Blood of Mystery

by Mark Anthony

  No, this was a gunfight. It was the fastest draw and the best shot that won, not magic.

  By the Lost Eye of Olrig, you’re not a gunfighter, Travis. You’re a runelord! Now speak the rune of iron before it’s too late.

  It was impossible. There shouldn’t have been time; he should already be dead. All the same, Travis opened his mouth and spoke the word.

  “Dur.”

  Time sped up. Travis groped at his chest with his left hand, expecting to feel a bloody pit. He didn’t; he was whole. The high-pitched zing! of the bullet still echoed on the air. It had gone wide and struck a fence post.

  Travis heard another shot behind him, followed by a grunt of pain. “No, do not touch him!” a woman cried. Lirith. However, there was no time to turn around. Locke frowned at his gun, then stretched his arm out and fired again.

  “Dur,” Travis said again, flicking his hand to the left. The bullet whizzed by his head, then was gone.

  Travis moved forward. Locke swore, cocked his six-shooter, fired. Again Travis spoke the rune of iron, again the bullet obeyed his command. He kept closing in on Locke, speaking the rune each time the other fired.

  Finally, Travis was so close he could have reached out and put a finger in the barrel of Locke’s six-shooter. Sweat beaded Locke’s boyish face; his carefully shaved upper lip was trembling. He adjusted his grip on the gun, thumbed back the hammer, pulled the trigger.

  This time Travis didn’t bother to speak a rune.

  Click.

  “You forgot to count, Mr. Locke,” Travis said, a grin spreading across his face, only he didn’t feel like laughing. “You’re out of bullets.”

  “But not out of guns,” Locke snarled. He threw down the six-shooter, reached into the breast pocket of his coat, and pulled out a small derringer. Before Travis could move or speak, Locke pulled the trigger.

  It felt like someone had clapped Travis on the ears. Fire ignited in his right hand; the Peacemaker flew from his grip and skittered to the dirt a dozen feet away. Travis prepared himself for the next shot, ready to speak Dur this time, but Locke had already turned and was running.

  “Kill them, Murray!” Locke shouted over his shoulder. “Kill them all now!”

  The creature that had been Calvin Murray opened its wolf jaws, emitting a wet growl. Sareth jerked, twisting away from the monster, but he lost his balance and tumbled to the ground. The thing bent over him, raising its lion paw.

  With practiced motions he had never used before in his life, Travis lunged for his six-shooter, rolled on the ground, and came up firing. Two more bullets, Travis thought, keeping count. Both struck what was Calvin Murray square in the chest. The beast toppled backward, thudding to the ground.

  Travis looked down. Blood streamed from an angry red line on the back of his right hand, but it was only a graze. He tightened his fingers around the grip of the Peacemaker and ignored the pain.

  Sareth lay on his side, struggling with his bonds, trying to get his leg through the circle of his arms. Travis glanced over his shoulder. Dusk was falling, and there was too much smoke; he couldn’t see what was happening. Someone was on the ground. But who? Tanner was trying to take aim with his rifle, but he couldn’t get a clear shot. Lirith’s eyes were shut, her fingers weaving.

  Travis wanted to go help them; they needed him, and so did Sareth. Then he clenched his jaw, turned, and ran the other direction, after Locke.

  He’s going to fetch the sorcerer. No matter what happens, you can’t let him do that.

  Locke had vanished around the end of the line of stalls. Panting, Travis reached the last stall, then edged around the corner. A gunshot sounded, the wood next to Travis’s cheek splintered. He ducked back around the corner. Locke must have a supply of bullets.

  But the derringer only holds one bullet in its chamber. He’ll have to reload between every shot.

  How did he know that? But he didn’t; Tanner did. Lirith’s spell was still working. He dashed around the corner. Ahead was a scattering of tack sheds and outbuildings. He lowered his head and ran.

  Gunfire sounded again just as Travis made it to the first of the buildings and pressed himself against the clapboard wall. It seemed Locke was a quick reloader.

  Travis peered around the corner. There—a shadow in the dim space between two sheds. The grip of the revolver was slick with blood, but Travis tightened his fingers around it, cocked the hammer, and fired. The bullet sped straight toward its target——and once again ricocheted off with a bright ping. The shadow turned and fled.

  Travis ran toward the two buildings where he had seen the shadow. By the time he reached the sheds, the path between them was empty. He started around the corner and nearly got a bullet in the face, but this time he was quick enough to speak Dur, and the metal slug slammed into a wall instead. He adjusted his spectacles, then saw the shadow he knew was Locke dart from the cover of an overturned trough toward a tall windmill. Travis led the figure slightly with his aim—Tanner’s instinct again—then fired.

  Another ping let Travis know the sorcerer’s enchantment was still working. Maybe if he was close enough, a bullet would be able to pierce the shadowy cloak. But he had been counting, and he knew five of the chambers in his revolver were empty. He had one chance left.

  Travis raced forward and dived behind the trough. A second later a bullet dug deep into the weathered wood. He had his chance, while Locke was reloading the derringer. Travis sprang up and ran.

  He didn’t head straight toward the windmill, but instead ran to the right, then turned to approach from the side. It was hard to see in the gloom, but he could make out the wooden shed that housed the mechanism of the windmill, as well as a large cistern that held the water the windmill pumped from the ground.

  “Sirith,” Travis murmured as he drew closer. Silence folded in around him. Careful to keep out of sight, Travis circled around the back of the windmill’s shed.

  A dim shape huddled between shed and tub, fumbling with something. Locke was reloading the derringer. He darted upward, fired the gun over the cistern—in the opposite direction from Travis—then ducked back down.

  The rune of silence had worked. Locke hadn’t heard him coming; he still thought Travis was hiding behind the old trough. Locke started to fumbled again with the derringer, reloading it. Then he halted at the sound of a gun being cocked. Travis felt a fierce grin slice across his face. He had dismissed the rune of silence; he wanted Locke to hear death coming.

  Locke scrambled to his feet and turned around. The whites of his eyes showed in the twilight. Travis pointed the Peacemaker at Locke’s chest. The empty derringer slipped from Locke’s fingers and fell to the dust.

  “You can’t kill me,” Locke said.

  Travis tightened his grip on the bloody gun. “How do you know that?”

  “Because you’re just a man, and he’s...” Locke shuddered, but then his teeth showed in the half-light like a crescent moon. “He’s strong. Like nothing you’ve ever seen. Strong, and clever, and just. After he showed up, taking over this town was as easy as winning at poker with all the aces in your hand. Once we’re done with you, we’ll take over another town, and then another. And the next thing you know, I’ll be governor of Colorado. Then I can purge the sin from this whole state just like I did from this town.”

  Travis felt neither pity nor sorrow. “He’s only using you, Locke. All he wants is the scarab. Once he has it, he’ll dispose of you like you disposed of Hale.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Locke said. However, even in the dimness, Travis could see fear flicker in his eyes. “He needs me to make his way in this world.”

  “He doesn’t care about this world,” Travis said. “It’s not his own. All he wants is to escape it.”

  Somewhere an owl hooted, beginning its nightly hunt. Locke’s eyes narrowed. “Go ahead, Mr. Caine. You’re a man-killer. Shoot me. Then you’ll see how strong he really is.” He spread his arms wide. “Go on. He’s cast a cloak over m
e, a cloak stronger than any armor. A cloak of righteousness. No bullet alone is enough to pierce it.”

  Travis knew Locke was right. No bullet alone could break through the sorcerer’s spell. But Jack had been right as well. Travis wasn’t a gunfighter. He was a runelord.

  He leveled the revolver at Locke’s chest.

  “Reth,” Travis said.

  And fired.

  A hot strobe of light cauterized the gloom. In the flash, Travis saw the shadow that surrounded Locke rip to tatters like cheap cloth. Then dusk closed back in.

  Travis blinked, trying to clear his vision, then he sucked in a breath. Locke still stood before him. Faint sparks of light seemed to dance in front of Locke. Afterimages from the flash of gunpowder? Travis blinked again, but the sparks of light didn’t go away.

  They were stars. The sparks of light he was seeing were stars just appearing in the sky low to the horizon. They weren’t dancing on the air before Travis’s eyes. He was seeing them through the hole in Locke’s chest.

  Travis reached out and touched the other man’s shoulder. Aaron Locke toppled backward, falling to the ground with a thud. It had worked. The rune of breaking had destroyed the shield created by the sorcerer. The empty gun slipped from Travis’s wet fingers. He stepped back from the body and turned around.

  With a roar, the creature that had been Calvin Murray lashed out with its human fist, striking Travis in the cheek.

  Travis heard a sound like breaking glass. Blood spilled into his mouth. He staggered, then sat down hard on the ground. The beast reared above him in the gloom, baring wolf teeth, extending lion claws. Black fluid oozed from the two holes in its chest. Travis tried to speak a rune, but there was too much blood in his mouth, along with sharp pieces of something hard.

  It’s going to tear your throat out, Travis.

  Light and sound rent the night like lightning. Illuminated by the flash, Calvin Murray’s head vaporized in a wet cloud of blood, bone, and brains. The creature fell to the ground in front of Travis, jerked once, then lay still.

  Travis looked up. Another figure was visible in the starlight: a slightly built man with a drooping mustache and a shotgun in his hands.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Wilder?” Tanner said.

  Travis glanced at the two fallen forms, one on either side of him, then cradled his hand against his chest. It stung a little, that was all. “I think so.”

  “Then you’d better come. It’s Mr. Samson. Miss Lily and Mr. Dirk are with him.”

  Alarm coursed through Travis, clearing his head. He gained his feet and started moving. Tanner retrieved the fallen Peacemaker and followed.

  Travis reached the row of stalls and saw Durge standing above Lirith, who knelt on the ground beside Sareth. Travis hurried closer. Three forms sprawled on the dirt not far away, and he was dimly aware of the fact that none of them seemed to have heads. Then he turned his attention on Lirith.

  “What is it?” It was hard to talk. His jaw wasn’t working right. “Is something wrong with Sareth?”

  The Mournish man shook his head. “I’m fine. Weak, that’s all. They didn’t hurt me.”

  “What of Lord Locke?” Durge said.

  “He’s dead,” Tanner said, limping toward them. “Travis got him with a clean shot.”

  Travis winced at these words. How could a shot be clean? It was anything but. He had killed a man. That was a terrible deed, no matter how evil Locke had been.

  “And the beast?” Lirith said. “We saw it run that way, pursuing Travis.”

  Tanner hefted his shotgun. “This took care of it.”

  Travis leaned back on his heels, looking over his shoulder at the three bodies. “Gentry?”

  Durge nodded. “And Ellis and Wilson. It would not have been so difficult to deal with them, save that I had to take their heads off.”

  “They were not alive,” Lirith said in answer to Travis’s confused look. “The sorcerer had slain them and had remade them with his magic.”

  Travis felt sick. So that was their reward for their loyalty. “Like Murray, you mean?”

  “In a way. He did not alter their bodies. But their blood was...wrong. They were tainted. I knew it was not wise to come in contact with them.”

  “I had a hard time getting in a shot,” Tanner said. “Luckily, Mr. Dirk is pretty handy with that big knife of his.”

  Travis’s gaze moved to the sword Durge gripped before him, tip resting on the ground. The blade was dark with blood.

  “So the Crusade for Purity is gone,” he said. “It’s all over.”

  “No, Travis, it’s not,” Sareth said. A shudder passed through him. He said they hadn’t harmed him, but Travis doubted that. It wasn’t just the darkness that caused shadows to gather beneath his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks. By the grim line of her mouth, Lirith saw it, too. She gripped Sareth’s hand as if she never meant to let go.

  “What do you mean?” Travis said.

  Sareth licked his lips. “The sorcerer. I heard him talking to Lord Locke earlier. I didn’t see him, but...that voice. Like the hiss of a snake. It had to be him. I didn’t hear much, but I heard him mention something about the Bluebell. And then he spoke a name I recognized.”

  Travis felt cold, his sweat-soaked shirt clammy against his skin. “What name?”

  “Jack Graystone.”

  Travis sprang to his feet. He felt like vomiting. Instead he spat out a mouthful of blood and the remains of a tooth.

  “Travis, you’re hurt,” Lirith said. “Your jaw. And your hand...”

  “It’s nothing. We’ve got to get to the Bluebell. Now.”

  Durge knelt, circled his arms around Sareth, and picked up the Mournish man as easily as if he were a child. It was testament to Sareth’s state that he did not protest. Lirith gave Tanner her arm to lean on, and Travis led the way as they hurried back down the road to the wagon.

  It seemed to take forever. By the time they reached the wagon it was full dark. They laid Sareth in the back, and Lirith cradled his head in her lap. Tanner sat beside her, shoulders slumped, face gaunt.

  They were a mess, Travis realized. All of them. Even Durge. He was bleeding from a shallow wound in his side; a bullet must have grazed him. A few inches farther in and it would have hit his heart.

  “Why, Travis?” Durge said as he climbed into the driver’s bench. “Why would the sorcerer care about Lord Graystone?”

  Travis clambered up next to him. “I don’t know, Durge, I—”

  The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, trickled down his throat, filled his stomach with dread.

  “What is it, Travis?”

  He was wrong; he did know what the sorcerer wanted with Jack. Jack himself had said it earlier when they were leaving the Bluebell; that was why his words had bothered Travis.

  I find I rather like you, and I’m looking forward to our future friendship. I’d hate very much if that didn’t come to pass....

  “Oh, God,” Travis said softly. He was shivering. “That’s what he’s wanted all along. The sorcerer. Not to go back, but to keep from coming in the first place.”

  “You’re not making sense, Travis.”

  But he was. “Don’t you see, Durge? He’s going to try to stop it from happening.”

  The knight shook his head. “To stop what from happening?”

  “The future.”

  63.

  Durge gripped the reins in tight fists as the wagon hurtled through the night. Travis knew it was reckless to go so fast in the dark. If they hit a deep rut, an axle could break, sending the wagon careening down a slope or into a gully. All the same, he only adjusted his grip on the bench as Durge slapped the reins, urging the horses to gallop faster.

  A moan of pain emanated from the back of the wagon as they rattled over a section of road that had been turned to washboard by the passage of countless wheels. Travis looked back over his shoulder. The moon had just eked its way over Signal Ridge, and in the wan light he saw Lirith bending over S
areth’s head, her hands on his temples.

  “How is he?” Travis asked above the rattle of the wheels.

  “He drifts in and out from moment to moment,” Lirith said. “He’s weak from thirst and hunger. But that’s not what concerns me. It’s his illness. It grows...worse.”

  Travis understood. It was as if the demon was continuing the work it had begun two years earlier when it took his leg, and was now consuming him bit by bit.

  Lirith looked up, her eyes dark as the night. “We must return to Eldh. The Weirding is far stronger there than it is here. I believe I can sustain his thread while he heals. But not in this world.”

  Travis couldn’t find words to answer her. He glanced at Tanner. “Are you—?”

  “I’m fine,” the sheriff said, although he looked anything but. He leaned against the wall of the wagon, his face sharply lined in the moonlight. “Don’t you worry about me, Mr. Wilder. Just go and help your friend, Mr. Graystone.”

  Travis turned around on the bench. Gold sparks danced in the distance. Castle City. “How much longer?”

  “Not long.” The knight glanced at him. “You believe the sorcerer is going to try to kill Lord Graystone.”

  “I know he is. That’s why the Scirathi went to London. We were wrong—he’s not interested in returning to the future. He wants to stop it from happening. Or at least from happening the way it did.”

  “And how would killing Lord Graystone achieve this?”

  “If he kills Jack in 1883, then more than a century from now Jack won’t be here in Castle City to give me Sinfathisar. And if I didn’t have the Great Stone, there’s no way I would have been able to defeat the demon in the Etherion. The Scirathi would have won.”

  Durge let out a snort. “But they would not have won regardless. Xemeth betrayed the sorcerers. The only reason this sorcerer survived to follow us was because you destroyed the demon Xemeth unleashed.”

  “That’s true.” Travis put the pieces together in his mind. “But there’s no way the sorcerer could know about Xemeth’s betrayal. In the Etherion, he was under the spell of the demon. And we never talked about Xemeth those times he was listening to us.”