‘Don’t be stubborn! There is only one way out of this, Franco. Give me the deeds to the Den and get off. He wants the train and I have to give it to him. I don’t want to do this; I don’t want to. You know that!’
‘You want me to give you something I don’t have?’
‘Don’t toy with me. They’re in the safe; now give me the damned key!’ The gun rattled in her hands, its handle wet with perspiration.
‘The safe that’s in my private car, that’s been decoupled?’
‘You’re lying!’
‘You can look for yourself. Stick your head out of that there window and see!’
‘Go and fetch them! Right now!’
‘Listen to me: I go back there and the only thing I’ll be able to get is filled with holes.’
‘Give me the deeds!’ she repeated, her voice shrill.
‘Am I speaking to the wind here? I don’t have them! Now I get that you’re in a situation that’s more than messy so you’re not hearing correct, but I want you to understand a handful why I’m unhappy. Firstly, your lying has dragged everyone under this roof into your affairs. Complicated affairs if I need to clarify. That’s put everyone at risk. Secondly, you’ve got iron pointed in my direction, which I don’t take kindly to. But to sweetly top it all, you turned on me, Misu – not the others, but me. The moment you begun to spin half-truths to cover your backside, you threw your lot in with the ones you’re running from. And that I have a difficult time accepting. I’m not one for repeating myself so this will be the last time. Step away and drop your weapon.’
Franco stood resolute, legs bracing every rock and tremor of the train engine, watching the gun barrel in front of him wave side to side.
Misu thumbed back the hammer with a fatal click. ‘Please!’ she begged.
The Den jolted suddenly, Misu’s finger twitching out of reflex onto the trigger. The gun fired loudly and when realizing he was unharmed, Franco scrambled forward. The gun fired once more, upwards this time, punching a hole into the cabin roof. Mad with desperation, Misu’s finger pulled over and over before crashing into the system of valves and pipes that speared out from the cab. Limbs tussled and strained, thrashed and scratched against one another.
There was a shock of pressure, followed by quickening plumes erupting from the chimney. Every one of the drive wheels spun faster, the Den vibrating every second in a sudden acceleration. Misu fell aside from the force. Scrabbling to her feet, she brushed her hair from her vision and saw the various gauges before her. It was true that she was no expert in machinery, and would never pretend to know how to run the Den, but even she knew that if a needle in a gauge hit a red section, it was bad. She looked at Franco who stemmed a trickle of blood from his temple with a firm press of his hand.
But he knew. He knew what it took to keep the Gambler’s Den steady. He knew the quirks, the difficulties of regulating its pressure, everything Pappy had repeated over and over to ensure he never forgot. His brain scrambled to take in what was happening, each conclusion worse than the last.
Then he spied the heightened pressure boiler gauge. It’s needle had struck the redline some time ago. The train lurched once more in displeasure, steam expelling from open emergency valves, though not enough to control the dangerous build-up. Every facet rattled, each vibration building to tremendous, powerful shakes. With the majority of the carriages gone, there was a significant loss in weight. The speed had been building, unchecked.
Too fast, he thought. We’re going far too fast!
As the Den pounded the rails, it rode an incline down into a canyon, past thick protruding rocks and other such natural debris. It shuddered and jumped. Its boiler wheezed and strained violently, the pressure gauge tapping and slapping its enclosure in panic.
From beneath the cab, metal splintered out in tremendous bursts. The right-hand side pistons that pulled against the drive wheels broke away, the ones still connected lashing their housings with razor-sharp fragments.
The floor began to slip from Franco’s feet as the unbalanced momentum split the crank pin and axle to a front pair of wheels, forcing the frame into the tracks. Sleepers were churned upward, split in some cases. The sky was peppered with gravel.
Lumber and steel filled the air as the Gambler’s Den – now totally out of control – gouged into the ground, destroying all before it, and the further it sped, the sharper it tipped, until Franco found himself in the air.
The train slipped the tracks, pulling the connecting carriages with it as the engine fell onto its side and skidded across sand, and rock, and whatever else the Sand Sea had deposited in its lifetime.
The horrible, crunching sound filled the air with dust and smoke in one confusing mass that swept through the canyon mouth.
Franco managed to remain conscious despite being thrown into the arrangement of pipes and valves, still wedged between them, the imprints of which remained quite prominently upon his person. Every limb had to be willed into life as he rolled off, landing heavily on the cab side that the engine had been turned upon. He groaned aloud, unsure whether anything was broken, struggling to make sense of his surroundings as fireflies danced in his vision. Again he rolled, onto his front now, encouraging his blurry vision into sharpness.
Misu lay in a crumpled heap, her body quite motionless, covered with cuts and other injuries that were not visible. A gash on her forehead painted her ear and shoulder with red, its effects furthermore visible in a tangled, slick mass of black hair. It didn’t look good for her, he concluded. In fact it didn’t look good for either of them.
Franco’s nostrils picked up the stench of smoke when it had filtered out the pungent blood and sand. He was unsure as to the cause, knowing full well that it wasn’t important. The only matter of concern now was escape. He had to escape. His fingers bit into the cab window frame, dragging him along. Powerful hisses of steam infiltrated the ringing that had previously inhabited his ears, encouraging haste. Finally he reached Misu, overturning her to witness her closed, expressionless face.
* * *
Wilheim’s men had fallen back in retreat, the last remains engaged in private skirmishes with gunfire subsiding in the distance. Predictably they resisted arrest, escaping how they saw fit. Bluecoats surrounded the remaining carriages of the locomotive, with everyone inside subsequently arrested. Everybody had lowered their guns. Nobody tried to do otherwise.
Atop the ridge, Bluecoats finally made their way to overlook the canyon, surveying the crash. The engine, its tender, and accompanying carriage were contorted alongside the rails that it had jumped, sprawled out in an almighty mess. The Bluecoats had all witnessed the smoke and steam that had erupted from a far distance, spurring them on faster. The entire sight was curiously eerie.
There was silence. There was smoke. There was steam.
Then came the explosion.
Without warning, the Den’s boiler ripped from its housing, its contained pressure far beyond restraint. It exploded violently, fanning the fire-tubes outward like a hundred steel spider legs. Fire and water launched outward. Another rush of dust whipped through the canyon, a blinding, choking veil that hung in the air. The ground cratered around the wreckage of the engine and its remaining carriages, revealing the total destruction of what was once known as the Gambler’s Den.
Predictably, there was nothing to claim by either party of pursuers.
Chapter Eighteen
Left Behind
When Wyld had made her exit, she had avoided most of the sharper rocks on her landing by nothing but luck. Her tumble was impossible to control but the moment her head was clear, she scrabbled to a bush of desert thorn, lying flat and concealing herself against its mass.
The Bluecoats and Wilheim’s men were engaged in a deadly back and forth, sending pot shots across the train tracks as horses gained ground against the carriages. With her rifle gone she could only rely on her sidearm should the occasion arrive when this gambit didn’t pay off. H
er shoulder stung like liquid fire had crept through muscle, leaving a dull, smouldering heat.
There wasn’t time to dwell on any of that.
The rumble of horses advanced, bringing with it the discord of battle. The Bluecoats and Wilheim’s riders, separated by a single length of track, competed against one another to reach the train. Gunfire cracked in the desert air, escalating louder and louder. Then, they were upon her.
Wyld covered her head, camouflaged behind a mass of thorny black bushweed, and kept her profile as low as possible. Hooves pounded the ground, legs of magnificent animals blazing past, kicking up so much ground that it threatened to blot out the sun. A sharp crack was just about audible above the thunder, sending one of the Bluecoats jerking backwards and rolling off his steed, yanking the reins to the side and sending them both the ground. The horse pulled itself onto its feet but its rider showed no signs of movement.
Wyld watched patiently, biding her time as the melee made its way past, leaving her in the clear. She crawled on over to the Bluecoat, grimacing at his galvanized expression after a bullet had entered his forehead and exited out the other side.
Far from the city Wyld’s choices were limited. Her injury was already causing her to lose more blood than she was comfortable with and left out here to her own devices, she would surely die, if she wasn’t arrested first.
Wyld got to work.
She hurriedly relieved the corpse of its uniform jacket, replacing her sanded poncho, patting off the dirt and buttoning the jacket up around her. It was a size too big to be sure, but not enough to cause suspicion. Next came the trousers, violently yanked away and pulled over her own legs. The belt was pulled this way and that, with the Bluecoat’s own holster tied around her waist. The illusion was complete, making her entirely passable as one of the local law.
The horse watched this, before giving a disgruntled neigh. Its chestnut eyes blinked as she cautiously approached, softening slightly as she rested her hands upon its neck and drew a palm down the ridge of its nose. The horse’s ears flicked playfully, accommodating this.
‘I’m going to need a favour …’ Wyld confessed to the animal.
* * *
Muddick shuffled along the shelves of his haphazardly organized shop. With a ream of paper and a pencil, he turned jars and withdrew simple wooden drawers, counting the contents and scribbling the numbers down in an effort to better organize his inventory. Straggled threads of smoke from a walnut smoking pipe mimicked every dip and shift of his head, as he out this and that from shelving.
Horse hooves slowed on the cobblestones outside. The bell above the door jangled with a new customer.
‘We’re closed,’ Muddick droned, without even expending the attention to look at the individual, instead taking hold of a jar filled with a green liquid and eyeballing odd floating curiosities inside. He made another mark on the paper.
Staggered footsteps made their way towards him, prompting the old man to finally look up from his work.
Initially his first reaction was one of shock, for he spied the Bluecoat uniform before anything else. The law wasn’t welcome here. In fact, if the law ever found its way here, it would be for a handful of reasons, either involving fines, questioning, or straight-up arrest. Any of these wouldn’t bode well for Muddick’s future. This would have been bad enough, until he recognized the pale woman’s face, greatly pained. She gripped her shoulder. A patch of blood had seeped through the jacket, revoltingly sticking her hand to the material.
‘No, no!’ Muddick protested, immediately shuffling to the door, sliding across a bolt and pulling down its blind. His voice was already escalating. ‘No, no, no! You do not bring this trouble in here. I want you out, immediately!’
Wyld staggered with her last reserves of energy before collapsing against a cupboard cluttered with a myriad of unrecognisable musical instruments. A couple rolled from their places and landed on the floor. A clay flute shattered on impact. Wyld peeled the jacket from her body with great agony, the smear of crimson running down her arm and breast.
‘I need patching up.’
Muddick squatted before her, knees cracking as he did so. The wound was concerning.
‘What is this? Stab?’
‘Bullet.’ Wyld winced, unable to recall how long it had taken for her to make it back to civilization. ‘Done a couple of hours ago at least.’
‘Bullet, eh?’ Muddick pulled at Wyld’s shirt, easing it aside to get a better look. The wound was concerning and gory. ‘Removing that will cost extra.’
Wyld placed her bloodied hand on his shoulder, firmly. ‘Just get it done.’
Muddick was meticulous in his handiwork. Despite his appearance of frailty, his hands were as steady, guiding his tools with total precision. The bullet was extracted and the wound sewn up. Wyld herself had forgone his recommendation of a sedative created from crushed this and ground that. Instead she took the other option of hard alcohol, which – whilst not completely numbing her from the agony of forceps being inserted into flesh – did plenty to lessen its impact.
* * *
The days after were spent taking it easy for fear of the stitches rupturing and creating an unholy mess. There were times when she jolted up in alarm from her bed upon hearing the shop bell ring downstairs, shuddering at the thought that someone had found her stolen mare hidden in a storehouse around the back and alerted the Bluecoats. It was hard not to envision any number of betrayals in her stupor. Was she seen escaping? Had someone looked too closely as she hung limp in the saddle, concluding that she looked out of sorts? Maybe they had spied the bleeding?
At any rate, all she could do was rest and wait.
* * *
‘You’re not staying longer? You’ve not fully recovered. Could do yourself a great mischief. Infection would be a bad thing to contract I’ll have you know.’
‘With how much you charge by the day? I’ll be skint before the week is out.’ She rubbed her bandaging, kneading the tender muscle. Yes it hurt, but the stitches were holding together and the pain had subsided to the point where she could perform most tasks without blinding agony. The newly claimed horse nodded its head, eager to venture out once again. Wyld fiddled and checked the last of her preparations, ensuring nothing had been forgotten or was amiss.
‘Ah but I do fine work.’ Muddick puffed on his pipe, savouring the daylight that streamed through the poky alleyway, an imposing contrast of sun and shadow. A daytime chorus of busy people in the street was just about audible.
‘That you do, that you do. I can’t complain about that.’
Wyld rummaged through her knapsack, passing him a bound roll of money. ‘This should cover you for your services.’
Muddick pocketed it immediately. There was no reason to be shortchanged by this one. Wyld had been a fine customer and was welcome back at any time to do further business. He had use of someone with her talents, but his offers of jobs were completely dismissed. Clearly she had no intention of staying.
‘Do you have all you need?’
The woman pulled on the saddlebags ensuring they were tight enough, vigorously rubbing the horse’s side as its tail swatted away flies. They were clad with plenty of provisions – food, water, temporary shelter and, importantly, ammunition.
‘For the time being.’
‘If you stumble upon something of interest to me, you let me know, okay? You always seem to bring me the best, Wyld. I’ll gladly be accommodating to you. Give you a good price.’
‘Of that I have no doubt.’
Wyld hoisted herself up by a stirrup, wiggling herself until she was comfortable against the pommel of the leather saddle. The reins were taken in hand and wrapped between her fingers, gently enticing the mount’s attention.
‘Which reminds me.’ Muddick looked down the alleyway at those passing in the street, walking alongside as Wyld led the horse along with a clop-clop-clop. He offered out a small square of paper. ‘I asked around about i
nto this individual you’re looking for. You should be thankful he tends to make a scene wherever he goes. Has quite the reputation that one – plenty looking for him on all accounts. I won’t ask if you know the trouble you’re getting into hunting down a mercenary but I would suggest you be careful. Especially in your condition.’
* * *
Wyld unfolded the paper showing a list of known sightings. Deducing these, Wyld presumed they were travelling north. Past the outposts and towns of Surenth, past the Sand Sea itself, the last sighting being a commotion just beyond the mountain overpasses across the territory border. It wasn’t a precise route, not by any means, but there were plenty of leads to chase for now.
Wyld thanked him, filled with a warm determination. ‘It looks like I’m going north,’ she exclaimed, placing the paper into a vest pocket. ‘Eifera by the looks of things.’
‘Quite the journey ahead of you then. There’s good treasure to be found out in the grasslands.’ The old man’s eyes lit up excitedly.
Wyld progressed out into the street, forcing the flow of bodies to step around the animal between her legs. She answered this directly, giving a parting wave before being absorbed into Windberg’s traffic, a shape in a sea of shapes, a pilgrim among others of immeasurable number.
‘Oh, the best,’ Wyld agreed before making her way off.
Chapter Nineteen
Promises Kept
‘State your name for the record,’ came the demand.
‘I gave it to the two guys before you and now you’re asking me again. It’s not like it’s changed since. You all should talk more. Doesn’t give a good impression, you know.’
‘State your name,’ the Bluecoat repeated, standing deskside in no mood for mindless chat.
The interrogation room was a drab concrete grey, with a single reinforced door connecting to the rest of the police station. Its contents were as expected – a simple table and pair of chairs, all secured to the floor by chains to prevent misuse. The prisoner sat awkwardly in his chair, distributing his weight to lessen the pain from the various bruises on his body.
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