Part 4 Fire in the Night
The sky was bruised with the fading colors of dusk as Clayton Van Cleef rode into Dustveil. His eyes scanned the town with a practiced calm. His horse''s hooves kicked up small clouds of dust as they clopped over the dry street. Van Cleef had the look of a man who had seen much, and carried it all with a quiet dignity. He had broad shoulders, a lean frame, and a face hardened by time and regret.
He tugged his creased crown, curled brimmed hat, lower, concealing his eyes as a group of townsfolk shuffled passed. They whispered in hushed tones, and a name caught his ear. The Viper. Clayton''s jaw tightened. He dismounted and tied his horse to the post outside the Sunset Inn. He strode inside. His boots made a slow deliberate rhythm on the worn wooden floor. The room quieted slightly at his presence, but not with the same sharp fear The Viper had inspired. Clayton was a different kind of threat. Quiet and measured. No less dangerous though.
He nodded to the innkeeper, who was wiping the counter with a nervous energy.
"I heard there was some excitement here last night. Gunshots. Two Red Iron boys didn''t make it out." he said in a clipped north Azonian accent.
The innkeeper looked up, eyes darting toward the door, as if to make sure no one was listening.
"Stranger came in, called himself The Viper. Took care of ''em right quick. Shot the both of them dead before anyone could blink." She said in a lowered voice.
Clayton''s lips pressed into a thin line.
"That sounds about right. Red Mack still in town?" He replied.
"Holed up in the old warehouse still, unless The Viper already killed him. Not likely though. Even a man of that skill can''t defeat an entire outlaw band alone." The innkeeper said, nodding.
"Much obliged." Clayton said, tipping his hat. He turned and left the Sunset Inn. Outside, night was quickly casting its shadow over the desert. Lanterns flickered weakly along the main street, their light barely holding back the darkness. He left his horse tied to the post, and walked down the main street. Clayton Van Cleef moved at a measured pace, his eyes scanning every corner, every movement.
His hand rested easily on his Ironfang Military Model 9, a heavy six-shot revolver with a blackened steel frame and a worn, ivory grip. Slung across his back was his Duskforge Wavebuster Shotgun, a short-barreled beast known for stopping anything unlucky enough to stand in front of it. Hanging from his other hip was a Royal Azonian shortsword, its scabbard scarred from years of hard use. Each weapon was a tool with a purpose. A reminder of a life filled with hard choices.
He caught sight of a group of Red Iron thugs outside a dry goods store, pushing around a thin, older man. The farmer clutched a worn satchel to his chest, his eyes wide with fear.
"Please! I need this for my family! It''s all I''ve got!" pleaded the man. The lead thug, a brute of a man with a jagged scar running down his face, grinned cruelly.
"Then you''ll have to learn to live with less. Or maybe we should just take your farm too." the scarred thug said.
Clayton stepped into the lamplight, his boots crunching on the dirt. His hand never left the grip of his revolver as he spoke, his voice calm and steady.
"Sounds to me like you boys have taken enough from him." The thugs turned their eyes to Van Cleef. The scarred thug sneered and stepped forward with his hand hovering over his own gun belt.
"Who the hell are you?" he growled.
"Just someone who hates bullies. Van Cleef retorted, tilting his head. The thug lunged forward with his hands outstretched, trying to grab Clayton''s throat. Clayton sidestepped and grabbed his arm. He twisted hard and a loud pop echoed down the street as the thug''s elbow dislocated. The brute screamed in pain, and dropped to his knees.
The second tough swung a club for Van Cleef, but Clayton ducked under it and slammed the butt of his Ironfang into the man''s ribs. The man collapsed, gasping for air. The scarred thug stared at his fallen companions, his confidence wavering.
"You''re dead, old man. Ironhand''ll string you up for this." He snarled.
Clayton aimed the Ironfang in one fluid motion, and leveled it at the man''s chest.
"Then you better run fast. Maybe he''ll string me up sooner." Van Cleef''s voice was calm and measured. The scarred man hesitated for a breathless moment before turning and running into the darkness, leaving his two friends groaning in the dirt. Clayton watched him go. Then he holstered his gun and turned to help the farmer up.
"Thank you!" Gasped the farmer. "I thought they were gonna kill me."
"Stay inside for a while. Trouble''s just gettin; started." Clayton said to the man. The farmer nodded and hurried off into the shadows. Van Cleef adjusted his hat. His eyes were already on the distant warehouse looming at the edge of town.
The Viper crouched low in the shadows, his eyes locked on the warehouse with quiet determination. The soft glow of lanterns flickered from within, casting long, jittery shadows that danced on the walls. His mind worked quickly, plotting how best to tackle the situation. The Red Iron Gang had at least forty members scattered across Dustveil. At any given time, there were ten to fifteen guarding the warehouse. Killing them all would be a tall order for any man, even one with The Viper’s reputation. He’d need a way to break them up, scatter their ranks. Or he’d need help.
The thought had barely taken shape when he heard the soft crunch of dirt behind him. His hand instinctively brushed the grip of his Duskfire as he turned. Out of the twilight, a familiar figure strode toward him with deliberate ease.
Clayton Van Cleef.
The Viper’s eyes narrowed. He tipped his hat back slightly, revealing a faint smirk.
"Van Cleef," he said in his slow, melodic drawl, the name rolling off his tongue like a lazy threat.
"Viper," Van Cleef replied, his proper north Azonian accent clipped and formal.
The Viper turned back toward the warehouse. His smirk faded. He didn’t care much for seeing Van Cleef here, it meant trouble. They had crossed paths before, each time hunting the same target. Clayton was a dogged hunter, just like The Viper, but a bit too by-the-book for his tastes. Not a bad man to have in a fight, but usually more nuisance than ally.
Clayton stood beside him, resting his hands lightly on his gun belt, his eyes studying the warehouse with that measured calm he was known for.
"You can’t take on the whole gang, Viper," Clayton said, his tone was matter-of-fact, but not unkind.
The Viper chuckled softly, his gaze never leaving the building. "Who says I’m plannin’ to take them all on?"
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Before Clayton could respond, a sudden commotion broke out behind the warehouse. Both men leaned forward, their eyes narrowing in the dim light. The man who had been tied to a stake out back, with his skin blistered and burned from a day in the sun, was surrounded once again by several gang members. The thugs dragged him up, their voices rising in a harsh chorus as they interrogated him.
The Viper and Clayton strained to listen, catching fragments of the conversation as it carried on the dry wind. Ironhand’s voice rang out clear and commanding. His words were slow and deliberate.
"You had your chance, friend," Ironhand said, stepping aside with an air of cold finality. "We’ll let ol’ Hex Jad have a go at you now."
The prisoner’s sun-scorched face paled visibly at the name. His cracked lips parted in a silent plea, but no mercy was coming.
The Viper frowned, his sharp blue eyes narrowing. He hadn’t heard of Hex Jad before.
A figure stepped forward from the shadows, draped in a crimson cloak that caught the flickering lamplight. Beneath the cloak, the stock of a rifle jutted out from his side, but it was the way the man moved; calm, deliberate, with the air of a predator, that marked him as something else.
The man raised his hands, fingers curling in strange, unnatural shapes. His voice rang out in a guttural chant, each word dripped with power. The air around him seemed to thrum with energy, vibrating with an unseen force.
The captive screamed an awful, guttural sound filled with both terror and pain. His body twisted unnaturally, veins darkening as some unseen force wrapped around him.
"By the Powers," Clayton whispered, his voice barely audible, "they’ve got a Weaver."
The Viper didn’t respond immediately. His eyes were locked on Hex Jad, taking in every detail. The crimson cloak, the strange constellation symbols stitched into the fabric, the cold confidence in his movements. He’d encountered Weavers before, and they were always the deadliest threats. No amount of bullets could save you if you weren’t ready for their tricks.
"He’s the most dangerous one here," Clayton said after a long pause. "If we’re gonna take Mack and his boys, we’ll need a plan. One that starts with dealing with him."
The Viper finally turned his gaze to Van Cleef, a slow, deliberate smile curling at the edges of his lips. The flickering torchlight from the warehouse cast sharp lines across his face, deepening the shadows under his hat.
"Well now," he drawled, his voice easy, unhurried. "Good thing I’ve tangled with Weavers before. Always a pain in the ass, but I got a knack for dealin’ with ‘em."
He studied Van Cleef for a moment, eyes glinting with something between amusement and challenge.
"That said, you sure you’re up for this, Van Cleef? Even with me doin’ most of the work?"
Van Cleef exhaled through his nose, a quiet chuckle escaping as he smirked.
"If there’s one thing I never pass up, it’s a chance to outshine you."
The Viper nodded, then tilted his head toward the grim spectacle unfolding behind the warehouse. Hex Jad stood over the prisoner, his crimson cloak swaying slightly in the night breeze. The poor bastard tied to the post let out a hoarse, ragged scream as something unseen twisted through his body, his muscles spasming violently under the Weaver’s spell.
The Viper watched for a moment, his expression unreadable, before speaking again.
"Now let me spin you a little tale ‘bout our friend Hex Jad. Can’t say I know ‘im, but you see that cloak? Covered in stars, moons, all that celestial nonsense?" He gestured subtly toward the Weaver’s flowing robes. "That means he is, or was, Ars Notoria. An actual trained Weaver. Not some hedge wizard who barely knows his own ass from a spell book."
Van Cleef’s brows knitted slightly.
"You sure?"
"As sure as I am that you’re gonna keep slowin’ me down." The Viper grinned before turning his attention back to the scene. "Now, I reckon he ain’t with the Ars Notoria anymore. Not if he’s ridin’ with an outlaw gang. My guess? They either kicked him out, or he decided he liked coin more than cause. Either way, he’s the real deal, and Ironhand’s been keepin’ him close."
Van Cleef nodded, following his gaze. "Which means he’s priority number one."
"Exactly." The Viper’s voice was calm, steady. "We cut the head off this snake first, then we worry about the rest."
"So, what''s the play?" Clayton asked.
The Viper leaned against the old fence, rolling his cigarette between his fingers as he spoke, his voice slow and easy, like a man discussing the weather instead of plotting a massacre.
"First thing we do is separate the herd. Get most of ‘em runnin’ the other way. A little fireworks display across town should do the trick. Lucky for us, I happen to have some dynamite just itchin’ to be useful. Now, you set off a loud enough boom in a place that looks important, and those boys’ll go ridin’ off like spooked cattle, tryin’ to figure out who’s stupid enough to pick a fight with ‘em."
He tapped his cigarette, watching the ember fall into the dust. "That leaves ol’ Hex here with fewer friends watchin’ his back. During the chaos, we slip into the warehouse. I got a little treat for the dogs. Jerky soaked in Hell’s Ham Fist. Stuff’s strong enough to knock out a grown man, so I reckon it’ll send those mutts straight to dreamland."
He flicked his gaze over to Van Cleef, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Then we take out the guards quiet-like. No need to be makin’ noise and gettin’ Hex all jumpy. Once that’s done, we put the Weaver six feet under. The rest of these bastards can shoot at us all night, but Hex? He’s the real problem. You don’t fight a Weaver, you put him down before he knows he’s in a fight."
Van Cleef folded his arms, nodding along, but his brow furrowed. "And Mack?"
The Viper exhaled a slow breath through his nose. "Mack’s worth more alive, so we make sure he don’t get himself killed tryin’ to run. After that? We burn this whole damn place down. Not ‘cause we have to." He let the words hang for a second before smirking. "Just ‘cause I don’t like these bastards."
Van Cleef tilted his head slightly. "And what if Hex or Mack, hell, both of ‘em, go check out the diversion instead of stayin’ back at the warehouse?"
The Viper chuckled, shaking his head. "Mack ain’t goin’ anywhere. That man’s yella clear through. He''s pure chicken-shit. You could set his bed on fire, and he’d still be too scared to run out from under the covers. Hex though? That one’s got a brain. If the distraction’s too big, he might think they need his powers to deal with it. So we make sure the diversion is just big enough to draw out the grunts, but not so big that they think they need their pet sorcerer."
He flicked the last of his cigarette away, straightened his hat, and turned his sharp blue eyes on Van Cleef. "That all sound sensible enough for you, or do you need me to say it slower in that proper North Azonian you’re so fond of?"
"Sensible enough. What about the end game. We split 50/50?" Van Cleef asked.
The Viper tilted his head, a slow grin spreading across his face like he’d just heard the setup to a good joke. He let the silence hang for a beat, watching Van Cleef with those sharp, knowing eyes.
"Fifty-fifty?" he repeated, drawing out the words like he was savoring them. "Now, Clayton, I didn''t take you for a comedian."
Van Cleef crossed his arms over his chest. "Fair split for a fair job."
The Viper let out a soft chuckle and shook his head. "See, here’s the problem with that, friend. You’re settin’ off some fireworks and playin’ hide-and-seek while I’m the one slippin’ into a death trap filled with armed men and a damn Weaver. You tell me, does that sound like equal work to you?"
Van Cleef’s brow furrowed. "I don’t see you gettin’ Mack without my help. That distraction’s the only reason you’ll get inside without a dozen barrels pointed at your head. That’s worth half."
The Viper tapped his fingers on the grip of his revolver, as if considering. Then, he let out an exaggerated sigh and shook his head.
"Tell you what. I’ll be generous. Sixty-forty. You still get a cut big enough to buy yourself a new coat, one that don’t make you look like a damn lawman. And I get the lion’s share, ‘cause I’m the one who’s gonna be doing most of the lion’s work."
Van Cleef scoffed. "Sixty-forty? That right? Funny, I seem to recall a certain fella who nearly lost out on a bounty in Cactus Crossing ‘cause he didn’t have a second gun to cover him when things got messy. What was his name again? Oh, right. You."
The Viper clicked his tongue. "Ah, now I see. You’re bringin’ up old business. See, if I recall, I still got my man in Cactus Crossing. Just needed a little more elbow grease. This, however, is different. Ain’t no clean exit here. We fail, we die. And if we die, I’d sure hate to go out thinkin’ I got swindled in my last negotiation."
Van Cleef sighed, rubbing his temple like he was dealing with a particularly stubborn merchant. "Sixty-forty, huh? Fine. But I get the first drink when this is done."
The Viper tipped his hat. "Now that’s a deal I can shake on."
The handshake was short and firm, a silent pact between two men who didn’t need to like each other to get the job done.
Van Cleef adjusted his gun belt. "I’ll start settin’ up the distraction. You be ready."
The Viper gave a lazy stretch, rolling his shoulders. "Van Cleef, I''m more ready than a rattler in a rabbit hole. You just worry about keepin’ that pretty head of yours attached."