Lostlander

by Dean F. Wilson

  14 – PROSPECTOR

  The thing about holes in the Wild North was that they usually didn't stay holes for long. The sand swept in and they filled up fast. Why, you didn't need a gravedigger for that. The whole damn desert was the gravedigger—and the grave. So if you found yourself in one of those holes, well, you'd better get out quick, or you might drown beneath the grains.

   Nox'd already prepped the grapnel launcher on his right arm. He wasn't sure what it'd grasp onto. If it just took a handful of sand, it'd only help the land fill up the hole all the quicker. Some folk said you dug your own holes. Some others said you filled them up too, with you inside.

   Except this one wasn't filling.

   Nox paused, waiting to see a sandstream around the rim, like the trickle of an hourglass. Nothing. He watched where Rassa perched, waiting to see a heavier stream there. But nothing. Something was different about this hole. There was a reason why it hadn't filled up before.

   Nox fired the grapnel up, but stepped out of the way immediately. He knew it would come back down. He just wanted to see it, to tick that little box in his head. And, sure enough, the hook bounced off what looked like an energy shield across the surface, and came back down disappointed. Nox flexed his wrist and it recoiled back into the launcher.

   So, he thought. You've got some kind of force field. He'd heard theories about such technology, but they usually stayed theories. Both sides of the war down south were too busy funding things that'd kill you to worry too much about things that'd it stop you getting killed. There was certainty in good old iron. Force fields and the like were as good as magic—and magic wasn't much good in Altadas. The Magi had learned that when they came from Iraldas and found their spells wasted in the desert. Well, so they claimed. Some of them, or all of them, might've just been conmen spinning tales, like good old Sam Silver selling water machines. So the Regime and Resistance focused on the here and now, and they focused with guns and turrets. But here in the Wild North, away from the war, no one needed to worry about the short-term. They could play it long, and reach far. And maybe they'd pluck back something from beyond explanation, like their own kind of grapnel gun.

   Rassa disappeared from view, and Nox resigned himself to not getting out by going up. They say when you're in a hole, you shouldn't keep digging, but the folk that said that weren't were Nox was. If anything, he had to dig. But they never said anything about where you stuck your shovel. Going down was one thing. Going sideways was something else. Nox'd already noted that the other tribesmen came from holes farther on. They must've been nearby. They must've led somewhere.

   So he yanked the grapnel from the launcher, releasing a lever to slacken the cord. Then he bashed it against the rockface like a pickaxe. It reminded him of Chance Oakley, that one-time gold prospector. There was nothing much in gold now, of course. It was all in iron, ever since the Iron Empire, the so-called Regime, came into power. Even the Treasury cashed in for the new currency. There were a lot of folk who didn't agree with the Regime, but they still played by their rules. You called them the rich.

   Nox hammered away, taking chunks out of the rock. Oh, the sand was filling up inside now. He was up to his knees in it. He was also painfully aware that the walls could cave in on him. Well, he was aware. He knew the pain would come later.

   Then he struck something metal. To many prospectors, that sound was like the chink of coils. Maybe it was an iron vein. Maybe it was a future mine. Before you even found out for sure, you staked your claim to it. You started planning how you were going to defend it. Because they'd come. Oh, yes, they'd come. The looters. The robbers. The Regime. They'd all come with pickaxes of their own. And guns.

   But Nox uncovered the metal before he made his judgement. It was iron alright, but it wasn't ore. It was a door. He forced it open, and it took some forcing. The walls shuddered around him. So he couldn't send the tribal leader to sleep. Well then, fair enough. Now it was time to wake the rest of the tribe.

  15 – CHASING RATS

  The first of them spotted the Coilhunter almost instantly and ran. That was how most folk did it when they saw that mask or the buckled badge on his chest, with its five parts coloured to match those he hunted. And sometimes running got you places. More often than not, with the Coilhunter running after you, it got you places you didn't want to go. Like the Bounty Booth.

   Nox didn't just have quick fingers. He had quick feet. He raced after the fleeting figure, turning corners sharply in the sandy maze. His shoulders grazed the walls, sending down the scree. His elbows took little chunks out. This wasn't just a maze. It was a cavern just waiting to cave in.

   But the Coilhunter wouldn't make it wait.

   Nox shoved his fist, and the grapnel launcher fired, punching a hole in the rock as the tribesman ducked and flitted around the corner. Nox ran right into the recoiling wire, hooking it back into place without a pause. It was like a self-loading gun. Except with this one you got to live.

   He bolted after the tribesman, gaining speed by taking each turn harder, shouldering his way through the sand. By some accounts, this whole network of tunnels was its own kind of mines. Normally you didn't disturb the walls. But when the people who'd made the walls didn't have any qualms about disturbing you, then maybe you'd tear down the wallpaper like it was Wanted posters.

   The tunnel shook and the sand came down heavy from the roof. No. Not the roof. The roof was held up with a force field here as well. It came down from the tops of the walls.

   The figure halted, shielding his eyes. “You gamble!” he shouted at Nox. “The walls will cave in. You bet. You gamble!”

   “No,” Nox side, firing the grapnel hook into the wall behind the man. “I'm countin' on it.” The hook grasped tight, and Nox yanked the wire, pulling down the wall on top of the tribesman.

   Nox strode up to the figure, who was half-submerged in sand. The grapnel gave that familiar click as it latched back into place. He glanced up at the ceiling, where the sand still held behind the invisible force field.

   “Now,” Nox said. “You tell me how to get—”

   “I never tell.”

   “Let me finish. You tell me how to get up there, or I'll tear down every wall tryin'.”

   “You are evil walled-one, attacking poor tribe.”

   “You ain't no tribe,” Nox said. “Not a real one, anyhow. You're just as much a walled-one as I am. Except, now we're tearin' down those walls. I'm guessin' you ain't alone here. Maybe you've got a family.” He found it hard not to let his chest heave at the thought. “Maybe you've got what you call a tribe. Maybe this is a home. Well, don't make me go wrecking the place if I don't have to.”

   “I never tell.”

   Nox sighed. He grasped a handful of sand and poured it over the tribesman's head. “Well then, let's just get this over with and let me bury you.”

   The tribesman spat and shook his head as the sand went into his eyes and mouth. Nox poured another handful, and then another, until the tribesman eventually called out, “Stop!”

   Nox paused mid-trickle. “Well, come on now. The hourglass is tickin'.”

   “There is ramp up to world above in central chamber.”

   “And where's that?”

   “Down there,” the tribesman said, nodding to one tunnel. “Left, right, straight, two lefts.”

   “Well, I hope you ain't lyin'.”

   “We Dasawoota never lie.”

   Nox smiled with his eyes. “Yeah, and I thought you never tell.”

   The Coilhunter followed the directions, fending off attacks from a handful of other tribesmen, who came at him with basic weapons. He used a basic weapon of his own: a knife. But lucky for them, he didn't use the blade. The handle knocked them out just fine.

   Nox turned the final corner, finding himself in a larger cavern with many tribesfolk standing in a circle around an electric-powered hearth. Behind them was an earthen ramp leading upwards.
Daylight streamed in, stretching shadows.

   “So, here you all are,” Nox rasped. “The desert rats in their den.”

   He eyed them up and down coldly. They wore slightly different attire to the fighters up top, but it was still black and still feathers. They had different figures though. It seemed like they were the women.

   It was then, as Nox glanced at the one on the far left, that he did a double-take. Beneath all those layers were a pair of luminous yellow high-heeled boots, which stood out even more against the black feathers above.

   “Hmm,” Nox said, cocking his head. “Well, howdy, Porridge.”

  16 – DENFIGHTER

  Porridge let out his familiar high-pitched yelp just as two of the other tribesfolk charged at Nox. They pulled out long staves, but these were just made of wood, and weren't electrified. That was arguably a good thing, but men had a habit of dying to just about anything. Wood'd do just fine.

   “Oh!” Porridge cried. “Don't hurt him, peaches! Oh! Don't hurt me!” He frolicked around the room, hands in the air, simultaneously getting in and out of everyone's way.

   Nox was even more reluctant to use his pistol here, not because they might be women, but because they might be innocent, just roped into the fight by the Man with the Silver Mane, who did a lot of roping. How he'd lassoed Porridge was God's guess. You'd think God would've known, but in the Wild North all God could do was wonder.

   The staves came in hard, and Nox ducked the first, but took the second in the stomach. He hobbled back, grasping at the wall, which crumbled in his hands. He grunted through his pain and dove over another incoming staff, rolling on the ground on the other side. He caught the next one with both hands and pushed the tribeswoman back. Oh, she was a woman alright, but she was big and broad, and she could hold her own. They tugged for a moment, back and forth, until Nox made a feint for his gun, then jabbed that staff back all the harder. Woman or man, they all fell the same.

   Porridge pulled off his headdress, letting his golden-brown curls tumble out. He cast the hat away with dramatic flair, though he also threw it like it was something dirty, barely grasping it between two fingers. It somersaulted through the air, and at a glance it might've looked like a real crow. When it landed, it became a deathtrap for the nearest tribeswomen, who, in her haste to attack Nox, slipped on it and crashed to the ground.

   Elsewhere, Nox continued to dash and dodge, sliding under swinging staves and jumping over others. He was tempted to throw out a butterfly canister, but he knew he'd have no way of getting back to his warehouse to make more. He had a feeling in his gut, where the gunslinger in him lived, that he'd need them for the Man with the Silver Mane. He had another feeling there that maybe they wouldn't be enough.

   He grabbed a fallen staff and swung it wildly, warding off the other tribeswomen.

   “Back off,” he croaked. “I don't want to fight you.”

   A woman yelled as she came in fast, and he clubbed her senseless.

   “I didn't say I wouldn't fight,” Nox added.

   The rest of them came in together. Nox parried their blows, yelping as he caught his fingers between his staff and one of theirs. He pushed one end up sharply, striking one tribeswoman on the chin, before ducking and sweeping low, tripping up another. Then one of them leaped on his back, clinging on to him with hands and feet. She grabbed one of the pipes leading from his mask to the oxygen tank on his back and tried to pull it loose. Nox stumbled backwards, bashing the woman against the rock behind him until she slipped off.

   There were two women left, and one of them was about to charge when Porridge leaped on her back and clawed at her mask, shifting it around until the eyeholes were out of place. She stumbled around, in and out of the way of her comrade, who tried to move in on Nox, then on Porridge, and finally fell to the Coilhunter's grappling hook.

   Porridge was still clutching the blinded tribeswoman, but he was the one who was screaming, not her. She turned around and around, and he hung on for dear life, until she toppled from the dizziness. Porridge rolled off, scrambled onto one elbow, then fainted with an “Oh!” Nox strolled over to the woman and stopped her vertigo by knocking her out with the end of the staff.

   The room went suddenly silent, enough for Nox to hear his shifting boots. He gave the room another once-over before dropping the staff. It wasn't the first time he was the last man standing, even if these weren't all men. It wasn't a victory he was ever really proud of, because often he didn't really want to fight. But it was another day, so that meant another pile of bodies. These ones were just lucky that they still had beating hearts.

   And there was one in particular Nox was interested in. He rolled Porridge onto his back and gently slapped the man's face. He was out cold, though his face was plenty warm. His cheeks were flushed, giving him a kind of jovial radiance, even when he was counting sheep.

   “Nap time's over,” Nox said. He yanked some smelling salts from his belt and almost stuffed them up the man's nose.

   “Oh,” Porridge said, coming round. “J-just a minute, plum. Just a minute.” He rubbed his eyes and blinked rapidly before feigning surprise at seeing the Coilhunter. As usual, he feigned it with both hands in one more dramatic pose. “You, dearest!”

   “Yeah, me,” Nox grumbled. “But I should be the one who's surprised.”

   Porridge clung out of Nox as the Coilhunter got up, forcing Nox to help Porridge to his feet. That trader had a way of volunteering you to be his crane and anchor, lifting him up or keeping him in place. Porridge stumbled on the spot and clung on all the tighter.

   “Oh!” Porridge cried. “My legs are like jelly. Jelly, sweetie. Jelly!”

   “You're lucky you can stand at all.”

   “Oh, my spinning cogs! Don't remind me!” He placed the back of his hand against his forehead, as if he was about to faint again. “I'm not built for all this …,” and he paused, biting his lip with a smile, “excitement.”

   “That's for sure,” Nox said. “Great use you were.”

   Porridge pouted. “I did my part.”

   “Yeah, and you did it mostly lyin' down.”

   Porridge blushed and fanned his face. “Well, dear, I always do it best lying down.”

  17 – PLUM

  They followed the ramp up to the world above, and Nox had his guns at the ready. He half-expected Rassa to be there, waiting. But the other half was a wiser side. That half expected Rassa to be long gone. He was.

   “Damn,” Nox said. “Well, that was a waste.”

   “Oh, plum, I hope you don't mean rescuing me.”

   “No. Well.” He gave a half-smile. It seemed he was doing everything in halves now. No wonder he couldn't catch his prey. “Depends how this whole thing turns out.”

   “Oh, don't make me a soothsayer!” Porridge cried. “My old dearest nanna, strawberry sweetheart though she was, used to say I'd be good at telling fortunes. Oh! I could faint at the notion.”

   “Well, don't.”

   “Oh, she had such dreams for me, little dandy that I was.”

   “Yeah, well, your dreams might be dead, but you ain't, so let's get walkin'.”

   They ventured out, following the faint trail of Rassa. He'd tried to hide his tracks, but he hadn't learned the true techniques of the tribes, so he wasn't that good at it. Nox could follow them with ease.

   Porridge abandoned his feathers, revealing his usual attire. Well, that salvager didn't really have just one usual attire, but a whole selection. In fact, Nox wasn't sure he'd ever seen the man in the same clothes twice. Right now, he wore a frilled shirt that was half green and half purple, with little boxes of the opposite colour around the shoulders. Below that he wore black leather trousers, with a seam of yellow down the side. On his shoulders he wore a semi-translucent lace shawl, and around his neck he wore a rainbow-coloured scarf with periodic sequins.

   “Oh, I feel so naked without a hat!” Porridge exc
laimed, patting his curls delicately. “Oh, peach, imagine me naked. Oh!”

   Just a few steps further on, Porridge stumbled in his heels.

   “Oh!” Porridge cried, hanging out of Nox. “This'll be the death of me!”

   “Why in God's name are you wearin' heels out here anyhow?”

   “Oh, plum, God don't have no fashion.” Porridge smiled. “It's up to the rest of us.”

   “Well, you should've picked something a little more practical.”

   “Oh, now don't you go pretending that you don't go for a little show every now and then, daisy. It's not all gunfire with you now, is it? No, dearie. Why, I know it's smoke as well.”

   “Let's just keep walkin'.”

   “Where are we walking to anyway?”

   “Wherever he went.”

   “You mean the Magus?”

   “The Magus?”

   “The one who gave us these collars.” Porridge unwound his scarf with a dramatic twirl. “Oh, it's a frightful thing, this. Doesn't match anything I'm wearing!”

   “So, he's a Magus,” Nox mused.

   “Well, that's what he said,” Porridge explained. “Not that it wasn't obvious.”

   “Was it?”

   “You don't remember?”

   “I've got snippets, but I can't quite tell what's real and what's something the Man with the Silver Mane put in my head. I don't even remember how we got to the Lostlands in the first place, or why.”

   Porridge cocked an eyebrow. “What's that, peach? The Man with the Silver Mane? Now, there's a mouthful. Oh!” He placed the tips of his fingers over his mouth in feigned abashment.

   “He's the one who's behind all this.”

   “Oh, we'll find him then, sugar. Don't you worry your sweet little noggin. First, though, you relax those cogs in your head and let me do what my old nanna'd call a spinning.”

   Nox grumbled, but he also perked his ears.

   “Good. Ready, plum? Let me fill you in on how we got here.”