“Get the kit,” he said, and the fair-haired boy did as he was told, running into the shack to grab a tin box. The fair-haired boy flipped open the box, first grabbing some alcohol and then some tongs.
He had gotten used to treating wounds. This time was no different. His father, now shirtless and exposing both the fresh wound and countless other scars, sat against the wall of the shack. It wasn’t long before the bullet was out and the wound treated. The fair-haired boy put back all the supplies where they belonged, then took his seat next to his father.
“I saw what was in the saddlebags,” said the fair-haired boy. “Did they really want to kill ya for some food?”
“It’s never about the food,” said his father.
“Then what?” asked the fair-haired boy.
“This land is ours,” replied his father. “And not just the land. Everything in it. The food and water. The gold and riches. It’s all yours to take. But most of all, there ain’t nothing sweeter than taking life.”
_ _ _
The fair-haired boy, now a fair-haired young man, rode across the dry plains of the Western Reaches alongside his father. The two headed straight for Gold Run, a popular and well-traveled town not too far from their hidden spot in the Poisonpoint Canyon.
Neither the fair-haired young man nor his father had any names other than the ones given to them by others. When he was younger it puzzled him, but such ideas didn’t enter his head too often anymore.
The fair-haired young man checked his fireshooter one last time, opening up the chamber with his finger then flicking his wrist to put it back into place.
It happened fast, like it always did. Bangs drowned out all other sound, followed by wispy smoke drifting from hot barrels, culminating in bodies littering the ground.
The armed ones, sheriffs and deputies and even other bandits or just some buffoon with a gun, were always the first targets. Then came time for the others. Maybe it was because of a certain look. Sometimes it was just the air about ‘em. Mostly, it was just the terror and the message being sent.
Take what you want and make sure they know it.
That’s what Father had taught him. And take they did.
When the bodies stopped writhing and the mouths stopped screaming, the thumbs were cut. And when that was done, both the fair-haired young man and Father put away their knives and fireshooters, and headed for the nearest bar
“You blasted devils!” shouted the bartender as he reached for his own weapon—
A quick shot from the fair-haired young man shut both the bartender and his fireshooter’s mouths before one could finish and the other could start. A heavy thud followed by a sharper one emanated from where he fell.
“Whiskey tastes better when ya pour it yerself, anyhow,” said the fair-haired young man to himself as he poured a glass full for himself and his father.
The both of them drank it all in one gulp, then helped themselves to some more. So far it had been a normal day. Another town. Another squabble. Another message.
The Western Reaches was starting to seem a bit small. Maybe it was time to expand. See some new horizons. See what else could be taken.
“Do ya ever get bored?” the fair-haired young man asked his father.
“Of what?” replied the aging man. His beard, brown like mud, had turned grayish with hints of its previous glory. He certainly wasn’t as limber as he once was.
“This,” said the fair-haired young man as he raised his arms in the air, the bottle in one hand and the glass in the other, waving them around and dancing through the tables. “Soon there won’t be anyone left in the Western Reaches to take from.”
“It makes no difference,” said his father. “We’ve got drinks in here and plenty to do outside still. That kind of talk is fer another day.”
The fair-haired young man threw his arms down and sighed. He drank the rest of the bottle, threw it aside, and reached for his fireshooter as he made his way toward the door.
“I guess we should finish up, then,” he said. “I bet the women and children are mighty frightened—“
He felt himself being yanked away from the door. He looked over his shoulder to find his father scanning something beyond the windows. When the fair-haired young man followed the gaze, he was glad that he hadn’t walked out there just now.
A handful of men, just like the ones from before only living, were stationed just outside the bar on horseback. Where the fair-haired young man and his father had both the element of surprise and tactical advantage before, the tables had been turned.
“Well, we got ya surrounded,” said another sheriff, his fat moustache dancing with every syllable that escaped his mouth. “Thumbcutter and Thumbcutter Junior, throw out yer guns before stepping out and ye might get another day or two on this here earth.”
The fair-haired young man hopped over the bar and ripped several pieces from his cloth. He then took as many bottles as he had fabric and started to stuff them.
“Now I suggest that y’all take a rain check on this one,” said his father with weapon held close and back against the wall near a window. They just needed some more time to stall to get the bombs ready. “Would be mighty sad for even more deputies to die today.”
“Let’s not play stupid,” replied the sheriff. “Gold Run ain’t yer first, and it wouldn’t have been yer last. From the looks of it, our town just mighta been next. It’s over.”
The fair-haired young man’s father looked his way. “What’s it lookin’ like?”
“Just a few more minutes,” the fair-haired young man said, scrambling to organize the explosives nicely in a line while he kept count of how many he was making and how many they might need. By now, most of his shirt had already been torn to shreds. “Maybe one more should—“
A hand gripped his ankle, shooting pain up his leg. He glanced down to see the bartender on his last moments, kept here only by will, staring up at him with fireshooter drawn.
“Darius?” he said to the fair-haired young man.
“Darius?” the fair-haired young man repeated. “Who’s that?”
“It’s really you, isn’t it?” said the bartender. “It’s me, Johann—it doesn’t matter, you were too young. But those eyes, I could never forget ‘em. Just like your father’s.”
The fair-haired young man looked over to his father in confusion.
“No, you have to listen to me, Darius,” said the bartender as he put his fireshooter down. He opened his mouth to speak, but he ended up coughing up blood. “He killed your father. Your real one. And your mother too. They were my friends. I thought he had just killed you too.”
“What’s the hold up?” asked his father from past the counter.
“You’re from Adderton, Darius,” continued the barkeeper. “You have to know the truth. The Thumbcutter thought that he had left no one alive, but I escaped. Please, you must… remember. You are Darius van Keele…”
The bartender coughed again. He was almost gone, and he could no longer keep his head up. Only his grip remained strong until that too loosened, his last breath escaping his mouth.
That was the first time that the fair-haired young boy thought about death and the life that he was introducing to it. The numbness faded away, replaced with blade-like cuts that cut not his skin but something inside. The two suns returned, only now he saw them for what they were—the faces of his parents, beaming down on him. They whispered sweet nothings at a time in his life when he couldn’t even say much more than mama and papa.
“Light it up, boys,” said the sheriff outside, but before the bullets started firing, both the fair-haired young man and his ‘father’ tossed a barrage of flaming death out the windows. Glass shattered followed by bursts of flame that engulfed those outside.
That’s when all sound was once again drowned out by flying bullets in both directions. The fair-haired young man followed his ‘father’ out the door, covering his mouth with a forearm and shooting at anything that moved. In the cover of fire a
nd smoke they escaped unscathed and not knowing whether or not their would-be captors were dead or alive.
The fair-haired young man hoisted himself atop his horse, and with the slap of the reins the steed galloped across the plains, far away from Gold Run and just behind the horse of his ‘father’.
But it wasn’t the fact that they had narrowly dodged death that plagued the fair-haired young man’s mind. All he could think of was what the bartender said.
_ _ _
“What the hell happened?” asked the fair-haired young man’s ‘father’ when the two reached the cover of Poisonpoint Canyon. The galloping of hooves subsided into a trot as they traversed the uneven terrain.
The fair-haired young man gave no answer, his eyes boring into the back of his father’s head. The fair-haired young man played with the fireshooter in his hand, then raised his arm and pointed the weapon at a man he no longer recognized.
“You’re not my father, are you?” asked the fair-haired young man. Just as soon as the last word escaped his lips did the other man stop his horse and look over his shoulder.
The older man’s beard shifted as he gave a smirk. “When did I ever say I was that?”
“Don’t play games with me,” threatened the fair-haired young man, his grip on the fireshooter tightening further. “Is my name Darius van Keele?”
“How the hell should I know?” replied the older man. He had made no motion to reach for his own weapon. Either he was confident in his position, or he was fooling the fair-haired young man into a false sense of security. From what he knew of the man who he had come to think of as father, the wrong notion would prove fatal.
“What did you do to my parents?” asked the fair-haired young man.
The older man turned his horse so that they were perpendicular, his hands resting in front of him. He looked up at the blue sky and licked his lips, then looked back at the fair-haired young man. “Before you came along, there was a man named Bill “Dagger” Boot. Real piece of shit he was, like you an’ me. Caught me stealin’ some of his valuables after I laid waste to half his men on a raid they did on someone else. I was young back then, like you. Young and reckless.”
“The hell’s this got to do with anythin’,” spat the fair-haired young man.
“Bill didn’t like me very much after that,” continued the older man with a wry smile. “But instead of shootin’ me outright, he thought to have a bit of fun. Strapped me down and took away something I never knew could be more precious than my life. My chance at a legacy.”
The fair-haired young man narrowed his eyes. “Legacy?”
“Chopped me bits off, kid,” he said. “His mistake was gettin’ that close to me, though. I repaid him with some chopping of my own.”
“Why should I care?” asked the fair-haired young man.
“Adderton, right?” asked the older man. “That’s where I found ya.”
“Found me, or stole me?” asked the fair-haired young man.
“Makes no difference now,” said the other. He brought his arms and made guns with his hands. “Pow, pow, pow. They all fell down, leaving a crying little shit like you to die alone. Ain’t nothin’ they coulda gave you that I—“
The fair-haired young man pulled the trigger, the echo of the bullet ringing throughout the canyon. He watched without remorse as the other horse, now rider-less, fled to somewhere beyond. Not too long did carrion circle above, waiting for the right moment to claim their next meal.
The fair-haired young man pressed the gun to his own temple.
Is my entire life just a lie? Everythin’ that I took, was it not my place to do so? All the lives I snuffed out. What lies at the end of this path of ruin?
He closed his eyes, ready to rid the world of another tainted scourge that had no right to carry on.
“Darius,” said an unfamiliar voice.
The fair-haired young man whipped around, pointing his fireshooter every which way in search of the person to the voice. He found nothing, and when he thought about where the sound had come from, he realized that it had been inside his own head.
What is goin’ on?
“Darius, your life is precious yet,” said the same voice. “There is no redemption in taking it away from yourself. Put down that piece of metal, and look for the world inside. Come find me.”
_ _ _
Arwynn placed a hand on Darius’s shoulder when he finished his recollection. Her eyes met with Raxxil’s, who, to her surprise, appeared moved. A rare feat for the hammer-wielder.
“Can’t believe I’m sayin’ this,” started the barkeeper, “but y’all best get goin’. For yer own good. Tommy and his boys’ll come runnin’ once word gets out that the Thu—I mean, that someone of your reputation has come back.”
“Who the hell is Tommy?” asked Raxxil as he downed another drink.
“Let’s just say he’s the top dog ‘round these parts,” said the barkeeper. “And don’t be fooled by his badge. He doesn’t play by the rules.”
“We don’t have the time to be playing around,” Raxxil said. He took one last drink, then slid away from the bar and toward the exit.
“Are you okay, Darius?” Arwynn asked.
“I don’t know,” responded the bounty hunter. Like Raxxil, he finished his drink and left the tavern, leaving the two women in the tavern. Or rather, just Arwynn now. Samantha must have slipped out at some point, and Arwynn stepped out after the others.
A heavy pouch and a waterskin struck Arwynn in the chest, and she reflexively threw up her hands to catch both.
“A bag and skin for each one of us,” said Raxxil as he packed the saddles of his horse with a similar-looking pouch. “Should last for a good while, but we’ll still need to scavenge. It’s a long way without any civilization once we reach the sands of the Ghadji Desert.”
Arwynn nodded, then packed her own horse. When she was done, she mounted and looked for the others. Darius was on his horse also, but Raxxil was looking left-to-right for something.
“Where’s Samantha?” he asked.
“I thought she was with you,” Arwynn said as she dismounted. “Perhaps she wanted some privacy?”
“We don’t have any more time to waste,” Raxxil said.
“That’s something Serraemas would say,” Arwynn replied, garnering a sharp look from Raxxil. “I’ll go look for her.”
Arwynn walked around in search for Samantha with a hand on the hilt of her blade every time she stepped inside a building. Most people just got out of her way, but there was no telling what kind of reaction these people would have.
On their faces were etched a history, one that Darius was keen on escaping from. To them he was a monster, and Arwynn didn’t blame them. They had never seen the things that she had seen. Even the scariest of monsters had hearts. It was just a point of view.
Or was it?
“Right or wrong, never doubt what’s in your heart,” said Cadence.
Arwynn sighed. “But isn’t that what Darius did, or rather, what he was taught? What if I’m just the same story in a different person?”
“Unlike Darius, you were surrounded by those who cared for you,” replied the elemental. “Neither they nor I would lead you astray. Especially not Raxxil.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Arwynn said as she made her way back to the center of the town where the other two were waiting. “Still no sign of—wait a second.”
The sound of someone retching came from behind the tavern, and Arwynn followed it to find Samantha hunched over and puking whatever was in her stomach onto the ground.
“Had too much water?” Arwynn teased.
“Sure,” was all that Samantha said as she wiped her mouth, her face gaunt and her knees weak.
Arwynn pinched the space between her eyes, then stretched a hand out to Samantha. “Here, let me help you.”
“Thanks,” said Samantha, taking Arwynn’s hand to her surprise. She didn’t really think that Samantha would actually accept her help, and she fel
t a bit of guilt for the snarky remark.
“What’s going on?” Arwynn asked as the two of them made their way back to the center of town together. Just as soon as they appeared in Raxxil’s vision did Samantha straighten herself and nudge Arwynn to stop helping her.
“My body has never agreed with Onturi, I guess,” she said.
“Let’s get going,” Raxxil ordered, none the wiser of Samantha’s condition. Together, the four of them rode out of Adderton, away from the terrorized townsfolk, and to Arwynn’s hope, away from the thoughts that plagued Darius.
Chapter 23
288th Dusk of the 5010th Age of Lion
“You can’t ask me to do this,” Erendil said, his bow pulled taut and the point of the arrow aimed straight at Kalic’s chest. “This is madness.”
Kalic shook his head. “No, Erendil, this is necessary. Strike me with as many arrows as thou can.”
“Yes, listen to the foolish human,” urged Akaba, much to Erendil’s chagrin.
“You will dodge, right?” Erendil asked. “Right?”
“This is no game, no trickery,” Kalic said, thumping his breastplate with his fist. “I promise thee that thou cannot strike me down, no matter how many arrows thou let loose.”
Erendil, with his bow released into its true form, let loose a shadowy bolt that whooshed toward Kalic, narrowly dodging his shoulder and burying itself in the bark of a tree behind him.
Kalic sighed. “Fear and doubt are thine enemies, Erendil.”
“You have to understand, Kalic,” started Erendil as he brought down his weapon, “the more I use my powers and the more pain I inflict, the stronger Akaba becomes.”
“Let loose the arrow like the burden on thy shoulders,” Kalic said, once again gesturing for Erendil to attack. “Thou hath suppressed the darkness all thy life. Embrace it, and thou will see mastery.”
Erendil brought his bow in front of him, shadowy energy coalescing in the form of an arrow as he pulled the bow taut. He released the arrow, this time aimed right at Kalic’s heart. Erendil’s eyes went wide when Kalic made no motion to dodge, and the arrow pierced right through his chest.
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