit-less stew.

  Blaik sighed heavily. “She does this,” he told Wirzel calmly. “She'll be fine in no time. But you should leave. When she wakes up, she always kills the first person she sees. I'll be fine because I'm her partner.”

  Wirzel, bright enough after all, did not await further explanation but simply vanished back into the kitchen, this time surely to vacate the premises.

  Blaik nudged, then poked Qilliara. Slumped face-down over the bar, she failed to react. Neither was she breathing, but then she hadn't been before.

  “So you've dropped dead on me,” Blaik reflected aloud. “Wish you'd have mentioned that was a possibility.” He quickly shoveled a few spoons of stew down his throat. “I could be miles away by now. Instead I'm stuck in a town full of people who wanted me dead before and who now really want me dead.”

  He ate some more, tapped Qilliara's shoulder, then got bolder and slapped her cheek. Nothing.

  “Unless...” he said. “Everything Scratch could throw at you didn't come close to killing you. Why would you just up and die? Doesn't smell right.” He ate some more—they had a desert to cross, leaving Scratch—then concluded, “You're not dead, are you?” He finished his bowl and stood. “Which means I have to carry you.”

  Grumbling, he slipped his head under Qilliara's shoulder, wrapped his arm around her and heaved. He stumbled, almost dropping her.

  “You're heavier than you look.”

  While he walked Qiliara's inert form to the door, her head rolling, all limbs limp, Blaik several times bumped against the weapon affixed to her hip. Getting out of town was sure to prove tricky. A little blue fire might smooth the way. Setting saber aside, Blaik reached for the handle of the blaster-thing nearest to him, set his palm on it—then drew it back, feeling a stab of intense pain.

  “What the—” He shook his right hand, which burned and tingled. Saber it was, then, even if there was no chance he could use it without dropping Qilliara. Retrieving it, he dragged her out Wirzel's front door.

  Outside in the street, some two dozen humans and Warpies stood in a wide semi-circle around Wirzel's, keeping their distance. By Blaik's quick assessment, none were armed. He cast his gaze up to the rooftops in search of hidden bowmen, but saw none.

  “People of Scratch!” Blaik yelled.

  He had no idea what would come next. Thankfully, some words came.

  “You have seen what this woman and I did today! It's only a taste! We are not alone! Soon the Blue Fire Army will come to liberate you, and every city and town, from the tyranny of the Witch-Queen! But for now, we must go. Woe to any who try to stop us!”

  For good measure, even though they seemed already well cowed, Blaik brandished his saber at the assemblage. Then, lowering it, he dragged Qilliara down the street on the shortest route out of town.

  He was glad for his decision not to mention her condition, whatever it was. People were not so smart. Maybe no one had noticed.

  Amazingly, it worked. Dragging the unconscious, possibly dead, form of a woman who had fallen from the sky, Williym Blaik walked out of Scratch and into open desert.

  * * *

  From considerable experience, Blaik knew in which direction the flat, arid plain yielded most quickly to the kind of rocky barrens where one could find a decent hiding place. Hoisting Qilliara onto one shoulder, he began his flight from Scratch at a run.

  As time wore on, the run became a fast walk. Then a slow walk. Finally, a plod. He had carried his share of females, but this one was by far the heaviest, as if she were made of bricks. At the first sandstone
formation he saw that offered a bit of an overhang to conceal them from the view of any balloons that might be out hunting for them, Blaik let his burden slide heavily from his shoulder into the dust. He slumped beside her, panting, and let his overworked limbs fall slack.

  His rest had but barely begun when it was rudely terminated by an explosive force from his side which sent him rolling over the sand. Recovering, he looked up into the muzzle of one of Qilliara's fancy weapons.

  Blaik showed her open palms. “It's me, Blaik. Remember? Hello.”

  She sheathed her blaster-thing. “Of course I remember.” She looked around her. “Which way to the Witch-Queen?”

  “Hold up.” He scrambled to his feet. “I just carried you a long way, and you weigh a ton. I need a rest. I've earned some answers, too.”

  Qilliara frowned. “Fine.”

  “Sit down.”

  “Don't need to.”

  “Humor me. I can't rest with you just standing there like a... whatever you are.”

  Slowly, Qilliara sank to the rock-shaded sand. So did Blaik.

  “First thing I need to know is what just happened. And why do you not breathe and hardly need to eat and weigh more than me? Then I need to know what you want with this Mind Collapser thing, and what it is and why the yoo-ni...?

  “Universe.”

  “—whatever it is, needs saving, and—”

  “Just stop,” Qilliara commanded. “I'll tell you what you need to know, and then we head straight for this Witch-Queen, understood? I didn't come to this place to make new friends and see the sights.”

  “Try living your whole life here. Start talking.”

  Qilliara stared hard at Blaik in what was perhaps a final appraisal.

  “First,” she began at length, “never tell me what to do. Second, I don't breathe or eat much because I'm about forty percent machine.”

  Blaik looked her up and down. A past partner had explained percentages to him with reference to dividing up stolen loot. He grasped the concept, if just.

  “What parts?”

  “Not like that,” Qilliara said. “Forty percent in the same way that shit stew you people eat is forty percent shit. It's all mixed in. Can't be separated from the whole. Get it?”