by Scott Lynch
“I’m not here to hurt you.”
“You hurt a lot of people.”
“People that deserved it. People that did wrong by me. By others.”
“You’re a murderer.”
“I’m a hero.”
The air is still between them. It’s just dust and fading sunlight and the tumble of thunderbirds.
Something passes between them then. If not an understanding, then something close.
Casey finds her words past a croak and stammers: “The, uh, the bull-bird. You say you need to ride the bull-bird first.”
“Mm, naw,” he says, sucking air between his teeth. “That’s not it. Never try to ride the bull-bird. Too rough a beast, too headstrong. That bastard will throw you so far you’ll wake up in the Dreaming Desert. No, you just have to dominate the bull. Embarrass him a little.”
“Embarrass him.”
“Yep. Lasso him. Force him to the ground. Pluck a few of his tail-feathers or rub dirt in his beak-holes. An act that shows your mastery. Then you let him go.”
“I don’t get it.”
“The others in the herd. That buys you a kind of respect among them. They start to see you as a bull-bird, too. Then all it takes to ride one is to—“
A sound like thunder—real thunder, close thunder, not the long protracted rumble of the birds running—splits the air, and suddenly Shadow staggers backward, boots kicking out from under him, falling flat on his back. The girl drops her razor, runs over to him.
A hole in his chest pumps red—a black dark bubbler of blood.
Shadow licks blood from his teeth.
“Guess I had less time than I thought,” he says.
“You’re shot.”
He chuckles. “You have a profound mastery over the obvious.”
“You’re shot!”
“Hey. Hey.” He grabs her hand hard. Casey winces. He moves her hand to his hip, pulls back his coat, reveals a seven-shooter—a Waoping Silver-Thrower with bamboo grip. “Take it.”
“What! My Daddy… he wouldn’t want me having a gun.”
The man gnaws on the inside of his cheek. Blood trickles from the side of his mouth. “I’m sure he would, darling. I’m sure he would.”
Time seems to warp and distort as the sun sets and the moons rise.
With a clumsy fumble he draws the gun from the holster, puts it in her hand.
It’s shiny. And cold. And heavy with threat—or maybe promise?
He helps her with the weapon. Tucks it into the back hem of her pants.
“Go,” he says, easing her back.
“Wait—“
“Go.” A harder shove. She lands on her butt.
Just as another man ascends the butte.
Or, at least, she assumes it’s a man. The long leather cloak. The porcelain mask with an owl’s face painted upon it. The long rifle with brass oculus.
One of the Marshals.
“Stand back, child,” the Marshal says, voice processed through some kind of music box—it tinkles and tinks and behind the words are a strange discordant melody.
The Marshall raises the rifle to its shoulder.
“Casey—“ Shadow-Faces-The-Other-Way starts to say, lifting his head.
But his word is cut off by the loud bark of the rifle.
His head thumbs back against the hard rock. Blood crawls between sandstone grooves.
“Why?” Casey asks the Marshal.
But the masked figure doesn’t answer. Instead it just slings the rifle over the padded shoulder, pulls the cloak tighter, and once more descends down the sloping side of the butte.
The thunderbirds run. Booming and crashing.
Casey feels the gun, his gun, at her back. The Waoping. A gun said to be made in the heart of a Fury Engine by Master Waoping, the Gunsmith of the Malachite Steppe.
It strikes her, then –
He knew my name.
But she never told him.
He knew my name.
She draws the gun. With quivering thumb, pops the cylinder. Sees seven rounds tucked in their place. Casey moves to the edge of the butte, sees the Marshal descending toward—his? her?—men, a cabal of armed soldiers below.
No, you have to dominate the bull.
Embarrass him a little.
Shadow lies dead behind her.
The gun feels proper in her grip.
She cocks the Waoping.
Run, Thunderbirds. Run.
_________________________________________________
Chuck Wendig is equal parts novelist, screenwriter, and game designer. He is the author of the novels DOUBLE DEAD, BLACKBIRDS, and MOCKINGBIRD. In addition, he’s got a metric boatload of writing-related e-books available, including the popular 500 WAYS TO BE A BETTER WRITER. He currently lives in the wilds of Pennsyltucky with wife, dog, and newborn progeny.
PURITY OF PURPOSE
By Gareth-Michael Skarka
The old Master leaned heavily on his staff as he surveyed the group of students seated before him on the hard clay of the courtyard. A dozen or so, each of whom had braved the hard climb through some of the roughest terrain in the Eagle’s Claws to reach the remote hermitage. Getting here was test enough, yet today, as with every day since their arrival, the old Master continued to test them.
“Answer me this: What are the Unsurpassed Weapons?”
The students hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. The question was simple enough — a recitation of a lesson given by the Master days earlier. His questions were never that easy, however.
The silence of the nervous students was broken by the sound of one rising to his feet. The old Master recalled that this one was from the Thousand Mesas, many days to the south. The Master did not recall his name. He never bothered to learn their names until the second year.
The student stood until he was sure the Master’s attention was upon him. He answered, clearly and confidently, in a strong Castalan accent that confirmed the Master’s recollection of his origins: “Master, the Unsurpassed Weapons are The Pistol and The Sword.”
“Correct,” said the Master, “and why are they called so?”
Smiles broke out among the less disciplined of the gathered class. This is what they had feared, the old man’s trap.
The standing student paused momentarily before answering. “Purity of purpose, Master.”
A slight twitch at the corner of the mouth and a reflexively raised eyebrow where the only evidence of the shocked surprise on the face of the old Master. This one bears watching, he thought.
“Correct. The Unsurpassed Weapons represent the pinnacle of the form, due to purity of purpose. Every other weapon is an adapted tool. A spear or a rifle is used for hunting. An axe for the felling of trees. A hammer for driving nails. A knife for everything from cutting rope to whittling to carving a steak. The Pistol and The Sword, though… they were built for a single use. They have no other purpose, but to take a life.”
“What are the greatest among the Unsurpassed Weapons, Master?” A question shouted from one of the seated students — a slight boy from somewhere in the Periphery, if the Master recalled correctly. The standing student glared at his classmate momentarily, for the breach in protocol — a student should stand before speaking, and then only speak when prompted. He quickly regained his composure, returning his attention to the Master, who directed him to sit.
“There are many. Weapons built by legendary smiths and wielded by heroes and villains alike. You’ve all doubtless read the dime novels.”
A few chuckles fluttered through the class like butterflies.
“Judge Wellam’s Thrice Repeating Sword, The Lone Gun, Green Harmony, The Maiden’s Sixgun… all fine weapons, and each rightfully famous. To my mind, however, the pinnacle of the Unsurpassed Weapons would have to be Wind and Fire.”
The old Master sat down on a stool under the only shade tree in the courtyard, and wiped his brow with a sleeve. “A matched pair of long-barrel pistols, build over a century ago by a man who w
as looking to kill a god, or so the tales go. The finest ironwork you’ve ever seen. Carved into each handle, in the old speech, the names of each gun — Wind and Fire. Those handles have been worn smooth by the hands of many men over the years — some good, some evil, all terrible. Always worn in a reverse rig, high on the belt line, to be drawn cross-handed — and so that the grips, with the names emblazoned, can be seen clearly. Red tassels, like you put on a sword, are hung from the bottoms of the grips to draw the eye. Almost like the guns want their names to be seen, as if to say ‘Stand down, for we have killed better men than you.’”
The old man fell silent for a moment.
“Dismissed. Get to the kitchens and get the meal ready.” The students rose, and dutifully filed out, but the old Master saw that the one from the Thousand Mesas stood for a moment, regarding him, before joining his classmates.
The cool night air of the mountains brought an unwelcome ache to the old Master’s bones as he finished his evening pipe. Knocking the spent tobacco from the bowl, he slowly made his way through the darkened hallways of the hermitage, back to his chamber.
He was not surprised to find the student from the Thousand Mesas there, standing at his writing desk in the middle of the room. On the desk was the burlap bag from the bottom of the steamer trunk which had served as the old man’s dresser since he had carried it up the mountain decades ago.
“Your name?” The Master asked, as he walked, bent with age, towards the desk.
“Navi Herroah,” he said.
“And what brings you to my chamber this evening, Herroah-si?” The Master said, in the young man’s native Castalan.
Herroah pulled the guns out of the bag. The metal glimmered with an oiled sheen, even after all these years. The worn grips with the carved sigils protruded from the ancient leather of the holster rig, and the tassles seemed black in the moonlight, rather than the vibrant red that was seared into the old man’s memory. Even lying there on the table, the pistols seemed like living things, coiled and ready to strike… predatory and heavy with menace.
The old man shook his head sadly. “You didn’t come here for instruction. I should’ve known that. You already knew too much.”
Herroah’s lip curled in an arrogant sneer at the old man’s acknowledgement of his skill.
…which was all the distraction that the Master needed.
With blinding speed, the old man kicked the desk, shattering it in twain. As the desk exploded upward, the guns flew into the air, along with papers, an ink pot and pen, and the other contents of the desk, like blown leaves in the autumn.
Herroah’s training took over after only a moment’s pause from the shock of the sudden action of the old man he had thought feeble. He drove forward, hands curled into the claws of the Ascendent Eagle style, looking to tear the throat from the old man. His speed was impressive, and his fingers dug deep.
The Master’s jacket tore away in Herroah’s hand. For no sooner had the Master landed the kick, he had begun his leap. The Thousand Mesa’s Ascendent Eagle style, rather than tearing out his throat, only managed to grasp cloth as the old man flipped into the air over Herroah’s head.
When he landed behind the young man, the old Master had Wind and Fire in his hands.
Herroah spun to relaunch his attack, only to be cut down in an instant as the two pistols roared their disapproval in the confined space of the Master’s chamber. His body hit the floor before the last of the papers had finished drifting to the ground.
The old man looked down at the smoking guns in his hands, the worn grips which fit so perfectly against his palms. They had delivered the final lesson to Herroah.
Sometimes, it’s not just weapons which have purity of purpose.
_________________________________________________
Gareth-Michael Skarka is the creator of Far West -- a writer, game designer, consultant, graphic designer and veteran of over twenty years in the entertainment business. For the past eight years, he’s been at the forefront of the growth of the ePublishing industry, appearing in articles on the subject ranging from the Washington Post to the South China Morning Post, and online via dozens of sites, including CNNMoney, ABCNews.com and the Nintendo Wii News Channel.
The married father of three lives in the old frontier (in Lawrence, Kansas), but works in the new one.
PAPER LOTUS
by Tessa Gratton
The sky was the color of azurite when she came to the top of the mesa with only her horse, her sword, and a bag of bones.
It was the crack of gunfire that pulled her here, off the cactus trail. Just one lone echo like a thread tied to her ribs, drawing her up and up until she could see. This side of the mesa sloped just shallow enough she could charge down, over crumbling earth, to the man standing trapped at the edge of a precipice. He barely held his ground against a band of four men with rifles. From this distance he was only a slim figure in a gray coat that must once have been black. A revolver hung loose in his left hand.
Rabbit unsheathed her brother’s sword before kicking her horse into a wild gallop.
The band whirled toward the noise, but all they saw was a swirl of dust and the glint of metal as her sword slashed.
Verity saw her come and his fingers clenched tight around his gun. He raised it, finally, as she screamed down the hill, and Casen and his men scrambled to face her. But he never fired on them. The barrel remained on the girl-demon as she twisted off her saddle and cut his enemies down, nearly too quick for even him to follow. The pattern of her sword dance was strange but brutal, as if the curve of steel pushed forward and the girl was the mindless weapon.
She stood before him, four bodies splayed behind her like unfurled petals. Her horse chomped on a clump of sage grass, unconcerned by the violence. The girl lowered the curved sword, nearly to the dust, and stepped nearer to his gun. Improving his shot for him.
Her docile horse was packed with gear. Could take him the whole way to Mudscrap. All he need do was pull the trigger.
But the girl stared down his barrel. Once she might have been lovely, but the hard sun had turned soft skin raw and red, and her long black hair hung in strings down her back.
Verity thought, she needs a hat. Then, Why doesn’t she run?
Rabbit panted through her open mouth while the man took such slow, deep breaths he might suck up the entire air of the desert, and leave nothing left for her. She looked along the barrel of his revolver, up his trembling arm, and to his dark eyes. They were tight with pain. He’d shoot her soon, or put it down.
Her whole body shook, too, from the song her brother’s saber sang. A month ago she’d have attacked. Swung the saber through this man’s throat to defend herself. But for twenty-eight long days, all her fear had been gone.
The man uncocked the gun and asked, “Damn you, why didn’t you run?”
“I’d rather take your bullet in my heart than my back,” she said.
When he holstered the revolver beneath his coat, the dark material pushed aside to reveal a spreading gash of red melting into his vest. The smell tickled Rabbit’s nose, and the man put a surprised hand against himself. Blood dripped onto his pants. A frown tugged at his suddenly pale lips, and he fell to his knees.
Rabbit caught him, leaving her brother’s saber shining against the orange dirt.
He opened his eyes to the stars.
Maiden’s blessings, he hadn’t expected to wake up at all. The crackle of fire made Verity turn his face toward the warmth. The girl crouched near, poking at the burning logs. He smelled meat, but it only nauseated him. If the Maiden was kind tonight, this girl would have alcohol – though for once he wanted to pour it into his wound instead of down his throat. His entire middle ached, and he shifted to touch the gunshot wound. Pain gripped him hard and sweat broke out over his face and down his spine. Damn that Casen, damn him. The bastard had to have known Verity was coming this way. He guessed Tome the Mirror sold him out, and prayed he’d have a chance to spread the word.
Verity breathed through his teeth. Smoke drifted over him, obscuring the night sky. It smelled sticky and sweet as if she’d been burning honey. As he relaxed, the pain didn’t diminish so much as he helped it settle into a quieter thrum deep in his bones. When he could, Verity studied the girl. But she was older than he’d thought. A young woman despite her skinny ass. The trousers hung loose on her hips and the jacket was made for a man with wider shoulders. Its cuffs kept slipping over her wrists. Not the great warrior she’d seemed when she came galloping off the mesa, but something about her making him uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to discomfort.
“Who are you?” he asked, his voice more raspy and weak than he liked.
She brought him a skin of water. “Can you sit?”
Verity wouldn’t begin to say otherwise now that she’d asked, and clapped down on a groan as she pushed his shoulders up and moved him against her saddle. She lifted the skin to his mouth and he drank until the girl touched his cheek, smearing away his tear of pain. Pride forced him to push away the water. “What’s your name, girl?”
“My brother called me Rabbit.”
“After the moon?”
“The twitching, fearful little animal.” She smiled, and her teeth glinted rather like the curved metal of the sword she’d carried. “Will you give me yours?”
“Verity. Verity Longleg of Restless City.”
“That’s so far away,” the girl said sadly.
“You must be… far from home, as well.” It took all his strength to focus on her dark eyes. Her lashes fluttered as she looked down, and her only answer was a quiet hum. He continued, “Why did you kill Casen? Did you know him?” Verity would not’ve been surprised to hear the bastard had more enemies than himself.