by Alan Norris
Naming Bullets
A prequel to The Pariah of Verigo
by Ian Thomas Healy
Copyright 2014 Ian Thomas Healy
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book, its contents, and its characters are the sole property of Ian Thomas Healy and Local Hero Press, LLC. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without written, express permission from the author. To do so without permission is punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Cover art by Ian Thomas Healy
Stock photo source: https://karls-stock.deviantart.com/art/Cowboys-30-76214769, used with permission.
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Books by Ian Thomas Healy
The Just Cause Universe Novels
Just Cause
The Archmage
Day of the Destroyer
Deep Six
Jackrabbit
Champion (Fall 2014)
The Pariah of Verigo Series
Pariah’s Moon
Pariah’s War
Other Novels
Blood on the Ice
Hope and Undead Elvis
Making the Cut
Rooftops
Starf*cker
The Guitarist
The Milkman: SuperSekrit Extra Cheesy Edition
Troubleshooters: The Longest Joke Ever told
Collections
Tales of the Weird Wild West, Vol. 1
The Bulletproof Badge
Just Cause Universe Omnibus, Vol. 1
Short Stories
Just Cause Universe series
Graceful Blur
The Steel Soldier’s Gambit
Other Short Stories
1001001
Dental Plan
Footprints in the Butter
In His Majesty’s Postal Service
Last Year’s Hero
The Mighty Peculiar Incident at Muddy Creek
Plague Ship
Pressure
Rookie Sensation
Tuesday Night at Powerman's
Upon A Midnight Clear
Nonfiction
Action! Writing Better Action Using Cinematic Techniques
All titles and more available wherever books and ebooks are sold.
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Giryati lay on the rocky earth, cruel noontime sun burning his tender flesh, his clothing shredded, his ankles and wrists hog-tied together behind his back. Besides the hemp cords chafing his wrists and ankles, a thicker rope wrapped around them, reaching to a dead tree; the only possible shade in the hellish heat of the day.
Ten feet beyond his reach lay the carcass of his horse, thick with flies and some eager vultures. Others perched patiently on the higher branches of the deadwood, waiting for the elements to take their toll on him. The bandits had taken his saddlebags and his bedroll, but they left the saddle on the horse. Giryati had a long, thin knife stashed in a cunning scabbard along the underside of the saddle. If he could only reach it, he could cut his bonds, free himself, and have a chance to survive.
But to reach it, he’d need to cut his bonds first, and seeing as how he couldn’t really move, it mattered not. He felt the pointed tips of his ears and aquiline nose tingling with the onset of sunburn, and knew it was only a matter of time before he developed blisters.
He cursed this treeless country, an ocean away from the green forests of his homeland. Elves were not meant to walk the great open plains and scrub. Nor were they meant to use the cunning Dwarf-made pistols and rifles borne by the bandits who jumped him, but that truism hadn’t stopped them. At least they were poor shots, Giryati thought wryly. How fortunate for him they hit his horse before they could shoot him.
Born in the fledgling colony of Golden Sands, far across the Aeresic Ocean from the homeland of his people, Giryati had always looked to the north with dreams of exploration and adventure in his heart. The continent of Verigo sprawled away from the coastline, a land unexplored by Elven or Dwarven foot, ripe with the possibilities of a new world. Golden Sands had been populated by like-minded explorers, adventurers, and entrepreneurs, and Giryati had spent his youth working first as a fisherman on his father’s boat, then a constable for Golden Sands. Eventually the call of the Wild had taken hold of him and he took a horse northward to seek his fortune.
Elves who came to Verigo from Aelfland dreamed of taming the continent through agriculture, with their orchards and ranches and coastal farms. Dwarves from Dewar sought the precious metals locked in the very bones of the earth. Gold and silver. Manganese and tin. And above all, iron to build their great magical engines that ran upon rails of steel, driven along the ley lines of the world. All this expansion came with a price as civilization pushed inexorably deeper into the Wild every year, and the currency to pay that price was knowledge. Explorers who brought back information about the unexplored lands and their denizens, the horse-faced halflings known as Horks, were paid well for their efforts. It was under an exploration commission for the leyroads that Giryati had traveled northward, seeking potential routes for new lines.
Giryati was quite deep into the Wild now, and couldn’t expect any kind of help forthcoming. The heat beating down on his head made it hard for him to think, or even see clearly. Even though he didn’t move, the world spun crazily around him before he shut his eyes.
Hot, moist breath on his cheek woke him, and he jerked. The carrion-dog which had been sniffing at him jumped and backed away, hackles raised and growling. Giryati could hear others, tearing at horseflesh and snapping at each other over the choice softer bits. This one had come over to investigate him. Its muzzle was already streaked with gore, but being smaller than the others meant it had been bullied away from the main course.
Wonderful, he thought. I get the one with something to prove. The carrion-dog growled again, slaver dripping from the corner of its muzzle. Giryati licked his lips with what little spittle he had left, marveling at the painful blisters raised upon them, and raised his voice at the animal.
“Go on, get lost. Leave me be!” His voice sounded pitifully weak in his ears, as if swallowed by the great wilderness about him, but it surprised the vultures sitting overhead, and they suddenly took to the air in a great mass of flapping and cackling. The carrion-dog raised its head up, ears perked high, sniffing uncertainly at the air.
A whizzing sound sang through the air and ended with a solid, meaty THUNK. The carrion-dog flipped head over haunches, yelping in pain. It scrabbled to its feet on the dusty ground, bleeding heavily from a wound on its hip. Whimpering, it ran away as fast as it could limp. More sounds of impact followed and shortly the pack of dogs retreated, several of them plainly injured. One only made it a few steps before collapsing. Giryati watched as its heaving sides slowed, then stopped altogether.
A cloven hoof stepped down by his face. He started; the animal hadn’t made a sound on its approach. He squinted up into the sun and made out the arching horns of a greatdeer. The metal caps over the sharp ends glinted as the animal chewed thoughtfully on its bit, looking down at him.
The rider slipped off the deer’s back. Feet encased in leather slippers thudded quietly to the ground. The rider was only about the height of a Dwarf and therefore a full foot shorter than Giryati, but slender like an Elf. The Hork bent down, looking curiously at him with her dark eyes. Her face
seemed to be all nose, pushing forward like that of a horse. She moved like a child, bursting with energy, but had the face and skin of an elder, and her wild black mane of hair was shot through with silver. She dressed all in cured soft skins with intricate beadwork and stitching, and whorled tattoos covered her skin, representing the Great Spiral of Life.
“Faw,” she muttered. “No haw de suvi cowrandu. Megish tegrado.”
“Water,” croaked Giryati. “Please.”
She stared at him, her expression unreadable. Then she unhooked a skin from her saddle and gently tipped it to his lips. He sucked greedily at it like a hungry child. His stomach nearly rebelled at the sudden influx, but he gritted his teeth and willed the precious fluid to stay within him.
“Thank you,” he said at last.
“Faw. Ullu speak little you strange tongue, Elf.”
“Ullu . . . is that your name?”
“Faw.”
Giryati barely knew more than a smattering of Horkish, and didn’t know if the word was an expression of agreement, disgust, or something else entirely. “Pleased to meet you, Ullu,” he said. When she didn’t correct him or react, he continued. “I’m Giryati. Some bandits . . . that is,