TALES OF THE FAR WEST

by Scott Lynch

  The crude threat brought hails of fresh merriment from the assembled men, but Melodious Flight did reply except to shift his grip upon his staff. He merely waited. He knew it was too much to hope that they would be reasonable, but he felt it only fair to present the option.

  Finally Tsang shook his head. He spat, the gobbet of spit and tobacco juice landing just shy of Melodious Flight’s feet and flowing toward him in a narrow rivulet that appeared black in the night. “Fine, then,” the thug snarled. “Let’s do this, boys. An’ if Mister Music gets in your way—burn him down with all the rest of ’em!”

  With that threat still hanging in the air Tsang kicked his horse into motion. It startled, and leaped forward, straight toward Melodious Flight, who still had not moved. He stood poised and still as the steed charged, hands loose but firm upon the staff—

  —and just as the horse’s head neared his own he twisted to one side, pivoting to let that long skull glide past, and delivered it a sharp rap upon the nose with the side of his staff.

  Startled, the horse flung its head to the side and bucked. Tsang went flying, his ungainly form sailing over Melodious Flight’s head, a yelp emerging from his chapped lips as he arced up and then back down, crashing to the ground with a resounding thunk mingled with the sharp crack of breaking bones. Miraculously he missed not only the huts but the stone rings of their cook fires, and it was only hard-packed mud he impacted, but that was enough to leave Tsang groaning and barely conscious.

  For a second, no one else moved. They stared at their leader, huddled there in a shattered heap, and at Melodious Flight, who had resumed his earlier stance and faced them once more.

  Then one of the men—perhaps the same who had been earlier emboldened by his anonymity—shouted, “He took down the boss! Get ’em!”

  The night exploded into violence and motion.

  Horses rushed toward him in a tumult, but Melodious Flight raised his staff before him and began to twirl it in both hands, its ends spinning around in a fearsome arc that cracked horse and human alike, the hard wood leaving men reeling and horses panicked. Torches were knocked from hands, guns sent spinning off into the night, whips and ropes fell underfoot and were trampled. It was madness, and in the middle of it he stood, swaying as if drunk, his loose limbs and relaxed stance allowing him to duck beneath blows and glide aside from hooves and teeth to remain unscathed.

  After that initial rush the remaining men fell back, more wary now, and surveyed the scene. Tsang had brought eleven with him, he’d boasted, but only five were still ahorse, and of those two were rubbing their heads and wincing. The other three eyed Melodious Flight carefully, watching that staff as it spun, and he could see the thoughts in their heads, the decisions they were weighing. Should they still attempt it, with their numbers reduced so severely? Or should they back away now, leaving Tsang to shoulder the blame?

  He saw the jaw of one stiffen, the brow of another lower, and knew with a grim certainty the choice they had made. He also guessed that these men, who had not been foolish enough to plunge forward headlong at the first, had now learned far better than to close with him. They would attack from where they sat, safe beyond his reach, and strike him down.

  But he had already made his decision for that night. He was committed. Holding back now would be folly, and would risk his choice having been for naught.

  So he attacked.

  Sliding forward at a sudden run, his wrapped feet soundless against the mud, Melodious Flight gracefully bridged the distance while the men were still reaching for their guns. His staff shot out, its end slamming into one man’s forehead with an impact that sent him reeling back and off his horse, the gun falling from his grip to strike the ground a moment after he hit without even a groan.

  By then Melodious Flight was already in among the horses, and he twirled his staff high above his own head, spinning it in one hand so that it struck two other men in the temples and knocked them to the floor of the riverbed as well.

  The other two men had drawn their guns by now, but they could not see him clearly to shoot, as he was shielded by the bodies of their friends’ horses. He used that confusion to his advantage, ducking behind one horse and then leaping up and forward to straddle another. His feet found the stirrups and he stood, perched above the saddle, his staff striking down one of the last two men from that new vantage. The other was on his opposite side, and had enough time to stare in surprise and raise his pistol but not aim it before a well-placed tap took him down as well.

  And then all was silent save the grumbling of the horses, and here and there the moans and whimpers of the men.

  Melodious Flight steadied the horse he was astride, calming it with a gentle hand along its heaving neck and a low, reassuring hum. Once it quieted he dismounted and moved among the other steeds, settling them as well. After that he saw to the men. Two were dead, their necks bent askew from falling badly. The rest had bruises and breaks of their own, but they would survive and mend with time. The ropes he retrieved bound them securely, and then Melodious Flight ground-tied the horses, returned to the cook-fire, and stirred it alight, the sparks rising up with the night breeze to flutter about him like the butterflies he already yearned to recover.

  It was with thoughts of them that he fell into a light but untroubled sleep.

  When the dawn stretched forth its wavering rays the next morn, that illumination found Melodious Flight standing by the prayer gates to the Jade-Encrusted Noble’s manse. A servant spied him there and went running within, to return a moment later with the slender man called Nimble. That one took one look at Melodious Flight, not failing to notice the silk about his hands and fingers, and motioned for him to follow into the house. Melodious Flight did, with a touch more unease than had accompanied him before.

  They found the master of the house pacing in the same room as before. His robes had been set aside for riding clothes, fitted pants and tall boots and a snug high-collared jacket, jade shining from each. A handsome pistol hung at his side, a sword at the other, both of them with hilts carved of the green stone. When he saw Melodious Flight his glower became a fearsome scowl.

  “You,” he snarled, the world launched like an arrow across the room. “Tsang and his boys haven’t returned. Did you have something to do with this?”

  Melodious Flight only bowed.

  “You’re a Wandering Star!” the Jade-Encrusted Noble reminded him, though from his lips the noble clan name sounded almost an epithet. “You can’t interfere!”

  Melodious Flight played upon his flute, and then explained amid the echoes:

  warmth and compassion all given from nought

  payment beyond price safety fairly bought

  “They hired you to protect them, those villagers?” The accusation emerged through a sneer. “With what, mud and rice? But that’s not a message, is it? That’s not what you do!”

  Nimble was there beside him then, and whispered in the lord’s ear. Melodious Flight saw the man’s eyes widen as he stared, apparently seeing the silk wrappings for the first time. It was clear the slender man knew what they betokened, and now his master wondered at the wisdom of granting him entry.

  To allay those fears, and hopefully find a solution to what Melodious Flight knew could be an ongoing feud, he loosed his music again:

  rhythm soothes the beast guide the maddened flight

  to thread the needle for a price comes speed

  The Jade-Encrusted Noble studied him, those cold eyes narrowed in calculation, one hand stroking the oiled and beaded hair of his pointed beard. “So you would offer to see my cattle safely past the village?” he asked, and Melodious Flight nodded. “For a price.” Another nod.

  They stood thus, the lord considering, the Wandering Star waiting and still, the henchman watching. Finally, the master posed the question to his man, “What do you think, Nimble?”

  The man called Nimble studied Melodious Flight, and smiled, though the expression had little mirth to it as it touched his t
hin lips. “I think he could have killed us both within an eyeblink, had he wanted. Or walked away and left you to lose your fortune when your cattle didn’t reach the market in time. But he didn’t.”

  The Noble nodded. “Fine. You get my cattle past that village, and I won’t hold any of this against them. Nor will I take the riverbed route again—by the time the next season’s drive rolls around, the bridge will be restored, and that route’s faster, anyway.” He paced closer, glaring at Melodious Flight from a distance of only a few feet. “Is that acceptable to you?”

  Melodious Flight smiled, and bowed.

  “Good.” He thought he detected grudging respect in the voice of the cattle baron. “Then name your price. I want my cattle on the move before the sun’s any further in the sky.”

  A short time later, Melodious Flight found himself once again before the village, though now his shadow stretched long behind him as the sun began to rise in earnest. Tsang and his men were stirring, most of them, but the villagers had dragged them off to the far side, up against the riverbank. Their horses were tethered there as well, and one farmer led away the horse Melodious Flight had ridden here, bringing it toward its fellows while he unlimbered his staff once more.

  Within minutes the sound of rushing reached them all. But this thundering was not water, and an instant later a cloud of dust came into view from around the bend. As it drew closer, Melodious Flight raised the staff to his lips.

  There were no words this time, nor did he need them. And children did not dance around him—they had been taken up out of the riverbed, and were huddled under trees just beyond, with their mothers. Only the men of the village remained, clustered behind him, ready to fight or to flee if necessary, but prepared to face what came. Melodious Flight could feel their determination like a wave of warmth at his back, and he fed that into his music as well, focus and passion and courage and determination and, above all, the unwillingness to be moved for another’s pleasure. The song that soared forth was fierce and bold, its melody strong and sharp but not bitter nor wholly somber, its rich rhythm smooth and steady and unyielding.

  The cows were visible by then, their heads and hooves surfacing from the cloud at random intervals, as if they were swimming in a sea of dust, and Melodious Flight could see the whites of their eyes as they ran, caught up in the momentum of the herd, wild and crazed and uncaring.

  But their large ears twitched as the music reached them. They snorted and bellowed over its rhythm, but Melodious Flight played on, and his song would not be denied.

  As the first cow came within a dozen horse-lengths of the village, it shied away from that melody. It twisted to the side, and then it was running abreast of the village, passing it to the side, through the wagon-wide path they had left between the outermost hut and the far riverbank.

  The next cow followed its lead. And the next. And those after that. Soon the entire herd was passing through that narrow gap, slowing only enough to shove through before picking up speed again on the far side.

  They continued flowing past throughout the day, and Melodious Flight played the entire time. When at last the final cows had charged on by, he lowered his staff. Swaying on his feet, he might have fallen if the old farmer had not reappeared and lent a shoulder for support. Another man was there at his other side, and together they helped Melodious Flight sit. A third brought hot tea, while the other men went to retrieve their wives and children from the bank. A ragged cheer went up when they all saw that the danger had passed, and Melodious Flight allowed himself to smile.

  After the tea had soothed his sore lips and jaw, and his hands had stopped shaking from the strain, he began to unwrap his bandages. First on one hand, then the other, his butterflies soared once more, their colorful wings catching the late afternoon light.

  And a single drop of jade glittered in his ear, a match for those set in the bridle of the horse tethered off to the side.

  His wings freed once more, Melodious Flight lifted the staff again. This song was filled with joy, his and that of the village around him, and the children soon picked up the tune, dancing and singing and laughing. Their parents joined in after a moment, and the dusk was filled with their merriment.

  Melodious Flight knew that he would be departing in the morning. But for now he embraced the melody, and committed it to memory. It would reside within him for the rest of his days, and at times when the way was long and hard he would revisit it, and remember the time he had stilled his wings—and brought forth joy and safety to lift them into flight once more.

  in stillness, music the heart hears truly

  silk settled on wings new paths must be found

  _________________________________________________

  Aaron Rosenberg is an award-winning, bestselling novelist, children’s book author, and game designer. He’s written original fiction, tie-in novels, young adult novels, children’s books, roleplaying games, short stories, webcomics, essays, and educational books. He has ranged from mystery to speculative fiction to drama to comedy, always with the same intent—to tell a good story. You can visit him online at gryphonrose.com or follow him on Twitter @gryphonrose.

  RIDING THE THUNDERBIRD

  by Chuck Wendig

  Sometimes, the thunderbirds just run.

  Nobody really knows why. The herd will suddenly spook—the bull’s head pops up like a whistle-pig at the hole and next thing everybody knows, the entire court is running one way. Then they turn on a silver bit, first going north, then headed east, or south, and then soon back north again.

  A ballet of thick-necked, strong-willed birds. The ground grumbling and shuddering like the floorboards of a train depot as the steam engine thunders past.

  Casey, age 12 (“and a half,” she’ll have you know), stands on a butte, staring down at the thunderbirds running. Kicking up wild plumes of dust. Knocking loose scree that slides and skitters down the sandstone edge.

  A man stands behind her. She doesn’t know it. His shadow faces the other way—apropos, given his name. As the girl stands there looking over the lip, dust-caked red hair wound up in a braided coil, the man makes sure to scuff the ground with a silver-toed boot. To announce his presence.

  She wheels. Draws the only weapon she has: a straight razor with a crabshell handle polished to a milky gleam.

  “Don’t drop it, now,” he says. His voice is low, wet, throaty. He lifts the bowler cap, takes it off, tucks it under his arm. She sees his eyes are like black marbles seated in sunburned flesh nicked and marked with the furrows of crow’s feet. He holds his midsection, the flat of his hand tucked between the buttons the way a gentleman might comport himself.

  But he doesn’t look like any gentleman Casey’s ever seen.

  No. This one looks like a ball of tangled dirty brush blown in off the Sevenfork Road.

  “Don’t you tell me what to do,” she says—she spits it, really, ptoo-ing those words at him the way another man might hawk up a loogey and launch it in your eye. Just the same, her voice shakes and trembles.

  “Fair enough.”

  “My homestead ain’t but a quarter-click from here.”

  “I know that. I went by there first.”

  “You lookin’ for my Daddy?”

  “Naw.” A glint of something in his eye.

  “You can’t be lookin’ for my Mommy because she tucked her tail between her womanly parts and hit the road eleven of my twelve years back.”

  “I believe that.” And by the look on his face, he truly does.

  “So whaddyou want then?”

  “I just… “ Those dark marble eyes search the horizon. Wine-stained fingers rise and see the sun as it sets. Darkness comes, means it’s time for the Wolf and the Rabbit to play.

  “You just what? Say what you feel or be on your way.” The razor trembles in her hand.

  “I figure I could teach you to ride one of those thunderbirds.”

  “You’re mule-kicked.”

  “Ain’t no such thing.”
/>   “You’re thunderbird-kicked, then.”

  He laughs, but somehow it isn’t a happy sound. “Thunderbird kicks you, you’ll find your head broken into two pieces, like a blue-knot gourd clubbed with a claw hammer. Ain’t that either, little girl. I’ve ridden the thunderbirds.”

  “Oh yeah? How?”

  It’s then he takes another step toward her. His hand slips out of his jacket, and she sees his palm is flaked with red. Blood. Dry, now, but blood just the same.

  “Look,” he says, pointing down. “It’s all about the bull-bird. That fat-necked sumbitch runs the roost and all the other squawkers take a lesson from him.” He grunts, adjusts his footing. “You rule that bird, you rule the rest.”

  Down in the valley, the bull is plainly seen leading the running court. Sounds like an earthquake.

  The girls eyes the man, though, instead of the birds.

  “Eyes on them, not on me,” he says.

  “I’ll cut you,” she says. “I don’t trust you. I don’t know you.”

  “You know me.”

  “I swear I do not, stop playing games.”

  “They call me Shadow-Faces-The-Other-Way.”

  The girl is silent. Her mouth opens. Eyes blink.

  She knows. Knows who he is. And knows it’s true.

  “I…” Her eyes dart, look for a way out—a way to run. She even looks over the butte’s edge, down into the scrub and the scrape and it looks for a moment like she’s thinking of going that way, but Shadow places a hand—a gentle hand, as gentle as a petal from a phial-cactus alighting upon her—on her shoulder and shakes his head.