《Firstborn of the Frontier》


 Chapter 1

    Palms forward and arms out to the sides.


    That¡¯s how I like to approach a town the first time.


    Not at my sides, mind you. Puts my hands close to where most keep their guns. Also puts them out of sight from anyone standing on the ground, and some folk get mighty nervous when strangers ride up looking ready to draw weapon or sling Spell. I get it. I do. Ain¡¯t got nothing to do with me personally. I¡¯m a right friendly looking fella, with a big smile and winning personality as Aunty Ray would say. No, it¡¯s the Aetherarms they¡¯re worried about, the rifle hanging behind me which they can see, and the three sidearms strapped to my belt which they can¡¯t. The man riding up is just a finger for the trigger, which is why I keep my palms facing forwards and arms out to the sides. Tells everyone who¡¯s watching that I ain¡¯t lookin¡¯ to shoot or sling.


    Not just yet, and certainly not at any townie guards. Not unless I have to, but that ain¡¯t for me to decide.


    Was a time when I¡¯d put my hands up instead. That almost never worked out well, and it took a lot of thinking to figure out why. Sends the wrong message, see, one most folk don¡¯t take kindly to. You show up with hands reaching for the skies, and it says, ¡°Hi there. All y¡¯all fine folk look like you fixing to murder me, so I¡¯d appreciate it if ye don¡¯t.¡± Downright prejudice is what it is, assuming someone¡¯s gonna kill you just from how they look, even if there do be folk who look and be that way sometimes. Long as no Bolts are flying, then the least you can do is ask. If the answer is yes, and they do in fact intend to murder you, then you can reach for the skies or go for your guns. Dealer¡¯s choice.


    It¡¯s just good manners, I¡¯d say, and Aunty Ray raised me right.


    Course, hands in the air also says, ¡°I¡¯m scared and helpless¡±, which even if you are, ain¡¯t the right message to send. Especially if you walking up to someone fixing to murder you, which happens to me more often than I¡¯d like. Again, that ain¡¯t on me. You kick over enough vipers¡¯ nests, then you bound to get bit every now and then. I do admit I¡¯ve kicked more than my fair share of nests in my time, but not always because I go looking for them. Sometimes a nest don¡¯t look like a nest. Sometimes, it look like a town and turns out to be a vipers¡¯ nest, hidden in plain sight all sneaky like. That¡¯s why I approach new towns how I do, palms forward and arms out to the sides. Best way I¡¯ve found to go about it really. Makes it sorta look like you asking for a hug, all friendly and welcoming. Puts people at ease, as much as you can when you ride up in an armoured wagon, strapped and loaded for Abby. Can¡¯t blame a man for riding heavy though, not out here on the wild Frontier. There¡¯s danger in them black hills and under these coral sands, and out on the white grassy plains beyond. The forests and mountains too, and don¡¯t even get me started on what¡¯s hiding in the lakes and oceans.


    In a word: Aberrations. You best believe there be Abby everywhere, except most times, they ain¡¯t even half as dangerous as some folk can be. Nah, the Frontier ain¡¯t a friendly place, which is why I¡¯m rolling up to the town of Pleasant Dunes at a slow and steady rate, with my guns holstered and hands in plain sight. A lovely looking fortified settlement with curvy stone walls, tall towers, and a flimsy swing gate, guarded by at least four heavily armed chain-smoking townies. A surly-looking, suspicious bunch, peeking out from behind cover like they do. Course, all their efforts to hide is given away by the clouds of smoke they huffin¡¯ and puffin¡¯. Least they ain¡¯t peeking down the barrel of their rifles or priming their heavy, static guns, though all this caution still feels a mite rude. I got my palms out and arms to the sides, so why they acting like I came charging in full throttle and popping off Bolts along the way?


    Course, I keep my ire hidden behind a big, toothy smile as my wagon comes to a creaking stop in front of the heavy gate doors. Cowie, he don¡¯t gotta hide nothing, so he drags a hoof through the sand, huffing and puffing because he wants in. Could get in, if he were of a mind to, punch right through these unanchored, swinging steel gate doors and keep right on going. A big, burly mass of bovine muscle he is, a mighty impressive beast even without the horns on. Ain¡¯t much out there that can stop him, but lucky for him, he also cute and fluffy, with a pure white coat accented by his black ears, socks, and snoot which all give him a bit of extra character. A mighty fine bull he is, and most folk think Cowie looks downright friendly, which he is. Polite too, as Aunty Ray taught him his manners just like she taught me, so he knows as well as I do that these folk just scared. He also know scared folk happen to be the scariest folk, because when armed, scared folk get spooked, they don¡¯t think. They just shoot, and me and Cowie ain¡¯t in no mood to get shot.


    So once again, from the top, just to make sure I ain¡¯t left nothing out that could get me got. Arms out, and to the sides. Palms forward, fingers spread. Doorknockers lifted in their holsters and ready to draw, if necessary. Metamagic bracelet sitting pretty on my left wrist, next to my mithril bracer with it¡¯s Shield Spell primed and ready to activate at a thought. Last, but certainly not least, my brown Stetson atop my head, for looking good and looking sharp with my bull¡¯s head medallion at the front. That as they say, is that, the whole kitten kaboodle, so now all I gots to do is sit still as can be and keep a big toothy smile stretched across my face while waiting for someone to step out and greet me.


    All this whoopla just to show these surly, scared townies that they ain¡¯t got nothing to be scared of. From me, at least. Plenty to be scared of in general. Gibbering goblins, hideous harpies, and behemoth bugs all feature prominently on that list, but it¡¯s a long one that keeps getting longer as the years go by.


    Frontier ain¡¯t a friendly place, nor does it make for friendly people, but I try to be friendly wherever I can.


    Won¡¯t lie and say keeping a smile on is easy, not with so many Aetherarms about, even if none of them are technically pointed directly at me. Smile¡¯s important though, so I work extra hard to maintain it. Course, they can¡¯t really see it on account of my kerchief being in the way. Need that to keep the grit outta my mouth when Cowie gets moving, and my goggles to do the same for my eyes, but a smile is more teeth and eyes, as Aunty Ray likes to say. I ain¡¯t saying she wrong, but I¡¯m pretty sure she ain¡¯t entirely right, at least not in so far as it applies to me. Now, her smiles are most certainly more than teeth and eyes. She got that smooth, milky skin and corn-silk hair to help sell the image, not to mention the other parts of her a man might take the time to appreciate. Don¡¯t get me wrong, Aunty Ray¡¯s been more than like a mother to me, treats me as if I were one of her own, and I¡¯ll fight anyone who dare disrespect her. That said, I cannot deny the fact that she¡¯s the very picture of an all-American southern belle, and a blonde, beautiful, buxom one at that, which is why her smiles go a long sight farther than mine ever will.


    For example, if she were sitting here in my place, I¡¯m sure as shooting the gates would already be open and the men of Pleasant Dunes fighting to fetch her a drink. That¡¯s before she starts flashing her pearly whites and batting them big blue eyes, mind you, or using any of her other charms, mundane or otherwise. Meanwhile, I¡¯ve been sitting out here under the burning red sun for a hot minute, and ain¡¯t no one made so much as a peep. No ¡®how do you do¡¯s or ¡®what¡¯s your business¡¯es, not even a ¡®we don¡¯t take kindly to your type¡¯. Just silent, suspicious stares while keeping their rifles at the ready, but no instructions to do nothing or go nowhere.


    Considering I¡¯m an unfamiliar visitor to their fair town of Pleasant Dunes, it ain¡¯t wrong to let them townie guards have the first word. Sets the mood for our conversation, whether it be friendly, professional, or downright hostile, and lets me know how to best approach this. Thing is, these townies¡¯ve had plenty of time to tell me to turn away while I was approaching, and they didn¡¯t. Now that I¡¯m here though, they don¡¯t look ready to welcome me in. This tells me they ain¡¯t exactly against my presence here in town. They just waiting on someone to make the decision to let me in and take responsibility for it. Now, Aunty Ray would say that patience is the key in this here scenario. It¡¯s only polite to give people a chance to get all their ducks in a row before hurrying them along, and the longer you look safe, the safer others will feel. Much as I¡¯d like to wait it out however, it¡¯s getting mighty hot out here under the ruby red sun, and I got coral sand stuffed into nooks and crannies I don¡¯t much like being made aware of. Five and a half days of riding through the desert will do that to a man, and I¡¯m of a mind to be free of all this grit.


    So I very slowly and deliberately lower my goggles and kerchief to hang around my neck, before using the same hand to doff my Stetson in greeting. ¡°Howdy, y¡¯all.¡± Their surprised expressions are expected, and same with the anger and suspicion that follows, so I pay it no mind. ¡°Name¡¯s Howie Zhu, out of New Hope.¡± A bit of whispering goes on, too quiet to hear, but the narrowed eyes and curled lips ain¡¯t reassuring. Could be because they think I¡¯m too young to be travelling about on my own, though they don¡¯t look or sound concerned for my safety. Both Doorknockers come out an extra half-inch without anyone noticing, on account of them sitting behind my back and under my duster, but I only intend to use them if the townies start shooting first. To ease the mood a bit, I put my arms back out and to the sides, with hat still in hand as I nod at my furry white bull of a partner. ¡°This here is my driver, Cowie.¡± At the sound of his name, he bobs his snowy head to say hello, then opens his clear grey eyes and parts his black lips to give a big old moo. That usually gets a smile outta most folk, seeing how cute our rapport is. No smiles here today though, only hard stares and angry scowls. ¡°How all y¡¯all gentlemen doing this fine day?¡±


    ¡°Move along, Qink.¡± Finally, a man speaks. To throw out a racist slur, which ain¡¯t promising, so the Doorknockers come out another half-inch. Still, an open dialogue is better than nothing, and I turn my smile to the man in question as he steps out from behind his cover to stare me down. A weathered and scarred settler of many years, with a poorly rolled, half-smoked cigarette poking out between his lips and no hat to cover his head. He¡¯s gotta be forty-five at least, a white man with brown skin so leathery and pockmarked you could probably grate cheese on it. Close to two decades of constant sunburn topped by a sprinkle of Acid damage will do that to a man, which begs the question of why he never saw fit to wear no hat. ¡°We don¡¯t take kindly to your type around here,¡± Pockmark¡¯s says, gripping his rifle tight, the intricate Metamagic Etchings on the metal glowing bright purple to show it¡¯s primed and ready to fire, though thankfully, he don¡¯t quite point it at me just yet.


    ¡°Now hold your horses a minute,¡± I say, keeping my grin big and bright as always while meeting his eyes. ¡°Not need to get nasty. I¡¯m here on business.¡± Turning my whole upper body to point towards the U.F.P.S flag flying from the side of my wagon, I add, ¡°United Federation Postal Service business.¡±


    That gets them to really muttering for a bit, until Pockmark shushes them quiet. ¡°You think we¡¯re some kinda stupid?¡± Well, yea, but it¡¯d be rude to say, so I keep mum, play dumb, and wait for him to explain. ¡°We just supposed to believe some snot-nosed Qink is working for the Postal Service just cause you flying their flag? I got drawers older than you boy, and they¡¯d still last longer out there than you would.¡±


    ¡°Good thing I got the papers to prove it then.¡± Offering a small shrug, I point at my left breast and ask, ¡°May I?¡±


    ¡°Slowly.¡± Pockmark hefts his glowing rifle to reinforce the point, a loud and nasty Snapdragon, so I give him the respect the gun deserves. First things first, I put my Stetson back on, which gives me time to hide my Doorknockers behind my back before I go and open up the left side of my duster. Gotta show these townies that the pocket I¡¯m reaching for ain¡¯t actually a holstered gun. Any guard worth his water would already know that, but these ones do be suspect. Then, using two fingers from my right hand, I reach in and slowly pull out my passport and employment contract. Even so, they all tense up as the papers come out, like they expecting a derringer or grenade or something. Once Pockmark sees that my papers are in fact papers, he motions me over and says, ¡°Alright now, get down here Qink. No funny business.¡±


    There¡¯s a set of hinged stairs I could lower to climb down from the wagon, but I get the feeling that I shouldn¡¯t go reaching for things these townies can¡¯t see. Not a problem though, as I hop off the side Pockmark¡¯s closest to. The metallic clink of my guns as my boots hit the sand reminds the old man that I¡¯m still armed and dangerous, but its too late to tell me to put aside my weapons. I just stride on over like I ain¡¯t got a care in the world and poke my papers halfway through the bars. Not all the way through, as a man with his hand or arm stuck through a gate is real easy to grab and hold in place. Only had to make that mistake once to never try it again, and from the looks of things, Pockmark gets it.


    To make things easier for him, I look away and give Cowie a reassuring pat on the neck, which he takes as permission to come in close for a cuddle. Real glad he don¡¯t got the horns on now, because he fierce with his affections. This ain¡¯t the place for hugs and kisses though, so he gotta settle for a pat and scratch, which he do because he understanding like that. From here on out, it¡¯s a waiting game while I pretend not to notice Pockmark doing his little dance. It¡¯s the same shuffle all men lacking confidence do when put in a similar position, the one where he tries not to look scared except he obviously is. He puffs his chest and straightens up to look tough while working his cig from one side of his mouth to the other, then ruins it by leaning back as he stretches his arm forward to take my papers. He wants to keep his distance, because he¡¯s worried I¡¯ll grab his rifle and try something, though I don¡¯t see why I would. Even if I take hold of his Snapdragon, he¡¯s still got two revolvers he could shoot me with, a pair of serviceable TEC-LS revolvers judging by the odd shape of the grip and small size of the gun, not to mention three friends with plenty more guns too. That¡¯s scared folk for you though, never thinking clearly, so you never know what they gonna do until they do it. That¡¯s why I keep still and silent, my smile never wavering or mocking, because again, scared folk be scary.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Course, I ain¡¯t one to depend entirely on goodwill neither. Trust is good and all, but caution better, and their abundance of leads me to take more. While Pockmark and his buddies watch the papers in my right hand like hawks, they miss seeing that I got my left hand hidden between Cowie and me. This lets me waggle my fingers and draw Aether through a single bead on my bracelet with no one being the wiser. At first glance, all everyone sees is a simple glass bead bracelet, eighteen translucent spheres no bigger than a fingertip with some dark sand suspended inside to make for some unique patterns. A pretty enough accessory, and I tell people it¡¯s a Qin charm for luck and prosperity my mama made for me, which is mostly true enough. Keeps folks from looking closer and maybe wondering why the patterns in the dark, suspended sand look so similar to Metamagic Runes, like the stuff you¡¯d find Etched into any decent Aetherarm. The reason being is that they pretty much serve the same purpose, as each and every single bead is capable of modifying a manually casted Spell in its own unique way. The Metamagic I¡¯m using now is simply named the Silent Metamagic, enabling me to eschew Vocal components on a Spell so dangerous and recognizable that they¡¯d shoot me dead without a second thought if they caught me chanting.


    Not a Spell I intend to sling mind you, not any more than shoot my guns, but again, it ain¡¯t for me to decide.


    Once finished casting, I hold and ready the Spell like an arrow nocked and ready. Ain¡¯t easy, nor pleasant, since it¡¯s a bit like holding a hot stone in a pair of shoddy oven mitts. Keeps the heat at bay well enough for now, but you feel it leeching through, and can¡¯t help but wonder how long you can last before it burns through your gloves and hurts you real bad. Makes Pockmark¡¯s whole song and dance a bit tedious to sit through, but at some point, he finally finds the courage to close his fingers around my papers. Course, that brings on the intrusive thoughts, mostly of how fun it¡¯d be to toy with him a bit, pull back the papers and laugh a little at his expense, or hold tight and make him work for it. Would be downright stupid too, so I let him have his prize and step back to put both arms out to the sides, while I focus on not unleashing my big Spell unless I really have to.


    All I gotta do is point and think, and all hell will break loose, but I¡¯m betting it won¡¯t be needed. These townie guards care enough to actually look at my papers, which means they¡¯re likely to respect the Accords, and in turn the legitimacy of the institutions that granted me said papers, namely the Rangers and the United Federation of American States behind them. It¡¯s a government of the old world, a world we won¡¯t be seeing for decades to come, but Pockmark was definitely an American before he passed through the Gate, and I put good money on most of his friends being American too.


    I mean c¡¯mon. They¡¯re white, loud, opinionated, and they love guns. That just screams ¡®America¡¯. Not saying all Americans are like that, nor is it a criticism of those who are or aren¡¯t. Most the people I love are white and American, and I love guns too. I¡¯m just telling it how it is, and there ain¡¯t nothing wrong with that.


    Looking as cordial as can be, I stand and wait while Pockmark flips through my papers, then choke down a sigh as he steps out of the shadows for a better look. Man knows his paperwork, I¡¯ll give him that, angling my documents around in the light to check if they real, an illusion, or a conjuration. They¡¯re real and legit, but Pockmark don¡¯t wanna believe it, so he squints his eyes, puffs his cig, mutters a little chant, and waggles his fingers over them to reveal the Affiliation Mark. An illusory bronze, five-pointed Ranger Star reveals itself, projected just over the papers, and its essence signature will tell Pockmark that it was magicked there by Theodore Ellis himself. On the passport and employee documentation both, mind you. Not everyone gets their personal papers Marked by the Marshal. I did cause he¡¯s my Uncle Teddy. Taught me most everything I know about slinging Spells, and more than I can list about life to boot. Also comes over for dinner at Aunty Ray¡¯s ever other week or so, but none that personal stuff written on my papers. If it was though, it¡¯d impress these guards something fierce. There ain¡¯t nobody on this corner of the Frontier who don¡¯t know the Rangers¡¯ leading man west of the Divide, and not a single one would dare disrespect him.


    Cause if someone did, then I¡¯d find ¡®em and kill ¡®em dead. Or someone else would, since I¡¯d be competing for the honour against every Ranger who ever served under the Marshal. Good men are in short supply here on the Frontier, and Theodore Ellis stands among the best of them.


    ¡°Nah, this is some bullshit.¡± There are a couple extra l¡¯s stuffed in there, but not enough to take offense. Pockmark is just in denial is all. Can¡¯t fathom why it¡¯s the Marshal¡¯s got his Mark on my papers, but doesn¡¯t bring it up because he don¡¯t want to cast aspersions on the man¡¯s honour. ¡°Says here you was born in December of ¡¯89. Bull-fucking-shit. Every man here knows that the Advent was April 29<sup>th</sup> of that same year. That¡¯s only eight months to December, and it¡¯s a fact that every pregnant woman who passed through the Gate had a miscarriage. Even the seeds we carried through didn¡¯t sprout.¡±


    The mutters have turned to grumbles as Pockmark¡¯s friends do the math for themselves, but I let my smile grow wider as I nod along. ¡°You right. You absolutely right, and I¡¯m glad you brung it up, because I love telling this story.¡± My arms come down, because you need your hands to tell a story properly, and the townies don¡¯t think nothing of it. ¡°So picture this: it¡¯s the day of the Advent, right? April 29<sup>th</sup>, just like you said. My daddy, he was a Son of the Qin Republic then, and like you fine folk, he got himself a spot in the first wave of settlers.¡± Gesturing at each man in turn to include them, I continue, ¡°You was all there, but me? I can¡¯t even imagine it. Marching through the streets of the Forbidden City on your way to the Gate alongside millions others just like you. Each and every one of you ready to give up everything the old world had to offer. The motorized cars, the aero-planes, the shopping malls filled with stores that stock anything and everything a man could ever need or want. All that and more, just poof! Gone, to start a new life on a new world with nothing but the knowledge in your heads, and no hope of ever going back or even communicating with the people you left behind.¡± Shaking my head in admiration, I heave a sigh and sad, ¡°Don¡¯t know where y¡¯all found the courage for it, if I¡¯m being honest, because I could never.¡±


    That earns me a few smiles, since flattery will get you everywhere. More of Aunty Ray¡¯s sage advice that works better for her than me, but it still works good enough.


    ¡°So my daddy,¡± I say, puffing up with a big of pride, because I do love my daddy, ¡°He walks through the Gate, nekkid as the day he born. Ends up a little north and west of here actually, right where the plains, desert, and mountains meet.¡± More smiles and a bit of chatter takes place as they discuss where that is. They know the area, they just don¡¯t got a name for it, even know exactly how far it is. It''s a true too. That is where the Gate spat my daddy out onto the Frontier. Usually, I lie about the actual location, make it somewhere local so it resonates with whoever listening. Again, Aunty Ray¡¯s advice, which works pretty good, as the townie guards are all chatting and smoking instead clutching their rifles.


    I wait until discussion dies down and I have their attention again before I continue my story. ¡°My daddy¡¯s dizzy and nauseous from his one-way trip to another world, but he finds his bearings right quick. Fixes himself up a grass skirt and a rope sling, then sets off to explore the Frontier with naught but couple rocks in hand. Wouldn¡¯t you know it, he finds himself the greatest treasure of all on the very first day: my beautiful mama herself.¡± Now even Pockmark¡¯s got a smile and commenting about their luck, because every man here remembers how hard their first day was, dropped onto a new world all by their lonesome, with little more than their wits to go on. ¡°They fall in love as people do, and set to building their new life together. Then, a few weeks later, they find out they got a baby on the way. Me. Celebrations all around, because they starting a family, so they work extra hard to make things ready. It ain¡¯t easy, but it is what it is.¡±


    Pausing a beat to let my audience reflect on their own arrivals, I take a deep breath before continuing. ¡°Months go by, and it¡¯s almost New Year, but then my mama¡¯s belly starts hurting something fierce.¡± My smile slips away, and it ain¡¯t even a part of the act. ¡°Complications leading to premature birth. That all we know. Didn¡¯t have no fancy diagnostics you all had back in the old world. Don¡¯t even know how premature I was, only that it was at least four weeks early, if not more, and it cost my mama her life.¡± I cost my mama her life. They hear the guilt in my voice, and they know it¡¯s the truth, even if they don¡¯t believe she would¡¯ve seen it that way. They¡¯re all quiet now, and I have more than their attention. I have their sympathy, because there¡¯s not a man here who hasn¡¯t lost someone themselves.


    It''s not a guess, or a read. Just common sense. This here is the Frontier; everyone¡¯s lost someone at least once, unless they never had no one to lose.


    After taking a moment to swallow the lump in my throat, I rally with a sad, but proud smile. ¡°My mama lived long enough to hold me, say my name, kiss me on the forehead, and tell me she loved me before she passed. That¡¯s what my daddy said, and he wouldn¡¯t lie about that.¡± Now is the perfect moment for me to take another deep breath, because it¡¯s always good to leave your audience wanting more. Once they¡¯ve waited long enough, with a few even lighting up new cigarettes, I ask, ¡°But then y¡¯all see the problem right? My daddy got himself a son, but no milk to feed me. It was just the two of them back then, my mama and daddy alone on the Frontier with no one to rely on. They never planned for what might happen if my mama didn¡¯t make it, didn¡¯t expect the issue to come up. They just plain didn¡¯t know any better.¡±


    ¡°Cause they was kids,¡± one of the guards says, and the heat in his words and quiver in his voice is telling. ¡°Damned Qin Republic sent a buncha damn kids through the Gate to die like damned dogs.¡±


    The others chime in with their agreement, and I nod along with, because I do agree wholeheartedly. ¡°You right. The Qin Republic is downright deplorable for what they did, and you won¡¯t hear different from me.¡± Fact is, they might hear a whole lot worse, because familiarity do breed contempt, especially when you familiar with a bunch of dirty, low-down, rotten scoundrels with no regard for a human life.


    This is why I love telling the story. Nothing brings people together like empathy and mutual hate.


    Using the anger, I pour it into my story. ¡°My parents, they was told they¡¯d be heroes. First generation of a new world, but they wasn¡¯t even seventeen, younger than I am now. Imagine it. Sixteen years and change, and overnight, you become a father and a widower both. That¡¯s how it was for my daddy, the love of his life dead, her body not yet cold, while his son living on borrowed time. Can¡¯t stop to grieve or give mama a proper burial. No, my daddy knows what he gotta do and does it. He packs what he can, wraps me up real tight, and marches out in the dead of night. He don¡¯t know where he going, only that there was a big plume of smoke to the south earlier that day, so he¡¯s hoping against all hope that he¡¯ll find someone able and willing to help. Didn¡¯t have no horse or wagon, no radio or nothing, just little baby me in one arm, and a single-shot Bolt musket in the other, one he¡¯s gotta reload by pouring a paper packet of Aether down the barrel and jamming a stick in to prime it.¡±


    Meeting the eyes of my now captive audience, I give them that look, the knowing look you give another man to show you know that they know how bad it is without crossing over into pity. ¡°Y¡¯all know these lands better than me, so you know it¡¯s chock full of Abby. Is now and was then too, but somehow, someway, my daddy made it.¡± Probably because he didn¡¯t have no musket, but a breach-loaded rifle and pistol. Still single shot, but don¡¯t take thirty seconds to reload. Only three to five, but musket makes for better story telling. ¡°Took him ten hours to track down the people who made that smoke. Arrived just before sunrise and walked right into a camp full of American Rangers, bloodied and exhausted after an Abby attack but alive. Wouldn¡¯t you know it, they had a pregnant woman with them, my Aunty Ray, to whom I owe my life. You know who else was there?¡±


    Rather than say it out loud, I give Pockmark a knowing look, who looks back until I glance at my papers in his hands. ¡°No,¡± he says, his eyes going wide, and his friends follow suit when he asks, ¡°Marshal Ellis?¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡± Grinning for all I¡¯m worth, I let them all glance at my papers to confirm before continuing. ¡°Though it was Captain Ellis back in those days. Leading a group of Rangers to escort a bunch of civilians south to the settlement he founded, New Hope.¡± This part¡¯s not entirely true, just mostly. The truth is that all this took place about five-hundred klicks south of where we stand, in a Ranger camp deep in the badlands right next to the Divide. That¡¯s the only part I changed, because the whole story of how my parents got there would¡¯ve taken too long to tell, and frankly, these townies probably wouldn¡¯t believe it. ¡°That smoke my daddy saw which led him to them? Ranger cooking fires set to render Abby corpses after an attack that morning. They was fixing to leave before that, but then the Marshal decided they could use a day of rest. If the Rangers hadn¡¯t come under attack, they¡¯d have never set those cook fires and my daddy never would¡¯ve known they were there, so he never would¡¯ve found my Aunty Ray, and I never would¡¯ve made it past my first day.¡± The guards join me for a chuckle over the long odds of all that, though in reality, the odds were a tiny bit longer.


    With the best part behind us, I rush through the rest of the story. ¡°As you can probably guess, we followed the Marshal back to New Hope. We was the nineteenth family to join them there, but that ain¡¯t why the Marshal Marked my passport himself. Said he wanted the honour of vouching for the firstborn son of the Frontier, his words, not mine.¡± Allowing myself to puff up a bit, I smile and present myself for inspection, arms out at my sides again, except this time it¡¯s less ¡®gimme a hug¡¯ and more ¡®here I am¡¯. ¡°Likely true too. Ain¡¯t met no one local born who¡¯s older than me, and doubt I will ever will. Was born on the last day of the year, or maybe the day before it, we ain¡¯t entirely sure, but it does mean I¡¯m probably the only child born on the Frontier in ¡¯89. That¡¯s why it¡¯s my callsign, Firstborn.¡± Stepping back with just the hint of a theatrical bow, I wrap the story up with a fresh start. ¡°So allow me to introduce myself again. I¡¯m Howie Zhu, Frontier born and Federation educated. Grew up in New Hope, where last week, I started my trial as a courier for the U.F.P.S, which is why I¡¯ve come to Pleasant Dunes to stand before you fine gentlemen today.¡±


    ¡°Well shit,¡± Pockmark says, now grinning from ear to ear, as are the rest of the guards. ¡°Ain¡¯t that a story? Name¡¯s Carl. Good to meet ya Howie.¡±


    ¡°Likewise, Carl.¡± I match their smiles and ask the others their names, exchanging pleasantries now that we¡¯re no longer strangers. When we¡¯re all familiar, I meet Carl¡¯s eyes and give him my best toothy smile. The trick is to not care if your teeth are touching. Just smile and let your face figure out where everything go. ¡°So¡­ y¡¯all gonna let the Firstborn in to deliver your mail, or you gonna leave me out here to bake?¡±


    They all have a good laugh before opening the gate. Which is great, because now I can get a cold drink, a hot meal, wash off all the sand from them nooks and crannies, and then maybe see about killing a man or five, so long as I find the right men.


    See, I didn¡¯t just come to deliver the mail. That¡¯s a side gig, way to pick up a little extra scratch. The main reason why I came out this way was to find me a viper¡¯s nest, kick it over, then get out without getting bit. Or in other words, find the outlaws hiding in Pleasant Dunes, kill as many of them as I can, then leave without getting shot myself so I can collect the bounty on their heads.


    It¡¯s nothing personal really. Just another day on the Frontier. What can I say? Bounty hunting ain¡¯t much, but it¡¯s honest work.

 Chapter 2

    Contrary to the name, Pleasant Dunes is anything but.


    Which sure is disappointing considering it looked mighty impressive on the way in. The pinkish-orange stone walls were what sold it, tall, curvy, and slinky, sort of like a slithering snake circling around on itself to enclose the town within. Dotted with rounded crenelations and circular murder-holes, the roughly smoothed details really bring the whole picture together, giving the man-made features a more natural look. Add in how the stone blends in well with the similarly coloured sands of the Coral Desert, and it can almost be mistaken for something natural, a rocky formation surrounded by rolling sand dunes on three sides with the Snake Fang mountain range for a backdrop. Throw in the smattering of purple shrubs and prickly greens dotting the dunes in all directions, and the whole town¡¯s got more of an artsy look than any decent fortification got a right to. Why, with how the wind-blown sand¡¯s been piling up at the base of the walls, you might even think the whole town rose fully formed out of the desert itself. Wouldn¡¯t that be something? Shame that sorta magic ain¡¯t possible, as it¡¯d make life on the Frontier a lot easier, but even the Immortal Monarchs of the old world needed manpower to build their empires.


    Now, Pleasant Dunes looks pretty as a spotted horse in a posey pasture, but that don¡¯t get in the way of function. The parts of the wall that bulge out have got embrasures big enough for heavy weapons, with at least five stationary, hand-cranked gatling guns which I spotted on the way in. A real expensive piece of hardware those, though I¡¯ve no idea how effective these particular ones are, as that depends largely on the blueprints, materials, and gunsmith. The ones the Rangers have will put at least ten-thousand Bolts downrange before it quits. Do it in a little over three minutes to boot, assuming they got an ammo belt long enough to last, but the heat¡¯ll turn all ten barrels to slag and the whole thing to scrap. Burst fire will extend that lifespan by a bit, and I seen some gats rigged to some heavy-duty arcana-tech to cool the gun, a solution more expensive than building a second gatling.


    Or pissing on it, which apparently works while cooking up an awful pungent steam¡­


    Yea, crafting Bolt guns with a high rate of fire are tricksy to craft, because even though we got all the know-how, we¡¯re coming up short on multiple fronts. Materials for example, because even our best steel don¡¯t handle heat as well as some old world alloys, ones we ain¡¯t got the supply or infrastructure to produce just yet. Then there¡¯s the stress of stacking so many Metamagics on top of a Spell Core, which can cause the Core to crack and lead to an explosion if you keep pumping Aether through it. Usually the heat melts something vital in the gun and it stops shooting before that happens, but that ain¡¯t a guarantee. Least the explosion ain¡¯t a big one, just enough to send shards of superheated metal into anything standing close by, which is typically bad news for whoever operating the gun, but not so bad for everyone else.


    Yea, there are a lot of shortcomings with gatling guns, but it warms my heart to see the humble Bolt Core pushed to its absolute limits by the ingenuity of the human mind. That gatling¡¯s got much the same magic and Metamagic as what I got in my revolver, only dialed up to eleven thanks to the wonders of arcana-technology. If that ain¡¯t something, then nothing is.


    Whoever designed Pleasant Dunes wasn¡¯t just thinking about the big guns either. They considered the human element of the town¡¯s defenses too, with wide platforms over top the heavy weapon embrasures and plenty of cover on three sides. That¡¯s where I¡¯d pack the untrained townies if I were in command, free to rain Bolts down at Abby without getting shot back at too much. And if they do, well, better them then your trained soldiers stationed on the recessed bits further back. Not just to shelter them from Abby, as friendly fire ain¡¯t as friendly as advertised. Carl and his boys don¡¯t seem like half-bad sorts, but I¡¯d sooner goose a goblin with my tongue than stand in front of them during a gunfight, and I reckon they¡¯re better than your average townie.


    They knew enough to keep their fingers off the trigger and not point their guns at me willy nilly, which is more than I can say for most. Hell, they might even know enough to adhere to strict lanes of fire and avoid accidentally shooting friendlies in the back, but I ain¡¯t volunteering to test it.


    The cornerstones of the town are the four round towers, and I ain¡¯t saying that just because of where they¡¯re located. Nice tall structures built right into the walls themselves without interrupting the clean, rippling pattern they got going on, with a roofed nest up high, where sharpshooters can gun down Abbys coming from any angle except straight above. Whether them Abbys be outside the walls or in, which tells me them towers mean business. That¡¯s where the good folk who call this place home plan to make their last stands should their walls ever be breached. We built us some lookout posts using the same roofed-nest notion back in New Hope, on account of a pesky, persistent harpy issue we still dealing with, but they might as well be treehouses compared to the stone towers of Pleasant Dunes.


    Course it ain¡¯t perfect, because nothing ever is. Already mentioned their flimsy steel gate, but once Carl lets me and Cowie through, I spot their real gate, the one they use when they wanna keep Abby out. Aberrtin-reinforced steel, from the looks of it, or Darksteel as most call it, since the melding turns the metal matte black and ugly. Durable though, and heavy too, so I imagine it¡¯d take more than four men to wrestle a nine-foot-tall gate into place, even with a track to guide it. Seems silly to have an expensive gate like that and no real way to use it when things go from pudding to poop right quick, but I ain¡¯t about to tell Carl how to do his job.


    A right lovely sight from the outside it is, but Pleasant Dunes¡¯ pretty fa?ade fades away like dust in the wind as soon as you step through that gate. Makes it tough to keep a smile on as Carl shows me the sights, my self-appointed guide as he were. Not that there¡¯s much to show, as even he ain¡¯t pleased by what he sees as we amble through a sea of patchwork tents and ramshackle lean-tos that look ready to fall over in the breeze.


    ¡°Company mining town,¡± Carl explains, as if that says it all, and sadly enough, it do. The walls, the towers, the guns, and guards, all a necessary expense to protect the townies from Abby while they lay their heads to rest. Things like shelter and beds? Why those are damn luxuries, so let the townies source those themselves. And if they ever grow sick of the terrible conditions and pay? Well, a fortress conveniently doubles a mighty fine prison too.


    ¡°What company?¡± I ask, even though I already know the answer, because I done my research. It never hurts to get people talking though. Learn a lot about a place from how townies complain, and I can tell Carl more townie than company man.


    ¡°Vanguard National.¡± Carl shrugs, and that says it all. Nothing good to say, so he don¡¯t say it, because he¡¯s afraid of what might happen if he did. We both ignore the awkward silence while I pretend to keep Cowie from rolling over any tents. There¡¯s no roads inside town, just stretches of sand no one¡¯s sleeping in, but Cowie knows his business better than I do. Course he¡¯s also an understanding soul, so he only huffs a tiny bit and flicks his black ears when I make some noise about keeping the wagon straight. After a bit more walking, Carl points out a lane of buildings, as if I could miss them, seeing how they seem to be the only buildings inside town. ¡°Saloon¡¯s over there.¡±


    Which of course does triple duty as the town¡¯s inn and brothel too, with a bunch of gussied up gals in scandalous outfits standing outside on the porch. Nothing against these ladies, but if Tina were ever caught wearing her shorts that high, Aunty Ray would have her shovelling horse and cow patties for weeks. Ain¡¯t proper to show that much leg, with or without tight hosiery, or so much shoulder and belly from wearing what amounts to a kerchief around their chests. Not saying they don¡¯t look mighty fine, even if every last one of these ladies got more than twice my seventeen years, though I will say they looking mighty bored, tired, and sad whilst drinking and smoking on the saloon¡¯s front porch.


    Tearing my eyes away from the sights, I focus on the architecture instead, which is as disappointing as the rest of the town¡¯s interior. The saloon¡¯s a blocky, brick and mortar affair, with three floors, no glass in the windows, and no big sign to advertise. Screams ¡®company¡¯ saloon, one with no care for comfort or aesthetics once you¡¯re inside their walls. No need to entice a crowd when you the only game in town, with the company paying miners to mine then clawing that pay back with high prices for girls, booze, and drugs. Then again, there¡¯s something to be said for offering affordable vices. Keeps your workforce captive without needing to clap on any chains as addiction brings them back wanting more. We¡¯ll see which mandate Vanguard National ascribes to soon enough, but I reckon it be the former. Drunks and druggies don¡¯t make for good miners, who count handling unstable explosives, slinging shrapnel-shooting Shatter Spells, and the occasional Abby attack as part of the job description.


    The neighbouring buildings are all similarly blocky structures too, each housing more company owned businesses I bet. A bank, a grocery, a general store, and some other essential services, but nothing else besides that I can see. No doubt because the company don¡¯t look kindly on any competition or care for any useless frivolities, which is sad really. Town ain¡¯t really a town without a touch of the non-essential, like a candy store or woman¡¯s boutique to buy smelly candles and lady junk.


    The only building that really matters sits two doors down and across the way, the one with the six-pointed star hanging over the door. Sherrif¡¯s office, though I don¡¯t see why a Sherrif¡¯s star got six points, when a Ranger¡¯s only got five. Sure, Sherrif is an important job, an elected townie official who keeps the peace and upholds the Accords, but the Rangers are the tip of the spear in the war against Abby. Seems deserving of a tad more importance than a fella whose job amounts to wrangling drunk most nights. Smart money says that Pleasant Dunes¡¯ Sherrif is a company man too, one so crooked he could probably swallow nails and spit out corkscrews. Can¡¯t stand crooked lawmen, perverting the very laws they supposed to uphold, but if anyone can point me towards the vipers¡¯ nest, the Sheriff would be my best bet.


    By now, me and Carl have picked up a bit of crowd after passing through town, since my wagon do stand out, a bulky, armoured, metallic beauty that ain¡¯t never let me down. I been told wagon is something of a misnomer, and ox-drawn tank more appropriate, but Cowie is a bull, not an ox, and ¡®tank¡¯ don¡¯t sound real friendly, and like I said, I try to be friendly whenever I can. Course, a name don¡¯t hide what my wagon really is, especially not with my Big Stick up top. Don¡¯t feel the need to either, because my wagon gets me where I¡¯m going with all my pieces intact.


    Outside the saloon, I set to unhitching Cowie, even though he can do it himself. Partly because most folk get spooked when they see it, and also because the work gives me time to quietly get a read on the general mood of the crowd. Subdued, in a word, miserable to be less polite, here mostly out of curiosity and a lack of anything better to do with their lives. Even if I were of a mind to trade, which I ain¡¯t because that¡¯d be stepping on company toes and ¡®stealing¡¯ company profits, these people don¡¯t got nothing to barter with. It¡¯s plain as day to see in their patchy, rough-spun clothes lacking any colour or embroidery, as well as the general state of malaise all about. Ain¡¯t no kids running through the streets, no idle gossips hanging about, not even gamblers rolling dice in the shadows. Ain¡¯t no pets, no instruments, no banners or decorations to be seen, no one working towards a better future or thinking past today.


    Easy to see why too. The fine folks of Pleasant Dunes got nothing to spare for anything except surviving.


    They a sad, sorry lot here in Pleasant Dunes, but at least they got all the colours represented. White, black, brown, yellow, and red, they all equally mistreated here in Pleasant Dunes. I know I ain¡¯t supposed to identify people by colour, but I got no other way to do it. Can¡¯t tell an American from a M¨¦tis or a Brit from a Frenchie unless I hear them speak, though I reckon that ain¡¯t got nothing to do with colour neither. However you chop it up, the multi-cultural crowd here is mostly women and children, as I expect the men are all up in the mines or resting up for their shift. Same with all the older children most like, as anyone over ten and under twenty is conspicuously absent. Probably because some company man said that ten is old enough to work a twelve-hour shift and them kids ought to be grateful for the opportunity to boot.


    Not a pretty picture, but it tells me Vanguard National is an equal opportunity exploiter. Their inhumanity ain¡¯t about race or hatred, just cold, brutal, and downright inhumane business. Don¡¯t much like company towns or company men. Uncle Teddy don¡¯t like them much either, but nothing he can do about it. Not so long as the company men follow the Accords, and while I already know Vanguard National don¡¯t care much for the laws, I ain¡¯t laid eyes on nothing to prove it just yet, and I doubt I will while I¡¯m here. That¡¯s why companies rank so low in my books. Outlaws, well they break the law plain and simple, so you can go at them guns blazing. Company men, they break the law while no one¡¯s looking, and cry innocent when folks come casting aspersions. Of course, when the chips are down and times get hard, they expect those same laws they disregarded to protect them from the consequences of their own actions. Hypocritical is what it is, and hanging better than they deserve, but the law is the law, and I ain¡¯t no lawman.


    Meaning I didn¡¯t come here to set right company wrongs. The story of Pleasant Dunes is sad, but all too familiar out here on the Frontier, and I got other matters to attend to, like finding the outlaws hidden in this miserable town. After brushing Cowie¡¯s fur, picking his hooves, and settling him in with feed and water, I slap on a cheery face and get back to business by first addressing the crowd. ¡°Howdy folks. My name¡¯s Howie Zhu, and the big furry fellow with his nose in the bucket is my driver Cowie. You¡¯ll have to excuse his lackin¡¯ manners, as he was raised in a barn.¡± The joke gets a small chuckle from the children, especially after Cowie voices his displeasure with a big sulky moo, and those smiles are precious indeed. A balm for the soul to make up for the ugliness inside Pleasant Dunes and bring some genuine cheer to my face.


    Smile and the world smiles back. That¡¯s what Uncle Raleigh used to say, and he was always smiling.


    ¡°Now as you folks can see,¡± I say, pointing at my flag, ¡°I come delivering mail on behalf of the United Federal Postal Service. Before we get into it though, I got something to get off my chest.¡± Normally, I would pause here for dramatic effect, but the people of Pleasant Dunes got enough to worry about without me piling it on. ¡°This here happens to be my first rodeo. Got sworn in last week as an independent contractor of the good old U F of A, then handed a stack of letters and a bunch of boxes too, but not before they slapped me with a big, dusty book of rules.¡± This time I do pause and make a bit of a face, which the kids love. ¡°Afraid that means if I wanna keep the job, then I gotta do things by the book.¡±


    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    Tapping a rainbow Tourmaline crystal embedded in the side of my wagon, I activate the Silent Image Spell Core to display the image stored inside and step aside so the crowd can read the projected list of names. That gets a real kick out of the kids, and surprise from some of the older folk too. Ain¡¯t nothing too fancy, the bare basics really, but everyone here acting like they ain¡¯t never seen arcana-tech before. Wonder what would happen if I showed them some of the real fancy tricks built into my wagon. ¡°If your name is on the list,¡± I say, ¡°Then it means I got mail for you, but I¡¯ll be needing to check your papers and make sure the names match the faces before I can hand anything over. New policy, I reckon, or might just be because I¡¯m new.¡± I expect a little grumbling, but the crowd just sort of accepts it without a fight. ¡°It¡¯s a hassle, I know, but it¡¯s gotta be done, and I¡¯m sorry for the trouble. If your name ain¡¯t on the list, then I got no mail for you, though I¡¯ll have free candies for anyone who wants some, kids or adults. For now, I¡¯ll trouble you all to head out and spread the word, let everyone know to bring their papers, and I¡¯ll be back in an hour or thereabouts after I eat and freshen up.¡±


    Moving around to the back of my wagon, I grab two wine bottles of honey mead out the back and hold one out for Carl. ¡°You drink?¡±


    Rhetorical question, which he knows don¡¯t need answering as he takes the bottle with a grin. He pops the cork, gives it a good sniff, then takes a big pull before coming up for air with a gasp. ¡°Whooo-wee. That¡¯s some good fizz. Tastes like peaches.¡±


    ¡°So I¡¯m told, though I ain¡¯t never tasted no peach before.¡± It never fails to amaze me how old timers keep forgetting us young¡¯uns don¡¯t know nothing about the old world first hand. ¡°This here brew uses a fruit we call star melon over in New Hope. Don¡¯t look like no star, just got patterns on it that do.¡± Which also don¡¯t actually look like stars, just coloured in pentagrams, but it is what it is.


    ¡°Oh yea, I seen those before,¡± Carl says, before taking another big pull. ¡°Pink and hard as rocks. If I¡¯d known they were this good, I¡¯d have cracked one open long ago.¡± Nodding at my still unopened bottle, Carl flashes a grin which shaves years off his pockmarked face and asks, ¡°You ain¡¯t gonna join a man for a drink?¡±


    He ain¡¯t a bad sort. Sure he called me a Qink, but there ain¡¯t no real hate in him. It¡¯s just a bad word to him, no different from any other vulgar insult he might use, only a little more specific. Makes a man feel a little bad about lying, seeing how I¡¯m lying for personal gain. Don¡¯t really need to see no papers to hand out mail, but I want to. Real easy to spot outlaws when you ask for papers. Those that got them and are dumb enough to use them while they got warrants out on their heads, well they deserve to get got. As for those living under an assumed name, they either won¡¯t have papers or they¡¯ll have fake ones, and I¡¯ll have a suspect to take a closer look at. So I really shouldn¡¯t feel bad about lying to Carl or the good people of Pleasant Dunes. Way I see it, I¡¯m doing them a service, removing the criminal elements that gone and infiltrated their settlement. Besides, ain¡¯t hurting no one having to show me their papers, and if that don¡¯t work out, well, I got other avenues to explore.


    Like talking to the Sherrif, though that¡¯d mean cutting a crooked cop in on the bounty, so I¡¯d really rather not.


    To answer Carl¡¯s question, I give him a sigh and shake of my head. ¡°Can¡¯t drink. Still seventeen, and on the job to boot. Gonna need a fresh head to look over them papers, make sure I don¡¯t screw the pooch.¡± No idea why doinking a dog is synonymous with making a mistake, but English do be a curious language. ¡°The new Postmaster General¡¯s got a real hard on for rules,¡± I continue, playing the sympathy card, as I suspect Carl knows well enough what it¡¯s like to work under a demanding boss. ¡°Wants to crack down on fraud and such, except the only way he know how to do it is make it harder for his people to do their jobs. So I ain¡¯t exactly allowed to solicitate, but if I was to gift you this second bottle here, and you was to share some with the proprietor of this here saloon, then no harm, no fowl.¡± Another oddity of English, as what do birds gotta do with making mistakes? ¡°If he likes what I got, well, I happen to have sixty more I¡¯m looking to unload at one American a pop. If not, then all¡¯s well. I ain¡¯t here to twist no arms.¡±


    ¡°A dollar a bottle?¡± Carl¡¯s eyes go wide over what I would call a reasonable price, seeing how near and dear honey is, but selling mead ain¡¯t the point. Getting a meeting with the proprietor is, as no one knows a town better than the man who handles the booze and girls.


    ¡°Asking price.¡± Giving him a conspiratorial wink, I lean in and whisper, ¡°Always wanna let the customer bargain you down.¡±


    ¡°Ha. Crafty little fella ain¡¯t ya?¡± Accepting the second bottle with a nod, Carl turns to head inside before thinking better of it. ¡°What you gonna be doin¡¯ then?¡±


    Knew it. Carl didn¡¯t tag along to guide me. He¡¯s here to keep an eye on me, seeing how he made the call to let me in. ¡°I¡¯ll be right here, washing up.¡± Just to reassure him that I ain¡¯t going nowhere, I hang my hat and duster onto a set of fold out hooks I installed on the side of my wagon for just this purpose, then get to work unbuckling my gunbelt.


    ¡°What, right here in the streets where anyone can see?¡± Carl has himself a chuckle and asks, ¡°You planning on using the trough water too?¡±


    The ladies hanging about the saloon titter and mosey on over for a gander, leaning over the banister to afford themselves a better view. Which in turn offers me a better view too, one I take in without any intention of partaking in their pleasant company. Flashing my pearly whites with a roguish wink, I say, ¡°Sorry Carl, ladies, but this ain¡¯t that kinda show. Nor would I waste good drinking water washing up in the desert.¡± My gun belt goes onto a hook too, and Carl takes a good long look at my three Aetherarms now that he can. Man¡¯s got an eye for iron, and I¡¯d love to talk shop, but I¡¯ve a dire need to be free of the sand cluttering all the wrong places.


    First things first, I dismiss the big Spell I had ready in case Carl and his boys got twitchy, because I can¡¯t hold a readied Spell while casting another. As the Aether drains away and leaves me a little faint, I take a deep breath and focus on the Spell I want. Holding a closed fist palm-up in front of me, I open up my fingers like a blooming flower while chanting, ¡°Obtestor ¨C Aqua ¨C Sphaera.¡±


    Now, my Latin is terrible, and my pronunciation worse, but the magic ain¡¯t in the words or language. Nor is it in the actions, though that¡¯s not to say both are unnecessary. The cadence of the words and rhythm of the actions are a vital part of the Spellcasting process, just not the magical part. I could easily use Spanish, or French, even gibberish and interpretive dance to pair with it, but I don¡¯t because Latin is how I was taught, and finger waggling is easier than dancing. As for the magic part, well, that already happened inside my head, which is one reason why I spend so much time there. The words and actions form a key to access the corresponding Spell Structure embedded within my memory. Once I make the gestures and speak the words, Aether courses through the Spell Structure which comes to life in my mind¡¯s eye, a complex pattern of shifting lights and the trails they leave behind, like fireworks blossoming in the night¡¯s sky to paint a three-dimensional object, one so vivid and dynamic it almost feels alive. More than a pattern of pretty sparkles, the Spell Structure is an arcane metaphysical engine, one I fixed into my memory years ago to spit out one Spell and one Spell only, and I marvel as I watch it at work. It¡¯s more than the shape of the Spell Structure that matters, or the incalculable patterns within the lights, but also the flow of Aether, the pulse of the stream itself, and countless other variables the human mind struggles to define much less follow along, all adhering to the rhythm of a melody I can¡¯t hear and timed to the heartbeat of a universe.


    A whole lot of fuss just to conjure up a ball of fake water, but it¡¯ll do in a pinch to rid me of my sand problem.


    The sphere of not-water appears fully formed affixed to the palm of my hand, stagnant yet pliable. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and plunge my whole head into the cool and refreshing orb, which largely remains whole as it resists outside force to remain in the same shape. Makes it real easy to scrub the sand, sweat and grit outta my hair, which ain¡¯t exactly long, but is still long enough to get in my eyes without my Stetson to contain it. Fake water it might be, it still feels mighty good against my sun-baked skin, and I gotta fight the urge to open my mouth for a drink.


    ¡°Holy shit.¡± As my head emerges from the water, I¡¯m greeted by Carl¡¯s wide-eyed stare once more, except it keeps getting wider. ¡°You can Create Water?¡±


    ¡°Ha. No.¡± Shaking my head in denial, and to fling off the droplets of water, I dunk my goggles in to float about in the sphere before adding my kerchief to the mix too. ¡°That Spell is out of my wheelhouse.¡± Actually isn¡¯t, but the Spell to make real, drinkable water with magic ain¡¯t called Create Water. It¡¯s a First-Order Transmutation Spell called Condense Water, which works by drawing moisture out of the air. That don¡¯t work too well out here in the arid desert, so it¡¯s easier to say I can¡¯t do it as opposed to explaining why I don¡¯t care to try. Folks tend to get upset when they think you can solve their issues but flat out refuse to, and I¡¯m in no mood to spend the next hour memorizing a Spell Structure I don¡¯t use often, then two more filling a bucket one droplet at a time just to prove what I already know.


    ¡°This here,¡± I say, gesturing at the ball of water fixed to the palm of my hand, ¡°Is a Conjuration Cantrip by the name of Water Sphere.¡± After retrieving my goggles and kerchief from within, I toss the dirty water aside, leaving a wet spot in the sand as I cast the Cantrip again. Chant a few words, waggle a few fingers, focus some thoughts, and a second ball of water appears over my hand, a process that don¡¯t take more than three seconds. ¡°Its not actually water, just Ectoplasm masquerading as water. Temporary matter made up of Aether, you know how it is. Rot your insides with Contagion if you drink it, but it works just fine for washing. Hands, clothes, dishes, whatever.¡± To prove the point, I smack myself in the chest with the aqueous orb and let the magic holding it together come apart, sending water cascading down my frontside to soak my blue button-up shirt and dark leather vest before making its way down to my wranglers and out my ankles. It¡¯s an odd feeling, washing while fully dressed, but it beats the alternative of staying hot, uncomfortable, and dirty. ¡°Spell won¡¯t last more than a minute either, meaning I¡¯ll be nice and dry soon as it ends.¡±


    ¡°Damn useful spell,¡± Carl remarks, and I can sense his hesitation as I Conjure up yet another Water Sphere.


    I ain¡¯t gonna make him ask though, so I speak soon as I¡¯m finished casting. ¡°It¡¯s easy enough to learn, being a Cantrip and all. I¡¯ll draw up the Spell Formula while I eat, then put it up for the town to see. Just gotta make sure everyone knows not to drink it, not unless they fixin¡¯ to die real slow and painful like.¡±


    Carl says nothing in reply, but his gratitude comes through loud and clear. Not that I deserve it. Ain¡¯t like I came up with the Formula, as I¡¯m just sharing what others taught me. Should be how everyone on the Frontier operates, but I can tell that ain¡¯t how it is here in Pleasant Dunes. Curiosity satisfied, Carl heads into the saloon like a man on a mission, leaving me free to really go in on the scrubbing. The ladies stick around, watching with big smiles and making wolf whistles all the while, and after a lame attempt to fire back leads to more emotional damage, I accept that I am outnumbered and outgunned, so I surrender gracefully. I really ought to install some curtain rods on the wagon so I can have a little privacy in times like this, but there¡¯s always more important work to be done. Then again, it¡¯d also afford me a moment to do some private Spell slinging too, with no one being the wiser. Wouldn¡¯t that be nice. My Mage Armour still got plenty of time before it fades away, and same goes for Ear and Insect Protection too, but there¡¯s still some preparatory Spell slinging to be done before I head in for some food and drink.


    Once my body is mostly free of sand, my clothes dry, and my dignity sorely wounded from the ladies¡¯ enthusiastic catcalls, I throw my gun belt and duster back on. Then I turn around and fuss about with the clasp of my belt, grumbling all the while to hide a simple Spellcasting. It ain¡¯t easy getting all the pieces in place without anyone seeing me fiddle with my Doorknockers, but I somehow make it work. That being said, the ladies are so distracting that I¡¯m forced to rummage around the back of my wagon as an excuse to hide. Only way to make sure they don¡¯t ruin my efforts to recast and re-ready the big Spell I don¡¯t want to use, but want to have on hand just in case. Tiring that, since holding the Spell and then dismissing it is every bit as exhausting as just casting it, if not more, but at least my nooks and crannies are finally free of sand.


    I probably should¡¯ve waited instead of wasting a big Spell like that, but it¡¯s too late for regrets.


    All this might seem like a lot of effort just to meet a man and sell some mead, but that¡¯s how it is out on the Frontier. Preparation took even longer before I rode up to Pleasant Dune¡¯s front gate, because like I said, I¡¯ve had worse welcomes. Most people think a Spellslinger¡¯s greatest strength comes from slinging high Order Spells on the fly. Impressive as it might be to see Uncle Teddy slinging Fireballs and Lightning Beams on the battlefield, my daddy believed that a Spellcaster¡¯s greatest strength lay in preparation. Make sense considering most Spells take about three seconds to cast, with some taking even longer, while I got a revolver that can shoot six rounds in less time and kill a man with each hit. As such, my daddy focused on Spells that gave him options in a fight, and utilized his revolver, the same one I now wear on my hip, to do most his killing.


    As for me? I want the best of both worlds, to be a gunfighter and Spell slinger. Seems stranger to me that most don¡¯t want the same, or at least ain¡¯t bothered to put the effort in and try.


    Feeling mighty refreshed after my horse bath and ready to take on the world, I put my rifle in the weapon¡¯s safe under the driver¡¯s seat before locking up. Won¡¯t be needing it inside, and while I also won¡¯t need my hat to protect me from the sun, that stays with me. Before plopping the Stenson back on my head, I take care of one last bit of prep work and make sure the medallion is facing forward. Piece of custom work I had made to order, a round, silver medallion with an embossed bull¡¯s head that¡¯s got the Qinese character of my family name, Öì, carved into its forehead and two big horns sticking out the sides. Zhu is technically my mama¡¯s family name, which I bear on account of how my daddy couldn¡¯t remember his to pass onto me. The Republic¡¯s work that, as they took my daddy from his family when he was six and told him his family didn¡¯t matter, so he just plum forgot the family name. From then on, he became a Son of the Republic, with nation as his father and mother both, and comrades-in-arms as siblings. They taught him how to fight and survive, forage and hunt, build and farm, but only the theory of magic. Did that for all of their ¡®first generation of heroes¡¯, indoctrinated, non-magical children they sent through a one-way Gate to a dangerous, Aberration infested world without a single Spell or weapon to protect them, only the knowledge to maybe figure out the important bits on their own.


    See, carving out a Spell Structure in memory changes a man, connects them to the Immaterium in some way. Among many other things, it makes them significantly more expensive to transport through a Gate, so the Qin Republic decided they¡¯d cut back on travel costs. Instead of sending a small number of powerful Spellcasters through to the untamed death world, they reckoned they¡¯d roll the dice and send a much greater number of helpless children instead. Not to tame or conquer the Frontier, but to endure and procreate. A gamble made with the lives of countless children with the only attainable victory being one of sustained attrition.


    Monstrous don¡¯t even begin to cover it.


    I don¡¯t let none of these thoughts show as I bid Cowie be good and head on inside the saloon, a feat made easier by the ladies demonstrating their appreciation for letting them watch me wash. More whistles and a bit of pinching mostly, all harmless fun because they like seeing me blush. I doubt any of them are actually interested in having me for a customer, nor am I interested in propositioning them. Ain¡¯t got nothing against ladies selling their bodies; the miners doing the same thing, just in a different way. Come right down to it, we all selling our bodies and our labour. From there, it just becomes a choice. How we sell ourselves and for how much, a deal we all gotta make. The thing is, I get the feeling that no one in Pleasant Dunes can just pick up and leave as they please, which changes the nature of the deal. When the choice is sell your body at company prices or die, well, that ain¡¯t much of a choice at all, and I don¡¯t take kindly to that.


    Ain¡¯t why I¡¯m here though, so I best keep a level head, or at least as level as it gets.


    The interior of the saloon, inn, and brothel combination only further strengthens my suspicions regarding this company town, as it¡¯s even more dreary than expected. A smoky, dimly lit interior with square tables and square stools scattered about, all in varying states of disrepair without a single stitch of upholstery in sight. Ain¡¯t no chandeliers about, no Aether lights or even candles, just a handful of plain old shade lamps illuminated by Light Cantrips which I bet someone¡¯s gotta recast every hour or so. Probably a good thing, considering how messy it is in here. If the floor¡¯s been swept since the day it got put in, then it sure don¡¯t look it, and it most certainly don¡¯t smell like it¡¯s ever been mopped. Course, that don¡¯t bother the five drunks scattered about, all nursing their cups and smoking their cigarettes in quiet solitude while leaving nothing for the bartender or waitress to do. Ignoring the shells, butts, and other detritus cracking underfoot, I amble past the stairs and over to the bar, where Carl waves me over to join him.


    And his friends. Three of them, formidable men, all radiating that air of violence you sometimes see in folk who been chewed up and spit out by the Frontier. That don¡¯t necessarily mean these men ain¡¯t friendly, as there¡¯s no sign they intend me any harm, but there¡¯s something about the look of them that¡¯s got my jimmies a rustling. My daddy put a lotta stock in his jimmies, though he called it his gut instinct. Said that even if you didn¡¯t know what it was that got you spooked, you needed to trust your gut when it tells you something¡¯s off. See, he believed there was more to the world than what your five senses could perceive, more than what your mind can comprehend really, but your gut would always steer you true. Uncle Teddy had a much wordier explanation, something about how a man might use Divination magics so much that sometimes the magic try to tell him things even without casting a Spell, things he ought to already know from what he already seen and heard. A Portent is the technical term, or a subconscious inkling of things to come, which to my ears sounds a lot like ¡®gut instinct¡¯ or ¡®rustling jimmies¡¯. Course, the Marshal¡¯s an educated man, so he got a tendency to overcomplicate things, but he a good man who means well.


    So what do I know for certain? Nothing besides there are three men here to greet me who I don¡¯t like the look of, but something tells me that maybe I don¡¯t gotta go searching for nests no more. Maybe, just maybe I done tripped over one without noticing, and a few of the thieving, murdering, rapist outlaws I been hunting have come out and presented themselves to me. If so, then with a little luck, I can handle my business here in Prosperity Dunes and be on my way back home to New Hope before lunch.


    Yesterday wouldn¡¯t be soon enough to set this soul-crushing place in my six, so I¡¯m feeling mighty pleased at my good fortune and don¡¯t even gotta work to put on a happy face as I head over to see what¡¯s what.


    Smile and the world smiles back. My uncle Raleigh was a wise man indeed, may his soul rest in peace.

 Chapter 3

    Most of my magic, I learned from my mama¡¯s Spellbooks and lessons with Uncle Teddy, but my daddy was the one who taught me how to survive.


    Was real good at it too. Says a lot about a man when he can run point through narrow, maze-like, Abby infested tunnels without getting got, especially after doing it for fourteen years. Finest point-man the Rangers ever had, that¡¯s my daddy, and I been learning at his side since I was eight. He never took me through no Abby burrow, but he made sure I knew how to approach any potentially dangerous situation, which is about any given situation you might find out on the Frontier. First step is always preparation, most of which I already handled, including inching my Chicago Doorknockers outta their holsters without anyone being the wiser.


    Second step is threat assessment.


    Most would see Carl¡¯s friends and focus on Jumbo. It¡¯s only natural. Size is strength, and strength is feared or respected, as is the case with our tall, dark, brawny, bald, and bearded friend. Don¡¯t matter that he¡¯s likely forty, seeing how the youngest non-Qin settlers were twenty at the Advent and that was just over seventeen years ago. Jumbo is a hulking menace of muscle and he knows it. That¡¯s why he tore the sleeves off of his nice cotton button-up, to better show off his beefy arms crossed over his hairy barrel chest, which is also left on display with an open shirt. Got a real thick neck too, which is likely why he leaves his collar unbuttoned, though that don¡¯t excuse leaving it wrinkled, unfolded, and unstarched. Would do wonders to hide the throbbing veins in his neck, since he¡¯s really working at looking big, flexing and straining for all he¡¯s worth while pretending he ain¡¯t. This only makes it clear that them bulky biceps ain¡¯t home-grown. They got that hard, lumpy, irregular look about them, the one that screams Transmutation magic. Maybe False Brawn, a First Order Spell that only make him thick with temporary Ectoplasmic padding without bestowing any actual strength. Then again, maybe he got some real skills and cast himself a Second-Order Enhance Physique. Bull¡¯s Strength, if we going by the old vernacular, though ain¡¯t no way Jumbo ever gonna be a match for Cowie, pound for pound. Sure could rip me in half though. Pluck my arms right out them sockets if he really mean to, and I bet that¡¯d be his first instinct instead of reaching for whatever gun he got hidden behind the bar.


    Which would be a mistake. See, we ain¡¯t barbarians bashing each other over the head no more. We civilized folk, ones who¡¯ve elevated violence into a refined, genteel pastime in which we shoot each other instead. Jumbo ain¡¯t got that memo yet, thinks we still in the stone age and his bulging thews give him the advantage. That¡¯s why if it comes down to a fight, I¡¯ll beat him on the draw, and his muscles, magic or otherwise, won¡¯t do nothing to stop me from putting a Bolt through his chest or head.


    The next obvious choice to focus on is lean and lanky on the right. Puts me in mind of a hobgoblin, all rangy and angular, with the addition of greasy unkempt hair and a face full of stubble. His too large and too long t-shirt don¡¯t help his appearance none, not with the dark fabric showing sweat stains that tell me he usually wear a vest overtop it all. Hobb is the only one on my side of the bar, leaning back on one elbow while his right hand flicks his butterfly knife around. It sure do look impressive, but looks is all it is. Anyone who ever held one them knives knows it don¡¯t take much skill to do them showy spins, just gotta wave it about and let the knife do the rest. Hobb is more casual about it than Jumbo, but he also trying to intimidate and done missed the mark. Sure, knives can be dangerous, but guns are more dangerous, and he got two of ¡®em on his belt which he can¡¯t use on account of the knife in one hand and his weight on the other. If it comes to a fight, he¡¯ll stick me with his knife while I pump him full of Bolts, and I¡¯ll take them odds any day of the week.


    Nah, the most dangerous of the bunch is the most unassuming of them all. The man behind the bar, though Jumbo back there too. While the latter postures and flexes, the bossman stands slouched and leaning with arms folded over the bar. No mistaking him for anything else, as his ain¡¯t a tired or lazy lean. It¡¯s a looming lean, a predatory lean, a power lean, one belonging to a man who stands up high looking down on his kingdom, wondering who he gonna kill for his next meal. This is his turf we in. The bossman knows it, I know it, everyone else knows it too, and he basks in that knowledge in like a cool spring breeze. The bossman is in control and likes it that way, as one can tell by his handsome, well-groomed appearance. Got strong features and piercing blue eyes under his long dirty-blonde locks, all pulled back into a neat and tidy ponytail that hangs low and straight. Supporting all that is a trimmed and brushed beard which comes to a rounded point that almost reaches his chest, the hair so straight and fine I¡¯m of a mind to ask him what product he use.


    Not cause I got a need for it myself; my black hair is naturally straight, as is with most born of blood from the Qin Republic. I got no facial hair to care for neither, or at least none worth mentioning. Nah, what I need hair product for is Cowie¡¯s curlycues. His shaggy white coat got a real tousled look that no amount of brushing can fix. Makes him look cute and all, but he a grown bull now, so it¡¯s high time he updated his look for something more stylish.


    As for the bossman, his neat appearance is only accentuated by the simplicity of his clothes. A dark, navy-blue shirt with crisp pearl buttons done up all the way to his starched collar, and shirttails tucked in tight. Even the man¡¯s cuffs are buttoned up, with little silver links to boot, which I only ever seen on Uncle Teddy¡¯s Sunday best. Ain¡¯t nothing fancy, but the bossman wears it all with a regal pride, one accentuated by the silver belt buckle holding up two shiny and expensive Aetherarms. Can¡¯t quite tell the model, as I¡¯m unfamiliar with the design, maybe custom work for the bossman who likes his hand cannons big and nasty. Loud too I bet, because when a man like him kills, he wants the world to take notice.


    Composed. Methodical. Domineering. That¡¯s the bossman in a nutshell, and those traits mark him as a dangerous fellow, more so than the impression of impending violence he exudes so casually while watching my approach with a slight smile. Jumbo and Hobb lost interest the moment they laid eyes on me, because all they see is a skinny kid who¡¯ll scare easy. A well-armed kid, but a kid nonetheless, wearing a goofy smile, his daddy¡¯s oversized coat, and a cowboy hat like I¡¯m dressed up for a costume party. That¡¯s why they¡¯ll die third and second. Their disdain stings my pride a bit, but I get it, so I¡¯ll overlook it, maybe even forgive it. Prefer it even, compared to the bossman¡¯s studied interest. He sees something that holds his eye, but I can¡¯t quite tell what it is or how that makes him feel, nor can I say what it means. Nonetheless, ain¡¯t nothing left to do except move on to step 3, and engage.


    Raising a hand to touch the forward-facing medallion of my Stetson and hoping it look casual, I keep my pearly whites on full display and mosey on over to the bar. Soon as I¡¯m there, I stick my hand out for a shake and say, ¡°Howdy folks. Name¡¯s Howie Zhu. Good to meet you.¡±


    Neither Jumbo nor Hobb makes a move to reciprocate, because my handshake ain¡¯t for them. It¡¯s for the bossman. The other two are just furniture to me, and I make no secret of it, a point the bossman notes with a smirk as he looks me up and down as you do. A moment passes in silence before he gives a dry chuckle, just a small one as he slaps his hand into mine and clamps down tight. ¡°Ronald Jackson.¡± The bossman¡¯s voice is deep and gravelly, his accent crisp and neat, and his words slow and unhurried. His deep blue eyes are full of cheerless mirth and his grip crushing without overwhelming, as he waits a beat before adding, ¡°President and C.E.O of Vanguard National.¡±


    Already figured they¡¯d be company men, seeing how this here is a company saloon and they all sporting V.N embroidered onto their dark coloured shirts. Didn¡¯t figure on meeting the head honcho himself though, which could be bad or good. Either way, one thing¡¯s for sure: if all hell breaks loose, then I¡¯mma kill Ron first.


    Nothing to do but play along with his game. He¡¯s expecting least a wince before he intends to let go, and there¡¯s no need to put on an act. I ain¡¯t the smallest feller around, but Ron¡¯s got twenty years and at least hundred pounds on me, not to mention a good six inches if not more. No need to fret, as I ain¡¯t done growing just yet, and five-eight ain¡¯t exactly short neither. ¡°Good to meetcha Mr. Jackson,¡± I reply, still smiling after he releases my hand, and I give it a good flap to make sure it still work. Little joke there, showing everyone he the big man, something he appreciates as he gestures for me to take the seat across from him at the bar. One at the end that puts Jumbo to my right and Hobb to my left. Ain¡¯t the worst spot to start a gunfight, so I hop up onto the square stool, wince as the sharp corners dig into my wranglers, and settle in with both hands laid flat atop the bar once I¡¯m ready to get underway.


    Ron¡¯s eyes flick to my hands and he offer me a little nod, a thank you for my polite notice of a lack of intent to draw guns or waggle fingers. A proper professional then, unlike Carl and his boys. Speaking of Carl, he gives me a nod and a smile after knuckling his head for the bossman, and I nod back as he turns to leave. It¡¯s a wonder how he can be so ignorant of what¡¯s happening in front of him. He just plain don¡¯t sense the tension and thinks everything hunky dory. Well, better than him walking me into ambush and feeling mighty fine about it. Like I said, Carl ain¡¯t a bad sort, but he greener than green and dumb as a bag of bricks.


    Ron on the other hand, well, he been around the block and knows more than a little bit, still wearing his little smirk as he bobs his head up and down, not quite nodding but giving the impression of approval while he looks me over. ¡°Firm grip. A good start, boy.¡± Hate it when people call me boy, but at least he don¡¯t got that sharp inflection towards the end that turn it ugly. ¡°You brought me a fine bottle of mead, so I say it¡¯s only fair I treat you to a drink as well.¡±


    Out comes the glasses and bottle with a clunk, but it ain¡¯t Ron who doing the clunking. No, that¡¯s Jumbo, and the way he stuffs his fat fingers into the glasses makes me suspect bartending ain¡¯t his day job. The smell hits me before the drink even touches the glass, sharp and pungent as can be. ¡°That¡¯s some strong shine.¡± Least it¡¯ll sanitize whatever Jumbo¡¯s fingers left in them glasses. Can¡¯t fathom how anyone can enjoy drinking moonshine, but then again, I ain¡¯t one for alcohol or drugs in general. Seen what it can do to a man and don¡¯t much care for it, not even nicotine in cigs, which is about as harmless as harmless get. ¡°Thank you kindly,¡± I say, giving a little nod of the head, ¡°But ¡®fraid I¡¯ll have to take a rain check on the drink, least for a hot minute. Need a clear head for work if I¡¯m fixing to keep the job, and I am.¡±


    ¡°No need to worry son.¡± Ron leans in close with a twinkle in his eye, like we friends whispering over secrets. Picked up on how I didn¡¯t like being called boy too. Sharp man. Don¡¯t miss much it seems, but I hide how I don¡¯t like being called son better. ¡°You¡¯re only seventeen, and it¡¯s illegal to serve drinks to minors. That glass could get me in some real hot water, but if you don¡¯t tell, and I don¡¯t tell, then what do we got to worry about?¡±


    Bet he¡¯s a real charmer, and not just with the ladies. There something about Ron that makes a man want to befriend him, impress him, be useful to him. Ain¡¯t magic, far as I can tell, just natural charisma, him knowing how to talk to a stranger and make you feel like best friends. ¡°Well, I¡¯ll drink to that,¡± I say, acting all eager like I was just waiting for the excuse to my glass, which I clink against his before we both take a pull. Mine¡¯s not too big, because a half-glass of this shine might well have me slipping off my seat, but enough to make it look like I¡¯m a stupid, excited kid who don¡¯t smell what he done stepped in. ¡°Hoooooo-wee!¡± I exclaim, coughing and patting my chest. ¡°That¡¯ll get your Cores primed.¡±


    ¡°You handle it well, son. Shine has a real bite which takes some getting used to.¡± Holding up the half-empty bottle of mead I asked Carl to bring in, Ron gives it a good, appreciative look as he continues, ¡°Not like the mead you brought me. Smooth, light, and dry. Good flavour profile too. How long you let it sit?¡±


    ¡°Three months to ferment, and three weeks to settle. Got my daddy¡¯s special blend of herbs to go along with it, give it that nice smoky aftertaste.¡±


    Ron nods along then frowns and shakes his head. ¡°A real luxury, comparable to what we had in the old world, and a steal at a dollar a bottle, son. You¡¯re selling yourself short. I¡¯ll give you two dollars a bottle for the sixty you got, and the same price if you bring me more.¡± This is not how I expected this meeting to go, so I¡¯m a little caught off guard by the generous offer. Not because of the amount, just having trouble keeping up with what¡¯s going on. Good thing Ron reads my confusion as shock, or maybe he thinks I¡¯m tipsy. ¡°It¡¯s worth every dollar,¡± he says, giving me a wink and pat on the shoulder, ¡°But we¡¯ll settle up after you have a bite to eat. Laura sweetheart?¡± The last is directed to the waitress, a lovely dark-skinned belle with curled ringlets dressed a little more conservatively than the gals outside, but not by much. She also looks completely done with all this, her pretty features locked in pursed lips and a frigid gaze as she slowly saunters on over. Totally lacking all the social graces that one might expect from someone in hospitality services, she stops a few steps short and looks at Ron with hand on hip and waits. Sassy and real fetching, so I take a moment to appreciate the view. ¡°Be a dear and fetch our friend here a plate of steak and taters.¡±


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    ¡°That sounds mighty fine, thank you.¡± Still don¡¯t understand what¡¯s happening, but I could eat, and it¡¯s hard not to stare at miss Laura as she struts away through the heavy kitchen doors, all the way over at the other end of the bar. Because I¡¯m hungry. And maybe other reasons too, but not ones I mean to act on. ¡°Rangers do a lot of things well, but making travel rations ain¡¯t one.¡±


    That earns me another dry chuckle, all too brief again as Ron intones, ¡°Some things never change. Army chow is not made for the taste.¡±


    ¡°Made to get you where you¡¯re going,¡± I say, completing the saying. It¡¯s something I¡¯ve heard Uncle Teddy say, meaning Ron¡¯s got some army training in him too. They the same age? They don¡¯t look it, but it¡¯s hard to tell with white folk sometimes. I seen fifteen-year-olds who look thirty-five, and forty-year-olds who look twenty. Ron here is the latter. ¡°You serve?¡±


    ¡°Signed up and did four years in Lebanon up until ¡®84. A real Charlie Foxtrot.¡± Another term I¡¯ve heard from Uncle Teddy, but he won¡¯t tell me what it means. Ron just assumes I know, so I nod sagely along despite never having heard of Lebanon or about what happened in ¡¯84. ¡°After we pulled out, I signed on for the Frontier. Figured I survived that hellhole, so how much worse could it get?¡± Shaking his head with a sigh, Ron adds, ¡°Turns out, much worse. At least we had equipment in Lebanon.¡±


    And just like that, all the pieces fall into place. How disappointing. So disappointing I can¡¯t help but sigh and slump down. I blame the shine, because otherwise, I¡¯d¡¯ve hid it better and played along, but it¡¯s too late now. Ron gives me a questioning look, and there¡¯s no sense trying to get back into the game, nor have I any desire to. ¡°Yea, sorry.¡± Scratching my head for the best way to frame my words, I settle on being frank and forthright. ¡°It ain¡¯t nothin¡¯ you said or did, see? I was just mistaken regardin¡¯ the intentions behind this meetin¡¯, and the penny just dropped. Hence my disappointment. Not aimed at you, but me, for not seein¡¯ it sooner.¡±


    The wheels are turning, but Ron still don¡¯t get it, but only because he don¡¯t got all the pieces in play. Not his fault, plus the drink¡¯s making me really lean into my accent, which I¡¯m told is thick even on the best of days. ¡°And what did you think this meeting was about? A few cases of mead?¡± Ron¡¯s decided friendly is no longer working, so now he trying derision, like I¡¯m gonna fall over myself to win his approval.


    Won¡¯t work though. I got more than my fair share of approval growing up, and from men much better than him. ¡°Nah. Honestly?¡± I ask, with a shrug and a smile, figuring I might as well tell the whole truth, because I ain¡¯t got any other reasonable excuse. ¡°I thought y¡¯all might be fixin¡¯ to rob an¡¯ kill me. Was hopin¡¯ for it really.¡± Course, now Ron¡¯s really confused, but I don¡¯t wanna get into it. Ain¡¯t nothing to be gained from saying I thought he might be a thieving, murdering rapist, or that he might be consorting with them. Could still be, truth told. Just cause I don¡¯t think Ron is my outlaw don¡¯t mean he ain¡¯t cozy up to them. Man like him who run this town the way he do, he¡¯d probably welcome the help of monstrous animals like the ones I¡¯m hunting down.


    ¡°Look, why don¡¯t I save us all some time?¡± Drumming a bit on the bar top while I gather my thoughts, I rattle off everything I just put together. ¡°I¡¯m thinkin¡¯ you and your boys got a problem. An Abby problem, to be precise. An armoured Abby problem would be my best guess, on account of all the Tec-LS¡¯s and Snapdragons I seen outside. Thems Penetrating Aetherarms they are, and any gunsmith who can make those should have the chops and know-how to pump out the Tec-L and Tass98, both of which are easier, cheaper and flat out better in most situations. Unless you shooting something armoured, of course. How am I doing so far, Ron?¡±


    A knife slams into the wooden bar with a bang, the steel quivering between my thumb and index finger while Hobb leans in real close. ¡°That¡¯s Mister. Jackson. Boy.¡±


    There¡¯s the sharp inflection at the end, the one which turns the word ugly. Unimpressed by Hobb¡¯s words, actions, proximity, or odour, I fix him with a blank look. ¡°Ye missed.¡±


    ¡°¡­What?¡±


    Ugh, that stench. I get it, we in a desert and water is scarce, but ain¡¯t Hobb ever heard of a Cantrip called Deodorant? ¡°My hand. Ye missed.¡± Slowing down my speech to make sure he understands what I¡¯m saying, I explain, ¡°I get it. Ye wanted to take initiative, get us back on track. Put a little scare into the boy so he more liable to do whatcha want. Thing is, if ye wanna intimidate someone, it works better if ye stab them, not the bar, even if you trying to show how precise you can be.¡± Flicking the flat of the knife¡¯s blade with my left hand, I pick up the pace and continue, ¡°Besides, ye slammed it down so ¡®ard the darn thing¡¯s prolly wedged tighter than a Templar¡¯s drawers. Makes for a sorry sight, ye strugglin¡¯ to pull it back out. Not to mention now ye up close and personal, so ye can¡¯t keep track of what¡¯s happening around ye.¡± Hobb¡¯s confusion is clear, and his hesitation even more so. This ain¡¯t the reaction he expected, but he seen enough to know it ain¡¯t an act neither. I got no fear or concern for him, and he don¡¯t know why. Then the answer pokes him between the legs and his eyes go wide with a gasp as he tries to stand on his tippy toes, like that¡¯ll make any difference.


    ¡°Jacob?¡± Ron finds his lack of control over the situation aggravating to the extreme, especially since he¡¯s not sure how he lost it.


    ¡°Fucking Qi ¨C he got a Blastgun pointed at my balls!¡± Pressed right up against them in fact, all purple, primed, and ready to shoot. That right there is how you make a threat. Credit to him, Hobb¡¯s voice only pitches and quivers a bit while his eyes are fixed on my gun. ¡°Got another one pointed at Franky too, through the bar.¡±


    That¡¯d be Jumbo, but I¡¯mma keep their nicknames. ¡°No, no, no,¡± I says, shaking my head in disappointment. ¡°Don¡¯t be castin¡¯ no aspersions on my actions now.¡± Turning to Ron, I put on a patient expression and explain, ¡°I ain¡¯t pointing a Blastgun at yer man. Well, okay, it is technically pointed towards his nether regions, but only cause he stepped so close while I was bringing it out to show you. It¡¯s a real beaut of an armour penetrating Aetherarm, something that might help ye with yer problem.¡± Having made my point clear, I wait while holding Ron¡¯s stare, his eyes just brimming with questions. Considering he sees both my hands still laid out flat atop the bar, I can understand his confusion regarding how I¡¯m holding not one, but two Blastguns to his men. I ain¡¯t ready to show and tell just yet though. ¡°Is it alright, Mr. Jackson? If I bring my Blastgun up for a look-see? Or is your skittish boy here gonna be a problem?¡±


    Though displeased regarding what¡¯s transpired, I¡¯d say most of Ron¡¯s ire is directed towards Hobb, who jumped the gun, so to speak. We was just talking about their problems, and I ain¡¯t had a chance to say my full piece, but now I got my guns out and hold the upper hand. Hands, in fact. ¡°Jacob,¡± Ron begins, and to his credit, Hobb finds it in himself to pull his eyes away from the gun pressed up against his dangly bits. ¡°Quit looming over our friend here and come around to this side of the bar. The long way, with your hands where he can see them.¡±


    ¡°Thank you for your understanding, Mr. Jackson,¡± I say as Hobb leaves his knife behind to follow orders, and I mean it too, though I keep my guns trained on Hobb and Jumbo for now. Don¡¯t get me wrong, I¡¯ll paint the walls with Hobb¡¯s blood and everyone else¡¯s too if I have to, but we ain¡¯t that far gone just yet. That¡¯s why I¡¯m putting so much effort into enunciating my words now. Sound more proper like. ¡°And I apologize for getting overly familiar earlier and calling you by your first name. Bit of it is the shine, but most of the fault lies with me, for letting it get to me. Won¡¯t happen again.¡±


    ¡°Nonsense.¡± Ron¡¯s smile don¡¯t reach his eyes, same as ever before, but this time those baby blues hold a promise that run contrary to what his lips be saying. ¡°You can call me Ron anytime you like, boy.¡±


    This low-down, spongin¡¯ son of a¡­ ¡°Appreciate it, Mr. Jackson.¡± Now that we know where we both stand, I turn a bit in my seat so I can face all three from across the bar and keep an eye on the patrons and anyone else who might be coming in. Helps that it puts my back facing the wall too, but I don¡¯t think the drinking folk even notice anything amiss. They all still sitting quiet and working on their drinks and cigs, doing their best to down their sorrows in a shallow puddle. While I scan the crowd, Jumbo tries to be all sneaky like and move, but I snap back to him like a harpy who done spotted a lone child in the field. ¡°You keep your hands where they are big guy, because if you reach for that weapon again, I¡¯m of a mind to start Blasting.¡±


    And Jumbo believes it. Hobb and Ron too, because when I say it, I let it show. That same, savage air of violence that all men of our nature possess, a primed readiness to inflict brutal and dire harm upon another human being. The only difference is, I show mine with a smile. It ain¡¯t because I enjoy it, or even because I want it, but about the necessity. If there¡¯s killing that¡¯s needing to be done, then I¡¯m more than happy to do it.


    Way I see it, I¡¯m making the Frontier a better and safer place, one dead dirtbag at a time.


    Once I¡¯m sure Hobb and Jumbo know to behave, I turn back to focus on Ron, who gives a little whistle as my Blastguns float on up to settle on the bar. Carried there by my Mage Hands, two transparent, almost spectral constructs made entirely of glowing blue Ectoplasm. They start with a wrist and end at the tips of five fingers, with dimensions all the same as mine. They do most things my real hands can do with nothing more than a thought, though they clumsier about it than the originals. Just a silly little Cantrip I used to play with all the time, on account of all the stories my daddy told me about my mama. She was an industrious sort, always crafting or writing, and the Mage Hands helped her do even more. Work on knitting both socks at once or making dumplings while she writes, little things to speed matters along and make sure everything was ready before I arrived.


    That¡¯s why Mage Hand was the first Cantrip I ever learned, which makes it one of my more practiced Spells to boot.


    ¡°Never seen someone Conjure two Mage Hands at once,¡± Ron says, and I simply smile in reply. My mama figured the trick out, but I¡¯m the only one who¡¯s picked it up so far, and I can see Ron¡¯s mind working. He¡¯s wondering if I got a hidden friend helping me out, and I ain¡¯t about to ease his worries. ¡°Impressive technique too.¡± On account of how he didn¡¯t see me waggling no fingers or hear me muttering no chants. The Mage Hand Cantrip typically requires both, and while I could use my Metamagic bracelet to eschew one of those vital components, I usually don¡¯t bother. I just cast it when no one¡¯s looking or listening, like I did after my horse bath outside. Then I typically go about my business with the extra hands hidden under my duster, clinging to the handles of my Blastguns as it were. Takes a bit of effort to keep them around for more than ten minutes, but don¡¯t take much to recast, and I like having them ready whenever I can. That¡¯s why I didn¡¯t mind dismissing them before my horse bath, and recasting them after, so as not to show them off before they¡¯re needed.


    Because a surprise is only a surprise if no one sees it coming.


    ¡°Impressive weapons too,¡± Ron remarks, nodding at my Blastguns resting on the bar top, next to the Mage Hands which are laid out flat too. Only seems polite now that everyone knows they there, but it''s alright. I still got more cards to play.


    That being said, I can¡¯t resist talking tech when it relates to Aetherarms, so I allow myself to puff up at the compliment. ¡°These sawn-off double-barrelled babies are custom jobs,¡± I begin, silently asking for permission to handle them, which Ron allows without hesitation. ¡°Modelled after the Dresden Forzare and hand-tooled by Armand Kalthoff himself,¡± I proclaim, holding one up to show off the all the loopy, squiggly Metamagics Etched into the black, carbon steel barrels and dark wooden frame, Etchings which glow purple to show that the Cores are primed and readied to fire. Another threat, but I ain¡¯t holding the gun in a proper grip, just two fingers a hand, though Jumbo and Hobb still flinch. Not Ron though, because he understands the new game we playing, and he plays it just as well as the first. Difference is that I¡¯m the one in control now. He don¡¯t like that much, but he gets it, so no harm in allowing him the appearance of control, if only for the sake of saving face.


    A complicated thing, the games of power among men. Be a lot simpler if we just started shooting, but I still got a job to attend to, and killing Ron, Hobb, and Jumbo ain¡¯t gonna pay the bills.


    ¡°Now it don¡¯t look like much,¡± I say, after giving them a moment to drink in the view, ¡°But this baby Blastgun packs a real punch. A modified Forzare built around a pair of First-Order Blast Spell Cores which each deliver a spray of pure kinetic Force in a cone-like pattern. Nicknamed the Chicago Doorknocker, on account of a Spellslinger for hire who got famous for using a gun just like this to bust down the doors to various mafia enterprises in that particular city.¡± Got a real kick outta those campfire stories, though I ain¡¯t sure how much truth there is to them. ¡°This dubsie is breech-loaded with two 40 grain shells and can fire one or both barrels with a single pull of the trigger. All you gotta do is cock the hammers, point, and let loose. The base Spell itself got a 45-degree arc and only reaches up to 5 meters. Not a lot of range, I know, but the standard Forzare, well that¡¯s a 20 inch long double-barrel that¡¯s got Metamagics to narrow and stretch that arc and range to up to 5-degrees and twenty meters if you like. Great for tunnel fighting, as you can adjust your spray to avoid chewing up the walls and scattering stone shards all about. Still only has two shots before you gotta reload, which ain¡¯t ideal. There are revolver or pump-action Blastguns that¡¯ll give you more shells in the tube or cylinder, but the Forzare¡¯s Metamagic loadout is tailored for hard-hitting, armour-penetrating power at a reasonable price. You pack enough Abby in tight, like say out in one of them mining tunnels, and I bet you kill ten, maybe twelve armoured Orcs in a single Blast.¡±


    My dubsies will also daze anything they hit and send them flying to boot, which don¡¯t come standard. Pays to be the Firstborn sometimes; means some of the older folk treat me extra nice, including our town¡¯s resident Danish gunsmith, Armand Kalthoff, who made my doorknockers special. ¡°The standard Forzare comes in all flavours of damage types too,¡± I say, laying it on thick even though I got no real intentions of making a sale. ¡°Fire is a favourite, but you might want to consider Acid, depending on what you up against. Something real big and armoured like a bugbear or behemoth might take more than single Blast to put down, but you hit it with Acid, and that armour will melt right off, leaving it vulnerable to Spells and regular Aetherarms which ain¡¯t armour penetrating.¡±


    ¡°Very impressive.¡± Ron squints his eyes in silent question, and I glance at my other Blastgun on the bar as permission. Picking up my sweet little dubsie, looking so cute with its short, Etched barrels sitting side by side, he looks it over with an expert eye. While pointed away from me and down the bar mind you, since I still got mine in hand, and he ain¡¯t in no mood to gamble his life on which one of us gonna be first to shoot. Especially since we standing so close. Even if he kills me first, my finger could still pull the trigger, which will likely kill him too. That¡¯s why these Blastguns are perfect for using with the Mage Hand Cantrip. Although I can control the spectral hands with a thought, aiming is still tricky, and they got no hope of ever controlling recoil at all. Add in the fact that they can only hold up to 5lbs each, while moving and accelerating far too slowly to be of any use with a knife, it means my Mage Hands ain¡¯t good for much else in a fight. With a dubsie though, I just gotta get them pointing in the general direction of what I mean to kill, and a touch of the trigger will handle the rest.


    My darlings Doorknockers have saved my bacon more times than I can count. Sure, there¡¯s only four shots between the two of them, but if I ever get myself into a mess that take more than four shots from a Dresden Forzare Blastgun to buy me time to breathe, then I done gone and made a real mess of things. I could clear this current problem up right now with just one, maybe two shots at most, though I¡¯ll need a whole lot more to get outta dodge if we heading down that direction. I¡¯m thinking we won¡¯t though, as Ron ain¡¯t looking for a gunfight, especially not one where he¡¯s right in the thick of it. He¡¯s still looking to get something outta me, which is why he¡¯s playing along, but I¡¯m afraid that¡¯s all about to change.


    ¡°Incredible craftsmanship. Beautifully put together.¡± Placing my Blastgun back down with a little shake of his head, Ron posts back up against the bar with his predatory lean and a knowing look. ¡°Only¡­ I¡¯m afraid I was looking for something a little more¡­ robust. Something similar to what you have mounted on the roof of your wagon outside.¡±


    At this point, miss Laura has the unfortunate timing to pop out from the kitchen with my steak and taters. The thump of the double doors takes us all by surprise, though I handle it better than they do. Jumbo starts in place and turns to look, but Hobb is quicker on the draw, his hands darting down to the guns on his belt and leaving me with a decision to make right quick.


    Do I only kill Hobb and give Ron another chance, or should I just kill all three and call it a day?


    Dagnabbit. And here I was hoping I¡¯d still have a chance to bag my outlaws, but now I might not even get to deliver the mail.

 Chapter 4

    ¡°Hold Fire! Hold Fire!¡±


    A lot can happen in a moment, even if it don¡¯t look like much from the outside.


    Take it from Laura¡¯s perspective for example. I imagine she comes out from the kitchen with my plate of steak and taters to see Hobb, Jumbo, and Ron standing on one side, and me sitting pretty on the other, with my Blastguns laid out and a knife embedded into the bar. Then, for no reason far as she can tell, Jumbo starts in place, Hobb goes for his guns, I raise an index finger, and Ron yells out to stop his boys from making a big old mess of things. Don¡¯t seem like much is happening, but there is.


    Most surprising is how Ron¡¯s boys actually listen. Hobb¡¯s hands dart back up before touching his guns, almost straight up to show he ain¡¯t gonna shoot, though his snarling grimace tells me he wishes it were otherwise. A beat later, Jumbo surges into action, going for his gun hidden under the bar only to stop and freeze once his brain catches up to what just went down. Something ain¡¯t right with him, which means maybe I ought to revise and put him ahead of Hobb on the list, since unpredictability can sometimes be a strength in and of itself. As for me, I don¡¯t take no orders from Ron, but I do take a moment to consider my options. Maybe it ain¡¯t time start Blasting just yet, so I guess I won¡¯t, which is lucky for Ron because another moment more and there wasn¡¯t gonna be enough of him left to bury.


    Said I would kill him first, and I meant to. Well, Hobb and Jumbo were likely to die at the same time, but I was fixing to make Ron ground zero. Now, I admit, the fact that I might¡¯ve also gotten clipped in the process did weigh in on my decision to hold off on unleashing my big Spell, but I¡¯m pretty sure I could¡¯ve ducked behind the bar and avoided the worst of it, while my Stetson and duster would handle the rest.


    Much as I¡¯d love to be done with all this, I lower my index finger back down to the bar. Takes only a blink of the eye to make my decision, but then Ron does the strangest thing. He exhales. Not a normal exhalation. This here is a soft sigh, one of relief or reprieve. Ain¡¯t a big sigh, not even something I would call a sigh were it coming from anyone else, but it¡¯s something, and it gets me to thinking. Did Ron call for Hobb to stop right away, or did he wait a beat until he saw I wasn¡¯t reaching for no gun? Might be that Ron¡¯s not lucky then. Might be that he really is that good. Figured I had an ace up my sleeve that was about to really ruin his day, so he stopped the play with a time out. Meeting his eyes with a grin, I wink to let him know I know he knows, and that, he really does not like. A clench of his jaw and a twitch of his cheek, that¡¯s all he gives, but it¡¯s the first glimpse of Ron¡¯s frustration I¡¯ve had, which I suppose is a win in my book.


    Truth be told, I¡¯m only grinning like a fool to rankle his nerves, because in light of these latest findings, I don¡¯t feel much like smiling. Maybe I ought to kill him now, get it all over and done with. Might save me trouble in the long run, even if it buys me no small amount of hassle right now. They¡¯ve already given me more than enough probable cause to justify killing them in self defense, and I can prove it too. Would have to fudge a few facts, leave some things out, like this little pause I¡¯m taking here to consider killing at least three men in cold blood, but legally, my backside is covered under the Accords.


    Would burn a lot of goodwill with the Major though. He¡¯s a good man who¡¯s got higher standards than the Accords, and holds me in high esteem because I¡¯ve adhered to those same standards as far as he can tell.


    Don¡¯t change the fact that I got a problem on my hands, and that problem is Ronald Jackson. He¡¯s a real smart man, much smarter than I gave him credit for. That makes him real dangerous too, more dangerous than I already believed. Put it all together, and we have ourselves a smart and dangerous man who likes things neat and tidy, a President and C.E.O who¡¯s used to getting everything his way. A man like that, well, he ain¡¯t gonna forget the time ol¡¯ Howie got one over on him, and he don¡¯t strike me as the type to forgive neither. Won¡¯t matter that I only did what I¡¯ve done because his people pushed me to it. No, all that matters to him is that I dared consider killing him and could¡¯ve done it too. Right here and now, he¡¯s tolerating the insult because he¡¯s stuck in a bind. I¡¯m ready to throw down and fight to the death. Him? Not so much. Once he¡¯s out of here though, I gotta ask: how¡¯s he gonna react? Well, I reckon he¡¯s gonna brood over this, let it eat away at him, because he lost control of the situation and couldn¡¯t get it back. Then, he¡¯ll realize it only happened because he walked into this meeting blind thinking I was just a kid. In short, he underestimated me, which won¡¯t happen again. Next time, and there will be a next time, he¡¯ll come out swinging for the fences, if only to prove to himself and his people that he can.


    So like I said, I could save myself a lot of trouble by ensuring he don¡¯t get no second chance. Close the chapter on Vanguard National as it were. All I¡¯d have to do is point my finger and a think a thought to unleash the big Spell I been holding onto. Then wham bam thank you ma¡¯am, no more Ron, Hobb, or Jumbo, and I set Pleasant Dunes in my six as I ride out atop my wagon with Cowie leading the way. Wouldn¡¯t be that simple, as I¡¯d likely have to shoot my way out the gates, but I like my odds. Mean¡¯s leaving without delivering the mail, and forget finding my thieving, murdering rapist outlaws, so I ain¡¯t gonna get paid for either job. Or for the mead either, though I doubt I¡¯m getting paid for that either way. I do have a need to get paid, and I need it quick, because we all on a timer out here on the Frontier. Things are happening, times are changing, so it¡¯s keep up or be left behind.


    I for one mean to lead the way forward into the future, and to do that, I need to make bank. That means that sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta do if you wanna get paid, even if it means going against your better judgement.


    So I don¡¯t pull the trigger, figuratively or literally, and break eye contact with Ron to give miss Laura my biggest, sweetest smile. She¡¯s standing stock still at the other end of the bar with my plate of steak and taters in hand, looking more annoyed than anything else despite recognizing the danger unfolding before her. ¡°Thank you kindly miss Laura,¡± I say, using my chin to gesture at her end of the bar while keeping all three men in my peripherals. ¡°If you could just leave the plate there, that would be lovely. I¡¯ll fetch it myself once Mr. Jackson¡¯s done with me.¡± Wouldn¡¯t you know it, she rolls her smoky eyes, sets my food down, and heads back into the kitchen with a ¡®tch¡¯, only to return a second later holding a tin cover to set over my plate. Sassy with a heart of gold, she a grand gal deserving of a big tip.


    Having given Ron enough alone time to glower at his boys, we go back to where we left off, with both of us smiling and neither of us meaning it, but least we all on the same page. ¡°So about that big gun I got on my wagon,¡± I begin, as if nothing had ever happened. ¡°I call that my Big Stick. You know, walk softly and all?¡± No chuckle from Ron this time, not even a fake one, which I suppose is fair. Still, had to try and soften the blow a bit as I continue on to say, ¡°Yea, it¡¯s a fine piece of work, but I¡¯m afraid it ain¡¯t for sale. One of a kind, it is, another custom job from Mr. Kalthoff. Needed to hire a few arcanists to get it all working right, but at the end of it all, they reckoned there were too many defects and downsides to move ahead with massed production.¡± Not to mention the lack of Spell Cores and materials, but I got my hands on it mostly because I was willing to pay the most for it, as research and development don¡¯t come cheap. That¡¯s part of why I need money so bad, though I¡¯d say it was well worth the expense.


    Most folk ain¡¯t liable to shoot at you, not when they can clearly see you got bigger guns to shoot back with. Keep¡¯s ¡®em honest or keeps ¡®em scared, and either way works just fine for me.


    Only now it occurs to me that I might¡¯ve missed something important, a vital clue that I would¡¯ve easily noticed had I given it any thought. Thing is, I didn¡¯t, because I thought I¡¯d already gone and found the right answer, but maybe, just maybe I was wrong. My daddy warned me about overconfidence getting me into a pickle, but it seems I ain¡¯t quite learned that lesson just yet. Nothing for it except to mend the error of my ways then, but can¡¯t do that unless I¡¯m sure. ¡°I been looking at this all wrong, haven¡¯t I Mr. Jackson?¡± I ask. Unperturbed by my quick pivot, Ron tilts his head in silent confirmation coupled with another variation of that smirk he has. A real charmer, Ron, acting like I caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. ¡°What you need big guns for?¡±


    ¡°Who doesn¡¯t want bigger guns?¡±


    Ron¡¯s question is a non-answer, because he don¡¯t want me thinking about his big problem, except it don¡¯t take much thinking once I¡¯ve tugged on that thread. I thought Ron wanted armour penetrating guns to protect his townies from Abby while they working in the mines up the mountain. That¡¯s goblin territory, with orcs and bugbears for heavies, which to a Blastgun mostly means more targets to hit with each shot. Except Ron don¡¯t want no Blastguns, he¡¯s looking for something bigger. Why? He ain¡¯t gonna roll no Big Stick up the mountain to guard no mines. Most of the threat would be coming from inside the tunnels, whenever a mining shaft gets too close to an Abby tunnel. What good would big guns do there? Likely kill more miners and guards than Abby, firing a heavy weapon in an enclosed space like that, something Ron ought to know for himself.


    So if Ron wants bigger guns, it¡¯s because Ron¡¯s got bigger problems than orcs and goblins in his mining shafts. He wants bigger guns to put on his town walls, those tall, curvy ones I admired so much on my way in. Why? Not to intimidate townies, as the gatlings do that well enough. Prepping for the coming Watershed and inevitable hordes of Abby that¡¯ll come with? Maybe, but that¡¯s still a few years off at the soonest, so why make a cold approach to a young courier he ain¡¯t never met before? Even if I got my Big Stick on my wagon, that don¡¯t mean I can get more. If Ron was looking for ten or twenty rifles to outfit his crew, give then an edge against Abby and townies, then I could understand him asking. Any U.F.P.S courier could get that many guns, being well trusted and regarded as they are, which is also why I doubt most would care to do it, though there are always those who surprise you. Still, Ron didn¡¯t even fake interest in the Forzare to establish a working rapport, and instead breezed right on past to ask me to deliver both moons into his hands. Nah, this whole thing stinks of desperation, not a mistake a man like Ron would normally make, but I can only think of two possible reasons he would be desperate, and neither of them are good.


    ¡°You planning on hosting a baby shower sometime soon?¡± My question goes unanswered as Ron¡¯s smile slips away, and his gaze turns hard to warn me about my place, because we both know I ain¡¯t asking after no human babies. That¡¯s a shame, because I was hoping I¡¯d guessed wrong. Things would be so much simpler if Ron wanted big guns to take over some established territory. Bad day when having an aspiring war monger is the better option, but that do be how it is sometimes.


    Leaning in real close so we can talk without being overheard, I whisper, ¡°Seen lots of gobbo scouts lately? Sizing up your walls and towers, doing headcounts while getting the lay of the land?¡± Man don¡¯t even give me a slight nod, but his eyes tell me that I¡¯m right and he don¡¯t like that I know. I don¡¯t care what he likes, because this is bigger than just him, though I doubt he would agree. ¡°You need to get word to the Rangers then,¡± I whisper, injecting as much sincerity and urgency as possible. No more smiles now, because we ain¡¯t playing no more. ¡°Or the M¨¦tis Pathfinders, French Chevaliers, British Protectorate, Catholic Knight¡¯s Templars even. Anyone you care to ask for help, because big guns won¡¯t be enough for the guests who gonna come a-knocking, not without soldiers to help cater the event.¡±


    I¡¯m keeping my words real quiet and circumspect here, as I ain¡¯t sure if Hobb and Jumbo are clued in and I don¡¯t want to start a panic. Wouldn¡¯t help, though I¡¯m of a mind to panic myself. A man smart as Ron don¡¯t startle for nothing, so if he thinks Big Abby¡¯s looking to pay him a visit, then I for one believe him.


    Goblins. Orcs. Harpies. Bugs. Different names taken from folklore which people give to those monstrous miscreations, but at end of the day, they¡¯re all Aberrations, the same basic creature in various different shapes. The vast majority are dumb, barely thinking drones who got one thought and one thought only: secure biomass for big momma. That¡¯d be their Progenitor, a vile, meaty, porous sac of mouths and tendrils that spends its days, eating, digging, and birthing. Ain¡¯t picky about what it eat neither, as a Progenitor can turn most anything into all manner of different Abby, which then go out and scour the lands for more resources to bring back, all so the Progenitor can make more Abby. Bigger and stronger Abby, many of which will have biomineral Spell Cores embedded within their bodies which allow them to harness powerful magics.


    And now Ron suspects a newborn monster-making machine is fixing to turn Pleasant Dunes into its new home. Makes sense. Best bits of the mountain range are probably already claimed, and this fine town here is prime real estate, chock full of tasty townies to break down into biomass. To make matters worse, Progenitors¡¯ ain¡¯t dumb, not even newborns looking for new digs. They got intelligence, albeit an inhuman one, and this one will have learned through the eyes of its gobbo scouts that this prize ain¡¯t gonna be easy to take. That means it¡¯ll go looking for allies, and won¡¯t have to look far. That¡¯s the real scary bit, because Progenitors communicate. Not in English mind you, or any other human language, but their own. They talk, they plot, they plan, and yes, oftentimes they fight amongst themselves, but a baby Progenitor can always count on mommy Progenitor to lend it an army so it can move out on its own.


    And make no mistake, Mommy will have an army, because Progenitor¡¯s don¡¯t give birth unless they got plenty of resources to spare, resources they can¡¯t get without an army in the first place.


    So long story short, Ron¡¯s stuck in an arms race with a nepo-baby Proggy, and to the victor goes Pleasant Dunes. On one side, we got a greedy corporate hegemon who treats people only slightly better than slaves. On the other, we got a monstrous, magical, intelligent entity that will kill and eat the lucky survivors before turning the rest into living incubation pods for birthing even more powerful, more intelligent Abby.


    Much as I hate to do it, I gotta root for Ron as the lesser of two evils in this case.


    Drinking in my growing concern without blinking an eye, Ron considers all of his options before finally speaking. ¡°You seem well-regarded by Armand Kalthoff, the Ranger¡¯s premier gunsmith and head of their Aetherarms manufacturing division.¡± Looking me over in a new light, he asks, ¡°Hypothetically, what do you suppose he would do if he were to receive a box with your finger in it?¡±


    The threat brings my genuine smile back in full force, and Ron¡¯s concern deepens, because for the second time, he¡¯s lost control of the conversation, and again, he don¡¯t know how. Seems Carl didn¡¯t share my story and Ron don¡¯t know how highly regarded I really am. ¡°Well,¡± I drawl, all too happy to let Ron stew for a bit. ¡°Not much, I reckon. Me and Mr. Kalthoff get along fine enough, but he loves his guns more than anything else ¡®sides his family. I ain¡¯t a student you see, just an enthusiast, one who asks more questions than he cares to answer most days. In your hypothetical situation, he¡¯d probably just pass my finger on up to the Rangers, I suppose.¡±


    Uncle Teddy on the other hand, well, let¡¯s just say that sending one of my fingers back to New Hope would solve Ron¡¯s Abby problem right quick. Theodore Ellis would gather up every gun he could get his hands on and rush right over to Pleasant Dunes to personally deliver them, with the full force of the American Rangers to help carry the payload to boot. Yea, no need to worry about Abby no more once the good Marshal melts your stone walls, topples your tall towers, and drags you behind his horse through five and a half days of sand and shrub just so he can hang you from the closest tree.


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    But I ain¡¯t about to tell Ron that. Might convince him to give it a try anyways. The smart ones always think they got an edge, which makes ¡®em real stupid sometimes.


    Got a perfect example right here. The second he found out there was a Progenitor eying his town, Ron should¡¯ve cleaned house and called for help. Instead, he sees this as an opportunity, one he means to profit from. Assuming he wins the fight, an Abby army would mean hundreds or even thousands of Abby corpses, corpses which represented a fortune in Aberrtin and Spell Cores, to say nothing of the value of the Progenitor itself. Pure greed is what it is, and nothing else, meaning I doubt anything I say is gonna get through.


    But I gotta try at least.


    ¡°Look Mr. Jackson,¡± I begin, leaning away to speak out loud with as much sincerity as I can muster, ¡°I¡¯m real sorry, but there ain¡¯t nothing I can do to get you what you want. Fact is, I doubt anyone can. Ain¡¯t no one selling big guns, because not even the Rangers got enough for themselves. If you looking for regular Ranger Aetherams like the Forzare, well that¡¯s real simple. Sign an agreement to adhere to Ranger working guidelines and accept Ranger oversight to ensure they¡¯re in place. That¡¯ll make you a Ranger Affiliate, free to buy as many guns as you please. They¡¯ll even have your back in a pinch, against Abby or anyone else looking to make trouble. Could have a full company of Rangers out here in two weeks if you¡¯ve a mind to make it happen. Twenty battle-hardened soldiers packing more Aetherpower than you can handle and ready to right all the wrongs in and around Pleasant Dunes.¡±


    Yea you heard me Ron. That there is a subtle threat. If you wanna mess with this bull, then you sure as shootin¡¯ gonna get the horns.


    Got to give the man his due, but he takes it all in stride, still slouching over the bar like we just chatting over drinks. Can¡¯t help but respect someone who keeps cool under pressure, unlike Hobb or Jumbo sweating bullets from all this tension they been enduring. Calm and collected as ever, Ron considers his words carefully, but only his words because his decision has long since been made. ¡°This is my town,¡± he says, and I believe he believes it, but that don¡¯t make it true. ¡°End of discussion.¡±


    Well, I can appreciate the brevity, especially since I¡¯m incapable of such and my steak and taters are getting colder by the second. ¡°Fair enough. I ain¡¯t gonna twist your arm.¡± Not when there are other solutions to be had, but I gotta finish my business here first. Leaning back in to whisper, I continue, ¡°So then it appears we got ourselves a stalemate.¡± Offering a shrug by way of apology, I give my closer dubsie a little flick with my finger to point out the problem. ¡°See, don¡¯t neither of us stand to benefit none if things get ugly. I made some mistakes, and your people did too. I say that makes us even. If it were up to me, I¡¯d let bygones be bygones and move on from here. I put my guns away, eat my steak and taters, go about my business in Pleasant Dunes, and be out of your hair by tomorrow morning at the latest.¡± Tonight for sure. Pursing my lips, I look Ron dead in his baby blues and show him I mean business. ¡°But it ain¡¯t up to me, now is it?¡±


    Rage. That¡¯s what I find swimming in Ron¡¯s eyes, a burning anger just begging to be unleashed, but he ain¡¯t one to be controlled by emotion. Calm comes almost immediately, closely followed by a hint of worry, only for his confidence to return in full force to assure him he got everything in hand. ¡°You are a very clever boy,¡± he begins, and a hint of warning creeps into his gaze, but it gonna take more than a stern look to shake me. ¡°Too clever really. Got a big mouth too, because you are right. We are in a bind. Didn¡¯t expect to reveal so much in a casual meeting over mead today, and now I have a decision to make. Change all my current plans and adapt, or take¡­ more extreme methods instead.¡±


    Oh no, a death threat. I¡¯m so scared. In response, I tap my index finger against the bar, reminding Ron that he ain¡¯t in no position to be making threats.


    A genuine grin stretches across his face as he leans in close, so charming and handsome I almost feel compelled to ugly him up a bit. Make the outside match the in, as it were, but I keep my temper in check. ¡°You got stones too, son. I respect that. Admire it even, but you really think this through? Let¡¯s say I agree. We let bygones be bygones, and leave you to your meal. Then what? You deliver the mail and go home? A lesser man than I would walk out that door and come back with every man in my crew to teach you a lesson.¡± Shaking his head, he straightens up and adds, ¡°I¡¯m concerned for you boy. Your arrogance is going to get you killed. One day.¡±


    That gets another laugh outta me, though I don¡¯t break eye contact. ¡°You ain¡¯t the first to tell me I¡¯m too big for my britches,¡± I say, still tapping my finger against the bar. ¡°I¡¯ll tell you what I always say. Arrogance is undeserved confidence.¡± My smile melts away, leaving only the threat of violence behind. ¡°You push me, and you¡¯ll learn which is which, right quick.¡±


    Since there¡¯s nothing else to be said, we silently agree to break eye contact at the same time, else this staring contest would last all day. While I holster my Doorknockers, I watch Ron, Hobb, and Jumbo head out through the kitchen before sending my Mage Hands to grab the plate of rare muskari steak and roasted purple taters, both seasoned to perfection. Which I eat with my hat on, because manners is one thing, and good sense another. On the outside, I look all hunky dory, using my spectral hands to eat with while my real hands copy down the Spell Formula for Water Sphere and jot down notes to explain every step along the way. Inwardly, I admit I might be sweating a bit, because like I said, Ronald Jackson ain¡¯t one to forgive or forget.


    My rustling jimmies tried to warn me, but I still went and stepped right into this doggone mess.


    Still warning me in fact, telling me to get outta dodge while I still can, but that¡¯d be a mistake. My jimmies are good at telling me when danger¡¯s nearby, but not so great at offering solutions. I turn and rabbit now, and Vanguard National will chase me clear across the desert for sure. Be forced to really, after a show of weakness like that. Ron¡¯s a predator, and the only reason I¡¯m still breathing is because I didn¡¯t back down an inch. Then again, for all I know, he¡¯s doing exactly as he said he would and gathering his boys for a good old-fashioned lynching. A dangerous man he is, and the only assurance I have that I won¡¯t be gunned down in the streets is the fact that I arrived here under a U.F.P.S flag. They might just be mailmen, but they still Feds, and they take the death of one of their own dead serious. Won¡¯t be more than a month before the full force of the United Federation Postal Inspection Service descends upon Pleasant Dunes, and I bet they¡¯d have their killer less than a day later, likely delivered to them by Ron¡¯s own men since the offered reward would be too great for anyone to pass up. And that¡¯s assuming Uncle Teddy don¡¯t decide to handle matters in-house, since he¡¯d find my hat right quick, which¡¯ll hold all the answers he¡¯ll need.


    Wouldn¡¯t help me much, seeing how in those particular scenarios, I would already be dead. Least the steak and taters are delicious, and the barman even got me a glass of ginger beer, which ain¡¯t got any ginger or beer in it, but is still a nice, cool, and fizzy drink.


    While I¡¯m re-checking my work for the third time, miss Laura comes by to collect my empty plate. ¡°Best steak I ever had. My compliments to the chef,¡± I say, reaching into my duster for my wallet, only to stop as she lays down a wad of cash on the bar. ¡°What¡¯s this? Most places I gotta pay for the food, not get paid to eat it.¡±


    ¡°A hundred and twenty dollars,¡± Miss Laura replies, her expression cold and unreadable, but her voice rich and melodic with the familiar tones of the southern U.F.A. ¡°For the mead. Ron told me to tell you he meant what he said.¡± About buying more mead or about how my arrogance getting me killed? Probably both, not that it matters. I was already planning a return trip, but maybe I¡¯ll bring some mead too, just to see the look on his face when I roll up to deliver it. ¡°Meals comped too,¡± Miss Laura says, ¡°So you can go about your business after you bring in the mead.¡±


    ¡°Well ain¡¯t that a treat.¡± Rather than count the cash or check for counterfeits, I slide the top note towards Laura, a crisp five-dollar bill. That ain¡¯t small money, but she only got eyes for my spell scribing, reading it quick as she can to memorize the numbers and procedures as best she can. Turning it so she don¡¯t got to tilt her head so much, I say, ¡°Just a simple Cantrip. Water Sphere. Good for washing, hazardous for drinking.¡±


    ¡°Heard about your little show out front. Girl¡¯s¡¯ll be talking about that for weeks.¡± Laura¡¯s brown eyes meet mine and she gives me a good long look. Not interest, just curiosity. Trying to learn what makes me tick. ¡°Heard you said was gonna write up the Formula, but not what you was charging for it.¡±


    ¡°Nothing.¡± Holding my hands to my heart, I act wounded by miss Laura¡¯s suspicions before bringing back my pearly whites. ¡°Said it and I meant it. Ain¡¯t my Spell to sell, and its a right useful one in the desert.¡±


    ¡°Which make it all the more valuable.¡± The look in miss Laura¡¯s brown eyes turn a slight shade more serious than merely curious as she takes the stool beside me and rests her pretty little head on her hand. I dare say interested even, though not in the way I¡¯d hope. ¡°So why not put a price on it and pad your pockets? Like Ron said, you selling yourself short.¡±


    ¡°Could do a lot to pad my pockets if I wanted. Don¡¯t make it right.¡± Gesturing at my slanted brown eyes, I say, ¡°If you really need a reason, then you might say I¡¯m doing what little I can to right the wrongs of my daddy¡¯s people, and the government fools who done sent y¡¯all over here unprepared. Make sure folks got the know-how they need to make life on the Frontier better.¡±


    But not my people, a distinction miss Laura takes in with a shake of her head which sets her dark ringlets a swaying. ¡°That why you come here? To right wrongs and spread Spells?¡±


    ¡°Nah. Just here on a job to get paid.¡± Not just the one job, but still the truth.


    ¡°Then you best do it quick and be on your way.¡± Nodding at the Spell Formula, miss Laura adds, ¡°I¡¯ll talk to Ron, see if your Cantrip don¡¯t buy you a bit o¡¯ goodwill. Might even be enough to keep you alive.¡±


    What¡¯d I say? Heart of gold. ¡°Thank you kindly for your concern miss Laura, but I¡¯m afraid I can¡¯t just up and leave. See, a postman¡¯s job ain¡¯t just delivering mail and packages. If that were the case, then I¡¯d hand everything off to the Sherrif and be on my merry way.¡± Which judging by her look, is what miss Laura suggests I do. ¡°Part of the work is community outreach,¡± I explain, smiling as if I wasn¡¯t dreading that part of the work most. ¡°That¡¯s what they call it. Connecting with the locals, seeing how they live, what they up to, and what they lacking, so the suits can jaw on about what they can do to help.¡±


    Without ever doing anything of real value. I want to say more, but seeing how miss Laura got Ron¡¯s ear, I button right up. My loose lips got me in enough trouble already, jawing on about big Abby when I should¡¯ve feigned ignorance instead. No need to stick my boot in there a second time, least not so soon after, but I ain¡¯t fooling miss Laura. ¡°Guess you don¡¯t think much of our little home here then,¡± she says, her lip curling it anger, ¡°You fixing on fixing Pleasant Dunes?¡± Settling in with a sigh, she says, ¡°Sometimes, I forget what it¡¯s like.¡±


    ¡°What what¡¯s like?¡±


    ¡°Bein¡¯ young and idealistic.¡± Reaching out to pat my cheek, miss Laura¡¯s eyes get that knowing look when I jerk away to avoid the soft touch on reflex, and I do my best to pretend not to see it. After a moment¡¯s pause, she decides its best left alone, and for that, she has my gratitude. ¡°Heard you come outta New Hope? Makes sense that you see how we live and don¡¯t think much of it. Well sugar, you ain¡¯t seen nothing.¡± Her eyes take on the same look mine must¡¯ve had; a haunted, hardened gaze filled with memories best forgotten. ¡°Before Ronald Jackson tamed these parts and built them walls, this here was the wild Frontier. Miners¡¯d go up the mountain for ores, and come back down to find bandits ready to take it all away. They robbed, killed, and raped to their dark hearts content, then would come back the next night and do worse if them miners didn¡¯t have more ore for them to take.¡±


    ¡°And Ronald Jackson come fix all that, did he?¡± I ask, leaning back to stretch after a big meal. ¡°Lay down the law and dole out Frontier justice?¡± More like legitimized banditry and codified exploitation. Amazing what people will overlook for a man with a pretty smile.


    ¡°You make fun, but he did. Killed the worst of the bunch and put the rest to work guarding the miners.¡± Gesturing at the saloon around us, she gives me a look that tells me she don¡¯t find me funny. Which hurts, because humour is one of my best features, just after my big smile and winning personality. ¡°Ain¡¯t no woman working here that don¡¯t want to, and Ron makes sure his girls don¡¯t get hurt.¡± Yea, because he a business man who know marks ruins the merchandise. ¡°Limited drinks per man, so nobody don¡¯t start nothing.¡± That explains why those same five sorry souls still nursing their drinks and ain¡¯t no one else come in. ¡°Anyone who does start something don¡¯t ever do it again, Ron make sure of that too. As for the miners, anyone who works is fed, clothed, and protected. Their families too. No more hoping and praying to strike gold, silver, gems or Q-ace, because work pays the same for mining iron, lead, and coal too.¡±


    Which sounds nice in theory, it really do, but some of those things are worth a whole lot more than the others. Q-ace especially, or cupric acetate, a rare, naturally forming chemical compound used to Imbue or Augment mundane items with magic. Course, argument could be made that we need iron, lead and coal just as much as the others, if not more, but I like to think supply and demand would take care of that.


    I ain¡¯t here to argue though, and miss Laura ain¡¯t exactly said anything wrong, so I keep quiet and let her get it all off of her chest. ¡°Ours ain¡¯t the happiest town I reckon,¡± she says, crossing her arms and getting all defensive, ¡°But it¡¯s a safe one, which is more than what it was before Ronald Jackson came along to sort things out.¡± Giving me a light poke in the chest, she gives me a warning gaze that¡¯s more concern than caution. ¡°Plenty people still remember as much, so if I was you, I¡¯d be on my way outta Pleasant Dunes quick as a bunny. Don¡¯t be counting on no goodwill or no lawmen to keep you safe.¡±


    ¡°You mostly right.¡± Taken aback by my quick concession, miss Laura returns it with more suspicion. Now she really breaking my heart, talking Ron up like that and taking me for a snake in the grass. ¡°I ain¡¯t gonna deny the facts. You saying things were much worse before Ronald Jackson, and I believe you. That it¡¯d be smart for me to leave now, and that¡¯s true too.¡± Before she can ask, I meet her gaze and hold it, so she can see the truth in my eyes. ¡°But you wrong about one thing, miss Laura. I¡¯m the Firstborn on this here wild Frontier, lived through most of those same years you did, so believe me when I say I¡¯ve seen plenty.¡±


    A truth I compel her to acknowledge before I continue on, and she does with a bite of her lip and a nod of her head. It¡¯s like looking in a reflection at times, seeing those same invisible scars, ones neither of us care to elaborate on. ¡°See,¡± I say, once I know she¡¯s got the gist, ¡°My daddy scouted for the Rangers, so he was always out and about. When I was eight, he decided it was high time I start learning the ropes and join him on his trips. From then on, we only wintered in New Hope while travelling about in search of people and communities to connect with.¡± Miss Laura¡¯s shock comes as no surprise, since every parent¡¯s first instinct would be to protect their child, and most did that by sheltering them from the worst of the Frontier as best they could. My daddy had a different way of going about it, which was showing me what I was up against so I wouldn¡¯t balk when confronted by the ugly truth.


    Didn¡¯t come out of it smelling like roses, but I¡¯d say it all worked out well enough. Better in fact, seeing how well I turned out, so I won¡¯t hear no one say any different.


    Now that I have her full attention, I paint miss Laura a picture of what I seen. ¡°Those days, the Frontier was as ugly as you said. Rode through places where there was no law and order to be had, and kept going back until one day, there was. Didn¡¯t happen overnight, but I watched it all unfold in real time. Communities came together under Ranger protection, built up defenses and began trading amongst themselves. Criminals were caught, tried, and convicted dozens at a time, and soon enough, the Accords were respected by most round those parts.¡± Laws the nations of the old world all agreed their settlers would adhere to without any real way of ensuring they would. Really silly bunch, them government officials, no matter the colour, race, or creed, but things have worked out good enough so far. ¡°For a time, it seemed like a new settlements would pop up every six months or so, with some going from little shanty camps to full on fortified towns in little more than a year.¡±


    Mostly thanks to the Rangers funding the whole efforts, building up that Red, White, and Blue Shield to stop the encroaching growth of the Aberration infested badlands, but I ain¡¯t here to brag. Miss Laura seems to think I have though, her lovely features putting together the best ¡®so what?¡¯ face I ever seen. ¡°Well,¡± she drawls, getting all huffy and defensive, ¡°We can¡¯t all be so lucky as to have American War Hero Major Theodore Ellis to cover our ass.¡±


    ¡°You could, actually. That¡¯s the point I¡¯m trying to make.¡± Gesturing around us the same way she did earlier, I do my best to convey my sincerity. ¡°What y¡¯all have done here is incredible. Y¡¯all endured. Survived. Now you got tall walls, lofty towers, and hard men with big guns to keep you safe. I can count on one hand how many settlements can say the same around these parts without backing from an official, old-world military faction, so believe me when I say I¡¯m impressed.¡± And I really was, until I saw what those walls were concealing. ¡°I¡¯m not here to look down on what you¡¯ve accomplished. I¡¯m here to remind you and the folks of Pleasant Dunes of something y¡¯all forgot, something others just like you also forgot.¡±


    ¡°And what¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°That life is about more than just surviving.¡± The words hit her hard, and not just her. The bartender and the patrons have been listening in, no longer afraid to be noticed now that Ron and his thugs ain¡¯t here. ¡°Y¡¯all stepped through the gate in 1989 and left all them modern conveniences behind,¡± I say, casting my gaze across the saloon and meeting the eyes of my meagre audience. ¡°Since then, it¡¯s been a struggle to survive, but y¡¯all made it. Today is taken care of. So is tomorrow. Now, it¡¯s time to start planning for next week, next month, next year, plans to get back what y¡¯all gave up to come here. You got food and security. What about homes? Beds? Roads? How about schools for the kids? A church or town hall to gather in? An open space for sports and activities? A radio tower to connect you to the rest of the Frontier? Fact is, I¡¯m surprised a man like Ronald Jackson ain¡¯t already working towards all that, as he could have it all built up right quick.¡± Pausing for a moment to let my words sink in, I add, ¡°If he had mind to do it.¡±


    Having made my point, I sit back and let miss Laura process what I¡¯ve said, and I can see her hesitation. Her fears, doubts, denials, all of it flits across her fetching features, but none of it can smother that newborn spark of hope. Oh, she tries to drown it right quick by ending the conversation and walking away, but it¡¯ll come back soon enough. I can tell by the way she looks back over her shoulder, that hope already reignited only to be quashed once more, because she¡¯s afraid. Afraid of losing what she has, and afraid of what their great protector might do to maintain the status quo, but so long as there is hope, then the folk of Pleasant Dunes has got a fighting chance. Ronald Jackson might¡¯ve done right by them in the past, but whatever his motivations were to begin with, it¡¯s clear that greed has made him more obstacle than advantage, and it¡¯s high time the rest of this town saw it too. That¡¯s why I ain¡¯t gonna run. Not just because of stubborn pride and practical sensibilities, but because I want these people to see that I ain¡¯t afraid, and they shouldn¡¯t be neither.


    End of the day, Ronald Jackson ain¡¯t nothing more than a man. It¡¯s the people who hold the power, not him.


    Course, I don¡¯t expect much to change in the short-term. I¡¯ll deliver the mail, head on out, and tomorrow, Pleasant Dunes will be the same as it was yesterday. Nah, inertia ain¡¯t easy to overcome even without someone like Ronald Jackson working to keep things as they are, and I ain¡¯t about to try it all by my lonesome. I¡¯m just a man here to deliver the mail, and I reckon I ought to get to it. So after making sure my Spells all still up to snuff and the medallion with my family name still facing forward on my Stetson, I head out into the sunlight hoping I ain¡¯t about to get shot.


    It do be like that sometimes, and when it do, then all a man can do is make his preparations and play the hand fate dealt him. If this is where I die, then so be it, but I sure as shooting won¡¯t be going out alone. No sir-ree bob, so if Ron thinks he can get one over the Firstborn, then he got a rude awakening in store for him, and that right there is a stone-cold fact.

 Chapter 5

    Stepping out onto the sunlit porch, I¡¯m greeted not with raised guns and loosed Bolts, but the sight of Cowie¡¯s furry white torso laid out flat across the porch.


    With his hornless head nestled in one lovely gal¡¯s lap, while several others crowd around him. There he is, getting all the pats and smooches a beast could ever ask for and looking real smug about it too, smacking his dark lips and batting his grey eyes all content and such. He much more sociable than I am. Probably paid better attention to Aunty Ray¡¯s lessons.


    ¡°So why, do you call him, Cow-ie?¡± One of the gals asks, a fair-skinned Euro type talking with that low-high-low-high pitching that some of them do. ¡°This one, is clear-ly bull.¡±


    ¡°That he is,¡± I say, fighting against the urge to make the obvious joke while studying my new shadow. Looming over the door is a hulking baldy who might well be Jumbo¡¯s Hispanic twin, only a bit smaller, all natural, and a whole lot uglier. Not his fault really, more the fault of whoever gave him all those scars, not to mention the fellas who broke his nose so many times, and the baldness don¡¯t help either. Much like Jumbo, his South American counterpart has got a button up with the sleeves torn off, but rather than leaving it fully unbuttoned, Gigante here has his collar button done up while leaving the rest to flap in the breeze, sorta like a poncho with sleeves. Shows off how nicely he tucked his white undershirt in, and the big honking machete strapped to his gunbelt too. Can¡¯t say I¡¯m a fan of the style, but fashion do be a mighty mercurial thing, so who am I to judge appearances?


    Giving the nice Euro gal and her friends my full attention, I explain, ¡°See, it¡¯s a bit complicated, but it all comes down to a language barrier. My daddy, he didn¡¯t speak no English before he passed through the Gate, so in those early years, he would teach me Qinese and we would learn English together. Now, in Qinese, they don¡¯t got words for bull, cow, and calf. They just got one word for the animal, Niu, and add qualifiers to it. So male niu, female niu, baby niu, and whatnot. So when my daddy pointed at some milk cows and asked what animal it was, my Uncle Raleigh told him, ¡®that there¡¯s a cow¡¯, and my daddy locked that word up tight. Didn¡¯t think to ask about bulls and calves, because why would he?¡±


    With a helpless shrug and little laugh aimed at myself, I take a knee to pat Cowie¡¯s flanks and say, ¡°So he passes that incomplete tidbit of information onto me, but years pass and it never comes up, until I find this little guy in a clearing a fair shake north from New Hope. There he was, only a few days old and crying over his dead momma, with no one to look after him but me.¡± Truth is, his momma wasn¡¯t dead just yet, but there was nothing we could do to save her. Put her down myself to end her suffering, a tough thing to do for a boy of eleven. ¡°Anyways, seeing how I lost my momma young too, I ran right on over and told him he was gonna be okay, and we been together ever since.¡± Giving a sheepish look as the gals coo, I wrap up the story best I can. ¡°When it came to picking a name, I figured he was a cow, and I would call him Cowie because it rhymed with Howie. Wasn¡¯t ¡®til we got home that someone pointed out the mistake, and by then he wouldn¡¯t respond to any other name.¡± The gals give a little laugh, not because it¡¯s a great story, but because my embarrassment makes it so. Mostly because I was old enough to know about the birds and the bees, but there I was all ignorant about cows and bulls.


    Even though it¡¯s a silly name, that don¡¯t make Cowie any less important to me, or me any less important to him. We a team, Howie and Cowie against the world.


    ¡°You here to work or flirt, Qino? Get on about that mead.¡± Hand on the hilt of his machete, one that¡¯s almost half a sword, Gigante looms over with a ferocious scowl, but I ain¡¯t much impressed with choice of threat. Again, he got a revolver right there next to his machete, so why don¡¯t he hold that instead? Who even needs a blade that big? He ain¡¯t chopping his way through no tangled growth, not out here in the Coral Desert. What¡¯s he gonna do, run in and stab Abby? Sure, there are Spells designed for use with melee weapons, even got a designation in the Rangers for soldiers who specialize in it, but at least they smart enough to use polearms or rifle bayonets instead of knives. Gigante¡¯s pig-sticker might work well enough against goblins, assuming them crafty pee-wee greenies don¡¯t overwhelm him with numbers, but you try going toe to toe with an orc and he¡¯ll rip the flesh right off your bones with his bare hands. They ain¡¯t the biggest bunch around, averaging about five-five to five-eight and maybe two-hundred pounds, but they a real dense and compact Abby that punch way above their weight class.


    As for Bugbears? No idea why they called that, since they don¡¯t look like no bugs or bears I ever seen, but they about six foot tall and three-hundred pounds of mean and mottled green that can dig tunnels through a mountain with their claws. Take on one of those with a blade, even a big machete like Gigante¡¯s? Ha. My daddy didn¡¯t raise no coward, but he didn¡¯t raise no fool neither.


    Course, fool is relative, which is why I open my big mouth to say, ¡°Hey there, Gee-Gan-Tei,¡± giving the word that ol¡¯ Mexican flair as payback for his ¡®Qino¡¯. ¡°I always wanted to ask: when you go bald, does the carpet get going along with the drapes?¡±


    Now, a smarter man would have stood up before insulting the hulking Hispanic fondling his knife. An even smarter man wouldn¡¯t have insulted him in the first place, but I ain¡¯t ashamed to admit I¡¯m a little vexed with Ron, which ain¡¯t got nothing to do with what¡¯s happening here. So it stands to reason I¡¯m deserving of the knee Gigante delivers to my face, but like I said, me and Cowie are a team. While I¡¯m reeling from the hit, the gals get to screaming and Cowie gets to bellowing as he surges up on all fours in a fury. Then things turn a bit messy as close to two tonnes of bull gets right up into Gigante¡¯s face, then continues right on past it. By the time I find my bearings and get back on my feet, Gigante is laid out flat with Cowie¡¯s face pressed right up against his, huffing and growling as only a beast his size can, and a right frightful sound it is.


    ¡°Careful now,¡± I say, as Gigante fumbles for his machete, which again ain¡¯t the best choice. To be fair, he¡¯s looking a bit dazed and seeing stars, but meeting Cowie head on tends to have that effect. ¡°You hurt my driver there, and things are gonna get real ugly, real fast. Not for you, because you¡¯ll be dead and sitting pretty, but I¡¯mma hafta get my hands dirty cleaning bits of you outta his hooves and fur.¡± Gigante gets the hint, removing his hand from his weapons and stretching both arms out to side. Only then do I wipe the blood from my swelling lip and give Cowie a big ol¡¯ pat on the neck. ¡°Alright there partner. You made your point. The little guy ain¡¯t gonna pick on me no more. Ease up.¡±


    Too smart to give a potential threat his belly, Cowie blows out a snort and backs off, his big, storm grey eyes fixated on Gigante even well after he clear. Don¡¯t make no sense why people ain¡¯t afraid of no bulls, even ones which ain¡¯t sporting horns like Cowie. Sure, they real sweet and gentle, until they ain¡¯t. Showing he smarter than he looks, Gigante stays where he is, or maybe he¡¯s just too dizzy to stand. Taking a knee next to him, I help him sit up and give him the once over to make sure he ain¡¯t got no concussion before offering him a hand up. ¡°So seriously,¡± I ask, as he stares at me all dazed and suspicious, ¡°About them carpets and drapes? Just dying to know.¡±


    For a second, Gigante acts like he don¡¯t know what I¡¯m talking about, but then he laughs and takes my hand. ¡°You fucking loco Qino!¡± Once he¡¯s back on his feet, he thumps me hard on the shoulder, sporting a grin to match mine because this time the inflection ain¡¯t ugly. ¡°Tienes unos huevotes!¡± Seeing I don¡¯t understand, he holds his hands out like he¡¯s cupping two melons while his eyes go wide and wild. ¡°Giant fucking balls!¡± After cackling a bit more, he shakes his head in pure disbelief and pats his cheeks and chest, making a joke of it all. Once he¡¯s sure he still got all his bits and bobs, he pulls out the crucifix hanging around his neck and gives it a kiss, while his eyes study Cowie who¡¯s still watching him real close. ¡°Thought I was finished, but seems Santa Muerte has more for me yet.¡±


    ¡°Yea, Cowie knows how to play nice.¡± Aunty Ray had to teach him, on account of him playing not so nice a few too many times. Patting Gigante on the chest, I guide him over to the bench which the gals just vacated and help him take a seat. ¡°Still, he don¡¯t always know his own strength, and you took a bit of a spill, so how bout you sit here while I bring the mead inside?¡±


    Gigante¡¯s got a good laugh, one that come right from the belly, and he holds both hands up in mock surrender. ¡°Hey, hey, whatever you doin¡¯, you doin¡¯ by choice, yes?¡±


    ¡°That I am. Name¡¯s Howie.¡± I stick out my hand for a shake.


    ¡°Vicente.¡±


    His big hand engulfs mine, but unlike with Ron, Vicente doesn¡¯t crush it, just takes a firm hold. ¡°Pleasure to meet you, Vicente.¡±


    ¡°For you. For me, maybe not so much, hey?¡± That gets a laugh out of both of us, and I can tell the ladies are confused. See, that¡¯s the thing about men. We can butt heads and then make friends. Don¡¯t take much really. Just some dumb jokes. Course, miss Laura gives me a strange look when she sees me bring in the first two cases of mead, but I flash my pearly whites and ask where she want them. They go behind the bar, and the last case joins it soon after before I head back out for a bit of chit-chat with Vicente, who¡¯s made fast friends with Cowie in my absence. Aunty Ray¡¯s prize student there; knock a man flat on his ass only to turn around and put your head on his lap for scritches. Ain¡¯t no world in which I can ever pull off a stunt like that.


    Not that I¡¯d ever want to. Just saying, is all.


    Seeing how there some folk already waiting for their mail, I head over to the wagon to get to work. With Cowie all cuddled up with Vicente, I gotta activate a pair of Spell Cores on the wagon so I can move it. Floating Disc Spell Cores to be exact, which conjures up an invisible floating disc for carrying all manner of things. Does what it says on the tin, but a little lacking in flair for my tastes. Either way, the Spell Cores lighten the wagon¡¯s steel frame enough for me to roll it around without help, which the crowd finds mighty impressive. All for the low, low price of 50mg of iron shavings and 8 Grain of Aether. Not exactly expensive, as a bullet costs more even without factoring in the brass, yet they all act like I¡¯m tossing Aether to the wind.


    Once I got the wagon where I want it, I take out the Spell Formula I wrote down while I was eating and lay it flat on the porch. Taking a casual glance around, I don¡¯t see any obvious threats, but I¡¯m still not pleased to have to dismiss my big Spell. I¡¯d have to do it eventually, since I gotta cast Cantrips to check papers, much like Carl did over mine, but it¡¯s still hard to let go. Doubly so considering I probably won¡¯t be able to cast it again before I leave. The big Spell ain¡¯t a big Spell for no reason, and I can only cast it so many times before needing to lay my head down to rest. I¡¯m not just talking about a short break or a catnap neither. Spellcasting is mentally taxing, and a full night¡¯s rest is necessary to get you back in prime casting condition. Something about how the human brain removes waste byproducts while you sleeping, though I never could quite understand the exact details. Either way, three big Spells a day is pretty much my limit, and that¡¯s assuming I don¡¯t cast nothing else besides Cantrips.


    Good thing most daily use Spells are Cantrips, like the Photograph Cantrip I¡¯m about to use to take an image of my writing. Palming a piece of green jadeite in my left hand, I use my thumbs and index fingers from both hands to form a rectangle which becomes the frame of the image I¡¯d like to imprint in memory. In this case, that¡¯d be my written note, an image which I then transfer from memory into a second rainbow tourmaline on the left side of my wagon. All it takes is a touch and a thought to make the transfer, then another thought plus a scant bit of Aether to activate the Silent Image Spell Core the rainbow Tourmaline crystal is attached to. This displays the stored image of the Water Sphere Spell Formula as a light-based illusion for all to see, no different from the list of mail recipients showing on the other side. Soon as they see what it is, a bunch of townsfolk scramble to copy it down, while more run off for paper and pen, but I assure everyone that I will leave it up for as long as I am delivering mail, and encourage them to share the Formula with any who might miss out.


    I been told this sort image projection tech was old hat back in the old world, and they even had crystal screens dedicated for watching live or prerecorded plays and events from across the world. Television, they call it, though I don¡¯t know why they¡¯d mix Greek and Latin to come up with a word for it. Wouldn¡¯t know it was nothing special from the way the people be acting though, especially the children. Breaks my heart to see so many denied the basic conveniences of arcana-tech, so I take a beat to put on some music too. Nothing fancy, just a couple pre-recorded guitar instrumentals from Chrissy which I made to listen while out on the road. That¡¯s Aunty Ray¡¯s other daughter, Tina¡¯s twin in fact. There¡¯s a lot to get into about her, but the girl can play, and the townies all let out a big cheer as Chrissy¡¯s acoustic rendition of Journey¡¯s ¡®Don¡¯t Stop Believing</a>¡¯ comes on.


    Don¡¯t matter that Chrissy don¡¯t sing. Even though it¡¯s been seventeen years since they last heard the song, most these older townies still know all the words by heart.


    There¡¯s magic in music, and don¡¯t let no one tell you different. A different kind of magic from slinging Spells, sure, but magic all the same, an undeniable force of human emotion that few can resist. When I rode into town just over an hour ago, I found a miserable, cheerless crowd of downtrodden folk. Turn on a bit of music, and suddenly those same people are all laughing, dancing, and singing in the streets like they ain¡¯t got a care in the world. Even miss Laura comes out to join the fun, a radiant smile taking the place of those perpetually pursed lips as she throws her arms up and dances with the girls, and it¡¯s a fine sight indeed. That there is a dark southern belle who loves her town as much as I love mine, and I hope this helps her see just how much Ron¡¯s been keeping from them all, just so he can pocket a larger profit.


    A song recorded with a Second Order Spell and played on arcana-tech speakers. Only cost to the Spell is opportunity and time, while I paid twenty American in work and materials for the speakers. As for Chrissy, her efforts in learning and playing can¡¯t exactly be quantified, but once the recording is made and stored, it can be played as often as you like so long as the crystal don¡¯t break and you got enough crystal Aether to power the speakers. That¡¯s all it takes to move these downtrodden folk to high spirits, a cost I would call minor to cast a magic more powerful than any Spell I know.


    While the greatest hits of the 80¡¯s play out, I set out a bowl of pink starmelon hard candies for me and the kids, then get to checking papers and delivering mail with two sets of hands. I ain¡¯t given up on finding my outlaws just yet, but I also ain¡¯t planning to look too hard. My rustling jimmies keep telling me that Ronald Jackson ain¡¯t a man to push too hard, and I already done bumped him to the limit for a lifetime. Besides, no sense in going full Scout with Vicente set to babysit. It¡¯d look mighty suspicious if I started slinging Spells to check for magical disguises or asking strange questions while listening to people¡¯s heartbeats. As for marking targets to follow around and maybe spy on, well that¡¯s completely out of the question, so ain¡¯t much I can do about it really. Unless one of them outlaws comes asking for the non-existent letter I¡¯m supposedly holding under their real names, all I can really do is keep an eye out for their faces.


    Five faces, and five names. Ain¡¯t much to go on, but if that¡¯s all I need to find these outlaws, then they¡¯re asking to get got.


    Changing a name is easy enough, and changing faces only a little harder. Not everyone can run a First-Order Disguise Self Spell 24/7, and not all those who can are able to put on the same face every time they cast it. Takes some real skill and a lot of practice to cast Illusion magic well enough for a permanent disguise, and even more skills and technical know-how to use it through a Spell Core. That being said, Makeup is a basic Cantrip, one I bet every last gal working at the saloon uses before showing up for work. Most men read the label and write it off as useless. Hide wrinkles, scars, and markings, add foundation, blush, eyeliner, lipstick, and contour lines. Don¡¯t sound like much, but Aunty Ray showed me the truth. A practiced Spellslinger can change their whole face with the Makeup Cantrip, even make their head look an entirely different shape with a few subtle changes. Can turn your skin a different colour too if you mean to. Won¡¯t take you from pasty white to deep black, but it¡¯ll bring you from either end to somewhere close to the middle, and the other way round too. Course, the bigger the change, the easier it is to spot the Cantrip at work, and it takes real skill to make it look natural, but the amount you can get away with before making it noticeable is much higher than you¡¯d think. Fact is, that sort of everyday magic almost feels downright deceptive, as it turns out most girls ain¡¯t out and about wearing their own natural faces.


    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    Still better than those who ain¡¯t showing their real faces at all using the Enhance Allure Cantrip, which is some mind magic that make you think you looking at a more idealized version of the Spellcaster. Don¡¯t change anything physical, only the target¡¯s perception of the caster, which make it mighty insidious indeed.


    So when it comes right down to it, if a man or woman has a pressing need to look different from how they do, it¡¯s only a Cantrip away. There¡¯s also plenty other Spells that can make for a disguise, like the Second Order Alter Self which can turn you into a whole different person and gender if that¡¯s your fancy. Then there¡¯s the use of mundane props and whatnot, which is another reason why asking for papers is such a smart move. Not only does the face gotta match the picture, it gives me an excuse to take a close look at everyone who come my way and see if they face really theirs. That said, after looping around to Toto¡¯s ¡®Africa</a>¡¯ for the third time and hearing the townies mangle them high notes again, the idea of being a postman full-time is starting to lose it¡¯s shine. I mean sure, I like bringing smiles to faces and making a difference in people¡¯s lives, but the tedium of the actual work gets real tiresome real fast.


    Ask for a name, look at a picture, study a face, and find the mail, with small talk and corny jokes thrown in between each step. Don¡¯t even get me started on having to answer the same questions over and over again. No I don¡¯t have mail for anyone not on the list. No, I ain¡¯t gonna double check. No you can¡¯t collect your buddy¡¯s letter for him. Nor your husband¡¯s either, not unless your papers up to date and got him listed as spouse. Don¡¯t know when your letter got to wherever it was going, or when the reply coming back, and how am I supposed to know what it gonna say?


    I¡¯d rather face down a horde of Abby with a pocket knife than go through this every few days. Least I can run away from Abby.


    Knowing what I know only makes it harder to keep my smile bright and beaming. These townies live hard lives, but they also mostly content with their lot. Sure some of that stems from fear of Ron and his thugs, but they also grateful for what they got. They still remember how hard this peace and safety was to come by. For them, the wild, lawless Frontier is fresh in memory, something sitting just beyond their walls rather than something they overcame a decade ago, so they don¡¯t take what little they got for granted. Takes a lot of willpower to stop myself from warning folk to get out of dodge while they can. Progenitors ain¡¯t exactly made for walking, being all tendrils and mouths like they are, so they don¡¯t do nothing fast besides spawning Abby. That don¡¯t change the fact that one is slowly but surely making its way towards town with an army at its back. If it was just over the horizon, I doubt Ron would bother asking random federal employees about big guns, which means there¡¯s still time before it arrives. A month at least, considering he was asking for products out of New Hope, as that¡¯s a twelve-day trip one-way. We might even have two months to spare, though I¡¯d bet less and not more. Either way, there¡¯s time enough to get these townies safely away from Pleasant Dunes. Ron won¡¯t let that happen though, because he knows they won¡¯t come back, not after they see what¡¯s really out there. No chance he¡¯ll escort them out the desert, and no chance these townies survive without one, which means opening my mouth ain¡¯t gonna do nothing except scare some folk and get me killed for sure. Now, keeping quiet don¡¯t mean I ain¡¯t fixing to do something else about their problems, but I can¡¯t do it alone, and I certainly can¡¯t do nothing if Ron has me killed for running my mouth.


    With that thought firmly in mind, I continue doling out the mail until there ain¡¯t no one lining up no more. Though there¡¯s still a fair bit of mail undelivered, likely for the miners currently working a shift, I decide it¡¯s high time I listened to my rustling jimmies and got going while the going still good. The townies are understandably disappointed when I turn off the music, but they take it in stride as I announce my intentions to leave what¡¯s left of the mail with the Sheriff. Lot of folk come by to shake my hand, or wish me farewell and good luck with getting hired on full-time. Don¡¯t do much to change my mind about never delivering mail every again, but it does bolster my determination to help see the good folk of Pleasant Dunes safely through the Abby attack coming their way and get them out from under Ron¡¯s boot.


    So I fire up the Floating Discs and head on down the sandy ¡®road¡¯ with Vicente and Cowie trotting along beside me. As we roll up, a girl hustles on out of the Sherrif¡¯s office and scurries by without a glance. Being the first person over ten and under thirty I¡¯ve seen in Pleasant Dunes, she certainly catches my eye, but it ain¡¯t her age or her fetching looks which earns her my attention. Sure, she¡¯s pretty enough in a youthful way, maybe fifteen with caramel skin and hazel eyes that makes her stand out in a crowd, only too heavily emphasized by the Makeup Cantrip which gives her a painted, caked on look. She¡¯s got real pretty hair though, wavey and dark with a luxurious shine, which would look a lot better let down than in the twin-tails she got going on. Makes her look even younger than her years, which is already too young even for me. Apparently not for Pleasant Dunes though, else someone would¡¯ve had a word with her about they way she dress. It¡¯s more or less the same sort of outfit the saloon gals were sporting, short shorts and a tiny shirt that look so out of place on her coltish, adolescent frame.


    None of that however is why I give her a good long look. It¡¯s her expression that does it, one I know all too well. It¡¯s the haunted, far-off look of someone who just come back from the edge. Seen that look a thousand times on a thousand different faces, and I know there usually only two reasons to wear it. Either she just fought like hell and narrowly escaped with her life, or there¡¯s someone in this town more monstrous than any Aberration can ever be.


    Pushing down the cold rage burning in my belly, I don¡¯t let it show through my toothy smile as I turn back towards the office. To Vicente and anyone else watching, all they saw was a young man admiring a pretty young thing in passing, a quick glance no one would think twice about. Except now, I got my mind working at all the angles. The outlaws I¡¯m hunting are the type to favour a young girl like that, seeing how it fit their modus operandi as such. Then again, this sort of relationship is more common than anyone care to admit out loud. Young girls and old men is the way it usually goes, but I seen every combination of age and gender out there, with both participants being willing. Don¡¯t make it right, but most reckon it ain¡¯t hurting no one so long as no one fighting it, without paying no mind to the real facts behind such a relationship, what with the power dynamics being what they are. Course, it could also be that the girl thinks she wants such a relationship, and the only way to know for sure is to hear it straight from her mouth, but I don¡¯t see how I can make that happen. Could maybe push my luck and spend the night in town, like I told Ron I would. See if I can¡¯t find the girl in the crowd and track her down for a conversation, or better yet, ask miss Laura about it to see if I can get a private word in. Would be risky in more ways than one, but, considering how much pride she took in knowing none of the saloon gals were working under duress, I get the feeling she ain¡¯t the type to overlook this sort of abuse.


    Then, once I find the piece of human garbage preying upon that girl, I walk up and put a Bolt through his chest and anyone who comes out to defend him, then maybe set fire to Ron¡¯s town for allowing monsters so vile to exist and ¨C


    Deep breath in. Deep breath out.


    I¡¯m jumping to a lot of conclusions from a cursory glance. Ain¡¯t got no proof besides a girl in scandalous clothes with a far-off look in her eyes. Maybe she dresses that way because she likes it. Lord knows Aunty Ray has to step in to stop Tina from making similar terrible fashion decisions least once every other week. As for the expression, could be the girl just got some bad news, like an accident at the mines, or she¡¯s shook from some unwanted attention and talked to the Sherrif about it. Who knows? Could be I¡¯m seeing signs that ain¡¯t really there and nothing¡¯s going on.


    Or maybe my suspicions were right and the Stagecoach Killers are here in town, having secured work under Ron¡¯s employ. Maybe that girl is part of their wages, a sacrificial lamb to appease this band of thieving, murdering rapists wanted for no less than eighteen counts of murder in the first degree. Men, women, and children among them, all of whom died because they placed their trust in the wrong people. See, Gilbert Haywards and his cutthroats posed as a stagecoach service. That was their game, taking payment to escort travellers safely to their destinations, only to become the very danger they was supposed be guarding against. Went at if for years as far as anyone knows, and if not for the harrowing testimony of a single survivor, the world might never have learned about their crimes. A ten-year-old girl survived their sadistic attentions, crawled out of a shallow grave and dragged herself to the roadside where another group of travellers came across her. They got her to town where she told her story of the Stagecoach Killers and their sick, perverted pleasures, before taking her own life two weeks later.


    For some men, dying to a Bolt is far too merciful an end, but I¡¯ll deliver that death with a smile and never lose a wink of sleep over it.


    The Sherrif¡¯s office is a big, blocky stone affair just like every other building on the street. The only difference aside from the Sheriff star overhead is that this one got bars over the open windows and a wood door reinforced with steel in a criss-cross diamond pattern. Sturdy and pretty, but I¡¯m more concerned with figuring out how to naturally bring up the girl in conversation with the Sherrif to appreciate the workmanship. Leaving Cowie to watch the wagon, I grab what¡¯s left of the mail and the documents which need signing before heading up the porch stairs with Vicente hot on my heels. As I step through the heavy door, I pause a beat for a gander to see what I¡¯m walking into, as part of proper threat assessment is to always be assessing, because the one threat most likely to kill you is the one you miss.


    Inside the building is a dimly lit mess that don¡¯t stink much less than the saloon. The floor is covered in bottles, cigarette butts, loose papers, and other garbage strewn about. Two rectangular desks sit on each side of the room, forward facing so the chain-smoking men sitting behind them have a clear view of the door. Rather than ink and paper for office work, an assortment of firearms sit atop them, the surfaces scarred with burns and marked with filth, but otherwise suspiciously empty. The deputies are equally gnarled and disfigured as their furniture, one sitting at each desk with an Aetherarm in hand, as if all the revolvers, rifles, and Blastguns lying about ain¡¯t enough to keep them feeling safe. They ain¡¯t cleaning their guns, as I don¡¯t see no rags, tools, or oil about. They just sitting in their chairs to smoke their cigs and fondle their weapons while working real hard at looking innocuous.


    My first thought is that these are Ron¡¯s hitters, and that he¡¯d planned for his pet Sherrif to do me in here, but then I recognize a face. A face I been looking for all afternoon, one belonging to none other than the infamous Gilbert Haywards. There he sits, behind a lone desk at the back left next to a barred door, which likely leads to the jail cells. Though he looks older than pictured on his warrant, Haywards¡¯ is recognizable at a glance, the same fierce, impatient scowl stretched across his lips and not even a hint of a disguise. That is to say his face remains unchanged, but he got himself a Sheriff¡¯s six-pointed star pinned to his chest, and a whole array of deadly Aetherarms laid out across his desk.


    All of a sudden, my plan to ferret him out don¡¯t seem so clever anymore as he sits there bold as can be, and I realize it¡¯s only a moment before he sees the recognition in my eyes.


    Thankfully, Vicente steps inside and saves my hide. ¡°What is this?¡± he asks, scowling at all the guns and the men holding them. ¡°Se?or Jackson don¡¯t want no one making trouble ¨C¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be telling me my business, Spic.¡± Spitting on the floor as if to rid himself of the taste, Haywards beckons me over in a hurry. ¡°What the hell you gawkin¡¯ at Qink?¡± Haywards¡¯ voice is raspy and strained, the mark of a heavy, lifelong smoker, and his vile gaze matches the ugliness with which he delivers the slur. ¡°Get in here and hand over the mail, before I carve ye a new face, ye fuckin¡¯ slant-eyed, ching-chong half-wit.¡±


    ¡­


    He wants the mail he thinks I got for him. Saw his name on my list, but didn¡¯t suspect that I put it there. Now that¡¯s what I call a close shave.


    Coughing beneath the haze of smoke, I hurry over with a smile. ¡°Sorry about that,¡± I say, giving the deputies a quick nod as I pass by. ¡°Gave me a fright, walking into a room with so many guns and fierce men all about. Town¡¯s safe as a bug in a rug with you fine gents to protect it.¡± Andrej Mandic and Tony Murphy to my left. Marcel Leroux and Terrance Taylor on the right. A multicultural bunch, these Stagecoach Killers, all present and accounted for, drawn together by their dark desires and propensity for violence. Seeing their names on my mail list has got them spooked, which is why they all posted up in here and armed to the teeth. Bold to go around without a disguise, but I suppose they been feeling mighty safe under Ron¡¯s employ for who knows how long. It¡¯s been two years since a judge out West signed their death warrants, a long time for such heinous crimes to go unpunished, and a miscarriage of justice I¡¯m fixing to set right.


    ¡°Alrighty then, Sherrif.¡± Playing the part of scared kid, I gingerly lay the documents on his desk while holding onto the mail. ¡°Just need your signature there saying you ¨C¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t give two shits ¡®bout what you need, Qink.¡± Making a grasping motion with his outstretched hand, Haywards fixes me with a furious glare. ¡°Hand over the mail and get gone before you really piss me off.¡±


    Which of course gives me all the excuse I need to fumble the pass and drop everything to the ground. ¡°Oh geez,¡± I say, bending over to pick up the letters I dropped beside the Sherrif¡¯s desk. ¡°Me and my butterfingers.¡± While Haywards goes off on a litany of racially charged insults, I sneakily draw my revolver while my Mage Hands pull both Doorbells free of their holsters. As I circle around the desk, I look Haywards in the eye, who pauses his stream of profanity as he spies the promise of death in my gaze, my grin, and my gun, a promise I deliver with a single pull of the trigger.


    Now, I love my dubsie Doorknockers, but the Ranger Rattlesnake will always be my pride and joy. A compact, six-chamber, double action revolver, the gun don¡¯t look like much compared to some real big irons like the Ranger Arbiter, the Sturm and Kitiara Knight, or the Szass and Tam Magnum. Put em¡¯ side by side and you¡¯ll see that the Rattlesnake is only a bit more than half their size, but don¡¯t let that fool you. This baby will shoot as fast as you can pull the trigger and blow the head clean off an orc with one hit. A feat made possible thanks to the lethal combination of Intensify, Empower, and Maximize Metamagics Etched into its four and a quarter inch barrel, with Toppling to add a bit of extra oomph on impact and knock your target on its backside. It¡¯s reliable too, as revolvers generally are. Shoot all day and night without risk of overheating, jamming, or cracking even if you drag it through mud, silt, and sand. The gun is almost as old as I am, and its never let me or my daddy down, a hand-crafted classic gifted to my daddy by Armand Kalthoff himself.


    That¡¯s not why I love it though. See, most guns sound off with a deafening bang, like a crash of thunder coming out the barrel. Need a Cantrip to protect your hearing to use those, but not the Rattlesnake. No, my baby comes standard with Silence Metamagic, a necessity if you wanna be shooting outside of towns without ringing the dinner bell for every Abby within twenty klicks. Now, Silence Metamagic don¡¯t make it shoot whisper quiet, but it dials down the volume a fair bit, to where most standard Silenced guns will make a loud snap, like breaking glass. There¡¯re also mechanical silencers which screw onto the ends of some barrels, and those give off a muffled bang that¡¯s still kinda loud, but the Rattlesnake?


    Ain¡¯t no gun sound like the Rattlesnake when it shoots, a mean, keen hiss that just cut off and fade away. It¡¯s a sharp, distinctive ¡®tsst¡¯ that cuts you right to the quick, a piercing sound which¡¯ll raise the hairs on your neck and catch you off guard the first time you hear it. Even more so when you empty all six chambers right quick, spitting out that ¡®tsst-tsst-tsst¡¯ to make that unmistakable rattle for which the gun is named.


    Music to my ears, that sound is, a lullaby for Abby and outlaws both.


    Haywards dies with eyes wide open as my first Bolt opens up his chest in a spray of blood, bone, and gore. Illuminated by the muzzle flash of my Rattlesnake, I watch his ugly snarl twist into a panicked shout which comes out as a wet gurgle as his corpse flies out of his chair and topples to the ground, but I¡¯ve long since moved on. Turning towards the door, I pop Tony with both barrels from the closest Doorknocker, and the recoil is enough to shred the Mage Hand holding it. The pint-sized dubsie ain¡¯t Silenced one bit, and it got a booming bark to match its bite as it unleashes a hail of force projectiles which shreds the outlaw where he sits, leaving little more than mangled meat and spraying blood in its wake as it clatters to the ground. The edge of the volley clips Andre too, but I pop him with the Rattlesnake just to be sure, catching him with a through and through in the belly as he jumps to his feet. The momentum takes him to the ground and I hunker down too, because the last two outlaws are quick to draw and don¡¯t hesitate to fire. Faster than expected, but I still got this. Activating the First Order Spell Core embedded in my bracer, I take cover behind the shimmering disc of blue-white light that materializes into existence, a Shield Spell meant to block Bolts, blades, or claws alike.


    A Shield which turns opaque as the first shot from Marcel or Terrance pierces clean right through it with a deafening bang.


    There you have it folks, the armour Penetrating Tec-LS in action, the standard sidearm here in Pleasant Dunes.


    After punching through the desk, my Shield Spell, and my duster, the Bolt only leaves a shallow flesh wound on my left shoulder, but more Bolts are flying now and I¡¯ve no desire to get hit twice. Thankfully, the Tec-LS is single action, meaning that even if they both carrying one in each hand, the deafening shots come at a sedate and steady pace. Even better, neither of them can shoot worth a damn and hit everything around me instead. That¡¯s still more than enough to keep me from peeking out, which means I can¡¯t see my second Mage Hand to aim the Doorknocker, nor am I willing to fire blind for fear of hitting Vicente. With no other choice left to me, I yell, ¡°Don¡¯t kill Vicente!¡±


    For some strange reason, Marcel and Terrance both stop shooting, and one replies, ¡°Now why would we ¨C¡±


    And that¡¯s all he has time to utter before Cowie comes crashing through the door. The reinforced steel does nothing to stop him as he surges into the room with a bang, and I risk a glance just in time to catch his horns materializing on either side of his head. A rumbling bellow of bovine fury erupts from his chest as he barrels straight through the desk to catch Marcel with a swing of his head, one that cracks bone and sends the man crashing into the wall. A hurtling mass of momentum, Cowie impales Terrance with both magically conjured weapons in a head on strike, and my grin widens to watch it happen. The desk, chairs, and the Aetherarms atop them are rendered into kindling and scrap as Cowie stomps and kicks about, and he makes sure both men are completely dead before his rage subsides to a simmer. Blowing out a series of shuddering snorts, he lowers his head to let the corpse slide off, his eyes hard and chest heaving. White fur covered in red blood, he snorts and swings his head to look around the room, searching for threats before setting his gaze on the shocked, dazed, and uninjured Vicente taking cover in a corner, which I take as my cue to stand up.


    ¡°Sorry about all this, Vicente,¡± I say, gesturing for Cowie to hold while keeping my revolver pointed low, but ready just in case. ¡°I¡¯m gonna have to kindly ask you to disarm yourself, else Cowie there is gonna get mighty nervous.¡±


    The big guy just sits there in a complete and absolute daze, struggling to process the storm of violence and gunfire which just barely passed him by. ¡°Why you do this?¡± he asks, looking so hurt and betrayed that it almost breaks my heart as he tosses his knife aside and slides his gun away. ¡°Now Se?or Jackson is going to kill you. Deliver you straight into the arms of Santa Muerte.¡±


    There¡¯s no heat to the statement, as Vicente just spitting facts, and it sounds like he¡¯s none too happy about it either. ¡°Oh, I doubt that.¡± Sounding much more confident than I feel, I reach for the stack of warrants stuffed in my inner right jacket pocket. ¡°Not after he hears how I¡¯ve rid him of five wanted murderers hiding inside your very walls.¡± Holding out the warrant which reads ¡®Wanted: Dead or Alive¡¯ at the top, I show Vicente the black and white picture of Haywards printed on it, while cautiously moving towards Tony¡¯s mangled corpse using the intact desk as cover. Peering between the chair and desk, I find a pale and gasping Andrej laid out flat with both hands over his belly and his dark shirt stained with even darker blood. A futile attempt to stem the bleeding if I ever seen one, because even if he were treated right quick, my shot likely blew out his liver, which means he¡¯s bound for a slow and very agonizing death.


    Even though he deserves it, my daddy didn¡¯t raise no fool, so I stretch my arm over the desk and shoot him once in the chest, ending his laboured whimpers with a nice, neat, ¡®tsst¡¯.


    Turning back to Vicente, I find his pale, bloodless expression staring at me with that familiar, far-off stare, the same look I just saw on that girl outside. It¡¯ll pass soon enough, as he strikes me as the sort whose gotten his hands bloody more than once, so I take cover behind Tony¡¯s desk, resummon my Mage Hands to replace the one that got shredded, and reload my guns while waiting for Ron to show up and clear things up.


    Five dead bandits. Four worth a grand each, while Haywards himself is worth two. $6,000 American in my pocket for the low, low price of four bullets and two shells. Not bad for a day¡¯s work, considering that¡¯s almost two years of Ranger pay. Assuming I make it out of Pleasant Dunes to collect my paycheck of course, but I¡¯ll burn that bridge when I get to it, so I take a moment to wipe Cowie¡¯s face, massage his cheeks, and bask in the glory of a good day¡¯s work.


    Howie and Cowie, Bounty Hunters and Abby Exterminators Extraordinaire. Got a nice ring to it if I do say so myself, and is a sure sight better than working for the post office.

 Chapter 6

    ¡°The first time I laid eyes on your father, he was standing smack dab in the middle of an active minefield.¡±


    Modest and soft-spoken. That¡¯s the impression most get when they first meet Theodore Ellis. A slim beanpole of man, his kind eyes and mellow temperament give off the air of a docile grandpappy rather than decorated military hero, but his appearance don¡¯t change the facts none. There are other Marshals in the Rangers, but as far as people round these parts are concerned, Theodore Ellis is The Marshal, the Ranger¡¯s top man along the Eastern Front. A solemn, somber, and dignified man, he commands respect not through force of will or strength of arm, but through dignity, gravitas, and dedication. It¡¯s been over seventeen years since the Advent, when the settlers first passed through the Gate to arrive on the Frontier, and he still shows up for work in full uniform each and every day. Keeps his salt-and-pepper hair neat and regulation length, his strong chin clean-shaven and stubble free, dress shirts pressed, collars starched, ties simple, badge polished, and creme-coloured Cattleman¡¯s hat spotless and stain free. This here is a man with more power than most historical kings, but he still lives his life by the rules and regulations set forth by a government literally a world away. Ain¡¯t much oversight keeping him in line, nothing but the strict standards to which he holds himself. There¡¯s more I could say about him, like the things he¡¯s achieved and the goals he hopes to accomplish, but that right there is all a man needs to know. The Marshal is a soldier now and forever, a Ranger to the very core, and anyone who¡¯s ever met him can¡¯t help but respect that level of discipline and dedication.


    So even through I ain¡¯t no Ranger, when a man like Theodore Ellis sits you down for a lecture, you best sit there and listen.


    ¡°The sun had yet to rise when the Alarm Spells went off,¡± the Marshal says, because despite the personal story being shared, he ain¡¯t playing the part of friendly old-timer. No, this ain¡¯t Uncle Teddy who used to bounce little baby Howie over his knee; this here is the Marshal staring past me from across his neat and tidy desk, looking back on a memory of a different time. ¡°We rushed out of our tents and hit the lights, expecting to find an Aberration attack. Instead, our floodlights revealed a young Qinese teen slowly making his way towards us, armed to the teeth and cradling a bundled cloth package in his arm. Step by step, your father approached, a slow and steady advance, his exhaustion evident and injuries so severe he left a trail of dripping blood behind him in the sand.¡±


    I must¡¯ve heard this story a thousand times from a dozen different perspectives, but I still like hearing it all the same. Makes it easy not to slouch or fidget as I hang onto the Marshal¡¯s every last word. ¡°What that young boy didn¡¯t know,¡± he continues, his slate grey eyes sinking further back into the distant past to relive the memory, ¡°Was that one wrong step, and he would¡¯ve set off the explosive glyph mines we¡¯d laid down to secure our perimeter. Naturally, we tried to warn him off, but he didn¡¯t have any English and we were all backlit, leaving him unable to see our actions or expressions.¡± The Marshal¡¯s pale, thin lips press together in self-recrimination, no doubt blaming himself for not coming up with a perfect solution in the moment, but no one¡¯s perfect.


    That¡¯s Uncle Teddy for you though. Always striving to do better, even though he already got most folk beat.


    Still grimacing over the decisions of his past self, the Marshal continues, ¡°Unable to come up with a proper solution, I fired a warning shot over the boy¡¯s head. Terrible choice and I knew it at the time, but didn¡¯t think to try a Minor Illusion or Hold Person Spell. That Bolt could have spooked him into running or seen him drop down to the sand, but he just stopped and stood in place. I saw no fear in his eyes, only desperation as he placed his weapons at his feet to show he meant no harm. Then he did the strangest thing. He pressed his head against the package he¡¯d been cradling in his arm, then bent over so he could hold it an inch over the sand as he continued his advance.¡±


    Coming out of the memory, the Marshal returns to the present and fixes me with a fond gaze, the faintest hint of a smile stretched across his thin lips. ¡°That¡¯s when we saw you, Howie. A tiny little newborn swaddled in a linen blanket and wearing a tiny toque to protect you from the cold, a sight both beautiful and tragic in the moment. Your father expected us to shoot him you see, then come investigate and find you, so he didn¡¯t want you to fall too far when his body hit the sand. There he was, a boy of sixteen, barely more than a child himself and father for less than a day, yet already he loved you more than life itself.¡±


    I always get a little misty-eyed here, because it¡¯s proof that my daddy never blamed me for my mama¡¯s death, not even for a day. Don¡¯t change the facts none, but the Marshal pretends not to notice as I wipe my eyes while he continues the story. ¡°That¡¯s when Raleigh stepped out, casting a Spell in hopes of Enthralling your father and stopping him in his tracks. Didn¡¯t take, but he noticed something was amiss, likely because of how Raleigh was goose-stepping about in search of a clear path through the mines. Never mind that Rachel herself was five-months pregnant with Tina and Chrissy, or that he didn¡¯t have any notion of where it was safe to walk. No, he had a knack for sensing where the magic lay, or so he claimed, and that was enough for him to risk his fool neck.¡± We share a moment here, in memory of Uncle Raleigh. A good man, one we lost too early, but that¡¯s usually the way it goes.


    ¡°Either way,¡± the Marshal continues, once the moment passes, ¡°Your father was a smart man, and it didn¡¯t take him long to connect the dots. We all saw the moment he realized what he¡¯d gotten himself into. He straightened up and his eyes went wide with alarm while we all held our breath. See, we thought we knew what was coming. A fight or flight response. Basic human nature, even though going through with either of those options would have meant certain death.¡±


    The Marshal leans back in his chair as his soft smile widens into a bona fide grin, and my chest swells with pride to know that grin is for my daddy. ¡°Most of a soldier¡¯s training is spent learning to override those instincts, and even then, it¡¯s a hard thing to shake. I¡¯ve seen good soldiers in situations similar to what your father found himself stuck in. Brave men and women who¡¯d been through the meat grinder and back again, and even then, most fail to adhere to their training.¡± The Marshal grimaces, remembering those he lost before continuing with a sigh. ¡°Not your father though. He saw the facts, accepted his circumstances, and did what he knew was best. He lifted you up, cradled you close, activated his Shield Bracer, and waited for Raleigh to come guide him out of the minefield.¡± Shaking his head in admiration, he lets his words hang before continuing on. ¡°Took ten minutes for Raleigh to make it over, then another five for them both to make it out, and I don¡¯t think your father even broke a sweat. Nerves of pure Adamantine, I tell you, a logical, rational, and methodical man unlike any I¡¯ve ever met. Over the next decade and four years, he demonstrated those traits time and time again, in outlaw dens, Aberration burrows, and anywhere else his work took him. He was one of the finest soldiers I¡¯ve had the pleasure to serve alongside, and one of the greatest men I¡¯ve been privileged enough to know.¡±


    The Marshal¡¯s smile fades away, and his eyes grow hard, not angry or bitter, but disappointed as he holds up the bull¡¯s head medallion bearing my family name, the one I usually keep forward-facing on my Stetson. ¡°Which is why it pains me to say,¡± he begins, and I flinch before he¡¯s even done, ¡°That the events recorded in here have shown you, Howie, to be an irrational, foolhardy, and reckless child, one who¡¯s lucky to still be alive and in one piece after this fiasco in Pleasant Dunes.¡±


    ¡°Oh c¡¯mon!¡± Even I can hear how bratty I sound, but I can¡¯t help it. ¡°That ain¡¯t fair.¡±


    ¡°You ever known me to be anything but?¡± There¡¯s a mild heat to his words, an edge I¡¯ve never had directed at me. Can¡¯t even look at him no more, so I hang my head in shame as he continues his calm and cold delivery without waiting for an answer. ¡°A logical man would have seen he was outgunned from the get-go and done something to improve his odds. A rational man would have found a better way to go about it than trapping himself in a room full of armed outlaws with only one exit. And a methodical man? He wouldn¡¯t have gotten mixed up in that mess at all. You should have walked into town, delivered the mail like you were supposed to, put Pleasant Dunes in your six, and left word with the first Ranger to cross your path. Instead, you let greed cloud your judgement and almost died for it.¡±


    ¡°Wasn¡¯t greed. Couldn¡¯t leave. Had to commit.¡± I don¡¯t know why I open my mouth sometimes. It¡¯s like it¡¯s got a mind of its own.


    ¡°Explain.¡± Straightening up in his chair, the Marshal folds his hands atop his desk and looms without leaning, waiting for the whole story. Which of course I ain¡¯t got no choice but to tell thanks to my big, fat, stupid mouth. The worst part is how dumb it all sounds once I say it out loud, because I swear it sounded like a great idea when I put the plan together in my head. ¡°So let me see if I¡¯ve got this right,¡± the Marshal begins, without having moved a muscle at all. ¡°You suspected the Stagecoach Killers might have made their way to Pleasant Dunes, instead of attempting to cross the Snake Fang Mountain range like our intel believed.¡± I nod. ¡°So to flush them out, you put their names up on a list of mail recipients, in hopes of¡­ what exactly?¡±


    See, this is the part that sounds stupid. ¡°That they¡¯d show up and ask for their mail.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± I don¡¯t know exactly what look he¡¯s giving me, on account of lacking the nerve to meet his gaze, but I can imagine it pretty well. ¡°Did it ever occur to you,¡± he begins, struggling to keep his tone calm and steady, ¡°That seeing their names up on that list might¡¯ve spooked your outlaws and sent them deeper into hiding?¡± No, but it probably should¡¯ve, and the Marshal doesn¡¯t wait for an answer before pressing the issue, his tone growing hotter with every word. ¡°And what you would have done if one of the Stagecoach Killers actually showed up to collect? You planning to shoot them right then and there, out on the street in front of women and children? What would you have done if the rest were hanging about?!¡±


    ¡­Like I said, the plan sounded better in my head.


    Heaving a soft sigh, the Marshal pauses a beat before changing his tack. ¡°When you come up with a plan, even a bad one, you need to commit and follow through. Write up letters to actually deliver, something magically marked which you can track. That way, if someone shows up, you have something you can hand over and use to track your outlaws down later. You¡¯ll also have something to hand over when leave. That second part is important, because if I were a bandit lying low in town, I¡¯d sooner steal my letter from the local Sherrif than approach a Postal Officer asking for papers. Didn¡¯t think about that, did you Howie? You should¡¯ve, because your shenanigans could have gotten an innocent lawman killed, and you would¡¯ve been none the wiser until it was too late.¡±


    Feeling like I ought to speak up for myself, I steel my nerve and look up to meet the Marshal¡¯s gun-metal eyes, looking softer and kinder than I¡¯d expected. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to cause no one no harm,¡± I begin, only to run that back in my head and realize what them words actually meant. ¡°I mean, I didn¡¯t intend for anyone to be hurt, besides them outlaws.¡± I swear, my fondness for double-negatives is gonna get me in a real pickle one of these days.


    ¡°I know Howie,¡± the Marshal says, in a tone that don¡¯t belong to the Marshal at all, but my Uncle Teddy. ¡°I said you were reckless, not malicious.¡± Then it¡¯s back to the Marshal again, because he ain¡¯t done chewing me out. ¡°Lord knows there were still countless ways your blatant fishing expedition could have gone wrong, but I don¡¯t have time to go through it all. The worst part is your actions damaged what little trust the people of Pleasant Dunes still had for the Federation Government and the Postmaster won¡¯t look kindly on that. Sorry to say it, but you¡¯ve gone and jeopardized your chances with the Postal Services for good.¡±


    ¡°You think that¡¯s the worst part?¡± I ain¡¯t ever been one to hide my thoughts, and I ain¡¯t about to start. ¡°Look, I know you went to bat with Postmaster Pat to get me this opportunity, and I appreciate it, but we both know he was never gonna hand me a whole route to cover. Case in point, he already tapped Koun for the Emerald Plains circuit. Before I arrived in Pleasant Dunes mind you.¡± Not that I begrudge the Celt the job, but the man¡¯s drunk as a skunk half the time and hung over the rest. Don¡¯t see why Postmaster Pat thinks Koun can do a better job that I can just because he got two extra decades of ¡®life experience¡¯.


    ¡°That so?¡± If the tone don¡¯t give it away, the Marshal¡¯s deadpan look does. ¡°And I suppose you think there¡¯s only one route up for grabs? Never considered that the Postal Services are looking to expand, did you?¡±


    ¡°To where? East over the Snake Fang mountains?¡± Dangerous territory that, what with all the orcs and gobbos infesting them there parts, but I¡¯m game to try it. Always wanted to see what was on the other side of the Divide, even though I ain¡¯t seen all there is to see on our little corner of the Frontier just yet.


    ¡°Hold your horses now. Nothing so ambitious just yet.¡± Meaning the Rangers or the M¨¦tis ain¡¯t actually found safe passage through the mountains. Shame. The Divide cutting us off from the rest of the continent really puts a hamper on trade and conglomeration. Sure, there are naval routes to take, but Abby ain¡¯t got much competition out in them oceans, meaning they a lot bigger and stronger than their land-based cousins. We don¡¯t call it the Serpent Coast for nothing, after all.


    Even though I don¡¯t want the job, not knowing where the postal services are planning to expand to is really gonna stick in my craw, so after running down the list and coming up empty, I give in and ask, ¡°So then where was they thinking of sending me?¡±


    Knowing I won¡¯t move on until I get an answer, the Marshal just shrugs and says, ¡°South.¡±


    Which don¡¯t make no sense. ¡°To New Sonora? Why? Something happen to Matteo?¡±


    ¡°No and no.¡± Exasperated by my curiosity, the Marshal¡¯s lips press together in an almost grimace. He don¡¯t understand why I wanna know, because in his eyes, I ain¡¯t getting the job no more, so what¡¯s it matter? That¡¯s him though, a single-track mind. If it don¡¯t concern him or his duties directly, then it don¡¯t matter much. ¡°If you need to know, the good Postmaster was considering sending you to make contact with the Qin settlements by the Knife Edge mountains.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± Well, ain¡¯t that a kick in the teeth? ¡°If y¡¯all wanted me dead, then why not just bring out yer Arbiter and shoot me clean?¡±


    Course I don¡¯t mean it to sound as ugly as it do, but that¡¯s the problem you get when your words come straight from the gut. Visibly rocking back from the accusation, the Marshal looks hurt as he asks, ¡°What are you talking about Howie?¡±


    ¡°You send me to the Qin, and they¡¯ll bury me six feet deep soon as they lay eyes on what¡¯s sittin¡¯ under my Stetson.¡± Shaking my head is adamant refusal, I explain, ¡°They¡¯re isolationists, Marshal. The Qin¡¯ll turn away foreigners unharmed, but they execute home-grown traitors, which is what they¡¯ll see when they look at me.¡± Or hear me speak Qinese, which if I¡¯m being honest, is worse than my Latin, and that¡¯s really saying something.


    Besides, if Postmaster Pat don¡¯t like me shooting outlaws under a U.F.P.S. flag, then he really won¡¯t like me shooting up Qin Nationals, which is what I¡¯d likely end up doing.


    ¡°Howie.¡± I can hear the pleading in the Marshal¡¯s tone, on account of how he thinks I¡¯m overreacting, but he¡¯s someone who sees the best in all people. ¡°I know you have your hang-ups about your people, and rightly so, but I hardly think they¡¯d murder you for dressing like an American.¡±


    ¡°First off, they ain¡¯t my people. Second, hardly ain¡¯t much of a hook to hang yer hat on, much less my life, so excuse me for not caring to test it.¡± Then, because I¡¯m an idiot, I add, ¡°Especially since I reckon none of y¡¯all would do anything about it if the Qin do kill me, no matter what flag I¡¯m flying.¡± I hate myself for saying it even I as I said it, but it¡¯s too late to take back now. Too ashamed to look at the man I just wounded with my words, I stare down at my hands instead. The silence hangs over us both like a heavy shroud, and even though I want to break it to apologize, I also don¡¯t, because I¡¯d much rather hear him tell me I¡¯m wrong.


    Except he can¡¯t. Them¡¯s the facts, and the Marshal don¡¯t lie.


    After a few false starts, he comes around to the front of his desk and leans against it, which is about as casual as he ever cares to get in his office. ¡°Alright son,¡± he says, patting me on the head. I don¡¯t hate it when he calls me son, can¡¯t hate it, because that¡¯s what he called my daddy, and my daddy loved him. Would have charged through the gates of hell and back for the Marshal, then gone back a second time without being asked. Which makes me all the angrier knowing the Marshal wouldn¡¯t do the same for him. Couldn¡¯t, but that don¡¯t make a lick of difference in the end. ¡°Okay. No postal work then. We¡¯ll find something else for you to do.¡±


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    ¡°All due respect,¡± I say, trying to keep the hurt and anger out of my voice, ¡°But I don¡¯t need no help finding work. Doin¡¯ alright as is.¡±


    ¡°You think so?¡± The heat is back in his voice, an edge that got nothing to do with how I¡¯ve hurt him, which only makes me feel worse for what I¡¯ve said. ¡°From what I¡¯ve seen, you¡¯re lucky to still be breathing, much less in one piece.¡± Before I can interject about it being a lucky shot, the Marshal fixes me with his stormy glare. ¡°I¡¯m not talking about the shootout Howie, though Lord knows it wasn¡¯t your finest hour. I¡¯m taking about Ronald Jackson.¡±


    Oh. Right. ¡°In my defense, I was fairly certain Ron wasn¡¯t gonna kill me, not with half the townies out and about. I had the warrants ready and everything, meaning the Accords were all firmly on my side.¡±


    ¡°I seem to recall you saying something about hooks and hats? Care to repeat it for me?¡± Seeing me suitably chastened, the Marshal gives a little shake of his head. ¡°I¡¯m also afraid the Accords don¡¯t mean much to a man like Ronald Jackson.¡±


    There¡¯s no denying the familiarity in the way the Marshal says the name. ¡°You know him?¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t say I¡¯ve had the displeasure.¡± Which for Marshal Ellis, is about as close as he¡¯ll ever get to cursing a man out. Seeing my surprise, he gives a little tilt of his head to say he regrets saying it out loud, but he ain¡¯t gonna take it back, which means Ron must be a real piece of work. ¡°After your report came over the radio, I did some asking around to see what we had on him. Turns out he had a whole file ready and waiting, as he was deemed a person of interest before we even stepped through the Gates.¡±


    Which means he don¡¯t have much. All pre-Advent reports would¡¯ve had to have been memorized and jotted down once they was here on the Frontier, which means a lot of information was lost in transition. Couldn¡¯t bring nothing through the Gates that wasn¡¯t living and organic, and what does go through comes at a cost, a cost which shoots up exponentially when magic is involved. Hence why my daddy arrived buck nekkid and without a Spell Structure in memory, because it was more ¡®cost-effective¡¯. Course, not every settler from the other nations were experienced Spell Slingers, not even most, but at least they had good soldiers like Theodore Ellis and the Federation Rangers to lead and protect them.


    Old grievances aside, I settle in to listen as the Marshal narrates what he knows about Ron. ¡°Lebanon did a real number on Ronald Jackson,¡± he begins with a grimace, slipping all too easily into the familiar role of teacher. ¡°The country had an ongoing civil war that started in the 60s, one between religious revolutionaries and old blood Monarchy looking to reclaim what they lost when their Immortal died in the second world war. Religious extremists on one side, cultist fanatics on the other, and the legitimate government being a mix of the two. Both sides were ruthless to themselves and each other, and the fighting went on for years before they reached out for help. The U.F.A sided with the revolutionaries because they had more legitimate representatives in government, and in 1983, we strongarmed an agreement between both sides to exile the remaining old blood nobles. Should have put an end to the fighting, but things just got nastier as the exiled nobles rallied the people to their cause. Civilian suicide bombings became a daily event, targeting U.F embassies and military barracks. Ronald Jackson survived two such explosions, and took part in thwarting who knows how many more.¡±


    I¡¯m getting a clearer picture on what Charlie Foxtrot is supposed to mean, and it ain¡¯t pretty. ¡°I don¡¯t get it though,¡± I say, always eager to learn more about the old world. ¡°Why were there people supporting the old blood? The Immortal Monarchs ruled over their nations with an iron fist, so why would anyone want their families back in power?¡±


    The Marshal gives me a look, the one that says I ought to know better but don¡¯t. ¡°Things aren¡¯t always so cut and dry, Howie. Look at Pleasant Dunes. You saw how they were being exploited and mistreated. You think they don¡¯t want better? So why don¡¯t they do something about it? Ronald Jackson is just a man. Any one of them could put a Bolt through his back, poison his wine, take a razor to his neck, or do something to end his reign, but they don¡¯t. Why do you think that is?¡±


    ¡°Because they¡¯re afraid.¡±


    ¡°Exactly, but it¡¯s not just fear of Ronald Jackson that keeps them in check.¡± There¡¯s a liveliness to the Marshal which is rarely seen, because of course the born soldier loves everything to do with military history. ¡°It¡¯s fear of the unknown. Things were worse before Ron sorted everything out, so they tell themselves they¡¯re better off with the evil they know. Least then they¡¯ll be safe, sheltered, and fed. That¡¯s all they want, all they dare dream of, living small and afraid to hope for more because the world has shown them how cruel it can be. That¡¯s how it was in Lebanon with the old blood supporters. Even though their Immortal Monarch denied them their freedom, he also kept them safe for centuries before. After he was deposed, the corrupt government that cropped up was unable to provide that same measure of safety, divided as they were by their various loyalties. Religious mostly, with various Islamic denominations vying for supremacy against one another as well as the Druze and Christians. Things turned ugly as they often do, with widespread persecution among the common people of Lebanon, who then turned to the evil they knew for support.¡±


    Realizing he¡¯s gotten off track, the Marshal hits me with an inquisitive look, wondering if I¡¯d done this intentionally. ¡°Anyway,¡± he says, after deciding that no, I didn¡¯t raise a question with the intent of making him forget he¡¯s supposed to be haranguing me, ¡°What I was getting at is that Ronald Jackson came out of Lebanon a changed man, and not for the better. After the U.F.A pulled out, he was given the choice of early retirement or a Section 8, dishonourable discharge on the grounds of his psychiatric evaluation finding him unfit for continued service. He chose early retirement and returned to his hometown of Pittsburgh, where he started a motor club under the name of Northern Guard with a number of his ex-military buddies.¡±


    ¡°¡­He was an outlaw in the old world?¡± It takes a second to connect the dots, seeing how they got so many different words just to say the same thing. Gangster, mobster, triad, yakuza, all outlaws in my book, but somehow different in their own special way. Nationality mostly, and ideology too, but when I group people using that same criteria, somehow that¡¯s racist. Old world folk got a lot of hangups about a lot of different things, and it gets real tiring navigating through it all. ¡°Why wasn¡¯t he wearing no cut then?¡± I ask, once I remember the subtleties specific to motor clubs. ¡°Ain¡¯t they supposed to have some vests and patches to show rank and affiliation?¡±


    ¡°Normally they would,¡± the Marshal replies, with a nod to show he appreciates my attentiveness to past lessons. ¡°I suppose Ron thought he¡¯d have an easier time getting answers from a young and impressionable postal worker if he looked more legitimate and business-like. The sweat stains on Jacob¡¯s shirt could¡¯ve clued you in, but I don¡¯t fault you for missing it.¡± Ah. I didn¡¯t miss seeing it, just missed making the connection. No sense bringing it up now though. Would just sound like making excuses, so I keep quiet as the Marshal continues, ¡°Within a year of Ronald Jackson¡¯s return, Northern Guard had become a major player in the Pittsburgh organized crime scene. Though no one could ever prove it, local law enforcement believed he was the man responsible for murdering the top men of the Pittsburgh Mafia, a jumping point he used to take over their criminal interests. Drug running, weapon smuggling, extortion, loan sharking, hits for hire, and more. Then a few years later, things got hot as they often do, and Ron ended up going to ground with most of the company funds while his people were slaughtered by his rivals. Didn¡¯t resurface until eighteen months before Advent when he put in an application to help settle the Frontier, and by then, his name was old hat.¡±


    ¡°But you read his file,¡± I say, unable to wrap my head around things. ¡°Which means someone knew who he was and what he¡¯d done, but y¡¯all still let him through?¡± Talk about letting the fox into the henhouse.


    ¡°Ronald Jackson is a very careful man, so he technically didn¡¯t have a criminal record.¡± Although he¡¯s making excuses for the Federation government, I can tell the Marshal ain¡¯t too pleased by their decision. ¡°We weren¡¯t exactly flush with volunteers either. Not many were looking to leave everything behind to start over on a world without technology. Since we were already sending actual criminals, the brass figured one more couldn¡¯t hurt much.¡± Narrowing his eyes as he turns his gaze northeast, the Marshal stares off towards Pleasant Dunes as if he can see it from here. ¡°It appears they were wrong.¡± Bringing his eyes back around to focus on me, the Marshal takes a deep breath before continuing. ¡°It¡¯ll take some time to unravel what he¡¯s been up to outside of Pleasant Dunes, but the fact that he let you come back alive tells me Ronald Jackson is a scary smart man.¡± Tapping my bull¡¯s head medallion, the Marshal says, ¡°He suspected you might be recording him and didn¡¯t let anything slip, yet still gave you enough to bring back that we can¡¯t ignore. That¡¯s the only reason you walked out of town intact, so you could deliver his message. Wasn¡¯t your fetching smile or your faith in the Accords which saw you out safely, not after kicking over that particular viper¡¯s nest.¡±


    Can¡¯t say the Marshal¡¯s wrong, considering how little I liked the look of Ron¡¯s face while peeking out the Sherrif¡¯s office. Never seen a man turn that particular shade of red before, and I¡¯d be lying if I didn¡¯t say I was ready to go down Blasting. Even after he promised me safe passage and pulled his heavies out, I was leery to step foot outside the sheriff¡¯s office, and you better believe I high-tailed it out of Pleasant Dunes quick as a bunny. Ran both Floating Disc Cores and pushed Cowie all night and most of the day before I felt safe enough to rest, and didn¡¯t feel fully assured until I passed through Meadowbrook¡¯s Darksteel gates a few days later.


    Still, can¡¯t let a little scare keep me from earning. ¡°Actually, I was kinda hoping to get in on whatever excursion the Rangers are planning to Pleasant Dunes,¡± I say. ¡°Reckon I could help track down the Proggy, so y¡¯all don¡¯t gotta fight behind Ron¡¯s walls.¡± It¡¯s a good suggestion, and a tempting one too, because the Marshal don¡¯t shut me down right quick, which means there ain¡¯t no better chance to make my arguments. ¡°Now you know my daddy taught me most everything he knows about tracking Abby, and I can narrow down a Proggie¡¯s location to within a hundred metres, long as I¡¯m within half a klick.¡± Which ain¡¯t as useful as it sounds, considering how much they like to burrow, but still better than most. ¡°Chances are, this baby Proggie will be making its way towards Pleasant Dunes through the existing networks of Abby tunnels and human mineshafts within the Snake Fang mountains. It won¡¯t be travelling with an entire army though, so if I can lead a Ranger Strike Team right to it and hit it in transit. Nip this problem in the bud. No baby Proggie, no reason for the Abby army to attack Pleasant Dunes, and Mommy Proggie gets busy making herself another baby, which should buy us a few years to deal with Ron.¡±


    And earn me a fat paycheck for leading the Rangers to a Proggie, whose corpses are chock full of expensive prizes. I win, the Rangers win, the townies of Pleasant Dunes win, and best of all, Ron loses.


    ¡°Not a bad plan.¡± Encouraging as the words are, the Marshal¡¯s tone and expression are anything but. ¡°Except you overlooked one thing. You are not the soldier your father was, not even when he was your age.¡± Something breaks inside me to hear it said out loud. I can¡¯t tell what face I¡¯m making, but I can see it hurts him something fierce too, even though we both know it¡¯s the truth. ¡°I¡¯m not saying this to hurt you son,¡± the Marshal says, his cold tone warming just a hair. ¡°It¡¯s a hard pill to swallow, but it¡¯s a fact, and not one that reflects poorly on you. You¡¯re one of the most talented orthodox Spellcasters I¡¯ve ever met, and if this were the old world, you¡¯d have gotten a full ride to the University of your choice and be well on your way to becoming an Grandmagus. I¡¯ve also no doubt that your father could have pushed you harder and moulded you into becoming the soldier he was. Could¡¯ve started your training earlier, at six years young like he did, and put you through some of the unspeakable practices he endured, but he didn¡¯t. You know why?¡± I shake my head and hate myself for tearing up as Uncle Teddy drops down to one knee and wraps me in a hug. ¡°Because he wasn¡¯t set on raising a soldier or Grandmagus. He was raising his son. Hao Wei, that¡¯s the name he gave you, one which means ¡®Great Abundance¡¯, because he wanted you to have everything he never did, including a happy childhood.¡±


    There ain¡¯t much I can say, so I simply hug Uncle Teddy back. Not just because I need it. He needs this hug too, maybe a bit more than I do on account of what I said earlier. That wasn¡¯t fair, because even if the facts are what they are, that don¡¯t make them the be all and end all of truth. Theodore Ellis ain¡¯t a man who¡¯d order someone to march through hell and back without leading the way. If there was anything he could have done for my daddy, he would¡¯ve done it already, so it ain¡¯t right to blame him for doing nothing.


    No matter how much I want to.


    When we break our hug, Uncle Teddy takes up the mantle of Marshal once more as he stands back up and looks me square in the eyes. ¡°That said being said, even though your father was better trained, he didn¡¯t start Scouting for the Rangers right away, and he rarely did so alone. You want to be the soldier he was? Then you need training. Ranger training, which you¡¯d have gotten if weren¡¯t so mule-headed and signed on for boot camp already.¡± Holding up a hand to forestall my argument, one we¡¯ve had many times before, he says, ¡°There¡¯s nothing that says you have to enlist as a Ranger after boot camp.¡± He took it hard when I told him I was giving up on my childhood dreams of joining the Rangers, but he didn¡¯t fight it. Knew I had good reason, and he rallies here with a twinkle in his eye. ¡°Nothing says that we¡¯d have to take you on either, thank the Lord.¡± We share a smile, because we know I got the chops to make it, and then some. ¡°So stop being stubborn and sign on. Finish Basic. Show everyone you know enough to keep yourself alive, and I¡¯ll see to getting you the training you¡¯ll need, out in the field alongside the Rangers just like your father, except you¡¯ll be freelance. It¡¯s that or you find yourself a profession that keeps you away from outlaws. One or the other Howie, that there is an ultimatum, or so help me God, the next time you ride out alone will be when you¡¯re old and gray.¡±


    ¡­Oh no. He invoked the big guy, which means he¡¯s serious. ¡°When¡¯s the next boot camp start?¡±


    ¡°Four months, or thereabouts.¡± My sullen expression earns me no sympathy here, as the Marshal shakes his head and says, ¡°You have no one to blame but yourself. Most kids your age who wanted to sign up, already did. Those who didn¡¯t either have their own professions sorted or signed up for training at HQ, so we need to wait until there are enough kids old enough to fill a second class.¡±


    Don¡¯t get why Ranger HQ is all the way over on the West coast. We¡¯re more centrally located and can get to most places quicker, on account of moving downriver instead of up. ¡°Alright. I¡¯ll think about it,¡± I say, and I will, despite my answer sounding like I¡¯m blowing things off. Basic might be a waste of time, but if it gets me freelance work with the Rangers and training to boot, then I can¡¯t rightly refuse. Besides, Marshal Ellis ain¡¯t the type to make idle threats, so it¡¯s Ranger training or nothing. That said, Basic is a six-month course, and I don¡¯t got six months to waste, especially when half that time gonna be spent covering things I already know. ¡°So what you gonna do about Pleasant Dunes then?¡±


    Shuffling a couple papers around his desk, the Marshal works real hard to avoid my gaze, which I find mighty peculiar. ¡°Well,¡± he begins, drawing it out before finally giving up the game. ¡°Marcus thinks it¡¯s a good chance for the new boots to get stuck in. Young Progenitor, primarily goblin Aberrations, with a well-fortified outpost to fall back to. Checks all the right boxes, but knowing what I know now, my concern is that this is exactly what Ronald Jackson wants. Might be that we come in heavy to defend Pleasant Dunes, and once the dust settles, he takes us for everything we got.¡±


    ¡°And starts a war with the Rangers?¡± Don¡¯t seem right, but I can¡¯t come up with a better answer as to what Ron is up to. ¡°No disrespect, but that sounds too short-sighted for the man I met. Ron got a game plan, but shooting Rangers in the back ain¡¯t it. Wouldn¡¯t sit well with most his people.¡± Like Carl, Vicente, and miss Laura. ¡°No chance they¡¯ll all keep quiet about it either, and then it¡¯s only a matter of time before Ron get his own bounty.¡±


    The Marshal don¡¯t disagree, but he ain¡¯t nodding along either. ¡°Except for all we know, this is the same play he used to take out the Pittsburgh Mafia.¡±


    Didn¡¯t think about that. I can see why the Marshal all twisted up about it. ¡°So¡­ what you fixin¡¯ to do about it?¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± the Marshal replies, heaving a heavy sigh, ¡°I was thinking we go with Marcus¡¯ plan as a diversion, then send in a Scout and Strike Team to take out the Progenitor in transit. Marcus gets good a look at Ronald Jackson, we show the people of Pleasant Dunes that the Rangers have their back, and do a sweep for any outlaws with open warrants you might have missed. Then, if the worst comes to pass and the Strike Team fails, we have all our ducks in a row and face off against an Abby horde from behind Pleasant Dunes¡¯ walls.¡±


    Ha. Can I come up with a plan, or can I come up with a plan? Now, all I gotta do is not look too pleased about it so the Marshal can save face when he tap me as Scout.


    ¡°Problem is,¡± he drawls, scribbling something out as he does, some official looking writ, ¡°All our best trackers are either recovering, occupied, or unreachable. Ekun broke his leg during his last burrow delve, Harper¡¯s tied up in the deadlands following up sightings of a Synapse, and we¡¯ve been trying to reach Durden for the better part of a week now. Damn fool took his company back under dark to look for a safe passage through the Divide again.¡±


    Already knew about the first two, and Drex Durden spends so much time under dark that you¡¯d get better odds betting on when he¡¯s not spelunking. Every other worthwhile Scout is either too far away or too busy with their own missions to get involved, which means I¡¯m the best available option. Course, I try to look gracious about it, though it don¡¯t work too well, and it don¡¯t last long neither when the Marshal looks up to meet my smile with a firm shake of his head. ¡°No Howie. I¡¯m not sending you.¡± Tapping my bull¡¯s head medallion, he adds, ¡°I might¡¯ve, if it wasn¡¯t for what I saw on here. You¡¯re clearly not ready, not without more training, and you already missed the window on that.¡±


    Why don¡¯t things ever work out the way they supposed to? ¡°Now hold on a second,¡± I begin, sitting up to make my case, even though the Marshal already shaking his head. ¡°You said you was sending out the new boots to Pleasant Dunes, right? Couldn¡¯t you just slip me in with them? They only been at it for two months, learning which end of the gun is which. Even if I am lacking in training, it¡¯s nothing they would¡¯ve already covered. I join in, saddle up to Pleasant Dunes, do a bit of Scouting, and come back to finish boot camp. Everybody wins, except Ron. Perfect solution.¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Stamping the paper he been scribbling on with his official seal, the Marshal holds it out for me to take. I ignore it in favour of meeting his eyes in silent demand of an answer. Never one to be outdone, he lets go of the paper and I can¡¯t stop myself from catching it, or looking to see what it is. Authorization on my bounty payout in the sum of $6,000. Should¡¯ve taken a bit longer for me to get paid going through official channels, but I suppose this is his way smoothing over the rejection. ¡°I already told you,¡± the Marshal begins, that hint of an edge back in his tone, ¡°You¡¯re a smart boy Howie, but you¡¯re not ready for something like this. The fact that you think you can just skip the first two months of boot camp is proof positive. They¡¯ve been covering fundamentals, I¡¯ll give you that, but the important thing is that those boots have been doing it together. They¡¯re not just learning how to fight and survive, but how to trust the people beside them and work together as a cohesive unit. I throw you in there tomorrow, and it¡¯ll set those boots back three months, because you¡¯ve never been one to play nice.¡±


    I¡¯d love to argue the point, but truth is, he being mighty generous about it. I¡¯m a friendly sort, all smiles and sunshine, but for some reason, my bright disposition tends to rub some folk the wrong way. Not a problem, so long as they don¡¯t do nothing about it, but if they do, well¡­ all I¡¯ll say is that Ron found out the hard way how I don¡¯t spook easy, and he handled it better than most.


    ¡°So you serious about benching me for the next ten months?¡± I hate how hurt and whiny I sound, like an upset kid, but I got a right to be upset. Four months twiddling my thumbs, followed by six jumping through hoops, and for what? A chance at more training? ¡°How am I supposed to make a living then?¡±


    ¡°You nearly died son!¡± The Marshal¡¯s palm comes down on his desk like a thunderclap, and I¡¯m ashamed to say I jumped in my seat. I seen him angry before, but not hot like this, face red and gaze fierce. ¡°Why can¡¯t you get that through your thick head? Six-thousand dollars. A fair sum indeed, but is that worth your life? Because that¡¯s what this work will cost you!¡± It¡¯s a rare sight, Uncle Teddy flying off the handle like he does, and I feel ashamed for having brought it about as he points at me and says, ¡°You lucked out this time, but lady luck is a fickle mistress, and she¡¯ll turn on you eventually. All it takes is one bad roll of the dice, one time when you run up against an outlaw who¡¯s either smarter than you, or so stupid he doesn¡¯t even think about the consequences before pulling the trigger.¡± Slumping back down into his chair, the Marshal lets the flames of anger gutter out, leaving only grim resignation behind. ¡°And then I¡¯ll have to bury you next to your mother and father. So yes, Howie. I¡¯m dead serious. You¡¯ve made enough to tide you over, and I¡¯ll find work for you if you need more. Go home son, and stay there until you finish boot camp.¡±


    That¡¯s a dismissal if I ever heard one, so I leave with my papers and medallion in hand. All quiet like too, without letting my mouth run on like it usually do. There¡¯s a lot I could say, want to say even, about how he got no legal right to hold me in town, or how I still want to be a Ranger but I can¡¯t, or how this here is the Frontier, and ain¡¯t nowhere safe, but it¡¯s all old hat now. I hurt him today, so I don¡¯t wanna argue anymore. I know how much Uncle Teddy cares about me, know he would¡¯ve burned Pleasant Dunes to the ground to get to Ron if I¡¯d died there. I also know there are things the Marshal can¡¯t do, things I can only count on myself for.


    I love the man like family, and respect him like no one else, but he¡¯s wrong about this. Sure I got a couple rough edges that need smoothing, but I ain¡¯t about to sit on my hands for the next ten months just because he don¡¯t wanna hafta bury me. We¡¯ve all buried people we don¡¯t want to. My daddy buried my mama, I buried him and Uncle Raleigh before him, and chances are I¡¯ll bury more before it¡¯s all said and done. If Uncle Teddy ends up having to bury me, well then I¡¯m sorry for that, but I¡¯d rather be cold in the ground than sit idle and watch the Frontier pass me by.


    Ain¡¯t nothing left to say, nothing which hasn¡¯t already been said. All that¡¯s left is to learn from my mistakes and show Uncle Teddy that ready or not, I¡¯m old enough to make my own decisions, and I¡¯m of a mind to be out there earning, even if it might cost me my life. I ain¡¯t an idiot. I know how close I came to dying in Pleasant Dunes, but I can¡¯t afford to let that slow me down, because he got one thing right. My life is worth much more than six grand, but there ain¡¯t no reward without risk. Like I said, we all selling ourselves out here on the Frontier. Some for labour, others sex, and still more for danger and violence, among many other options, and none of it goes without the risk of death. That¡¯s the only real choice we have, how we sell ourselves, and for how much, so I might as well go for broke and pick the option which pays best. Go big or go home, that¡¯s what they say, ain¡¯t it? Except in this case, home is a hole in the ground next to my parents, so I¡¯m happy no matter which way it goes. As for Uncle Teddy and everyone else I¡¯d leave behind? My heart goes out to them, but they¡¯ll manage.


    Because one thing the Frontier teaches well is that no matter what tragedy might befall you, life will always move on.

 Chapter 7

    Though off to a somewhat rocky start, coming home to New Hope never fails to put a smile on my face.


    After seeing Quartermaster Lacey to collect my bounty, I mosey on out the town hall where Cowie stands waiting with the wagon. With his head low and hooves pawing no less, and he gives me a big old shake of his head when he sees me coming. ¡°Don¡¯t pout,¡± I say, ignoring the strange looks from people around me wondering why I¡¯m talking to a bull. ¡°You know I¡¯d bring you in if I could, but they got a strict ¡®no animals¡¯ policy. You can say hi to Uncle Teddy at church come sunday.¡±


    Cowie lets loose with a bellowing moo of protest, no doubt proclaiming he¡¯s much better trained than any marties, wallies, or other sorta-domesticated animals folks keep as pets, and I can¡¯t rightly disagree. He¡¯s fully house trained he is, even knows to do his business on the grass or in his paddock instead of out in the streets, but won¡¯t no one care to listen. Especially not bureaucrats, who I don¡¯t care much for, or their red tape, but ain¡¯t nothing get done right without them. A necessary evil, though I don¡¯t get why they care so much about their stupid town hall anyways. It looks pretty enough, I¡¯ll give them that, a palatial and ostentatious red-brick structure with soaring white columns, semi-circular windows, and plastered decorative pediments, all of which looks tacky and tasteless. It¡¯s also got a big clock on the front, though you can¡¯t hardly read it unless you standing right outside, meaning it¡¯s a big clock that¡¯s too small to be of any real use.


    That¡¯s what you get with bureaucrats though; big ideas and tight purse-strings, a sure-fire recipe for second-rate results.


    The town hall is where the Marshal keeps his office, and the basement vault means the building doubles as our local bank, so there¡¯s lots of traffic going in and out of the building at these hours. The late-afternoon sun has started its descent over to the south, the shifting molten flows of the crimson orb moving in almost hypnotic pattens as it bubbles and boils from over a million klicks away. Gives New Hope a washed out look, the bright colours sapped away while shadows gleam in burnished sable, but it¡¯s still home underneath it all. The front double doors of the town hall open right up onto the main thoroughfare, a cobbled street wide enough for four wagons abreast that goes clear through the middle of town, or close enough. While I appreciate the symbolism, I can¡¯t help but think we¡¯d have been better off tucking the town hall off to the side so traffic going in and out the gates wouldn¡¯t have to flow around it, but what do I know?


    After placating Cowie with a fresh bapple, he brings us westward towards home and I settle back to take in the sights with a smile. Plenty of people in New Hope these days, both familiar and otherwise, and I make a point to smile and nod at most everyone who meets my eyes. Most smile and nod back, and some even got words for me as I pass, a quick greeting or welcome back. Don¡¯t seem like much, but it¡¯s nice to know you surrounded by folks who know you, and I¡¯m not just talking about my face. We¡¯ve been through hell and highwater together, me and the good people of New Hope, worked together for years to turn it into the shining jewel of the Frontier that it is.


    Like I told Carl, me and my daddy were the nineteenth family to join Uncle Teddy in New Hope, and the town¡¯s come a long way since. When we first got here, it was the back end of the first winter since the Advent, with everyone crammed in tight inside two communal log cabins. That¡¯s all there was to mark the ¡®town¡¯, and I imagine it must have been mighty uncomfortable to live in. Come spring though, my daddy showed them all how to build houses out of clay bricks and cobblestone. Stuff my mama figured out for my daddy to use, simplified processes so he could build them a house in the badlands where resources were scarce. These days, most new construction favours using stone blocks cut from the base of Mount Rimepeak to the north, but there are still plenty of clay brick structures along the main thoroughfare, with steel-framed, Aberrtin-reinforced tinted glass windows and doors to boot. Don¡¯t make for the prettiest sight, but even Cowie would have trouble breaking in if they all locked up tight.


    The glass was another contribution from my mama, along with how to weave loomshrubs into soft linens, fire pig-iron ore into carbonized steel, and render the plentiful, pale-white grass into paper, among other things. A brilliant woman she was, a craftsman and researcher who accomplished so much in her short time here on the Frontier, and I see her presence in every brick, window, and street of New Hope. She can¡¯t take all the credit of course, nor did my daddy build this town up single-handedly, but New Hope wouldn¡¯t be New Hope without either of them, and that there is a fact. My daddy shared everything my mama taught him, and with that knowledge, we built the first ¡®modern¡¯ town of the Frontier in a sense, with brick houses and paved roads. I grew up seeing wonder and astonishment in the eyes of every traveller who walked these streets, and it warmed me something fierce knowing my parents helped make it happen.


    Don¡¯t make up for their absence, not by a long shot, but short of a reunion, seeing the marks they left behind is just about the next best thing.


    Fast forward to today, and New Hope ain¡¯t the biggest town on the Frontier. Ain¡¯t even the biggest town on the shore of Last Call Lake, as we got Riverrun to the west, an industrial town with plenty of mills, plants, and factories as well as housing for all the folks working at them. That don¡¯t mean New Hope is small either, as we¡¯ve gone from less than twenty families to over three-thousand inhabitants, plus a burgeoning population of farmers, ranchers, trappers, and other folk living within an hour¡¯s trek of the walls. Then there¡¯s all the visitors, of which there are many, as Last Chance Lake feeds into the Wayfarer river, a wide, fast-flowing waterway that¡¯s pretty much a straight shot all the way down to Thunder Bay on the west coast where Ranger HQ is located. Add in all the tributaries of the Wayfarer and the Highway sitting right outside our eastern gates, and it makes New Hope something of a travel hub round these parts of the Frontier, meaning there¡¯s always boats docking at the pier and wagons rolling through our gates.


    So yea. We ain¡¯t the biggest, most populous town around, but we definitely one of the busiest. Wealthiest too, in terms of economy, which is why some call us the crown jewel of the Eastern Front. A heavily fortified jewel, as outlaws and Abby have set their sights on us many a time, only to be found wanting. Along the thoroughfare, every building is solid, reinforced, and flat roofed so we can move Rangers and shooters along them as we please. Some of the buildings double as secure fighting stations and fallback points, plus we got sharpshooter nests interspersed among the buildings every hundred and fifty metres or so. We got streetlamps and sirens mounted on anchored, reinforced concrete pillars, with steel crossarms hanging out over the streets which serve a variety of uses, chief among them being structural support for suspended rope bridges we can roll out in an emergency. The sides streets are all laid out in an orderly manner with defense in mind, narrowing into choke points at strategic locations and reinforced buildings to keep Abby contained should they ever get in. A last resort really, as New Hope is enclosed in two layers of walls, one twelve metres tall and the other nine. We got a third wall slated to go up soon, and have lines of watchtowers strung out from here to the badlands so we get plenty of advance warning of oncoming Abby incursions.


    None of which is particularly welcoming, but ain¡¯t no real towns around these parts, only shabby settlements and habitable fortresses. A necessity, because New Hope is situated on the Eastern Front and serves as the lynchpin on our first and last line of defense, one meant to hold back the Abby-infested badlands to the East and the Divide beyond it. Means we get the occasional harpy attack, as well as a terrestrial Abby incursion every month or two. Then there¡¯s the sneaky Proggie hiding somewhere under or around Last Chance Lake, the only living Proggie within twenty-five klicks which my daddy couldn¡¯t root out. It¡¯s a crafty son of a gun, feeding well on fish, kelp and the occasional crazy cultist offerings until it thinks it¡¯s got enough merbeasts to make a push onto land, but the Rangers keep local Abby numbers in check well enough so it rarely makes the attempt. Despite all that, New Hope here is probably the safest town along the badlands, though Uncle Teddy¡¯s keen on reinforcing the other settlements to match us.


    A red, white, and blue Bulwark of Federation fortresses connected by the Highway to hold back the tides of Abby which come from the east. That¡¯s the idea at least, and we got seven such forts along the Bulwark and counting, with three more starting construction down south soon enough.


    The mood is busy and bright as Cowie trundles down the lane with our wagon in tow, eager to be home but careful not to rush. He always got an eye out for drunks or kids or plain old fools who think they got the right of way. Even if that were true, it ain¡¯t enough to protect them from two tonnes of bull and maybe half that again in metal wagon, so can¡¯t say I can understand why some folk don¡¯t stop to look both ways before they cross. Thems the breaks when the town gets big though, because there always gonna be more fools than folk with common sense. Makes the sensible ones that much more precious it does, and I make sure to greet those I see. Anita the strapping, square-chinned Prussian grocer, sweeping the front porch of her store. Flirty Miss Dawson greeting widowers from her window, whose Chicago-style confections and ice-creams do much to raise good cheer. Sad, sullen Trevor, the ruddy, widowed cobbler and leatherworker who makes the best boots this side of the Divide, but takes his time doing it and anything else as he trundles on down to the docks. Could take days going through all the good people and the shared history we got, but some of these folk have been in New Hope since near the start, and we look out for one another much as we can.


    It''s only a fifteen-minute trip along the busy thoroughfare before we reach our neighbourhood, one located in the central district of town. Time was this was the only part of town that existed, but since then, it¡¯s blossomed into a shopping district surrounding a small cluster of old houses, including mine. It ain¡¯t much to look at, a rectangular, single storey, two-bedroom house of clay brick and slate roof, with serviceable square awning windows. There¡¯s no artistry in the architecture, no smooth edges or natural exteriors, just a simple, solid structure built atop a sturdy foundation of cobbled stone. My daddy didn¡¯t care much for appearances, and it shows in the stark interior too, but I been living here all my life and have yet to find a single example of cut corners or shoddy workmanship, and that¡¯s a point to take pride in.


    Next-door is where the real beauty is though, and I ain¡¯t just talking about the inhabitants. On the other side of our shared paddock where we keep our milk cows and woolly wallabies, Uncle Raleigh built his family a ranch-style home. It¡¯s a lovely building with wide open spaces and broad eaves on the roof to provide shade for a porch which runs down the entire length of the front and right side of the house. The white-washed walls, big bay windows, and low, gabled roof really gives it a cozy and comforting appeal, despite being at least three times bigger than the house I call home. I ain¡¯t ever seen any old world houses, but I heard plenty of folk say that this house Uncle Raleigh built looks like it¡¯d been plucked right out of a town in the Southern U.F.A, and he always brightened right up when he heard it.


    Most would say this here house is the mark Uncle Raleigh left on the Frontier, but I would disagree. Oh I see his hand in the neat wooden railing, chiselled wood pillars, and solid stone foundation, but his real mark is evident in his twin daughters, one of whom comes running out to greet me as I roll up. ¡°Bout time you got back,¡± Tina says as she stops herself short, all dressed up in her Ranger¡¯s uniform, a tan collared shirt with too many buttons undone over a white blouse with a neckline that¡¯s almost respectable. Both are tucked into well-fitted dark jeans and accentuated by a loose baby-blue tie for an extra splash of colour. Add in the gun belt round her waist with her dual 1911 semi-automatic pistols, and Tina looks every bit the Ranger as Marshal Ellis, albeit a full-figured, feminine Ranger who¡¯s off-duty and wants everyone to know it. Course she also much easier on the eyes. A southern belle to match her mama, with the same milky skin and corn-silk hair, though hers is cut short to hang just above her shoulders. Topped with a brown leather Stetson same as mine, it all makes for a real pretty picture if not for the fact that Tina¡¯s working hard at looking stern as she stands there with hands on hips. ¡°Heard over the radio that you got shot,¡± she drawls, and it warms my heart to hear the accent on her lips, though the lack of matching smile hurts a bit. Her big, round, sky-blue eyes give me a once over as she scowls something fierce, then another as she puffs her left cheek, then the right out of habit. Really accentuates all the baby fat she ain¡¯t yet shed, and I¡¯d tease her about it if she didn¡¯t look so distraught. ¡°The news really shook mama up.¡±


    Darn it. Stepping off the other side so I can hide my shame, I set the wagon brake and trundle over to brush Cowie. ¡°Well, if you heard I¡¯d been shot, then you would¡¯ve also heard that it wasn¡¯t serious. News was almost a week old the moment I shared it, and only got older from there.¡±


    ¡°Ain¡¯t no gunshot wound that ain¡¯t serious, Howie.¡± Giving up on being strict from a distance, Tina marches down them steps to glare at me from the other side of Cowie. She trying for dead serious, but puffing both her cheeks doesn¡¯t help none, nor does Cowie¡¯s enthusiastic greeting as he shrinks down to a quarter his normal size and slips his harness to go prancing around her legs. He¡¯s real cute when he gets all baby like that, looking like a genuine calf instead of a smaller bull, and no one can resist smiling when they see his happy dance, not even concerned Tina. As she kneels to hug him, I peer through her bangs and take a good look at the cloudy, tear-drop sapphire embedded in her forehead, as well as the pretty golden markings on either side that stretch out like an elegant circlet. Got that from her mama too, the biological Brand of an Innate Spellcaster, someone who knows magic like a fish knows water and a bird knows flight.


    There lots of ways to become an Innate, but the typical method is through Attunement with a surgically embedded or orally ingested Spell Core. The other common method is to be born from someone who¡¯s Attuned, which is how Tina and Chrissy came to be. Uncle Raleigh and Aunty Ray were both Innates, though Aunty Ray is second generation, which don¡¯t mean much of anything. Being Innate ain¡¯t much different from being any other type of Spellcaster neither, except for the fact that they¡¯ll automatically learn some Spell Structures as they grow in age and power. Easiest way to learn Spellcasting really, though aside from the original Spell Core, you typically don¡¯t get to pick and choose which Spells you learn.


    It ain¡¯t all sunshine and roses though, as there are drawbacks to be wary of, and Tina¡¯s Brand is one of them. They come in sorts of different shapes and sizes, and while hers is awful pretty, I wouldn¡¯t count on it staying pretty if it starts to spread. It don¡¯t just look like gold and sapphire, but it feels like it too, so I suspect Tina¡¯d be mighty uncomfortable if that teardrop gem grew bigger than the tip of her pinky finger. Always a concern, the Brand growing and expanding as the Spellcaster matures and comes into their power. There¡¯s a Brit in the Protectorate who¡¯s covered head to toe in black chitin instead of hair, which sounds mighty uncomfortable to say the least. Luckily, Tina¡¯s gemstone and circlet looks about the same size as always, and with luck, it¡¯ll stay that way forever. Aunty Ray¡¯s got the exact same Brand down the size and colour, and she¡¯s been slinging Spells most her life, but you never know when it comes to Innates. Constant, direct exposure to the Immaterium can do mighty strange things to a person¡¯s body and mind, and the changes ain¡¯t always obvious.


    Like Cowie here. He technically an Innate Spellcaster too, as his Mama ate a Spell Core before getting pregnant with him. He specializes in Transmutation, except you wouldn¡¯t know it unless you saw him doing magic. His Brand is his clear grey eyes, which turn all dark and stormy when he¡¯s angry. Not much of an identifying mark really, just a bull with clear, human-like eyes, but the magic also makes him much smarter than your average animal. He understands some English, laughs at jokes, and even knows how to count, though he don¡¯t use his smarts for much besides making friends.


    I don¡¯t let my eyes linger on Tina¡¯s Brand for too long. Even though she¡¯s never complained about it out loud, I know she hates it with a passion. While it might look like a pretty accessory, it marks her as undeniably different and possibly dangerous, and she¡¯s known it since the start. Others treat her different because of it, and she accepts it without a thought, but I never have and never will. To me, she¡¯s just Tina, the girl I grew up with and love like a sister. So what if she¡¯s got Innate magic? I got magic too. Only difference is I get my magic from studying formulas, while she gets hers from her bloodline. I gotta work a little harder than she does, but otherwise, it¡¯s all the same. Same Structures and same Spells, even the same chants and finger waggles too if she chooses, but for some reason, most folk see her Brand and think that makes her more dangerous than me.


    It¡¯s silly really, because I¡¯m far more dangerous than she is, and doubly so considering she don¡¯t got any Spells that go boom. Not like she can will her bloodline to teach her Fireball or Lightning Beam, and even if she does eventually get those Spells, that don¡¯t mean she¡¯s liable to go on a rampage. Say she were the type, she could do just as much damage with an Aetherarm, but people understand Aetherarms. They don¡¯t understand Innates, and like the Marshal said, people fear the unknown.


    But I know Tina, and she wouldn¡¯t hurt someone who didn¡¯t deserve it, and even then she¡¯d show more mercy than most deserve. Yet another reason why it¡¯s silly to be more afraid of her than me, because when I set out to hurt someone, I get it done right.


    Unsure how to really go about convincing her I¡¯m alright, I shift from one foot to the other and try to look busy by fussing with the tack. Things never used to be so difficult when we was kids, as I¡¯d just throw an arm around her shoulders and give her a quick peck on the cheek or forehead. Then we grew up, and not only did she grow up beautiful, she also happened to grow more than I did. She ain¡¯t a big girl by any standards, but I ain¡¯t a big man neither, slimmer and shorter than I care to be, which leaves me about two inches shorter than Tina¡¯s five-foot ten. Then there¡¯s the fact that I ain¡¯t got enough meat on my bones, despite eating like a man starved during every meal I can. Don¡¯t matter how much I tuck away, none of it seems to stick to my skelly, giving me a lean, sinewy figure to go with my daddy¡¯s broad shoulders and my mama¡¯s narrow hips. In contrast, Tina¡¯s shoulders are about as broad as mine, and her hips are of a size to match them, with an itty-bitty waist, a flat stomach, and an ample bosom which gives her more curves than a race track while also making her look half-again my width. Really helps fill out her Ranger¡¯s uniform, giving her a shapely, feminine figure evident even through her somewhat loose shirt, and makes me feel all sorts of awkward around her considering she like a sister to me.


    A very attractive, full-figured sister who ain¡¯t even out of her awkward gangly phase yet. Few more years and she¡¯ll be as beautiful as her mama, which if you seen Aunty Ray, is no small compliment.


    Stolen story; please report.


    ¡­I got a lot of hang-ups about the women around me. Might explain why I yearn for the open road so much.


    Course, Tina don¡¯t seem to feel awkward at all around me, so I must be the problem. After giving baby Cowie his due hugs and kisses, she stands up, punches me in the shoulder, and throws her arms around me for a hug. All of which is more painful than pleasant, because I ain¡¯t sure about where to put my hands and I recently been shot in the shoulder she punched, but I power through the pain and awkwardness as best I can. ¡°Important thing is I came back in one piece,¡± I say, breaking off the hug as quick as I can, because she smell real nice and feels better. Too quick judging by Tina¡¯s pouty glare, but she a big girl now and will have to learn to live with the disappointment. ¡°Where¡¯s Chrissy at?¡±


    ¡°Inside on the couch,¡± Tina replies, her glare melting away into concern. ¡°Been moping since we got back from checking the hives. One of the queenies died.¡± Lighting up as if she¡¯d just come up with the best idea ever, Tina grabs me by the wrist and pulls as if to drag me inside. ¡°How bout you go keep her company? You always know how to cheer her up.¡±


    Tina¡¯s a clever girl, but you gotta get up pretty early in the day to get one over the Firstborn. Digging my heels into the dirt, I shake my head and say, ¡°Hang on just a moment missy. Not that I mind keeping Chrissy company, but what exactly will you be doing in the meantime? Doubt you volunteering to unload my wagon.¡±


    Since trickery didn¡¯t work, Tina turns to a tried-and-true tactic: begging. ¡°Please Howie?¡± Somehow affecting a teary-eyed pout without any actual tears, she bats her big blues and says, ¡°All the other boots meet up at the saloon after Basic almost every day, but I ain¡¯t ever been able to join ¡®em.¡± On account of having to come home to look after Chrissy, but I know Tina ain¡¯t blaming her twin. ¡°It¡¯s just for a bit of cider and conversation is all. I¡¯ll be back within the hour, I promise.¡±


    ¡°Yea alright.¡± I already figured it¡¯d be something like that, so I hold a hand up to forestall another hug from Tina so I can grab some cash from my inner jacket pocket. Quartermaster Lacey paid me out mostly in $100 Benjamins, but I batted my squinty browns and convinced him to throw a few $50 Grants in as well. Not quite as effective as when Tina or Aunty Ray use their baby blues, but I work with what I got. ¡°Get on out there Songbird,¡± I say, slapping a crisp $50 into her hand and using her Callsign for good measure. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about rushing back. Just be home before dinner, else you¡¯ll upset your mama something fierce. Buy a couple rounds and some snacks for your friends too, make up for missing out so many times before.¡±


    Rather than light up in delight, Tina¡¯s expression turns sour and conflicted. After a moment¡¯s hesitation, she tries to hand the money back with a shake of her head. ¡°No, you keep it. You bled for this money, so it ain¡¯t right for me to fritter it away.¡±


    Pushing the bill away and wincing as it crinkles into an ugly wad, I give Tina my best stern but wise look. ¡°Don¡¯t be silly. I earned it for the purposes of spending it, and ain¡¯t no waste spending it on you. You work hard, too hard even, so you deserve to cut loose and enjoy a bit.¡± Seeing she ain¡¯t yet convinced, I add, ¡°Look, best to spend it right quick before inflation eats up all the value. Sure, fifty¡¯s probably five times more than you can spend on cider and snacks, but it ain¡¯t always gonna stay that way. Anita¡¯s bapples were fifty cents a bushel when I left two weeks ago. What they at now?¡±


    ¡°Fifty-five.¡±


    ¡°See what I mean? Ten percent increase, and you know it ain¡¯t greed. Everything costing more these days and them prices gonna keep increasing, meaning dollars are worth less and less, so we gots to spend it while the spendin¡¯ still good.¡± Can¡¯t say I understand this economics hoodoo, bunch of mumbo jumbo that don¡¯t make no sense. How¡¯s a dollar worth less today than what it was worth yesterday when all else stays the same? A scam is what it is, one everyone agree to, because ain¡¯t no one paying in Aether no more, nor Aberrtin, gemstones, precious metals, or anything else that holds value better than cash.


    Seeing Tina¡¯s still hesitant to take the money, I say, ¡°Relax. I made six large from bounties, and got another five hundo from trading. All of which I intend to spend right quick, so if there¡¯s anything you been wanting, then you best ask now before it¡¯s too late.¡±


    That does the trick, manufactured urgency as Aunty Ray calls it, and it shows Tina never paid attention to those particular lessons. Which is good because she would be a right real danger if she were half as convincing as her mama. ¡°Um,¡± Tina begins, her big blue eyes darting left, then right, before fully committing to the grift. ¡°If that¡¯s the case, then you think I could get another fifty?¡±


    Unable to resist, I draw back like she just asked for kidney and hit her with my best suspicious stare. ¡°What you need so much money for?¡± Narrowing my eyes, I lean in and ask, ¡°It ain¡¯t for hard drugs, is it? What you on girl? The wacky tobacky? Nose candy? Laud? Slaught? Brave? What is it now? Don¡¯t make me get the Padre to lecture you on the sins of depravity.¡±


    ¡°Shut up.¡± Laughing along in good humour, Tina playfully pushes me away. ¡°Forget it then.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just playing.¡± Already reaching for more money, I stop and look at her with real suspicion this time. ¡°Though now you got me curious as to what this money¡¯s for.¡±


    Tina mumbles something, but I pretend not to hear her so she¡¯ll repeat it again, which she does with an extra bit of spice. ¡°It¡¯s for a dress okay?!¡± Mellowing out once the words are said, she claps her hands and opens her eyes big and wide in excitement. ¡°After we finish Basic, there¡¯s gonna be a graduation ceremony, and Mama was talking about making a big deal outta it, what with us being the first class and all. New generation of Rangers and whatnot, so even though it¡¯s not for a couple more months, I been looking at dresses when I can. There¡¯s this new seamstress in town, miss Westwood. Moved in last year, and well, she makes the most elegant dresses, except they¡¯re $80 a piece.¡±


    ¡°$80 for a dress?¡± That¡¯s a third of what a Ranger makes in a month, and most folks ain¡¯t paid half as much as Rangers. ¡°What¡¯s it made out of? Aetherweave?¡±


    ¡°Nah, she gets spidersilk from downriver.¡± Tina goes all moon-eyed at the thought of it and twirls about, already imagining herself wearing her new dress. ¡°It¡¯s the smoothest, softest, most luxurious fabric I ever laid hands on, and the colours are so beautiful and vibrant.¡± Coming back to her senses, she gives me a guilty little look and adds, ¡°The other $20 is for Madame Martin¡¯s salon. She do wonders with hair. Has a big mirror where she sits you down and shows you what you could look like with different styles and everything.¡±


    Meaning this Madame is probably a skilled Illusionist, since I ain¡¯t heard of any arcana-tech that can do that on the fly. Tricky folk, Illusionists, though I suppose others would say the same of Conjurors, Enchanters, and Transmuters, so I don¡¯t got much of a leg to stand on. ¡°Look at you, asking for both moons once you get a chance,¡± I say, my grin growing all the wider from her unwarranted guilt, and I can¡¯t help but tease her some more. ¡°Even going so far as to forget about buying your friends a round or three.¡± Handing over another three-hundred, most of which came from Ron, I tell her, ¡°See if miss Westwood can make three dresses before graduation comes around, one for you, your mama, and Chrissy. Same with Madame Martin. I bet Chrissy¡¯ll get a real kick outta that mirror trick.¡±


    Taking the money with a smile, Tina wrinkles her nose in a cute little jeer. ¡°No wonder Mama likes you best, you bapple-polishing butter-up.¡±


    ¡°Oh, that ain¡¯t got nothing to do with me.¡± Giving her my best smirk, I wave her past and add, ¡°Aunty Ray just likes me more cuz you a brat. And don¡¯t forget about buying your friends those rounds. It¡¯s important, bonding and all.¡± Which strikes a chord as I realize I been going about things all wrong. I got no intentions of joining the Rangers, but that don¡¯t mean I gotta do everything on my own. ¡°Hold up a sec Songbird,¡± I say, reaching out to stop Tina as she skips off into town. ¡°About your fellow boots.¡±


    ¡°What about them?¡±


    ¡°Well, you said before they don¡¯t wash out for lack of skill right?¡± Tina nods, and it makes sense. Whole point of bootcamp is to teach those skills, so you only get washed out if you break the rules or aren¡¯t really trying, and I can work with rule breakers. ¡°You know any washouts who are still around and might be worth salvaging?¡±


    ¡°Two recent ones come to mind,¡± Tina says, her expression one of pure confusion. ¡°Though most wash out for good reason.¡±


    ¡°Think you can put me in touch?¡± Now Tina¡¯s really confused, and I know she won¡¯t leave without answers. ¡°The whole ¡®getting shot¡¯ thing,¡± I begin, pointing at my shoulder and doing my best to ignore Tina¡¯s pained wince, ¡°Got me chewed out by the Marshal, and he said something that stuck. Said boot camp wasn¡¯t just about learning, but about learning to work together and trusting the people beside you.¡± Giving a half-hearted shrug, I say, ¡°Well, I figure maybe it¡¯s time I got some people beside me to trust.¡±


    ¡°You putting together a crew?¡± This time, Tina¡¯s teary-eyed pout ain¡¯t faked. ¡°Without me?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be silly, Songbird.¡± Patting the top of her hat like we¡¯re eight again, I follow up with an awkward fist-bump to her shoulder. ¡°You know there ain¡¯t anyone else I¡¯d rather have watching my back. Always thought we¡¯d run point together through Proggie burrows, like our daddies used to, but it¡¯s high time we admit that things might not work out the way we¡¯d hoped. You dead set on joining the Rangers, and I¡¯m dead set against it.¡±


    ¡°That don¡¯t mean we can¡¯t be a team.¡± An honest to goodness real tear trickles down Tina¡¯s cheek, and I feel like monster for making it happen, but in my defense, she a real emotional girl and I¡¯ve always had trouble keeping up. ¡°You said you¡¯d sign on to work freelance and all that.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± I say, wishing I¡¯d thought through this more before bringing it up, but that¡¯s the curse of thinking on your feet, ¡°And you know you can always count on me, but it¡¯s time we got realistic. You being a Ranger means you won¡¯t always get to choose your deployments, and me staying freelance means I¡¯ll be working with whoever available. I¡¯m sure Uncle Teddy will do what he can to make sure we together, but we can¡¯t always count on it working out, so I might as well start looking for some people I can trust.¡± Giving her my best smile, I say, ¡°This don¡¯t mean we can¡¯t still partner up like our daddies did, just that it won¡¯t be all the time.¡±


    With nothing else for it, I surrender myself to the inevitable hug and hold her real tight until she finally stops sniffling and lets go. ¡°That there is a promise,¡± she declares, wiping the tears from her cheeks, ¡°But you right. You need good people to watch your back, so I¡¯ll set up a meeting quick as I can.¡±


    As Tina strides away with purpose and resolve, I find myself struck by doubt. I¡¯ll be alright striking out on my own, but will she be alright with the Rangers? I know she¡¯s in good hands, what with the Marshal looking out for her, but that¡¯s not the same as having someone on deployment beside her. I promised my daddy I¡¯d look out for Tina, and Chrissy and Aunty Ray too. Granted, I was only ten at the time and didn¡¯t really understand what my promise meant. All I knew was that Uncle Raleigh was gone and my daddy expected me to help pick up the slack in our little patchwork family. Not that my daddy and Aunty Ray ever had any romantic notions between them. He only ever had room for mama in his heart, and Aunty Ray still cries over Uncle Raleigh¡¯s gravestone every year. They were like me and Tina, siblings by choice rather than blood, but family all the same, and now I¡¯ve selfishly decided to leave my little sister to find her own way.


    Problem is that some decisions, once made, can¡¯t ever be taken back, and while lots of folks would be happy to hear me say I want to join the Rangers again, I don¡¯t think I would ever be the same. It¡¯d kill something in me to give up and give in, a part of myself I could never get back, so rather than get myself all twisted up inside, I stick to the path I¡¯ve chosen and head inside with tiny Cowie to see Chrissy.


    You wouldn¡¯t think two people with the same face could look so different, but I doubt anyone could ever mistake Tina for Chrissy. It ain¡¯t an issue of colouring, though I admit Chrissy¡¯s long, cascading silver locks and pale, lilac pupils are remarkably distinct, as is the amethyst tear-drop gem in her forehead and the silver bandings on either side. Other than that, Tina and Chrissy are exactly alike in all other aspects except one, one I would say has nothing to do with appearance and everything to do with presence. That is to say Chrissy has none, her doll-like features completely blank and unreadable as she sits on the couch in her light grey sundress. She¡¯s got a yellow ribbon holding her long silver locks in a low ponytail, with a big bow-tie at the back adding an extra touch of adorable to her pretty and peaceful self as she sits there with her little hands folded over her lap. Palms up, as it were, with the corpse of a queen bee nestled within, a fat, fuzzy, black-and-yellow winged puff that¡¯s no bigger than a berry. Chrissy¡¯s unfocused eyes are fixed on the poor thing, her shoulders slumped and head bowed as she mourns the queen bee¡¯s death, but despite all the anguish and melancholy emanating from her frame, none of the emotion ever reaches her face.


    Nor do I think it ever will. See, while Tina, Aunty Ray, and Uncle Raleigh were all largely unaffected by their Innate magical bloodline, poor Chrissy makes up for it in spades. It¡¯s a subtle affection, one that went unnoticed until she was almost four. She didn¡¯t talk much, but Tina would talk your ear off, which was the first clue that something was off. Then Chrissy stopped talking altogether and grew more withdrawn, locked up in her own mind to the point where she almost became unresponsive. A common enough occurrence in Innate Spellcasters, and prevailing theories figure it¡¯s because they getting lost in the dizzying patterns of the Spell Structures embedded within their minds. In Chrissy¡¯s case, it also goes a little further, muddying up her ability to process and express things, which accounts for her complete and utter lack of facial expressions. Talk too much and it tends to confuse her, and it takes her a long time to come up with words to speak. Doesn¡¯t mean she can¡¯t, or that she¡¯s simple-minded. She¡¯s sharp as a tack when it comes to certain things, but things get bogged down in communications failure. It¡¯s like we all speaking in tongues, and she¡¯s gotta process everything into something she understands, and it takes too much effort so she usually just shuts down.


    She been getting better though, especially after my daddy figured out how to reach her. So rather than call out in greeting or dirty Aunty Ray¡¯s couch, I take a seat on the floor in front of her and give her knee a light double pat to let her know I¡¯m here. That gets her to blinking, and it takes her long seconds to focus on my face, and seconds more to recognize who I am. ¡°Hi Howie,¡± she whispers in her even monotone, her expression blank as always and her eyes never quite meeting mine. ¡°Welcome home.¡±


    This is more rote repetition than an actual greeting, a routine she knows she¡¯s supposed to go through when she doesn¡¯t remember seeing me for some time. ¡°Hi Princess. Good to be back,¡± I reply, and her head tilts a bit, which I¡¯ve come to recognize as a very subtle indication of good cheer. Princess ain¡¯t a pet name, but her Callsign, though I doubt she¡¯ll ever use a radio. Tina came up with it after we decided Chrissy needed one too, mostly so she wouldn¡¯t feel left out. Not that she would ever complain, but she¡¯s a sensitive soul who we both love and adore, so we try to include her in everything we do.


    Reaching up to stroke the dead bee, I ask, ¡°Is this a queenie?¡± Chrissy nods, and even though her face don¡¯t change a bit, there¡¯s a sense of sadness about her. ¡°Poor girl. Do you know from which hive?¡± She nods again, so I consider how to frame my next question. Yes or no questions only, else it¡¯s more difficult for her to process and she might not find the words to answer. ¡°Was she from a close hive, like the ones out back?¡± Chrissy nods again, and I ask, ¡°Can you show me which one?¡±


    Chrissy stands up right away, meaning to do just that, so I pop up onto my feet and gently take her by the arm. Mostly to make sure she don¡¯t run outside barefoot, but she remembers to slip on her sandals without any prompting. Plopping a straw hat on top of her head, I bring her out and around to the back while baby Cowie follows at our heels, only a little upset about being ignored by his favourite person in the world. That¡¯s Chrissy though, as she got a way with animals even Aunty Ray can¡¯t match, as evidenced by how the indifferent woolly wallabies hop on over to say hi as we saunter past. They real cute and fluffy, with big eyes, upright ears, and narrow faces on poofy bodies that are just begging to be hugged, except they¡¯ll bite most anyone who tries unless you Chrissy or Aunty Ray. They real handsy too, reaching out with their tiny paws to grab at our clothes, with a few baby joeys even peeking out from their mama¡¯s pouches to see what all the fuss is about, and it¡¯s hard not to stop and coo. They lucky they cute, because they dumber than mud and taste awful. Only good for their wool really, which I¡¯m told is similar to alpaca, as if I¡¯m supposed to know what that is.


    It is awful soft though, and I like my wally wool blankets, though Cowie loves them even more.


    None of the wallies adorable antics reach Chrissy though, as she¡¯s on a mission to show me which hive has just lost its queen. Hive seven, it turns out, which is abuzz with activity, though that ain¡¯t out of the ordinary. What is unusual is how they fly out to greet us, forming concentric circles around us to pay their respects without fully enclosing us in rings of fluttering bees. Real polite of them to leave some space, because fond as I am of the fuzzy little fellas and the honey and beeswax they provide, even the thought of being hemmed in from all sides makes me sweat a little bit. The buzzing is a mite overwhelming at times, but Chrissy don¡¯t blink so neither do I, as I mean to support her best I can. After a minute or two of circling about, the bees swarm up around their hive like an audience watching the stage. Lifting her cupped hands, Chrissy raises the dead queen to the sun and blinks once. That¡¯s all, no finger waggling or chanting to be done, but the Spell activates for her all the same, demonstrating a mastery of magic which I can only hope to one day match.


    That¡¯s one of the benefits of Innate Spellcasters. They¡¯re closer to their Spell Structures, linked together in ways besides numbers and memory. For me, a Spell Structure is a four-dimensional construct derived from a mathematical equation, a pretty picture of moving lights and the trails those lights leave behind, all of which synched to a universal clock. Once created, my Spell Structures are fixed in memory, an immutable pattern that will repeat itself without a single deviation from now until I intentionally wipe it from memory, usually to make room for a different Spell.


    For Chrissy, her Spell Structures are more than just the pattern itself, but almost like an organism she can coax and cajole to render Spells that are slightly different from what the Structure should provide. While I can tweak the parameters of the Spell Structure to do stuff like make them last longer, move farther, split one Mage Hand into two, that sort of business, it¡¯s still the same Spell underneath the hood. Innates don¡¯t always have those same limits, though it tends to vary from individual to individual. In this instance, Chrissy¡¯s Spell is one I recognize, a simple Conjuration Cantrip called Infestation. Ordinarily, the Spell will create phantasmal insects to attack a target designated by the caster, but Chrissy has tweaked the Spell Structure to make it something not exactly different, but¡­ more. Anyone watching closely would see the dead queen¡¯s corpse crumble away like dust in the wind, only to be replaced by an animated queen bee comprised of Ectoplasm. Temporary matter made of Aether, similar to the fake water I make with the Water Sphere Cantrip, only Chrissy¡¯s creation is life-like and acts like it¡¯s got a mind of its own. The Conjured Queen turns about and tests her wings before launching herself off Chrissy¡¯s palm, as majestic as she ever was in life. She circles her hive once, twice, and a third time before soaring up into the sky, and I¡¯d be hard pressed to say if she flew out of sight or simply dissipated before my eyes. The bees rise up and follow her trail for a bit, then promptly return to the hive, perhaps bidding the old queen one last farewell before heading home to pay their respects to the new queen.


    Or maybe they just confused. I don¡¯t know. I can¡¯t talk to bees, though I¡¯m sure Chrissy understands. Hands empty, she turns to me with the same blank and distant expression as always, but somehow, I can tell she wants to cry. ¡°Hug.¡±


    Compelled by her Spell, my arms go around her and pull her close before I can even think about bracing myself for it, and the sudden intimacy is both warm and unwelcome. I don¡¯t pull away through, not even after the compulsion fades, because Chrissy needs a hug, and maybe I do too. We stay like that for a bit, until she finds it in herself to whisper, ¡°Sorry Howie.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s alright Chrissy.¡± To show I mean, I hold her tight and squeeze her shoulder three times. ¡°I know you didn¡¯t mean to do it.¡± And she didn¡¯t. Sometimes, the Command Spell just slips out of her, imbuing her words with her Will and compelling her target to obey. It¡¯s no surefire way to get someone to do your bidding, as the command has to be short and succinct, usually one word or sometimes two, and you can¡¯t ever Command someone to directly harm themselves. Self-preservation instincts are too strong to override with a simple First Order Spell, but people don¡¯t like it all the same when they Commanded to do anything, even if its something simple like sit or move aside.


    That¡¯s part of why people are so scared of Innates though. How easily they use magic. It just slips out sometimes, because while it¡¯s possible for them to create a key to activate their Spells just like I do, their Spells tend to be more mercurial and will sometimes respond to the caster¡¯s emotional state. Not an issue most orthodox Spellcasters like myself and most folk will ever face, one which has in the past led to some tragic incidents involving troubled Innates, but I don¡¯t think that¡¯s any reason to be wary of all Innates in general. Might as well treat every living person like a possible mass murderer then, because the only difference is that non-Innates would need to pick up a gun, bomb, or Spell. No sense treating Innates like they inherently dangerous otherwise.


    Sure, Chrissy sometimes loses control of her Spells, and some of them are pretty alarming like Command and Charm, but she ain¡¯t got a single mean bone in her body. She¡¯s close to tears over the death of a bee, yet most folk move like they walking on eggshells around her, fearing she¡¯ll use her mind magic to make them complicit in some horrific crime or another. It ain¡¯t fair is what it is, and I¡¯ll argue against anyone who says different, fight anyone who dare act on it too.


    Because when Chrissy squeezes back three times right quick, that¡¯s her own little way of saying, ¡®I love you¡¯, how she communicates without letting words get her all mixed up. She ain¡¯t emotionless. She just don¡¯t show hers on her face, which is why most don¡¯t know she sweet as honey and pure as fresh snow. Her love for me is no different from her love for her mama or sister, or her love for Cowie, the bees, and the wallies, which is why there ain¡¯t ever been any awkwardness between us like I have with Tina. Even though they twins and look almost exactly alike, I could never see Chrissy in any other light. She¡¯s my sister, plain and simple, a sweet angel of a girl who I¡¯ll protect to the last.


    Same goes for Tina too of course, but things have gotten a touch more complicated these days. That¡¯s the Frontier though, where everything growing more complicated and dangerous with each passing day. Nothing for it but to adapt and move forward, because the alternative is to fall behind. Being the Firstborn gave me a head start, an advantage my mama knowingly risked her life for, so I¡¯d be a fool and an ingrate to squander so precious a gift. Her last words were to tell me she loved me, and to never blame myself for her death, but I can¡¯t say that it¡¯s been easy.


    Especially knowing I was responsible for my daddy¡¯s death too. Firstborn I may be, but the Frontier don¡¯t love me any more for it.

 Chapter 8

    Hugs ain¡¯t enough to cheer Chrissy up, so we spend a bit of time sitting on the swing together.


    With her head on my shoulder, my arm around her back, and me going on about how happy her music made the townies of Pleasant Dunes as we swing back and forth, that¡¯s how Aunty Ray finds us in the backyard. Real sneaky like too, slinking right up behind us without so much as a peep until she good and ready to show herself. I said it before and I¡¯ll say it again, but Rachel Walker-Bradshaw is the very picture of an all-American southern belle, a beauty by any definition. The hair is what stands out the most to me, what she calls a ¡®a loose updo style ponytail¡¯, though it look much fancier than it sounds. She takes her long blonde locks and twists it about in a big, fancy looking bun, then threads it through like tying a poofy knot with a tail long enough to reach her shoulders. In a town where most folk just cut their hair short to keep it neat, the extra bit of effort really stands out to lend an elegant look to Aunty Ray¡¯s jibe. The teardrop sapphire and golden circlet combo also does wonders to help, an almost regal Brand which she highlights with her long bangs, kept parted down the middle and lifted on either side almost like golden curtains framing all her lovely features. Only a hint of Makeup can be seen, a touch of red for her lips and a thin, dark outline around her eyes, but it¡¯s more than she needs, because at thirty-seven years of age, she¡¯s as radiant as ever and has the confidence to back it up. Style too, because despite wearing a button up shirt and jeans like everybody else, she makes hers look as sharp as anyone else would in formal dress.


    Not to mention that healthy, farm-girl build giving Aunty Ray all of Tina¡¯s curves and then some.


    Got a soft smile on too when she ambles on around, but not the knowing smile some folk who don¡¯t know nothing get when they see me and Chrissy together. Nah, Aunty Ray¡¯s got the same smile I remember from when we was kids and would all huddle up together for story time, the smile of a proud mama looking over her pups. Because in her eyes, that¡¯s what I am, one of hers just like she birthed me herself, which makes all these hang ups I got real awkward. That¡¯s a lot of love to give to a child who ain¡¯t your own, and she¡¯s never treated me like anything but, while I¡¯ve never found it in me to call her Mama. ¡°Warms my heart seeing y¡¯all like this,¡± Aunty Ray says, one arm folded across her stomach and her other hand pressed over her chest as if to physically restrain her emotions. ¡°Two of you both cute as a button. Feels like just yesterday when your daddy put this swing up and you and Tina was fighting to go first.¡±


    ¡°Ended up with all three of us sitting up here together,¡± I say as I get a start on slowing us down. ¡°Must¡¯ve been hours before we finally called it quits.¡±


    ¡°I wish. Wasn¡¯t even thirty minutes before you was tearing up the yard again.¡± Seeing my disbelief, Aunty Ray rolls her eyes with a smile and knocks my hat down over my eyes as we pass by. ¡°Don¡¯t be giving me that look now. You were six, Howie. Could barely go five minutes without losing your head. What makes you think you could¡¯ve played nice for hours?¡±


    Without missing a beat, I reply, ¡°Still don¡¯t mean I got the A.D.H.D. All kids got short attention spans.¡±


    ¡°Then why were you such a handful when Tina and Chrissy were little angels?¡±


    ¡°Ah you know. Boys will be boys and all.¡± Soon as the swing comes to full stop, Chrissy gets up and shuffles into Aunty Ray¡¯s arms, who hugs her daughter tight and raises an eye in silent question. ¡°Queenie bee passed away this afternoon,¡± I say. ¡°Gave her a real nice send off, we did.¡± Don¡¯t come as much of a surprise when Aunty Ray¡¯s lips go pouty and her eyes well up, as she¡¯s every bit as emotional as her daughters. Time was I thought all women were this flighty and sentimental, but apparently Aunty Ray and her girls are a bit extra in this particular department. My daddy supposed it had something to do with their Brands and their blend of Enchantment magics, but he also told me never to mention it out loud. Women can be mighty peculiar when men get to commenting on their emotional states, and my daddy told me I ought to know better than to try. Fact is, my daddy only looked into it because he suspected Chrissy was so closed off because she was feeling too many emotions, and learned to deal with it by simply shutting down. There might¡¯ve been something to it, but we can¡¯t really be sure unless she tells us herself, and we ain¡¯t reach that level of communications just yet.


    Love to see it happen though, and also a day when Chrissy can laugh and pout and smirk and shout just like Tina. That day ever does come, then I might just cry a little bit.


    Once Aunty Ray and Chrissy are both properly consoled, I step away to unload the wagon and wash up before dinner. Baby Cowie has long since made himself scarce to go say hello to his herd, a right proper harem of three lady cows. Don¡¯t know how they know, but them regular cows seem to understand that Cowie is Cowie regardless if he baby or bull, though I can¡¯t say the same for the woolly wallabies who are as dense as they are cute. My daddy and I had a long talk about what to do with Cowie¡¯s calves, and decided selling them to the Rangers was the best decision. They¡¯re the only ones we can really trust to raise an army of Transmutating cows, and hold true to their word not to sell them. Not to mention sustain the cost of supporting them, considering how much they eat every day, but Cowie¡¯s got a right proper bloodline trotting all about the Frontier, with magical calves ranging from Prosperity Hills all the way down to New Sonora. Most don¡¯t got as much magic as he does, and can typically only do one or two Spells, but time will tell if they develop anymore and what that might entail.


    It¡¯s good money, and far as I can tell, Cowie don¡¯t seem to mind me selling all his babies. Fact is, once they get to the age where they can be weaned off, he gets slightly jealous of the attention they get, from me and from his lady cows both. No, Cowie ain¡¯t much of a daddy, and acts pretty much like a baby himself, but he does seem real happy every time we meet one of his kin, provided they ain¡¯t crowding up his paddock.


    He don¡¯t care much for baths either, but after I finish unloading all our things, he suffers through one for my sake. Makes it real easy when he goes baby sized and I sit him in the tub, because he¡¯s much too polite to go stomping around indoors. When he first started shrinking and growing on a whim, I wasn¡¯t sure if the cleanliness would transfer over to when he got big again, like he¡¯d have patches of dirty skin because they plum weren¡¯t there when he was tiny. Worked out fine in the end, but I couldn¡¯t figure out why, so I ended up asking Uncle Teddy. He¡¯s a learned man after all, with a university degree, but he ain¡¯t real good at explaining things he only sorta understands. The answer he gave me was that the law of conservation of mass states that matter cannot be created or destroyed, meaning Cowie isn¡¯t actually shrinking in the way we typically envision shrinking. Instead, what he does is convert part of his mass into Ectoplasm, which then gets stored in the Immaterium, where Ectoplasm ain¡¯t as temporary as it is here. As for the Immaterium, it¡¯s a place that isn¡¯t a place, and isn¡¯t in this universe, but also simultaneously existing in the same lateral space as the universe, or something to that effect. A fourth dimension as it were, a direction we can¡¯t really perceive, as we lack the ability to.


    Still don¡¯t really get it, but I mostly treat it as a fancy word for the place where Aether comes from and time acts funny.


    Anyway, what all that means is that Cowie isn¡¯t actually changing anything besides his physical measurements, and he still the same object in our reality regardless of his size. Sorta like how a bag seems smaller when it¡¯s empty and balled up, but bigger when it¡¯s full, and when you wash the bag in either state, you still have access to the whole surface area. That don¡¯t really track on account of how Cowie ain¡¯t hollow and never has excess skin, but it¡¯s the best analogy Uncle Teddy could come up with. The discrepancies got something to do with how we working with more than four dimensions, while the human mind already struggles with linear distances, much less 3-D space and changes over time. Personally, I don¡¯t find it that difficult, tracking and syncing with a universal metronome using only mathematics so my memorized Spell Structures are timed right, but apparently it¡¯s the single biggest hurdle to becoming an orthodox Spellcaster. Fact is, Sir Issac Newton pioneered the development of Cantrips because most people found it too difficult to track the movement of Spell Structures over time through his mathematical equations. Said three dimensions should be more than enough to create working Spell Structures, and then proved it with the Light Cantrip.


    Now there was a great man, Sir Issac Newton, the father of modern magic. Church don¡¯t like him much, on account of how God said, ¡®Let there be light¡¯ on the seventh day, and somehow that makes the Light Cantrip heresy. Makes less sense than the Immaterium, but most church folk don¡¯t take kindly to questions, which is why I don¡¯t put much stock in religion of any denomination. The important thing is that washing Cowie when he baby sized helps save on warm water, and also makes drying him easier. This ain¡¯t the Coral Desert, as we got all of Last Chance Lake to pull water from, hilly forests full of wood and a mountain full of coal to fuel water boilers for indoor plumbing, so I ain¡¯t gonna wash Cowie in cold Water Spheres if I don¡¯t have to.


    Once he¡¯s all clean and mostly dry, I carry him out to his paddock and head back inside for a much-needed shower. The sheer amount of sand that sloughs off into the drain proves I got even more nooks and crannies than I knew about, and I allow myself an extra minute or two under the stream of hot water just to be sure I got it all. Still boggles my mind how we gotta use plain old fire to heat our water instead of magic, least not until I get a big enough Aetheric Dynamo hooked up to the house. Ain¡¯t worth it just yet. As it stands, it would take two hundred Bolts worth of Aether to heat one litre of water to boiling, a horrendously inefficient process if I ever seen one, but it makes sense if you think about it. Magic ain¡¯t great at directly affecting the physical world in even semi-permanent fashion. Destruction is easy enough, but gradual change is a much harder sell for magic alone. Fact is, destruction pretty much the only permanent thing magic can do, though I¡¯m sure there are theoretical arcanists out there fixing to change that.


    A shame we can¡¯t just conjure up food whenever we get hungry, or at least not edible food. Best we can do is cast Spells to help speed up the growth of crops, but not by much. Time was, food was in short supply even here in New Hope, with access to freshwater fish and plenty of wild vegetables just waiting to be harvested and eaten. Nowadays we doing much better with plenty of farms to feed us, but I¡¯m still mighty grateful when I walk over to Aunty Ray¡¯s and find her cooking up a whole feast. ¡°First bread we breaking together in two weeks,¡± she says, looking over from the stove where she still hard at work, ¡°And you can¡¯t be bothered to put on something nice?¡±


    Rather than argue, I grin, turn around, and head back home to change. Not that I think there¡¯s anything wrong with a t-shirt and loose pants, but if Aunty Ray wants me looking nice for dinner, then ain¡¯t no harm in dressing proper. The thought of throwing on my Sunday best as a joke crosses my mind, but putting on a three-piece suit and tie is too much effort just for a cheap laugh, and doubly so if I get some food on it. Instead, I settle for a M¨¦tis Tuxedo, which is just a fancy name for a denim jacket over a nice blue collared shirt and a pair of comfortable jeans to complete the set. I even button my shirt all the way up and throw on a new bolo tie to really fancy things up, because it¡¯s sure to put a smile on Aunty Ray¡¯s face.


    ¡­Okay, so Tina¡¯s right. I am a bapple-polishing butter-up, but only for my Aunty Ray.


    ¡°Looking sharp, Firstborn!¡± Walking home with a skip in her step and looking pleased as punch, Tina gives a little wolf whistle as she catches me on my way out. Capering over for a closer look, she gives my bolo tie a discerning glance. ¡°That another bull you sporting there? When¡¯d you get that?¡±


    ¡°Just this trip, Songbird.¡± Giving the oval ornamental clasp a light buff with my sleeve, I smirk and say, ¡°Almost pure silver. Got it in barter for a bottle of mead and the carving I bought off that fella from Ketchafeesh.¡± Technically, it¡¯s ¡®catch a fish¡¯, as in Lake Catch a Fish, but folks up north like to put a spin on the intonation so it don¡¯t sound so silly. Or more silly, as it were, and I can¡¯t say I hate it. ¡°You remember that carving right? The scrimshaw eagle you said wouldn¡¯t sell for pennies? Called me a fool for paying $20 American, but turned it right around for a profit, I did.¡±


    ¡°That don¡¯t look like much more than $20 American in silver, even accounting for workmanship.¡±


    Tina¡¯s got a keen eye for baubles, but I ain¡¯t about to admit defeat. ¡°The real prize was learning why he wanted the carving in the first place,¡± I say, before leaning in for a conspiratorial whisper. ¡°That eagle was lifelike as can be, a perfect base for a Summoning Spell Totem.¡± Hard to judge myself considering I ain¡¯t ever seen no real eagle, meaning whoever carved that scrimshaw was selling themselves short.


    ¡°Really?¡± Eyes wide with interest, Tina asks, ¡°How does Summoning work anyways? I been fixing to summon me a horse. Make it safer to ride into battle if I don¡¯t gotta worry about old Tux gettin¡¯ got.¡±


    Old Tux was my daddy¡¯s horse, and he getting up there in years. Ain¡¯t actually a horse like those from the old world, as they a bit thicker and wider with a set of short fangs, but they similar enough that most folks find it easier to just call them horses. Same with mundane cows, with only a difference in colouring, as well as a how slew of other animals that supposedly real similar to what you¡¯d find on the old world. Ain¡¯t no one know why the animals so similar on two separate worlds, but it¡¯s a question best left to others besides myself. ¡°Best get to work then,¡± I say, ¡°Because Summoning ain¡¯t easy.¡± I don¡¯t know all the details myself if I¡¯m being honest, so be better if an expert explained it to both of us, and I got just the person in mind. ¡°Isn¡¯t one of your fellow boots a Summoner? Some hotshot Scout wannabe, runs around with a bow and beastie? Why not ask her?¡± Wish I knew her name, but Mr. Morrison¡¯s Scottish, meaning his accent is difficult to parse even when he sober, which he wasn¡¯t when he pointed out Cute Bow Girl as my biggest competition.


    ¡°We, uh, don¡¯t get along all that good.¡±


    That don¡¯t really track, since Tina gets along with everyone, and with so few women in the Rangers, they ought to all stick together. More to the point, she acting all evasive, avoiding my questioning stare and making a beeline for the porch when she was just happy to chat a moment more. ¡°What you mean you don¡¯t get along?¡± I ask, forestalling her escape. ¡°She got something against you?¡± Hope not, because I was counting on Tina to make an introduction.


    ¡°Not me.¡± Tina gives me a pointed look, and it dawns on me why she was being evasive. ¡°You kinda beat the tar out of her little brother last winter.¡±


    Ah fudge nuggets. ¡°Which one was her brother?¡± Please don¡¯t say ¨C


    ¡°The fourteen-year-old one.¡±


    Double fudge nuggets. The scorn in Tina¡¯s tone cuts to the quick, and I feel bad about it too, but it ain¡¯t entirely my fault. ¡°Look, I didn¡¯t know that Nip boy was only fourteen.¡± Her features twist into a scowl, reminding me I ain¡¯t supposed to say Nip. ¡°Sorry, the Nipponese boy. The very tall and fit one with a chin full of stubble, I might add. Head taller than I am and looking twenty if he was a day, and that was months ago.¡±


    ¡°Even if that is true,¡± she retorts, knowing full well that it is, ¡°You still shouldn¡¯t have roughed him up like that. He didn¡¯t do nothing to deserve it.¡±


    ¡°He was mad dogging me from across the park all afternoon!¡± Which ain¡¯t enough to convince Tina that my actions were justified, so I continue explaining. ¡°Then I went over to ask what¡¯s what, all real polite and everything, and he told me to turn my ¡®slant-eyed stare¡¯ away before he ¡®teach me a lesson¡¯.¡± Allowing myself a grin, I add, ¡°So I smiled real wide, leaned in real close, and stared real hard until he took a swing.¡±


    Unamused, Tina shakes her head and says, ¡°You could¡¯ve just ignored him, Howie. Don¡¯t gotta go starting something every time some fool looks at you wrong.¡± Storming off in a huff, she heads inside without me, and I can¡¯t say I blame her. I do tend to get in a lot of fights, meaning I¡¯ve tussled with a good number of her fellow boots, so she¡¯s had more than her fair share of frustrations dealing with the fallout. Can see why the Marshal wasn¡¯t too keen on throwing me in with them, especially as a late-comer getting a special treatment. Not saying I agree with the decision, because it ain¡¯t entirely my fault, as most them fights started because them fools came at me, all fixing to one up the Firstborn. I ain¡¯t big or mean, and I look younger than my years, which means I gotta work extra hard to prove my reputation is earned and not a load of crock.


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Okay, so maybe the fourteen-year-old kid wasn¡¯t looking for a fight, but with eyes like his, he really shouldn¡¯t be calling others slant-eyed, not when he squinting all the time and looking right barking mad. Wasn¡¯t like I hurt him bad either. Gave him a few bruises is all, and two black eyes. A good life lesson, I¡¯d say, because if he ever talks to a real Qin like that, they¡¯re liable to string him up and chop his feet off. Then again, they don¡¯t need much encouragement to turn things ugly. Lot of bad blood between the two nations, most of which is due to the Nipponese Immortal Monarch playing a major role in killing the Qin Immortal Monarch. I don¡¯t care much about old world nationalities either way, though I do find it mighty curious how the Nipponese love Americans so much. Sure, they¡¯re allies now, but the Americans dropped two Aetheric bombs on Nippon back in 1945, shortly after the Qin Monarch¡¯s death. Those were the only two times those weapons of massed destruction have ever been used in all of human history, I might add, with a death toll of over two-hundred thousand people, most of whom were civilians, as well as taking out the Nipponese Immortal Monarch himself.


    Makes no sense why the Nipponese get along so well with Americans, while relations with the Qinese are strained on both sides.


    Mourning my failed relationship with Cute Bow Girl before I even got a chance to talk to her, I head in without my customary smile, which don¡¯t escape Aunty Ray¡¯s notice once she look past my new threads. I shake it off and grin best I can, which ain¡¯t difficult considering what I see, my three best girls and a table stacked to the gills with all manner of delectable dishes. Muskari pot roast, hoggydilla chops, buttermilk biscuits, and roasted red sneezeweed to name a few of my favourites, and we all tuck in with smiles and chatter aplenty. I tell tales of what I was up to without any prompting, but I leave out the more dangerous bits, and Aunty Ray seems happy to leave it at that for now. There¡¯ll be a reckoning though, this I know, so after soon as dinner is finished, I volunteer to do the dishes and suggest an evening stroll to Miss Dawson¡¯s store for an ice cream treat.


    It¡¯s only delaying the inevitable, but I¡¯ll take what I can get.


    The long, leisurely walk and cool night¡¯s air does much to soothe my frayed nerves, the result of getting shot and the hurried pace I set to get home after Pleasant Dunes. It wasn¡¯t so bad in the moment, but things rarely are when you got the adrenaline pumping. It¡¯s the aftermath which is tricky to deal with, the quiet moments when you go over every moment and decision and marvel at how you still in once piece. Getting chewed out by the Marshal didn¡¯t help, but those thoughts all go quiet as I take in all the familiar sights with Chrissy clinging on my arm. She¡¯s still feeling a mite melancholy from queenie¡¯s passing, but you wouldn¡¯t know it from looking at her, which is why all those knowing smiles irk me so much. I tolerate it best I can, as most folk don¡¯t mean nothing by it, and it¡¯s better than the worried stares from those ignorant types who only see a Qin or an Innate. Least word about my bandit bounties ain¡¯t spread too far just yet, so I play the part of quiet bystander while the older folk flock to Aunty Ray and the teens circle around Tina. They popular with most, being the unofficial town mayor and de-facto class representative respectively, with folk of all ages coming by to greet them. Aunty Ray has had her role as long as I can remember, but Tina¡¯s is new on account of her being top boot in her group. Not surprising, as most folk have long since forgotten Aunty Ray was a Ranger too before she stepped back to raise her daughters, and my daddy taught Tina enough to stand out.


    As for me and Chrissy, we mostly popular with children and animals, so we stick to petting stray marties that come up to us on the street. Squatting down to greet our latest little friend, I watch with a smile as Chrissy strokes the fat, spotted fur noodle¡¯s chest, and the little guy responds by arching his back, lifting his arms, and squeaking in delight. Rhyzomarten is the official name Aunty Ray settled on for these lap-sized critters, with their cute, narrow faces and big old digging paws which give them a real wobbly, side to side gait. They spend most their days underground chasing after rodents and roots, so while they ain¡¯t exactly domesticated, they make for good pest control. Terrible pets though, as they got a mean streak in them, and will cause structural damage to the foundation of your home just for laughs. Still, if you willing to risk a bite or three, the friendlier ones¡¯ll tolerate the odd pet or pat, and maybe even give you a ¡®wahoo¡¯ if you find the right spot to scratch ¡®em.


    ¡°This friend got a name, Chrissy?¡± I ask, and she nods in the affirmative. Unable to resist, I stretch out to give his round belly a little poke. ¡°Well, let¡¯s hear it.¡± My finger barely brushes the marty¡¯s fur before his happy smile turns into a feral snarl, and I snatch my hand back just in time as he chomps down hard on the space my finger just vacated.


    ¡°Bitey,¡± Chrissy unhelpfully supplies, as all them marties be bitey. Or Chompy, or Nibbles, or some other variation. Unless you Chrissy of course, who goes right on stroking Bitey¡¯s soft fur while he waddles sideways to put her between us. Never got the stink eye from no marty before, but there¡¯s a first for everything.


    Much as I¡¯d like our little night on the town to last forever, there comes a time when there¡¯s nothing left to do but face the music. Once our ice cream is eaten and the hour grown late, we head back home where Aunty Ray sends Tina and Chrissy inside to wash up while me and her have a chat out on the porch. Was a time when she¡¯d hoist a glass with my daddy out here most nights, and I remember trying to sneak out to join them. Now that I¡¯m out here in the hotseat though, I¡¯d much rather be young again and tucked into bed, but Aunty Ray ain¡¯t having none of it. ¡°Give¡¯r here,¡± she says, glass of wine in one hand and the other held out in demand as she sits on the bench Uncle Raleigh built. Lifting the strap and medallion both off my hat, I hand it over and lean back against the porch railing to wait in silence as she watches the whole recording from start to finish.


    Takes two Spell Cores to make a proper recording, namely Record Audio and Record Video. That¡¯s the working name of those Second Order Divination Spells, which typically transcribe said recordings from the caster¡¯s point of view into memory. They¡¯re fairly common Spell Cores, as it¡¯s how Proggies view events from the eyes of their Abby spawn. Let¡¯s them rip the memories right out of their heads with little more than a thought, which is easier than making an Abby smart enough to investigate and communicate.


    Using the Spell Cores is a mite trickier, as they ain¡¯t attached to a brain that can store or view the recordings. With a Bolt Spell Core, it¡¯s simple, as the Bolt emerges from the pointed end of the Core and travels in a straight line, but not all Cores at that simple to make use of. Some require a bit of arcana tech to act as an interface, like Record Audio and Record Video, which needs to know what to record and where to store it, and other such specifics. That¡¯s why the back of my bull¡¯s head medallion is all wired up like it is, connecting the two tiny Spell Cores nestled in the hollow interior to the doodads which facilitate their combined operation laying flat on the back surface. There are proper names for those doodads, but long story short, they let me start recording with a simple touch of the medallion, and ends it the same way. It records everything from the medallion¡¯s point of view, and can pick up any nearby audio with about as much range as the average human ear, all of which is transcribed onto the attached memory crystal, which can hold up to twenty-four hours of recordings and be hot-swapped once full.


    Had it rolling for most of my stay in Pleasant Dunes, as a precautionary measure should the shooting start. When I got back in town earlier today, Marshal Ellis made a copy and watched the recording using a video player device, some piece of arcana tech similar to the Silent Image projector on my wagon, only with a Major Illusion Spell Core instead. That¡¯s a Third Order Spell Core, which is a rare find here on the Frontier, and will remain so until after the Watershed. That makes it expensive, and while televisions are pure arcana-tech that can do the job without any need for Spell Cores, they¡¯re too delicate, complex, and quite frankly, impractical to produce in any large numbers without factory automation. Means it¡¯s difficult to watch recordings made by my bull¡¯s head medallion, or at least that¡¯s how it is for most.


    Not for Aunty Ray though. She don¡¯t need nothing besides the crystal to watch the recordings on them. Her Innate bloodline favours Enchantment and Illusion Spells, and her familiarity with both allow her to access the recordings directly through sheer force of arcana. Don¡¯t know the specifics of how she does it, but as I stand here twiddling my thumbs, she accesses the recordings inside the storage crystal directly with her mind and watches five hours of footage at the speed of thought. Same way Proggies view Abby memories I suspect, which is much more convenient than letting it play out in real time like the Marshal did. Course, he skipped through all the boring bits, which means he missed some things, but not Aunty Ray. No, she takes it all in, every awkward glance, nervous chuckle, and everything else in between. Makes me real glad that the recordings don¡¯t store thoughts or emotions, else I¡¯d really be in a pickle, one of my own devising. Last thing I need is for her to know what I¡¯m feeling while watching miss Laura walk away, or worse, when we was having our little heart to heart afterwards.


    Or any of the other inappropriate thoughts I may have had during the whole recording session. Don¡¯t know how many there were, but most certainly a lot.


    ¡°Alright, let¡¯s start from the top,¡± Aunty Ray says, after all of ten seconds later. Holding the medallion out in the palm of her hand, she waggles her fingers, mutters a chant, and projects an Illusion from the recording crystal in the air above the palm of her hand. Major Illusion, same Third Order Spell as what the Major¡¯s video player device uses, except Aunty Ray casts it manually instead of relying on a Spell Core and arcana-tech. All of a sudden, I¡¯m looking at an image of the door to the Sherrif¡¯s office in Pleasant Dunes, except rather than being a life-sized recreation, it¡¯s more like I¡¯m looking through a window into my own past.


    You wouldn¡¯t know it from how casually Aunty Ray does it, but this here is a mind-boggling feat of magical mastery. She¡¯s not simply projecting what¡¯s on the recordings, she is watching it and using an Illusion Spell to recreate everything she sees in real time. It¡¯s like speed painting a video as it plays out, with images so realistic it¡¯s like I¡¯m really there. My meagre attempt at Illusions never look quite right, with eyes unevenly spaced or shadows too uniformly shaded, but Aunty Ray is a master of her craft and makes this look easy. The Illusion shifts and I watch myself open the door to the Sherrif¡¯s office, as Aunty Ray wants us to walk through the fight together. ¡°No readied Spell?¡± she asks, her eyes fixated on the illusion and tone distant. Almost distracted even, which is understandable considering what she¡¯s doing requires a fair bit of concentration.


    ¡°No,¡± I reply. ¡°Had to prep and dismiss two Big Spells already. Add in my regular suite of prep Spells, and I was running low on juice.¡±


    ¡°Gotta manage your resources better, Howie.¡± There¡¯s no heat in the reprimand, only disappointment, because she knows my daddy taught me better. ¡°Wasn¡¯t no pressing need to wash up the moment you was in town, especially not with magic.¡± Yea, that¡¯s on me. I should¡¯ve held my first Big Spell instead of squandering it and re-casting it just so I could be free of sand. I don¡¯t make no excuses though, and she continues, ¡°You clocked the bars over the front windows. Why didn¡¯t you check the sides? There¡¯s an open window on the right. Could¡¯ve sent a Mage Hand with a dubsie over and lined the barrels up through the bars for an easy shot once you were inside.¡±


    Darn it. I missed that, but I can¡¯t keep quiet no more. ¡°Well,¡± I drawl, trying to come up with a better excuse and failing miserably. ¡°I uh, didn¡¯t know the Sherrif and his boys were my targets going in.¡±


    That earns me her full attention, those big blues going wide with surprise and consternation. ¡°Oh Howie,¡± she says, and that¡¯s all it takes to fill me with shame, because the tone says it all. Distress and dissatisfaction, because she thought better of me. Shaking her head with a sigh, she abandons the rest of what she was going to say and lets the scene play out until I drop the papers next to the Sherrif¡¯s desk. ¡°Right here,¡± she says, holding it up to show me bent over and facing the ground. ¡°You could¡¯ve stalled a few seconds longer to cast a Spell. You carrying Fog Cloud?¡±


    Ain¡¯t a good feeling when you given answers you should¡¯ve figured out for yourself. ¡°Aw darn. Yea. Yea I was. Still am. Just didn¡¯t think to use it. Could¡¯ve dropped one in front of the Sherrif¡¯s desk, isolate me and him from the rest.¡±


    ¡°Better option is dropping it on the far side of the room, covering the two deputies and Vicente. Then they¡¯d all be looking the wrong direction when you come back up with the Rattlesnake.¡± Even with all the answers handed to me, I still manage to mess things up, but Aunty Ray don¡¯t make things hard on me as she continues, ¡°That¡¯s good shooting with the Sheriff and the first two bodies. Cover the other two with fog, and they either shoot blind, hunker down, or come out guns blazing. Leaves you with the upper hand instead of getting shot while hiding behind a flimsy desk and needing Cowie to come save your bacon. Keeps the front door intact too, in case any townies were feeling brave, not to mention how a closed door can deny line of sight for Spellslingin¡¯.¡± Heaving another small sigh, she dismisses her Illusion, takes a sip of her wine, and studies me with her big blue eyes a moment more before deciding to say just a little more. ¡°Remember, it ain¡¯t always about slingin¡¯ big Spells. Proper information and battlefield control wins more fights with less blood spilled.¡±


    Something my daddy used to tell me all the time, albeit paraphrased to sound better. ¡®Have plan to win fight before drawing gun.¡¯ He said it a lot better in Qin. ¡®Victorious warriors win first and then go to war. Defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win.¡¯


    Got me feeling lower than a snake¡¯s belly, and probably look like it too, because Aunty Ray tries to cheer me up. ¡°You did good for your first bounty.¡± Not first kills, because we both know they wasn¡¯t, but this was the first time I walked into a room meaning to kill a man, much less five. ¡°How you feeling about it?¡±


    ¡°Justified,¡± I reply, and the answer only makes her sadder, because she can feel the truth in my tone and the anger burning hot in my chest. ¡°They was monsters Aunty Ray. You clock the girl coming out of the office? Ain¡¯t no dead haunting me, but her eyes¡­¡±


    Didn¡¯t have a chance to see her again before I left. Hope she doing better now, but somehow, I doubt it.


    ¡°You ain¡¯t wrong.¡± Patting the bench beside her, Aunty Ray waits as I reluctantly sit down beside her. Hate feeling so awkward around her, both embarrassed and afraid, but she keeps her hands to herself, one on her glass and the other wrapped around her torso tight. Warding against the night¡¯s chill maybe, or just reminding herself to give me my space. ¡°Thing is,¡± she says, turning her concerned gaze towards me and driving my eyes down towards my knees, ¡°I¡¯m worried about what all this is doing to you. It ain¡¯t hardly been two years since you started riding out on your own, and look at you Howie. You all twisted up with anger and hate and Lord knows what else. Don¡¯t deny it. You went into that office spoiling for a fight, and just so happened to find outlaws instead of proper lawmen. That ain¡¯t all either. You¡¯ve gone from a sweet, smiling boy to a man who struggles to even pretend he¡¯s happy.¡± Her arm twitches before settling back down as Aunty Ray fights the urge to wrap me in a hug. ¡°It¡¯s plain as day that something bad happened somewhere along the way, something you don¡¯t wanna talk about.¡± Before I can deny it, she forges on by giving me a gentle nudge of her shoulder before drawing back. ¡°I ain¡¯t gonna push you, but I do think you should talk about it. With someone, anyone, and you should know we¡¯re all here for you no matter what.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡± It shouldn¡¯t be so difficult just to lean over and ask for a hug, but I can¡¯t do it. She¡¯s right. I¡¯m all twisted up inside and can figure out what¡¯s what, or even find the words to describe it. ¡°Always knew the Frontier could be real ugly,¡± I say, staring at the two moons sitting up in the starry night¡¯s sky. ¡°Just¡­ I dunno. Felt better and safer when my daddy was around.¡±


    That does it. There¡¯s no holding Aunty Ray back no more as she wraps me in a big, warm hug, and I hate how I go tense and pull away before I get my mind right and hug her back. ¡°Sorry,¡± I croak, but she just shakes her head and hugs me tighter.


    When she finally pulls away, Aunty Ray wipes away her tears and takes a deep breath. ¡°That¡¯s another thing I wanted to talk to you about.¡± Turning so she can look me head on, she chews her lip a moment before saying, ¡°I talked to Marshal Ellis, and I agree with what he saying. I don¡¯t think you should head out again.¡± Holding up a hand to keep me from arguing, she gives me a pleading look. ¡°Not because you can¡¯t handle yourself, though you gotta admit you got some rough edges which need smoothing.¡± True, but ain¡¯t nothing gonna get fix by sitting around. ¡°I just think you could use a break,¡± she says, reaching up to smooth my hair before thinking better of it, and I hate how I¡¯ve made her second guess her every move around me. ¡°A little R&R after a tough fight and a big win.¡±


    ¡°Just spent all winter sitting around.¡± The words slip out as soon as I get a chance, before I¡¯ve had time to think. ¡°Now¡¯s the best time for earning. I¡¯m dead set on headin¡¯ north to hit up the Metis forts along the Muskari Steppes. Proper trade caravans won¡¯t be underway for another week just yet, and I can make bank at every settlement I reach before they do. Won¡¯t be another six large, probably not even one, but I could turn a tidy profit for sure.¡±


    Giving me a look that says she ain¡¯t picking up what I¡¯m putting down, Aunty Ray gives me a mischievous smile. ¡°Right. Lemme guess. You was thinking that after you hit up them forts, you¡¯d ¡®coincidentally¡¯ drop by Pleasant Dunes on your way home, even though it ain¡¯t along the way at all.¡±


    She got me, but to be fair, I ain¡¯t great at being sneaky. Lowering my voice to a bare whisper, I say, ¡°You know it ain¡¯t right for the Marshal to cut me out. I brought word of the Proggie, so I should at least get a shot at tracking it down.¡± That¡¯s how it¡¯s supposed to work. Ain¡¯t right taking a man¡¯s information and not giving him a chance to earn a share of the profits.


    Aunty Ray already shaking her head though, clearly not in agreement. ¡°You ain¡¯t even close to ready to venture down into no Abby burrow,¡± she says, and there¡¯s a steel there that ain¡¯t often used. ¡°Don¡¯t you even think about trying it. First time your daddy went down under dark, he had a full squad of experienced close-quarter specialists to watch his back, and he still almost didn¡¯t make it back in one piece.¡± I never knew that, and Aunty Ray knows she slipped up, but she don¡¯t let that slow her none. ¡°I¡¯m serious Howie. I know you in a rush to fill your daddy¡¯s shoes, but he didn¡¯t learn everything overnight, and he certainly didn¡¯t go at it alone. He had the Rangers backing him every step of the way.¡±


    ¡°Yea, well the Rangers left him high and dry at the end, didn¡¯t they?¡± There¡¯s something wrong with me today, saying all these things to hurt the people I care about, but the words just spill out in an eruption of anger and frustration. Meeting Aunty Ray¡¯s tear-filled eyes with mine, I fight back tears of my own and say, ¡°Ain¡¯t no two ways about it, and you know that¡¯s true.¡±


    ¡°I know, Howie.¡± Aunty Ray reaches out for another hug, but I can¡¯t, so I stand up and stalk away before turning right back around, unable to just leave like this. Instead, I just pace about, keeping my steps quiet as can be even though I¡¯d like nothing more than to stomp all my anger out as Aunty Ray tries to soothe my temper. ¡°But you know just as well as I do that there was nothing Marshal Ellis could¡¯ve done, and it tore him up inside.¡±


    ¡°Yea, but them Feds didn¡¯t just do nothing, did they?¡± Turning to glare daggers towards the east, I grit my teeth and try to keep myself from shouting. ¡°I get it. I understand why their hands were tied. Qin Vanguards gunned my daddy down in cold blood, and I killed the ones who done it.¡± Not quick enough to matter, or slow enough to satisfy, but dead is dead. ¡°All neat and tidy, except you know them Vanguards was acting on orders, and the person who gave those orders is still out there. I got a good inkling who it is too, except the Rangers can¡¯t investigate no Qin official on charges of murder. Got no jurisdiction, and trying to strong-arm their way into a Qin settlement would¡¯ve opened up a whole can of worms, maybe even started a war that no one wants. The repercussions were bigger than one man, even my daddy, and I see that, but didn¡¯t no one come out and say that, did they?!¡±


    Gripping the railing tight, I force myself to breathe out before continuing. ¡°Some Federation suit living large on the west coast writes me a letter instead. Says he¡¯s real sorry about what happened to my daddy, but it ain¡¯t a problem for the Rangers or the United Federation of American States. Why not? Well because my daddy¡¯s not American, which means he never was and never could be an American Ranger. That¡¯s what the letter said. That he wasn¡¯t a Ranger, just a Qin national working as an auxiliary, meaning his murder was a matter for the Qin to investigate.¡±


    Aunty Ray stays real quiet, and I know she crying too, because she don¡¯t think it was fair either. My daddy might not¡¯ve been American, but he bled for America, fought and killed for the safety of Federation citizens and settlements on the Frontier. My earliest memories ain¡¯t of spending time with him. They¡¯re of standing up on the walls of New Hope, waiting for him to come home. Fourteen years, he rode with the Rangers, running point in every Abby burrow along a three-hundred kilometre stretch of land. For nothing besides base Ranger pay and the honour of wearing that star on his chest, mind you. Could¡¯ve made bank as a freelancer, taken a cut of the spoils in Aether, Aberrtin, and Spell Cores, but he didn¡¯t, because he believed in the work they was doing, in the vision Marshal Ellis and the Rangers presented as the future of the Frontier. My daddy was a Ranger through and through, right up until the day he died and some suit who never met him decided it wasn¡¯t convenient to call him a Ranger no more.


    It''d always been my dream to be a Ranger, but after my daddy died and I got that letter, I took a good look at my papers. Turns out, I ain¡¯t American neither. Under nationality, my papers say ¡®Frontier born¡¯, unlike Tina¡¯s which say ¡®American¡¯. Marshal Ellis¡¯ way of keeping me free and clear of Qin citizenship, which comes with more restrictions and obligations than anything else, but that¡¯s all he could do. Aunty Ray could¡¯ve adopted me after my daddy died, offered to even, except by then, I didn¡¯t want to be American any more. Why would I? I¡¯ll fight and bleed for New Hope and the Frontier just like my daddy did, but not for the Federation, and never as an American Ranger.


    Because I ain¡¯t American, but I ain¡¯t Qinese either. Nah, I¡¯m Frontier born and proud of it.

 Chapter 9

    Though I¡¯ve said all I mean to say, I spend another good hour out on the porch with Aunty Ray.


    Wouldn¡¯t be right to storm off in a huff and leave her alone after opening up old wounds. My daddy was like a brother to her, and she was madder than a wet hen when that letter came in. Went off on the Marshal she did, brought it up to anyone who would listen in hopes of getting my daddy reinstated, but Ranger High Command wouldn¡¯t budge on the issue. Said it was nothing personal, even though it couldn¡¯t get any more personal than my daddy¡¯s legacy. With nothing left for it, all we could do was swallow our anger and move on, except I never been any good at that. She let go, while I held on, and now I got all this anger with no one to direct it to except the man I think might¡¯ve ordered my daddy¡¯s death.


    Not a lot to hate a man for, especially considering I ain¡¯t ever been able to look him in the eye and ask if it was him, as I ain¡¯t got no way to reach that particular snake in the grass. No chance the Qin¡¯ll ever let me waltz into one of their settlements without greeting me with a Bolt, and even if they did, they wouldn¡¯t answer any questions about one of their highest-ranking officers. Told the Marshal that the Qin got no love lost for a ¡®traitorous son¡¯ like me, and it¡¯s true. They¡¯d see me as a disgrace who¡¯s gone native and forsaken the Republic and all its culture and customs. Their words, not mine, as I ain¡¯t got nothing against the Qin in general. I ain¡¯t got much love for them neither, I¡¯ll say that much. It¡¯s mostly that I don¡¯t agree with how their commie government brainwashed my daddy and all his fellow child settlers before shipping them off to the Frontier. Thing is, most Chosen Son¡¯s and Daughter¡¯s of the Republic feel ¡®honoured¡¯ to have a place among the Qin Vanguard, and questioning the decisions of their glorious leaders is same as spitting in their eye.


    After swapping a few stories of the good old days, me and Aunty Ray agree to talk some more about my chosen profession another time, which is polite talk for agreeing to disagree. She still wants me to take it easy and hang around New Hope, but I ain¡¯t willing to sit around for ten months for nothing. No guarantee going through Ranger boot camp will do anything to ease her worries, and I refuse to keep sponging off her now that I¡¯m a man grown. She got her own troubles, ones I never paid much mind to until after my daddy passed and she was left on her lonesome. Though she would never see it as such, taking care of Chrissy is a full-time job, which Aunty Ray¡¯s gotta juggle on top of her unofficial mayoral duties. That don¡¯t pay squat, and while wallaby wool fetches a decent enough price, our herd of twelve ain¡¯t hardly enough to support a family of four. So at the tender age of fourteen, I figured it was long past time I started chipping in, so that¡¯s what I did. Helped that I already had a rep for doing odd jobs around town, except now I expected to be paid. Also hunted whatever Abby I could find around the outskirts of town, though there were slim pickings thanks to constant Ranger and townie patrols. Took more than a year of saving up and big Abby windfall before I had enough to fill my daddy¡¯s wagon with cargo, which I then drove up to the Emerald Plains to sell for a pretty profit.


    From there, it pretty much snowballed to where I am now, though the margins ain¡¯t worth it outside a few weeks after spring. Not for short trips like mine, which means either going further and taking more risks or spending months hunting Abby and honing my craft as best I can. This bounty was a big win though, and I slipped three grand into Aunty Ray¡¯s safe which should see us through to the end of the year and most of next. That¡¯s assuming inflation don¡¯t get too out of hand, but even if it don¡¯t, I can¡¯t afford to rest on my laurels. Gotta keep earning, because like I told miss Laura, life is about more than just surviving. I want new and better gear, while Aunty Ray, Tina, and Chrissy deserve all the nicer things in life, like dresses, salon trips, and anything else their hearts might desire.


    I ain¡¯t ever mentioned it though, because I know Aunty Ray already blames herself and thinks she¡¯s been a poor provider on top of everything else. Was a time when she and Uncle Raleigh were set to become the wealthiest family in town, thanks to her ability to tame and train the local horses and the general high demand for them. Wasn¡¯t joking when I said she taught Cowie his manners, because she¡¯s got an Enchantment Spell which lets her pretty much talk to animals. Not in so many words, but she can convey her intent and emotions better than any non-verbal communication ever could, meaning her horses learned real quick and real good. Everyone this side of the Frontier wanted a horse trained by her and were willing to pay top dollar for it, right up until she gave up the whole business after Uncle Raleigh¡¯s death.


    Sometimes, I think fates got a twisted sense of humour when it comes to humanity. Uncle Raleigh was an experienced Ranger and powerful Innate Spellcaster who weathered Aberration attacks, cleared countless Proggy burrows, and survived delves deep into the Divide. Captain Raleigh Walker he was, loved by most folk and feared by outlaws, a man who smiled at adversity and laughed in the face of death, only to be done in by a rodent¡¯s burrow hidden in the tall, bone-white grass. Horse broke its leg, Uncle Raleigh broke his neck, and the Frontier became a whole lot gloomier without his smile to brighten things up. That¡¯s one thing my daddy could never do, make the mood as cheerful as Uncle Raleigh did, so I try to smile as much as he did to make up for the loss.


    Ain¡¯t enough, but better than nothing.


    That said, I would never fault Aunty Ray for her decisions, and don¡¯t think anyone should, but she¡¯s harder on herself than anyone ought to be. She thinks she¡¯s failed me and her kids, when nothing could be ever further from the truth. I ain¡¯t out there risking my life because she¡¯s a poor provider, or because she gave up horse training to sorta domesticate rhyzo-martens to decimate the local rodent population. I do it because it¡¯s what I want to do, what I need to do in order to live up the man my daddy wanted me to be, but also because she¡¯s family and she deserves better. Ain¡¯t nothing I can do to keep her from fretting except get better at what I do so she can rest easy when I¡¯m out and about. That¡¯s why I spend another hour slinging Spells for practice until I can¡¯t cast no more before heading off to bed.


    Feels like I just closed my eyes when Cowie¡¯s wet lips on my cheek startles me awake. Pushing his head away, I let out a groan telling him still too early in the day and try to go back to sleep. Undeterred by my rejection, he lifts his front legs onto the bed and I roll aside to let him up, but even that ain¡¯t enough to buy me any peace. Rather than settle in for a snooze, he lets out frustrated huff and repeatedly presses down with his legs, bouncing me atop my mattress until the heavy haze of blissful sleep is nothing but a memory. ¡°Alright, hold your horses,¡± I say, giving him my best glare, but it don¡¯t faze him one bit, because Cowie¡¯s accomplished the mission given to him by his favourite person in the whole wide world, who¡¯s kneeling by the bed beside him. ¡°Oh. Morning Princess.¡±


    ¡°Morning Howie.¡± Head titled to one side and resting on her arms folded atop my mattress, Chrissy watches me with her guileless, lilac eyes, her expression as neutral as ever and radiating a voiceless tone of discontent. Reaching out ever so gently, she brushes her long, slender finger over the dressing of my Bolt wound and asks, ¡°Hurt?¡±


    Ah, fudge nuggets. This is what I get for sleeping without a shirt. ¡°Nah,¡± I say, giving her head a little pat. ¡°Just a little accident is all. Ain¡¯t nothing for you to worry about.¡± Can¡¯t lie and say it was nothing, because she¡¯d read me like a book, but I don¡¯t want to straight up tell her I was shot either. Especially since it barely counts. Sure, I was injured, and yes, it was a gun that did it, but calling it a gunshot wound is giving it too much credit. Even though the Tec-LS is armour piercing, it don¡¯t hit that hard to start with, which means after punching through a desk, my Shield, my duster, and my Mage Armour Spell, the mark left by the Bolt was barely more than a scrape. Didn¡¯t even remember I¡¯d been shot until my wagon was clear out of town, and it wasn¡¯t because of the adrenaline neither. Been hurt worse playing around home, and that there is a fact, so ain¡¯t no reason for anyone to worry, especially not sweet Chrissy.


    Speaking of which¡­ ¡°Not that I don¡¯t love you with all my heart Princess,¡± I begin, giving the amethyst crystal on her forehead a light little poke, mostly just to make sure it ain¡¯t grown bigger than my fingertip, ¡°But you got a specific reason for visiting?¡± She ain¡¯t supposed to be wandering around alone, and especially not into any man¡¯s bedroom, even mine.


    ¡°Tina told me to tell you.¡± Eyes locked on my bandages, Chrissy¡¯s voice takes on a more active tone as she repeats her sister¡¯s message verbatim, so lively it¡¯s as if she¡¯s become another person. ¡°Ye got guests, lazybones, so get up and git at it. Oh, and make breakfast while you at it too. Chrissy wants you to cook.¡±


    The last bit is probably true too, though I wouldn¡¯t mind it even if Tina was slacking. Girl works hard enough in boot camp, so she deserves a little break, and its not like I don¡¯t love cooking for Chrissy. ¡°Guests? You know who?¡± She shakes her head, which leaves me scratching mine, because I¡¯ve no earthly idea why strangers would come calling so early in the morning. My brain says too early, and the clock on my wall confirms it by telling me it¡¯s 5 to 7, which means its at least two hours before I reach my required eight hours of sleep. I ain¡¯t no boot, and I ain¡¯t no farmer neither, so I¡¯ll wake when the sun is done rising up outta the North, and not a moment before. ¡°Thank you Princess,¡± I say, giving her nose a little tweak and hoping there come a day when she sounds so animated all the time. ¡°Message received. Could you please step outside and wait while I get decent? Out of the room, I mean, not the house.¡± Takes me a few more tries and several more assurances before she agrees to get up and get out, and I think it¡¯s because she knows I got shot. We try to keep things quiet if it might upset her, but she¡¯s more perceptive than most give credit, not to mention she got a way with magic that I can¡¯t even begin to comprehend. For all I know, she can see some sort of lingering residual fingerprint from the Bolt which struck me, though that¡¯s a little farfetched. A single Bolt don¡¯t leave much of an imprint to a Detect Magic Spell, and certainly not one that¡¯ll linger for a whole week.


    Not wanting to be rude and keep my callers waiting, I throw on a pair of loose linen pants and a plain white tee as quick as I can. Then I throw on my gun belt and grab my Rattlesnake from the gun safe just in case before opening the door to greet my guests, only to find no one waiting outside. Leaning out for a peek, I see two strangers waiting on Aunty Ray¡¯s porch, showing more of Tina¡¯s poor manners. Both young, but tall, one a black man and the other a white woman, both standing with heads closer together and in a more intimate fashion than any unmarried couple should, with his arm around her waist and her hand in his back pocket. Not that I¡¯m one to judge, just making an observation, and I duck back inside before they can catch me staring. Figure I might as well head over and talk with them there, seeing how I ain¡¯t got anything to offer them at home, and Chrissy still needs to eat. Stuffing my bare feet into my sandals, I look around and ask, ¡°Did you walk over here without any shoes, Princess?¡±


    Looking up from her seat on the floor where she¡¯s cuddling Cowie, Chrissy takes a full second to think about it before nodding emphatically. After another long moment¡¯s thought, she raises both her arms towards me and tilts her head before very slowly asking, ¡°Carry?¡±


    Silly girl. Probably didn¡¯t even notice she was barefoot on the way over, but now that I¡¯ve pointed it out, she doesn¡¯t want to walk back. So much so that it took her a lot of effort to ask without voicing it as a Command, so I head on over and pick her up without so much as a thought. ¡°Happy to do it, Princess,¡± I say, though it takes a bit of straining to keep my smile on my face. I would never call her hefty, but Chrissy is every bit as tall and healthy as Tina, while I¡¯m more of the lean and compact type. It ain¡¯t difficult to carry her, but it ain¡¯t easy either, nor is it helped by the fact that I have a perfectly able Cowie who could carry us both, except he¡¯d rather amble alongside as a baby, fluttering his little black ears all the while.


    Love ain¡¯t easy, but nothing worth having ever is.


    Thankfully Aunty Ray¡¯s front door ain¡¯t far and I make it up the steps before I tear a stitch. ¡°Howdy there,¡± I say, and the lovely couple are so lost in their own world, the girl literally jumps at the sound of my voice, pulling away from her man like she been caught doing wrong. Pretending not to notice, I continue, ¡°I¡¯m Howie. I¡¯m guessing you two are the prospects Tina told me about?¡± Not that she did, nor did she mention that they¡¯d be showing up first thing in the morning. Ain¡¯t outta malice or mischief, just typical Tina forgetfulness, which is probably why she sent Chrissy to wake me instead of doing it herself.


    ¡°That we are,¡± the girl replies, a tall, dark brunette built even healthier than Tina, though she got a sharper, more angular look to her face, accentuated by how she wears her long, straight hair pulled back in a high pony tail. Lovely gal, with Eastern European roots would be my guess, but she got the same American drawl as me, and looks mighty shook as she stands at full attention and smooths her clothes back in place. ¡°Name¡¯s Sarah Jay,¡± she says, before gesturing at her beau, ¡°And this here is Errol.¡± Errol raises his chin a bit to greet me, but says nothing with no smile as he stands there all puffed up and tough, head held high but tilted down because he wouldn¡¯t be able to look at me otherwise. Man must be six feet tall, or if not close to it, which on paper ain¡¯t all that far from my five foot eight, but in practice feels worlds apart.


    We all eat the same food, so why¡¯s everyone growing so much more than I am?


    So distracted by my internal voice mumbling about how I still got time to catch up, I almost reach out to shake their hands before I remember I¡¯m still carrying Chrissy. Giving a little rueful grin and a shake of my head, I say, ¡°Pleasure to meet you both, and sorry for making you wait. How about we head inside and talk there?¡± Without waiting for an answer because my biceps are starting to burn, I turn towards the door and say, ¡°Chrissy, be a dear and get the door for me?¡±


    Curled up in my arms with her head resting on my shoulder, Chrissy shakes her head and clings on tight. Spoiled girl. As Sarah Jay reaches for the door, I move to get in the way and say, ¡°Thank you, but it¡¯s Spelled. Give you a nasty shock after a few seconds unless you¡¯re me or one of the household.¡± Can¡¯t use keys since Chrissy likes to wander in and out as she pleases, and will sit and wait for hours if the door don¡¯t open on the first try. ¡°Chrissy, please open the door. If you don¡¯t, I¡¯d have to let you down anyways so I can open it myself, and then you¡¯d get your feet all dusty standing here on the porch.¡±


    That does the trick, and as she begrudgingly reaches for the handle, Sarah Jay gives me a good-natured smile. Not one them knowing smiles I hate so much, or the sympathetic smiles Chrissy so often gets. Ain¡¯t a big smile neither, but plenty sweet, and her heartfelt amusement conveys her understanding of what it means to be the older sibling. Shows in her bearing, straight as an arrow and shoulders squared, with her feet lined up perfectly underneath, and the way she presents herself, all prim and proper without a button or hair out of place. With her blue, short-sleeved tunic, dark leather vest, and tough wrangler jeans, all she¡¯s missing is a hat, gun, and badge to mark her as the very model of the perfect boot standing at ease, fresh out of Basic and eager to please. While she don¡¯t go so far as to put both hands behind her back, that¡¯s only because she got one hand in Errol¡¯s and the other holding the strap of a neatly packed shoulder bag. Usually takes more than two months of training for all that to become second nature, but she took to army life like a fish takes to water. Probably because she¡¯s used to being the responsible one, the one her parents point at and say, ¡°Be more like Sarah Jay.¡±


    I already like her, so even though my initial impression of Errol ain¡¯t all that great, it makes me think there must be something good about him if Sarah Jay likes him. Well, apart from his strikingly handsome face, which I gotta admit is mighty fetching and masculine, his strong jaw clean-shaven and rich skin smooth as a baby¡¯s behind. He¡¯s a good-looking man who fills out his Ranger-issue off-white army jacket well, though his ruffled plaid shirt has seen better days and could do with a touch of Mending. The matching army cap which no Ranger ever actually wears sits atop his head, angled stylishly to show off his closely trimmed curls, and his heavy boots are Ranger-issue too. The laces ain¡¯t done up right or tight, and his lumpy shoulder bag looks like he just stuffed everything he had into it, which don¡¯t earn him any points. There¡¯s no gun on his belt, nor oversized knife neither, but he¡¯s got a loop of good rope there that tells me he¡¯s worked with livestock. Horses I bet, because he seems a little offput by baby Cowie sniffing at his wranglers, though he tries not to show it.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Most folk ain¡¯t too comfortable around a beast that can grow eight to sixteen times its size in a pinch, and I can¡¯t say I blame them.


    ¡°Kick them shoes off and have a seat at the table,¡± I say, doing just that before making a bee-line to the bathroom with Chrissy still nestled in my arms. ¡°Y¡¯all hungry? Because me and Chrissy ain¡¯t had breakfast yet, and cooking for four is easy as cooking for two.¡±


    ¡°No need to bother.¡±


    ¡°I could eat.¡±


    Sarah Jay¡¯s polite refusal comes at the same time as Errol¡¯s less than enthusiastic acceptance, and I save him from what I assume is an awkward glare by saying, ¡°Great! Gimme a sec to wash my hands and I¡¯ll cook us up some grub.¡± Before that though, I run a wet cloth over Chrissy¡¯s feet, because otherwise she¡¯d track dirt and dust all around the house. She deflates a little when I put her down to do so, but perks up after I wash my hands and carry her back to the kitchen before setting her down in her chair. That¡¯s enough to keep her content for now, so she turns in her chair to look out the window while Cowie settles in by her feet. Not because there¡¯s anything interesting there, but because she doesn¡¯t like looking at strangers.


    Probably because she¡¯s shy, but can¡¯t say for certain why. Happens with everyone really, and takes a lot of time before she¡¯ll look someone new in the eyes.


    ¡°Before we get into why we all here,¡± I say, while rummaging through the Freeze-box to see what we have and waiting for the wood stove to heat up, ¡°I was thinking we ought to get to know one another first. Now, Sarah Jay, your name sounds familiar, but I can¡¯t quite place why.¡± Don¡¯t recognize her face though, and I would remember one as pretty as hers. Striking even, as her features are harsher and more distinctive than Chrissy¡¯s round, soft features. Sarah Jay¡¯s nose has got that prominent bridge that gives away her family history, and the lack of baby fat on her face makes her high cheekbones stick out that much more. Add in a strong jaw and piercing dark eyes, and it all comes together in a mighty fine package, one so full-figured and fit that athletic don¡¯t even begin to cover it. Ain¡¯t no denying she a gorgeous gal, just in an entirely different way from what I¡¯m used to. Tina¡¯s got a garden flower sorta beauty, like a soft and lovely dahlia, while Sarah Jay is a rugged flowering vine hanging off a rocky cliffside.


    Whereas Aunty Ray is a rose, lovely and sweet as can be while hiding sharp thorns underneath.


    ¡­I really ought to stop comparing every pretty girl I see to Tina and Aunty Ray. Even if I ain¡¯t actually related to them, it still can¡¯t be healthy now, can it?


    ¡°You know her name cause she took first place in the long-range shooting competition. Beat out a bunch of old-timers to do it.¡±


    Proud and supportive. That¡¯s what I get from Errol¡¯s tone and gaze as Sarah Jay squirms in her seat, too self-conscious to toot her own horn but happy to hear him say it. Slapping down a bundle of chives on the cutting board, I give Sarah Jay appraising look that ain¡¯t got nothing to do with her beauty. ¡°Oh? How far the finals get this year?¡±


    Typically, the long-range shooting competition starts with targets at half a klick and move out a hundred meters with each round. Usually gets settled within three or four but Errol gives a big, toothy grin without taking his eyes off of Sarah Jay. ¡°A full kilometre. She hit three targets at that range, each one no bigger than a fist. Other shooter missed all his shots.¡±


    Now that is impressive, and I let out a whistle while dicing up the chives. ¡°That¡¯s some mighty fine shooting. I usually don¡¯t bother trying for anything over half a klick away, and even then it¡¯s a tricky thing.¡± A lot to account for at longer ranges, not just Bolt drop and wind speed, but also temperature, humidity, and curvature of the planet. ¡°You hit that with a 22?¡±


    ¡°Yea. My daddy¡¯s Taz98.¡±


    There¡¯s a hint of melancholy in Sarah Jay¡¯s voice though, one I know all too well, and the pieces fall into place. Looking up from the bowl of flour, chives, water and oil I been mixing up with my Mage Hands, I say, ¡°The Tasslehoff 98, a classic. Good gun and good shooting, but that ain¡¯t where I know you from.¡± I don¡¯t pay much attention to the yearly festival no more, especially not the long-range shooting competition. My daddy won twice before they stopped letting him compete, but to be fair, he only won after they stopped letting Ranger Sharpshooters take part.


    Feeling confident in my guess, I declare, ¡°You¡¯re James¡¯ girl, James Kowalski.¡± Sarah Jay¡¯s sad but proud nod confirms my guess, and I meet her eyes with the utmost sincerity. ¡°He was a good man. We worked on the church together, the Episcopalian one by the lake. I must¡¯ve been ten or eleven at most, so I wasn¡¯t much more than a gopher, but he took me under his wing and showed me what¡¯s what.¡± Instead of treating me like a nuisance like many others did, or yelling at me for getting things wrong. It don¡¯t seem like much, but that stuck with me. ¡°Your name sounds familiar because he used to go on and on about you while we was working, saying how he thought she was the oldest kid on the Frontier till he came to New Hope and I dashed all them hopes and dreams. You a January baby, right?¡±


    ¡°Twenty-seventh,¡± she confirms, and there¡¯s a familiar surge of pride in her demeanour as she beams with joy, so happy to hear about how much her father loved her. ¡°Lived here in New Hope for three years, but after he passed, Mama moved us across the lake to Riverrun.¡± Not my first choice of places to live, seeing how it¡¯s pretty much New Hope¡¯s manufacturing district and full of smoke, sawdust, and noise, but can¡¯t say I blame Sarah Jay¡¯s mama for wanting out. Ain¡¯t easy losing a loved one, and harder still when they¡¯re lost to violence right here in town. The way I remember it, James went down fighting to keep his family safe. No point saying it though, because it don¡¯t matter as much as you¡¯d think.


    Especially considering how Sarah Jay probably watched him die.


    With the fire burning bright, I grease the griddle and wait for it to get sizzling hot. ¡°How ¡®bout you Errol? You from round these parts?¡±


    ¡°Nah.¡± Errol¡¯s got a real soothing voice, deep and buttery while hitting all his consonants in a slow, laid-back tone. ¡°Come from a little place north of Ketchafeesh. Town doesn¡¯t even have a name, just a waystation along the river for boats headed to the lake or bay.¡±


    ¡°Long ways from New Hope. What you do there? Wrangle horses?¡±


    ¡°¡­Yea.¡±


    Errol¡¯s surprised by the guess so that¡¯s all he¡¯s got to say, but Sarah Jay jumps in to pick up the slack. ¡°He got a way with them he does, real gentle like. Seen him sweet talk a bucking bronco and get him eating out the palm of his hands in twenty minutes flat.¡±


    ¡°Spell?¡±


    ¡°Nah.¡± Errol shakes his head. ¡°Just know how to read ¡®em.¡±


    Not much of a conversationalist, but I don¡¯t suppose I can hold that against him. Unwilling to pull any teeth, I have a bit of chit chat with Sarah Jay while cooking breakfast, asking about stuff they¡¯d done and seen. Interesting thing is that they both staying in the travellers¡¯ lodge, which is odd considering Sarah Jay¡¯s family is just across the lake. Don¡¯t take much to hitch a ride back over to Riverrun considering how often ships make the trip, but I don¡¯t want to pry into her family situation. Errol is a bit standoffish, and also feels slightly threatened by how Sarah Jay seems a touch awestruck by me, but it ain¡¯t anything romantic. I remember that harpy attack just as much as she did, though I didn¡¯t lose anyone close. Was the first time they attacked, and I made a big mess of things by stepping out to help fight. I bagged me a few harpies, but then I almost got myself and Anita killed by drawing their attention before running into her grocery store. Luckily, our Prussian grocer is a formidable woman who keeps her Blastgun loaded and close to hand while working, but my daddy got real steamed about what I did. Made me help fix up the store and replaced all her windows with tinted, Aberrtin-reinforced glass, which cost him a pretty penny too.


    Started the trend of reinforced glass along the main thoroughfare though, one which persists to this day. Anita don¡¯t hold no grudges either, or at least I don¡¯t think she do. A good, dependable woman she is. I remember it like yesterday, her standing over me while reloading and telling my daddy to go on about his business, like it was just another day in the store instead of the most devasting attack to ever hit New Hope to date.


    As we settle in for a breakfast of savoury chive pancakes, hoggidilla sausages and bacon, plus leftover biscuits and fresh gravy, I say, ¡°Boneappletea.¡± My butchered French earns me a strange look from Errol and a smile from Sarah Jay, but as I move to tuck in, I stop short when they bow their heads to say grace. Ain¡¯t a fan of religion, but I ain¡¯t got nothing against it either, so I bow my head wait until they¡¯re done before I sip my chicory coffee and tell the story of how Sarah Jay¡¯s daddy tricked me into carving my name onto the church¡¯s central beam. Said it was a tradition for workers to put their name there, which got the priest right barking mad when he sees ¡®Howie¡¯ in big block letters, and the story gets a good chuckle out of all of us. Well, not Chrissy, but she feeling a bit blue this morning and snuggles up against my shoulder, so I feed her with my chopsticks and hope my cheeks don¡¯t turn too red from embarrassment. Love her to bits, but she usually behaves better in front of new company. Might be on account of the gunshot wound, but who knows. Errol don¡¯t win himself any points neither with all his nonverbal questions, ones I read off his face. Nothing I ain¡¯t used to seeing, such as, ¡°What¡¯s wrong with the Innate¡±, ¡°Is she dangerous¡±, and my least favourite of all, ¡°These two a couple?¡± Which I don¡¯t like for many reasons, but mostly because it¡¯s always asked with the implication that there¡¯s something wrong with me, or worse, there¡¯s something wrong with Chrissy.


    Ain¡¯t nothing wrong with her. She just different is all. Special.


    Though the dishes I¡¯ve cooked raises an eyebrow or two, Errol and Sarah Jay were born soon after the Advent and ain¡¯t all that fussed about what they eat. Likely both remember all too well how it is to do without, so they eat every last scrap with a hunger, even polite Sarah Jay. Once all the food is done and coffee finished, I settle in for some serious talk. Having Chrissy¡¯s head resting on my shoulder don¡¯t help sell the severity of the situation, but Sarah Jay picks up on it well enough, straightening up in her seat and elbowing Errol to cue him in on it too. ¡°Alright then,¡± I begin, meeting both their eyes and reading excitement in hers and suspicion in his. ¡°Let¡¯s get down to brass tacks. As Tina might¡¯ve mentioned, I¡¯m fixin¡¯ to put together a crew, and I figured I might as well start with people my age. You two the first prospects I¡¯ve talked to, so it¡¯s gonna be a learning experience for all of us, but there¡¯s one question I need answered before we can move on. Why¡¯d you washed out?¡± Errol scoffs and looks away, while Sarah Jay hesitates, which tells me I¡¯ll learn more hearing about it from him. ¡°Errol?¡±


    ¡°Got in a fight with a white boy and was drummed out the next day.¡± Curling his lip in a sneer, he meets my eyes in challenge as if daring me to argue against his next statement. ¡°Hardly surprising coming from a country founded by racist, slave-owning hillbillies.¡±


    ¡°Technically true,¡± I say, and because I ain¡¯t ever one to back down from a challenge, I add, ¡°Though to be fair, most every nation in existence at the time of the U.F.A¡¯s founding made use of slaves, and were probably also racist too.¡± Honestly, I think almost everyone¡¯s at least a little bit racist inside, though some obviously more than others. It don¡¯t make them bad people necessarily, like how it was with Carl and Vicente. Everyone scared of the unknown, so strangers who look and act different ticks all the right boxes for fear. ¡°That said,¡± I continue, wanting to needle Errol a bit to see how he¡¯ll react, ¡°Captain Jung certainly ain¡¯t no hillbilly, which ought to be obvious what with her being Goryeon-American and all.¡± Though I wouldn¡¯t go as far as to say she ain¡¯t got no prejudice, what with the island nation of Goryeo having been enslaved by the Qin right up until their Immortal Monarch kicked the bucket in 1945. A terrifying Evoker and stone-cold killer, she does not like me one bit, which is unsettling because most folk usually likes me a least a little, and I can usually deal with those who don¡¯t. ¡°Not to mention the fact that Marshal Ellis would never stand for a boot being discriminated against because of his race. Combined with the fact that I been in plenty of scraps myself and ain¡¯t never heard much about it, I gotta wonder if you ain¡¯t being just the slightest bit disingenuous about why you was washed out.¡± Errol looks away again, as if he expected my doubts, but I wait till he look me in the eyes again before I ask, ¡°How badly you beat this white boy?¡±


    Blink and I¡¯d have missed it, but a flash of guilt crosses Errol¡¯s face, which tells me the answer is ¡®real bad¡¯. ¡°Broke his arm and jaw. Knocked a few teeth loose.¡± Errol sniffs and runs his thumb quickly across his chin, a nervous tic of sorts. ¡°Threatened to do worse too.¡±


    Threat will do it. Shouldn¡¯t go around talking about how you gonna kill someone. You either do it or you don¡¯t. ¡°You pull a weapon on him? Gun, knife, bat, anything?¡±


    Errol shakes his head. ¡°No sir.¡±


    ¡°Sir? Don¡¯t call me sir. I ain¡¯t no officer. I work for a living.¡± Giving Errol a smile to lighten the mood a touch, I ask, ¡°I¡¯m guessing the fight had something to do with Sarah Jay?¡±


    ¡°¡­Yea.¡± Reaching out to take her hand, they share a sad little moment before he turns back to me. ¡°Won¡¯t repeat what he said, but wasn¡¯t the first time he said it, so I figure Richard got what¡¯s coming.¡±


    Errol don¡¯t really believe it, but that¡¯s what he tells himself to feel better about it, and Sarah Jay don¡¯t argue any different. I only got one more question to ask, and I do it without softening the blow. ¡°So how come you ain¡¯t been arrested? Sounds like aggravated assault to me.¡±


    Errol¡¯s eyes go hard as his fist slams on the kitchen table, but neither I nor Chrissy so much as flinch. ¡°Because he started the fight. I just ended it.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough.¡± Seems Errol¡¯s reached his limit, which was a lot higher than I expected. Thing¡¯s ain¡¯t adding up though, so I¡¯ll need to ask around for more details myself before coming to a decision, which means it¡¯s time to move on to Sarah Jay. ¡°And you?¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t. Wash out, that is.¡± Squeezing Errol¡¯s hand to reassuring him, Sarah Jay shrugs and says, ¡°I dropped out in protest.¡±


    Which is silly, since ain¡¯t no one gonna care much, but I know better than to say so. ¡°Okay. I can work with that.¡± Assuming that¡¯s all there is, but I gotta focus on coming up with a plan because I haven¡¯t exactly thought this through. ¡°So here¡¯s how it is. I¡¯m looking for people I can trust to watch my back while we out and about on the Frontier. I mostly do trading and whatever odd jobs might crop up. Deliveries, scouting, guard duty, whatever pays the bills, but I ain¡¯t against chasing bounties or hunting Abby if there¡¯s actionable intel to go on.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s our pay?¡±


    Sarah Jay doesn¡¯t shy away from the question, and I don¡¯t got a straight answer for her. ¡°Depends on how good you two are. I suppose. Figure a trip to the range ought to come next, assuming you both interested. If that works out, then a test run would come next, a trip out which I¡¯m fixing to make fairly soon. Pay you a monthly rate while I see how you handle yourselves out there, something tied to Ranger wages, but less because you two ain¡¯t Rangers. A third probably, so eighty bucks a month. It¡¯s better than what most make guarding caravans, and I¡¯ll give you a cut of anything extra we get from bounties or Abby along the way. A small cut, like 10% for the both of you, because I¡¯m assuming I¡¯ll be paying for guns, ammo, gear, room, and board?¡± They both nod, which ain¡¯t surprising. If they had guns of their own, they¡¯d be carrying them, as it ain¡¯t safe to leave anything behind at the travellers¡¯ lodge. ¡°I¡¯d also be showing you the ropes, insofar as I can, as I¡¯m guessing neither of you have travelled all that much, aside from your trip here?¡± Again, they nod, and I take a moment to consider my next words carefully. ¡°This ain¡¯t just about hiring guards though. If that¡¯s all I wanted, I¡¯d pick out some mercs or contract up with the Rangers. I¡¯m thinking further ahead. Like I said, I want a crew to work with for years to come, to go hunting Abby in the badlands and maybe eventually even delve into burrows alongside me.¡± No maybe about it, but I don¡¯t wanna advertise my Proggy tracking abilities just yet. Let them think it¡¯s something I¡¯m working up to. ¡°You¡¯d start off as employees, but what I¡¯m really looking for are partners, with equal shares split between us at the end of the day, minus overhead. It ain¡¯t an easy life, nor is it safe, and there¡¯s no guarantee of fame or riches waiting for us down the road. Truth is, I can¡¯t even guarantee I can keep you alive through the test run, but I will do everything I can. That said, that¡¯s what I¡¯m fixin¡¯ to do, so that sound like something you two interested in?¡±


    Because if they ain¡¯t, then there¡¯s no sense going any further.


    They share a look, and just as I hold up my hands to tell them to think it over and discuss it, they both turn back and nod. ¡°Yea,¡± Sarah Jay says, and Errol looks every bit as eager. ¡°Being a Ranger would be great and all, but striking out on our own sounds better. Especially if it¡¯s with you; I know you could teach us a fair bit.¡± Which Errol don¡¯t like all that much, but that¡¯s because he don¡¯t know how good I really am.


    We talk about the details a bit more, but there ain¡¯t no real discussion to be had without knowing what they can do at the range, which is where we¡¯re headed next. Sending Chrissy upstairs to pick out a dress and new ribbons along with Sarah Jay to help her put them on, I turn to Errol as soon as the girls are out of earshot and say, ¡°I¡¯mma be straight with you, because I think that¡¯s the sort of man you are.¡± The sour look on his face says he¡¯s already got the wrong idea about me, but I forge ahead all the same. ¡°If you truly care about Sarah Jay¡¯s well being and know that she is dead set on a life outside towns, then you best join me in persuading her to go back to Basic and becoming a Ranger.¡±


    ¡°And why¡¯s that?¡± Errol asks, looking me up and down to show he ain¡¯t impressed by what he sees. ¡°Because you think she¡¯s dumb for giving it up for me?¡±


    ¡°Yea, pretty much.¡± He looks away again, his lips set in a scowl, so I stick my hand out and snap to get his eyes back on me, which really gets his hackles up. ¡°Listen. Like she said, I can teach you both a fair bit, but it ain¡¯t nothing compared to what she¡¯d learn in boot camp, or the safety and security she¡¯d get as a Ranger. You washed out, so for now, your best option is me, but that ain¡¯t true for her.¡± Seeing he still doesn¡¯t believe me, I open up a bit and explain, ¡°Look, the sorta life she¡¯d have riding in my crew? It ain¡¯t no proper life for a woman. Don¡¯t matter how tough or talented Sarah Jay is, because my concerns ain¡¯t about skills, but gender. If it wasn¡¯t, I¡¯d be having this talk with her and saying she¡¯s better off parking you somewhere safe in town.¡± Errol still doesn¡¯t get it, so I spell it right out for him. ¡°Most outlaws will think twice before targeting a woman wearing a Ranger badge, especially if she ain¡¯t alone. Don¡¯t mean they won¡¯t do it, but they¡¯ll think twice. Conversely, most won¡¯t even hesitate to draw on you and me if they fixing to lay hands on her. Understand?¡±


    He doesn¡¯t, not really, I can see that much, but he sees how concerned I am and that¡¯s concerning, because he¡¯s head over heels in love with Sarah Jay and already feeling guilty for what she¡¯s given up for him. They a lovely pair, and probably only known each other for the two months since the start of boot camp. Puppy love is what it is, though I¡¯m guessing they¡¯ve already gone through the wringer once or twice. Forward thinking as I like to believe New Hope might be, there are still plenty of folk who don¡¯t like mixed race couples, especially when its one of ¡®their¡¯ women getting taken by a ¡®coloured¡¯ man. That¡¯s usually how it is, as a man is celebrated for ¡®conquering¡¯ a woman, while the woman is seen as having been ¡®stolen¡¯ away, which is just silly.


    It is what it is though, and ain¡¯t nothing anyone can do much about it. We live in a society after all, and we¡¯re supposed to act in a civilized fashion, though far as I can tell, it¡¯s mostly fear of repercussions that keep people in line rather than outright moralistic integrity. That¡¯s why I carry the Big Stick after all, though I¡¯ll probably need something more to keep Errol and Sarah Jay alive.


    Yanno, it occurs to me that I might¡¯ve bitten of more than I can chew¡­

 Chapter 10

    I¡¯ve touched on the general love for guns Americans are known for, but no one embodied that national spirit more than Uncle Raleigh.


    Shows in the gun room he built way back before he even had more than one gun to keep inside. A central, fortified room with lead-lined walls of solid steel and a safe door with three combination locks, the gun room is big enough to mount and display dozens of rifles on the walls. Would fit more if you stacked them up neatly in lockers, but Uncle Raleigh liked to come in here to sit and admire all his lovely collection of weapons. The polished wood panelling was Aunty Ray¡¯s attempt to brighten the room up and make it a mite cozier and appealing, but the many rifles mounted across them don¡¯t make for a welcoming sight, unless you American of course. Though it comfortably fits six people standing around the central countertop, I¡¯m already feeling a mite claustrophobic with Chrissy, Errol, and Sarah Jay all packed inside, so it takes a bit of effort for me to look calm and cool on the outside.


    At least Cowie got more sense than to force his way in. He smart like that.


    This place also doubles as a panic room should Abby or outlaws ever make it past the walls of New Hope. There¡¯s a hatch at the far end which leads down to a roomier bomb shelter we dug out years ago, though I don¡¯t get down there much. Usually once a year to clear out the provisions and stock new ones should the worst come to pass. Don¡¯t see much point in it really, since there ain¡¯t no real threat of Aetheric Bombs dropping anytime soon on the Frontier. Even if we had a second John Von Neumann around smart enough to figure out how to put it all together, the higher order Spell Cores needed to make an Aetheric Bomb simply can¡¯t be found anywhere on the Frontier. Not for a couple decades more at least, when the ambient Aether levels are high enough that the Proggies stop pumping out orcs and goblins in favour of Titans, Arch Liches, and who knows what else.


    No sense arguing with older folk though, as they all seem to think Aetheric annihilation is just around the corner. Guess that¡¯s what you get when you grow up with bomb shelters at home, school, and the office to boot, the result of a decades long cold war. With the M¨¦tis Nation and United Federation of American States on one side, and the Qin Republic and Union of Soviet Socialist Republics on the other. Four global superpowers with enough Aetheric Bombs between them to render the old world uninhabitable, an outcome even the Immortal Monarchs of old couldn¡¯t bring about in long centuries of storied conflict.


    Ain¡¯t technology grand?


    Inside the gun room, I open up a drawer and grab a pair of pistols for Errol and Sarah Jay before jumping into the whole song and dance. ¡°This chonky fellow here is a classic,¡± I begin, holding up two hefty revolvers built out of blued steel to show off their side profile. ¡°The Sturm & Kitiara Squire. A Ranger Standard Issue sidearm which you likely already practised with, this single-action, 22 caliber, 10-Grain six-shooter gets a bad rap as baby¡¯s first gun.¡± I can already see Errol and Sarah Jay¡¯s disappointment, as they was hoping I¡¯d bring out something fancier, but everyone should start off with the basics. ¡°Now it¡¯s true that it¡¯s a beginner¡¯s gun. It ain¡¯t the hardest hitting sidearm, nor is it the prettiest, and it only got a rate of fire of one Bolt every second. Also looks a bit silly and feels awkward, with the top of the grip starting just under the cylinder, but it¡¯s built like that to better handle the recoil, since it kicks like a mule. All¡¯s said and done, it¡¯s Standard Issue for good reason. The Squire is durable, reliable, and most importantly of all, it¡¯s Silenced.¡±


    Errol¡¯s already got the other Squire I brought out in hand. I could¡¯ve stopped him from grabbing it, but I wanted to see what he¡¯d do, and I¡¯m glad I did. Right off the bat, he sticks his finger inside the trigger guard and spins it in around, with the barrel pointed right at me I might add. Then, with finger still on the trigger, he cocks the hammer, holds the gun up to his ear, and uses his other hand to spin the cylinder with a big old smile. That¡¯s about all I can tolerate, so I look him dead in the eyes and tell him, ¡°That ain¡¯t a toy. Put it down.¡±


    Errol¡¯s smile fades away as he considers his response, one which will tell me a lot about him. His first instinct is to go with defensive belligerence, but then he remembers what he¡¯s been taught and realizes he¡¯s gone and done everything wrong. Some men would double down with anger here, act as if I ain¡¯t got no right to call him out on his mistakes, and Errol starts heading in that direction before he looks to Sarah Jay and thinks better of it. Which is good and bad. Good because he listens and puts the gun back on the countertop, but bad because he¡¯s doing it for Sarah Jay, not me. That said, he seems reasonable enough, so I calmly go over everything he just did wrong. ¡°Keep your finger off the trigger unless you mean to shoot, and don¡¯t shoot unless you mean to kill, because that there¡¯s a hair trigger that¡¯ll go off with a touch. Same goes for the hammer. Any time you pick up a new gun, you check to see if it¡¯s loaded first, but also treat every gun as if it is, even if you know it ain¡¯t. Means never pointing any gun, even an unloaded one, at anything you don¡¯t intend to shoot, especially another person, as that can get out of hand real fast. Don¡¯t spin the gun; it¡¯s a bad habit that could get you killed, as you¡¯ll be spinning when you should be shooting, not to mention that hair trigger. Don¡¯t spin the cylinder while it¡¯s locked in neither, and I¡¯ll show you why.¡±


    Putting my Squire down and picking up the one Errol just put down, I pop the hinge and lift the empty cylinder out to show him the rachet and cylinder stops. ¡°See those little notches on the side? Those are there to lock the cylinder in place, line up your bullets with the Spell Core here.¡± Handing him the cylinder, I remove the Bolt Cantrip Spell Core nestled into the base of the barrel and hold it up for him to see, a tiny, translucent cone of amethyst crystal about the size my pinky tip. ¡°If the bullet don¡¯t line up perfect, then it won¡¯t Prime the Spell Core.¡± To show this, I grab a cylindrical 22 bullet and rest the cone-like Spell Core on top in the right orientation. Nothing happens, as expected, and I shift the Core around just to really hammer home how precisely arranged it¡¯s gotta be. To actually Prime it, I clamp the brass casing between two fingers and use that to line up the Spell Core until it slowly brightens up with a purplish glow, one so faint you wouldn¡¯t be able to read by it, since it¡¯s only using a single Grain of Aether.


    Takes two and a half seconds to reach its maximum brightness, which means its armed and ready to loose a Bolt. Would take a strike from an Etched firing hammer or pin to unleash an attack, though a focused effort of will and intent can also set it off. Wouldn¡¯t want to be holding it when that happens though, as loosing a Bolt generates a fair amount of heat and force, enough to leave a bad burn and maybe even sever a fingertip if I get unlucky. Breaking contact between the Core and bullet renders the Core safe and eventually dormant as the Aether within drains away over the course of two and a half seconds. The Metamagic Etchings on the Squire take that five-second total downtime and reduce it down to one, a half-second to arm and a half-second to recover, but the Spell Core¡¯s gotta be in the gun for the Metamagic to work. No Aether was actually spent in the priming process, so the bullet is still good, and I finally get to the point I set out to make. ¡°If you spin the cylinder, then those notches will strip down the bolts on the Squire¡¯s frame meant to catch and hold it in place. If it don¡¯t line up right, then your Core won¡¯t prime and your pistol won¡¯t fire.¡± Meeting Errol¡¯s eyes, I try to impart a sense of gravity without being judgmental. ¡°Outside these walls, this sidearm might be all that stands between you and death should danger come calling. Treat it right, and it¡¯ll save your life. Treat it wrong, and it could get you killed.¡± Putting the Squire back together, I hand it over to him grip first, which he takes with a solemn nod the weapon deserves.


    Though they should have learned all of this in Basic, I go over all the features and safety steps while they secure their holsters to their belts. ¡°Keep your hands off your weapons much as you can,¡± I conclude, and that gets their attention, because it ain¡¯t something they¡¯ve heard before. ¡°No resting a hand on the pistol grip. No taking the gun out to show off or play with. Don¡¯t even keep your hands by your belts that much. Make the wrong move and some nervous nelly might shoot you thinking you mean to do violence.¡±


    ¡°Lot of people getting accidentally shot in New Hope?¡±


    Errol¡¯s raised eyebrow irks me some, because he thinks I¡¯m being overcautious and ain¡¯t taking this seriously. ¡°No,¡± I reply, giving him the look again, ¡°But if you mean to ride out with me, then it¡¯s best you get in the habit. Not all settlements are as safe or friendly, and they get a whole lot less friendly if you walk around looking like you fixing to draw.¡±


    ¡°C¡¯mon,¡± Errol says, still smiling like I¡¯m telling a joke. ¡°You really think someone¡¯s gonna shoot me just for touching a holstered gun? An unloaded one at that?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± My straightforward reply is not what he was expecting, and Sarah Jay looks doubtful too, so I try not to roll my eyes and spell it out whole. ¡°Reaching for an Aetherarm constitutes what the Accords call an actionable threat of aggression, as it can be argued in a court of law that you having your hands on your pistol can be interpreted as intent to draw it. Doesn¡¯t matter if you mean to draw it or not, or if you¡¯ve had your hand on it for hours without drawing it, or if it¡¯s loaded or not. All that matters is that if someone gets spooked and shoots you, they can claim it was done in self defense, because you performed what they perceived as an actionable threat of aggression inside a settlement wherein one can be assured a reasonable expectation of safety. Course if that¡¯s all they got before they start shooting, their excuse likely won¡¯t hold up in any reasonable court. Assuming the witnesses don¡¯t lie of course, and the Sherrif and judge ain¡¯t bent. All goes right, and your murderer will likely be charged with manslaughter, but that ain¡¯t gonna bring you back from the dead.¡± Glancing at them both in turn to meet their eyes, I conclude, ¡°So keep your hands away from your guns, unless you have cause to use them.¡±


    ¡°They didn¡¯t cover this in Basic,¡± Sarah Jay says, not to argue but to excuse her ignorance, because she feels like she¡¯s failed in not knowing all this already.


    Classic overachiever, which is a plus in my book. Shame she¡¯s a woman though. Maybe I can find someone to teach her the Alter Self Spell so she can make herself look like a man. ¡°Rangers are a part of the Federal Armed Forces,¡± I say, trying not to sound too impatient about all this. ¡°They¡¯re soldiers. Their presence alone implies aggression. They don¡¯t need the Accords to protect them, because they ain¡¯t civilians. So long as they in uniform and declare their presence and affiliation, they¡¯re allowed to treat everyone they meet as potentially hostile. If someone shoots at them, even in what they believe is justified self defense, it is still tantamount to an act of war, and the Rangers will respond accordingly. We don¡¯t get that benefit.¡± The blood drains from both their faces as they put two and two together, so I figure it¡¯s time to offer them their first out. ¡°This here is just the tip of the iceberg,¡± I say, leaning back so I ain¡¯t riding them so hard. ¡°It¡¯s a dangerous world out there, and most folk don¡¯t take too kindly to armed strangers riding right up to their doorstep. That¡¯s why we gotta work extra hard to look safe and friendly, which oftentimes means keeping our cool around nervous, twitchy and heavily armed strangers.¡±


    Just as I¡¯m about to really turn up the heat and mention how Sarah Jay will probably have to cut her hair and dress ugly, Chrissy gets it into her head that now is a good time for a big hug. Hard to look grim and foreboding with a bigger silver-haired girlie clamped onto you from the side, so I keep quiet and return the hug best I can with my arms trapped as they are. Eventually, I manage to give her forearm a quick three squeezes, and she squeezes right back. It takes a few seconds more before I realize she ain¡¯t got any intention of letting go, so I stifle a sigh and shelve my plan to hit Errol and Sarah Jay hard and fast with the dismal facts of life out on the Frontier.


    ¡°And you will be heavily armed,¡± I continue, after conjuring two Mage Hands to grab the next gun and bring it out for a look-see. ¡°This one¡¯s for you Errol. Should look familiar enough, as it¡¯s another Ranger Standard Issue weapon.¡± His eyes light up as the rifle floats towards him, but he stops himself short before reaching out to take it. A quick study, and eager to learn when he wants to. ¡°The M1917 Short Magazine El-Minister,¡± I begin, always happy to talk shop, ¡°Which some call the Smile. This Silenced, semi-automatic 22-10 rifle is the mainstay weapon of the Rangers, Protectorate, and Chevaliers, among a few others. This particular model is based on a bolt action rifle first designed in the 1850s by the British-Metis Artificer it¡¯s named for, with variants seeing action in both world wars. Now it¡¯s come to make its mark on the Frontier, and what a mark it makes.¡±


    Running my Mage Hands over the polished, pale wood stock which runs almost the entire length of the barrel, I take a moment to appreciate the beauty and simplicity of its craftsmanship before handing it over for Errol to refamiliarize himself with. ¡°Ain¡¯t the most powerful rifle around, nor is it the most accurate, reliable, or fast firing. Fact is, the Smile is only just above average on all counts, which alongside the ease of manufacturing is what makes it so good. Put this in the hands of a government-issue grunt, point them towards Abby, and they¡¯ll rack up kills until they run outta ammo without breaking a sweat. Comes standard with a ten-round mag, but I got a couple thirties you can use, and the only limit on rate of fire is how quick you can pull the trigger.¡± Course I don¡¯t hand him the loaded mags, which he accepts with a smile and nod of understanding.


    Considering he washed out for doling a beat-down, Errol ain¡¯t half as angry as I¡¯d thought he¡¯d be.


    After making sure he knows his stuff, I direct my attention towards Sarah Jay, who looks eager and pleased as punch. ¡°Now I got a Taz98 you can use, if that¡¯s what you comfortable with, but I¡¯m guessing you ready for something more robust.¡± Her rapid nods sets her high ponytail to bobbing, and her eyes go wide as my Mage Hands bring over the prized gun in the room. Still remembers to check the chamber to see if it¡¯s loaded, making her the top student of this here class. ¡°The Majere-Nagash 3-Line rifle with a four-times scope and mechanical silencer,¡± I say, giving the weapon a big smile. ¡°Bolt-action with a five round internal magazine, it¡¯s got the same rate of fire as the Squire, one shot every second, but hits much harder. Kicks harder too, on account of using a Bolt-1 Spell Core, as opposed to Bolt Cantrip. Personally, I ain¡¯t a fan of the side-mounted dove-tail scope, but otherwise it¡¯s as reliable a gun as any. You ought to take the silencer off for range shooting, as it¡¯s got a limited number of shots before it¡¯s no good. I got spares just in case, but they don¡¯t come cheap. You¡¯ll also have to carry 44-40 rounds, which are twice as thick and packed with four times more Aether compared to a 22-10. Gun ain¡¯t four times more powerful, only about 40% compared to the 22-10 variant, but bang for buck don¡¯t mean much when Abby comes a-knocking.¡±


    ¡°So why you got me using this pea-shooter then?¡±


    Errol¡¯s mostly joking, so I respond in kind. ¡°Because you ain¡¯t as pretty, though it¡¯s close.¡± Giving him my best grin, I use my chin to point at the rifle in Sarah Jay¡¯s hands and say, ¡°Real talk, it¡¯s because she won the sharpshooting competition, which tells me she knows how to handle it. Keep in mind, the 3-Line shoots slower and only has five rounds before you gotta reload, so she¡¯s gona have to make every shot count. Let¡¯s make a deal though. You show me you got the chops to make Ranger sharpshooter, and I¡¯ll find you a Big Smile to use instead. Same gun, bigger caliber, 40% more power. Sound good?¡±


    ¡°Alright. Bet.¡±


    His confident smile tells me he don¡¯t know the required sharpshooter qualifications, but Sarah Jay does and she don¡¯t look too convinced. Ain¡¯t easy hitting eight out of ten shots at 300m with a grouping size less than a handspan, and only the best can do it on three separate targets within a two-minute time limit. Took me more than a few tries, but in my defense, was my first time using the Smile when I made sharpshooter. Marksman is easier, only seven out of ten on one target at 300m, while the standard for passing Basic is three shots anywhere vital on the target. Way too low a bar in my opinion, but the Rangers ain¡¯t exactly spoiled for choice when it comes to new recruits.


    Besides, if they stuck to Ranger standards, then even I wouldn¡¯t make the cut. They¡¯re the tip of the spear in the war against Abby for good reason, as they didn¡¯t earn their reputation collecting bottlecaps.


    After using my Mage Hands to fill a saddlebag with ammo enough for both of them, I subtly direct them to leave first so I can have a talk with Chrissy, but Errol don¡¯t get the message right away. ¡°What about you?¡± he asks, gesturing around at the guns on the wall. ¡°You¡¯re not gonna bring your rifle out and show us how it¡¯s done?¡±


    I ain¡¯t ever one to back down from a challenge or miss a chance to talk tech, so I send my Mage Hands over to grab my carbine, which I got hanging on the wall over my pair of dubsies. ¡°This here¡¯s my rifle of choice,¡± I say, meeting Errol¡¯s eyes with a knowing look while I show him it¡¯s unloaded, then set to loading it. ¡°The Ranger Repeater carbine, lever action 22-10 model. This here is another Standard Issue weapon, though less popular than the Smile, on account of how it requires more maintenance to keep in good working condition. I prefer 22-10 caliber, as it¡¯s good enough for most work and lets me share ammo between my rifle and sidearm. Holds five rounds in the tube, which you gotta feed in one at a time, but you can keep a round in the chamber too. That said, it¡¯s got all the same Metamagics as the Smile, with a major advantage in utility. Being a carbine, it¡¯s got a shorter barrel which makes it easier to use mounted, and lever-action means I can use it one-handed in a pinch, so I can keep my other hand free for Spellslingin¡¯.¡±


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    I admit I also favour the repeater because I enjoy working the lever-action with only one hand. You hold the lever in place and swing the stock and barrel forward, then slam it back in with a click, which is both fun and flashy, albeit rough on the hardware. I ain¡¯t against fun and flashy so long as it don¡¯t raise the chances of getting me or someone else killed, though I admit using both hands to work the rifle is better and faster.


    Having long since caught onto my desire for privacy, Sarah Jay quietly urges Errol out, leaving me alone with a clingy Chrissy. ¡°Hey Princess,¡± I begin, speaking softly so as not to be overheard. ¡°Something got you feeling down?¡± With her cheek pressed against my shoulder, Chrissy simply nods and clings tight enough to squeeze the breath out of my lungs. Aunty Ray didn¡¯t raise no dainty damsels, so I got a limited window to fix things before I pass out. ¡°Wanna tell me what¡¯s wrong?¡± Chrissy shakes her head, leaving me no choice but to gently break free, which I do easily enough by slowly squatting down to shift the leverage in my favour. Once I can move my arms, I stand back up and turn to hug her tight, because if she ain¡¯t ready to stop hugging, I ain¡¯t gonna make her. Takes a good long second to figure out what¡¯s got her so upset though, and I get to kicking myself the moment I do. She¡¯s scared because I was talking up the dangers of the Frontier, and she don¡¯t want me to go out and get shot. Again.


    To think, there was a time when we were worried Chrissy wasn¡¯t feeling any emotions at all.


    Giving her shoulder a quick three squeezes, I can¡¯t help but smile when she squeezes right back, even if it hurts my shoulder something fierce. ¡°Don¡¯t you worry about me, Princess,¡± I say, patting her back to soothe her fears. ¡°I¡¯m the best there is, and trained by the best there ever was.¡± Not entirely true, but it¡¯s true enough, so it comforts Chrissy some, and she only needs a little more coaxing before she¡¯s ready to break off the hug. Still holds tight to my hand though, which I don¡¯t mind one bit, so I head out with my loaded carbine in hand and lock the gun room behind us.


    Gratified to see they both still got their rifles at port arms, the weapons held securely against their shoulders with the barrel pointing skywards, I plop Chrissy¡¯s straw hat on her head, get her socks and shoes onto her feet, and lead everyone out of Aunty Ray¡¯s and over to my place so I can put on something decent. Giving my Stetson an innocuous tap as I pass by it on the hook, I leave Chrissy with Errol and Sarah Jay in the main area and head into my bedroom. Opening up my closest to pick out an outfit, I mentally tune into the Arcane Bug spelled into my Stetson which I activated on my way in, just so I can listen in on their conversation without them knowing. I ain¡¯t proud of how sneaky and underhanded this is, but I figure better safe than sorry since I¡¯m intending to put my life in their hands.


    Errol is the first to speak up, in low, hushed tones. ¡°So that¡¯s the famous Firstborn.¡± He sucks his teeth and I can almost see his casual disdain through the walls. ¡°Don¡¯t look like much.¡±


    ¡°Errol!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just saying, you and everyone else made him out to some big, badass gunfighter and Spellslinger, so I was expecting someone more¡­ impressive.¡±


    ¡°Stop it.¡± Though she tries to sound playful, there¡¯s an edge to Sarah Jay¡¯s voice which catches me off-guard. ¡°Seriously, he¡¯s the real deal. A bona fide roughneck who done beat up half the boys in town and can cow the rest with a hard look. Don¡¯t test him neither. I¡¯d bet on you because you my man, but that¡¯s money down the drain far as I¡¯m concerned. He¡¯s been out hunting Abby with his daddy since he was eight, and learning how to sling Spells from the Marshal since he was eleven. Heard tell that the day he turned fifteen, he set out for his house in the badlands and came back carting more bug Behemoth bodies than most Rangers have hunted solo in their lifetime.¡± Technically true, considering that for most, that number is exactly zero. Not for lack of skill mind you, it¡¯s just there ain¡¯t too many Rangers dumb enough to go riding solo into the badlands, much less tackle big bug Behemoths all by their lonesome. Can¡¯t help it though. I was of a mind to visit my mama and daddy, and couldn¡¯t find no one I could trust to escort me, so I didn¡¯t have any other choice but to go it alone. Trip went well enough until I was on my way back and picked the wrong dune to sleep on, but the profits from those corpses made up the bulk of my seed money when it came to getting started as a trader.


    ¡°Oh?¡± There a teasing pitch to Errol¡¯s tone, and I hear the faintest smack of a kiss. ¡°You almost sound like you got a crush on the Firstborn. Should I be worried, ma chere?¡±


    ¡°No, dummy.¡± Another kiss, then another, and I mentally apologize to Chrissy for leaving her alone with the amorous couple. ¡°It¡¯s just¡­ I heard a lot of stories is all, even over in Riverrun, because he done a lot for these parts. His daddy too, who I owe big.¡± That¡¯s news to me, and I¡¯m guessing to Errol too, as Sarah Jay explains, ¡°That harpy attack I told you about? Howie¡¯s daddy was the one who saved us. Blasted three harpies away with a Spell and shot the rest dead, then got me, my mama, Mary Ann and little Jimmy to safety before heading back out to fight some more.¡±


    ¡­That¡¯s the same harpy attack where her daddy died. Now I gotta wonder: if I hadn¡¯t put Anita¡¯s life in danger and forced my daddy to come check on us, would he have gotten there in time to save Sarah Jay¡¯s daddy?


    My mood dark and heavy, I get dressed quick as I can so I got time to get my head right, and soon as I¡¯m ready, I head out with a smile and grab my Stetson. ¡°Alrighty then,¡± I say, more determined than ever to see that Sarah Jay goes back to boot camp for her own sake. ¡°Let¡¯s head on out to the gun range.¡±


    Being the Ranger¡¯s central HQ on the eastern front, New Hope has got a real fancy gun range with all the fixings a shooter could ever need. It¡¯s situated outside of town though, so Cowie slips into his harness by sizing back up while I release the brake and help Chrissy into the front. Errol and Sarah Jay don¡¯t mind sitting in the back, as it¡¯s right proper bright and breeze once you open up the sides, and we have ourselves a chat while Cowie brings us out. They both fairly laid back once we get underway, but Errol ain¡¯t much for conversation. Mostly it¡¯s me and Sarah Jay talking about how things have changed, especially once we get onto the main thoroughfare and see all the improvements we¡¯ve made since that first harpy attack. The Aberrtin-reinforced glass windows, heavy, hardwood doors, sharpshooter nests, pole-mounted siren alarms, and protocols for when they sound.


    They make a downright terrifying wail, though I ain¡¯t sure if it¡¯s because of the sound itself or what we associate with it, a strident pitchy scream that rises and falls to make it impossible to ignore. One so haunting it takes a good second for me to realize it ain¡¯t my memory making the sirens sound, but the sirens themselves. Luckily, Cowie knows what to do and pulls the wagon over to the side of the road, coincidentally right in front of Anita¡¯s grocery store. With my jimmies full on rustling, I lift Chrissy into my arms, activate the Featherfall Spell stored on my left boot, and jump right off the front of the wagon. As we gently float down to the ground, I turn in mid air to Errol and Sarah Jay who are still sitting pretty inside and say, ¡°Get out and follow me.¡±


    The door swings opens as I approach, and burly, dependable Anita appears with her trusty Blastgun cradled against her shoulder while she scans the eastern skies. Baby Cowie, Sarah Jay, and Errol follow me in, and I direct the first to comfort Chrissy and keep her close before tossing Sarah Jay the saddlebag of ammo. ¡°Stay here,¡± I say as I rack a round into the chamber of my carbine and stride back out the door which Anita is still holding open.


    Meeting her eyes as I pass, she nods and says, ¡°You go on about your business Howie. Zhey will be safe in here with me.¡±


    Which is almost word for word what she said to my daddy, almost six years ago. There¡¯s fear and concern in her eyes, but pride too as she watches me take up the role my daddy once had in our beloved hometown, and I ain¡¯t about to let her down.


    Feeding a round into my rifle¡¯s tube to make up for the one in the chamber, I step out the door and move up the street while helping direct folk into shelter. There are precious few others who stay out alongside me, and not a single one got anything more than a pistol. Ain¡¯t much cause to go walking around New Hope strapped heavy, but harpies ain¡¯t much tougher than goblins so long as you ain¡¯t caught unawares. With time enough to prepare, I cast Mage Armour, Power Word: Endure, Hearing Protection, and finally Mage Hand. Don¡¯t have my dubsies for them to use, but I have one draw my Rattlesnake so I can quickly trade off soon as my carbine runs dry.


    Once the streets are clear and silent, I make my intentions known by striding out into the middle of the thoroughfare. Taking a good look around at those who are ready for the fight, I say, ¡°Last chance to get to safety. If you ain¡¯t feeling confident, then you best take cover inside. No judgement, not from me or anyone in town.¡± No one takes me up on the offer, and it ain¡¯t hard to see why. Burly Hamish the butcher. Sullen Trevor the cobbler. Angry Olav, the town drunk and tobacco aficionado. Scowling Shirley, head chef at the British Pub/American Diner. They ain¡¯t no Rangers, but they lived in New Hope long enough to harbour a burning hatred for harpies, each one having lost people near and dear to their hearts. That¡¯s why they stayed out on these streets, not to help me fight, but for a chance to feed that hatred and appease their anger, so they ain¡¯t gonna let something like fear and good sense get in the way.


    After directing them to better fighting positions under the awnings, I grab my polished quartz lens out of my pouch. Palming it in my left hand, I waggle some fingers and mutter a chant to cast Eagle Eye. The far-off clouds come into focus of my telescopic sight as the Spell takes effect, revealing the flock of harpies flying towards us at speed. An ugly bunch even for Abby, the grotesque, winged Ferals make for an ungainly sight as they flap their dark-feathered wings and flex their green-black talons. Razor sharp and made entirely of Abby bone, which means they¡¯re strong enough to punch through solid steel if they got force enough behind them. The harpy itself wouldn¡¯t survive the impact of course, being no bigger than a child and about as fragile, but they ain¡¯t smart enough to know it. They¡¯ll whip themselves into a frenzy with the caws and shouts, then dive down in pursuit of movement and keep right on cackling until they catch their prey or pulp themselves. The aftermath of a harpy slaughter ain¡¯t for the fainthearted, as the survivors will feast on bloody carrion with their vaguely human and almost child-like faces, which makes for an uncanny and nightmarish sight.


    Here in New Hope, we learned the hard way that it¡¯s best to start shooting before the flock gets themselves all riled up in a frenzy and scatter all over town, so there¡¯s no time to waste. After making sure my fellow defenders are all prepped and waiting, I ready a Spell through the Widen Metamagic bead on my wrist and wish I could use more than one Metamagic bead to modify a Spell. It¡¯s possible to stack Metamagics when casting through Spell Cores, but ain¡¯t no one figured out how to do the same when manually casting, which is disappointing considering I got eighteen Metamagic beads on the bracelet my mama made. I also wish I hadn¡¯t left my Shield Bracer at home, or my dubsies hanging on the wall of the gun room, but if wishes were fishes, then ain¡¯t no one would starve, so I get on with it and line up my shot. To those watching, I¡¯m using a carbine with my naked eye to shoot at a moving target almost too small to be seen, but my Eagle Eye Spell has got more zoom than the 4x Scope on the 3-Line I lent to Sarah Jay. Taking a deep breath, I slowly exhale, gently squeeze the trigger, and grin as my target drops out of the sky while I work the lever.


    My Ranger carbine ain¡¯t whisper quiet, but the dull clang it emits ain¡¯t got nothing on the thunderous bang which erupts from behind me. That¡¯d be the unsilenced 3-Line I lent Sarah Jay, but I know better than to turn back for a gander. Instead, I note the second dead harpy falling out of the sky while lining up my next shot, and hold back a whistle of admiration when the 3-line lets loose again only moments after I pull the trigger again. Means Sarah Jay ain¡¯t casting True Strike to guide her aim, since much like Spell Cores, people need time to recover between slinging Spells. I ain¡¯t sure if she hits her second target though, since the Rangers stationed on the wall have starting shooting too, dropping Abby left, right and centre. That¡¯s always been the gameplan, for the first shot to come from inside the town to draw the whole flock¡¯s attention and keep them from scattering after flying past the walls. As the furious harpies zooms closer and come bearing down towards me, I pop off two more shots in quick succession, and then there¡¯s no more time. Their furious screeches drown out the sirens as their shadows darken the streets, and my vision recedes automatically with less than a thought until I¡¯m back to my regular 20/20 vision. Out in the middle of the road, I hold my position until I can see their dark, beady eyes and gnashing, yellowed teeth, before unleashing my readied Spell with a shout of, ¡°Tela!¡±


    My Spell¡¯s target is not the harpy flock themselves, but the four steel crossarms sticking out from the reinforced concrete poles around me, poles upon which the wailing sirens are mounted. One moment, there is only empty air between the flock of harpies and me, and the next, there¡¯s a mass of thick, sticky white webbing separating us at roof height. A web twenty-four meters wide to cover most of the street, and strong enough to only sag a bit as the flock crashes into it. The foremost harpies get stuck in the webbing, but they don¡¯t struggle for long as their friends crash in behind them, causing an Abby pileup big enough to make a man wanna sing. Oh what I¡¯d give to have my doorknockers here with me now, but I¡¯ll have to settle with casting Blast manually. While my free Mage Hand feeds two rounds into the Repeater to top me off, I wiggle the fingers of my left hand and chant the words, ¡°Primus ¨C Fortis ¨C Ruptis¡±, to unleash a hail of kinetic grapeshot that shreds the Web to pieces and does worse to the harpies overhead.


    The flock¡¯s fury shifts to pained and panicked howls as my nostrils fill with the sour stench of bleeding Abby. Ain¡¯t a good smell, but ain¡¯t nothing like it to put a grin on my face, one which fades real fast once the bodies start dropping and I set to scrambling away right quick.


    My rustling jimmies screech a warning just in time to get me moving left instead of right, and I let out a hiss as an explosion of chilled air erupts where I would¡¯ve been standing if I hadn¡¯t gone with my gut. Without even bothering to track my target, I trust my instincts a second time and fire into the flock of hovering harpies, those latecomers who managed to avoid crashing into the web. One dies, and the rustling subsides just a bit, telling me I got the Spellslinging harpy which almost got me. Small consolation though, as there are still plenty about, all screeching mad at the Firstborn who done killed so many of their friends.


    The initial, high-speed dive is the most dangerous aspect of a harpy attack, but now that I¡¯ve seen that off, they¡¯re only slightly more dangerous than goblins. Flying goblins, but even then that works against them, as they swoop towards me and slow their momentum while lining up their chicken feet to lash out and impale me, giving me plenty of time and warning to move out of their way. Awkward and ungainly, they lack the natural grace of most birds and got the brains to match, trying to spear me head on instead of just flying overhead and kicking down. The carbine serves me well as I beat a hasty retreat, clanging and clacking as I shoot and work the lever, picking my shots carefully to kill a harpy with each Bolt. My fellow defenders lend their efforts to the cause from their positions at the sides. No Blast Spells or Fireballs, since they¡¯d risk hitting me or people across the street even if they knew the Spells, but a barrage of Bolts, Fire Orbs, and even a heavy barrel of water smashes into the flock and harpies drop like flies. There¡¯s still a sizable number of them milling about, too many to take down in a single volley, but I¡¯ve got their attention good and well. Ignoring the shooters hidden under the awnings, the harpies press forward and plunge towards me with dark talons extended and ugly expressions of glee, already imagining the taste of my blood as I dance through their flurry of attacks and intone, ¡°<u>Recumbere</u>!¡¯ to activate Misty Step.


    A cloud of silvery mist appears around my boots and drags me straight back, sliding across the cobblestone floor like sharp skates over smooth ice. Ten meters crossed in the blink of an eye, so quick it almost looks like teleportation, and with none of the jerky start-stop you¡¯d expect from moving so quick. Not much distance, but I can cast the Spell a second time right away through the Quicken Metamagic bead on my bracelet and buy myself twenty meters of breathing room.


    Which was the plan, right up until I pass Errol on my way back, who for some fool reason thought the best way to help was by running into a pack of harpies, instead of shooting at them from afar. Rather than his rifle, Errol has the Squire in his left hand, and I can tell that ain¡¯t his main hand, because he¡¯s just holding the gun while swinging his length of rope with the other. Credit where it¡¯s due, his rope is Spelled with Living Whip, and the first pass knocks a few harpies away. Problem is, it¡¯s a piece of rope, which means now he don¡¯t got enough momentum to bring it back around before the flock hits him. Nor does he panic and freeze up, ready to go down swinging, but I ain¡¯t about to let him go down alone. Rather than Misty Step back a second time, I run forward and extend my left hand in front of Errol while channeling Aether through the Quicken Metamagic bead. Chanting faster than I¡¯ve ever chanted in my life and praying no one was fool enough to come out into the street behind the flock, I shout, ¡°Tertius ¨C Fortis ¨C Ruptis!¡±


    The harpies erupt in ribbons of green-black ichor with wisps of arcane purple, their corpses riddled with holes as they drop to the cobblestone. A wave of sour, dying Abby hits me like a truck, but it don¡¯t cheer me none this time around. Reeling from the stench and woozy aftereffects of rapid-fire Spellslinging, I grab Errol with my left hand and drag him back, though he don¡¯t move easy. Eyes wide with a mixture of terror and excitement, he slaps me on the chest and whoops with glee, which I soon realize is his flavour of chanting and finger waggling. A warm, soothing energy erupts from within, not the searing heat of burning anger but the feverish tempest of fierce courage and heroic spirit. A readied Heroism Spell, unless I¡¯ve missed my guess, which bolsters spirits and offers a modicum of protection in the form of a thin Ectoplasmic barrier, and I feel a genuine smile stretch across my face as we face off against the harpies together.


    ¡°Fighting retreat,¡± I shout, my Rattlesnake already in hand and spitting its sweet lullaby of death. The Toppling Bolts smash into harpies and send their cratered corpses back into the flock, buying us room with every shot. There still plenty of harpies flapping about, because while my upcasted Blast packs a real punch, it ain¡¯t even close to a match for Fireball. Wounded, bleeding, and featherless harpies, but their flight ain¡¯t entirely reliant on the wings, so they keep on coming without pause. Errol ain¡¯t much of a shot, but the Squire forces him to pick his shots carefully. His ropework on the other hand is on a whole nother level as the braided twine comes to life in his hands, snapping at harpies that get too close and restraining them long enough for him to line up his gun.


    ¡°Yea!¡± The shout erupts from his throat as his Living Whip snags a diving harpy out of the air and drags it down to smash into the cobblestone by his feet. Lifting a big boot, he stomps down and splatters its head, only to pull his foot free from shoe and corpse both. ¡°Come get some!¡± Ought to teach him to do up his laces, but he don¡¯t miss a beat as he gives it his all and fires off a round into another harpy¡¯s ugly face. ¡°You like that?¡± He¡¯s got spirit in spades, there¡¯s no denying that, and my cheeks hurt from grinning so wide as we give Abby hell, fighting side by side on the streets of New Hope, hooting and hollering all the while. When my revolver clicks empty, I cast another First Order Blast while switching back to my freshly reloaded carbine, and continue guiding Errol back down the street the whole time.


    As I fire off the last shot from my carbine and get ready to hightail it again, a line of blinding light cuts across the sky, followed by a peal of literal thunder. Smoking Abby corpses fall to the streets and quick as it began, the harpy attack comes to an end as a coordinated barrage of Spells and Aetherarms fire smashes into what¡¯s left of the flock. Blinking repeated to get the spots out of eyes, I stay vigilant while reloading my carbine as the rapid cadence of hoofbeats drowns out everything else. The Rangers¡¯ horses surge around Errol and me to form a protective circle around us, and my vision clears just in time to meet Uncle Teddy¡¯s worried gaze with a cheeky grin I can¡¯t contain. ¡°Y¡¯all are slipping,¡± I say, sagging with relief and giggling up a storm to show I don¡¯t mean nothing by it. ¡°Me and Errol almost had this all wrapped up before you got here.¡± The worry only intensifies in Uncle Teddy¡¯s gaze, but there¡¯s pride and joy in there as well, so he can¡¯t help but smile and shake his head as the Rangers laugh along.


    After asking after the others and making sure none of them were hurt, I turn to Errol and find he¡¯s got that dazed look about him that most get after a fight. Ain¡¯t nothing to do besides smack him on the chest to get him out of his head, which at least gets him blinking and focused on me. Unsure what to say, I waver between scolding him for running out, thanking him for his good intentions, or asking him what he think about the Firstborn now, but I settle for something else. ¡°Tell you what,¡± I begin, and he meets my eyes with a confused stare, ¡°Forget about the Big Smile. How about we get you a proper, heavy-duty whip instead? That way, next time you go running in to save someone¡¯s bacon, you can really show Abby what¡¯s what.¡±


    It takes long seconds for my words to sink in, and longer for Errol to process them, but once he gets it, he matches my smile with one of his own and lets out a hearty laugh. ¡°I¡¯ll take it,¡± he says, clapping me on the shoulder and leaning on me for support while we head back to Anita¡¯s. ¡°You are one crazy, badass son of a gun, you know that?¡±


    ¡°Darn right I am,¡± I reply, giving Sarah Jay a tip of my hat as she watches us both saunter back with a smile, though her nerves are still taut and frayed from the fight. ¡°Haven¡¯t you heard? I¡¯m the Firstborn of the Frontier. All that comes with the territory.¡±

 Chapter 11

    Staring down at his dirty, blood covered sock, Errol couldn¡¯t remember when he¡¯d lost his boot.


    These were without a doubt the best boots he¡¯d ever worn. A good, sturdy pair of polished black leather and hard, carbonized steel, they fit like a dream and didn¡¯t leave his feet damp or sore even after a full day of hard marching. Ranger military boots they was, with beautiful stitching so even they could¡¯ve been measured out with a ruler. Best of all, they didn¡¯t cost him a thing. The Rangers were handing them out to everyone who signed on for Basic, theirs to keep at no cost along with three shirts, three pairs of jeans, a leather jacket, and an army cap. He could hardly believe it when he found it all sitting on his cot, the clothes fresh pressed and neatly folded atop some blankets and pillows. Those he couldn¡¯t keep, but they let him leave with the rest even after he washed out. Only now he¡¯d gone and lost a boot, so he had to get it back. The pair was worth at least a few months worth of wages back on the ranch, as even bad boots don¡¯t come cheap. Hell, even if he wanted to buy himself a pair of boots like these, he couldn¡¯t have done it back home. No, he¡¯d have had to take a boat up to one of the towns around Deadlock Bay to find a cobbler good enough to craft something like these, meaning he couldn¡¯t afford to lose them.


    ¡°I lost my boot,¡± Errol announced, but not to anyone in particular. He didn¡¯t do nothing about it neither, just talked about it while letting Howie gently pull him along. ¡°I gotta go back and get it.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you worry about your boot, Errol,¡± Howie replied, without looking back. He had a real thick Southern accent, thicker even than Sarah Jay¡¯s. Slurred all his words together he did, and put a bouncy rhythm to it too. ¡®Don¡¯tchu worry, bout¡¯cher boot¡¯, that¡¯s what Howie sounded like, so dead-on American Errol wasn¡¯t sure if he was faking it to make fun of southerners and their folksy ways. ¡°Got¡¯cher boot right ¡®ere.¡± To prove it, one of Howie¡¯s blue, glowy Mage Hands floated forward a bit to show Errol the boot, all covered in green-black gore. Best wipe that down quick, as Abby blood would leave a nasty stain. He tried to reach for the boot, but Howie wasn¡¯t having none of it, his hand clamped around Errol¡¯s forearm without really feeling like he was holding all that tight. Little dude was stronger than he looked. ¡°In a bit,¡± Howie said, and his tone brooked no argument. Cocky is what it was, so full of confidence it crossed over into arrogance, like he always knew best. ¡°Let¡¯s get out of the sun first, alright?¡±


    An hour ago, Errol would¡¯ve been amused and annoyed at being ordered around by a pint-sized stick of a boy who didn¡¯t look a day over fifteen, but not anymore. Sarah Jay wasn¡¯t kidding when she said Howie was the real deal. Cold as ice, he was, standing out there in the middle of the street shooting down harpies with a smile, hooting and whooping all the while. Then when the Rangers finally showed up, he laughed and said they was slipping. Rangers! Hardened soldiers and Spellslingers who spent their days hunting Abby and outlaws, and they all laughed along with him!


    ¡°Go on and take a seat,¡± Howie said, guiding Errol over to a bench outside the store and under the awning. ¡°Good man. Here¡¯s your boot.¡± Errol reached out to take it, but Sarah Jay got to it first, and he noticed she shared a quick and quiet exchange with Howie. It was one of those conversations you have with someone real close. No need for any words, just a look or a grunt or a roll of the eyes. Howie tilted his head to ask how Sarah Jay holding up, and she replied she all good with a nod, then a little tilt of her head to say she was a bit shook. A raised eyebrow from Howie asked if she needed anything, and she shook her head, which earned her an approving nod. That made her sit up real straight as he patted her shoulder and headed on inside.


    They seemed awfully close for people who¡¯d never met before today, and Errol wasn¡¯t sure how to feel about it.


    ¡°You hurt?¡± It took a long second for him to realize Sarah Jay was talking to him, distracted as he was by how she ran her hands over his chest and under his jacket to check for blood. ¡°Get clipped anywhere?¡±


    ¡°Nah. Rangers looked me once over already.¡± Sinking back into the bench, Errol felt the tension drain out of him as he watched Sarah Jay fret. She put on a cold front, but she was warm and sweet as fresh baked apple pie, scowling up a storm and daring him to smile as she made sure he had all his bits and pieces in the right place. He was, only awfully tired, and his heart felt like it was trying to hammer its way out of his chest. Once she was sure he wasn¡¯t hurt, she took the pistol outta his hand, which took some doing since Errol¡¯s fingers didn¡¯t seem to be working right. Couldn¡¯t get them to let go, not even after long seconds of staring, but then she kissed his knuckles and they opened right up. Should¡¯ve held on a little longer, because there were no more kisses as she checked his revolver like the good soldier she was. Even emptied out the spent brass into her pocket and reloaded it, before tucking the Squire back into his holster and giving him a sharp pat on the cheek and a smouldering glower to show love and anger both.


    No one ever cared for him as much as Sarah Jay, and Errol loved her all the more for it.


    Something in his eyes made her blush and smile back, but then she remembered she was supposed to be angry. Turning away in a huff, she conjured up a ball of water to clean the gunk off his boot, but also slid a little closer so they was sitting knee to knee and hip to hip. Not shoulder to shoulder, as he was leaning all the way back while she sat upright, but he couldn¡¯t find the strength to sit up and slip his arm around her shoulder. Moving a hand to Sarah Jay¡¯s back, Errol gently tugged on her vest and pulled her towards him, but she resisted and elbowed his arm away. ¡°None of that now,¡± she hissed, her dark eyes burning as she glared at him, but a grin was usually enough to calm her down. ¡°We in public, so you keep your hands to yourself mister.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t that she didn¡¯t want to be seen with him, but rather she¡¯d been raised different and felt it wasn¡¯t proper to be seen doing anything besides holding hands. Wasn¡¯t that way back home, as no one¡¯d blink twice at a couple sharing a hug or a kiss, but wasn¡¯t five churches there neither, so Errol figured it was just how things were done here in New Hope. Still¡­ ¡°I don¡¯t see anyone around,¡± he said, making a show of looking left and right. ¡°So where¡¯s the harm?¡± The Rangers had already ridden off, thundering down the cobbled street in search of more harpies. Strange seeing this wide, bustling lane so empty and deserted during the day, with everyone heading back inside, even those few gunfighters who stayed out to support Howie, leaving Errol alone with Sarah Jay.


    ¡°You sound dumber than a mud fence.¡± Her pretty glare was still fixed on his face, which meant she was really ticked off, and Errol sat up straight to appease her. ¡°You don¡¯t see no one, but that don¡¯t mean they ain¡¯t there. I bet you every last one of them tinted windows got at least one soul pressed up against it, watching and waiting for the Rangers to give the all clear. Probably all saw your idiot self run out into that mess, instead of standing here and shooting like you should¡¯ve. What were you even thinking, going out there? Firstborn had it handled.¡±


    That got his hackles up, the way she said it like Howie was so much better than him. Didn¡¯t change the facts though. ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± Errol said, holding his hands up in defense, which prompted another glare from his girl. ¡°My bad. Tinted windows. Didn¡¯t even know that was a thing before coming to New Hope.¡± Someone told him it was from the Aberrtin mixed in with the sand. Saheed maybe. Made the windows much stronger, but still transparent enough to see through. Sounded expensive, but Errol could see why they¡¯d go the extra mile given the piles of dead Abby lying in the streets. First thing the Rangers told him when he arrived in town was what to do in case of a harpy attack, and Sarah Jay said they get them at least once or twice a year, if not more. Hardly seemed possible in such a clean, orderly, and prosperous place, but having seen firsthand how they handled it, a harpy attack didn¡¯t seem any more disruptive than a sudden rainstorm.


    Much as he hated to admit it, Sarah Jay was right. The Firstborn had it handled. Errol had never seen anything like it. Howie just waltzed right out into the middle of the street, cool and calm as can be. Fired off a couple shot to get the flocks¡¯ attention, slung a few Spells, then laughed it all off when it was done. Would¡¯ve been better off without Errol running in, but in his defense, he thought the big-eared Qin was about to be torn apart. If it wasn¡¯t for the Heroism Spell Errol had already cast on himself, he doubt he would¡¯ve had the courage to jump in, but he did and was already moving with a readied Spell in hand before he could think twice. Magical courage, but courage all the same, courage enough to run into that cawing, cackling swarm of ugly, twisted Abby and face down death with both eyes open.


    Those horrific, human-like faces with their beady eyes and fanged mouths, so eager and full of hate as they dove towards him like harbingers of hell. Didn¡¯t care if they lived or died so long as they could make him bleed, get a taste of him before they went. Fight barely lasted more than a minute, but how many times did he nearly die? Three? Five? More?


    ¡°Errol? What¡¯s wrong hun?¡± Sarah Jay¡¯s voice cut through the haze, but Errol couldn¡¯t find the breath to answer her. It was all he could do to keep his head up as he leaned forward to face the floor, panting breath and trembling all over. ¡°Hey!¡± Sarah Jay shouted, banging on the glass window. ¡°Help! We need help!¡±


    The door banged open and Howie sauntered out, his voice as calm and unhurried as ever. ¡°Calm down,¡± he began, which was the wrong thing to say, as Sarah Jay turned on him in rage.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you tell me to calm down! Look at him! Do something!¡±


    ¡°Ain¡¯t nothing to be done.¡± Sarah Jay¡¯s hand tightened on Errol¡¯s shoulder, and his heart skipped a beat in his chest. ¡°Relax,¡± Howie said, before adding, ¡°Yes Sarah Jay, I¡¯m talking to you. Everything¡¯s fine. Nothing¡¯s wrong. He just got the shakes is all. Totally natural.¡± Sarah Jay¡¯s grip loosened on Errol¡¯s arm, and switched over to patting his back. Awkwardly at first, but then shifted to warm and tender strokes that did much to calm his nerves. ¡°See? He got his breathing under control already. He gonna be a little light-headed and shaky for a bit, but again, it¡¯s completely normal. Sometimes happens after a big fight, especially ones as short as this.¡±


    There was something about the way Howie talked which Errol found soothing. Firstborn loved to hear his own voice, but he had a real confident tone he used when he was explaining something. The same tone he used to talk about the Aetherarms and weapon safety and such, which he kept friendly and matter of fact without making it sound like he was talking down to you from too far up. ¡°See,¡± he began, answering a question no one asked, ¡°When you get into a fight, your body preps by giving you a big surge of energy in the form of adrenaline. Thing is, them harpies ain¡¯t got that much fight in ¡®em, and they all done died before Errol here could work up a lather. Now he all hopped up on go-juice with nothing to fight, so his body gotta burn off the excess energy with the shakes. Simple biology really. Effect was made worse by using the Heroism Spell, which amps you up even further, making the fall that much worse. If he keeps getting into fights like that, his body will learn and adjust to produce a more realistic amount of adrenaline, and he won¡¯t get the shakes no more.¡±


    ¡°You knew this was going to happen?¡± Sarah Jay wasn¡¯t pulling no punches, not even against the Firstborn she so admired, and Errol was warmed by the depths of her fierce affection. ¡°And you just left him out here?¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t know for certain.¡± There was an edge to Howie¡¯s tone, which brought to mind the stories that said he was a mean son of a gun who¡¯d beat you bloody for so much as looking at him wrong, but so far Errol hadn¡¯t found that to be true. Sure, he had a smile some might call smug, but he seemed friendly enough, honest and forthright without any dancing around. ¡°Just know it happens sometimes. Why don¡¯t you give him a bit of breathing room and pick out some juice and snacks with Chrissy? All he needs is a bit of time, and he¡¯s gonna have a mighty thirst when he feeling better, so we might as well stock up as long as we here. Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ll keep an eye on him, so go on.¡±


    The silence was almost as deafening as the pounding in Errol¡¯s chest, but eventually Sarah Jay gave in and walked away. Not before giving him one last pat, but he was too dizzy and light-headed to say anything. Once she was gone, Howie plonked down on the bench, but he didn¡¯t pat Errol¡¯s back or nothing. Instead, he made some noise shuffling around and scrounging through his pockets before letting out a long, and tired breath. ¡°Hoo boy,¡± he said, and Errol could hear the relief as Howie spoke around a piece of candy. ¡°Thought she was fixing to snap me like a twig. That there is one fierce mama bear you done gone and tamed.¡±


    That did it. No longer was Errol struggling to breathe due to tightness in his chest, but because he was laughing so hard he couldn¡¯t keep any air in his lungs. ¡°Ain¡¯t no taming her,¡± he wheezed, which got a laugh out of the other man. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t have it any other way.¡±


    ¡°Well, I can see why you ain¡¯t afraid of no harpies,¡± Howie said, offering Errol a pink hard candy from his tin. ¡°They ain¡¯t got nothing on Sarah Jay. Don¡¯t tell her I said that though. Already on her bad side as it is. Looked mad enough to tear my arms off and beat me bloody.¡±


    ¡°Nah, she just gets like that sometimes.¡± After popping the sweet into his mouth, Errol sat upright and took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly before continuing. ¡°She got this dark, icy, distant way about her, but she burns hot inside.¡± Turning to Howie, he met his eyes with a quizzical look and asked, ¡°So adrenaline huh? How much of that was bullshit?¡±


    ¡°None.¡± Howie was dead serious, not even smiling as he said it, in a tone so neutral he had to be working hard at it. ¡°It happens. I mean it Errol. Even if it is the jitters, getting them after the fight ain¡¯t fear, but stress, and that there is a fact. You¡¯re doing great, much better than expected. This your first big fight?¡±


    Errol nodded. ¡°Back home we¡¯d have Merbeasts come crawling out of the river every now and then. Couple packs of wild Ferals running round the plains too, but they never came right into the village, not in numbers like that.¡± Gesturing out at the carnage in the streets, Errol tried to guess how many harpies there might be, but the closest he could get was more than fifty and less than a hundred. Tearing his eyes away from the grisly sights, he looked down at his hands and found them shaking again, so he clamped one over the other and tried to still them through sheer force of will. ¡°How¡¯d you learn all that biology stuff?¡±


    ¡°Listening to old folks mostly,¡± Howie replied, giving a little shrug to match his playful smile. ¡°Gets mighty boring in the months between harpy attacks, so a man¡¯s gotta find something to do.¡± His roundabout way of saying they were safe and sound, and Errol heaved a little sigh of relief before he even realized it, but Howie pretended not to notice and said, ¡°Boot¡¯s clean as a whistle and dry too.¡± His way of telling Errol to get it on, which he did, tying up the laces tight they way they¡¯d taught him in Basic. Only seemed prudent, so he did up the laces of his other boot too, and sat up just in time to see Sarah Jay come out of the store with a bag full of groceries and a cup of bapple juice in hand.


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    Which he drank only after pulling her into his lap, so he could hold her close and bask in the warm comfort of her presence.


    She didn¡¯t fight him, only tensed up a bit before melting into his arms. They shared a silent exchange of their own where he told her he was fine and she fussed and fretted about for a few minutes longer to show how much she cared. While she played with his collar and hat, he focused on her scent, a faint fragrance of fruit, flowers, and earthy starch which soothed his nerves as he rested his forehead against her shoulder. Wasn¡¯t much in his life to be thankful for, but Errol would forever be grateful for having met someone as wonderful and loving as Sarah Jay.


    ¡°Alrighty then lovebirds,¡± Howie yelled, his grin only widening as Errol and Sarah Jay both bolted upright. Yea, now that was definitely a smug smile, but he waved them over to the wagon where he and Chrissy were already seated and waiting while Cowie was full-sized, harnessed, and raring to go. ¡°Come on now. Ran into a bit of a speedbump, but we over it now, and even got some snacks to boot. Rangers gave the all clear and daylight¡¯s wasting, so give Anita back her cup and let¡¯s get on down to the range.¡±


    Gotta hand it to Howie, coming out of a fight like that and going back to business as usual. Just another day in the life of the Firstborn is all¡­


    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


    There was something stuck in Sarah Jay¡¯s craw and she didn¡¯t like the feeling much.


    She¡¯d done the Firstborn a disservice, yelling at him like that, but she didn¡¯t know how to make it right. Apologizing would only feel like lip service, but once she and Errol were settled into the back of the wagon, she decided it needed to be done anyways. ¡°Sorry for snapping at you back there,¡± she said, but Howie simply waved it away.


    ¡°Forgiven, forgotten, water under the bridge,¡± he replied, but he didn¡¯t make any effort to carry on the conversation neither, busying himself with fixing Chrissy¡¯s hat and smoothing her hair instead. Not that it needed fixing mind you, but he loved that girl so, fussing over her to make sure she was happy and comfortable as can be. It was the same way Sarah Jay fussed over Mary Ann and little Jimmy, always worrying about this and that even when everything seemed okay. Said a lot about the Firstborn and the kind of man he was, to hold such pure affection for sweet Chrissy. The Innate was as beautiful as her sister Tina, if not more so thanks to her exotic colouring, her silver plaits so lovingly wrapped in a big red ribbon which Howie had tied into a bow with great care. Then there were her lilac eyes, so breathtaking and haunting at the same time, empty and devoid of visible emotion, though Chrissy¡¯s actions proved her thoughts otherwise. She cuddled Howie¡¯s arm the same way she cuddled Cowie¡¯s head, holding him close for warmth and comfort, and Sarah Jay thought the two of them shared something rare and beautiful, though others might not see it the same way.


    Like Errol, who thought Howie was sweet on Chrissy, which couldn¡¯t be further from the truth. There were no hungry eyes or roving hands from the Firstborn, not directed towards Chrissy at least. Sarah Jay had caught Howie peeking at herself once or twice, which only meant he was healthy as any man his age, though she wished he could teach Errol some of that restraint. There was a time and place for canoodling, and the back of a bumpy wagon wasn¡¯t it, so she gave her man a look that promised pain and worse until he moved his hand away from her ass. It wasn¡¯t that she hated it, as she liked herself a game of grab-ass as much as the next gal, but at least she waited until they was alone. Truth be told, after a fright like that harpy attack, she wanted nothing more than to drag him into a room and help work off some of that excess adrenaline the Firstborn had gone on about, but first they had to go to the shooting range.


    Later, she promised herself, and Errol too, though not in so many words. Lord help her, but he was a beautiful man, both inside and out, and she could not imagine a life without him.


    Needing to distract herself from her innermost thoughts, Sarah Jay leaned out to talk to Howie. ¡°How many harpies you bag?¡± Looking back on the encounter, her brows furrowed in frustration as she tried to make sense of it all. ¡°Least three dozen by my count. I only got eleven. Ducked down to reload both weapons and by the time I was done, the fight was already over.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s one with every shot then, which is some mighty fine shooting no matter how you slice it,¡± Howie replied, giving her a smile and a look where his eyes stayed fixed on hers. Without much effort either, which made him a sweetheart and a gentleman, one who would make some lucky girl happy as a hog in mud. ¡°Was a team effort, so no need to compete. Especially since we don¡¯t get none of the corpses.¡±


    Those all went to the Rangers, who would funnel the funds back into the town, though anyone who helped fend off the harpies would see some cash at least. Sarah Jay wanted to know how much, but Howie seemed wholly unconcerned, not even bothering to raise the question with the Rangers or care about the Ice Knife Spell Core he¡¯d left behind on the streets. Not a popular Spell Core by any measure, or one easy to make use of, but still worth a few dollars at least. ¡°Ain¡¯t competing,¡± Sarah Jay said, adamant to get an answer out of him. ¡°Just curious how far off my count was, is all.¡±


    Giving her a look that said he wasn¡¯t no fool, Howie silently asked if she really wanted to know. She did, so she nodded ever so slightly, and he shrugged and said, ¡°Forty-nine.¡± Wasn¡¯t any hesitation in his tone, no pride neither, as he gave a full accounting. ¡°Four shot down long range. fifteen with the Web and first Blast. Six more with the carbine, then seven with the second Blast. Another six with the Rattlesnake and only five with the third Blast, before getting another six with the carbine, and that¡¯s all she wrote.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t do things by halves, do you?¡± A rhetorical question Sarah Jay didn¡¯t expect an answer to, as she worked her way back through the encounter to double check some of those numbers. The fact that he kept track of all that in the midst of shooting, dodging, Spell Slinging, and reloading was almost unbelievable, but if anyone could do it, it was the Firstborn. Was like he had a bead on every harpy in the flock and knew exactly where to go so that they¡¯d get in each others way while trying to attack him, and he didn¡¯t miss a single shot the whole time. Then there were his movements, so smooth and sublime, an effortless dance he might¡¯ve practised a thousand times before rather than the frantic chaos of weaving in and around a jumble of random harpy thrusts. More than once, she watched him hold his shot, not to aim but to reposition so the corpse of his target would smash into another harpy behind it. All the while working his two Mage Hands to reload his weapons on the fly, shooting and Slinging from the hip with a big smile stretched across his face.


    Wasn¡¯t no one in Basic who could think, move, and shoot like that. Hell, most Rangers Sarah Jay had seen in action couldn¡¯t match that, and she still hadn¡¯t gotten to Howie¡¯s Spellslinging. Made it look smooth and effortless, the speed and ease with which he chained his Spells, his fingers waggling and lips chanting even while dodging and fighting. Never once did he miss a beat and have to start a Spell over, nor did he ever stop tracking targets and taking them out as he chanted. It was comparable to what Captain Jung had done on the first day of basic, when the matronly Goryeon Evoker sparred with sixteen volunteers all at once. Took her less than a minute to dismantle them boots, using only Bolt Cantrip cast through a Non-lethal Metamagic Focus. Nothing they¡¯d done had even come close to touching her, and Howie didn¡¯t look all that far behind, meaning Sarah Jay had a long ways to go before catching up to the fabled Firstborn.


    Okay so maybe she had a bit of a crush on him, but it was more like being starstruck than anything else. Besides, she had Errol now, and that was that.


    ¡°That was some nice shooting,¡± Errol said, unwilling to be left out of the conversation, only to show he was of the same mind as her. ¡°But that Spellslinging was something else.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t do half bad yourself,¡± Howie replied, turning back to meet Errol¡¯s eyes with a grin. ¡°Enchantment magic is a tricky School, what with how it affects the mind and emotions. Even for a beneficial Spell like Heroism, you gotta account for the target¡¯s natural resistance to being Spelled, but I didn¡¯t feel even a hint of threat or have any desire to resist your magic. Natural as accepting a helping hand, and you cast it on the both of us to boot, which is some impressive Spellslinging. Who taught you how to do that? Because I ain¡¯t gonna lie, I¡¯d love to learn that trick. Ain¡¯t ever been able to consistently cast Heroism on anyone besides Chrissy. Everyone else resists it even if they know what¡¯s coming.¡±


    A common enough problem, but Sarah Jay still swelled with pride to see her man and the Firstborn getting along so well. Errol tried to play it cool and shrug it off, but she could tell he was touched too. ¡°Didn¡¯t no one teach me,¡± he said, and Howie¡¯s surprise was most satisfying indeed. ¡°Village had a priest, Father Nicholas, and he used to cast the Spell on us while teaching us our letters, like as a reward when we done good. I picked it up from him.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t that mean you learned it from the priest?¡± Howie asked.


    ¡°Nah.¡± Errol shook his head. ¡°Like, I picked it up from him, but he didn¡¯t teach me nothing besides letters. He cast it on me and the others a bunch, and that¡¯s how I learned.¡±


    Sarah Jay sat back to look her man in the eyes, as she herself wasn¡¯t quite sure what he was going on about. ¡°Hang on. How¡¯d you learn Living Whip?¡±


    Shifting in his seat, Errol shrugged and said, ¡°The ranch was right next door to the church. Most of the ranch hands knew the Spell, since they said it was easier than learning how to lasso a horse. Saw them use it almost every day, and just picked it up somewhere along the way.¡±


    ¡°So you learned it by just watching?¡± Sarah Jay had to be sure. ¡°No math, no numbers, no Formula?¡±


    ¡°Yea.¡± Errol shrugged. ¡°Told you I don¡¯t know a lot of Spells. Truth is, I¡¯ve never actually learned one any other way.¡±


    ¡°Hun,¡± Sarah Jay began, her eyes going wide with excitement as she shook her man with barely contained glee. ¡°Do you know what this means?¡±


    ¡°No, and you starting to weird me out girl.¡±


    ¡°It means you¡¯re an Intuitive caster,¡± she said, annoyed that he wasn¡¯t as excited as she was, but mostly because he didn¡¯t get it. ¡°Alright, look. To cast a Spell manually, you gotta embed a Spell Structure into memory, right? Well, there are three ways to Prepare a Spell like that. The first and most common method is called orthodox or Newtonian Spellcasting, which basically just boils down to math. You get the Spell Formula, plug in the numbers, get some other numbers, and use those numbers to get the timing down pat for the Spell Structure you create.¡±


    ¡°Clean and simple,¡± Howie piped in, which threw a wrench into Sarah Jay¡¯s head. Most Spell Formulas weren¡¯t even simple to read, much less solve, and here was the Firstborn calling it simple. Then again, maybe for him, it was, considering he started slinging Spells at eleven. Sarah Jay hadn¡¯t started until she was fourteen, and she was supposedly ahead of the curve and on par with talented Tina, as some of the boots in Basic had only just started slinging their first proper Spells just this year.


    Putting all that out of her head, Sarah Jay continued her explanation. ¡°The second method to Prepare a Spell is through Attunement. That gets you Innate Spellcasters like Chrissy, who learns her Spell Structures from her bloodline. No Formula or math required, the Structure just shows up in memory like it was always there, or maybe she builds it naturally like knowing how to walk or breathe. Easy to learn, but the downside is you can¡¯t pick and choose what Spells you get. Get dealt a bad hand and you¡¯re permanently stuck with those Spell Structures taking up real estate in your head. Means that even if you learn more Spells the orthodox way, you got limited room to Prep other Spells. Makes you less flexible, since an orthodox caster can tailor their entire Spell list for the occasion, though few actually bother to go to such lengths.¡±


    Howie was nodding along, but Sarah Jay didn¡¯t want to say anymore about Innates, particularly regarding the downsides. Seemed liked it would be a touchy subject, so she focused on Errol and said, ¡°Then there¡¯s you. Intuitive casters are sorta like a mix between the two. You don¡¯t need any Formulas or math, but your Spell Structures don¡¯t pop up outta nowhere. Instead, the way I hear it is that Intuitive casters will resonate with certain Spells and learn the Structures and timings through¡­ feel, I guess? I dunno.¡± Punching Errol on the shoulder out of excitement, she bounced in place and said, ¡°You¡¯re the first Intuitive Spellcaster I¡¯ve met, so I figure you ought to know better than me.¡±


    Though he feigned a wince at the punch, Errol was already nodding along. ¡°No, you¡¯re right. I mean, I kinda just went with the flow and what felt right, you know, and then the Spell Structure was just¡­ there. Didn¡¯t happen all at once, but I didn¡¯t catch the exact day it appeared neither. One day I just saw the ranch hands at work with their ropes, and thought I could do better, and did.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s nifty,¡± Howie said, interrupting Sarah Jay¡¯s moment with Errol, but he couldn¡¯t have known, given how his back was turned. ¡°I gotta ask though, that priest of yours? You ever recall him fumbling the Heroism Spell? You know casting it on someone who resisted it? Usually happens a lot with kids, which is probably why he was casting it on all you. Practice.¡±


    Errol shook his head and said no, but Sarah Jay put all the pieces together a moment later. ¡°Oh! It means you did more than just copy the Spell Structure from the priest. You picked up on how he was getting past everyone¡¯s natural resistance! That¡¯s incredible hun!¡± Though he smiled along with her, it was clear Errol didn¡¯t get what all the hype was about, so she explained, ¡°If you can Intuitively grasp all the subtle nuances an experienced Spellcaster puts into their Spells, you can benefit from all their months or years of practise. Might not even be limited to one. You could learn how two different people cast a Spell, and apply both to your own casting.¡±


    ¡°Sharp as a tack,¡± Howie said, and Sarah Jay preened at the compliment.


    ¡°I still don¡¯t really get it,¡± Errol said. ¡°A Spell is a Spell right? I thought it didn¡¯t make any difference who casts it, the effects are always the same. Was told the only thing a caster can really do is put more power into the Spell, upcasting it to a higher Order, but even then, the Spell doesn¡¯t change much.¡±


    Sarah Jay pursed her lips as she thought about how to explain it, but Howie had the answer in hand. ¡°Sort of. The base Heroism Spell ain¡¯t gonna change no matter who casts it. The effect of my Spell and yours would be the same, a boost to courage and a minor Ectoplasmic barrier to shield you from damage. The difference is in the details. Two casters can cast Heroism at the same Spell Level, but maybe one is more focused on bestowing courage to multiple targets, while the other is tailored to create a more effective shield for a single person, differences which arise due to how familiar the individual casters are with the discrete facets of the Spell.¡± Seeing the blank look on Errol¡¯s face, Howie switched tack right quick, though he had to stop a beat to come up with an explanation. ¡°Think of it like baseball. The pitchers on both teams are throwing the same exact ball, but they don¡¯t do it the same way. Even if their delivery method is the same, the result can change depending on how each pitcher holds the ball. They could throw a fastball, or a curve, or a slider followed by a change up. Still the same ball getting thrown every time, but you can get different variations in speed, trajectory, and whatever depending on how you hold the ball or who throws it.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡±


    ¡°Another way to look at it,¡± Sarah Jay began, seeing Errol still didn¡¯t quite get it, ¡°Is the Minor Illusion Cantrip. Remember how we were making pictures, and Tina made a lifelike woolly wallaby and set it to hopping in place? No one else could make anything half as realistic, even though we were all using the same Cantrip.¡± Errol nodded as he was finally getting it, and Sarah Jay pressed on. ¡°So knowing the Cantrip ain¡¯t enough to make a good illusion, no more than having paint and a brush makes you a good painter. Takes practice to learn how to do it right, the same way it takes effort to make the Heroism Spell feel unintrusive and helpful like how you do. Like Howie said, that ain¡¯t something people get by just knowing the Spell. Some tricks can be taught, but most are learned by doing. Rote repetition, casting the Spell over and over in hopes of gaining a bit of insight on how it works and what you can do to change it.¡± Giving Errol a knowing look, Sarah Jay concluded, ¡°All of which you could benefit from, if you can Intuit all of that by watching an experienced Spellcaster cast. You could learn how Captain Jung can toss out four Bolts with a single cast, or how Kacey keeps Inari around all the time, or how Marshal Ellis can change the spray pattern of his Flamethrower Spell.¡±


    ¡°Should probably start with the Bolt Cantrip,¡± Howie said, without turning back to look in. ¡°Easiest one. It¡¯ll be tough convincing Captain Jung to help, but easier than getting Marshal Ellis to teach you Flamethrower. Won¡¯t even teach me. Says it¡¯s against the Geneva Conventions to use against people, and he don¡¯t trust me not to. Which is fair, if I¡¯m being honest, though I¡¯d be more worried about starting a forest fire, what with how Flamethrower comes standard with the Ignite property.¡± Turning around and trying to look casual about it, Howie asked, ¡°Whose Kacey and what¡¯s an Inari?¡±


    He wasn¡¯t fooling Sarah Jay though, who caught his eye and smiled. Hand to God, he went bright pink with embarrassment, which he well should considering what he¡¯d done. ¡°Kacey¡¯s the up-and-coming Scout prospect,¡± Sarah Jay said, enjoying the sight of Howie squirming with impatience to know more. ¡°Inari is her summoned fox. Kacey keeps her out all the time, and Inari even acts like a real animal, though I ain¡¯t sure about all the specifics.¡± She could see he wanted to ask more, but Sarah Jay pretended not to notice and turned back to Errol. ¡°So Bolt Cantrip it is. Doesn¡¯t have to be Captain Jung, as I¡¯m sure there¡¯s others who know the same trick.¡±


    ¡°Mh,¡± Errol replied, which was neither an agreement or disagreement. ¡°I uh¡­ I don¡¯t know the Bolt Cantrip.¡± Seeing the surprise on her face, he quickly added, ¡°Wasn¡¯t a lot of shooting back home, but seeing how I couldn¡¯t pick it up after two months of Basic, I doubt I ever will.¡±


    ¡°You can still learn the normal way,¡± Sarah Jay said, and Howie grunted in agreement, evidently as surprised as she was that there¡¯d be an American who didn¡¯t know the Bolt Cantrip. ¡°I¡¯ll teach you. It ain¡¯t difficult, promise.¡±


    ¡°You best learn it too if you want a place in my crew,¡± Howie added, and even though he sounded like he was joking, Sarah Jay wasn¡¯t so sure he was. ¡°It¡¯s the last line of defense you got, so you best learn it quick.¡±


    ¡°It really worth it though?¡± Errol asked, and Sarah Jay almost gasped in shock. ¡°I mean, I¡¯ve seen pistols that are made from just the base Bolt Cantrip Core, with no Metamagics or anything, and they don¡¯t hit hard at all. Know two men who got clipped and walked away, and I¡¯m sure there are more.¡±


    ¡°Still hits two or three times harder than a punch, one you can deliver from up to forty metres away.¡± From the front, Howie finally turned all the way around to poke his head inside and look Errol dead in the eyes. ¡°Look, practicality aside, the Bolt Cantrip is just plain fun to cast. You can sit there for hours on end just throwing Bolts up into the sky, and you ain¡¯t ever gonna get bored or tired. Seriously, just wait till you try it, you gonna wonder how you ever lived without it.¡± Turning back towards the front, he raised his voice and said, ¡°Then there¡¯s the historical aspect of the Spell itself. The Spell that won the West, that¡¯s what they called it. See, back in the early sixteen hundreds, there weren¡¯t no Cantrips around. Then Sir Issac Newton himself came along and¡­¡±


    Settling in next to Errol, Sarah Jay rested her chin on his shoulder and smiled as he rolled his eyes and listened to Howie wax poetic about old world history. For awhile, things seemed dark, what with Errol getting kicked out of boot and her dropping out alongside him, but it all worked out for the better. She wasn¡¯t under no illusions; riding with the Firstborn would be dangerous, and they were leagues behind him, but even a third of Ranger wages was decent pay, and a 10% share of bounties and Abby could net them a good chunk of cash right quick. That was much better than going through another four months of Basic and hoping the Rangers hired her on. That was never guaranteed, nor was her posting, but now, she¡¯d most certainly be based out of New Hope. All she needed now was enough cash to rent a place in town, and then she could go back for Mary Ann and little Jimmy. ¡°Soon,¡± she promised silently, though she knew there was no way they would ever hear her. ¡°Won¡¯t be long now.¡±


    She only hoped it would be in time.

 Chapter 12

    I¡¯ve travelled a fair bit round these here parts, but I still get excited when I take a trip to the hometown gun range.


    Got a lotta memories of visiting with my daddy, Uncle Teddy, Aunty Ray, and a couple other Rangers who looked out for me growing up. It was always a good time, but lately, I¡¯ve had less cause to visit since I get plenty of practice on live targets. Also haven¡¯t bought a new gun since my daddy passed, so that¡¯s another reason. Had better things to spend the cash on, like cargo for selling or clothes for the family. So even though this trip to the range ain¡¯t for me, I still get a little giddy as Cowie brings us down the thoroughfare away from Anita¡¯s grocery store, around the swanky, red-brick town hall with it¡¯s too-small big clock, and out through the towering double gates of the outer wall. Once outside, he takes a wide left onto the six-lane highway and heads north towards the outskirts of town before coming to a gentle, rolling stop outside the gun range office, a simple wooden cabin without many of the modern amenities like plumbing or even glass windows.


    All in all, it takes about thirty or so minutes to get to the gun range, though it¡¯d be a lot faster without traffic. Either way, it¡¯s nowhere near enough time to finish telling the story of how Sir Issac Newton pioneered the concept of Cantrips with his simplified Light Spell, and certainly not enough to do justice to the father of modern magic, or touch upon his many achievements in the fields of math, physics, astronomy, alchemy, and theology. Course, I was supposed to talk about how great the Bolt Cantrip is and how it won the west, but I got a little distracted by the details as per usual. Even though Errol and Sarah Jay don¡¯t care much for the lesson, I¡¯ve always found it fascinating how one man could have done so much in the span of a single human lifetime, and why he didn¡¯t stick around to do more. Towards the end of his life, Sir Issac Newton was an accomplished Archmagus standing at the pinnacle of the arcane realm, but he never sought to join the ranks of the Immortal Monarchs and went peacefully in his sleep at the grand old age of 84.


    Would love to know why, as he seemed like a right decent sort and the perfect leader to guide humanity into the future, which might well be why he didn¡¯t want the job.


    After checking in with Rudy at the office and picking out an empty lane, I get back into the wagon and head out while taking in the sights of my favourite stomping grounds in New Hope. It¡¯s a shooting range to surpass all shooting ranges. Other places, they put you in front of a hill or down in a ditch and give you a couple targets to plink at, at most only a couple hundred metres away. Not here, as this shooting range is about two klicks long and backs right onto the highway. We cleared out a whole lotta forest to make this gun range, flattened it all real good too, and so long as we shooting eastwards, there¡¯s only a small chance of accidentally hitting some lost, wayward soul. Any fool headed this way ought to know better than to step past all the signs and earthwork barriers delineating the outer limits of the shooting range, but even if they did, a moving target on a white grassy plain is pretty easy to spot.


    Now, I¡¯ve said Americans love their guns, but what they really love is shooting said guns, which is why we went all out on the gun range. We got plenty of lanes with targets to shoot at no matter what sort of Aetherarm you packing. Forget your standard shooting galleries where you take a position and shoot at targets head on. That¡¯s boring. What we got here are full on tactical shooting courses for training with pistols and shotguns, a mounted shooting course for the gunner on the go, a speed shooting gallery with moving targets, and sharpshooting lanes for targets over a klick away. We got lanes for shooting prone, shooting from cover, shooting from height, and more, with a wide array of different target types to choose from. Paper mostly, but there a few who swear by shooting at steel, while others claim ballistic gel is the way to go. There even folks who waste time making ¡®reactive¡¯ targets, like bladders full of dyed liquid to simulate blood or Abby fluids. They come in lots of shapes too, but I ain¡¯t too fussed about that, so long as it¡¯s a target that gives a clear indication of where and what I hit.


    To facilitate the testing of both my prospects, I pick a long-range lane that ain¡¯t too far away. Once I get Chrissy out of the wagon, I sit her on a travel chair with a tin cup of grumble berries and put on some music while she looks at pictures from my recent trip. Leaving a dancing baby Cowie to keep her company, I grab some gear and a vial of holy water before heading over to join Errol and Sarah Jay at the shooting line. Technically the water ain¡¯t holy, as it¡¯s more Aether water than anything else, but almost every church, temple, mosque, or what have you will sell it. I¡¯m guessing it¡¯s because the cheapest production method involves a ritual Spell that ain¡¯t much different from praying for an hour in church. Suppose they figure if they gonna be spending so much time chanting and mumbling, they might as well make some money out of it, though I¡¯m sure they got a proper theological reason for it too. Either way, holy water is a valuable material component in a good number of Spells, including the Spell I got in mind to place new targets downrange without chancing a stray shot from another lane.


    As I get to chanting and finger waggling, I pour out the vial of water in front of me. Before it even reaches the ground, the water swells in volume and thickens in consistency as it comes alive to do my bidding. Drawing dirt from the ground and Aether from the surroundings, the blob grows, congeals, and moulds itself into a muddy, semi-gelatinous humanoid form, one measuring about two feet tall and got no real distinguishing features at all, other than to say he¡¯s blobby. Handing it three shooting stands and a stack of standard paper targets, I send him downrange and grab my polished quartz lens out of my components pouch so I can cast the Rangefinder Cantrip and tell the Simple Servant when to stop.


    ¡°So I need to know,¡± Errol begins, watching my Simple Servant trudge away at a slow and sedate pace. ¡°Why exactly do you have a Spell to make a gooey little mud man? You get lonely out on the open road?¡±


    ¡°That I do,¡± I say, clapping him on the shoulder and giving him a wink, ¡°But I won¡¯t be needing him no more, since I¡¯ll be riding with a pretty piece like you.¡± Our eyes meet in a stare down, then we break out into laughter as Sarah Jay shakes her head beside us. ¡°Seriously though, you ain¡¯t ever seen the Simple Servant Spell?¡± Errol shakes his head, and my grin grows wider, because now he has no choice but to listen. ¡°It is hands down the most straightforward Summoning Spell in existence, one most anyone could and should learn. A First Order Spell created by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, a German fella from the 1700¡¯s who set the standard for all Summoning Spells. See, technically, all Summoning Spells are Conjuration Spells, but they¡¯re also all man-made. Abby ain¡¯t got no Summoning Spells, so there ain¡¯t no Summoning Spell Cores, which is why some say it ought to be its own separate school of magic.¡±


    I can already tell I¡¯m losing Errol, though Sarah Jay is still paying attention, as most sharpshooters favour Spells from the school of Conjuration, like Entangle and Fog Cloud, so summoning is just a natural addition to their playbook. ¡°Hang on,¡± she says, her jaw set in a frown that is both fetching and mildly intimidating, like she fixing to tune me up for something or the other. ¡°Just thought of something. You said Cantrips are man-made Spells, but now you saying Summoner Spells are too, and that they ain¡¯t got no Spell Cores.¡± I can see where this is going, so my smile widens, which makes her hesitant, but she still finishes the thought, because she¡¯s gotta know. ¡°Thing is, you also said our sidearms got a Bolt Cantrip Core, which shouldn¡¯t exist, right?¡±


    ¡°Correct, except they do thanks to human ingenuity,¡± I reply, wishing I¡¯d had time to go through the whole history of Cantrips and the Bolt Spell in particular. ¡°The Bolt Cantrip Core is actually a First Order Bolt Core or higher that¡¯s been cut down. You remember how nice and pretty the Spell Core in that Squire there was, a neat little crystal cone and all? Well, they don¡¯t come like that natural. Abby come in all sorts of shapes and sizes, and the same goes for the Spell Cores we dig outta their corpses. Means we oftentimes gotta pare ¡®em down to fit the contraptions we build to use those Cores. With Bolt Cores, we was cutting them so often that someone figured out how to cut a single First Order Spell Core into two, three, or more working ¡®Cantrip¡¯ Cores, albeit less powerful ones, 40% less like I said before. Since you¡¯d get more than one Cantrip Core out of each First Order Core, that was a still net increase in overall firepower. With the ability to arm every soldier with a Bolt Cantrip musket, the colonial troops were eventually able to overwhelm the Spellslinging Native Americans and settle the west by the early seventeen hundreds.¡± And at the same time, the Bolt Cantrip Core proved Sir Issac Newton¡¯s Theory of Scalar Complexity of Spell Structures correct, while the man was still alive no less. What a thrill that must have been for old Issac, the validation of a lifetime¡¯s effort or study and research.


    ¡°Anywho,¡± I say, getting myself back on track after having made the point I missed out on earlier, ¡°This Simple Servant Spell is easy to learn because it don¡¯t require any sacrifice of Spirit, Soul, Chakra, or whatever your religion of choice wants to call it. Other Summoning Spells require that to¡­ I dunno, give the Summon a brain or something. Ain¡¯t too clear on the details myself. What it means though is that this gooey little mud man ain¡¯t all too smart and won¡¯t really do anything on his own. I can direct him telepathically, which takes a bit of learning, and I can make him fetch, sweep, do the laundry, fold my clothes, and all sorts of other menial tasks. With enough focus, I can make him do almost anything so long as he don¡¯t got to do it fast, be precise, or carry more than twenty pounds at once.¡±


    Chuckling as I set the blobby little fellow to dancing down the way, waving his fingerless arms about and shaking his hips, I add, ¡°He¡¯s too clumsy to reload a gun though, not unless I stand over his shoulder and direct him. Can¡¯t shoot neither, as he don¡¯t know how to aim, even if I tell him to point the gun in front of him. Too complex an order, I¡¯m guessing, or he got no concept of direction. Can pull a trigger, but it ain¡¯t exactly safe, as he can¡¯t aim or handle any recoil at all. Also moves much too slow to really stab a man, though he could probably manage it if the target ain¡¯t moving. Would have to, as he¡¯ll come apart at the seams if he takes a hit harder than a pat.¡± Got both their attentions now, though now I wish I didn¡¯t, as they looking at me like I¡¯m some sort of weirdo for trying to weaponize my Simple Servant.


    Be weirder if I didn¡¯t, right?


    To lighten the mood, I glance left and right all suspicious like before leaning in close so I can whisper, ¡°I mostly keep him around for shovelling cow patties, as my furry friend back there eats a fair bit, most of which comes out the other end.¡±


    An indignant moo is proof positive that Cowie is both smarter than most give him credit for and got sharper hearing than I¡¯d like, so I run over to placate him while Errol and Sarah Jay laugh. I got time after all, as like I said, the Simple Servant don¡¯t do nothing fast, so it¡¯ll be a hot minute before he makes it to the three-hundred-meter mark. While I¡¯m giving sir Cowie his due respect and scritches, Chrissy looks at me and points at the picture displayed on the side of my wagon, her lilac eyes focused and animated for once as she gently bobs in time to her acoustic rendition of Bon Jovi¡¯s ¡®Living on a Prayer</a>¡¯. ¡°Round bird,¡± she declares, still expressionless, but somehow also looking excited at the same time.


    ¡°Yea it is,¡± I say, soothed by the sight of her angelic appearance, so happy and content sitting there with lips smeared with berry juice and the tear-drop amethyst on her forehead glimmering in the shade of her hat. ¡°That there is a wild kiccaw, named for the sound he makes. Roams the Coral Deserts and Emerald Plains, a rotund poofy fellow with tiny little wings and legs. They real cute and bigger than you¡¯d think, about half as big as that wagon wheel there.¡± Good eating too, though I ain¡¯t gonna tell Chrissy. Truth is, I¡¯m not entirely sure if she knows that steaks, ribs, sausages, and what have you all come from various furry little friends. If she don¡¯t, then I for one ain¡¯t gonna be the one to tell her.


    ¡°Kick-Caw. Kee-Caw. Kiccaw.¡± After familiarizing herself with the new word, Chrissy swipes her hand through the air and somehow makes the next image appear on the side of the wagon, a big horned jaibex I spotted on the slopes of the Serpent Fangs mountains. The hand waving is a real nifty trick I¡¯d love to pick up, except I¡¯ve no earthly idea how she does it. I gotta walk up and touch the rainbow Tourmaline crystal embedded into the wagon to change pictures, because it ain¡¯t my Spell projecting the Illusion. Ain¡¯t Chrissy¡¯s either, as the illusion is being projected by a Silent Image Spell Core, one that reads the images off the crystal it¡¯s attached to. Images I took using the Photograph Cantrip mind you, before embedding them into that crystal, which the Spell Core somehow reads and projects against the side of the wagon.


    That¡¯s two separate Spells working in tandem, using arcana-tech to bridge the gap in a way I don¡¯t entirely understand. How¡¯s the Spell Core read the picture off the crystal, and know which one to show in what order? I got a good look at the whole thing when Danny installed it, and all I saw was a metal fixture to hold the crystal and a couple wires and junk to connect it to the Spell Core. No idea how it all works, and the Marshal¡¯s Major Illusion video player is even more complex. Then again, complexity don¡¯t count for all that much, as the speakers which play music are just magnets and wires, with no Spell Core to speak of at all, which to me seems more magical than actual magic.


    I ain¡¯t no arcanist, just a Spell Slinger and soldier of fortune. Chrissy though, she clearly sees magic and arcana-tech as one and the same, using the first to interact with the second as easily as¡­ well, waving her hand. I¡¯ve said it before, and I¡¯ll say it again, Chrissy¡¯s sharp as a tack. She just got issues communicating is all, and we working on that best we can.


    Leaving her to flick through the pictures and enjoy her berries, I head back to the shooting line and cast Rangefinder to see how far my Simple Servant has gone. Raising my polished quartz lens to my eye, I mutter, ¡°Provisio ¨C Fecit ¨C Patet¡±, and take a moment to marvel at the wonders of modern magic. The Rangefinger Cantrip is the result of a melding of arcana and mathematics in a beautifully brilliant manner. What it does is spit out an arcane pulse that travels towards the target, bounces off it, and returns to the caster. Now that ain¡¯t all that useful on its own since the arcane pulse the Cantrip emits happens to travel at the speed of light, making it all but impossible for the human mind to perceive the travel time on any reasonably visible distance. That¡¯s where the real beauty of the Cantrip comes into play though, because it takes that travel time and stretches it out into something the caster can actually perceive. The form that perception takes is ineffable, like trying to describe how you know which way is up or how you sit without falling. You just do, and when you use the Rangefinder Cantrip, that¡¯s the sort of response you get. An inkling, an impression, a sense of knowing, but not a vague one. No, this inkling is precise and quantifiable, and if you cast the Cantrip on another target the exact same distance away, you will get the exact same impression each and every single time. More than that, it scales, so if you then cast the Cantrip on an object twice as far, that impression is doubled, meaning it actually feels twice as far to all your senses.


    It¡¯s a bit confusing to explain, but once you get used to the Cantrip, it almost becomes intuitive. Of course, if you want an accurate measurement, you need to practice by casting the Cantrip on a target you know the exact distance of, say a hundred meters away. Then, you cast it again on that same target, and again, until you¡¯ve familiarized yourself with how it feels when you cast it on a target at a hundred metres. Then you do that for two-hundred metres, and three, so on and so forth, so that when you cast the Cantrip on an object at an unknown distance, you can compare the results to known distances and get a general sense of how far an object is.


    Now, this sounds like a lot of work for a single Cantrip that don¡¯t do nothing except tell you how far away something is, and it kinda is, but with effort and dedication, you can become accurate to within a millimetre. Most don¡¯t bother though, because they don¡¯t see the value, except a lot of Divination Spells work on this same general concept. Once you figure out one, the second will come easier, then the third, and so on and so forth. This need for familiarity is partially why Divination is considered the most difficult school of magic around. Anyone can learn any Spell if they work hard enough at it, but with Divination Spells, memorizing the Spell Structure is only the start. You also gotta learn how to interpret the results those Spells give you, which is where most fall short. That¡¯s why good Scouts are few and far between, because it requires hard work, constant practice, and ain¡¯t as flashy as throwing Fireballs or summoning beasties.


    Another reason why Divination ain¡¯t popular is because in the old world, most folks relied on arcana-tech for most their Divination needs. Take Mr. Kalthoff for example. He¡¯s got a custom-made rangefinder device that can cast this Cantrip and spit out exact numbers using nothing but a couple techno doodads, but it¡¯s a big, bulky set of binocular looking things that comes with a tripod and needs to be calibrated every time you move it. Not exactly useful on the battlefield, which is why most shooters bite the Bolt and learn the Cantrip themselves, or at worst, find their own, non-magical ways to gauge distances with varying accuracy.


    ¡°Alrighty then,¡± I say, as the Simple Servant reaches more or less 300 metres away and starts setting up the stands. ¡°Once them paper targets are up, y¡¯all can show me what you got.¡± Looking Errol up and down in a half-joking manner, I ask, ¡°How far do I gotta move my Simple Servant to be 100% sure he won¡¯t get shot?¡± I¡¯m only half joking because while holy water ain¡¯t exactly expensive, it ain¡¯t exactly cheap neither, not to mention all them minutes it takes for the blobby guy to trudge on over.


    Despite my reservations, I don¡¯t move him too far away from the targets, though I do get him to hunker down just to be safe. Errol takes his time setting up and getting comfortable, but Sarah Jay pops off a shot at the man-sized steel target sitting at the half-klick marker. The thunderous bang catches Errol by surprise, and he damn near jumps from the sound. ¡°You don¡¯t got Hearing Protection?¡± I ask, listening for the distant ting of metal which tells me Sarah Jay hit her shot. That¡¯s impressive to say the least, though having seen her use it against harpies in flight, it don¡¯t come as no surprise.


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    ¡°Nah,¡± Errol replies, and though he puts on a tough front, I can tell he¡¯s feeling sheepish about not knowing such a basic Cantrip. ¡°It¡¯s self targeted, so I haven¡¯t gotten a feel for it, you know?¡±


    Because no one could cast it on him, or on something he could touch that didn¡¯t have all the magical interference of a living, breathing person. Don¡¯t know why he don¡¯t try learning Spells the traditional way, but that won¡¯t do. ¡°It¡¯s an easy enough fix for today at least,¡± I say. Taking off my left boot, which already expended its stored Featherfall Spell, I focus on the Aether-suspension matrix Etched onto the surface of the inner sole and Imbue it with the Hearing Protection Cantrip, which don¡¯t take more than a waggle of my fingers, no chant required. Once that¡¯s done, I hold out my boot and wave him over. ¡°Well, c¡¯mon. I ain¡¯t gonna hop on over to you.¡±


    Unsure of what¡¯s going on, Errol stows his rifle at port arms before heading over. Good to see he knows not to leave his rifle unattended, meaning he knows the rules. Just needs a reminder to keep to them every now and then. ¡°What you giving me your boot for?¡± he asks, glancing at his feet to double check he still got both on.


    ¡°Stick your foot in, so it¡¯s touching the sole.¡± Credit where it¡¯s due, Errol does just that, while Sarah Jay holds off on shooting to watch us. ¡°Don¡¯t jam your foot in and bend whole darn backstay,¡± I say, hoping that the crease in the leather won¡¯t be permanent. ¡°Them giant toesies of yours ain¡¯t gonna fit in a size eight. Just get them down far enough to touch the sole, then reach out like you trying to cast a Spell on the boot, but in reverse.¡±


    It sounds a little silly, but it works, and Errol¡¯s eyes go round and wide as the Hearing Protection Cantrip activates and settles onto him. ¡°Woah,¡± he says, gawking at my boot and fiddling with his earlobe as Sarah Jay pops off another shot, one that will sound almost as loud as the first to him, but blunted. It do feel a little strange when the Cantrip hits, like your ears are all stuffy for a bit, but then it pops and everything goes back to normal. ¡°You can store Spells in your boot?¡±


    ¡°Yep.¡± I give him a big smile and say, ¡°Cost me a pretty penny, and took Trever a good month to Etch in the Aether-suspension matrix, but it¡¯s worth it. Can store one instance of a First Order Spell in each boot. I usually keep Featherfall on the left, because when you need a soft landing, you need it right quick, if you know what I mean.¡± It¡¯s technically only in the sole, which I can reuse if I ever need a new pair of boots, which I¡¯m hoping I will since I ain¡¯t done growing. Also means it can be stolen, which is why I don¡¯t volunteer that particular piece of information, though anyone who knows the work can probably guess. I would love a better version of the rune so I can store a Second Order Misty Step, or maybe even a Third Order Spell, but that would cost significantly more, and Trever ain¡¯t even sure if he could do it. Plus, there¡¯s the whole issue with getting Misty Step to target right when using it through an Imbued item. I suspect that it¡¯d just cast the Spell in place, meaning I wouldn¡¯t move a single inch, since there no way to communicate with the boots to tell them where or which direction I want the Spell to move me. Would need some arcana-tech attached to the rune so I can plug in directions or whatnot, which is too complicated for a pair of boots. With Featherfall, Hearing Protection, and other self-targeted Spells, the matrix will just cast the Spell on whoever activates it, which works just fine.


    ¡°You got a lot of magic gear,¡± Errol says, looking me up and down with a measured eye as we get our boots back on. ¡°The wagon, your boots¡­¡± Errol shakes his head and adds, ¡°Firstborn¡±, as if that explains my wealth, but it ain¡¯t got much to do with anything. Don¡¯t say as much though, and just watch as he heads back to the firing line to get set up.


    He ain¡¯t the best shot I seen, but he ain¡¯t terrible neither, so I offer a bit of advice from the side and use my Mage Hands to pack his mags while also keeping track of Sarah Jay¡¯s progress. Don¡¯t take long for her to set the steel targets at 750 metres to singing, settling into a steady pattern of a thunderous bang followed by a distant ting a second or two later. She don¡¯t need no advice from me, as she takes her time lining up her shots, adjusting her scope, and pinging the metal targets again and again, picking out her distant targets at random so she has to think on the fly about the angle of every single shot. She even has a neat little line of bullets stood up in front of her, all ready and waiting for her reloads. It isn¡¯t until she gets to the eight-hundred metre markers that she starts muttering under her breath to activate the True Strike Cantrip, which is a nifty little piece of magic. Helps intuitively account for stuff like wind speed, Bolt drop, target movement, and all that, though you¡¯re still usually better off doing the math and using a properly sighted scope at longer ranges.


    And in close range, you¡¯re better off shooting more often, especially if the target¡¯s shooting back.


    Shooting skills alone makes Sarah Jay the real prize here, with the chops to make Marksman easy, and probably Sharpshooter too. She¡¯s also got good focus, stays organized, and cultivates good habits by keeping up with her lines of bullets and pocketing all her spent brass, not to mention how she seems like a real motivated sort of person who ain¡¯t afraid of a little hard work. Only downside is her gender, as she¡¯ll attract all sorts of the wrong attention while we out and about. Not her fault, but this the world we live in, and it is what it is.


    As for Errol, he got courage and confidence in spades, but don¡¯t quite got the skills to match up just yet. He ain¡¯t half bad and got plenty of potential, but he¡¯ll need a lot more effort to get his skills up to snuff, and I ain¡¯t sure he¡¯s ready to put in the work. Right now, he¡¯s good enough to pass Basic, but I wouldn¡¯t hold my breath waiting on him to make Marksman. After fifteen minutes, his best record is nine hits out of ten on a target, mostly centre mass but with three outliers around the arms and legs. It¡¯s fairly mediocre, and he don¡¯t seem to be doing much besides shooting downrange without a thought. Intuitive in more than magic then, which is fine since I¡¯m guessing he prefers to be in the thick of things. A Blastgun would be more his speed, though I¡¯d have to buy one fresh since I ain¡¯t got a decent one to spare, only my old starter Blastgun, a Bashere Black Eagle which is ancient tech by now. A standard Forzare would work, but I¡¯m sure there are other good options too. His value is more in his Spellslinging, which is nice and all, but more a long-term benefit which don¡¯t help us much now.


    These two prospects are more promising than I expected from a pair of washouts, which leaves me feeling conflicted. Part of me wants to keep quiet and take them on, but that wouldn¡¯t be right. My daddy raised me to be a good man, and a good man would do the right thing, which means helping them find their way back into Ranger Basic. Shouldn¡¯t take much, and that¡¯s a brighter and safer future than riding out as part of my crew. A more glorious one too, as everyone looks up the Rangers, even foreigners who ain¡¯t got no love for the U.F.A.


    Though my decision is made, I let them shoot and hang back to keep Chrissy and Cowie company. No point telling Errol and Sarah Jay what I¡¯m fixing to do until I got something worth saying. Still only got one side of the story after all, as I can¡¯t rightly understand why they washed Errol out in the first place. Far as I tell, it was just a little scuffle, like the ones I get into every other week. Sure, the other boot got his jaw and arm broken, but Errol didn¡¯t start the fight, didn¡¯t pull no weapon, didn¡¯t kill no one, and seems like a decent enough sort. Illicit drugs in his blood or kit would do it, or if he was drunk off his gourd when they fought, but I don¡¯t get the sense that either of them are hiding much. Can¡¯t rightly think of any other reasons given what I know, which means I¡¯m missing an angle.


    My curiosity eventually gets the better of me, so I decide to grill Errol a bit, who is still struggling with poor breath control as he takes aim on one knee. ¡°Quit holding your breath before you shoot,¡± I say, breaking his focus just as he¡¯s about to pull the trigger. ¡°Aim, breathe out, hold, and fire. Also, just because the gun is semi-auto, don¡¯t mean you gotta shoot quick as you can.¡± Nodding at the Squire on his hip, I add, ¡°That¡¯s why the Squire so good for starting off. Forces you to take your time and pick your shots, a skill that translates to any gun you might use.¡±


    ¡°This is a rifle.¡± Flashing his pearly whites, he reaches down and grabs his crotch. ¡°This is my gun.¡±


    ¡°One is for fighting, the other¡¯s for fun.¡± Taking a knee next to him so we can talk on the level, I grin and gesture for him to keep shooting. I like having someone my age to joke around with, especially these sorts of jokes. Tina don¡¯t like crude humour, but then again, most lady-folk don¡¯t seem to enjoy it much, and I don¡¯t got many friends otherwise. Being the Firstborn ain¡¯t all rainbows and sunshine, as the older folk expect me to lead by example, which I do, and that don¡¯t make me all that popular with people my own age.


    After a few minutes of joking about with Errol and giving him dedicated instruction, I casually ask, ¡°So what made you want to be a Ranger?¡±


    Giving a little shrug while waiting for my Simple Servant to finish swapping out the paper targets, Errol asks, ¡°How much you know about what¡¯s going on around Deadlock Bay?¡±


    ¡°The general gist.¡± It¡¯s my turn to shrug now, because I ain¡¯t all that caught up on current affairs. ¡°West side of the bay is called the Fields of Strife, on account of all them Proggies hiding in the bordering marshes. Not quite as infested as the badlands, but bad enough, especially with the Deadlands further northwest along the coast. The Pathfinders and Chevaliers been holding the Fields of Strife back for years now, but mostly gave up on settling it. They just box Abby out of the Northmoor and keep them from crossing the Deadline.¡± Which is what they call the river separating the Fields of Strife from the Emerald Plains. Some would call those plains the safest region round these here parts. Lots of flat, grassy farmland for crops and livestock, all controlled by the M¨¦tis Nation.


    Which makes them America¡¯s hat in the old world and on the Frontier too, at least round these here parts.


    Nodding along with my statement, Errol goes back to shooting. The El-minister is much heftier than my Ranger Repeater, with a longer barrel and bulkier receiver on account of the semi-auto action, so it got a lower, louder bark on it when it fires, a sort of flat ¡®blap ¨C blap ¨C blap¡¯ that¡¯s almost soothing. ¡°Well,¡± he continues, after another fairly decent go at a target, landing six out of ten in a loose pattern around centre mass, ¡°The village I come from? It doesn¡¯t have a name because it started as a Pathfinder field hospital. A place along the Deadline where the wounded could recover.¡± He gets a distant look in his eyes as he stares down the iron sights of his rifle without seeing anything in front of him at all. ¡°They weren¡¯t always content to leave the Fields be, so growing up, my parents had a boat which ferried soldiers and supplies up to the Deadline and bought wounded back. Then one time, the boat comes back without them. Abby.¡± He shrugs, trying to be casual about it to seem tough and manly, but he ain¡¯t fooling no one, not even himself. ¡°Was six at the time, so I don¡¯t remember them much. The priests, nuns, and ranch hands pretty much raised me after that, but nothing official, you know? Figured I¡¯d eventually grow up and join the fight, but then they gave it all up.¡± Sounds like he took that real personal, and I can¡¯t say I blame him. ¡°For awhile, the village sort of fell apart, because there was no reason to be there anymore. Then we heard about New Hope and what the Rangers were doing there. Village had a purpose again, a place for trading ships to dock for the night on their way to New Hope or up to the Bay. Grew up hearing all about the Rangers and their efforts to hold back the badlands, so when I heard they were offering training to any young Americans our age, I hopped on a boat to come fight Abby, and that¡¯s that.¡±


    ¡°You ever consider a career change?¡± I ask. ¡°Ranch hands make decent wages after all, and the Rangers pay top dollar for good horse trainers.¡±


    ¡°No future in it,¡± Errol replies, going back to his shooting but taking more time between each shot. ¡°Ranchers back home were always talking about how they¡¯d be out of a job or have to turn bandit once someone got a working car.¡± This time, we both share a shrug, as neither of us really understand how mechanized vehicles really work. I seen some Illusions and diagrams and such, but I also seen the numbers, and they¡¯ll cost a fortune in Aether to run, assuming they even work with the Frontier¡¯s lower levels of ambient Aether concentration. I¡¯ve been hearing about how cars are coming for my whole life now, how some fellow has got a working model or a factory coming together, but it¡¯s always someone two or three towns over or on the other side of the Divide or whatnot. Sure, it¡¯ll happen eventually, but I don¡¯t see what that got to do with the value of horses right now.


    ¡°What about going back home?¡± I ask, just to be sure. ¡°The Pathfinders would pay top dollar for a soldier with skills like yours.¡± Errol looks at me like I¡¯m spewing hogwash, so I smile and explain, ¡°Your ability with the Heroism Spell? How you cast it on another person without triggering their instinct to resist foreign magic? If that translates to other support Spells, then that makes you invaluable to any major military faction. Support casters usually have teams built around them to ensure their Spells don¡¯t fail so often, but with you, they could put you in any squad and they¡¯d benefit from your support without having to build up a rapport first. That¡¯s huge, because support Spells are a massive force multiplier in small engagements, and adding one support to a squad is easier than building a squad around a support.¡±


    I ain¡¯t done yet, as I¡¯m here to hard sell a better life to Errol, because I suspect he¡¯s only here for Sarah Jay. If he can convince her to leave, then all the better for them both. ¡°If religion is more your speed,¡± I say, nodding at the crucifix he got hanging around his neck, ¡°The Roman Catholic Church is always recruiting Templars of any nationality down in Redeemer¡¯s Keep, while the Latin American Catholic Church pays top dollar for recruits with any skills in New Sonora, though they¡¯ll both work you hard and often.¡±


    ¡°You trying to tell me something?¡± Misreading my intentions, Errol gets wrapped up in his wranglers and shoots me a scowl. ¡°If you got a problem with us, then just say it out loud.¡±


    ¡°My problem is you both too good to be wasted riding shotgun beside me.¡± Giving him my best and most earnest smile, I gesture over at Sarah Jay. ¡°For starters, you both stepped out to help me against the harpies without asking. You might not think it¡¯s much, but it¡¯s more than what most would do. You saw how empty them streets were. Folks who live here ain¡¯t willing to risk their lives to protect it, not unless they forced to, but you was out there with me. As for potential, I already hyped you up, but Sarah Jay¡¯s got you beat. I ain¡¯t just talking about her dead-eye shot, which is impressive enough. She also got a classic type A personality. Ambitious, competitive, and aggressive, not to mention organized and eager. Bet it was her idea to show up first thing in the morning, wasn¡¯t it?¡± Errol nods, and I give myself a figurative pat on the back. ¡°Well, she¡¯ll make rank wherever she goes, I can guarantee that. You, they¡¯ll keep low on the totem pole, because they¡¯ll want you in the messiest fights, but her? Sharpshooters are usually first in line for command promotion, because whoever¡¯s shaping the battlefield should either be calling the shots or close to whoever is.¡±


    ¡°Then it sounds like you¡¯re getting a good deal.¡± Errol¡¯s trying to be cavalier about it, but he wants this job bad. Probably because he don¡¯t know how it really is out there.


    ¡°It does,¡± I say, carefully so as not to excite him too much, ¡°But what I¡¯m trying to say is that you got options. Better options if I¡¯m being honest.¡± Maybe a little hope is warranted, since he don¡¯t seem to care too much about signing on with a different military outfit. ¡°Look, if I¡¯m being totally honest, I might as well go full hog. I threw out the idea of putting together a crew just yesterday morning. Haven¡¯t even given it much thought, just figured it was something I could do. You know why? Because I just done got home with a Bolt hole in my shoulder.¡±


    That gets him blinking, but I push on before he can ask any questions. ¡°Not from no Abby neither, and I ain¡¯t got no one to blame but myself. Got chewed out too, called irrational, foolhardy, and reckless, and the worst part was I couldn¡¯t disagree. I¡¯m barely keeping my own head above water out there, so I ain¡¯t confident about keeping you both afloat too.¡±


    Errol takes a moment to process what I¡¯ve said, and I leave him to it while packing mags. Instead of saying anything, he hands me the El-minister and nods downrange at the one paper target that has yet to be shot. ¡°Show me what you got, Firstborn,¡± he says, and I figure we done talking. Taking aim, I squeeze off the first Bolt, adjust, then unload another nine in quick succession. Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, Errol squints for a while before asking, ¡°How many times you miss? I can only see a couple hits.¡±


    ¡°Ha. As if.¡± Can¡¯t cast Eagle Eye on him without making use of my boot, as that¡¯s another self-targeted Spell, and it takes some getting used to anyways. Instead, I reach into my duster pocket and grab the 2.5x scope attachment that came with the El-minister rifle. Wasn¡¯t holding it back out of malice, as you ain¡¯t allowed a scope for Basic or Marksman shooting tests, and Errol takes it in stride. Then he lets out a whistle of appreciation, as he spots my handiwork, a spray pattern of ten hits no bigger than a fist, which has more or less punched a single, large hole in the target, one no bigger than a fist.


    ¡°How you get so good?¡±


    ¡°Practice.¡± To elaborate, I remember what Tim taught me about sharpshooting. ¡°When you look at the target down your sights, envision where your Bolt is gonna go. Then take the shot. Compare it with the picture you had in mind, and adjust accordingly to how off you are. Keep the same perspective from shot to shot, your hands steady, and don¡¯t fight the recoil. Absorb it.¡± All sounds simple enough, but it¡¯s surprising how few people can manage it. They just take shots without thinking, trying to get a ¡®feel¡¯ for the gun, which sometimes works, but sometimes don¡¯t.


    ¡°Well, there you go.¡± Now its my turn to blink as Errol explains, ¡°You said you¡¯re in over your head.¡± Wasn¡¯t what I said, but I¡¯ll let it pass. ¡°If that¡¯s true, then no one could make it out there. I¡¯ve been hearing stories about the Firstborn before I even got off the boat, but I thought they were all bullshit.¡± Giving me a look to convey his sincerity, he says, ¡°Not anymore. Way I see it, if you¡¯re having trouble keeping afloat, only reason I can think of is because you¡¯ve been going at it alone. As for me, seeing how you¡¯ve treated us already, and how concerned you are with our well being, I¡¯d rather sign on with you than try my luck with the Pathfinders or the Church, and I know Sarah Jay feels the same. As for the last bit, if you don¡¯t have a plan in place, then we¡¯ll work it out as we go. Simple as that.¡±


    That¡­ don¡¯t sound like a terrible idea. I can pick their brains for their thoughts and lay out exactly how bad things are, but I still think they¡¯d be better off with the Rangers. Left with no other choice, I risk it and say, ¡°What if I could get you back into Basic? I didn¡¯t want to say nothing, because I didn¡¯t want to get your hopes up, but I was already fixing to do what I can. If that don¡¯t work, I got a bit of pull with the Pathfinders, and you being local to the Plains would help too.¡±


    Errol don¡¯t even think about it, as he¡¯s already shaking his head. ¡°No need. Thanks, but no thanks. Sarah Jay wants to stay local, so the Pathfinders are a bust, and as for the Rangers¡­ well, way we left things, I wouldn¡¯t go back even if they asked me to.¡±


    ¡°Mind if I ask why?¡±


    He goes quiet for a moment, before finding the words to answer. ¡°Told you I wasn¡¯t gonna repeat what Richard said, because it was ugly. You don¡¯t seem to get it, so I¡¯ll say a little bit. He called Sarah Jay a ¡®race traitor¡¯ for ¡®consorting with lesser folk¡¯, and that¡¯s the polite version. Said in a ¡®righteous¡¯ world, they¡¯d string us both up by the nearest tree and call it justice.¡± Ah. So it was one of those arguments, which Errol did a terrible job of conveying beforehand, but I don¡¯t interrupt and let him vent a bit more. ¡°After I beat him, I told him that if he ever talked to Sarah Jay like that again, then he¡¯d be the one hanging from a tree, and I damn well meant it.¡± Meeting my eyes with a bitter and angry gaze, he says, ¡°Wasn¡¯t surprised when they washed me out, but the fact that they kept Richard on?¡± Errol shakes his head and deflates in place, the anger melting away to reveal just how disappointed he is.


    A feeling I know all too well. Marshal Ellis is a good man, but he ain¡¯t calling all the shots no more. Been that way a while now, but I reckon I been in denial for a long time. I still believe in him and his vision for the Frontier, but I also know he¡¯s a soldier first. He¡¯ll obey his orders, even if he don¡¯t like them, because that¡¯s what a good soldier does. Still, I ain¡¯t ever known him to tolerate that level of racism. Some measure of it, you can¡¯t avoid, but in the Rangers, you¡¯re a soldier first and only. Skin colour don¡¯t matter, because you are all brothers and sisters in arms. It ain¡¯t like Errol¡¯s the first black person to sign on either, as the Rangers got folks of all colours, so I don¡¯t see why the Marshal would give an outspoken peckerwood a pass.


    No sense guessing though, not when I can go straight to the source. ¡°Okay,¡± I say, handing Errol the rifle back. ¡°I ain¡¯t against taking you both on, but we¡¯ll talk about it first, make sure you know what you¡¯re signing on for. I don¡¯t want y¡¯all to be going in blind. It¡¯ll be dangerous work, with no safety net, not like you¡¯d have with a military outfit. What¡¯s more, it¡¯ll just be us three out there to start.¡± Because I can¡¯t afford to outfit more than two prospects, not without draining my funds dry. Even if we hunt Abby to raise more, it¡¯ll take at least a season or two to recoup my investment, unless we get real lucky or I can bag that Proggy up in Pleasant Dunes, but that don¡¯t seem like a smart move anymore.


    ¡°Then I guess we better come up with a good plan,¡± Errol says, shrugging all too casually for my tastes. Then again, how many times have I done the same when others have been concerned with my safety? ¡°Besides, it¡¯s not like joining the Rangers has any guarantee of safety. They gave us a similar spiel as the one you just sold us before signing on.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough.¡± Patting Errol¡¯s shoulder, I leave him to his shooting practice and head back to Chrissy and Cowie. Not gonna lie, I¡¯m a little lost right now, because Errol¡¯s right. I do need the help, and they real promising prospects to take on, but while I¡¯m confident I can keep myself alive well enough, I got no assurances of doing the same for them. So I guess the question is, if it comes right down to it, can I live with their deaths on my conscience?


    Taking a seat on the grass next to Chrissy, I share in her elation as she points out another new animal and continues to bob in time with the music, and I realize yea, I can. Because if Errol and Sarah Jay die getting me home to the people I love, then that¡¯s a price I¡¯m willing to pay any day of the week. Cold is what it is, downright frosty, but so long as I do right by them, then my conscience stays clean.


    That¡¯s life on the Frontier though. We¡¯ve all lost something dear, and we¡¯re all fighting to keep what we have. Win or lose, there ain¡¯t nothing we can do except grit our teeth and press on.


    No matter the cost.

 Chapter 13

    There are a lot of things to take into consideration when running a crew, more than I expected really.


    Like cost of ammunition. I don¡¯t need use much 44-40 these days, so Sarah Jay makes short work of everything I had on hand. Aunty Ray keeps a stock for her own guns, and I still got plenty of 22-10 ammo, since that¡¯s the only calibre I use besides the Blastgun shells, but we¡¯ll have to do some serious bullet packing so Sarah Jay can keep practicing. That¡¯s an expense I didn¡¯t consider, because even though I said bang for buck don¡¯t matter when Abby come¡¯s a knocking, my wallet is already feeling the hurt. Then there¡¯s the time spent packing the bullets themselves, which ain¡¯t nothing. There¡¯s always work to do around the homestead, like fences to mend, honeycomb to harvest, wallies to shear, and what have you, so it¡¯s not like I can dedicate all my hours to packing brass. Suppose I could put Errol and Sarah Jay to task replacing what they spent, but while packing bullets is a simple enough task, I don¡¯t know how I feel about risking my life using ammo I ain¡¯t packed myself.


    And that¡¯s just one, simple facet of what life gonna be like when I run my own crew. Suppose I best get used to delegating, but I can¡¯t say I like it much.


    Once Sarah Jay runs out of bullets to shoot, we head back to the office to tell Rudy the lane¡¯s free and clear before booking the speed shooting course. Would¡¯ve preferred to run a tactical course, since my prospects ain¡¯t gonna set no speed shooting records using their one-Bolt-per-second Squires, but the boots in Basic are using them all. Luckily they ain¡¯t all that close together, so we mosey on over to our speed shooting course which has always been one of my favourites. It ain¡¯t much to look at, just a bunch of clutter all in row with twenty moving targets positioned amongst it at distances varying from 15 to 40 metres. This here is the sidearm course, and there¡¯s one with targets at longer ranges for rifles too. While it¡¯s technically possible to shoot further than 40m with a sidearm, I wouldn¡¯t expect even Sarah Jay to hit more than one out of ten shots at that distance, not unless she using a Precision pistol with a shoulder stock.


    As for me? Anything more than 40m away gets the carbine, plain and simple.


    The tricky part of the speed shooting course is the fact that the targets move. Back and forth in fixed patterns at fixed speeds, as they laid on tracks powered by a simple little Aetheric engines, but Rudy and his people change the courses up every season or two just to keep things interesting. That¡¯s why I tell Errol and Sarah to stay in the wagon and avert their eyes from the course as we arrive. After setting Chrissy up with the music and Pictures again, as well as a cup of bapple chips, I bring my little blobby Servant out to help tack on paper targets. Part of me wanted to leave my Stetson behind again and listen in, but that¡¯d be too obvious. I don¡¯t much like taking my hat off once it¡¯s on, not unless I have to, so I ain¡¯t got no way to eavesdrop on their conversation. No doubt Errol sharing everything I told him on the other lane, but I¡¯m curious to hear Sarah Jay¡¯s thoughts on the subject without her knowing I can hear her.


    What can I say? I got trust issues. Even if she do think highly of me, they say ¡®never meet your heroes¡¯ for good reason. Ain¡¯t no telling how she¡¯d react if the real Firstborn don¡¯t match up to what she built up in her mind. Stories got a way of getting away from the truth, and while I know how good I am, I also know that I¡¯m always one Bolt away from death. Even though I got hit in the shoulder, being hunkered down like I was means that ¡®lucky¡¯ Bolt was mere inches away from my head, and I ain¡¯t got nothing that¡¯ll let me walk away from that.


    ¡­Maybe I should go see Danny boy about getting some Bolt-resistant armour. Not full plate or nothing, not even a breastplate like some Templars wear, but I wouldn¡¯t say no to a vest or shirt or something. Tina¡¯s dressmaker works with spidersilk, which I heard is mighty strong. Strong enough to stand up to a Bolt? Maybe not, but if anyone knows something, it¡¯d be Danny.


    ¡°Alright,¡± I say, peering into the wagon once the paper targets are all set up. ¡°Which one of you is up first?¡± They trade looks, and Sarah Jay graciously lets Errol have at it. I suspect her intentions ain¡¯t entirely altruistic though, as she follows him out to watch, and I shake my head with a smile. ¡°I want to see how you both do going in blind, so Sarah Jay, you sit tight just a little bit longer. Errol, once you out, I want you to turn away from the course and walk backwards. I¡¯ll guide you to the starting mark.¡±


    I guessed Sarah Jay was competitive, and she proves me right by crossing her arms in a huff. Probably wanted to watch Errol go through it first so she could do better. Ain¡¯t nothing wrong with wanting to win, so long as she knows that we all win as a team, and that while it¡¯s okay to play dirty in real life, cheating here won¡¯t help no one. Giving her a smile that says I know what she was thinking, I bring Errol to the starting mark and make sure his gun is loaded and he has ammo ready to reload. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about speed,¡± I say, even though I¡¯ve got my quartz crystal lens palmed and ready to track his time. ¡°Just make sure you hit every target. Chest or head only. Anywhere else don¡¯t count. There are twenty targets, so you¡¯ll have to reload three times at a minimum, but always carry more ammo than you think you¡¯ll need. Do a full reload each time, because anything less is a bad habit to get into. Good habits are hard to make, and bad habits hard to break.¡± Errol nods along while looking a little tense, but I clap him on the shoulder and say, ¡°Relax. This ain¡¯t a test, and if it¡¯d were, you¡¯d do better with less tension in you. Calm and cool, stable and steady. Slow is smooth and smooth is fast. You ready?¡± He nods, and I say, ¡°Then go.¡±


    Soon as he turns around, I activate the Timepiece Cantrip, which starts counting the seconds. Now, even though I said magic don¡¯t speak numbers or letters, that don¡¯t mean it can¡¯t count. It¡¯s just that instead of saying one, two, three and so on in so many words, it uses a different system for keeping track. The Timepiece Cantrip does it through the quartz crystal lens, which buzzes in my hand ever so slightly. That¡¯s the Cantrip¡¯s doing, sending pulses of energy through the crystal and keeping track of how often the crystal pulses back. It keeps doing it as I follow Errol down the line and watch him plink his targets one by one by one. The Squire makes a nice ¡®clang¡¯ that fits its oversized heft, like a hammer on metal almost, at a nice steady rate of almost exactly once every second.


    Too quick, in my opinion, as Errol ain¡¯t taking his time to line his shots up and just pulls the trigger soon as his gun is all glowy and ready to shoot. Loses him time doing that, as he misses every now and again when the target shifts, forcing him to take a second shot. By the time we get to the end, he¡¯s shot twenty-nine times for twenty targets, and I can tell he ain¡¯t happy. Took him seventy-eight seconds total, which the Timepiece Cantrip don¡¯t tell me in so many numbers, but rather through tactile sensation, a faint tingle on the index finger on my right hand, followed by another tingle on the middle finger of that same hand, the fingers for seven and eight respectively. Then the Cantrip pauses a bit, and after a full second, it sends a few more tingles along select fingers to give me an exact number up to three decimal spaces, but the first two are enough.


    Nothing against the Cantrip or the ingenuity that went into making it, but truth be told, I¡¯d much rather use a mechanical pocket watch. Too bad they¡¯re so expensive though. Can¡¯t really justify getting one for myself. Fact is, the only people I know who have one are Mr. Kalthoff, the best gunsmith around, and the Marshal, who got his along with a medal from some paper-pusher sitting pretty at Ranger HQ.


    With Errol¡¯s turn over and done with, I get him to help me replace the paper targets so Sarah Jay can have a go. He stays to watch too, and cheers her on as she hits all her shots, but she¡¯s in so much of a rush to get it done that she overlooks a target sitting low and peeking out from a doorway. If not for that, she¡¯d have crushed Errol¡¯s time by a good fifteen seconds, except she doesn¡¯t realize she skipped a target even after she finishes. She paid enough attention during the harpy fight to track her kills and mine, which tells me she wasn¡¯t counting here by choice. So, when she puts her gun away and stands tall and proud, I keep mum while Errol hypes her up. Takes a full half minute before she realizes there¡¯s something wrong, and she spends another half minute trying to figure out what it is. Feeling bad as I watch her freeze like a deer in the headlights, I turn to stare directly at the target she overlooked. Ain¡¯t ever seen someone turn so red so quickly as she hustles back to make her shot, at which point I end the Cantrip and pay no mind to her actual result. ¡°Alright then. Got some notes for you both. Errol, I see you shooting with your right hand. I also saw you holding your rope in that same hand earlier, so you gonna have to make a choice. Give up on the rope, learn to use it with your left hand, or learn to shoot lefty. I recommend the rope go in your left hand, but it¡¯s up to you. Sarah Jay, you a good shot, so stop paying so much attention to perfect posture and whatnot, with more mind paid to what you shootin¡¯.¡±


    I say my piece, then leave Errol to console a very embarrassed Sarah Jay, before they run the course a second time. Ain¡¯t much else to do besides sit back and relax with Chrissy and Cowie. A little boring, but it is what it is. Credit where it¡¯s due, it doesn¡¯t take the two prospects long to memorize the course and drastically improve, but that¡¯s why the speed shooting course ain¡¯t as popular as the tactical one. Much easier to move targets around in a fixed environment when they ain¡¯t on tracks, so you could change where targets are on the tactical course after every pass. Once Sarah Jay has it down pat, I tell her to beat the course using only the Bolt Cantrip, which sets her to scowling. She doesn¡¯t like losing or feeling inadequate, which tells me she¡¯s all too easily riled. That¡¯ll be a problem, because if she lets her pride or temper get the better of her out there, then she won¡¯t last long, especially if she don¡¯t got any disguise. She¡¯s a good-looking gal, and even the most harmless men will sometimes cat-call a pretty face, even if she less than half their age.


    Not my type, I think. She got the southern drawl, but none of the mannerisms. Too direct and upfront, unlike Aunty Ray who¡¯s perfected passive aggression into an art form.


    ¡­I really gotta stop comparing every pretty girl to family. Ain¡¯t healthy.


    ¡°How. Wee. Zhu!¡±


    Ah, fudge nuggets. Ain¡¯t nothing to inspire panic like someone stretching out your full name, and I can only be thankful my daddy didn¡¯t give me no middle one. That don¡¯t stop Aunty Ray from hitting all the wrong notes as she come thundering up atop Dumpling, one of Cowie¡¯s lovely gals who ain¡¯t read the mood right and arrives all happy and bright, her mouth open and gait prancing as she spots us from afar. She¡¯s a sweet cow she is, but I don¡¯t dare smile, because Aunty Ray is right hopping mad and I ain¡¯t got no idea why.


    I banked the stove. I washed the dishes. I locked the gun safe. Front door too. Left a note to say where we was going. Everyone took off their shoes while inside. Didn¡¯t wipe Cowie¡¯s hooves, but he was clean enough while stomping on my bed, so what did I miss?


    Dismounting before Dumpling even slows down, much less comes to a halt, Aunty Ray stomps on over with her big blues opened wide and her sapphire crystal full of shifting hues as her pouty red lips purse in a mighty frown. ¡°Boy,¡± she begins, which is even worse than using my full name, but I don¡¯t dare even look annoyed much less let myself feel it. ¡°You got some nerve.¡±


    ¡°Why? What I do?¡±


    Which is the wrong thing to say, because if Aunty Ray was hopping mad to start, well she just upgraded to barking mad. ¡°What you do?¡± Getting right up in my face and staying there even as I back away, she pokes me in the chest and repeats the question. ¡°What you do? I dunno Howie. You do anything interesting today? Got any excitin¡¯ news to share?¡±


    ¡°Um,¡± I say, still back peddling away, but that¡¯s all I can get out edgewise.


    Grabbing me by the lapel, Aunty Ray stops her advance and holds me in place to keep me from stepping past the firing line. Not that it matters, as Errol and Sarah Jay have got their sidearms stowed and smiles wide as they watch this all unfold. ¡°Um?¡± Aunty Ray asks, so angry she can¡¯t even look at me head on and gotta turn her head to the left, all so she can give me the side eye. ¡°You gotta think about it? Nothin¡¯ stands out?¡±


    ¡°I uh ¨C¡±


    ¡°You were front and centre in a harpy attack, Howie.¡± Letting go of my lapel, she pulls me in for a hug, squeezing so tight I can feel my ribs creak. After several long and uncomfortable seconds and too many wet kisses to the temple, she finally lets me go, but I can¡¯t even feel indignant about it because she¡¯s got tears in her eyes. ¡°You don¡¯t think that warrants a trip home to say you okay? Even if you didn¡¯t know where I was, you could¡¯ve stopped off and left a note at least.¡± She pulls me in for another hug, this one even tighter than the last, but luckily it don¡¯t last as long because she got a lot to get off her chest. ¡°I had to hear third-hand about how you spearheaded the defense,¡± she says, back to angry once again, her furrowed brow making her forehead¡¯s jewel bulge just a bit, ¡°From that gossipy busybody Elise, no less. Not that she knew anything worth sayin¡¯. All she heard was you was there, and you took part in the fight, then she went right on back to peddling her soaps.¡±


    Double fudge nuggets. I already know where this is going, but there ain¡¯t no stopping it now. I just stand there looking all contrite as Aunty Ray tells me how she had to go to Anita, then the Marshal, then Rudy, all in an effort to find me and make sure I¡¯m alright. My fault really, because I didn¡¯t think nothing of it, which I really shouldn¡¯t say. Don¡¯t need to though, because Aunty Ray¡¯s got me all figured out. ¡°Even if you fine and dandy after a harpy attack,¡± she says, after yet another crushing hug, ¡°You ever stop to think about how your friends feel? Dragging them out here after an ordeal like that.¡± The tears in Aunty Ray¡¯s eyes magically disappear as she turns to the giggling couple beside us with a big, bright smile. ¡°Errol, Sarah Jay, I want to thank you both for helping our Howie out in a pinch. He had no right to ask that of you, but I¡¯m glad you did.¡± Patting Errol on the shoulder, Aunty Ray gives him a worried look. ¡°You ought to be more careful though. Them harpies ain¡¯t the smartest or toughest Abby around, but that don¡¯t make them safe to fight. Why my heart downright skipped a beat seeing you run out there.¡±


    ¡°He didn¡¯t ask us to help, ma¡¯am,¡± Errol replies, and I wince to hear it. ¡°Told us to stay in the grocery store, but we didn¡¯t listen. How uh¡­ how¡¯d you see us?¡±


    ¡°You call me Aunty Ray now, none of this ma¡¯am business.¡± Fanning her hands as if to wave away the stink of the M word, Aunty Ray explains, ¡°And lots of folks saw the scuffle. Otis, in the bakery one door down and across the street from Anita¡¯s? His security camera caught the whole thing, got a perfect angle of you and Howie both, while Sarah Jay¡¯s tucked in a corner at the back. Was right proud when he pulled the crystal and I showed him what his camera caught, especially after how so many people said he didn¡¯t need them, on account of how he give out bread to those who need it. Even wanted to show it later tonight during the festival we planning, but I shut that down right quick. Last thing this town needs is more impressionable young folk acting all reckless like Howie.¡± Turning around to pat me on the cheek, Aunty Ray wants to compliment me, but she¡¯s also worried I¡¯ll get too big for my britches, and I get it, so I give her my best smile and open my arms for another hug.


    That does it, as she wraps me up in her arms real tight. ¡°You did good,¡± she reluctantly whispers, so proud but also so scared, and for the first time, I can sort of relate. I just met Errol and Sarah Jay this morning, and I¡¯ve been twisting myself into knots worrying about their future well-being, so I can only imagine how it¡¯s been for her. After a pause, she continues, ¡°Been a while since we had a harpy attack without any injuries, but oh Lord, that video was almost worse than what you did in that Sherrif¡¯s office. You know you almost walked right into the Ice Knife? Then where¡¯d I be, Howie?¡±


    That¡¯s a real kick in the gut, but I do what I can to console her, though it¡¯s difficult what with Errol and Sarah Jay standing right there. ¡°I¡¯m right here Aunty Ray,¡± I whisper back, holding her close and ignoring my rising panic. ¡°Don¡¯t you worry. That Portent thing the Marshal told you about? That warned me not to go that way and I listened, so wasn¡¯t luck or happenstance that saw me clear. I know it all looked mighty close, but I had everything well in hand.¡± For the most part, though Errol running to my rescue threw a wrench in my plans. Still, he did alright and we got out unscathed, so I say we chalk that up as a win.


    Aunty Ray takes a deep breath, then exhales, because she doesn¡¯t want to say what¡¯s on her mind. Got a feeling I know what it is. My daddy had the same nose for trouble as me, but his gut didn¡¯t do nothing to save him. It is what it is, as a Portent can only warn you about signs you yourself perceive, even if you don¡¯t know you¡¯ve perceived them. I probably subconsciously clocked the Spellcasting harpy waggling its fingers and saw where it was aiming, I just didn¡¯t consciously process it in the moment. That¡¯s how my rustling jimmies work after all, with almost nothing really magical about it, except that it actually all is.


    Once she¡¯s recovered, Aunty Ray breaks the hug and wipes her eyes and cheeks dry. ¡°Okay,¡± she says, patting my cheek and straightening my Stetson before turning to Sarah Jay with a beaming smile. ¡°As for you young missy, don¡¯t think I don¡¯t remember you. Lookit you, all grown up, strong and beautiful as can be. I remember when you was all legs and arms, a coltish young thing growing so fast that you kept tripping over your own two feet.¡± Now it¡¯s my turn to hide a laugh, while Sarah Jay glares at Errol and dares him to do the same, but he ain¡¯t as smart as he should be, grinning like a fool and unaware of the troubles he just bought himself. ¡°How are you both doing by the by?¡± Aunty Ray asks, capturing Sarah Jay¡¯s attention by cupping her cheeks. ¡°That scuffle with the harpies didn¡¯t shake you none, did it? I swear I taught Howie better, but he don¡¯t got no sense sometimes.¡±


    ¡°No need to fret Aunty Ray. We¡¯re both doing just fine,¡± Sarah Jay replies, but contrary to her words, she goes in for a hug and trembles a bit. That¡¯ll cost me later, as I should¡¯ve considered the fact that this was probably the first time Sarah Jay¡¯s seen a harpy since the last ones killed her daddy. Stupid and insensitive of me not to think about her feelings, or Errol¡¯s considering how bad he came down with the shakes. Should¡¯ve realized they¡¯d need to relax and decompress, given them some time alone or gone for some sweet pastries or something, but sometimes I forget that not everyone is as used to the life as I am. Most folks make an effort to insulate themselves from danger, while I¡¯ve been running headlongs towards it for as long as I could remember. That¡¯s how my daddy trained me after all, by showing me what¡¯s out there so I wouldn¡¯t be afraid. Aunty Ray never did like that, but it¡¯s not like my daddy ever tossed me down no cliff or something silly like that. He just pointed out the darkness in the world, and made sure I saw it, so that it could never again catch me by surprise.


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    It sounds bad, but it really wasn¡¯t. I saw a lot of terrible things, but good too, and more importantly, the good one man can do if he works hard enough for it. My daddy wasn¡¯t just a good man, but a great one, and ain¡¯t no one ever gonna take that away from him.


    While Sarah Jay wipes her tears and looks ashamed for being ¡®weak¡¯, Aunty Ray fixes me with a glare before turning back to my prospects. ¡°Now, I heard you both been staying at the travel lodge, and that ain¡¯t no safe place for a beautiful young lady like yourself. We got all sorts coming and going through town these days, so Sarah Jay, you gonna come stay with me and that¡¯s that.¡± Ignoring Sarah Jay¡¯s attempts to refuse, Aunty Ray reaches out to clasp Errol¡¯s arm with a smile. ¡°As for you Errol, Howie¡¯s got an extra room and I¡¯m sure he¡¯d love for you to stay with him. In fact, he should have offered as much as soon as he heard about your situation.¡±


    ¡°I was working up to it, Aunty Ray.¡± Putting on a scandalized tone, I say, ¡°You can¡¯t just walk up to a man as pretty as Errol and ask him to shack up.¡± Meeting Errol¡¯s eyes with a grin, I add, ¡°You gotta least buy him dinner first.¡±


    That gets us both laughing, though Sarah Jay and Aunty Ray roll their eyes in tandem. Don¡¯t get why they don¡¯t think it¡¯s funny, but their loss.


    Eager to exhibit that fine southern hospitality her people are known for, Aunty Ray rounds us all up and herds us into the wagon so she can bring us home for lunch, though she pauses briefly to chat with Chrissy who¡¯s still all bright-eyed and bouncy from the pictures and music. Breaks my heart to see Aunty Ray sag with relief as she tries to put on a happy face, no doubt having been worried sick about us both this last hour and a half. I can tell because of how she clings to Chrissy, arms wrapped around her and rocking side to side as they have themselves a little Kiccaw kickoff, repeating the word one after the other with different intonations.


    Silly, but Chrissy loves it, and Aunty Ray loves Chrissy to bits.


    Even with Dumpling nuzzling Cowie the whole way, and him nuzzling her back, we make it home in good time. That¡¯s Cowie for you though, a real professional driver, which is great because I don¡¯t know the first thing about driving wagons. Neither did my daddy, since he brought me around on old Tux before we found Cowie and he grew large enough to pull a wagon, but it all worked out alright. As for Aunty Ray, she don¡¯t want nothing to do with us now that she know we all safe and sound, so once we all home, she shoos us out of her house and kitchen as soon as the guns are all locked up tight.


    Figuring this is a good chance to teach them how to pack brass, I bring my prospects over to my place and break out the ammo making materials. ¡°All right,¡± I begin, after laying it all out on the dining table for Errol and Sarah Jay to see while keeping Chrissy from touching anything. Pointing at a jar of jagged purple pebbles to start, I name each material for them just in case they don¡¯t know what¡¯s what. ¡°Crystallized Aether. Ground Sulphur. Powdered Charcoal. And lastly, quartz shavings.¡± Rattling off the measurements needed for a 44-40 round, I walk them through the process once and show them how to collect, mix, pour, and pack with minimal wastage and next to no chance of overpacking. Then it¡¯s just a matter of putting the filled case into the tray, the seal onto the press, and using the lever to put the two together.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about using too much force,¡± I say, in response to Errol¡¯s ginger efforts with the press. ¡°The Aether inside the cartridge is stable. No amount of force will set it off, not unless you hit it with a properly inscribed firing pin or hammer.¡± To show them, I give the fresh-pressed brass cartridge a hefty smack against the table, and grin when both of them flinch. Ignoring their dark looks, I continue, ¡°Crystallized Aether is the most stable form it can take in the physical world. I could set it on fire and it won¡¯t do much besides glow. Nothing to worry about, unless it get hit by a Spell, and even then, the explosion won¡¯t hurt much. It¡¯s liquid or gaseous Aether which you gotta be careful with, but we ain¡¯t got the facilities to make any, much less the gear needed to handle it, so don¡¯t you worry your pretty little heads. Now, the sulphur and charcoal, that can explode, but not without a proper oxidizer, like saltpeter. Even then it don¡¯t really explode so much as burn fast and hard.¡±


    It''s always good to know as much as you can when it comes to what you working with. Never know when you might need to make an explosion or two, and if you¡¯re counting on crystallized Aether to do it for you, then you¡¯ll be in for a world of disappointment.


    While they pack brass and wait for lunch, I bring Chrissy out to play fetch with the wallies. As for me, I add all our spent brass to the bucket which sits in the shed, where it will continue to sit until we got enough to make firing up the kiln worthwhile. While the spent casings could easily be reused, melting them down and recasting them is easier than going through them one by one to make sure they still good. Ain¡¯t much wear and tear on a 22-10 casing, but the money saved reusing brass ain¡¯t worth even that minimal risk. Especially if it ain¡¯t just my neck I¡¯m risking. Lot of responsibility when it comes to leading a crew, and I get to wracking my brain on how to keep my prospects from keeling over the first time Abby or outlaws looks at them askew.


    It''s a long list, and an expensive one too, but one I gotta work through. It¡¯s one thing to kill a person, but a whole other to be responsible for his or her death.


    Lunch is delicious as expected, and I keep the topics light and mood breezy throughout, because I¡¯m not entirely sure if Aunty Ray knows I¡¯m fixing to add Errol and Sarah Jay to my crew, nor do I want to ask her for her opinion in front of them. It¡¯s one thing for me to admit my flaws, but another altogether to hear Aunty Ray go through them. Credit to her though, she also avoids any touchy subjects, only asking after Sarah Jay¡¯s siblings once and never broaching the subject of Basic. Guess it¡¯s not all sunshine and roses on the Kowalski home front, but truth be told, I ain¡¯t all that interested in finding out. Not because I don¡¯t care, but I feel that if Sarah Jay wants me to know about her family situation, she can tell me herself, as I ain¡¯t ever been one for gossip.


    Unfortunately, even though I¡¯d like nothing more than to talk shop with Errol and Sarah Jay without Chrissy or Aunty Ray about, the latter ain¡¯t gonna let me have my way. Instead, she sends me out with Chrissy to the nearby farms to spread word of the celebration and pick up some supplies. Errol and Sarah Jay get press-ganged into providing labour, and its hours before I see them again, at which point the festival is already underway and I can¡¯t bring myself to play third wheel to their pair.


    New Hope is a town that loves to celebrate. We have at least one festival a season, on top of any impromptu celebrations we might come up with, which is why we built a giant park in the main residential district of town, so everyone can laugh and make merry together. The Frontier makes for harsh living, so you take your victories where you can, and fending off a harpy incursion with no lives lost is a victory in anyone¡¯s book. There are plenty of events to look forward to, like games of skill and chance or silly competitions like footraces to fill a cup with water using only spoons. There¡¯s also plenty of food to go around, free to anyone who wants it, as it¡¯s paid for by the Rangers. Course, I¡¯ve also seen some stalls start charging for their food instead, likely because they feel they can make more than what the Rangers would pay them. Now I ain¡¯t got nothing against people trying to make a living, but charging for something during a festival just feels like going against the grain. We all here to have fun and enjoy ourselves, which is difficult to do when all you thinking about is price margins or bills due.


    That said, there¡¯s still lots for everyone to enjoy, including performances from acrobats, animal tamers, and other circus type acts, as well as troupe of illusionists who put on reimagined episodes of popular tv shows from the old world. They¡¯re a big hit with the older folks, but I always had trouble following along with the stories. They leave too much unexplained and focus on all the wrong things, never going into detail about the technologies they used like telephones, trackers, and the talking car that everyone loves so much.


    I mean is it a piece of Arcana-tech? A Conjured summon? Some sort of Machine-spirit, like a manufactured elemental, but one of Car instead of Fire or Earth?


    Truth is, I stopped enjoying these sorts of festivals years ago, and would¡¯ve stopped coming altogether if not for Aunty Ray, Tina, and Chrissy. Today is even worse than usual, as there are far too many people looking to shake my hand. They all heard about them harpies and want to see the man whodunnit. Means I gotta sit through all their knowing looks because of how Chrissy holds fast to my arm, all shy and scared by so many strangers pressing in around us. I answer the same boring questions again and again while glad-handing a bunch of strangers, and my smile grows strained within the hour. I ain¡¯t talking to anyone I care much to talk to, as most these looky-loos are folk who¡¯ve moved here in recent years and only heard about me in passing. Was a time when most everyone knew my face, even if I didn¡¯t know theirs, because everyone knew my daddy and wanted him to know them. ¡°There goes Ming,¡± people used to say, ¡°The finest Scout in these here parts, and father of the Firstborn don¡¯t you know. A real stand-up fellow he is, always happy to help however he can.¡±


    Which is why I stopped coming to the festivals in the first place. Because people started saying, ¡°There goes the Firstborn. Ming¡¯s boy, don¡¯t you know.¡± Almost the same thing, but so very different, and heartbreaking at the same time, even if you ignore all the hurtful things folks started whispering about after he passed.


    Far as I can tell though, Errol and Sarah Jay are having a ball, playing games and enjoying the festive foods while strolling about hand in hand. Makes me envious a bit, because I want to know what that¡¯s like, to be head over heels in love with someone. Instead, all I know is what it¡¯s like to get butterflies in my belly, which don¡¯t mean much considering I mostly get them for Tina and Aunty Ray. Cute Bow Girl too, who I now know as Kacey, but that ain¡¯t ever going to go nowhere. My fault really, for having a hair-trigger of a temper, but in my defense, her giant little brother ought to share some of the blame, mean mugging me like that with a face like his. That¡¯s just asking for a beating.


    After standing in place for far too long while strangers crowd around me, someone finally comes along to save me. ¡°Howie,¡± Tim says as he swaggers up with a ghost of a smile, which for him means he ain¡¯t scowling, but just barely. ¡°The high muckity muck wants a word.¡±


    Grabbing the lifeline like a man half-drowned, I make my excuses and bring Chrissy away with me to follow in Tim¡¯s wake. Me, I¡¯d have to push my way through the crowd, but they part before him like a flock of birds scattering before a lion. Don¡¯t blame them one bit, nor is it really his fault either. He looks the part of trustworthy Ranger veteran, what with his neat-but-tousled appearance combined with his rugged good looks. An athletic man with a full head of thick, chestnut curls that almost runs down to his shoulders, and more youthful vigour than a man of thirty-seven-years ought to have. He¡¯s also got a focused gaze and air of dark intensity about him, a casual, easygoing vigilance that screams a readiness to do violence. It ain¡¯t the same as mine, or with Ron and his boys, as ours is an atmosphere cultivated by our familiarity with savagery and our willingness to embrace it. With Tim, brutality is a way of life, one he cannot be separated from, whether he strolling through a festive celebration or knee deep in Abby innards. Me, I do what¡¯s needed when I have to; Tim, he volunteers.


    Not because he enjoys it. He plum just don¡¯t know any other way to live.


    Least that¡¯s what Aunty Ray says, and she probably right. Me, I like Tim. He got a real dark humour and stopped treating me with kid gloves after my daddy passed. Stepped up big time, not in a paternal way, but like a busy older brother. Looked out for me when trouble came looking, and showed up for the big moments like my first taste of moonshine and laughing when I choked on it. Likes to joke about shooting folk a bit too freely, but Aunty Ray says that¡¯s his way of dealing with his PTSD, vocalizing his darker thoughts so he hears how absurd they sound and don¡¯t actually act on it. Course, she also thinks most folks on the Frontier got the PTSD, but with Captain Tim Hayes, she¡¯s most definitely right.


    Once we¡¯re free of the press and around the outskirts of the park, I let out the breath I been holding and all the tension along with it. ¡°So,¡± I ask, after making sure Chrissy is doing fine, ¡°What¡¯s the word, oh high muckity muck? You want I should bow, or take a knee?¡±


    Finding himself a streetlamp to lean on, Tim rests his hand on his sidearm out of habit, the same semi-automatic 1911 Tina carries. ¡°Well, if we¡¯re being formal,¡± he begins, still flashing that same ghost of a smile, ¡°I believe protocol demands you owe me a curtsy.¡± I chuckle, but Chrissy curtsies on cue, which throws Tim for a loop, though he recovers right quick. ¡°Thank you Princess,¡± he says with a courtly bow. Chrissy is right proper happy to be away from the crowd, only holding my hand out of habit as she makes the most of her free space, taking long, slow steps all about with arms spread and head held high. Giving her a little half-smile, which on anyone else would be a full-blown grin, Tim gets back on track. ¡°So imagine my surprise this morning,¡± he begins in his slow and lazy drawl while fixing me with his hawk-eyed stare, ¡°When I got up in my nest, lined up my shot, and watched my target drop right out of the sky. Had to do a double take, make sure I didn¡¯t pull the trigger myself. By the time I looked back, the fight was in full swing. You stole my valour Howie, you and that prospect I was eyeing.¡±


    ¡°Sarah Jay?¡± Knew she had potential, as Tim fakes a scowl and nods. ¡°Yea, she¡¯s a real go getter. Wouldn¡¯t take two years in the Rangers before she¡¯d be running the Marksman division for you.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t I know it. Was looking forward to having someone handle my paperwork. Marshal would¡¯ve been thrilled too, because then he wouldn¡¯t have to deal with all my mistakes.¡± Heaving a sigh, Tim runs a hand over his smooth, white chin, which is part of what gives him his boyish good looks. That and his lack of wife and kids is the secret to his youth, according to him at least, which got a ring of truth to it. Yea, he¡¯s a handsome man, but he don¡¯t got no family on account of being a real hot mess. That¡¯s saying something too, because a Captain in the Rangers and the best sharpshooter round these here parts makes for a mighty fine prize to any woman looking for a man, but ain¡¯t nothing to be done when Tim Hayes keeps joking about how easy it¡¯d be to shoot random distant strangers on the streets.


    To be fair, if he was really gonna shoot someone, I doubt we¡¯d ever pin it on him. Man can clip a target from two klicks away, then turn invisible and reposition for another shot, all while maintaining an illusion of himself doing something elsewhere, like sitting on a fishing boat in plain sight of everyone working around the lake. Least that¡¯s usually how he says he¡¯d do it, which I feel is him giving everyone a semi-serious warning, because in seventeen years on the Frontier, I ain¡¯t ever known him to go fishing, not even once.


    Issues aside, Tim¡¯s the real deal, a top Ranger and a decent fellow overall. Got great battlefield control too, knows how to use the terrain and Spells to funnel Abby and outlaws where he wants them. Terrible Captain though. Couldn¡¯t lead a horse to water much less Rangers in the field, which is why he could really use someone of Sarah Jay¡¯s calibre.


    ¡°If you want her back,¡± I say, giving him a shrug, ¡°Then you gotta convince the Rangers to take Errol back too. And him to join of course. I ain¡¯t got the whole story, but what I have heard don¡¯t sound good, so you mind if I ask what it¡¯s all about?¡±


    Spitting into the bushes, Tim scowls something fierce. ¡°Richard Aultman,¡± he begins, his tone just dripping with scorn, ¡°Is all hat and no cattle. Showed up thinking we owed him a star just because his daddy is some hotshot politico downriver. An ¡®ideological leader¡¯ who speaks for a bunch of backwater peckerwoods gathered along some tributary of the Wayfarer. American, tax-paying peckerwoods though, and they pay lots of it. More than they owe even, to certain like-minded individuals, so when everything went to¡­¡± Glancing at Chrissy who¡¯s still making her rounds, Tim changes what he was about to say. ¡°After Errol beat the tar out of Richard, word came down the wire to come down hard on ¡®the coloured boy¡¯. Exact words, I shit you not.¡± Looking at Chrissy again, Tim grimaces and tips an imaginary hat, even though she ain¡¯t paying him no mind. ¡°Pardon my French, Princess. Anywho, the Marshal wasn¡¯t happy about it, but wasn¡¯t much he could do given the facts. Two boots got to brawling with no cameras or Rangers around. Most cadets were saying Richard threw the first punch, but he had enough lapdogs to turn it all into he said she said.¡±


    Bribery and corruption over a little dustup between boots. Wish I could say I was surprised, but most men, even Rangers, ain¡¯t as principled as the Marshal. Unfortunately, those same principles keep him from acting against orders, even orders he know ain¡¯t just. That¡¯s the sort of man Theodore Ellis is, and it¡¯s why so many respect him, fight for him, and would die for him too, but it¡¯s also why he¡¯ll never move up the chain of command. A thousand-man commander ain¡¯t small potates, but moving any higher up would require he play politics, and the current system is anathema to a good man like him. It¡¯s a shame, as the Rangers are supposed to be impartial, and Marshal Ellis would sooner resign than compromise his ethics, which would make him the perfect man to head the whole operation. ¡°What about the things Richard said? About race traitors and hangings? That don¡¯t hold no water?¡±


    ¡°Fraid not.¡± Tim shrugs apologetically. ¡°Freedom of speech means all speech is protected, even hate speech. Richard saying certain folk ought to be hung isn¡¯t the same as Errol saying he will hang Richard. The first is a statement, and the second a direct threat. Best we can do is give Richard a slap on the wrist and leave the Drill Sergeants to sort him out. If it were up to me, I¡¯d grab that racist little sh ¨C¡± Catching himself in time, Tim sighs and says, ¡°I¡¯d show him what¡¯s what is all I¡¯ll say.¡± Now, Tim ain¡¯t dumb, but he don¡¯t much like using his head neither, so it¡¯s obvious when a thought strikes him. He gets a real peculiar look on his face, confused and almost constipated even as he eyes me up and down. ¡°Why you so interested all of a sudden Howie? They ask you to pull some strings or put in a good word? You shouldn¡¯t. The Marshal would have to burn a lot of goodwill to make things right if that little peckerwood kicks up a fuss, and harsh as it might sound, those two boots aren¡¯t worth it.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­¡± Suppose I gotta tell someone sometime, so I tell Tim the whole kit and kaboodle. ¡°So yea,¡± I conclude, feeling a little concerned by how Tim¡¯s had the same deadpan look on his face this entire time, ¡°What you think about me starting a crew?¡±


    Tim stands there with his casual lean, and I can see the gears turning in his head. ¡°Well,¡± he eventually says with a begrudging tilt of his head. ¡°Not the worst idea you¡¯ve ever come up with.¡±


    ¡­Hang on. If Tim thinks it¡¯s a good idea, then I might¡¯ve made a huge mistake.


    Catching the look on my face, Tim chuckles and shakes his head. ¡°Alright look, I don¡¯t know about this crew of yours, so I¡¯ll just say what I came here to say.¡± Ducking down so he can look me in the eyes, he takes me by the shoulders and says, ¡°Lot of people been giving you flak, saying you too young to be living this life, and that¡¯s true. I would know. I was definitely too young when I signed on to the army at seventeen. Spent my first year of service popping heads off Iranian soldiers, and that was the light work.¡± Tim ain¡¯t looking for sympathy, only spitting facts, and he gives me a stoic shrug to go along with his dead-pan expression. ¡°But that¡¯s what I signed on to do. To kill. Problem is, before I could get back stateside with weapons and the skills to use them, my scumbag of a daddy had the audacity to up and die on his own. Drunk driving accident.¡±


    Nothing in Tim¡¯s expression changes, but I can see that he knows, and he knows I know because he just told me he knows. Not in so many words, but some things don¡¯t need saying. Giving my shoulder a little squeeze, he nods and says, ¡°I was too young then, just as you¡¯re too young now, but you¡¯re smarter than I ever was and know more about the life than I did. Saw how you handled yourself in that Sherrif¡¯s office and again this morning with the harpies. You¡¯re doing good Howie, and while your daddy wouldn¡¯t want this life for you, you¡¯ve made your choice, so all I have to say is¡­ well, he¡¯d be proud of you. Your skills at least, if not your goals.¡±


    Well ain¡¯t that something. Means a lot coming from Tim, because he was there from day one, when my daddy carried me into Marshal Ellis¡¯ camp and handed me over to Aunty Ray. Followed my daddy into more than one burrow and dragged him out alive at least twice, favours my daddy repaid in kind. I don¡¯t call Tim uncle, mostly because he¡¯d string me up naked in the streets and leave me hanging there, but he¡¯s family all the same. ¡°Thanks Tim.¡±


    We stand there looking at one another for long seconds, before he breaks the silence to ask, ¡°So you want a hug or something?¡±


    ¡°Not unless you do.¡±


    ¡°God no.¡± Straightening up and patting me on the back, he smiles and says, ¡°Let me know if you need anything. Unless it¡¯s money, because I got none. Or advice. Same reason.¡±


    ¡°Will do Tim.¡±


    Tim turns around to leave and is a good three paces away before he stops, circles around, and says, ¡°Oh, right. Also, you should probably stay away from Pleasant Dunes.¡±


    ¡°The Marshal put you up to this, did he?¡± Waving aside his feeble denial, I say, ¡°I wasn¡¯t planning on going back anyways. Just don¡¯t seem smart, especially if I¡¯m taking on two green prospects.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± Clapping his hand on my shoulder, Tim says, ¡°See that¡¯s what I¡¯m talking about. You smarter than I ever was. I would¡¯ve gone back just to see the look on Ron¡¯s face. Then I¡¯d have shot him.¡± Giving me two thumbs up and a strained, mechanical smile, Tim backs away and adds, ¡°Don¡¯t you worry though. I¡¯ll keep an eye on Tina. Even if Abby tear those pretty walls down, I¡¯ll get her out of Pleasant Dunes safe and sound.¡±


    Which ain¡¯t as reassuring as it sounds. Not because Tim¡¯s unreliable. No, once he¡¯s given his word, he will die to keep it, and that there is ironclad fact. The worrying part is how he thinks there¡¯s a chance that things in Pleasant Dunes will go to hell in a handbasket. See, Tim doesn¡¯t worry. He ain¡¯t one to fret, so if he¡¯s talking about it, then he doesn¡¯t see it as a ¡®worst-case¡¯ scenario, but a very feasible possibility, meaning he has no confidence in whichever Scout the Marshal tapped to find the Proggy. He¡¯s expecting it to come down to fighting on the walls, and that¡¯s a fact.


    A thought I mull over for the next little bit as I bring Chrissy around for a stroll, then over to the stage to catch Tina perform ¡®Take My Breath Away¡¯</a>. Now I know I said I wasn¡¯t planning on going back to Pleasant Dunes, and I really wasn¡¯t, but now¡­ now I¡¯m not so sure. I¡¯m thinking maybe I ought to sneak in and see what I can do about finding that Proggy. Not for the money, or pride, or what have you. Feels like it¡¯s what I gotta do. As Tina sings her heart out in front of the crowd, I watch and wonder what I would do if she were to die or get hurt in Pleasant Dunes. It wouldn¡¯t technically be my fault, but I¡¯ll have to live on knowing I could¡¯ve saved her, either by finding that Proggy before its army makes it to Pleasant Dunes, or standing alongside her during the fight.


    Or, if I look at it another way, if I go and succeed, then I could save a lot of lives, Tina¡¯s included. If I fail, then nothing changes, and maybe I die, but at least I¡¯ll go knowing I tried to keep my sister safe. I could live with Errol and Sarah Jay¡¯s blood on my hands, but I most certainly can¡¯t say the same about Tina, especially not if there¡¯s something I could¡¯ve done about it. So I guess my choice is made, the path ahead set. All I can do is give it my all, and hope I make it out alive in one piece so Aunty Ray and Uncle Teddy can tear me a new one when I get back.


    ¡­Ain¡¯t much of a reward for a job well done, but so long as Tina gets out okay, then I¡¯ll take it.

 Chapter 14

    The town of New Hope, on the shores of Last Chance Lake.


    A fitting pair of names as Sarah Jay saw it. To most who made their home on or around the Wayfarer River, this here slice of the Frontier ended at the lake, and that was that. Folks would bring their boats upriver and across the lake to New Hope where they¡¯d unload their wares for a pretty profit. Once their business was done however, the majority headed back to Riverrun for the night. That¡¯s where it was ¡®safe¡¯, or at least safer, but only because they had New Hope to protect them. Most folk never cared to appreciate that simple fact, how the good people here were risking life and limb to serve as the first line of defense against the encroaching badlands.


    Daddy understood it, and he made sure Sarah Jay and her siblings all knew it too. Back then, there weren¡¯t no harpy attacks, not yet at least, but armies of Abby would come test their walls every season or two. Some came from the lake, others from the forest hills, and still more from the badlands, in all sorts of shapes and sizes, but the Rangers kept them safe and sound every time. One of her earliest memories was hiding with Mama in their little cellar, only half dug out and still being propped up by wooden beams and such. She held Sarah Jay so tight, her and Mary Ann both, while they hugged her pregnant belly while all three of them trembled and cried the whole while. That was it, because far as Sarah Jay could remember, nothing of note happened. Abby never made it past the walls, which back then had been made of logs rather than sturdy stone at the time. Got the job done well enough, but Mama had been terrified all the same.


    That¡¯s how it was with most folk when it came to Abby. They was scared. Helpless. Weak. Not for no reason neither. Daddy wasn¡¯t none of those, and those ugly harpies still got him. Dropped right out of the sky with no warning at all, intent on grabbing Sarah Jay, Mary Ann, and little Jimmy before flying away. Daddy wouldn¡¯t let that happen though, fought off them harpies like the hero he was and paid dearly for it. That was a sight she¡¯d never forget, how brave and strong he¡¯d been that day, right up until the very end. When his six-shooter ran dry, he fought Abby off with harsh language and a pocket knife, but there were too many of them for him to get clear. Mama just froze up too, stood there and held them all close while watching daddy fight and die. Didn¡¯t run to help or hustle them off to safety or nothing. If Howie¡¯s daddy hadn¡¯t come along to save their bacon, then their whole family might well have died to those harpies on the streets that day, instead of taking shelter inside the dress shop not ten steps away.


    The same shop they¡¯d just come out of, and the same shop Daddy had been shouting for them to make for, right up until a harpy drove its talons clean through his chest.


    Took a long time for Sarah Jay to understand why Mama froze up like that, and even longer to forgive her. Some people just weren¡¯t made for this life, and that wasn¡¯t entirely their fault. Back before the Advent, Mama had been Amelia Beauchamp, a scholar fresh out of university for less than a year before making her way through the Gate. She¡¯d grown up rich see, the daughter of a successful lawyer who¡¯d never wanted for anything. Never had to Mend no socks, slaughter no livestock, or even chop wood for her own hearth, much less come face to face with Abby. Coming to the Frontier had been a rude awakening, one her undergraduate degree in psychology left her ill-prepared for. That¡¯s why she left New Hope after Daddy died, because she wanted to get somewhere safe, but moving across the lake only seemed safer. Wasn¡¯t nothing stopping them harpies from attacking Riverrun too, nothing besides the Rangers stationed here in New Hope.


    Which was why Sarah Jay found the names so fitting. Last Chance Lake, meaning last chance to turn back before reaching the front lines of the war against Abby, of if you wanted to go darker, the last chance for these here parts. If the Proggies were to break through, they¡¯d gain unfettered access to the western lands and strip these forests bare of all life and biomass, turning it into an unnatural wasteland just like the badlands around the Divide. New Hope though, that embodied the spirit of what these town folk meant to do, bring new hope to the settlers too scared to fight for their own safety, safety they took for granted more often than not.


    Sarah Jay loved her mama with all her heart, but she¡¯d long since vowed to never be like her. Largely in part due to the Firstborn, who was only a few weeks older than she was, but killed no less than five harpies during the attack that claimed her daddy¡¯s life. If Sarah Jay had been half as useful, then he might still be around, and Mama wouldn¡¯t have to depend on Oswald for her own well-being and peace of mind. A horrible man no matter how you cut it, ugly, mean, and hateful, but Mama married him all the same, mostly because she didn¡¯t know how to get by on her own. Wasn¡¯t her fault, as Amelia Beauchamp just wasn¡¯t built for life on the Frontier, which meant that as her daughter, Sarah Jay Kowalski would have to work extra hard to adapt. That¡¯s why she pushed herself so hard, not just in Basic but in school all those years before it, learning anything and everything that might help her survive out here on the Frontier.


    The people of New Hope though, they were certainly built different from the rest. Everyone walked around strapped and ready for Abby, their sidearms hanging from their belts, shoulder harnesses, or what have you even while they was drinking and celebrating to their hearts¡¯ content. They¡¯d all been ready for the fight, clearing the streets within a minute of the alarm to bunker down in reinforced stores with rifles and Blastguns at the ready. A real marvel, as even though Riverrun was only stone¡¯s throw away across the lake, everyone had gotten themselves into a tizzy just last autumn when a single Mudkipper Merbeast crawled out onto the docks. A solitary Abby that¡¯d gotten too big for its britches it all it was, and it tried to make a snack of little Jonah Mercer, who¡¯d been skipping stones for fun. Three sailors had been injured in that exchange, fools from downriver with more courage than sense and not a single gun between them, and poor Jonah still lost a foot to gangrene.


    Wouldn¡¯t have happened here in New Hope, no sir. They brought their school kids out to swim in the lake sometimes, under heavy Ranger guard of course, at least once a week in the summertime, or so Tina said. As for the rest of the townsfolk, they shook off the harpy attack without so much as missing a beat. Went right back to their lives after the threat was seen off, even Howie who¡¯d been in the thick of it. Forty-nine harpies he bagged, and he acted like it was just another day in the life of the Firstborn.


    And far as she could tell, in his eyes, it was.


    This festival was something else though, just the thing Sarah Jay needed to full shake off the nerves. Shooting helped, as it gave her something to focus on until Aunty Ray came along all sweet as honey and supportive as can be. Now there was a strong woman, independent and beautiful as a dream, while cooking meals like a professional chef and wrangling people with a soft hand. It¡¯s no wonder she¡¯d raised a daughter like Tina, the top boot in Basic bar none, so kind, friendly, helpful, and hardworking it was impossible to even envy her for her success. Made Sarah Jay feel downright inadequate next to her, but that wasn¡¯t Tina¡¯s fault, so she cheered the girl on as loudly as anyone when she came out on stage to sing out a few songs.


    And what a performance it was, topping anything the acrobats or illusionists could ever match, which was why they made Tina the big closer.


    Was a time when Aunty Ray closed out these festivals, that much Sarah Jay could remember. The up-and-coming generation seemed to be the big theme this evening though, with everyone going on about how the Firstborn almost single-handedly saw off the harpy attack, without anyone being injured no less. The general response was disbelief, and Sarah Jay didn¡¯t blame them for it. She¡¯d been there herself and could scarcely believe it, but enough people had seen the Recording to vouch for the truth of the matter. Some even recognized her and stopped to shake her hand. Errol¡¯s too, saying how much they appreciated their efforts. Nice as it was, she had to remind herself that she wasn¡¯t in this for the accolades.


    Nah, she was here to kill Abby and get paid doing it. Simple is as simple does.


    Course, there wasn¡¯t no harm in enjoying herself along the way. That was Errol¡¯s doing, as it¡¯d been a long time since she¡¯d been happy, truly happy and content. While it wasn¡¯t love at first sight when she first laid eyes on him, she fell head over heels in love with him again tonight as she watched him go all starry-eyed and giddy at all the different events. Couldn¡¯t remember the last time she¡¯d laughed this much, as Errol brought out the best in her. He signed them up for sack hop, where they competed against each other while trying to let the little kids win, or going all out against the older folk in the three-legged race and coming up just short of a victory. While they watched the shadow puppets and circus acts, he cheered right alongside the kids and she did so too, swept up in the current of his genuine wonder and fascination of things that were all old hat to Sarah Jay. It wasn¡¯t just the fact that it was new to Errol that made him react that way, but that was just his way, wearing his heart on his sleeve in a way she¡¯d never seen before. Most the boys in Basic puffed themselves up like roosters and acted like they was the cock of the walk and God¡¯s gift to women, but not Errol. He¡¯d plop down after a run with a big old grin and groan about how he never wanted to do that again, or stride right through the mud pit on the obstacle course and crack wise about that¡¯s where he would¡¯ve ended up anyways.


    Even when it was clear Richard and his bunch weren¡¯t raised right, Errol never rose to their baits or even gave them so much as a cold glance. He just did his thing and treated them like anyone else when they was grouped up for drills or whatnot. Magnanimous, that¡¯s the word Mama would¡¯ve used, a man with a big heart and beautiful smile that Sarah Jay couldn¡¯t tear her eyes away from as they walked hand in hand away from the stage beneath the rising twin moons of the Frontier.


    Most folk were packing up by now, so of course Errol was inclined to help out. He just walked right up and asked if they needed a hand, and he was welcomed by most. It was the sort of thing Daddy would¡¯ve done, and same with Howie¡¯s daddy Mr. Ming, so Sarah Jay pitched in alongside, her cheeks strained from smiling so much but still grinning like a fool. They made short work of the clean up, but not everyone went home, as there were a couple groups of folk all chatting and drinking still. As for Sarah Jay, she was content to wander about the outskirts with her arm around her man¡¯s waist and his around her shoulder.


    Sweet and magnanimous though he might be, one thing Errol couldn¡¯t do was read the mood. ¡°So,¡± he drawled, not meeting her moon-eyed gaze as he stared up at the night¡¯s sky, ¡°About signing on with the Firstborn...¡±


    Stifling a sigh, Sarah Jay put other thoughts out of mind for the moment, and almost wished she could drag her man back to the traveller¡¯s lodge where they could get a room together. Was mighty hospitable of Aunty Ray, opening up her home to Sarah Jay, and she understood why Errol had to stay with Howie, but still¡­ ¡°What about it?¡± She asked, snuggling deeper into her man¡¯s shoulder. ¡°He say something while you gals was gossiping at the range?¡±


    Oswald would¡¯ve given her the back of his hand if she¡¯d dared talk to him like that, then done the same to mama too, but Errol just chuckled, a deep, rich sound she so loved to hear when her ear was against his chest. ¡°Yea he did actually, something I think you should hear.¡±


    ¡°Good to see you two getting along so well,¡± Sarah Jay drawled, mostly to give her time to fret. Was it about her? If it was, Errol might be getting jealous, which she sort of loved. Wasn¡¯t nothing like knowing your man would go all out for you, not that she encouraged that sort of behaviour. Lord knows it was stilly enough how Errol had been fixing to pick a fight the Firstborn when he showed up this morning, fresh rolled out of bed and still swaddled in his nightclothes. Howie made the look work though, the loose clothes looking casual and laid back as he puttered about the kitchen unlike any other man Sarah Jay had ever met. That was supposed to be women¡¯s work, but then again, seeing how he¡¯d grown up without his mama, Mr. Ming had probably done his fair share of cooking too. ¡°So?¡± She asked. ¡°What¡¯s so important that you gotta talk about it right now?¡± Instead of bringing her somewhere dark and private, away from the crowds.


    ¡°Well¡­¡± Wasn¡¯t like Errol to be so shy, so Sarah Jay snapped herself out of her funk and paid more attention to his expression. Perplexed, and more than a little concerned. ¡°You saw how he handled himself against those harpies. Incredible, right? Except¡­¡± Breaking their embrace to face her head on, Errol placed his hands on her shoulders and met her eyes with unease. ¡°I didn¡¯t tell you this, but this morning? When he sent you up to help Chrissy with her dress and ribbon? He told me that if I love you, I would help him convince you to go back to Basic. I do love you, and I think he¡¯s right.¡±


    A statement which both warmed her heart and got her madder than a wet hen. ¡°Oh?¡± She tried to keep her tone neutral, but seeing her man flinch told her she¡¯d failed miserably. ¡°And you think telling me you love me means you get to tell me what to do?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t say that,¡± Errol replied, all calm and smiling in spite of her frosty response. ¡°I¡¯m saying I think that he¡¯s right, that you¡¯re better off in Basic than riding out with him.¡±


    ¡°And how you figure that?¡±


    Taking off his cap to run his hand through his thick, curled coils, he took a moment to consider his words while Sarah Jay¡¯s temper cooled and ardour heated. Wasn¡¯t fair, being a man so pretty it could make your knees weak, but she crossed her arms and held firm even as she stood up a little straighter to better show of the gals. If he was gonna use his charms against her, then she had no qualms about doing the same, and she allowed herself a smile when she saw how distracted he became. Men were so silly, getting all gooey and bug-eyed for what amounted to two lumps of fat on a girl¡¯s chest, even while fully covered by a buttoned-up shirt and vest. Would do away with hers if she could, especially considering how large they¡¯d gotten in recent years and all the unwelcome attention they brought, but she liked them more now that she had a man she loved to appreciate them.


    ¡°Howie comes off as a real confident guy,¡± Errol began, soon as he found his tongue again. ¡°Almost over-confident even, but that¡¯s just how it looks. He¡¯s confident because he knows what he can handle, which is why it¡¯s concerning how he spent so much time today confidently telling me how hard it¡¯ll be riding out with him. That talk we had on the range? He spent most of it trying to convince me to sign on with a different outfit, because we¡¯d both be safer there.¡±


    But not better paid, or free to pick where they were stationed, which was important to Sarah Jay. Still, if the Firstborn was concerned, then she should be too. ¡°Why didn¡¯t he say nothing to me then?¡±


    Errol chuckled again and shook his head. ¡°Because he¡¯s got you pegged. Knows that if he tried to discourage you, you¡¯d think it was some sort of test or something and double down.¡± Sharp as a tack, the Firstborn was. Figured all that out over breakfast, though it wasn¡¯t like Sarah Jay did much to hide it. She didn¡¯t say nothing though, just listened quietly while Errol told her everything about their talk. Crazy to think that even the Firstborn was struggling to keep his head above water, what with how the town folk of New Hope went on about him. He was the star of tonight¡¯s festival, though he made no real public appearance of any sorts. Didn¡¯t seem like the type to put on airs and he most certainly didn¡¯t, just wandering about with sweet Chrissy on his arm and an uncomfortable smile on his face while shaking hands with strangers and making excuses to get away.


    Didn¡¯t seem like a man who could walk into town and gun down five outlaws posing as lawmen, either but that¡¯s what everyone said he did, and Sarah Jay believed it, even if he did get shot.


    ¡°I told him we¡¯d rather sign on with him than another outfit, but I figured we should at least consider it.¡± Errol concluded, gently placing his big hands over her arms and slowly rubbing them. Not to entice her or anything, but to keep her warm, even though she already had his jacket draped over her shoulders. That¡¯s the sort of man he was, considerate and caring, and it was all she could do to keep herself from throwing herself at him for a taste of his lips.


    She was already shaking her head though, unwilling to start over somewhere else. ¡°How long would it take if we went to the Pathfinders?¡± she asked, knowing he didn¡¯t have the answer. ¡°Or even the Latin American Church? I know you was raised Catholic, but I doubt the Templars pay much considering most them knights take vows of poverty. And we¡¯d have to come back for my family and bring them away to somewhere they might not even speak the language. The M¨¦tis got plenty of English, but you said yourself that a lot of them only speak French, and don¡¯t get me started on how many languages you gotta know to get by in New Sonora.¡± Spanish and Portuguese were the big ones, but outside the church, plenty of South American settlers only spoke Nahuatl, the language of the natives.


    ¡°I know,¡± Errol replied, still rubbing her arms with that gentle, loving look in his eyes. ¡°And that¡¯s why I told him what I did, but that doesn¡¯t mean we shouldn¡¯t think about it. Like what if you went back to the Rangers? You could finish training while Howie shows me the ropes.¡±


    It was sweet how concerned he was for her safety, but she was more concerned about him. He was a kind, gentle and caring man, but that didn¡¯t mean he didn¡¯t get angry, and when he did, he¡¯d lose his head. She¡¯d seen it firsthand when he beat the tar out of Richard, who more than had it coming, but then she saw it again today when he ran headlong at a flock of harpies. Though she didn¡¯t want to say it out loud and hurt his pride, she knew her man was only alive because the Firstborn risked life and limb to keep him that way, and it¡¯d been a close thing. Six by her count, that¡¯s how many times Howie saved Errol¡¯s life this morning, though she suspected the real number was probably higher.


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    If anyone was better suited to ride with the Firstborn, it was Sarah Jay, not Errol, and that was a fact.


    ¡°Disgusting.¡±


    A single word is all it was, but spoken with such forceful loathing that hit Sarah Jay like a cold shower. Errol too, judging by how he stiffened up and pulled away before stepping out in front of her without so much as a thought. Sweet and stupid is what it was, as she could handle herself against the likes of Richard Aultman and his pack of peckerwood goons. Still, she didn¡¯t want to make nothing of this, so she didn¡¯t so much as glance at Richard and instead wrapped her arms around Errol¡¯s waist, snuggling right up and resting her chin on his shoulder. ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± she said, subtly nudging her man¡¯s hand away from his pistol, which wasn¡¯t even loaded anymore. Howie wouldn¡¯t let them go around strapped, as you needed a license for open carry in New Hope and any of the fortress towns along the Blue Shield, but he wanted them to get used to the weight. ¡°Forget these fools. Don¡¯t let them ruin our night.¡±


    Errol didn¡¯t budge one bit, not with his temper fired up as it was. Richard had that effect on a lot of folk, just a smug, hateful little man, all scrawny and five-foot six with his brown hair slicked to one side. Probably needed help from one of his goons apply his foul, shiny hair product after Errol broke his left arm, which was currently resting in a sling. Any sympathy one might have for Richard would dry right up after hearing him speak, as he had a way of talking at you that made you feel real small. Like Oswald, only worse since Richard would spew hate and lies like they was truth and fact, while Oswald just called you stupid and worthless. Even with his jaw magically Splinted in place by the medicos, Richard wore his ugly little sneer as he looked them over like something he stepped on out in the fields. ¡°You still don¡¯t see it, do you Sarah Jay?¡± he said, his voice flat and tone rude in a way that had nothing to do with how he couldn¡¯t open his mouth. ¡°You¡¯re only demeaning yourself by mingling with an Umber, disgracing yourself, your heritage, and throwing away your future in the process.¡±


    As if using so hateful a word wasn¡¯t enough, Richard said it with such disdain while looking at Errol like he was some sort of vermin. Even knowing what she knew now, she found it so shocking considering how careful Richard had been in the past. Though he made no effort to hide his bigoted views, he¡¯d always been careful to never say anything too hateful out loud, or at least not until he found out about Errol and Sarah Jay. Then all that hatred came pouring out, because Richard fancied himself a ladies¡¯ man and had long since set his sights upon her. Not Kacey, because she was Nipponese, and not Tina after she added mud to his bowl of stew and magicked him so he didn¡¯t notice the swap until he was halfway done eating. That¡¯d been a real hoot, watching Richard scarf down wet dirt like a man starved, which was how he ate every meal. He didn¡¯t make no advances on Tina after that, no siree, but it meant Sarah Jay had the displeasure of his full attention.


    Attention she never encouraged, and made plenty clear of after she beat the tar out of him during a sparring session when he thought he could get handsy. Still didn¡¯t get the hint though, as he kept right on telling her about all the places he¡¯d been and fancy doohickies his daddy had bought him, as if that was supposed to impress her. Now, he was going on about how blacks were lazy, criminals, and terrible fathers, or how diversity was not a strength, and how she¡¯d end up a trophy to be shared among Errol¡¯s ¡®primitive tribe¡¯. That¡¯s how it was with Richard, as he couldn¡¯t talk sense so he talked fast, yammering on and on from one point to the next without any rhyme or reason. Still ignoring him, she gently guided Errol to leave without so much as moving an inch, and she could feel his resistance melting away.


    Right up until someone else called out their names. ¡°Errol! Sarah Jay!¡± Sauntering up bold as can be, Howie turned his back to Richard and gave them both a big grin. ¡°Was hoping to find you two and have a bit of a chat before we head home.¡± Leaning in all conspiratorial like, he whispered, ¡°Aunty Ray brought Chrissy home, as they was both getting sleepy, so best we talk now while we can.¡±


    Tina was also trailing along behind him, smiling brightly and bouncing along like the pure delight that she was. Like Sarah Jay, Tina didn¡¯t give Richard so much as a glance, her cheeks all flushed, big blues bright, and sapphire gleaming after belting her heart out on stage like a superstar from the old world.


    ¡°Beat it kid. Adults are talking here.¡± It was clear Richard didn¡¯t recognize Howie, not with his back turned as it was. If he did, he wouldn¡¯t have said what he did. Tina, Errol, and Sarah Jay all sucked in a breath, as did some of the smarter boys on the other side, those few who¡¯d clocked the Firstborn on his way over. Though still smiling, Howie wasn¡¯t happy no more; downright hopping mad in fact, judging by how his eyes got even bigger than their normal wide-eyed stare. That was part of why so many thought of Howie as cocky, because the natural southern smile didn¡¯t look so natural on his decidedly Qin features. Wasn¡¯t his fault others weren¡¯t used to seeing it, but after a single day, Sarah Jay already saw how natural it really was.


    Howie was a happy man, most of the time. He was also an angry man, almost all the time, but he had good reason to be, and now he had an excuse to act on it.


    ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± Errol said, fool that he was. ¡°It¡¯s not worth it.¡±


    ¡°Oh don¡¯t you worry,¡± Howie replied, the heat in his brown eyes still blazing hot. ¡°This ain¡¯t for you.¡± Turning about on his heel, he gave Richard a casual half-wave, while folding his left hand over his stomach. ¡°Howdy there. I¡¯m Howie Zhu. Firstborn of the Frontier, so I reckon if I¡¯m a kid, then you¡¯d be one too.¡±


    The scorn in Richard¡¯s eyes was plain to see, and his tone still hateful as he oozed, ¡°There¡¯s more to maturity than age. Course I meant no insult by it. You just looked like a kid from behind.¡± None of the goons chuckled, which put a furrow in Richard¡¯s brow, because they always laughed at his jokes. Wasn¡¯t the irony that kept them from laughing though, though Sarah Jay found it laughable considering Richard was even shorter and flimsier than the Firstborn. Though she hadn¡¯t seen Howie with his shirt off, he had a solid way about him that made her think he was lean and wiry, especially considering how much he ate. More than Errol even, who had a good four inches in height and both shoulders in width, though where the Firstborn was putting it all away, only the Lord knew.


    ¡°Understandable,¡± Howie replied, slowly striding over so they could talk face to face. His right hand was still held like he was still half-waving, except it wasn¡¯t moving no more, which struck Sarah Jay as strange until she realized what he was doing. Keeping his hands away from his pistol, which was very much loaded. It was the same reason he had his other hand folded across his stomach, to show he wasn¡¯t waggling no fingers. A habit to get into, that¡¯s what he told them this morning, words he lived by.


    That wasn¡¯t all though. The Firstborn didn¡¯t just walk straight on over, he angled his path a bit to his left. Richard and his goons shifted to keep him in front of them, the movement so natural Sarah Jay almost didn¡¯t clock it until she was looking at both groups from the side. Howie didn¡¯t lock eyes with them neither, his head tilting this way and that as he looked the whole goon squad over. Checking for weapons maybe and being none too subtle about it, but also showing how unimpressed he was. Man could put a lot of words into something simple as a smile, and Howie¡¯s was full on smug and mocking, but not hateful like Richard¡¯s.


    ¡°So lemme guess,¡± the Firstborn said, standing within arms reach of six possibly hostile men yet still relaxed as can be as he sized Richard up. ¡°You must be little Dick.¡±


    Men.


    Before anyone could get angry and do something, Howie clapped, startling them all while shaking his head. ¡°English is a funny language, ain¡¯t it?¡± His voice took on that soothing tone he used when spouting facts, like the specs of a gun or the history of a world he ain¡¯t ever been to. ¡°How in tarnation does ¡®Richard¡¯ shorten to ¡®Dick¡¯? Ain¡¯t the only nickname that don¡¯t make sense neither. Like Robert and Bob, or William and Bill.¡± Turning to give Sarah Jay a genuine smile and a knowing look, ¡°James and Jimmy.¡±


    It warmed her heart to know the Firstborn still remembered her daddy six years after his death, and Sarah Jay smiled back. So did Tina, who chimed in with, ¡°Charles and Chuck.¡±


    ¡°Good one.¡±


    The little smile between Tina and Howie got little Dick right hopping mad, seeing her get along so well after treating him so cold these last two months. ¡°Listen here you ¨C¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t interrupt.¡± The words cut like a knife, cold and sharp as can be, and wouldn¡¯t you know it, little Dick shut his mouth. As much as he could at least, and Howie kept right on talking all nice and breezy as if it were nothing. ¡°Ain¡¯t done saying my piece. Bah, forgot what I was going on about now. Whatever.¡± Shaking his head with a sigh, he looked each goon dead in the eye and somehow made them look away, the mad dog in him ready and raring to get out. ¡°Now I know there some bad blood between Errol and little Dick, but how bout we leave it for another day? Today, we had ourselves a harpy attack, and no one in town was hurt or killed, so I for one think we ought to keep it that way. How bout we all take a step back and go on about our separate ways. Sound good?¡±


    The last was directed straight at little Dick, who Howie was now looming over in his strange little stance, so casual and defenseless it was almost daring them to take a swing. Others had taken note of their little gathering by now, filtering over to see what it was all about. Mostly younger folk, including a number of boots from Basic, and Sarah Jay was gratified to see more than few meet her eyes and give a little nod. Not Kacey though, as the fetching oriental girl had her piercing gaze fixed on the Firstborn, all intense and fiery but not in the way he would like. She had Inari in her arms, and though the white-furred three-tailed fox seemed all curled up and relaxed, its unblinking eyes were fixated on Howie with the same intensity as Kacey.


    That¡¯s what you get when you beat up a girl¡¯s little brother. Shame on Howie, though having seen Kacey¡¯s brother, Sarah Jay could understand how he made the mistake of thinking the fourteen-year-old boy was older. That¡¯s said, they wouldn¡¯t have made a good couple anyways; Howie was an affable sort, even if he wasn¡¯t all that sociable, and he had a breezy attitude towards most issues, while Kacey was polite and goal oriented, serious as the grave and reserving all her smiles for her brother and her fox.


    It took long seconds for little Dick to find his nerve and respond. ¡°You going to make me?¡± Even having one broken arm didn¡¯t slow him none as he grabbed the Firstborn by the lapel with a sneer. ¡°Go on then. Beat a man with a broken arm and jaw. Show the good folk what a rabid beast you are and abuse an injured American.¡±


    Letting out a little scoff as he looked down at little Dick, Howie reached up to adjust his hat, even though it was already sitting firmly atop his head, before leaving both his hands half up by his shoulders, his palms forward and fingers spread. ¡°Now why you gotta go and make this so hostile? I¡¯mma kindly ask you to remove your hands from my person.¡±


    ¡°Or what?¡± Came the reply, the words so full of contempt that even little Dick¡¯s goons felt he¡¯d gone too far. The closest one, Alfred, a burly fella close in size to Errol, turned to say something, but little Dick just snarled and said, ¡°So what if he¡¯s the Firstborn? That isn¡¯t worth shit, and I¡¯m not going to let some savage, slant-eyed Qink tell me what to do.¡±


    Howie laughed again, a soft sort of chortle that wasn¡¯t much more than a breath of air. ¡°You absolutely right. Ain¡¯t nothing worth respecting about being Firstborn. Just means I got here a little earlier than the rest of you is all. Only brought it up because it was relevant to the conversation at the time, what with you making references to my age. Why don¡¯t we go back to talking like gentlemen then? I¡¯mma ask you real nice once again, please remove your hand from me and we can each go our separate ways. If not, well¡­¡± Howie shrugged, his face so comically reluctant that it took everything Sarah Jay had to not burst out into giggles as he said, ¡°I suppose I¡¯ll have to defend myself. You know, assuming you intent on keeping your grip of my shirt there.¡±


    He was baiting little Dick, who gobbled it up hook and all. ¡°I¡¯d like to see you try.¡±


    ¡°Last chance,¡± Howie said, holding up three fingers on his right hand. ¡°I¡¯mma count down from three, and if your hand still there, then I have no choice but to take action. Normally, I wouldn¡¯t give so much warning, but you near full crippled already, and I feel a bit bad for whoever gonna hafta feed you after this.¡± Little Dick¡¯s sneer grew even more hateful as he tightened his grip, but Howie just smiled through it and counted slowly. ¡°Three Mississippi. Two Mississippi. One Mississippi.¡± Cocking his head to the side, he turned to Tina and asked, ¡°Hey, why do we count in Mississippis? River¡¯s literally a world away, and I¡¯m sure we can figure out some local landmark to use instead.¡±


    Tina shrugged, and Howie shook his head before turning back to little Dick. ¡°Sorry about that,¡± he said, beaming brightly at the other man¡¯s scarlet cheeks, from anger and exertion both as little Dick held on as hard as he could. ¡°I get distracted at times. Now, you absolutely sure about this?¡± No answer was forthcoming, so Howie gave another little shrug. ¡°Alright. Suit yourself.¡±


    Even though she had a perfect view of them both, Sarah Jay didn¡¯t catch what happened next. One second, Howie¡¯s shirt was held tight in little Dick¡¯s fist, and the next thing she knew, the smarmy little bigot was on the ground screaming as he cradled his hand. Smoothing the wrinkles out of his shirt, Howie put on an innocent, wide-eyed expression and looked around at the others. ¡°So¡­ rest of you ready to walk away, or y¡¯all fixing for a dance?¡±


    Hand to God, Alfred let out a small sigh before cocking his hammer of a fist back for a swing, and credit where it was due, Howie waited politely for the man to steel his nerves and throw the punch before responding. This time, Sarah Jay saw it all crystal clear, as the Firstborn casually swatted the bigger man¡¯s fist aside like wet paper. Then, with that same hand, he carefully punched Alfred in the gut, not a full out swing, but an almost probing jab that had the big guy doubled over and gasping for breath. Hooking an arm under the bigger man and lowering him gently to the white grass, Howie said, ¡°Good punch,¡± while standing with feet planted and glancing at the others to see who would be next. ¡°Should find better friends though. Don¡¯t get up.¡±


    A Spell. It had to be. Alfred was twice as thick and muscled as Howie, so it should¡¯ve gone the other way around. Maybe the First Order Absorb Force? A self-cast reaction Spell, making it one of the more difficult Abjuration Spells to not just learn, but properly utilize. Without any Vocal or Somatic components to the Spell, the caster needed to keep careful discipline of their thoughts and actions so as to not only time the Spell right, but also keep themselves from accidentally utilizing it in everyday life. It was like walking around with a loaded gun and your finger at the trigger at all times, except in this case the gun was more of a shield than anything else. Blast, Eagle Eye, Web, Misty Step, Mage Armour, Simple Servant, and now Absorb Force. That made seven Spell Structures he currently had Prepared that she knew of, not including Cantrips. Which mind you was almost double Sarah Jay¡¯s current limit of four, and she¡¯d spent every day casting her Spells to increase that limit since the day she turned fourteen. More you cast, the more Spell Structures you could Prepare, but natural aptitude played a part as well and once again, she was reminded of how far behind she was.


    Despite all this, the remaining three goons seemed to think they still had a chance as they traded looks and spread out to take Howie on together. Errol made a move to step up, but Tina gently backhanded him across the chest and whispered, ¡°Don¡¯t. He¡¯ll pitch a fit if you step in and interrupt his fun, especially after he told you this wasn¡¯t for you.¡±


    That Howie did, though they all thought he¡¯d meant something different. Seemed Tina knew him well, as well she should, having grown up like siblings. Even though she knew what the goon squad could do, she hardly seem concerned or even much interested in Howie¡¯s fight, still all bubbly and bright without so much as batting an eye at Howie¡¯s predicament. In two months of Basic, Sarah Jay hadn¡¯t ever seen Tina any other way. The girl could smile through a twenty-mile marathon in full gear and look no less beautiful for it, something Sarah Jay envied but entirely without malice. Hard to hate someone so friendly and caring, even if she was brilliant, talented, and had perfect skin too.


    As for Howie, he showed them all why Tina wasn¡¯t concerned one bit. As Gabe, Steve, and Ike closed in, he danced around the fallen Alfred and little Dick, leading the others on a merry chase. Kept his hands held up in front of him like a boxer¡¯s stance, but palms open instead of closed into fists. A flurry of punches came his way, and those he couldn¡¯t dodge he parried aside, smiling all the while. It was nothing compared to what he did against the harpies this morning, yet still every bit as amazing to watch, because it wasn¡¯t speed or strength he relied on to keep himself in the fight, but foresight and experience. He made the other boys look clumsy because he was five steps ahead of them, running them around in circles and making sure only one could come at him at a time.


    Like when Gabe ran in with arm cocked, Howie closed in, forcing Ike to abandon his tackling charge for fear of hitting his friend. Ducking under Gabe¡¯s punch, Howie then positioned himself perfectly to push his unbalanced opponent into Steve who¡¯d been coming at Howie from the side, leaving only Ike still standing as his boys picked themselves back out. It wasn¡¯t luck, but an opportunity the Firstborn created, and he took full advantage of those three free seconds to unleash a trio of punches. Not full-on strikes with his full weight behind them, but sharp jabs aimed at Ike¡¯s eyes, gut, and liver, little love taps that barely rocked the bigger man before Howie danced away to circle around once more.


    Now it was Ike standing in the way of Gale and Steve, who came running over in a big rush, and the game continued for a while yet. Howie never took a full swing, attacked very rarely in fact, usually aiming at the goons¡¯ eyes and dancing away shortly after. He was marking them, bruising them real good, but he wasn¡¯t hitting hard enough to knock them out. No, he was just content to swat and play while tiring them out, as the goons were soon panting from the exertion of swinging their fists so many dozens of times.


    For a minute, Sarah Jay thought Howie was toying with his opponents them like a rhyzie with a cornered chitter rat. Then he took his first hit and his smile slipped, and she learned why people said to never start a quarrel with a Qin. Wasn¡¯t nothing more than a glancing hit to his left shoulder, but Howie¡¯s fury was terrible to behold as his once-happy expression twisted in rage and resentment. He wasn¡¯t dancing no more as he threw himself at Gabe, who himself had yet to recover from delivering the lucky hit and went down hard like a sack of potates.


    It cost the Firstborn dearly to stand and fight, because even he¡¯d taken one man out of the fight, it was still two against one. Though Howie dodged Ike¡¯s spear tackle once more, he was left with no choice but to block Steve¡¯s right hook, and he staggered aside as he took the hit on his left shoulder again. Letting loose a snarl of pure anger, his left elbow went up and around, locking Steve¡¯s right arm in place and leaving him ill-equipped to block the Howie¡¯s storm of furious rights, all aimed at the bigger man¡¯s face. Steve got his left hand up in time to block the first blow, but the second blew his guard away, and the third landed hard right on his cheek bone and turned his legs to jelly right quick. It was over for him, but Howie hit him twice more before letting him go and turning on the last man standing. Anyone with eyes could see Ike was scared out of his wits, but he didn¡¯t have the good sense to run or give up, and now it was Howie¡¯s turn to go on the offensive. He didn¡¯t run in, just walked over calm as can be and started throwing punches. Credit where it¡¯s due, Ike blocked a fair few, but Howie¡¯s fists kept coming from all different angles and more than one slipped through.


    ¡°That¡¯s enough Howie,¡± Tina called, and like magic, Howie stopped beating on Ike, his arm stopping mid swing at the sound of her voice. Staggering about on his feet, Ike looked like he was still game, but then Tina said, ¡°Fight¡¯s over,¡± and he took her words at face value. The pluck drained out of him as he dropped to his knees, but Howie caught him the same way he caught Alfred earlier and gently lowed Ike to the grass.


    Wasn¡¯t no magic in Tina¡¯s words, only truth and good sense, but clearly Howie wasn¡¯t done just yet. Once Ike was down safe on the grass, Howie¡¯s dark expression lingered as he adjusted his hat and stalked on over to little Dick, who was still cradling his hand where he fell. Grabbing the other man by the hair, Howie made a face of pure revulsion, disgusted by the feel of the product before dragging little Dick¡¯s face closer for a little chat. Whatever Howie said was meant only for the two of them, but it scared that peckerwood something fierce, the blood draining out of his sun-tanned skin until he was whiter than a ghost.


    And then he turned even whiter when Howie grabbed his broken hand and gave it a good hard shake, eliciting a mewling cry from the smug little racist. All praises aside, the Firstborn had reputation for being a mean son of a gun, and apparently deservedly so, as Sarah Jay was now seeing firsthand.


    Dumping the man like yesterday¡¯s garbage, Howie wiped his hand in the grass before standing up straight and moseying on back. ¡°Alright then,¡± he said, grinning like a kid in a candy store again as he led them away, not caring one whit about the people he left behind or the blood on his scraped knuckles. ¡°About that talk. First off, I was hoping you¡¯d share what Spells y¡¯all know and what schools of Magic you best with. I¡¯ll go through my Spellbook when I get home and try and put together proper loadouts so that we don¡¯t got too much overlap.¡± Blinking as if he¡¯d just remembered something, he leaned in and said, ¡°You know, assuming y¡¯all still want to try this. I¡¯m sure Errol¡¯s told you everything by now, but I guess you could take the night to think it over. Or longer, but then you gonna hafta wait, as I¡¯m planning another trip real soon and we¡¯d have to start prepping right away. Won¡¯t be too long if you miss it, a month or so? Six weeks tops would be my guess.¡±


    ¡°No need,¡± Sarah Jay replied, hugging her man tight and taking solace from his presence. Sure, Howie had a mean streak when his blood got hot, but wasn¡¯t like little Dick and the others didn¡¯t deserve it. Paid them no mind to start, then gave ¡®em every chance to walk away before it all went down, so you couldn¡¯t exactly blame the Firstborn for giving it a proper finish. ¡°We¡¯re in. You need a crew, and we¡¯re it.¡± If they was gonna talk shop, then maybe the Firstborn would open up about what he could do¡­


    The smile Howie gave her was charming as can be, as was Tina¡¯s who smiled out of sight behind him. Now that Sarah Jay thought about it, Tina and Howie would make a cute couple, though it was harder to imagine it considering how sweet and brotherly he was with Chrissy. He was probably the same with Tina, though maybe not as cuddly, which only made sense. Breaking away from hugging her man, Sarah Jay strode side by side with Howie and talked shop for a bit, eager and excited to open up the next chapter of her life.


    Wasn¡¯t no place she would rather be than New Hope, and no one she¡¯d rather ride with besides her man and the Firstborn both.

 Chapter 15

    Conflicted.


    That was the best word Errol could come up with for how he felt. Conflicted. Sure was satisfying to see Richard get what¡¯s coming, and more for his goons who backed him up, but that wasn¡¯t what Errol wanted. If it was, he¡¯d have fought them himself the first time they tried to push him around. He didn¡¯t because the good book said to turn the other cheek. An eye for an eye left the whole world blind after all, a lesson he learned was all too true. Losing his temper caused him to miss out on the chance to become an American Ranger and join in on their efforts to tame the wild Frontier after all.


    To say he had no regrets would be a lie, but he couldn¡¯t walk away after hearing Richard badmouth Sarah Jay like he did.


    Then Howie came striding in to dole out a beatdown for all the wrong reasons, leaving Errol feeling how he did. Would things have turned out like this if he¡¯d stood up to Richard earlier? Weeks of insults and verbal abuse had taken its toll, so when that racist little weasel started talking shit about Sarah Jay, Errol had just snapped. He went overboard breaking Richard¡¯s jaw and stomping on his arm like he did, things he never would have thought himself capable of, and he could only blame it all the repressed anger. Was it a mistake to live and let live? Or was his mistake giving in to anger? Howie did it too, and no one seemed all too concerned that something might come of it. They¡¯d all put the fight behind them as they headed home for the night, not saying one word about Richard or his goons once they were out of sight.


    Which seemed wrong, but Errol couldn¡¯t quite say why, and the weight of his doubts sat heavily upon him.


    It¡¯d been such a great day too, right up until Richard showed up. A good hearty breakfast to kick things off, followed by a fight against harpies to get the blood pumping. Then they spent an hour or two at the gun range, which Errol always found relaxing, and had an amazing lunch cooked by Aunty Ray. After that, there was a whole festival to top things off, one that was bigger and better than anything he¡¯d ever seen in his life, yet thrown together in less than half a day. Wasn¡¯t a matter of scale or different types of events that made it so amazing, but the way everyone came together to laugh, celebrate, and make merry. Without any tension mind you, as he spent the whole night hand in hand with Sarah Jay and didn¡¯t get harassed for it was. Wasn¡¯t anyone coming up to ask if she was okay, or worse, giving them both dirty looks as they passed. No whispered discussions, no disapproving lectures, no one turning them away from their booths or offering unwarranted ¡®advice¡¯. Hell, there were even people who came up to thank them for their efforts against the harpies, bringing them food and drinks and smiles aplenty.


    One stocky white lady named Patricia stood out, as she¡¯d patted their cheeks with the sweetest look in her eyes while saying how they were just a lovely couple.


    It was a world of difference from his two months in Basic. It wasn¡¯t that everyone there was racist like Richard, but those that weren¡¯t didn¡¯t seem to care about what he said. After he found out about them, he made it sound like the whole world would be against their relationship, and after getting booted out of the Rangers, he thought there might be something to it. Taking a step back, there wasn¡¯t a single boot who was kind enough to sit with him and say, ¡°Hey, Richard¡¯s an asshole.¡±


    No one besides Sarah Jay at least. That¡¯s all it took really, a few words of support, and it made a world of difference. Helped him feel like he wasn¡¯t alone here in New Hope, that there were people who didn¡¯t see eye to eye with the hateful racist and didn¡¯t think Errol was some criminal in the making. Logically, he understood why no one wanted to be around him. He was their scapegoat, Richard¡¯s favoured victim, meaning he and his goons were usually busy making Errol¡¯s life miserable, leaving the rest free and clear. For a time, he carried that burden with pride, because he felt he could handle it, be the shield defending the others. He even made it a point to step up when he saw that sanctimonious prick bothering someone else, and soon enough, he had Richard¡¯s full attention. Small stuff really, like snide comments, hidden shoes, messing with his kit and ¡®pranks¡¯ that were just mean, rather than funny, but the instructors didn¡¯t let anyone get away with too much.


    As the weeks wore on though, so too did Errol¡¯s nerves. Being in Basic was hard enough, what with the gruelling exercises and mind-numbing drills on top of the constant shouting from sergeants who were meaner and more vicious than Richard could ever be. It wasn¡¯t anything malicious, but the sergeants¡¯ demanded perfection and anything less earned you demerits, which were worked off with more exercise and drills. A button out of place, a boot lace too long, a faint shadow of stubble on your face, that¡¯s all it took to set one of them off, and they all had long, demeaning tirades just ready and waiting for every possible infraction you could imagine.


    Besides Richard¡¯s hateful comments of course. Mostly because the little weasel was careful. He never said anything too out of line in earshot of anyone who mattered, and only rarely used actual slurs. Combined with his stellar performance in most exercises, Richard played his part of model recruit to perfection, right up until he found out about Errol and Sarah Jay and had a public meltdown. They¡¯d been dating in secret for more than a month, stealing away for quick kisses and whispered conversations whenever they could. A necessity, since the Rangers had warned them against that sort of thing on day one, but theirs wasn¡¯t the only secret relationship in boot camp.


    Was the only one between a black man and a white woman though, which was felt like the reason why the Rangers washed Errol out and kept Richard on after his very public tirade in the mess hall. Bunch of bullshit is what it was, and like Errol told Howie, it was hardly surprising given the U.F.A¡¯s history, but it was the first time he truly saw how deeply embedded the racism really was. Other than Sarah Jay, no other boot stood up for Errol, forgetting all the times he stood up for them, and the Rangers conveniently overlooked everything Richard said and did just to get rid of the only black recruit they had. As for Howie¡¯s beatdown on Richard, it wasn¡¯t done to stand up for Errol. It happened because Howie didn¡¯t like being called ¡®kid¡¯, simple as that. The rest was just an excuse, the hateful tirade overlooked and waved aside.


    Made a man feel small and alone when no one would come out and refute the racist, like they all agreed with Richard but were just too polite to say it out loud. Hell, maybe they did.


    It wasn¡¯t like this was his first time dealing with something like this, but back home, he had a community to rely on. The outpost only had about fifty people in total, most of whom were black too, but every colour was represented besides yellow. Father Nicolas said that was because most Asian countries had been conquered by the Qin Empire, and thus shared their isolationist policies right up until the Second World War, meaning most of those countries had only been in contact with the rest of the world for less than fifty years before the Advent. Otherwise, Errol thought all settlements would be as welcoming as his little village back home, but his trip to New Hope showed him different. Was a rude awakening to have some stranger warn him against stealing or grumbling about letting a ¡®coloured¡¯ man sleep under their roof. Even more eye opening was the fact that aside from one predominantly black community along the way, which the sailors made sure to point out, Errol could¡¯ve counted the number of black people he came across the entire trip on two hands.


    Was disheartening to be treated like this, which was why today felt like a much-needed break from it all, right up until Richard came along and ruined it all.


    That¡¯s what was on his mind as he kissed his girl goodnight on Aunty Ray¡¯s porch. It was just him and Sarah Jay out there, as Aunty Ray had dragged Howie inside after seeing his bloodied knuckles. Tina¡¯s fault that, as she¡¯d insisted he carry her home once they were at Howie¡¯s door, saying he¡¯d done the same for Chrissy that morning and owed her as much. The other boots in Basic would kill for a chance to get that close to Tina, but Howie made a face like he was mucking cows instead of carrying the most popular girl in town. Still carried her home anyways, which was how Aunty Ray spotted his scraped knuckles and insisted on cleaning them to keep them from getting infected, all the while scolding him for getting into yet another fight.


    It was clear she loved him like her own, and Howie cared about her too. Now there was a sight to remember, the Firstborn all poleaxed and panicked at the sight of gorgeous Aunty Ray marching up on him earlier this afternoon. A big difference from the calm, cold gunfighter who faced down harpies earlier that day, the mean tough who struck a blow to Richard¡¯s ego, or the furious devil who beat those goons bloody and bruised.


    Soon as Howie came back out with a sheepish slouch, Sarah Jay gave Errol one last kiss before heading inside with a smile. She was too giddy and excited to start riding with the Firstborn to notice Errol¡¯s distraction, and he didn¡¯t blame her for it. It¡¯d been a long, eventful day, but even though the good far outweighed the bad, he couldn¡¯t help but fixate on the worst of it. It was so distracting, that he didn¡¯t even make it through Howie¡¯s front door before he just had to ask. ¡°Hey,¡± he began, before realizing he didn¡¯t know the right words to say it. ¡°That thing, with Richard¡­¡±


    ¡°Yea?¡± Eyebrow raised in amusement, Howie smiled and waited with his hand on the doorknob for Errol to get his thoughts together.


    ¡°You got pretty mad when he called you kid.¡± Scary mad, all grim and dark in mood and gaze. Made him look like a different person almost, more like the Firstborn Errol had imagined after hearing so many different stories.


    ¡°Suppose I did,¡± Howie replied with a shrug. ¡°Not exactly proud of the hair-trigger I got on my temper, and I been trying to fix it, but it is what it is. Older folks been calling me boy or kid for long as I can remember, and recently, the word¡¯s taken on an ugly tone, one I don¡¯t much care for. It¡¯s partially why I¡¯m fixing on starting my own crew rather than signing onto an existing one. Ain¡¯t a respectable crew out there that will pay me what I¡¯m worth, and the rest ain¡¯t worth their salt to start with. Meaning most expect me to carry extra weight and get paid less for the privilege, which don¡¯t sound appealing at all.¡±


    ¡°Yea.¡± Nodding along, Errol was once against awestruck by Howie¡¯s ability to drive a conversation wherever he wanted it to go. ¡°But uh¡­ You didn¡¯t seem all that mad when he called you¡­ other things?¡±


    ¡°Like a savage, slant-eyed Qink?¡± Smiling like it was all some big joke, Howie shook his head and leaned against the door with arms crossed under his chest, calm and relaxed as can be. ¡°So what? You think I ought to have been madder?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ yea.¡±


    ¡°Won¡¯t say I was pleased, but one trigger word ought to be more than enough for anyone.¡± Giving another shrug, Howie said, ¡°Besides, him saying as much was only showing how mad he was. Aside from the initial slip up, you notice how careful he was before all that, when he was insulting you? Nothing outright targeted at you, just saying how most were this way or how typically this sort of thing would end badly and whatnot. Garbage is what it is, but he present it like fact because he wishes it was and wants others to believe it too, so when he start throwing out them slurs, you know he right hopping mad.¡±


    ¡°And you don¡¯t? Believe it, that is.¡±


    That put a frown on Howie¡¯s face, his head rocking back like he¡¯d been struck. ¡°Course not.¡± Glaring at Errol from behind a hurt expression, Howie asked, ¡°I ever say or do anything to give you cause to think otherwise?¡±


    ¡°No, but you haven¡¯t said anything in the other direction either.¡±


    ¡°So what?¡± Now it was Errol¡¯s turn to go reeling back, struck by the direct bluntness of Howie¡¯s retort. ¡°I don¡¯t go praising you for the colour of your skin, so I gotta think less of you because of it? That ain¡¯t how it works Errol. The people who care about skin colour tend to be racists. The rest of us don¡¯t pay it any mind, good or bad. I don¡¯t argue against what little Dick says because he ain¡¯t worth arguing with.¡± Shrugging, Howie continued, ¡°I get it. Words hurt, and you been hurting awhile because of him. Then the Rangers go and wash you out, and you think they buy into all that white power drivel too. Not gonna lie, because it appears that some do, but while race is the crux of your issues, the outcome has more to do with politics than anything else.¡± Opening the door, Howie waved for Errol to come in before explaining what he¡¯d learned about the matter inside, about Richard¡¯s rich daddy and his connections. ¡°So really,¡± he concluded, once their boots were off and they were both sitting at the kitchen table, ¡°If you want to blame anything for how your situation turned out, it¡¯s more to do with your lack of wealthy parents, not the colour of your skin.¡±


    Those same words from another man would¡¯ve earned him a punch to the jaw, but Howie¡¯s grin was so disarming Errol couldn¡¯t help but laugh and shake his head. The Firstborn had a way of saying odd, questionable, or irritating things with such exaggerated expressions, so even if it grated to hear, you couldn¡¯t hate him for it. Also made it hard to take him seriously when he went deadpan and deliberate, like he did now. ¡°Look,¡± Howie began, propping his head up with his hand. ¡°It ain¡¯t easy. Racism sucks. It¡¯s also everywhere, even here in New Hope, and it only gets worse outside these walls. There will be more like little Dick, people who¡¯ll judge you by how you look, call you all sorts of ugly names, and make life harder for you because of it. Doesn¡¯t help that out there, it¡¯s a predominantly white world. Well, technically, by the numbers, the Qin sent in the most settlers, more than three times the next largest group, but they was all young and without magic. Most died, and those that survived typically gathered up to breed like bunnies up in their isolationist communities, like the one on the southern edge of the badlands by the Knife¡¯s Edge Mountains.¡±


    There Howie went again, on another of his tangents, but something Errol noticed was the look on his face when he talked about the Qin. Disgust and revulsion, the same look Richard had that day he picked a fight and got Errol washed out, meaning Howie was speaking from personal experience when he said ¡®everyone¡¯s a little racist¡¯. Strange for a Qin man to hate his own people, but Father Nicolas always said, ¡°Judge not lest ye be judged.¡±


    Noticing he¡¯d gotten off track, Howie pivoted with, ¡°What I¡¯m trying to say is there ain¡¯t much you can do about racists. They gonna hate you regardless, because you black and they don¡¯t like that. That¡¯s how it is, and it ain¡¯t your fault. If you wasn¡¯t black, they¡¯d hate you for some other reason, real or imagined. I once spoke to a man in New Sonora who thought Mexicans were stealing all the jobs and a bunch of lazy criminals at the same time? It don¡¯t make no sense, so it makes no sense to try and understand them.¡± Well on his way into having a one-man conversation, Howie continued, ¡°And that garbage little Dick was spewing? Lazy? Violent? Drug addicts? Bad parents? Psh. You¡¯ll find plenty of those in all colours all across the Frontier, so I don¡¯t see what being black has got to do with it. Fact is, good men and women are in short supply anywhere you go, no matter the colour.¡±


    Which wasn¡¯t wrong. Father Nicholas was a good man who looked after the orphans the most, teaching them to read and write while making sure they were as happy and well-cared for as best he could. There were plenty of other priests and nuns who saw the kids as a nuisance and didn¡¯t work have as hard, and many who outright scorned them for being orphans. Didn¡¯t make Errol feel any better, as he was still torn on how to move forward from here. ¡°So what am I supposed to do to keep stuff like that from happening again?¡± he asked, not really expecting an answer.


    Howie¡¯s grin quickly faded as he considered what to say, and it took him a full minute to figure it out. ¡°I can¡¯t answer that for you, because it will happen again, and there ain¡¯t much you can do besides deal with it. Me, I mostly write folks like that off. Got no patience to try making peace or changing opinions, so I don¡¯t bother. Instead, I do what I can to win over the undecideds, those who don¡¯t much care for race or whatnot. The way you do that is just¡­¡± Howie shrugged and sighed, as if he didn¡¯t like the answer, but gave it anyways. ¡°Be a model, upstanding citizen. You know why no one really made a fuss about you and Richard? Because while most don¡¯t agree with what he said, they also don¡¯t agree with what you did, beating the tar out of him like you did.¡±


    Putting up a hand to forestall Errol¡¯s angry retort, Howie gave him a knowing look and continued, ¡°This is what I¡¯m talking about. You have every right to be angry, and I¡¯d say you waited two months too long to put that smarmy prick in his place. Thing is, any time you get angry, you¡¯ll be judged more harshly for it, because you¡¯re not just angry, you¡¯re an angry black man. That puts the scare in a lot of folks, though why, I can¡¯t rightly say. So you gotta be calm and cordial more often than not, that way when you do fly off the handle, folks who know you will think you got good reason to.¡± Rolling his eyes to show what he thought about all that, Howie barrelled on ahead to ask, ¡°Is that fair? No. Life ain¡¯t fair though. Me, I gotta work hard at being friendly and approachable each and every day, because I bet you anything that we¡¯ll be hearing whispers tomorrow about how that ¡®savage Qin boy¡¯ is itching to stew some feet.¡±


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Which was really everything Errol knew about Qin culture, besides the fact that they also ate with chopsticks. During the Second World War, they were infamous for chopping feet off of their prisoners and feeding it back to them. Horrific stuff, but Father Nicholas hadn¡¯t shied away from detail the horrific acts orchestrated by both sides. The Brits, Prussians, Sicilians, Soviet Union, Vatican, and more, every nation seemed to have committed some horrific war-crime or massacre during those tumultuous times. Then there were the Nipponese, whose refusal to surrender and stop said atrocities led to the Americans dropping two Aetheric bombs on their country. Killed over two-hundred and fifty thousand people in the blink of an eye, so Errol was pretty sure there weren¡¯t any ¡®good¡¯ sides in that war.


    ¡°So what you¡¯re saying is I have to work hard to be one of the ¡®good ones¡¯?¡± Errol scoffed, almost insulted Howie would even suggest it, but the other man took it in stride.


    ¡°Suppose so.¡± Another shrug, as Howie didn¡¯t look too pleased by it either, but rather resigned to it. ¡°Being a minority means that there some folks in town who ain¡¯t ever even seen another black man, so anything you do right or wrong ain¡¯t just gonna be about you to them, but all black folk. If you leave a good impression, then when little Dick or some other fool spews their hate about you, the people of New Hope who know you will think, ¡®That don¡¯t sound like Errol. He¡¯s a good, polite young man. Again, not exactly fair, but it is what it is.¡±


    ¡°Yea¡­ about that.¡± There was no good way to say it, so Errol just came out with it. ¡°Why aren¡¯t there any black people around? Or black Rangers?¡±


    ¡°There are a few.¡± Shrugging, Howie said, ¡°Hate to play the ¡®one black friend¡¯ card, but next to the Marshal, Drex Durden outta Memphis might well be the most famous Ranger around these parts, and he dark as night. As for New Hope itself, we used to have a prominent black community here, but then Marcus left to head up Meadowbrook and most went along to support him. I¡¯ll introduce you when we see him.¡±


    Well, that made Errol feel a little better, knowing there was a prominent black community nearby, with a black Ranger in charge to boot. One exception wasn¡¯t enough to make up for what happened, but between that and Howie¡¯s explanation about Richard¡¯s rich, tax paying daddy, Errol was feeling a lot less angry about things and just¡­ resentful.


    ¡°Remember though,¡± Howie said, all serious once more, ¡°When you out there, you can¡¯t fly off the handle anytime someone drops the U-word.¡± Even hearing it referenced as such made Errol flinch and frown, but he figured Howie had been called the Q-word more times than he could remember, so he should know what he was talking about. ¡°What little Dick was spewing was just words, and you¡¯ll get worse out there in passing, but the real danger is the folks who¡¯d sooner kill you as look at you. In comparison, a few words ain¡¯t much, so even if you get mad-hopping angry over some racist¡¯s tirade, you need to think twice before you act. Gotta pick your fights after all, know when to hold and when to fold. Can¡¯t explain the specifics of each situation, but follow my lead and you¡¯ll get a handle for it eventually. In general though, it¡¯s best to grow a thick skin and ignore the insults where you can. Let them slurs roll off you like water off a duck. If you can¡¯t do that, then copy how I reacted tonight. Calm, polite, and non-confrontational, mostly.¡±


    Yea, aside from looming over Richard with an obnoxious sneer. Man, seeing that face even made Errol want to punch Howie just a bit, though the memory made him smile. ¡°I mean, it was quite the show,¡± he said, giving the man his due, ¡°But¡­ I don¡¯t how it makes any difference.¡±


    Scratching at his neck with a pinched grimace, Howie said, ¡°Well, it¡¯s a bit complicated to explain in full, but it boils down to being perceived in the right. See, when you beat the tar out of Richard, there was no definite instigator. Sure some of the others said Richard went on a rant and threw the first punch, but his lackies came right back and lied to say you started the fight.¡± That threw Errol for a loop, because he didn¡¯t know anyone had spoken on his behalf, but Howie went right on to explain, ¡°Now the water¡¯s all muddied, so folks gotta look at the indisputable facts. One boy got his arm and jaw broken, while the other one walked away clean, so for most, their minds are already made up before colour even enter the equation.¡±


    There wasn¡¯t anything outright wrong with what Howie was saying, but it didn¡¯t help. All it did was make Errol more frustrated, because no one cared to hear the truth. It was more about how the facts were presented, as Howie went on to say, ¡°In my case, even putting my rep aside, you saw how I took the extra time to warn Richard off three times. To anyone listening paints him as the aggressor, no two ways about it. Now, they could lie about it sure, but when two versions of the story goes around, and one got those extra details, folks will believe it more often than not, because lies gotta be simple. What¡¯s more, those extra details make it easy for people to make up their mind, and people like easy. They don¡¯t want to have to think about who was right and who was wrong. They want the answer clear from the start, so I made sure the facts did just that. Didn¡¯t run in swinging, now did I? I tried to deescalate first, which changes the narrative into aggressor versus victim. So even though I came out on top, it¡¯s clear I was the victim acting in self defence, whereas in your case, it didn¡¯t look so cut and dry. The Accords work in a similar way, and same with less law-abiding types, but I¡¯ll wait till Sarah Jay¡¯s here too before I get into all that.¡±


    Again, it all made perfect, logical sense, but it didn¡¯t feel right. Sure, Errol was wrong to raise his fist in anger, but Richard was also wrong to say the things he did, so why didn¡¯t the Rangers do anything about that? Bullshit it what it was, but there wasn¡¯t any point in saying so.


    Slapping the table to show he was done talking, Howie wandered over to a kitchen cabinets and took out a thin, dark metal wand, one tipped with an opaque, orange stone bound in polished steel wire. Jasper, if Errol remembered his gems right. ¡°Hold still,¡± Howie said, touching the wand to the back of Errol¡¯s hand which was sitting on the table, and looking real focused for a couple seconds. ¡°Alright then, you¡¯re keyed to the door now, can come and go as you please. At Aunty Ray¡¯s too, though I suggest if there¡¯s any sneaking to be done, you let Sarah Jay do the sneaking. Better if she walks into the wrong room than you, because Aunty Ray and Tina both¡¯ll shoot you dead, while Chrissy might do worse.¡±


    Not to mention what Howie would do, except he didn¡¯t say as much, just gave Errol a look that said in no uncertain terms that all three of those beautiful women were off limits. Once he was sure they both understood each other, Howie pointed at the door beside the front door. ¡°Bathroom¡¯s over there, fresh towels on the hook. You can go first, as I gotta work out and do some Spell Slinging.¡± Pointing at the larger room on the other side of the front door, he continued, ¡°That¡¯s your room. Aunty Ray left some of Uncle Raleigh¡¯s old clothes for you in the closet, and there¡¯s extra blankets in the dresser if you need ¡®em. Gun and ammo goes into the safe next to the bed when you sleep, key is on top, and meals will be at Aunty Ray¡¯s.¡±


    Putting away the wand, Howie gave him a nod and strode away to put on his boots and head back outside, leaving Errol alone in the house. Truth be told, the Firstborn¡¯s lodgings weren¡¯t much to look at, just a simple, rectangular layout with two rooms, a stove, a Freeze-box, a couple cabinets and a single bathroom. Two bare wooden chairs and a simple rectangular dinner table was the only furniture around, aside from a bed and a desk in each bedroom. It was a simple, barren home devoid of any real trappings or ornaments save for a simple rifle and pistol mounted on the wall across from the kitchen table. Primitive, single-shot Aetherarms, both well-worn and well cared for, but otherwise, the rooms were completely bare, without a cushion, rug, plant, or decoration to be seen. It didn¡¯t seem like a home, more like a hunting cabin you¡¯d stop in at for a few weeks a season, with everything put away in its own little place and no personality to speak of.


    Say what you will about the Firstborn, but he was still a puzzle Errol had yet to wholly figure out. A badass gunfighter and Spellslinger sure, and a good enough person as far as anyone could tell, but he also had a distance to him that didn¡¯t make any sense. Wasn¡¯t just about his lack of empathy regarding Errol¡¯s situation, but also his general attitude. Howie loved Chrissy, that much was clear, and Tina and Aunty Ray too, but he didn¡¯t even consider how any of them would feel after the harpy attack. Errol thought that was because they were all be used to it by now, but Aunty Ray clearly wasn¡¯t and Howie should¡¯ve known as much. That sort of disconnect didn¡¯t make sense, a cheerful, charming young man who didn¡¯t think about how his family might feel? What made him that way, so warm and caring yet also inconsiderate, almost callous even?


    No, definitely callous, because Errol had seen the look on his face when he was beating Ike bloody, and Richard¡¯s face when Howie warned him off after the fight. Whatever it was the Firstborn said, it scared the shit out of Richard, and Errol shuddered to think what might have been shared.


    Maybe that¡¯s what it took to survive out here. Being cold. Calculating. Manipulative almost. That¡¯s Howie, as he¡¯d been listening in before making his presence known, else how¡¯d he know what¡¯d been said? He made sure to cover his ass from the lawmen and lawbreakers both before laying a beatdown, and it felt like he did it for the thrill of the fight more than anything else. Whatever the reasons, Errol derived no pleasure from seeing Richard scared like that. Truth be told, he didn¡¯t even hate the little prick all that much, was just angry it all happened. Why did it matter if he was black and Sarah Jay was white? Errol loved her, and she loved him, and that¡¯s all either of them cared about, so why did he have to get booted from the Rangers just because someone else didn¡¯t like seeing them together? All his life, he¡¯d dreamed of joining up to fight the good fight, so now what was he supposed to do?


    These thoughts and more like them continued to rattle around in his head, even after he finished his hot shower and laid down in bed. Felt like he only just closed his eyes when the morning sun woke him up and he lazily stretched himself awake, only to freeze as he came face to nose with a glowering Cowie standing just inches away from his head. In his calf form, thank the Heavens, but so still and tense Errol could see the bull¡¯s lips trembling as he heaved and rumbled. Wasn¡¯t right seeing a small, cute, fluffy calf making noises like that, guttural, unhappy sounds that reminded everyone he could grow about eight times bigger to stand almost eye to eye with Errol without having to raise his head.


    ¡°Cowie!¡± Howie hissed, his voice quiet and body out of sight. ¡°Get out of there! Now, or ain¡¯t gonna be no lullaby tonight.¡± For a moment, Errol wasn¡¯t sure the beast would listen, but the white calf met his eyes with an arrogant snort before turning around to leave. ¡°That¡¯s Errol¡¯s room now,¡± Howie admonished in a whisper, once Cowie was out of sight. ¡°Not daddy¡¯s anymore. You just gonna hafta get over it, and you best do it right quick. He¡¯s a friend, understood? Now go close the door before he wakes up and thinks I¡¯ve been peeking. Do it gentle, got it?¡±


    Cowie snorted in response before making his way back to the door, where he stopped to stare at Errol for a full second before gently nosing it shut. How much the bull understood, he couldn¡¯t say, but that was by far the smartest animal he¡¯d ever met. After lying around for a few more minutes, Errol got dressed and headed out to the bathroom to do his thing, before coming back to find Howie sitting at the desk in his room, in a plain wooden chair identical to the ones in the kitchen and probably just as uncomfortable. ¡°Morning,¡± he said, looking up from his books while petting Cowie¡¯s head nestled on his thigh. ¡°Sleep well?¡±


    ¡°Like a baby.¡± Staying out of the room and making an effort not to look at the books, Errol stretched and yawned before saying, ¡°Didn¡¯t hear you come back in.¡±


    ¡°Yea, you was fast asleep and snoring.¡± And yet somehow, still up later than the Firstborn, which told Errol that Howie had worked hard to earn his reputation and hone his skills. If Sarah Jay was driven, then Howie was a man possessed, though you sure wouldn¡¯t know it with a glance, as he seemed so relaxed and laid back most of the time. ¡°You can head on over if you like,¡± Howie said, wearing his usual, carefree smile. ¡°Aunty Ray¡¯s already up and cooking, but don¡¯t know about the rest. Or you can hang out here instead if you prefer, doing whatever. Tina¡¯ll let us know when it¡¯s time to eat.¡±


    ¡°Alright.¡± Not wanting to intrude on the gorgeous but all too chatty Aunty Ray, Errol took a seat at the kitchen table and asked, ¡°You picking out Spells to teach us?¡±


    ¡°Nah, made a list already.¡± Having already gone back to his notes, Howie gave Errol a quick but strained smile and said, ¡°I¡¯m actually memorizing a new Spell Structure. Well, an old one. Had to clear out Eagle Eye so I could store a Featherfall on my boot, and now I¡¯m memorizing it again.¡±


    ¡°Oh, sorry.¡± Errol stood up and made for the door. ¡°I¡¯ll get out of your hair then.¡±


    ¡°Nah it¡¯s fine,¡± Howie called. ¡°Just do whatever. Won¡¯t be any good for conversation for a bit, but I only need a few minutes. Mi casa es su casa, or my house is your house. No need to walk eggshells around here.¡±


    That wasn¡¯t what most Spellcasters said when memorizing new Spell Structures, as it was a process which usually required the utmost focus and concentration. That said, Errol didn¡¯t really have anywhere else to go, and the chill alone made him not want to leave, so he sat down at the desk and took out his sidearm to disassemble, like they did in Basic. True to his word, Howie popped his head in a few minutes later with Cowie trailing behind him. ¡°Nice,¡± he said, nodding at Errol¡¯s efforts. ¡°There¡¯s oil and rags in the side drawer there, for cleaning if you ever need it.¡± Which of course Errol took as a cue to clean the gun, while Howie gave him tips on how to do it more quickly and efficiently.


    Which he appreciated, but it felt constraining having another man look over his shoulder while he worked..,


    Breakfast was delicious and not at all cramped, as Aunty Ray¡¯s dining table was big enough to fit ten. It was a world of difference going from Howie¡¯s stark home to Aunty Ray¡¯s extravagant mansion, with all its minor but warm and welcome touches that turned it into a well-lived home. Not stuff Errol would have noticed before seeing how barren and bleak Howie¡¯s home was, but between padded cushion seats, the carefully stitched placemats, and the strategically placed plants, he wondered how the Firstborn could stand to live like he did.


    After breakfast, Howie brought Errol and Sarah Jay back to his place, while Tina took Chrissy out to do their chores. It was Saturday, which meant they had the weekend off from Basic, though most folk worked seven days a week without a break. That¡¯s just how it was here on the Frontier, as there was always something to be done, and not even Father Nicolas insisted that they rest on the sabbath after mass, because as he would say, ¡°C¡¯est la vie.¡±


    ¡°Alright,¡± Howie said, after setting Sarah Jay up at his desk and bringing Errol to the other desk. ¡°This here is the Bolt Cantrip.¡± A sheet of paper covered in neat letters, numbers, and symbols appeared in front of him, with notes in the margins to explain what it all meant and how to derive the known variables. ¡°Now technically it ain¡¯t legal for you to learn yet, as you need a permit, though no one ever asks. Same permit to go around carrying loaded weapons in town, which we gonna go get later once the office opens. That¡¯s not for a while though, and I ain¡¯t ever been one to waste daylight, so might as well get this Spell Structure into your head first and hope no one asks about it.¡±


    ¡°Still don¡¯t get what good knowing the Bolt Cantrip will do.¡± Making a face that had more to do with the math than anything else, Errol looked away and said, ¡°A Bolt you cast isn¡¯t even half as strong as a properly Metamagicked Aetherarm.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not wrong,¡± Howie replied, patting the gun on his hip. ¡°This here Rattlesnake hits about three times harder than a manually casted Bolt, at a minimum.¡± Stopping to think for a moment, he gestured for Errol to get up and they headed out the house and around to the back. There was a massive paddock between Howie¡¯s house and Aunty Ray¡¯s, one large enough for twenty horses at least, but only occupied by three cows, a dozen wallabies, and sometimes Cowie too. Inside, Howie had an area roped off with his own personal shooting range, albeit one only about twenty metres in length, with a stone-brick wall at the other end. Taking his position at the firing line, Howie gestured for Errol to stand about an arm¡¯s length away beside him before handing him a stack of round clay plates. ¡°Go on ahead and frisbee one down towards the wall whenever you ready.¡±


    Grinning brightly at having gotten away from studying, Errol launched the first plate at the wall. None too gently either, and it hurtled off so fast he expected it crash before Howie could get his Bolt off. No such luck though, as Howie chanted, ¡°Canto ¨C Fortia ¨C Asta!¡±, while moving his left arm like he was drawing a pistol and shooting finger guns, with two index fingers pointed forward and his thumb up at the sky. A formless, colorless Bolt burst out from his fingers, visible only by the displacement of the air as it hurtled silently towards the plate and hammed home, showering the bare dirt with clay shards. ¡°See that?¡± he asked, way too proud of something so simple, and Errol simply raised his eyebrow in question. ¡°Bah,¡± Howie exclaimed, giving another exaggerated grimace that you just couldn¡¯t not smile at. ¡°Watch closer. Pull.¡±


    Out went another plate, and again Howie chanted, pointed, and the plate exploded, but even though Errol was paying more attention, he didn¡¯t see anything special about it. Wasn¡¯t like the plates were especially tough or fast, so what was Howie trying to show him? Show off, more like. It took two more plates and Bolts before Errol finally caught on though, and he looked at Howie in confusion. ¡°You¡¯re firing from here, so how come the shards keep falling straight down?¡±


    ¡°Because I¡¯m arcing the Bolt and hitting the plates from above.¡± Grinning like a fool, Howie said, ¡°Throw another one, but watch where I¡¯m pointing.¡± Errol did and watched carefully as Howie pointed straight up while casting the Spell, and drew a deep breath when the clay plate shattered all the same. ¡°See that? Don¡¯t matter much where I point, unlike an Aetherarm. When cast through a Spell Core, the Bolt travels in a straight line from the tip of the Core and is affected by factors like and wind and all that. When I cast it manually, the Bolt emerges from the tips of my fingers, but it doesn¡¯t have to travel in a straight line. It goes where I want it to go, within reason. It¡¯ll curve a bit, but it won¡¯t make sharp ninety degree turns or nothing, nor will it do any loop de loops, and you need to see your target to hit it. Plus, if you get real good with it, you can do all that while throwing out multiple Bolts at once like Captain Jung. Takes practice and familiarity, but you can get all sorts of extra juice from a manually casted Spell, assuming you know where and how to squeeze. Plus, don¡¯t cost no crystallized Aether or anything, which makes slingin¡¯ Spells basically free unless it got a material component cost, which Bolt don¡¯t.¡±


    And the mental effort to cast it, which wasn¡¯t nothing. Errol could run for hours, but slinging Heroism three or four times in quick succession would leave him mentally drained for half the day at least. ¡°Okay, that¡¯s cool,¡± he said, nodding in admiration, because he heard that sort of Spell manipulation wasn¡¯t easy. ¡°But it still doesn¡¯t change the fact that a basic Bolt Cantrip is weak as shit.¡±


    ¡°Watch your language,¡± Howie hissed, giving a nervous glance at the main house. ¡°Were it up to me, I couldn¡¯t care less what you say, but if Aunty Ray hears you, she¡¯ll make everything you eat taste like soap.¡± Like mother, like daughter it seems, though Errol would rather eat delicious dirt than have everything taste terrible, especially considering how the best meals he¡¯d ever eaten were all at Aunty Ray¡¯s table. ¡°Anyways,¡± Howie said, once it was clear Aunty Ray hadn¡¯t overheard them, ¡°It is weak, I¡¯ll give you that, but it¡¯s better than using your bare hands. Not to mention how it¡¯s easier to aim for the soft spots when you manually cast, which ain¡¯t nothing.¡± Before Errol could bring up his rope, Howie read his mind and continued, ¡°Plus it gives you something to use from range, so you don¡¯t have to go sprinting out of cover to swing that rope.¡± Another look followed, telling him in no uncertain terms that even though Howie appreciated the assist during the harpy attack, he expected Errol to learn from his mistakes. A very expressive face, the Firstborn had, and Errol was getting the hang of this non-verbal communication.


    ¡°Most importantly,¡± Howie said, flicking his hand like he was casting a Bolt, ¡°The Bolt Cantrip is the baseline of some of the most popular Evocation Spells, so once you familiarize yourself with it, you¡¯ll find picking up the others much easier and can even apply the same tricks. Then you can toss Elemental Orbs to set groups of Abby ablaze or freeze them in place, Blast whole bunches down from around a corner, or even learn the quintessential Evoker¡¯s Spell and solve all your problems with Fireball.¡±


    Assuming you had the right licenses of course, of which there were many, and the skills needed to learn Second and Third Order Spells. Howie was clearly at Second Order at least, but most folks stopped at First Order Spells, and only the most practiced and accomplished Spellslingers could pull off Third Order Spells. That said, Errol was slightly less apprehensive of learning the Bolt Cantrip and even sort of looking forward to it provided their lesson went well. Howie started them off slow once they were back at his desk, explained the formula step by step and how it would look if Errol got it right. Then Howie gave him a bunch of static numbers for the variables, and had Errol solve the equation, which meant he didn¡¯t need to rush his math, considering time was one of those variables. Orthodox Spellcasting had always seemed so daunting before, but Howie had a way of explaining it that cut out all the unnecessary bits, things he warned Errol would eventually need to learn if he wanted to move onto memorizing First Order Spells or higher, but was unnecessary for Cantrips.


    It really was simple if you looked at it the right way. Take the constants, plug in the variables, do the math, and if all done quickly enough, you got the timing for the first point of the Spell Structure. Once you had that, you¡¯d set it into motion, following the pre-laid paths envisioned before hand. From there, you only need to match the following points to the initial path, synching up their timing to a variable that was already solved. That¡¯s all it was, so while Errol didn¡¯t make it that far before their hour was up, he¡¯d made progress familiarizing himself with the formula. ¡°No worries Errol,¡± Howie said, gesturing at Sarah Jay who was still scowling over her desk without mentioning her frustrations out loud. ¡°No shame in taking some time to get things right the first time. You¡¯ll get there eventually.¡± Clapping his hands to get Sarah Jay¡¯s attention, he met her glower with a grin and said, ¡°Enough studying for now. Let¡¯s go do something real fun.¡±


    Knowing his girl was never one to like leaving things half done, Errol smiled when Sarah Jay scowled and asked, ¡°What?¡±


    Grinning from ear to ear, Howie reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick wad of cash, all crisp, green, and neatly bundled in a clip. ¡°Shopping.¡±

 Chapter 16

    Growing up on the Frontier means making peace with change.


    There¡¯s good reason for it, as things move fast out here. The first wave of settlers showed up with little more than what they could carry inside their heads. A rough start to be sure, but they had plenty of knowledge squirreled away to help them survive in this hostile, Abby infested world, albeit one far more dangerous than they expected. Lots of settlers have died to get us this far, and we¡¯ll lose plenty more during the Watershed before the second wave of settlers arrive, but we¡¯ve made a fair shake of things as far as I can tell.


    Technologically speaking, we¡¯ve made huge strides in progress over a short a period of time, but the nature of that progression is inconsistent at best. That¡¯s why I say life moves fast, because every now and then, we hit a breakpoint that sends us hurtling forward in terms of development, a big step up that changes everything. Ain¡¯t always a matter of tech either, as discovering new things about the Frontier could change things too. Taming mundane cattle of the local variety enabled us to clear more forest and plough more dirt for farms, while horses enabled folks to travel farther and faster, especially after the Rangers switched focus from building walls to building roads. Finding a big copper vein in Mount Rimepeak set off a boom in arcana-tech development as we turned that copper into wires and all manner of other technological doodads needed to make better use of certain Spell Cores, many of which require a good deal of fine tuning.


    Still remember a time when we had to cart water up from the lake, and now we get it piped directly into our houses. Yea, we¡¯ve taken a good number of big steps forward along the way, like crystal diodes for Radios, Aether-suspension matrices for storing Spells, Aetheric dynamos for powering pumps, machines, and other arcana-technological marvels like the Spell Cores I got on my wagon. From what I hear, there¡¯s still plenty more to come, and lotta folks are looking forward to seeing what the second wave of settlers bring with them in terms of progress. Me, I don¡¯t see what all the fuss is about, as we been progressing through all of human history here on the Frontier and have caught up with the early 1900¡¯s, if not the mid. In comparison, how much progress could the old world have possibly made in that same amount of time, from 1989 to 2006?


    Hardly nothing would be my guess, and most certainly nothing that¡¯ll change much, not like what I¡¯ve already been through before.


    Like when we stopped bartering and switched over to cash, which was a mind-blowing shift in perception to experience first hand. We went from trading things of value, like hides and meat for Aberrtin and Aether, to selling our goods and labour for stacks of paper. Fancy paper, with Arcane Marks and serial numbers and whatnot to keep folk from counterfeiting them, but still paper in the end. In my mind, it was madness, because why would anyone even want some pretty painted papers that weren¡¯t nothing more than a promise?


    And yet people went mad for them papers, myself included.


    Thankfully, Marshal Ellis saw the writing on the wall, and being the good man that he is, he worked real hard to make sure everyone knew not to exchange all their precious commodities for cash, which was neither cold nor hard. Time was when a single dollar bill was enough to feed a family of four for a week, but nowadays, you¡¯d be pressed to make it stretch a meal, much less a day. Economics is some tricksy magics it is, and I done heard horror stories of how poorly the cash-rollout was handled in other places, with people trading everything they couldn¡¯t use for cash, only to find out a week later that the buying power of their currency had already halved. That¡¯s without going into the unscrupulous sorts who took advantage of good-natured folk. None of that happened here in New Hope though, no siree. ¡°Cash is for spending,¡± the Marshal said, those exact words, ¡°So only trade for as much as you need, and spend it right away.¡±


    Words I took to heart when I spent my first dollar at Miss Dawson¡¯s shop, then proceeded to eat candy until I threw up. Had to eat it quick, I thought, because I was afraid she¡¯d want it all back once she came to her senses and realized cash was a stupid concept.


    Not so stupid after all, but I still can¡¯t really wrap my head around it. Cash still spends good though, and there¡¯s so much more to spend it on, which is why I¡¯m always looking to earn big. With how fast life moves, you can almost always find something new and improved every time you visit a vendor, and it pays to keep ahead of the curve. Thing is, it costs big money to stay ahead, and while I got some idea of the changes coming in the pipeline, I can¡¯t predict everything. This is a new world with new resources, so who knows what new toys and gadgets we might come up with? Means putting in the work to check shops every few weeks or so and sniff out what¡¯s over the horizon. Living in New Hope makes it easy though, as we something of a travel hub and almost always hear about new technology first, since this is where folks bring it to sell. Assuming it wasn¡¯t made right here in town to begin with, as we got plenty of Artisans, Artificers, Alchemists, and Arcana-technicians calling this place home. Gives them easy access to materials, customers, and all the factories across the lake in Riverrun for employment or custom orders, without having to suffer the stench and noise all that manufacturing makes.


    The main thoroughfare is where most shops do their business, and since I plan on picking up a good number of things to outfit my prospects, I head out to get the wagon ready. Ignoring Tina¡¯s pleading gaze for as long as I can, I eventually cave and help her finish her chores so she can come along with Chrissy. Social butterfly that she is, Tina stops to chat with everyone we come across along the main thoroughfare, which is fine by me as I don¡¯t got to do more than smile and wave, but it makes my prospects visibly impatient. They eager to see what I got in mind for them, and no matter how often Sarah Jay asks, I refuse to say anything until we get there.


    I do love to tease, which is why my first stop ain¡¯t the gun shop, or any actual shop, but rather the hospital off the main thoroughfare. With Chrissy¡¯s hand in mine, I lead the way of our little chain, as she¡¯s holding Tina¡¯s hand too, who¡¯s got Sarah Jay and in turn has Errol. A strange quintet we are indeed, but I ain¡¯t ever been shy, so I smile brightly at all the inquiring looks. My goal ain¡¯t the hospital proper, which is a dreary place what with all the sick and injured, but rather the house next door, where the chief medico of New Hope keeps open office hours. ¡°Howdy, Uncle Art!¡± I call, just shortly after I let myself in through his front door. ¡°How¡¯s tricks?¡±


    For a medico, Uncle Art don¡¯t take all that great care of his own health, what with his soft, round belly and weathered, wrinkled skin. To be fair, he¡¯s a fair shake older than Tim and Aunty Ray, being all of fifty-two. Makes him one of the oldest settlers on the Frontier, because they didn¡¯t let no one over thirty-five step through the Gate. Art Harding was a bonafide doctor back in the old world, and even served on the frontlines as a battlefield surgeon, but he only ever uses all his knowledge to keep other folks alive, instead of practicing what he preaches. Poor fitness aside, he¡¯s still a large and robust man, sitting upright at his desk poring over his notes with his reading glasses on and a cigar between his lips. Scowling is his default expression, one which deepens as he shoots me a frown from between his small, narrowed eyes. ¡°Howie,¡± he says, not so much a greeting as it is a curse. ¡°What you want now?¡±


    He''s got that southern drawl, but more city than rural according to Aunty Ray. Far as I can tell, that means he¡¯s more direct, pronounces most his syllables, and don¡¯t use none them folksy sayings that I do so love. ¡°Tell me Uncle Art,¡± I say, sauntering over with a grin, ¡°Am I mistaken, or was there a time when you used to greet me with a smile? I distinctly remember you having one, a smile that is, but I can¡¯t picture what it looks like no more.¡±


    ¡°Yea, I used to smile.¡± Running a big hand over his bald, lumpy head, he scowls even harder as if upset by his findings. Man¡¯s got a hairline so far back he¡¯s gotta lean forward to show off his widow¡¯s peak, and keeps what little grey hair he got left cut down to a stubble. Should keep it clean shaven like his chin, which he ought to shave less to hide his sagging jowls and weak chin. ¡°And you used to be round and cute.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough, Uncle Art, fair enough.¡± Smiling as I introduce Errol and Sarah Jay, I let Uncle Art greet them each in his own way, with indifference for my new crew, a gruff nod for Tina, and big, warm smile for Chrissy and baby Cowie. Letting go of our hands, Chrissy steps around the table to give the old medico a hug, and he even puts his cigar aside for her. All his bile and bluster is just a front, his sourpuss bedside manner a ploy to keep him from getting too invested in the patients he treats. A necessity for any practicing medico out here on the Frontier, as there ain¡¯t all that much he can do to save anyone. Even a minor infection can grow into a serious problem, because he don¡¯t got the right tech for early diagnosis and only a few medicines to treat it. Much of his medical knowledge regarding treatments doesn¡¯t apply because the Frontier don¡¯t have the same plants and materials to derive pharmaceutical or alchemical concoctions from, meaning amputation plays a big part in medical treatment. That¡¯s why Uncle Art¡¯s spent the last seventeen years on medical research, and far as I can tell, he¡¯s the foremost medical expert here on the Frontier and a top ten Alchemist to boot.


    Medicine ain¡¯t ever been an interest of mine, but I do find it fascinating on a superficial level. Medical Magic ain¡¯t all that advanced for many reasons, chief among them being the body¡¯s natural resistance and magic¡¯s inability to affect lasting changes on the physical world. We got Spells to suture wounds for a period of time, splint broken bones, and improve the body¡¯s natural healing by a tad bit, but nothing so fantastical as regrowing limbs or mending grievous bodily harm in the blink of an eye. That means most of Uncle Art¡¯s healing efforts are mundane in nature, but to my untrained eyes, medical science just seems like another form of magic. How else would you explain how he can look you in the eyes, check your pulse, ask two or three questions, then know exactly how to fix what ails you, all without casting a single Spell?


    When he¡¯s done catching up with Chrissy and making sure her condition ain¡¯t deteriorating, Uncle Art¡¯s warm smile melts back into a scowl once the cigar hits his lips. ¡°You never did answer me Howie,¡± he says, regarding me with suspicion that ain¡¯t entirely unjust. ¡°You here to bother me about Impact Oil again? I told you before and I¡¯ll tell you again, I will not sell you explosives.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not why I¡¯m here Uncle Art, though I still don¡¯t see the harm in selling me a vial or two.¡± I can do more damage slinging Spells than with any stupid grenade or claymore, but somehow they¡¯re too dangerous for me to have. ¡°I just came by to say hi and pick your brain about first-aid supplies.¡±


    ¡°For your new crew here? Or did you use up everything you had keeping your brains from leaking out your ears?¡± Sweetheart that he is, Uncle Art don¡¯t say nothing about me getting shot, or curse me out for being a fool. Only because Chrissy is here though, which is why I made sure to bring her, and I can tell it irks him something fierce. He¡¯s also one of the founders of New Hope, and I owe him my life alongside Aunty Ray. While she kept me fed and alive, he made sure I was healthy and stayed that way, what with complications being what they are in a pre-mature baby. Even though they was out in the badlands exploring the Divide, Uncle Art made sure to check on me every hour for two weeks, sleeping in short bursts in between. If that don¡¯t tell you the character of the man, then nothing will. True to his nature, he puts on a show of being all reluctant and surly, but he moves right quick towards his supplies to pick out what I might need. ¡°At this rate, you¡¯re gonna make me a rich man, Howie,¡± he says, speaking over his shoulder. ¡°Is that what you¡¯re doing? Taking care of an old fart in his twilight years? If so, you could always save me the work and give me the cash instead of jumping through all these extra hoops.¡±


    Meaning getting shot and all that. ¡°Ain¡¯t got cash to spare for anything besides supplies, but I did bring you a gift.¡± Gesturing for the package I asked Errol to carry in, I unwrap the bottle of M¨¦tis whiskey and hand it over. Quick as a blink, Uncle Art makes his way over to my side and uncorks the bottle with his teeth. Giving the alcohol a good whiff, he has himself a little taste which he swishes around in his mouth. Seeing the judgement etched on my face, he reluctantly spits the whiskey out into his coffee cup, but I know he just gonna drink it once we leave. Never one to miss a chance to push his buttons, I shake my head and say, ¡°Can¡¯t understand all the fuss about whiskey, much less whiskey and coffee.¡±


    Drawing himself up to full 6¡¯2 height, Uncle Art wags his finger at me with a stern look. ¡°See, now I know you trying to aggravate me. You know good and well there ain¡¯t a drop of coffee in my cup. It¡¯s chicory tea, which I admit got that coffee taste, but none of the caffeine. That¡¯s the real reason why anyone drinks coffee, to stay awake while listening to one your boring tangents.¡± Waving me off in a huff, he holds up the bottle to admire the label. ¡°Good whiskey though, I¡¯ll give you that. You didn¡¯t drink any, did you? Law says eighteen to drink, though most really ought to wait till twenty-one. Twenty-five would be best, as that¡¯s when most brains are done developing. Granted, with you Howie, I¡¯d say that¡¯s ship¡¯s long since sailed, but that only makes it all the more important to preserve what few brain cells you got left.¡±


    Laughing off his payback for my comment about coffee, I shake my head. ¡°Nah, didn¡¯t drink none of that whiskey.¡± Did have a glass of moonshine, though I could have done without. Stupid Ron. ¡°No idea why any of you drink. Tastes like medicine and makes you act the fool. Native American Frank clued me into this batch though, guaranteed it wouldn¡¯t disappoint.¡±


    ¡°Now why you gotta go and keep calling him that?¡± Putting the cork back into the bottle, he sets it aside on his desk while launching into his tirade. ¡°How many Franks you know? Exactly one, same as me, so why can¡¯t you just call him Frank?¡±


    ¡°Because he insists I acknowledge his heritage.¡± On account of how uncomfortable it makes most Americans, who make a big fuss about proper language when it comes to issues of race. Frank¡¯s a funny guy, a M¨¦tis who used to live here in New Hope, but moved north to join his people some years back. Credit where it¡¯s due, at least most white Americans make a show of attempting to combat racism, though not effectively as far as I can tell. Inclusive language ain¡¯t gonna make the likes of little Dick accept Errol as a fellow American, so best zap that cancer right quick. ¡°Anyway,¡± I say, shaking off any thoughts of doling out Frontier Justice, ¡°I got five more in the wagon, so if you could make sure three bottles get to the Marshal without him learning where it come from, I¡¯d be much obliged.¡± Because selling alcohol to a minor is illegal and it¡¯d upset him something fierce if he found out I was technically bootlegging, even if only in the loosest sense of the term.


    ¡°Sure Howie, I can do that.¡±


    All of a sudden, Uncle Art¡¯s tone turns all cordial and such, so I gotta add, ¡°Native American Frank sent the Marshal a bottle before, said he heard back good things, which is why I bought the case.¡± As expected, Uncle Art¡¯s expression deflates a bit, because now he can¡¯t switch out the whiskey. Means he must really like it, so I promise to pick up another six bottles so long as he still got a full bottle in two weeks. Man drinks like a fish, never to excess where he¡¯ll slur much less stumble, but still more than you¡¯d expect from a medico. It ain¡¯t about getting drunk, but reclaiming some of the finer things he left behind in the old world, and I can¡¯t say I blame him one bit.


    Another reason why I could never bring myself to settle a new world, because I¡¯d miss having hot showers too much. Was ten years old before New Hope got indoor plumbing set up, and some still don¡¯t got it out here. I ain¡¯t about to suffer through a decade of cold showers, no sir, not for all the Aether in the world.


    Buoyed by the promise of more whiskey, Uncle Art gets right down to brass tacks. ¡°Alright,¡± he says, with a clap of his hands. ¡°Two more personal first aid kits, and I¡¯m thinking you can add a few more things to the one you keep in the wagon, since you¡¯ll have someone else to help you out. Either of you two know any first aid?¡± The last is directed at Errol and Sarah Jay, who only have what little they learned in their short time at Basic, which is pretty much nothing. ¡°Alright, come back this afternoon and I¡¯ll give you a crash course before supper,¡± Uncle Art says, after getting the answers he needs from my prospects. ¡°We¡¯ll see how much you need to learn to keep yourselves ali ¨C afloat.¡±


    Art goes on for a bit, but it¡¯s all old hat to me, so I smile and nod along. There¡¯s nothing too out of the ordinary to pick up here, mostly tweezers, splints, needles, sutures, tourniquets, antiseptics, and analgesics. Clean bandages too, though Art also makes it a point to throw in sunscreen, lotion, and this vapor rub my daddy came up with that does wonders with sore muscles, like those you might get from riding all day every day. Don¡¯t cost too much neither, even after I make sure Uncle Art¡¯s charging me full price and ain¡¯t giving me the friends and family discount. He works hard enough as it is, and I can afford the extra expense, so why not make sure it¡¯s my friends getting paid?


    After everyone files out, I grab the case of whiskey from my wagon and two bacon buttered biscuits wrapped in paper too, now that I know the coast is clear. His wife Rita¡¯s been making him cut down on grease lately, and not for any real health reason. She just think fatty foods are the devil¡¯s work and loves her husband dearly, but I do too and cannot abide to see him suffer. Accepting the offering with a gratified smile, Uncle Art keeps me a moment longer to wrap me in a big old bear hug, which I suffer through gamely. It ain¡¯t so bad, as he got a fresh, earthy smell under the cigar smoke, as he¡¯s probably been puttering about his herb garden all morning. ¡°I expect to see more of that whiskey next time you come around,¡± he says, though his gentle tone tells me this ain¡¯t about whiskey at all. ¡°A whole case you said, and I know your daddy raised a man who keeps his word.¡±


    ¡°Will do, Uncle Art.¡±


    ¡°Now, this is by no means an endorsement of whatever it is you planning,¡± he says, talking right over me as he grabs a little wooden box from the shelf and opens it up to show me the contents, ¡°But I figured you could use these.¡±


    Peering down at eight vials of clear, bright green liquid, I feel my hopes deflate before I even had a chance to make a wish. ¡°This ain¡¯t Impact Oil,¡± I say, which earns me a sharp knock on the head.


    ¡°Course it isn¡¯t,¡± Uncle Art says, scowling up a storm. ¡°You aren¡¯t responsible enough for Impact Oil. Don¡¯t matter if you can do worse slinging Spells. With Spells, you can take the time to consider your actions, a whole two and a half seconds at least. With Impact Oil, it¡¯s gone the second it leaves your hand, and when you holding a vial, you best bet you¡¯ll feel incentivized to be rid of it.¡±


    True, but that don¡¯t much change my thoughts on the matter, so I get back to the topic at hand. ¡°So what¡¯re these then?¡±


    ¡°Vials of Alchemical Acid.¡± Giving me a knowing look before I can even think of playing innocent, Art says, ¡°Shut up. I know you already got your mind made up, and I also know you as stubborn as a mule and twice as stupid, so there¡¯s no point arguing. I¡¯m just giving you these vials in case you should need them, like if you come across an armoured bugbear during your travels sometime. Toss the vial and the acid inside will melt down its chitinous armour plates, leaving you free to fill it with Bolts and send it on its way.¡±


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Seems Art expects me to sneak on back to Pleasant Dunes, but in my defense, I really wasn¡¯t planning to until I talked to Tim. There¡¯s no point saying as much, or even denying it, so instead, I give him another hug and ask, ¡°How much?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a gift.¡±


    ¡°I got money.¡±


    ¡°Just take it.¡±


    ¡°No, seriously, I can pay.¡±


    ¡°Fine. A Benjamin ought to cover it.¡±


    ¡°A hundred dollars?!¡± Eyes wide with disbelief, I look at the eight vials and back up at Uncle Art. ¡°These are $12.50 a pop? At those rates, I¡¯d could kill eight bugbears and end up seventy-five dollars in debt. Maybe more, as the acid eats away at Aberrtin and Spell Cores too.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re the one who insisted on paying, and that¡¯s fair market price.¡± Uncle Art shrugs, but I know he smiling inside, happy to have gotten one over the Firstborn. ¡°It¡¯s okay Howie, your Uncle Art got this. You just run along and get back to your friends. And remember, say no to drugs, even combat drugs. They haven¡¯t been tested and they¡¯re probably addictive, so don¡¯t go trying nothing besides alcohol and tobacco. Liver failure and lung cancer we can fix, but the other stuff¡¯ll have you scratching your own skin off.¡±


    ¡°I know, I know,¡± I reply, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. Ask the man a few questions, bring him a couple samples, and all of a sudden he thinks I¡¯m jonesing to sniff, snort, or shoot up anything I can get my hands on. A hundred dollars lighter, I leave Uncle Art¡¯s house in a bit of a huff, though I can¡¯t say I ain¡¯t grateful. Alchemical Acid is expensive because it¡¯s difficult and dangerous to make, what with the loss of Spirit and corrosive fumes and whatnot. Uncle Art¡¯s got it on lockdown of course, but his time would be better spent doing almost anything else, like saving lives or researching combat drugs and seeing what he can do to make them safe, but it ain¡¯t that simple. He¡¯s got none of the labs or testing facilities or even a viable pool of test subjects to research, which means he¡¯s looking for a needle in a haystack with a bag over his head and both hands tied behind his back.


    Found all that out when I got my hands on some drugs and brung them to his attention last year, as I was looking for an edge since my daddy wasn¡¯t around no more. I ain¡¯t no fool though. I heard all the stories of what happened to the soldiers during the second World War. They got all hopped up on Slaught, Brave, Daemon Dust, and more while fighting in the trenches, and those who survived fared worse than the ones who died. That¡¯s how it was with the lab-tested drugs from the old world, so I wasn¡¯t about to try anything available here on the Frontier. They all brand spanking new with no real research or testing behind them, which is why I brung it to Art in the first place. I seen enough strung-out addicts to know I don¡¯t ever want to go down that route, because even if it makes the difference between life or death, I might end up with a life that ain¡¯t worth living.


    Thankfully, Uncle Art had a wild side back when he was young and didn¡¯t tell no one about my curiosity. Just scared me straight is all, which I appreciate, because it meant he wasn¡¯t treating me with no kid¡¯s gloves.


    The next stop is the tailors, where we get Errol fitted for some new clothes. Even though Aunty Ray said he could keep Uncle Raleigh¡¯s old things, I know she¡¯s hurting emotionally from the loss, so I figure the sooner we get Errol his own threads, the sooner she can get them back. For boots and a jacket, the Ranger issue gear ought to be good enough for Errol and Sarah Jay both, while the latter got enough of her own clothes to get by for now. Course, the Ranger gear ain¡¯t Augmented like mine, but I ain¡¯t ready to shell out big like that just yet. Or ever, in fact, as they can save their dollars and get their own magic gear for themselves, unless we mesh well in the field and strike it big right quick.


    It ain¡¯t callousness or greediness which keeps me from gearing them out to the gills, but simple economics. I can afford Imbued and Augmented gear, or I can buy Aetherarms. One or the other, and the best defense is a good offense, so I suppose my two prospects will just have to get good and avoid getting hit.


    After the issue of clothes is settled, I bring everyone over to Danny¡¯s, which is also on the main thoroughfare, though not as popular as the other stores. Mostly because he¡¯s is only sixteen and looks maybe fourteen, but he does good work and keeps his finger on the pulse of all recent technological developments. ¡°Hey Danny,¡± I say, giving him a smile as he looks up from his workbench, which is tucked into the back corner of the store. ¡°How¡¯s tricks?¡±


    Taking his goggles off and losing them in his rat¡¯s nest of curly red locks, Danny brings his big ears over to the counter with a grin. A trio of four-legged contraptions follow him over, their metallic limbs tip-tapping on the glass counter, the clay brick walls, and the wooden roof respectively, not a single one in the same orientation as the others. Don¡¯t look like much besides four spindly legs built around a chonky tube of a body, one no bigger than my hand, but Danny built a bunch of powered gizmos into them. ¡°Same old,¡± he replies, stopping me from flicking his little skitterbots like usual, because I just love watching them try to dodge and stay upright. ¡°C¡¯mon Howie, cut it out. They¡¯re delicate instruments, not toys to amuse you.¡±


    ¡°Then why you gotta make ¡®em look so fun?¡± Leaning over the counter, I clock Danny¡¯s goofy grin and bright red complexion, which is hard to miss on his pale, fair self. I also know it¡¯s because of Tina, who¡¯s busy inspecting some hunk of metal and not noticing a thing, so I do my best not to laugh. ¡°Give it up, Loverboy,¡± I whisper, and Danny turns even redder. ¡°Ain¡¯t worth it, as there¡¯s more to a girl than looks. She¡¯s scatterbrained and helpless. Can¡¯t cook to save her life or remember to separate her colours and whites, and would spend all her days out and about if you let her. I know that ain¡¯t your speed, so you ought to fix your sights on someone of like mind, maybe even someone close to home who¡¯s already expressed interest.¡±


    ¡°What? Who?¡± Danny asks, all bright and chipper like only a girl-crazy boy can manage, and somehow concludes that I¡¯m talking about Sarah Jay.


    ¡°No, not her,¡± I say, rolling my eyes. ¡°I¡¯m talking about little Josie. You know, the half-Latina girl? Tiny little thing with short hair, big doe eyes, and likes to wear long, colourful ribbons in her hair?¡± All starched up to the point where they almost rabbit ears, which is adorable as all heck. No horns, which is a big part of what gives them bicorn bunnies their charms, though I suppose little Josie¡¯s snaggletooth might count for a fang. Seeing Danny¡¯s deadpan expression, I shake my head and say, ¡°Oh come on! You ain¡¯t noticed? Almost every time I drop by, I seen her mosey on in with the worst excuses to make conversation. She¡¯s interested Danny, wants to talk to you but is too shy to approach alone, so you ought to ask her out for an ice cream sometime.¡±


    ¡°Howie,¡± Danny says, giving me that look I sometimes give idiot outlaws who¡¯re too dumb to leave alive. ¡°Josie isn¡¯t shy. She comes in here to talk to you.¡±


    ¡°Wha ¨C ¡± Stopping myself short, I tilt my head and go back over my memories, only to reach the same conclusion as Danny. ¡°Ah. Fudge nuggets.¡± Josie¡¯s cute as a button, but only fourteen going on fifteen, and is way too girly and giggly for my tastes. ¡°You sure? My bad Danny. Still think you should ask her out. Or someone at least. Can¡¯t spend all your time cooped up in the shop, tinkering all your youth away.¡±


    He shrugs and doesn¡¯t say anything, but I can see the bitter weariness in his eyes. See, Danny learned everything he knows about arcana-tech from his daddy, one Lee Berner, a brilliant man who was almost as old as Art. Lost him little over a year ago to Cholera, which he got from a bad batch of ale. Most shook it right off bounced right back, but not poor Mr. Berner. Now Danny here is the sole breadwinner of the family, working hard to keep the shop his daddy built, which also doubles as their home upstairs. Town¡¯s got measures in place to make sure no one goes without, so they ain¡¯t in danger of starving or being left on the streets, but buildings on the main throughfare are heavily taxed for the sake of maintenance, commerce, and defense. If Danny can¡¯t keep up, he¡¯ll have to move to another district along with his mama and sisters. Even if he comes up with the money to buy this building back later on down the line, the new owners ain¡¯t liable to sell, so he¡¯s doing everything he can to hold onto what he¡¯s got, and I try to help out as much as I can.


    Which is real easy, since Danny here is a top notch Artificer, someone who straddles the line between Artisan, Alchemist, and Arcana-technician. An Artisan is a craftsman who Imbues or Augments their creations with magic, like a magic sword, duster, or amulet, while an Alchemist does the same with alchemical concoctions. An Arcana-technician on the other hand is someone who works with arcane circuits, a broad, catch-all term that has plenty of room for specialization. They¡¯re designers for the most part, folks who come up with schematics and blueprints for working tech, but less hands on as they mostly deal with the theoretical. As for Artificers like Danny, they take those blueprints, alchemical concoctions, and artisanal creations, then put it all together to make stuff like guns or my wagon. The frame itself is mundane, but all the bits and pieces like the Silent Image projector and the Floating Disc boosters were initially designed by arcana-technicians and make use of alchemy, Imbuements, and Augmentations. Makes Artificers something of a handyman, or a jack of all trades, though most typically contract out the necessary parts they can¡¯t make themselves.


    In short, Artificing is a broad field of practical study, and Danny¡¯s daddy was my daddy¡¯s first choice for all his Artificing needs, and I go to Danny for mine. They were the ones who put my wagon together, which is more complicated than it sounds given how many arcano-doodads I got hidden under the hood and the modular nature of their installations. Danny also installed the Big Stick up top too, all by his lonesome after his daddy passed, and he built my speakers to boot, which is largely why I stopped in. ¡°How long you think it¡¯ll take you to whip up another set of speakers?¡± I ask. ¡°Looking to get another pair, maybe even two if you got time. Standalone and durable, as they might be left outside, and make sure that sand ain¡¯t gonna be an issue either.¡±


    ¡°Sand?¡± Scratching his hair, Danny shrugs and says, ¡°Er, yea sure. I can have them for you day after tomorrow. How¡¯s¡­ fifty bucks for two sets?¡±


    ¡°You sure that¡¯s enough?¡± Fifty bucks ain¡¯t a small amount, but it ain¡¯t huge either, and Danny sticks to his guns and nods. Pulling out a crisp fifty from my dwindling stack of cash, I look around the store and ask, ¡°Got anything new worth looking at?¡±


    ¡°Yea. Mr. Hayes came in yesterday and picked up two boxes of these.¡± Ducking down under the counter, Danny pulls out a case of twenty spherical, cloudy grey orbs, all polished and smooth and maybe half the size of a baseball. They each got a tiny round shard of yellow crystal on them, like nipples on a bunch of stony boobs, which is good for a laugh, but not one I care to share out loud in present company.


    ¡°Weirds me out when you call him Mr. Hayes,¡± I say, noting Tina and Chrissy¡¯s fascination with the objects for reasons dissimilar to my own. Now Tina, she¡¯s just naturally curious, but most objects don¡¯t catch Chrissy¡¯s attention like that, not unless they got some magic about them. ¡°Just call him Tim like everyone else.¡± Reaching for one of the boob rocks, I carefully lift it without touching the crystal. Releasing my hand, Chrissy reaches out to take one too, but I gently stop her and let her look at the one I got instead. Sweet girl that she is, she rests her head on my shoulder and stares, her pale, lilac eyes fixated on the orb. ¡°So uh,¡± I ask, resisting the urge to sit down and go through the whole hum-drum Ritual of casting Detect Magic, Analyze Object, and every other Divination Spell I got in my Spellbook. ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°A flashbang.¡± Soon as the words are out of Danny¡¯s mouth, I move the box so I¡¯m standing between it and Chrissy, because in my experience, there ain¡¯t nothing safe with anything that goes bang. Looking a little sheepish for not warning me sooner, Danny scratches his nose and takes the rock out of my extended hand. ¡°It¡¯s safe. Non-lethal and non reactive. You prime it by activating the crystal for a full second, same way you would with any other tech, then throw it. On impact, it¡¯ll break to release a bright flash and a loud bang, blinding and deafening anything nearby.¡±


    ¡°Oh, sounds fun!¡± Plopping both elbows on the counter, Tina grabs a flashbang and looks it over with wide-eyed fascination, wholly unaware of the effect she¡¯s having on poor Danny, who¡¯s cheeks are redder than his hair now that Tina¡¯s face is so close. ¡°It ain¡¯t a proper Spell stored inside,¡± she says. ¡°Too loose and unorganized. Not alchemical either, but I like how it swells and jiggles, like watery jello.¡±


    No idea what she¡¯s going on about, and Danny¡¯s working too hard not to stare at Tina¡¯s face to find it in him to speak. As for me, I¡¯m busy quashing my jealousy over how Tina can just sense the magic in the stone, while I gotta use my Spells for it. It ain¡¯t familiarity with Divination Spells that lets her do it either, as all Innates got some measure of sensitivity to magic. That¡¯s why Chrissy loves looking at Photographs, because she¡¯s seeing the magic of the projection on top of the actual image, which makes it¡­ more. Not brighter or louder or anything like that, just ¡®more¡¯, an extra helping of sensation that pairs with a sense I don¡¯t have. That¡¯s how Aunty Ray explained it at least, said it¡¯d be like trying to describe sounds to a deaf person, and I envy them the ability something fierce.


    Ain¡¯t fair is what it is. Even a Detect Magic Spell don¡¯t give me that much information, and that¡¯s specifically designed to mimic an Innate¡¯s intuitive senses.


    When Danny finally finds his voice again, he explains, ¡°It¡¯s a bit of magic and alchemy both. There¡¯s a suspended alchemical amalgam inside the orb, and I cast the Light and Daze Cantrips on it. It doesn¡¯t preserve the Spells like an Aether-suspension matrix would, but rather absorbs and amplifies the effect. The Cantrips become a part of the amalgam, which is stable until you prime the crystal. This agitates the liquid inside which degrades the casing shell, making it brittle and soft. Then, when the amalgam is exposed to oxygen, it reacts to produce a blinding light and deafening noise, hence flashbang. Don¡¯t ask how or why, because I don¡¯t know. Dad¡¯s notes only listed the recipe without any real explanation. Works great though. They¡¯re tuned to be loud and disorienting without causing damage to hearing to get around the Hearing Protection Cantrip. Single use and works best in a dark enclosed room. Not entirely sure of their effective range, but outdoors and under the sun, it¡¯ll have to go off really close, like five metres from your target. Maybe less.¡±


    Even with all those downsides, Danny had this sale locked down at ¡®flashbang¡¯, so I stop him before he gets too into the nitty gritty to ask, ¡°How much?¡±


    ¡°Two dollars a piece.¡± Same as what I got for a bottle of mead, but this seems a lot harder to put together than honey, fruit, water, and yeast. Seeing the doubt on my face and mistaking it for reluctance, Danny says, ¡°They¡¯re cheap and simple enough to make once you get the materials, but still takes a careful touch.¡±


    ¡°I believe it Danny, but you sure you ain¡¯t selling yourself short?¡± Stupid Ron got in my head by paying double for my mead, and now I¡¯m all worried about taking advantage of my friends. Plus, ain¡¯t no arguing how it was a boss move, one I gotta give him respect for.


    Blinking like an owl and frowning up a thunderstorm, Danny thinks long and hard before shaking his head. ¡°Nah,¡± he says, sticking firmly to his guns. ¡°It¡¯s still good profit, so long as I can sell enough of them.¡±


    Meaning he ain¡¯t there yet. ¡°Here¡¯s sixty for the batch,¡± I say, putting the cash on the counter when Danny hesitates to take it. ¡°If you confident, then make as many as you can and charge the Rangers top dollar for your stock, then sell the process for even more. A percentage even, if you can swing it, because it¡¯ll be well worth it. These flashbangs work like you say they do, then they¡¯ll become a standard part of a Ranger¡¯s kit right quick, and you won¡¯t be able to keep up with demand.¡± Would be best if Danny went into business for himself, but he ain¡¯t got the capital to open up a workshop and hire people to work under him, not even with a loan. At least if he sells the formula or whatever, he¡¯ll get paid something instead of the nothing he¡¯ll get once the copycats figure out how to duplicate his efforts.


    Hopefully, there will be better days ahead for Danny now that he got a real gem in his hands, and I eagerly await to hear what else he got for sale. Unfortunately, he¡¯s gotta let me down gentle with a soft sigh. ¡°It¡¯s not so easy replicating old world tech,¡± he says, when he sees my disappointment. ¡°Like¡­ you know how we use the clay bricks your mother came up with?¡± I nod and stand tall with pride, and Danny asks, ¡°Do you know why they were so important? I mean, bricks are simple right? Take clay from a riverbank, shape them in a mould, and bake them. Hardly seems all that difficult.¡±


    I know Danny¡¯s just saying all that to make his point, but I take a lot of pride in my mama¡¯s accomplishments. She was an educated gal, sharp as a tack and a talented Spellcaster to boot. My daddy told me that¡¯s where I get my talents from, but having read everything she wrote down in her journals for me to learn from, I¡¯m guessing I got my smarts from him. Not to say he was dumb or anything, just that I ain¡¯t nowhere near as smart as my mama, and I doubt I ever will be.


    Which is why I gotta defend her against Danny¡¯s arguments. ¡°You right about it being simple,¡± I say, trying not to sound too defensive or worked up, ¡°But simple don¡¯t mean easy, and all bricks ain¡¯t equal. I seen towns where they made bricks which were too soft, so their buildings compressed over time and crumbled within a year or two. Others were too hard and came out brittle, so they didn¡¯t even bother using them. Even saw one unfortunate fellow who made bricks which were too porous, so when the snow came down, the constant melting and freezing made his bricks shatter.¡± Whole building came down on top of the poor soul, who me and my daddy found a few months later before working out what happened. Never did learn his name though.


    ¡°Exactly.¡± Nodding along and looking confident now that we in his realm, Danny gets all wide-eyed and excited as he gets to talking. ¡°But your mother knew about all those pitfalls and how to navigate around them. She added limestone, iron oxide, and coarse sand to the clay in varying amounts and figured out the right mixture for the clay she had available up in the Emerald Plains. The clay we have here is slightly different, but she documented all her methods and your father copied them to come up with a mass-production method for a brick made from local materials that¡¯s strong, durable, and reliable enough to match anything the old world had. Within a year of the Advent mind you, which is incredible, but for more than one reason.¡±


    Pacing about behind his counter and shadowed by his four-legged skitterbots, Danny grows animated as he says, ¡°See, we had to go through all that trial and effort to get one simple technology down pat, namely bricks. Once we had that though, we were able to build blast furnaces and fill them with coal. This produced coked coal, which when used to fire those same furnaces, turned iron ore into carbonized steel. That steel went into making better tools, which we used to mine ore and coal more effectively, which then went into even better forges to ramp up our steel production. Then and only then could we safely mass manufacturing guns, because we needed a big supply of good, reliable steel to mass-manufacture Aetherarms instead of needing gunsmiths to check, test, and outline each and every part.¡±


    There¡¯s no stopping Danny on a tangent, one I find fascinating even if Errol, Sarah Jay, and Tina are all wearing vacant expressions to match Chrissy¡¯s. ¡°With those Aetherarms,¡± Danny continues, paying no mind to his audience at all, ¡°The Rangers went out to hunt Aberrations and collect Spell Cores, Aberrtin, Aether, and all the other materials needed to build an Aetheric dynamo. This allowed us convert crystallized Aether into Aetheric energy to power motorized tools, which we again used mine more resources and hunt more Abby, and so on and so forth.¡± Stopping in his tracks, Danny turns to meet my eyes with an enthused grin and feverish gaze. ¡°All of which we got because your mother figured out how to make proper bricks, among other things. See what I mean? Sure, we have all this advanced knowledge, but we still have to work up to it one step at a time and perfect things along the way, like building a ladder up rung by rung. These flashbangs here? The concept isn¡¯t new, but someone had to work out the best and most cost-effective ways of getting all the required materials before I could put one together. No one wants a flashbang that costs a C-note in material and labour, right?¡±


    I nod, but Danny ain¡¯t even paying attention as he continues, ¡°There a lot of things we can make, but not quickly and easily on a large scale. Like ball bearings, which require a high degree of precision we can¡¯t achieve using mass manufacturing methods just yet, or rubber because we don¡¯t have enough people to grow and harvest the amount we¡¯d need without starving. Aluminum production, railway systems, widescale agricultural development, we have all the knowledge needed to make this and so much more happen, but we¡¯re bottlenecked by two things: ambient Aether levels and available manpower.¡± Grabbing one of his clacking skitterbots by its tiny torso, Danny turns it upside down to show me it¡¯s belly, which got purple glowing runes Etched all across it. ¡°See that? It¡¯s a tiny Aetheric dynamo, same as the one I installed in your wagon to power your Spell Cores. This one is hundreds of times smaller than the first dynamos we made here on the Frontier yet outputs more energy for the same amount of Aether. Took us fifteen years to get to the point where we could build them this small, but it represents an advance in technology which took two centuries to develop, and still isn¡¯t even close to what was considered cutting edge tech in 1989. This dynamo powers my skitterbots and the stuff on your wagon well enough, but the cost in Aether to produce that power is still too high for widespread, everyday use, almost a one-to-one ratio. Doesn¡¯t scale well, but it¡¯s not that we don¡¯t know how to produce Aetheric energy more efficiently. A single hydro-Aetheric dam or even a coal-fired Aether plant could easily produce energy at ten-thousand times the efficiency or more, and supply enough power for every settlement west of the Divide. It¡¯s the same tech we use in the watermills over in Riverrun to power the factories, just scaled up a hundred times bigger and more efficient. In order to build something like that though, we need more manpower and mechanized machinery, because projects like that took years to complete in the old world with all their infrastructure in place. We¡¯ll take even longer to complete it, but that¡¯s the next big development we¡¯re waiting on, something no one can currently afford. Once a large-scale dynamo comes online however, we¡¯ll catch up to the old world just like that.¡±


    Danny snaps his fingers for effect, except he ain¡¯t all that great at snapping. The excitement drains out of him right quick as he realizes how much he been talking, but I give him a big grin and a slap on the shoulder for support. ¡°Good to know,¡± I say, before nodding at the upturned skitterbot in his hands to keep the conversation going. ¡°In more practical terms though, I gotta ask. How come you don¡¯t work with a gunsmith and stick some Aetherarms on your leggy contraptions? They can aim and shoot on their own right? I¡¯d pay good money for a little mecha-golem gunslinger.¡±


    ¡°They can shoot, but they¡¯re not golems, so I can¡¯t sell them.¡± Hiding his embarrassment by writing out a receipt for my speakers and flashbangs, Danny explains, ¡°They¡¯re more like Summoned Creatures than golems. They¡¯re not autonomous, they¡¯re linked to me. I had to divest a portion of my Spirit to Implant each of them with Essence, which is what makes them capable of¡­ not independent thought, but carrying out a limited, pre-programmed set of routines.¡± Danny¡¯s already lost me, somewhere around autonomous, but he goes on for a bit about algorithms, commands, logic gates, and some Cantrip that¡¯s only function is to denote 1 or 0. Long story short, he can¡¯t sell the skitterbots because they can only take commands from him, as he interfaces with them through his Spirit or Soul or whatever you want to call it. That¡¯s also why he only has three that can only do simple tasks, because any more risks over drafting his Spirit and causing irreparable harm, which no one really wants.


    Only ever met one person who over drafted their Spirit, and that¡¯s a fate worse than death. Can¡¯t imagine sitting there for the rest of your years without a single thought inside your head and needing someone to spoon feed you so you don¡¯t starve to death.


    Soon as I get a chance to slip a word in edgewise, I ask, ¡°Why can¡¯t you make blanks?¡± Now it¡¯s Danny¡¯s turn to be confused, and I explain, ¡°You know, like just the framework of the skitterbot, then have someone else inject their own Spirit or whatever? That¡¯s how they get them machines to make Aetherarms, right?¡±


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t work.¡± Giving me a shrug, Danny tries to find the words to explain it, but ends up just saying, ¡°Building the pieces, Etching the matrices, and putting it all together is part of the Implanting process. I don¡¯t just build something and inject it with Spirit, it¡¯s more like it¡¯s naturally siphoned off while I put a contraption together.¡±


    That there puts the arcane into arcana-tech, which means it makes about much sense as my rustling jimmies, meaning just enough to leave a man confused. Either way, I accept that there are some things I might well never understand, which is why I stick to just the arcane. Magic and Spell slinging just makes sense to me, in a way I can¡¯t rightly explain, probably the same way tech makes sense to Danny here, and I wouldn¡¯t have it any other way. There¡¯ve been times when I considered trying my hand at crafting, as my mama was something of a craftswoman herself, a brilliant one as far as I can tell, considering how much she accomplished in less than nine months. Thing is, I can¡¯t sit still long enough to Etch, stitch, carve, or craft anything worth making, which is another reason why Aunty Ray thinks I got the ADHD, but I don¡¯t buy it. I can focus just fine on Spell Structures and while reading books on things I¡¯m interested in, but the moment I set out to do something boring, I just can¡¯t stay focused at all.  Whatever. I¡¯d be bored to death if I had to sit in town all day every day anyways, so I¡¯m glad things worked out the way they did. Rather sling Spells than Etch runes any day of the week, even if the latter is safer and more lucrative by far.


    ¡­Okay, yea, so I definitely ain¡¯t as smart as my mama, in more ways than just one.

 Chapter 17

    Much as I¡¯d love to talk tech with Danny all day, I got a schedule to keep, so after convincing him to look into the defensive properties of spidersilk, I herd everyone out right quick.


    It¡¯s got nothing to do with avoiding Josie now that I know what¡¯s what, or Errol and Sarah Jay¡¯s growing impatience. Well, not entirely nothing, which is why I take a moment to address the elephant in the room as we head on over to our next destination. ¡°Tell me something,¡± I say, speaking over my shoulder at the two surly prospects in the back of my wagon. ¡°How those new flashbangs work again?¡± My question is met with silence as I imagine Errol and Sarah Jay trading puzzled glances, and it¡¯s hard to keep the mirth out of my voice as I tease, ¡°C¡¯mon now. Danny just explained it, and I¡¯m sure two eager prospects like yourselves were hanging onto every word, seeing how you might soon come to rely on those flashbangs to keep your hides in tact.¡±


    I can almost make out Sarah Jay¡¯s surly grumbles, no doubt something about how she didn¡¯t know there was gonna be a test. That¡¯s what she don¡¯t understand though. There ain¡¯t gonna be no written exams in the Firstborn¡¯s school of hard knocks. You either learn enough to stay alive, or you die because you didn¡¯t know enough. Turning around to look them in the eyes, I explain, ¡°You need to know your tools, because knowledge is power. Back in the day, Spellslingers were called wizards, because much like a drunkard is a drunk man, a wizard is a wise man, and only wise men could use spells.¡± Tapping the side of my temple, I say, ¡°Spells and guns are great and all, but ain¡¯t nothing compared to what you got up here. The more you know, the more options you have at your disposal, and you never know what might come in handy.¡±


    To catch them up, I go over everything Danny said about his flashbangs and ask, ¡°So what¡¯s that tell you?¡±


    Prize student that she is, Sarah Jay replies, ¡°That they won¡¯t work against anything that don¡¯t use eyes to see or ears to hear?¡±


    ¡°Good, but say it with more confidence. You tellin¡¯, not askin¡¯.¡± Flashing a grin to take away the minor sting of the critique, I ask, ¡°What else?¡± Neither one answers, which is fine, but I encourage them with a little nod and say, ¡°Think about the Cantrips used. Light and Daze right? So?¡±


    The little bit of emphasis on the word Cantrip is all Errol needs, and his eyes light up in understanding. ¡°If it only uses Cantrips, then it can¡¯t be all that powerful,¡± he says, but then he falters just short of home base. ¡°So uhh¡­ you can probably counter it with higher level Spells?¡±


    ¡°Right on the money,¡± I reply, giving them both a big thumbs up in encouragement. ¡°A Darkness Spell will counteract the flash, while a Silence Spell should neutralize the bang, but those are both Second Order. Not a bad trade off if you the one throwing the flashbang.¡±


    Turning back around to face forward, I continue to speak over my shoulder so they don¡¯t feel like I¡¯m lecturing them all the time. ¡°You never know when some piece of information might come in handy, so best you get in the habit of hoarding all that you can. Even a passing knowledge of how things work can prove useful out there.¡± There¡¯s more to it, but I leave it at that for now, because I don¡¯t want to overwhelm them. Knowing how a flashbang works might also allow them to modify it in some ways. For example, Danny said the suspended alchemical amalgam inside the flashbang doesn¡¯t preserve the Light and Daze Cantrips, but absorbs them in a more or less stable configuration. So what would happen if you cast a different Cantrip on the amalgam, like say Shocking Grasp or maybe even a stronger Spell like Frost Nova?


    Probably nothing. The amalgam is likely tailor made for the Light and Daze Cantrips, but who knows? I would¡¯ve brung it up with Danny, but I was worried he¡¯d run off and test it without thinking things through. I¡¯d hate for him to lose a hand over some hare-brained idea he got from me, so I figured we¡¯re both better off if I bring that particular idea up with whoever the Rangers put in charge of manufacturing the flashbangs.


    Having teased my prospects long enough, I decide our next stop is the fabled gun store of New Hope, owned and operated by Armand Kalthoff himself. A gunsmith so famous and influential, Ron was tempted to take me hostage just because I had a personal connection to the man. Almost everyone around these parts has heard of the man¡¯s name, but what most don¡¯t know is how he credits my mama for his success. Not because of her bricks or the carbonized steel that came from them, but rather because my mama filled five whole notebooks with information about Metamagics before she passed.


    Like I said, my mama was smart as a tack, with her fingers in a whole lot of different pies. Even though Mr. Kalthoff already knew how to make guns based on blueprints he memorized before coming to the Frontier, he claims her notes helped him reach a new level of understanding. That¡¯s why he¡¯s so valued by the Rangers and respected by others, because he can do more than just follow instructions and churn out the same few Aetherarms by following blueprints folks memorized and brought over. Instead, he makes his own blueprints, many of which are much improved because he understands the available materials better than the old world ¡®experts¡¯. Armand Kalthoff is a true craftsman, an artist in every sense of the word, and thanks to my mama, he¡¯s always had a soft spot for me, even if he don¡¯t ever show it.


    Not Marijke though, his sixteen-year-old daughter manning the shop today. After I hit the buzzer to be let in, the homely blonde looks up and hits me with a grimace similar to the face I make when Cowie leaves a patty out on the street. Downright hurtful is what it is, and after coming up and unlocking the door, she heads right back to work on whatever it is she got going on behind the counter. No ¡®good to see you¡¯ or ¡®how can I help¡¯, just a soft grunt as she points at the rule board on her way back. Terrible customer service, but if anyone can afford to pick and choose their customers, it¡¯d be Mr. Kalthoff.


    Breaks my heart to be treated this way by Marijke, because I bet we¡¯d make great friends. We grew up together, and while she ain¡¯t the prettiest gal in town by a long shot, she¡¯s got a big heart and shares my love for Aetherarms and talking specs. Ain¡¯t met no one else like her, man or woman, but she won¡¯t give me the time of day unless I¡¯m here as a customer, much less stop out on the street for a chat. No idea why, as it ain¡¯t like I ever wronged her before, unless you count asking too many questions about Aetherarms over the years, or calling her ¡®Mary¡¯ for a good eight years before she finally corrected me. ¡®Ma-rye-kuh¡¯ ain¡¯t the easiest name to pronounce, and I still can¡¯t get it right, which is why I simplified it. Don¡¯t see what all the fuss was about either. My name ain¡¯t technically Howie, but teaching folks how to pronounce ¡®Hao Wei¡¯ gets real tiring real fast.


    Putting the rough reception out of mind, I leave Chrissy to Tina and turn to Errol and Sarah Jay. They both all wide-eyed and excited from being here, and truth be told, I¡¯m a little awestruck myself. Mr. Kalthoff¡¯s gun store is like Uncle Raleigh¡¯s gun safe only dialed up to thirteen, with all manner of Aetherarms mounted on the back wall. There are pistols, rifles, carbines, and even support weapons all laid out to look at, but those last ones are display only. Nothing like my Big Stick either, and custom jobs like my dubsie Doorknockers are a rare sight these days, as Mr. Kalthoff is too busy streamlining the mass-manufacturing process to take any individual orders. Marijke¡¯s a competent gunsmith in her own right, but she only do work for her daddy as he says she ain¡¯t ready to strike out on her own. I disagree, but Mr. Kalthoff got high standards and strong ethics, which is how he earned his reputation to begin with.


    Once I have their attention, I bring Errol and Sarah Jay over to wander through the shelves of equipment on either side of the store, telling them to grab stuff whenever I see something they might need. Goggles, Light-tubes, canteens, entrenching tools, knives, ammo pouches and more, all stuff we could get elsewhere if we really cared to, but Mr. Kalthoff has an eye for quality which can¡¯t be beat. I take a bit longer in the stacks than I really need, mostly just to tease Errol and Sarah Jay a bit more, as I gotta amuse myself somehow. Turns out, spending cash ain¡¯t as fun when you ain¡¯t spending it on yourself, and I still have a lot more spending to do, so I don¡¯t feel bad about keeping them in suspense a little longer.


    Seems a little odd to spend so much on people I just met yesterday, but Errol showed me the kinda man he is during the harpy attack, and I reckon I owe Sarah Jay¡¯s daddy big.


    Once I¡¯ve tormented them enough for my amusement, I head over to the counter where Marijke has been hard at work the entire time, checking and double-checking a whole array of gun parts which are neatly laid out on the countertop. She¡¯s got a little metal rasp in hand and a whole mess of other tools she¡¯s using to put the finishing touches on the parts before fitting them together into a working Aetherarm. A real big¡®un, which draws my interest, though I know better than to touch anything. ¡°Hey there girlie,¡± I say, which earns me a fierce glower for interrupting her. Ain¡¯t fair, considering this here is her place of business, one that is open and ready for commerce. Rather than ask about tricks, I quail before her dark glare and thick brows. ¡°Your daddy around?¡±


    ¡°No. He is at zee factory,¡± she replies already looking back down at her work, her accent so thick just like her father¡¯s flat intonations and separated syllables. ¡°Come back anuzzer day if you vish to vaste his time.¡±


    Glancing at the piece in her hand, I recognize it as a gas tube for a fully automatic weapon. ¡°Ooh, your daddy finally get the stamp for that machinegun working?¡± I ask, ready to part with my whole stack of cash and let Errol and Sarah Jay ride out with nothing but sticks if need be. ¡°What did he call it again? The BAR?¡±


    ¡°Blackstaff Assault Rifle.¡± Still gently filing away at the gas tube, Marijke rattles off the specs like a song for my heart. ¡°8.8 kilograms in weight vith 610 mm barrel. Total length with wooden stock, 1.19 metres, with rear leaf and front post iron sights, as vell as built in bipod for stability. Gas-operated vith rising bolt lock, this veapon is built around ten First Order Bolt Cores used in rotation. Take 40 round detachable magazine of 7.62 - 60 ammunition. Fires up to 600 Bolt per minute, at effective range up to 1,000 metres. Extended use vill varp the barrel and crack Cores, but is most efficient and economical full-auto Bolt rifle Papa can make.¡±


    If she says so, then it must be true. In the old world, most fully automatic weapons use Second Order Bolt Salvo Cores, which fires three First Order Bolts in quick succession. Thing is, we ain¡¯t seen many of those around these parts just yet. While fully capable of making Abby with fancy, higher Order Cores, Proggies gotta pay more mind to bang for buck out on the Frontier because we got lower ambient Aether concentration levels here than in the old world. That¡¯s changing by the day, but until we hit the Watershed, I doubt any Proggie got enough Aether and Biomass to spare for cranking out Second or Third Order Spell Cores in numbers enough to matter. If any Abby do have Higher Order Spell Cores, it¡¯s usually something with utility, like Shatter for digging tunnels or Fireball for maximum effect.


    Course we also gotta consider efficiency on our end. Using a modified Cantrip Core as the base example, it costs four times more Aether to power a First Order Spell Core, nine times for a Second Order Spell Core, and sixteen times for a Third Order Spell Core. So while 10 Grain ammunition is the sweet spot for a Metamagicked Bolt Cantrip Aetherarm, it¡¯s 40 Grain for a First Order Bolt, and 90 Grain for A Bolt Salvo. That¡¯s per shot mind you, so even if we had a Bolt Salvo Core, it¡¯d be more efficient and effective to fire a Metamagicked Bolt Cantrip Core nine times than a Bolt Salvo Core once, which is something we all got to consider given our limited reserves of crystallized Aether and how difficult it is to come by.


    That being said, I sure would love to get my hands on one of these bad boy BAR¡¯s. ¡°7.62-60 ammo, huh?¡± I ask, grabbing one of them big brass bullets she got sitting off to the side, a real monster of a bullet compared to the tiny .22¡¯s I favour. Means the Spell Core is bigger, which in turn means it¡¯s more robust and less likely to crack due to repeated use. A bit of mental math tells me that this has the same proportional Grainage as a fatter .45-15, which is what Tina¡¯s 1911¡¯s use, so it¡¯s a decent bet that the Metamagics will be similar. Wanting to impress Marijke, I make a show of looking over all the parts, with their Metamagic Etchings all dark and unpowered. ¡°Hmm, Distant. Extend Duration. Intensify. Empower. Prime. Efficient. Quicken.¡± While going through the list, I realize that Silence and Toppling wouldn¡¯t make sense on a weapon like this, so I take a wild guess and say, ¡°¡­Penetrate?¡±


    Which isn¡¯t really a terrible guess, as most other Metamagics would be silly or too costly for only 60 Grainage of Aether. To my delight, Marijke looks up from her work and gives me an almost approving nod. ¡°Difficult to Etch and keep barrel disposable, but Papa, he say Penetrate more useful than Moderate or Precise for recoil and accuracy. Rangers¡¯ have strong arms. Sharp eyes. No need Metamagic to help shoot.¡±


    Which is how I¡¯d go about it, because even if the Abby you shooting ain¡¯t armoured, Penetrate Metamagic gives you a decent chance of hitting a collat, or a collateral shot where your Bolt pierces your first target to hit a second behind it. Learned that firsthand in Pleasant Dunes, didn¡¯t I, as a normal, non-Penetrating Bolt would¡¯ve spent itself on the table, leaving nothing to hit me through my Shield, duster, and Mage Armour besides splinters. Course, if a regular Bolt hits your armour, the force of the impact can still hurt you real bad, if not kill you outright. As for the Blackstaff Assault Rifle, I reckon it¡¯ll chew up Abby in chokepoints for sure, especially if it¡¯s modified to be belt fed, which is something even I could rig up. ¡°About time we got something fully-auto. How much to get me one of these bad boys?¡±


    ¡°Not for sale.¡± Any goodwill I might¡¯ve won with my earlier performance all melts away as she goes back to glowering. ¡°Military veapon only.¡±


    Something in my expression gives away my inner turmoil, because Marijke¡¯s scowl softens just a bit. She knows my daddy deserved better, and she knows she ain¡¯t American either. Trying to play it off, I smile and ask, ¡°Any chance of a civilian model getting released anytime soon?¡±


    ¡°Nay.¡± After muttering something unintelligible under her breath, Marijke says, ¡°Civilian semi-auto only. Full-auto too much. Need standardized parts, very difficult to machine.¡± Picking up two metal nuts from her carefully arranged pile of parts, she places them on the counter in front of me and says, ¡°See? Look same, but different.¡±


    ¡°Yea, this one got a threaded centre, and the other got more weight. Lead?¡± Blinking in surprise, Marijke nods and furrows her thick brows, no doubt wondering how I could tell without touching either nut. ¡°Analyze Object Spell,¡± I reply in answer to her unspoken question. ¡°Use that plus the Appraisal Cantrip and Identify Spell enough times and you sorta get a sense for things. Helps eyeball stuff like height, weight, distance and such.¡± Sort of like my rustling jimmies. I can just tell round-about how much small objects weigh and sometimes what they made of, though with people it becomes mostly guesswork. Mostly has to do with the scale of things, so who knows. If I use those Spells enough, there might come a day when I can find ranges without the Rangefinder Cantrip, among other things.


    ¡°Mh.¡± Marijke grunts and gives me an even look, likely trying to decide if I¡¯m pulling her leg. I¡¯m not, but my innocent appearance ain¡¯t helping, and she¡¯s immune to all my modest charms, which really breaks my heart. I bet we¡¯d have a lot of fun together. Sure, she ain¡¯t what you might call conventionally attractive, but I like a woman who knows her guns, because I like knowing much as I can, and Marijke knows more than anyone besides her daddy.


    Deciding it ain¡¯t worth it even if I am yanking her chain, she sighs and says, ¡°Much vork still to be done.¡± Meaning on the Aetherarm in general, not right this second. ¡°The steel, too weak, but Darksteel too heavy and expensive for disposable barrel. Too many Cores also, and if one crack, then gun is kaput without maintenance.¡± Because if you keep cycling Aether through the cracked Core, it could explode. ¡°Jams often, not only ammunition feed, but Core chamber.¡± Which uses the same principle as the gatling, except instead of giving each Core its own barrel, you cycle through them with every shot. Must be a nightmare ensuring the Core, bullet, and barrel line up precisely right at such high rates of fire. ¡°And this is best ve have. Other full-auto Bolt Aetherarms, garbage after seven, eight-hundred rounds.¡± Like the AK-47 models I been hearing about, but those are single Core guns originally designed for Bolt Salvo. The scaled down Bolt 1 versions are inaccurate, prone to jamming, and have mediocre stopping power on top of their short shelf life, though they only got to hit you once to really ruin your week.


    Since getting a BAR is out of the question, I switch tack and say, ¡°Well, we¡¯re looking to fit ourselves with some armour-penetration Aetherarms.¡± Marijke¡¯s gaze is just full of suspicion, likely because the Rangers have already been by and requested the same in preparation for their trip to Pleasant Dunes. ¡°Nothing too heavy. A Blastgun for Errol, and sidearms for the rest of us, unless you got a carbine worth picking up for cheap.¡± Emphasis on the cheap. I can¡¯t spend all my remaining bounty cash outfitting Errol and Sarah Jay, else I won¡¯t be able to afford to buy anything for selling.


    ¡°You buying me a sidearm?¡± Appearing out of nowhere once Marijke shuffles off, Tina grabs my arm like Chrissy would and rests her head on my shoulder. ¡°For realsies? You ain¡¯t pullin¡¯ my leg, are ye?¡±


    ¡°Yea, I¡¯m buying you a sidearm.¡±


    ¡°You the best Howie,¡± Tina says, throwing her arms around my shoulders for a hug. After a moment, she looks up without pulling away and asks, ¡°Why armour penetrating though?¡±


    Because I can¡¯t in good conscience let her head out to Pleasant Dunes without an armour penetrating weapon. I¡¯m sure the Rangers will supply her with something for long range, but Tina¡¯s training to take point in a strike team like her daddy, meaning she likes to fight up close and personal. While I doubt they¡¯ll bring her down into any Abby burrow, I still won¡¯t feel right letting her go off without a proper sidearm to defend herself.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    ¡°Well, you know what they say,¡± I rattle off, trying to play it casual and ignore how good she smells. Who likes flowers anyway? I prefer gun oil and Aether. ¡°Better to have and not need, and all that.¡± Not wanting to answer anymore questions, I hand Tina the shoulder harness I picked out for her and smile as she frowns and runs off to pick out a prettier one. She¡¯ll put all the pieces together eventually, but the Rangers¡¯ll keep the boots in the dark until they hit the Coral Desert at least, if not longer. Operational security and whatnot, so Tina won¡¯t start worry about what I¡¯m fixing to do for at least another week.


    It doesn¡¯t take long for Marijke to come back with a selection of Aetherarms to choose from, and I let her explain each one in turn. The standard Dresden Forzare don¡¯t come as no surprise, but Marijke also brought a second choice for us to look at, a fat, stubby, single barrel Aetherarm with a cylinder, wooden stock, and vertical foregrip. Too short for a carbine and too big for a pistol, it¡¯s got a real hefty look to it which I like, and its hard to beat revolvers for reliability. Seeing my interest, Marijke hands it over and rattles off the specs. ¡°MK 412, armour penetrating variant of the 410. Nickname is Vhumper. Revolver double action Blastgun with five Cores for five cylinders. 2 kg in weight and 585mm in length from barrel to stock. Takes standard 12¡¯ gauge 40 Grain shell, and has rail for installing sight at front or midsection. Have same Metamagic loadout as Forzare. Adjustable cone of fire give effective range up to forty metres with most narrow spread. Better to buy compressor, turn Spell into solid shot vith up to eighty-metre range.¡±


    The Whumper ain¡¯t new, but the compressor is, and I listen carefully as Marijke explains how it all works. Sounds mighty interesting indeed, the full force of a Blast packed into a single solid projectile thicker than my thumb. It¡¯ll hit hard, that¡¯s for sure, great for picking off armoured bugbears or worse, and the Whumper makes a fun and distinctive noise when it fires, which is how it got the name. Still, I like simple, and while revolvers work fine for sidearms, things get a little more complicated for bigger guns which need two hands to use. The MK 412 is smaller than the Forzare, but still about twice as long as my dubsies, which makes it difficult to use one handed. ¡°The vertical foregrip,¡± I say while testing the feel of the Aetherarm, ¡°That¡¯s to keep your hand away from blowback?¡±


    Marijke nods, but Errol asks, ¡°What¡¯s that mean?¡±


    Always happy to show and tell, I hold up 412 and show him the revolving cylinder. ¡°Since this here has to turn, the barrel don¡¯t sit flush with the chamber. The gap is paper thin, but it means that not all of the force from the Blast or Bolt will always make it into the barrel. Some of it could escape out to the sides of the cylinder in the form of a gas discharge, which we call a blowback. Not a problem with a pistol which you hold with one or both hands on the grip, but if you put your hand by the cylinder while you shoot, like you holding a rifle, well then there¡¯s a chance you could lose a finger or three.¡±


    ¡°Foregrip is for contingency only,¡± Marijke interjects, scowling up a storm. ¡°Chamber have sealing mechanism, see?¡± Directing me to pop out the cylinder, she points at the cap on the front end and works the trigger to show how the barrel retracts and extends to connect with the rotating chamber. ¡°Put ammunition in and press tight. Create seal between Core and cartridge. Tube here connect chamber to barrel, create second seal between Core and barrel. Gun fire. Tube retract. Cylinder turn. Tube reconnect. No blowback. Hand machined ball bearings. Very precise.¡±


    ¡°And easy to foul,¡± I reply. ¡°Be a real mess keeping it clean in the desert.¡± Realizing I messed up as soon as I say it, I avoid meeting Marijke¡¯s suspicious gaze and pretend to look at the mechanism some more. ¡°Or if it gets muddy. Does this cap come off?¡± Thankfully, no one calls me out and Marijke just nods. ¡°Me, I prefer simple is as simple does, and it don¡¯t get more simple than the Forzare. Can that take a compressor?¡±


    Marijke scoffs in response to my question, and I immediately understand why. ¡°No threaded barrel on Forzare,¡± she says, leaving out the obvious bit about how two compressors wouldn¡¯t fit side by side anyways.


    Passing the Blastgun to Errol so he can look it over, I move on with Marijke to the next item on the list, a stubby carbine with a thick, sturdy blackened barrel. ¡°Dresden Fuego,¡± she says, tripping over the Spanish with a scowl. ¡°44-40. Not Armour Penetrating, but Elemental Piercing. Firebolts, yes?¡± That¡¯s one way to get around armour, by spraying them down with Fire instead or Force, which I don¡¯t hate. Acid would be better in Pleasant Dunes, but Fire more useful overall. ¡°No Ignite Metamagic,¡± Marijke says, which means we won¡¯t be accidentally starting any fires with the carbine. Always a concern when playing with fire, especially with how many buildings I seen which are mostly made of wood. ¡°Have Burning damage, immolate anything you hit to hurt more, without fire spreading.¡± Pursing her lips in a grimace, she adds, ¡°Is revolver double action, but older model. No sealing mechanism. Be careful vith hand placement.¡± Shrugging, she adds, ¡°Elemental Aetherarms, not popular. Papa have better things to vork on.¡±


    That clinches it, as I ain¡¯t ready to risk losing no fingers, especially since the Fuego don¡¯t got no foregrip. No wonder she didn¡¯t go into full detail, as she figured I wouldn¡¯t take it, since I¡¯ve always been somewhat risk adverse when it comes to my fingers and my Aetherarms both. ¡°Anything else?¡±


    Muttering something unkind again, Marijke takes the Fuego back and strokes it like she¡¯s soothing her baby, which is fair. Not like every shot is gonna clip your fingers off, nor is it even likely, but it ain¡¯t a risk I¡¯m willing to take. After putting it aside, she grabs another carbine, this one sporting a slightly longer and thinner barrel than the Fuego. It¡¯s also all black, the wood and steel both dark as night, though not without a bit of shine to it. Not Darksteel then, but still pretty as a peach. ¡°Kagemusha, Type 44,¡± Marijke says, without adding anything else, because she knows I got the specs all memorized. A Nipponese blueprint, which don¡¯t make me feel too great about it, but Mr. Kalthoff wouldn¡¯t sell anything he thought was sub-par. A 22-10 carbine with a ten-round clip, but even with Penetrate Metamagic, the stopping power on the gun leaves a lot to be desired. It¡¯s a stealth weapon, made for silent assassinations when you can¡¯t get a proper rifle to where you need it, and not at all my style.


    In response to my sour expression, Marijke gives me a pointed look and explains, ¡°Rangers come in, buy up all Soviet SKS Type 56.¡± She knows something¡¯s up, but I ain¡¯t confirming nothing. ¡°Best armour penetrating carbine available.¡± Which ain¡¯t saying much, as the Strelky is a loud and inaccurate mess of a gun, largely due to the fact that it¡¯s a blueprint brought to the Frontier by the Qin Republic. Meaning the design choices are all catered to ease of mass manufacturing rather than silly things like safety and reliability. It¡¯s got problems with accidental slam-fires and jams frequently when loaded with magazines, meaning you better off sticking with the internal 10 round clip. It¡¯s also no good for anything over 200m, which I suppose won¡¯t be a problem for tunnel fighting or defending a wall, but I¡¯ll stick to my Ranger repeater, thank you very much.


    Guess no new carbines then. Handing the Kagemusha back, I move on to sidearms without a word and let Tina look over her choices herself. In the end, she settles for a Szass and Tam Model 45, a semi-automatic pistol similar to her boxy 1911¡¯s. Same .45-15 ammo, similar weight, bit more recoil, and a slightly lower rate of fire, with Penetrating Metamagic instead of Silent and Toppling. In black instead of steel, so she can tell them apart, and I pick up a second one for Sarah Jay because I could always give the extra pistol to Tina if things don¡¯t work out. Not a great mindset to get into things, planning for failure, but it is what it is.


    When it comes my turn to pick out a sidearm, Marijke only has a single option for me to choose from. I take a good look at the pistol sitting on the counter, then give her my best neutral expression. ¡°Girlie,¡± I begin, keeping my tone cordial as can be without any actual cheer, ¡°Your daddy has been good to me, so please know I don¡¯t mean to offend, but I gotta ask. Are you having what the Brits would call ¡®a laugh¡¯?¡±


    Behind me, Tina, Errol, and Sarah Jay all giggle behind their hands while Chrissy stays quiet as always, but Marijke doesn¡¯t bat her eyes one bit. ¡°You vant armour penetrating. You like revolver and 22-10 ammunition. Zhis is only option.¡±


    So I take another look at the offering she picked out, and I can¡¯t help but sigh. Pulling my Rattlesnake out by the frame, I eject the ammo out the cylinder before placing it down next to the pistol in question, a blued-steel, short-barrel, snub-nosed affair that is so small it could be my shiny steel Rattlesnake¡¯s adopted black baby, and my Rattlesnake ain¡¯t the biggest handgun either. Set side by side like they are, the others can¡¯t help but burst into laughter, and Marijke¡¯s lower lip even twitches a bit. ¡°Is powerful sidearm,¡± she says, unable to look me in the eye. ¡°Szass and Tam Model 10. Nickname Military and Police model, as favoured for easy carry and self defense. N-frame revolver vith 101 mm barrel and only 1.4 kg in weight. Perfect size for average adult male.¡± The laughter behind me was starting to die down, but it kicks back up over how Marijke stresses the word ¡®average¡¯. ¡°6-chamber, 6-Core, double-action revolver, vith Maximize, Empower, and Intensify. Just like Rattlesnake, but less range and much more recoil. You can handle, yes?¡±


    Which all sounds good on paper, so I pick up the gun to see how it feels and to my surprise, I instantly fall in love. It¡¯s got a good heft and snap for its compact size. Fits my hand like a dream too, though I ain¡¯t gonna admit it out loud. Seeing the look on my face, Marijke allows herself a little smirk and says, ¡°Can hide in pocket or pouch. Reach in and fire from inside.¡±


    ¡°You devilish girl,¡± I say, giving her my best smile and getting nothing in return. ¡°Didn¡¯t know you had it in you.¡±


    In the end, I settle on getting the S&T Model 10, two S&T Model 45¡¯s, and two MK 412¡¯s with bulky mechanical compressors that screw onto the end of the 12¡¯ barrel. It all costs me a pretty penny too, which I pay without crying too much about it inside, as I figure they¡¯ll be useful either way. Wish I could give myself a breather after spending so much, but there¡¯s still a lot more to go, so we bid Marijke farewell and head out to the stables. Can¡¯t have Errol and Sarah Jay riding in the back of the wagon when it¡¯s full of cargo, and the front is crowded enough with two, so we gotta pick out some horses. Four of ¡®em, because if things get ugly out there, their best chance of surviving is to outrun whatever¡¯s after them. For the most part, I let Errol do the picking, mostly to see what he knows, and also because I don¡¯t know much. Sarah Jay ain¡¯t much for horses either, but she does seem sweet on the brown filly Errol picks out for her, making all sorts of doe eyes at the beast, which¡¯ll only make her hurt all the more if it gets gunned down from under her.


    ¡°Don¡¯t get too attached,¡± I say after I pay the stablemaster but before I can think better of it. Too late to take it back, and I ain¡¯t about to comment about dead horses, not with Chrissy here getting friendly with them all, so I switch tracks to cover up my macabre thoughts. ¡°If this works out, I¡¯ll probably keep a pair of Cowie¡¯s calves and order up two more wagons from Danny instead of having you ride all day every day. Figure two more prospects to round out our crew ought to do it, giving us enough hands and cargo space to haul plenty of goods and Abby corpses to make it worth our while.¡±


    Which means I gotta earn even more to pay for those future expenses, as well as at least two more prospects for a crew of five. It never ends.


    In for a penny, in for a pound, so I ignore Sarah Jay¡¯s sheepish expression and push on, telling myself there ain¡¯t nothing I got to apologize for. ¡°Also keep in mind that none of this stuff I¡¯m buying is yours. Well, the clothes you can keep,¡± I say, correcting myself mid-lecture, because my two prospects are looking mighty poleaxed by my sudden shift in tone. Didn¡¯t mean to switch from happy-go-lucky spending spree to stern, gruff sergeant, but some things need to be said. ¡°Those are a gift. The gear and horses are an investment, because you can¡¯t earn without it, and earn you will. I¡¯ll work you hard and expect the same discipline you¡¯d give the Rangers, if not more, so if you don¡¯t measure up, you won¡¯t be keeping nothing when we part ways.¡±


    Eager to please as ever, Sarah Jay nods and says, ¡°You got it, hoss.¡± Even gives me a cheeky wink to try and salvage the mood, adding, ¡°Is what I would say, once we see our first month¡¯s pay.¡±


    Errol ain¡¯t as nonchalant about it all, but he defers to his girl¡¯s lead, which is gonna be a problem one of these days. ¡°That¡¯ll come soon enough,¡± I say, looking away to pretend I can¡¯t see Tina¡¯s stern glare, silently scolding me for being so unneighbourly. ¡°One more stop after this, then its off to town hall to see about getting you carry licenses and a contract for you to sign. Make the employment agreement we got all official and whatnot.¡±


    The stop in question is at the armoury, where I pick up four armoured plate vests packed with darksteel plates, one for each of us except Chrissy. I typically avoid wearing obvious armour because it sends the wrong message. I¡¯m already a stranger rolling into town with a Big Stick strapped to my steel-plated wagon, so adding body armour into the mix always felt like a bit too much. No such thing when it comes to fighting Abby though, so while Cowie brings us all over to town hall, I make a note to buy a few bibles to stuff into my vest for extra ballast. Regular paper works just as well, but I like bibles because I feel it incentivizes the big guy upstairs to pay little old Howie a bit more attention, assuming he¡¯s even there at all.


    Ain¡¯t no Atheists in a fox-hole as they say, so even though I don¡¯t put much stock in religion, I still go to church every Sunday I can. Sure, the sermons a bit boring and the stories all silly, but if there is a heaven up there, then I figure it¡¯s better to be safe than sorry. Worst case scenario is I waste an hour a week sitting in church, which sure beats the alternative of eternal damnation. Good gamblin¡¯ man always knows to cover the spread, and this ain¡¯t no different.


    After sending Errol and Sarah Jay off to do their written tests for their carry licenses, Tina turns on me in a huff. ¡°What was all that about Howie?¡± she asks, her lips set in a scowl while keeping her voice down to a whisper. ¡°They was picking out horses, which are pretty much gonna be their partners out there, and you just came along and stomped all over their parade for no real reason.¡±


    Not for no reason, just not a good one. I panicked a bit, thinking about how fragile life really is, but I ain¡¯t about to admit it. Instead, I say, ¡°Wanted to remind them that this ain¡¯t no charity, nor is it all fun and games. If they ain¡¯t up to snuff, then they¡¯ll be lucky to wash out and part ways with the clothes on their backs.¡±


    Because the alternative is much, much worse. Can¡¯t tell if I was vague enough to keep Chrissy out of the loop, but Tina picks up on it right quick. More to the point, she takes a moment to waggle her fingers and mutter a chant. A much longer one than usual, and the reason becomes clear as she conjures up an illusion of a hopping wally for Chrissy to play with. A real life-like projection it is, and Chrissy conjures one to match it, two illusions hopping about and behaving as if they¡¯re real, while the best I can do is a passing facsimile of a smooth, round rock. Lots of folks look over as Chrissy skips alongside the illusory wallies, but Tina waves them off with a smile. Once she¡¯s certain Chrissy won¡¯t overhear us, she turns to me and asks, ¡°You alright Howie?¡±


    ¡°Course I am,¡± I reply. ¡°Right as rain.¡±


    ¡°Are you?¡± Tina¡¯s question hits harder than it should, mostly because of how worried she looks. ¡°Because you ain¡¯t been yourself lately. You spent most the festival last night hiding scowls and interrogating folks about all their business. Where they from, how they get here, how long they planned on staying, that sort of thing.¡±


    ¡°Was making conversation with strangers,¡± I reply. ¡°What else am I supposed to talk about?¡±


    ¡°It ain¡¯t about what you said,¡± Tina fires back, and I roll my eyes knowing what comes next. ¡°It¡¯s about how you said it, like you was a lawman interrogating a suspect. And it ain¡¯t just with strangers. You didn¡¯t ask Uncle Art about Aunty Rita, or Danny about his family neither, just walked right in and jumped straight to business. Now you dragging Errol and Sarah Jay about, buying them horses, Aetherarms, and armour like you mean to have them out fighting Abby next week. What¡¯s the rush, Howie?¡±


    Well¡­ because I figured on having them fighting Abby by next week, but I ain¡¯t about to admit it. ¡°You know how it is,¡± I drawl, trying to sound all casual and laid back. ¡°Spring¡¯s when I make the biggest margins, trading to folk who been cooped up all winter. I told your mama I was fixin¡¯ to set off to the Emerald Plains right quick, and I figured it¡¯d be a great trial run for my new prospects.¡±


    ¡°You just got shot. Can¡¯t you take a moment to decompress or nothin¡¯?¡± I don¡¯t have an answer for her, but Tina ain¡¯t expecting one, as she moves on to ask, ¡°That ain¡¯t all, is it?¡± Thinking things through for all of a second, Tina figures it out right quick. ¡°You planning on taking them out into the Coral Desert, ain¡¯t you? That¡¯s what all that talk about sand was, wasn¡¯t it? Really Howie? Just gonna throw them right into the deep end, just like that?¡±


    ¡°No, the deep end would be the badlands,¡± I say, though I¡¯d have been better off keeping quiet, because now Tina knows her hunch was right. ¡°Okay, I admit the Coral Desert ain¡¯t no kiddie pool neither, but it ain¡¯t the worst place to see how they measure up.¡± And if they don¡¯t, then I can park ¡®em in Meadowbrook for a few days while I head out to Pleasant Dunes solo without having lost too much time. Won¡¯t have much need for them there anyways, especially if I can convince Marcus to let me have a crack at tracking down the Proggie. I like Errol and Sarah Jay well enough, but I ain¡¯t ready to trust them with everything just yet.


    ¡°That¡¯s a terrible idea and you know it,¡± Tina says, but I can tell it ain¡¯t just concern for their safety that has her speaking out. She¡¯s ready and raring to go hunting Abby too, but I¡¯ve never offered to bring her. Nor would Aunty Ray allow it, not unless there was a full company of twenty Rangers riding alongside us, and truth is, neither would I. What Tina don¡¯t know is that she¡¯s about to embark on her first Abby hunt though, which is why I got her that new sidearm and armoured vest. Would¡¯ve gotten her a new horse too if it weren¡¯t for her affinity with old Tux. That irascible piebald might be getting on in years, but he knows how to handle himself in a fight, so it¡¯s best if Tina didn¡¯t replace him until after this business in Pleasant Dunes, when she¡¯ll have time to familiarize herself with a new partner.


    Not to mention how Old Tux deserves a break. He¡¯s family, no different from Cowie, and I¡¯d hate to lose him before his time. Damn miracle he¡¯s survived this long, what with all the scraps he¡¯s been through, so it¡¯s high time he retired to live out his days in peace.


    ¡°Look,¡± I begin, cutting off all of Tina¡¯s arguments before she can get started. ¡°The truth ain¡¯t pleasant to hear, but it is what it is. Errol and Sarah Jay are an investment, so it¡¯s best we see if they got the stomach for this sort of life sooner rather than later. I¡¯ll do what I can to keep them safe, and won¡¯t bring them in too deep or nothing, but gotta plan for the worst, you know?¡±


    Rather than double down and bicker with me like she used to, Tina gets real quiet and real sad. After a long minute of silence, she looks me in the eyes and asks, ¡°How bad is it out there?¡± The question hits me like a hammer, and much as I¡¯d like to deny it, Tina ain¡¯t no fool and already knows the truth just from seeing my reaction. ¡°I figured it wasn¡¯t pretty after seein¡¯ how you beens, but I suppose it¡¯s worse that I thought.¡± she says, turning to look over towards where we¡¯d left Errol and Sarah Jay, ¡°You think they got the chops for it?¡±


    ¡°I do. Wouldn¡¯t bother with all this if I didn¡¯t.¡± What I don¡¯t say is how having the right skills ain¡¯t enough. If it was, both our daddies would still be alive and well, but Tina knows as much. The Frontier ain¡¯t been any kinder to her than it has been to me, but we still love it all the same.


    ¡°Okay.¡± Trusting my judgement, Tina hesitates just a bit before adding, ¡°Just make sure you don¡¯t do nothing stupid. Got that, Firstborn?¡±


    Stupid like getting her friends killed, or getting myself killed saving them? Not sure which she means, but I ain¡¯t about to ask. ¡°C¡¯mon now Songbird,¡± I say, giving her a bright smile. ¡°You know I can¡¯t promise that. Might as well ask Cowie to sprout wings and fly.¡±


    ¡°Yea, you right.¡± Giving me a soft punch on the right shoulder, Tina gives away the fact that she noticed how much my left shoulder been hurting. ¡°Though you giving yourself too much credit. Wouldn¡¯t be all that surprising if Cowie ever sprouted wings, what with him being a Transmuter and all.¡±


    ¡°Keep talking and see if I don¡¯t take your new sidearm back for a refund.¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t you read the sign? All sales final!¡±


    After a bit more joking around, I send Tina and Chrissy to grab me a couple copies of a standard mercenary contract from the notary office. All pre-written and everything, meaning all I gotta do is fill in the blanks and sign. While everyone else busy with all that, I head over to the Sherrif¡¯s office for a quick chat. Nothing serious, just covering my bases and making copies of last night¡¯s recordings in case little Dick tries to press charges, and it gives me a chance to pick up copies of all the latest warrants. Sheriff Patel and his deputies are used to it by now, and probably sick of seeing my face, but it is what it is. Once all that¡¯s wrapped up, I meet back up with everyone at Town Hall to talk shop and sign papers, which is a whole hassle to say the least, but a necessary one as it gives our partnership a veneer of authenticity, one notarized by a government official no less. Paying my prospects puts a smile on their faces at least, and one on mine when I see all $160 go into Sarah Jay¡¯s pocket.


    Because if that ain¡¯t love, I don¡¯t know what is.


    With all that behind us, we head on home for lunch with Aunty Ray and make plans to head out to the gun range right after, but throughout it all, I can¡¯t help but feel like I¡¯m taking advantage of my prospects. Don¡¯t get me wrong, a third of Ranger wages is a fair chuck of change, not the best pay around for a month¡¯s work, but not the worst. Could hire on experienced guards for less than half the price, since they¡¯d only be paid for time spent on the road, and they¡¯d come with their own gear too. Course, hired guards won¡¯t set one foot off the Highway to hunt Abby and are mostly there for show, but you get what you pay for. Given Errol and Sarah Jay¡¯s current skills, their pay seems fair enough at first glance, but hardly worth it if they lose their lives on their first run out. Should they bite the Bolt sometime in the next four weeks, then they¡¯ll have sold their lives for pennies on the dollar, a poor trade all things considered, especially since they¡¯re counting on me to keep them safe and make the reward worth the risk. That last bit is a heavy burden, especially considering how I ain¡¯t the soldier my daddy was, a harsh truth I¡¯ve been avoiding for too long. Means I might well be leading these two good people to their deaths, but what can I say? I been honest from the start, and they made their choice, the same one as me.


    Go big or go home. Takes on a whole new meaning now, because if they can¡¯t make it big, then it¡¯s my job to make sure Errol and Sarah Jay make it home safe and sound, instead of carried back in a box for burial. Should be simple enough all things considered, as not every trip results in a close brush with death, but Pleasant Dunes was a rude awakening that did a real number to my confidence. Promising as my prospects might be, I got no guarantee of success when it comes to keeping them both alive long enough to realize that potential. At least Errol and Sarah Jay are going into this with both eyes open instead of heads buried in the sand. That¡¯s not to say they know what they signing on for. They don¡¯t know the first thing about what it takes to survive out on the wild Frontier, but they¡¯ll learn soon enough.


    Or die trying I suppose, which is really the root issue I¡¯m dealing with here. Warned them not to get attached to the horses, but maybe I should¡¯ve taken my own advice and not gotten so attached to my prospects.


    Cold is what it is, but that¡¯s the world we live in, whether we choose to accept it or not.

 Chapter 18

    Time be a mighty mercurial thing. Got all of it in the world, yet somehow never enough.


    That¡¯s how it feels at least, as I look over my two prospects on this fine Monday morning, all geared up and ready to ride. Got their Ranger-issue army jackets and matching caps, both which come in a camo pattern that most call peach-white. Me, I call it ugly and ineffective, but that¡¯s what you get with bean-counters callin¡¯ the shots. The colours are meant to imply ¡®good guy¡¯, because the good guys always wear white, while bad guys wear black, which quite honestly has got to be the dumbest thing I¡¯d ever heard come out of a grown man¡¯s mouth. That ain¡¯t the only reason of course, as the colours do sorta blend in with the pale white grass and trees, but stands out in the contrasting black dirt hills and grey stone mountains, to say nothing of Errol¡¯s dark complexion. Course, even if the camouflage worked, whoever was calling the shots failed to notify the folks who made the armoured plate carriers, which are all black and meant to be worn over the jackets.


    This here is bureaucracy at its finest, the sort of results you can expect when ruling by committee. Much as I love freedom and democracy, I gotta say, there are some things dictators do right. Like fashion.


    Seeing how Errol and Sarah Jay got on their Aetherarms on their persons as if they intend to ride all day strapped and loaded, I¡¯m guessing my prospects figure they¡¯re dressed to impress for their first day out on the wild Frontier. Me, I think they look ridiculous, but ain¡¯t no sense saying as much, seeing how nervous the pair of them are. Can¡¯t blame ¡®em either, because last Friday, they was two washouts without any idea what they was gonna do, and now they about to ride out as part of the Firstborn¡¯s crew. Even I got butterflies in my stomach, and not the nice kind either, so it¡¯s all I can do not to run them both through a checklist to make sure they¡¯ve got everything they¡¯re gonna need. Knowing Sarah Jay, she probably already went through it all anyways, so I give them a sharp nod as soon as I decide what to say.


    ¡°I ain¡¯t gonna lie,¡± I begin, and they both stand taller for it, ¡°This has all been a bit rushed. Personally, I¡¯d rather put you through another month of training at least, if not more, but I ain¡¯t got the time to spare.¡± Or money. Especially not after spending so much gearing them up and scrambling all of Sunday to source enough high-value cargo to fill my wagon. After wasting an hour in church no less, and having to get out right quick to avoid getting chewed out by Uncle Teddy. Said he wouldn¡¯t let me ride out alone, but I ain¡¯t alone, now am I? Course, that¡¯s not what he meant, which is why I didn¡¯t stop in for a chit or a chat.


    ¡­What is a chit, in this context? I know it can mean a marker, like in a bet, but somehow, I don¡¯t think that¡¯s what it means.


    All in all, I ended up spending all three grand I kept from the bounty and liquidating a good chunk of Aberrtin and Aether to pay for everything, so my purse strings are gonna be tight for the next few months unless I can catch a windfall over in Pleasant Dunes. Which will be dangerous and filled with Abby soon enough, hence why I got all these butterflies. I know what I¡¯m riding into, but I haven¡¯t told Errol and Sarah Jay just yet. Mostly because I don¡¯t want anyone to know I intend to head back, even though it feels like everyone who matters has got some inkling of my intentions. Long as I don¡¯t admit it though, I got plausible deniability, and I suspect that¡¯s all that¡¯s keeping the Marshal from having me locked up for interfering with a military operation.


    Which ain¡¯t fair, as there¡¯d be no operation without the intel I brought in.


    None that is neither here nor there though. My first concern is keeping my prospects alive, and even though I¡¯m eager see how they handle themselves, I can¡¯t in good conscience drag them an Abby hotspot without one last warning. Meeting their eyes one after the other, I do my best to convey my sincerity and say, ¡°If you don¡¯t feel ready, now is the time to say so. I got no qualms about leaving y¡¯all here in town. Still under contract mind you, though I¡¯d expect you to keep training while I¡¯m gone. We¡¯d resume lessons when I get back, with no hard feelings, and no cut pay neither.¡± Resisting the urge to sigh, I add, ¡°If I was you, I¡¯d stay in town. It¡¯s the smart move with no real downside, and I¡¯ll be better prepared to teach you once I got all my ducks in a row. Again, ain¡¯t a test, just a suggestion, one you both ought to take.¡±


    As always, Errol defers to Sarah Jay, who doesn¡¯t even spare him a glance as she says, ¡°We¡¯re ready, hoss, here to pick up what you put down. Simple is as simple does.¡±


    A stubborn girl she is, but I can¡¯t say I hate it. Looking sharp and tidy all buttoned up like she is, and might almost pass for a man in uniform from behind, what with her hair all tucked under her cap. Would be even more convincing once she throws on her tinted goggles and covers her mouth with a kerchief, but that ain¡¯t enough to keep her safe. Ain¡¯t no man got curves like her, curves even her baggy jacket and bulky vest can¡¯t hide from a discerning eye, but it¡¯ll have to do for now.


    As for Errol, even though he¡¯s dressed in much the same clothes, he gives it all a roguish look. He¡¯s got his cap at a one o¡¯clock angle and not seated firmly on his head for some extra flair. His jacket ain¡¯t buttoned up either, worn open and almost off the shoulders as he stands semi-slouched and relaxed save for a bit of tension in his shoulders. No arguing that he makes his outfit look stylish, just not up to standards. Not that it should matter, and I envy how suave he makes the ugly outfit look just a tiny bit.


    He¡¯s even got his goggles sitting on the lip of his cap, making him look chic and battle ready. Man just oozes cool in a way I could never match, not even if I dressed the exact same way.


    Least he¡¯s got his boots laced up right. Meeting his gaze just to confirm he agrees with Sarah Jay, I nod and push all my doubts aside, because once we step outside the gates and head out, there¡¯s no room for second guessing. I¡¯ve warned my prospects as best I could, and I¡¯ll give them another chance to back down before setting out into the Coral Desert, but the clock is ticking for Pleasant Dunes, and the sooner I get there, the more time I¡¯ll have to hunt the Proggie.


    Assuming I can convince whoever¡¯s in charge to give me a chance, but we¡¯ll cross that bridge when we get there.


    ¡°All right then,¡± I say. ¡°First lesson of the day; stow your rifles on the wagon. They¡¯re too long to be using on horseback, so no sense in luggin¡¯ ¡®em around all the time.¡± I consider telling them to stow the armour too, hang it right next to mine within arm¡¯s reach from the driver¡¯s seat. Them chonky plate carriers ain¡¯t exactly comfortable even without eight extra bibles stuffed inside, and I doubt we gonna get shot at in the next few days. Still, I¡¯ll let my prospects decide if the discomfort is worth it, mostly because I don¡¯t want to accept responsibility for this particular decision. ¡°Sarah Jay, you can carry my carbine in your saddle holster, and Errol can keep the Whumper in yours.¡± The 3-Line replaces my carbine on the hooks behind my head, while the El-Minister goes into the storage chest under my seat. This works out, I¡¯ll get them both their own carbines, maybe even something special like a Merlin .45 for Sarah Jay so won¡¯t have to carry three different types of ammo like she does now. As for Errol, he could use another Ranger carbine, but given his shooting skills, I wouldn¡¯t count on him to hitting anything from horseback just yet, so I ain¡¯t in no rush.


    Once they got their guns in place, I turn to Sarah Jay. ¡°Now, I know I stressed this several times before,¡± I begin, ignoring her stalled eye-roll she just barely got ahead of, ¡°But from here on out, you¡¯re just Jay. No hand holdin¡¯, kiss stealin¡¯, or eye battin¡¯ between the two while we out on the road. Don¡¯t matter what anyone says, you a man outside these walls, so you best act it and make others believe the same.¡±


    She nods in agreement, taking the warning as serious as the grave. Which is good because while most like to think they got some sense of morality about them, it don¡¯t take much to strip that away. Ain¡¯t the Frontier¡¯s fault; men and women have done far worse in far better situations, though I reckon these lawless lands have brought out the worst in all of us, with plenty of folk roaming these here hills who make con artists and wifebeaters look like a decent bunch. I just hope I can keep her safe enough so she won¡¯t have to learn no lessons the hard way. Same with Errol, as he ain¡¯t safe either. He pretty enough to attract all the wrong sorts of attention out there.


    There are a couple more things to go through before it¡¯s time to head out, like a teary farewell with Aunty Ray. Saying goodbye is never easy, but I ain¡¯t ever set out to hunt no Proggie before. To her credit, she don¡¯t tell me not to go or warn me off from Pleasant Dunes, because she knows I won¡¯t listen, and much like how I don¡¯t want to dampen Errol and Sarah Jay¡¯s spirits, she don¡¯t want to shake my confidence. ¡°You be safe and come home, Howie,¡± she whispers, all teary-eyed as she hugs me tight outside her front door. ¡°That¡¯s all I¡¯ll ask. Be safe. Come home.¡±


    ¡°Will do, Aunty Ray.¡± I can¡¯t think of anything else to say besides, ¡°Love you lots,¡± which only makes her hug me that much tighter.


    Tina comes next, all sleepy-eyed and sluggish as she shuffles over for her hug. ¡°See you when you get back,¡± she says, eyes closed and head resting on my shoulder as she¡¯s still unaware that we¡¯ll see each other sooner than that. They¡¯ll probably tell the boots about Pleasant Dunes today, then leave tomorrow morning at the earliest, though I doubt it. The desert town is six days of hard riding from Meadowbrook, through less than hospitable territory. Even if Captain Marcus sent a Scout out the day I arrived with news of the Proggy ten days ago, it¡¯ll still be a day or two before he hears back at the earliest. No Radio towers out in the Coral Desert, meaning the scouts got to make the trip to town, look around, then ride almost the entire way back to Meadowbrook before making contact. There¡¯s also no way they¡¯d ever talk about a Proggy over the open Aetherwaves, not unless they want the area swarmed with mercs and scavs, so accounting for the time needed to get the boots all ready to travel, I probably got a three-to-five-day head start on Tina and the rest of her class.


    Plenty of time to unload all my cargo and get the measure of my prospects before heading off to Pleasant Dunes.


    Saying goodbye to Chrissy is most difficult of all, because unlike her sister, she¡¯s caught on to something amiss. Always said she was sharp, and she proves is, wrapping her arms around my shoulders without any indication of wanting to let go. ¡°It¡¯s alright Princess,¡± I say, after a full minute of lung crushing warmth. ¡°I¡¯ll be back before you know it.¡±


    ¡°¡­Stay?¡±


    That¡¯s new. Only time she¡¯s ever asked me not to go was on my second solo trip. Not the first, because she didn¡¯t know I¡¯d be gone for so long, but she figured it all out the second time around. ¡°Sorry Chrissy,¡± I say, giving her should a quick three squeezes. ¡°I¡¯d love to, but I can¡¯t. Work calls. I¡¯ll stick around a bit longer when I get back okay?¡± She doesn¡¯t answer, nor does she let go, not until Aunty Ray comes by to help me out.


    ¡°It¡¯s alright Chrissy,¡± she says, gently extricating me from her daughter¡¯s arms and wrapping her in her own. ¡°Howie¡¯ll be back before you know it. You¡¯ll see.¡± Reaching out to run her hand through my hair, which has gotten long enough to almost cover my eyes, Aunty Ray smiles and adds, ¡°Ain¡¯t that right?¡±


    ¡°Yes ma¡¯am.¡± The gentle touch turns into a sharp rap as Aunty Ray mock glowers and pinches my cheek for real, but it ain¡¯t enough to take away my smile. She¡¯s the closest thing to a mother I¡¯ve ever known, so even if I can¡¯t bring myself to call her that, she knows it.


    I¡¯m sure she knows. She¡¯s gotta, right?


    Aunty Ray has a few words for Errol and Sarah Jay too, telling them to listen good and follow orders, but it remains to be seen if they will. With all our farewells behind us, I hop onto the wagon and wait for Cowie to receive his due hugs and kisses before he¡¯s ready to go too. ¡°You two lead the way,¡± I say, gesturing at my prospects once they¡¯re mounted up. ¡°That way, we can talk while we ride.¡± And I can keep an eye on them and point out any mistakes, of which there will be plenty. The two extra horses are already hitched to the back of the wagon, as Cowie don¡¯t need help pulling, nor would I know how to drive them if he did. Hopefully he performed his marital duties well these last few weeks and we¡¯ll have new calves to raise come autumn, ones he¡¯ll have to learn to get along with, but until then, Errol and Sarah Jay will just have to suffer on horseback.


    Me, I ain¡¯t ridden a horse for any long stretch since my daddy passed, which might seem strange considering how often I¡¯m out and about. Never saw any reason to bring both Cowie and old Tux out on a trade run, and I don¡¯t miss walking around bow-legged either. Sarah Jay will be feeling it soon enough, because while she got enough natural padding to ease her seat, she ain¡¯t got the posture down pat just yet. An hour or two or riding will set her legs aflame, and by day¡¯s end, she¡¯ll be mighty grateful for the vapour rub Uncle Art packed in our kits. Errol¡¯s got a real knack for horsemanship though, sitting upright and relaxed with a smile on his face and the reins held loosely between his hands which sit resting on the saddle-horn. Keeps that posture too as we head out the gate and onto the cobblestone Highway, at which point they both make their first mistake of the day, after agreeing to come along with of course.


    ¡°Stick to the right,¡± I say, as Cowie ambles over into his lane, leaving Errol and Sarah Jay walking down the centre. ¡°Ain¡¯t got no lines painted, but the Highway is divided into six lanes. Left three are for oncoming traffic. On our side, the left most lane is reserved for military only, while the middle lane is for passing. Otherwise, you stick to the rightmost lane at all times.¡± Lot of little unspoken rules like that, things you wouldn¡¯t know unless someone told you, most of which I take for granted and didn¡¯t think to explain beforehand. ¡°Also, pick up the pace,¡± I say, once they¡¯re both in the right lane. ¡°Not quite a trot, but a bit faster than a leisurely walk. Irongate is a touch over a hundred klicks from New Hope, and while it¡¯s possible to make the trip in a single day, I ain¡¯t about to try it with your new horses. I¡¯ll be happy to cover half that and call it.¡±


    ¡°Oh they can definitely handle a hundred klicks in a day,¡± Errol says, fondly patting his brown destrier on the neck. ¡°Especially big Bruno here. He¡¯s got enough grain in him to go a hundred twenty klicks easy.¡±


    Told him not to get too attached, but he went ahead and named the horses anyways. One of these days, he¡¯s gonna learn to take what I say serious. All four horses Errol picked out are winners though, destriers one and all, the breed Aunty Ray once raised. Named them after what the French knights called their warhorses, because these beasties are built for long walks and short bursts of speeds, which is why I don¡¯t doubt Errol¡¯s claim. ¡°True enough,¡± I say, giving credit where it¡¯s due, because he picked them better than I could¡¯ve. ¡°But he¡¯ll need to rest a day when he¡¯s done, and we got a full week of non-stop travel ahead us.¡± Maybe even two if they coming along to Pleasant Dunes, or more if the Proggy arrives before we do and we gotta turn ourselves right back around. ¡°Gotta always plan for the long game, because that¡¯s how you make it back home. Fifty klicks a day is plenty.¡±


    Credit where it¡¯s due, Sarah Jay doesn¡¯t immediately whip out her notepad and start jotting things down, though she¡¯s done it often enough before. ¡°What exactly is the plan then?¡± She asks, glancing back to meet my eyes, even though she ain¡¯t good enough of a rider to do that. Tugs the reins a bit too hard as she turns, which almost sends her chestnut filly Fifi crashing into Errol and Bruno beside them.


    Waiting till they got themselves back in order to answer, I say, ¡°Hit up Meadowbrook and see what the word is. That¡¯s all I got, as I tend to play things by ear. All we gotta do is follow the Highway for six days to get there at our current pace. We¡¯ll pass by Irongate and Mirador too, but we won¡¯t be stopping in.¡± Neither one of my prospects were expecting that, which was why I didn¡¯t tell them before now, and their concerned expressions have got me grinning. ¡°Yes sir, you both looking at the better part of a week out in the brush, or close enough to it. No comfy beds or hot food neither, as we¡¯ll be roughing it the whole way there in true survivalist fashion. Won¡¯t be much of a trial run if there ain¡¯t no tribulations to bear, so last chance to turn around now, in case y¡¯all having second thoughts.¡±


    Errol and Sarah Jay have themselves a silent exchange, after which the latter says, ¡°I didn¡¯t see you pack no tents.¡±


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    ¡°That¡¯s because I don¡¯t got none.¡± Gesturing at the clear copper skies, I say, ¡°Ain¡¯t a cloud to be seen, so we safe for today. If it do start raining, y¡¯all got your ponchos, don¡¯cha?¡± A bit more seriously, I say, ¡°A tent is just extra weight. If you need shelter, you find it or build it. I usually bunk down under the wagon or inside if there¡¯s room, though I mostly sleep outside under the twin moons. You best get used to it, because you don¡¯t want to be stuck in no tent when Abby come a knocking.¡±


    ¡°Wish you would¡¯ve told us earlier,¡± Sarah Jay grumbles. ¡°I¡¯d have packed an extra set of blankets and more rations.¡±


    ¡°And I¡¯d have tossed them out,¡± I reply, ¡°Which is why I didn¡¯t. Save us all that conflict. The two of you got everything you need to survive for a week packed in your saddlebags and you gonna live off of that for the next six days. That¡¯s the point of this here exercise, so if things go south and you gotta cut and run without me, you¡¯ll know how to live on what you got.¡±


    Having said my piece, I lean back in my seat and pull my Stetson down low to study the shimmering Spell Structures embedded in my mind while playing cat¡¯s cradle with my Mage Hands. We ain¡¯t even reached the shooting range yet, so might as well let the prospects settle in and see the sights before going hard at the lessons again. Even though I been hammering home how dangerous it can get out here, we¡¯re safe as can be riding this close to New Hope, and there¡¯s no denying the fact that the Frontier is a beautiful place. The pale-white grass and matching smooth-trunked trees might seem monotonous at first glance, but there¡¯s plenty of colour sprinkled about to break it all up. Baby blue creeper vines, soft purple loomshrubs, sandy yellow bush apples, dark-red sneezeweed, those are just a few of the plants I see in passing, to say nothing of the local wildlife. They¡¯re a bit harder to spot and tend to avoid the Highway, but if you look close enough, you¡¯ll find them. Striped chitter rats and spotted rhyzo-martens are the most common, as they ain¡¯t afraid of people at all, while the birds feel safe perched high up in the leafy green branches or flying overhead in the sky. We got colourful butterflies and luminous glowhoppers too, as well as bicorn bunnies, wild wallies, hoggidillas, and scale bears roaming the forest hills. There are plenty of other smaller animals we ain¡¯t decided names for just yet, and if we¡¯re lucky, we might even come across a herd of bramble elk and maybe a pack of tuskwulves chasing them down, a sight both majestic and frightening at the same time.


    And if we¡¯re unlucky, we might stumble across a Diamondclaw, and then it¡¯s every man for themselves. I¡¯ve only ever seen the one in all my years roaming about, but once was more than enough to put the fear in me. Least now I got the Big Stick to keep me safe, though I ain¡¯t so certain it¡¯s enough gun to do the job, and I hope I never have to find out.


    I pass along all this information and more to my two prospects as the klicks roll by, in between familiarizing them with Highway etiquette along the busy road. Pass on the left ain¡¯t the be all end all of it, because most folks don¡¯t take kindly to heavily armoured wagons riding up alongside them. That¡¯s why we always wave and shout to announce our presence if they ain¡¯t seen us yet, then pass along as quick as we can with hands away from our weapons once we¡¯ve made our intentions known. Most other travelers we see along the way are heavy wagons laden with cargo bound for the Emerald Plains and heavily guarded to boot. Same as us really, but Cowie can haul a fully loaded wagon 75 klicks a day without breaking a sweat, meaning 50 is a walk in the park. Horses are quicker in short bursts for sure, but ain¡¯t as strong or vigorous under heavy weight, so we end up passing more than a fair few caravans early on in the day. By lunchtime, we got most of those slower moving caravans on our six, as they¡¯ll be lucky to cover 35 klicks by the time night falls, while any caravans still ahead have a day¡¯s head start on us, meaning we won¡¯t be passing them till late afternoon.


    I tell the prospects as much, letting them know we ought to have open road ahead, then ask, ¡°So what¡¯s all that tell you?¡± Neither one answers right away, and I can tell they don¡¯t see what I¡¯m getting at, which is fine since it ain¡¯t exactly obvious. ¡°It means that if we pass any wagons or riders in the next few hours,¡± I drawl, speaking slowly so the words have time to sink in, ¡°It ought to raise our suspicions a bit.¡±


    Unlike Sarah Jay, Errol ain¡¯t afraid to ask questions, which is another thing I like about him. ¡°Why though?¡± he asks, glancing back while keeping Bruno straight. ¡°Just because they off schedule?¡±


    ¡°Pretty much.¡± Gesturing at the road we¡¯ve been travelling on for some hours now, I say, ¡°This here is the Highway, with a capital H. In the old world, they got countless roads just like this, but round these here parts, this the only one we got. Starts up north in the fortified M¨¦tis town of Wabasca up in them Muskari Steppes, where it cuts southwest through Minaik and Nakoda on the Emerald Plains along the border of the Coral Desert. From there, it heads south to Meadowbrook and connects all seven fortress towns of the Blue Bulwark, including New Hope. Once it hits Redeemer¡¯s Keep, which I reckon is about 310 klicks southwest from where we currently sit, the Highway takes a straight shot down to New Sonora in the Fuchsia Flatlands. That¡¯s where it ends for now, 1,200 kilometres of flat road alongside the badlands and Coral Desert both. Aside from that last stretch south past Redeermer¡¯s Keep, we got a fortified U.F.A. or M¨¦tis settlement every hundred klicks, and plenty of unaffiliated colonies nearby too.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡± Judging by his tone, Errol ain¡¯t half as impressed as he ought to be, which is crazy. That¡¯s twenty-four days of travel across easy roads, give or take, made possible only by a cooperative effort between the Rangers, the Pathfinders, the Protectorate, the Chevaliers, and the Catholic Church, with a few other organizations adding their funds and efforts into the mix. A fortress every fifty kilometres, that was the plan put forth by Marshal Ellis, to build a Bulwark to contain the hordes of Abby who come flooding out of the badlands every season or two. The first and last line of defense against the Proggie infested Divide, and the inevitable offensive emerging from within once it comes time for the Watershed in a few years give or take. My daddy believed in this plan, sacrificed countless months and years of his time to see it through, a plan set in motion over a decade ago, and one that won¡¯t be complete for another decade yet. We¡¯re currently on track to have a fortress built every hundred klicks in a year or two, with three more going up between Redeemer¡¯s Keep and New Sonora even as we speak, but I guess a simple ¡®okay¡¯ is all that warrants.


    Wholly ignorant of my internal pique, Errol asks, ¡°But what¡¯s any of that got to do with off-schedule caravans and riders?¡±


    ¡°You think on that for a minute,¡± I say, doing my best not to sound pouty. ¡°Then give me your best answer.¡± Sarah Jay is the first to respond a few minutes later, but I cut her off before she can speak. ¡°I wanna hear what Errol¡¯s got to say first,¡± I say. Not because I¡¯m fixing to embarrass him. I just want him to flex his brain a bit, because he¡¯s too content to just go with the flow, and out here, getting caught up in another person¡¯s schemes could see you dead and your corpse fed to Abby, with no one ever being the wiser.


    After another minute, Errol finally comes up with something to say. ¡°Big stretch of road,¡± he begins, still piecing it all together. ¡°Safe too, with so many Rangers and Pathfinders about. With so much traffic and so many places to stop, chances of a lame horse or broken axle slowing you down for long is low. So if we see someone lagging behind, they¡¯re either unlucky, or they have other reasons for slowing down.¡±


    ¡°Reasons which may or may not be nefarious,¡± I conclude, grinning ear to ear now that I got Errol thinking right. ¡°Chances of a stool pigeon sitting this close to New Hope are low,¡± I begin, only to stop when Errol and Sarah Jay both look back with raised eyebrows. ¡°A decoy meant to lure us in, so the ambush can close around us. That¡¯s what I mean by stool pigeon, which is what Aunty Ray calls the bait, though she can¡¯t say why. Regardless, I doubt we¡¯ll run into any ambushes this deep into the Bulwark, but you never take your safety for granted out here.¡±


    My two prospects both nod along with my explanation, but I can tell they ain¡¯t taking my warnings as serious as they should, and not for the first time. Don¡¯t matter how many times I tell them it¡¯s dangerous out here, they keep thinking I¡¯m over-exaggerating, when the truth is anything but. I told them straight up I¡¯d feel more comfortable if they had another month or two of training, but they came along regardless. Sure, I started riding out solo almost two years ago after I turned fifteen, but I had more Spells and know-how than both of them combined, and I still had more close shaves than I care to admit.


    Couldn¡¯t have done it without Cowie, but my Spellslinging skills helped too. My daddy always loved to brag about my mama, and one thing he never forgot to mention was how talented a Spellslinger she was. A craftsman by trade, but she had a mind for arcana which even Uncle Teddy admits was beyond his understanding, and he spent four whole years in a fancy university studying it. In contrast, my mama was only sixteen when she arrived on the Frontier without a Spell Structure in memory, and was slinging Second Order Spells before she passed away not eight months later. A super genius by old world standards, as most don¡¯t start slinging First Order Spells until their first year of college or university, and take two years to move up to Second Order. That¡¯s seventeen or eighteen years old to start, which to me seems crazy considering I learned my first Cantrip at eleven, and was slinging First Order Spells a year later.


    Never figured myself for a prodigy, no matter how many people said otherwise. Magic is simple, and even simpler here on the Frontier due to the lower concentration of ambient Aether. Means the flows of Aether are slower, more sluggish, less responsive, and less stable compared to the old world, or at least that¡¯s what I¡¯m told. Makes it more difficult to form stable Spell Structures, impossible even for Spells above Third Order, which was a real kick in the pants for powerful and accomplished Spell slingers like Uncle Teddy and the other experienced Rangers. They won¡¯t have access to their Higher Order Spells for several more years yet, not until well after the Watershed and ambient concentration levels of Aether rise enough to support Fourth Order Spell Structures and higher. The upside however, is that slow and sluggish Aether flows are easier to sense and substantiate, meaning it makes it easier for beginners to notice their mistakes and find the correct path forward.


    It''s a bit like learning how to stand upright underwater. Much easier to do when everything pushing you along in the right direction. In short, I ain¡¯t no genius, as my early Spell slinging abilities is merely a product of my environment and all the hard work I put into learning. I also have my mama to thank, as I learned my first Cantrip, Mage Hand, just from reading her work. Also had Uncle Teddy, who took me under his wing and showed me what¡¯s what. All this is what put me ahead of the pack, which is only where I ought to be, being the Firstborn as I am.


    Least, that¡¯s how I felt right up until I learned how far ahead I really am. Growing up alongside Tina and Chrissy will humble a Spellcaster right quick, because they ain¡¯t just Innates, they double bloodline Innates. They got more magic oozing out of them than most got hairs on their heads, so aside from my early start, they¡¯ve only ever been a few steps behind me. Wasn¡¯t until Tina started Basic that I had any real idea of where other people my age stood, and let me tell you what a rude awakening that was.


    Take Errol for instance. He¡¯s only got a handful of Spell Structures, Cantrips included. I¡¯ve spent at least six hours tutoring him on the Bolt Cantrip, and he put in a couple more on his own, and he still don¡¯t got it down pat. Took me three hours when I was twelve, without my daddy helping me along, because he didn¡¯t really want me learning it just yet. The Bolt Cantrip is a dangerous Spell, but it¡¯s also the most widely used Cantrip in human history, with almost four hundred years of constant improvements to make it the most efficient and powerful Cantrip to date. That also means it¡¯s one of the most complex Cantrips around, although there are a few highly inefficient and needlessly complicated Cantrips out there that might surpass it. Either way, it¡¯s still a Cantrip, which means there¡¯s no need to synch the timing of the Spell Structure Formation to anything besides the three focal points the Bolt Cantrip makes use of.


    Or in layman¡¯s terms, it¡¯s like simultaneously drawing three contiguous, interlacing, non-Euclidean shapes in a three-dimensional mental medium derived from a fairly simple mathematical formula. Simple is as simple does.


    Light. Living Whip. Power Word: Endure. Stabilize. That¡¯s all the Cantrips Errol knows. Four. Besides Bolt and Hearing Protection, which he definitely needs to learn, there are so many useful Cantrips out there that he¡¯s missing out on. Like Protection from Insects or Umbrella to guard against rain and sun, or Contraception even, so hopefully Sarah Jay knows the woman¡¯s version of that particular Cantrip. Mage Hand is a Cantrip, and so is Water Sphere, True Strike, Timepiece, and Deodorant. That¡¯s barely even scratching the surface of useful Cantrips, and it boggles my mind that Errol only knows four. It¡¯s like going through life blind because you can¡¯t be bothered to open your eyes, or choosing not to learn how to read because you don¡¯t think it¡¯s useful enough. Madness.


    Now, in his defense, Errol didn¡¯t have access to the same level of education I did, though that don¡¯t mean he¡¯s dumb. I seen him do his math and he got them numbers down pat. He just has trouble translating the numbers into angles and directions in his mind. For Cantrips, the simplest solution would just be to do the math alongside him and draw the correct Structure for him to copy using a Minor Illusion, but that won¡¯t work for First Order or higher Spells, since timing plays a part in those, and being a beat behind means failure plain and simple. Best if he figures it out on his own, but I ain¡¯t been able to help him there. I never had that problem, so Sarah Jay has been lending a hand, and I¡¯m guessing he prefers her instruction over mine.


    As for First Order Spells, Errol only knows three, which ain¡¯t a lot, but ain¡¯t bad either when compared to our peers. Staunch Wound. Minor Regeneration. Heroism. Those ain¡¯t the easiest First Order Spells to memorize, and it¡¯s a fairly promising start on a medico¡¯s loadout, one he got thanks to his Intuitive ways. Me and Sarah Jay can help him round out the basics, stuff like Mage Armour, Longstrider, Jump, and other Spells you might want in your everyday loadout, while Uncle Art offered to help Errol learn more, like Bless, Mantle of Inspiration, and all the Spells from the Protection line. The Intuitive way, not orthodox, as Uncle Art ain¡¯t got the patience for teaching math, but that¡¯ll have to wait a bit. I suspect the only reason Errol didn¡¯t learn all the First Order Spells Father Nicolas could cast was because he reached his limit and didn¡¯t know how to clear away Spell Structures from memory to make room for new ones. The human mind is an incredible machine, but like any other muscle in the human body, it requires training to make full use of. When I first started slinging Spells, two or three First Order Spells was my limit for the day, and I¡¯d need a full night¡¯s rest before I could cast any more. Could only pack two Spell Structures into memory too, but I loved learning new Spells so much I cleared them out daily to take new ones for a spin. Nowadays, my limit is much higher for both casting and memorizing, but Errol¡¯s just getting started. Three proper Spell Structures and a handful of casts is where he caps out, though with a bit of time and a lot of effort, he¡¯ll catch up soon enough.


    As for Sarah Jay, she¡¯s sharp as a tack, and her skills are impressive for someone who was mostly self-taught. She got a much longer list of Cantrips that covers all the essentials, like Bolt, True Strike, Ignite, and Hearing Protection, but I slipped her the Formulas for a few others I thought she might find useful, with a focus on non-lethal self-defence like Shocking Grasp. As for First Order Spells, she¡¯s got Mage Armour and Jump already locked down, as well as Aegis. Three First Order Spells in two months, because she didn¡¯t have access to any before starting Basic, which is mighty impressive indeed. She¡¯s on the cusp of figuring out Entangle, which is what I¡¯ve had her working on all this time, and if she can add that to her repertoire in the next couple days, then our hunting trip to the Coral Sands will go much smoother. For the long term, I¡¯m thinking Grease for more Battlefield Control, and then she could go a number of different ways depending on where her talents lie. Divination Spells to make her a more versatile sharpshooter, Transmutation to make her more mobile and durable, Conjuration Summoning for an extra spotter and support, or Illusion Spells to help her hide and slip away whenever threats draw near.


    Or Evocation, if that¡¯s what she wants. There ain¡¯t many problems a Blast to the face can¡¯t solve, and for everything else, there¡¯s Fireball.


    Like I told Tina, these two prospects definitely got the chops for life on the wild Frontier, assuming they got the nerves for it too. I was a little surprised to learn they ain¡¯t got any Second Order Spells, but that ain¡¯t their fault. I had plenty of resources and instruction from the best, so I shouldn¡¯t look down on others just because they didn¡¯t have the same. If Errol and Sarah Jay can both manage to progress to Third Order Spells before the Watershed in two or three years, then we¡¯ll make a real killing hunting Proggies and Abby when the time comes.


    You know, assuming I¡¯m willing to trust them with my life and show them everything I can do.


    These are the thoughts that keep tumbling around my head over the next few days. The first night, we camp at the base of Mount Rimepeak with Last Chance Lake still in sight so long as you get the right angle through the thick forest of trees. Unfortunately, one thing I didn¡¯t count on was how aggravating travelling with a lovely-dovey couple would be. Even without the hand-holding, eye-batting, and tongue-kissing, Errol and Sarah Jay¡¯s antics got me both wishing I had a girlie of my own and hating all couples in love everywhere at the same time. It¡¯s the curse of the lonely man it is, but I endure all the quiet whispers and loving glances as best I can. The next day, we pass Irongate and push on a bit later into the night, as I ain¡¯t cruel enough to camp them outside a town¡¯s gate where they can smell all the delicious food cooking inside while we eat hard-tack, jerky, dried grumble berries, and dehydrated bapple sauce. Two days later, we do the same with Mirador, and as we settle in for a cold dinner around the wagon, I hunker down and explain what comes next.


    ¡°So these last four days have been a cakewalk,¡± I begin, glancing around just to double check that we can¡¯t be seen from the road, here in our nestled thicket of trees, a white wall of wood and leaves that¡¯ll shelter us from eyes and wind alike. ¡°So far, I¡¯ve left you to your own devices, but from tomorrow onwards, you both best be on alert. Come nightfall, we¡¯ll be within a day¡¯s ride of No Man¡¯s Land, which means there¡¯ll be outlaws aplenty looking to take advantage.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s No Man¡¯s Land?¡± Sarah Jay asks, without hesitation even, as she¡¯s finally grown accustomed to her ignorance and is no longer ashamed of it. It¡¯s silly to feel bad just because you didn¡¯t know something, because how were you to know you didn¡¯t know it in the first place?


    Happy to have made so much progress in less than a handful of days, I nod at my prospects and ask, ¡°Either of you remember the name of the next fortified settlement after Meadowbrook?¡±


    ¡°Nakoda,¡± Errol replies, showing he ain¡¯t as dumb as he pretends to be and earning himself a fake scowl from Sarah Jay.


    ¡°Exactly,¡± I say, and having long since learned how to handle them both, I wait for Sarah Jay to finish pouting before directing my question towards her. ¡°What¡¯s the name tell you?¡±


    ¡°¡­That they ain¡¯t American?¡±


    ¡°Got it in one.¡± Polishing off the last of my hard tack, I drain my canteen dry getting the ¡®bread¡¯ down my throat. ¡°Now,¡± I continue, after only a brief bout of coughing, ¡°While that don¡¯t seem like something that should mean much here on the Frontier, it do, and it makes things mighty complicated. Even though every participating nation agreed to abide by the Accords, most disagree on how those Accords ought to be upheld. You get me?¡± They don¡¯t, but I was expecting as much. ¡°See, along the Highway behind us, the local Sheriffs can easily send a request to the Rangers for help. Means any lawbreakers are almost certain to be caught and punished. Don¡¯t matter if it means being lashed, shipped off to a prison camp, or hanged. The rule of law is upheld in accordance with U.F.A law. Works the same way with the Pathfinders in the M¨¦tis controlled areas that start at Nakoda, but what about the contested lands between Nakoda and Meadowbrook? Whose version of the laws apply there?¡± Without waiting for an answer, I point to the northeast and continue, ¡°To further complicate the issue, we got the border between the badlands and the Coral Desert coming up soon too, both of which can be found east of us. The badlands belong to Abby, and ain¡¯t no nation laid claim to the desert just yet, meaning we got four different jurisdictions to think about. The M¨¦tis, the Americans, the independents, and the badlands. Makes for a lot of messy bureaucratic nonsense, largely because the M¨¦tis don¡¯t believe in capital punishment, while independents are typically all gung-ho about Frontier Justice without much care for niceties like burden of proof and innocent until proven guilty.¡±


    As for Americans, they get way too excited about punishing criminals, but it helps pay the bills, so I ain¡¯t complaining. ¡°Anyway,¡± I continue, enjoying my portion of dried grumble berries one at a time, ¡°All this means that a lot of criminally-minded folk are drawn to the area we heading towards, because if they commit their crimes close to the border, they can ride hard and fast into a different jurisdiction where local law enforcement can¡¯t chase them down without following protocol. Usually involves putting in a request and submitting proof and all that, which takes time, time a smart outlaw would use to get far, far away.¡± Shrugging, I lean back against the wagon and try to ignore Cowie¡¯s big doe eyes begging for the rest of my berries, but end up feeding him half all the same. ¡°Hence, No Man¡¯s Land. Means among other things, that if you see a wagon lagging behind, it¡¯s probably an ambush laying in wait. Plenty of hills and trees on both sides of the highway to hide shooters in, so keep your eyes sharp and your wits sharper. And no more slacking off during watch anymore, among other things I won¡¯t mention.¡±


    At least my two prospects got the good grace to blush. Don¡¯t know how they could¡¯ve thought they¡¯d gotten away with their antics these last few nights. I¡¯ve heard Cowie crash into buildings and make less noise than they did, but I let it be because I didn¡¯t want to have no awkward conversations about hygiene and safe sex. Instead, I press on to tell them about a few more things to be wary of, hoping they absorb enough to matter should the worst come to pass.


    Preparation is key after all, and the more I teach my prospects, the more I realize they have so much left to learn. Too late to turn back now, so all we can do is push forward, hope for the best, and plan for the worst.


    Business as usual really, except now I got two extra burdens to drag along until they ready to stand on their own two feet. That¡¯s what I signed up for though, so ain¡¯t got no one to blame but myself, no matter how much I wish it were otherwise.

 Chapter 19

    The open road was wildly overrated.


    That¡¯s how Sarah Jay felt after a week of hard riding and rough living. The sunburns she could live with, and the muscle aches from long days in the saddle was manageable, but when it came time to sleep at night, all her misery was compounded by the lack of a mattress beneath her back and a roof over her head. Then there was the food, which wasn¡¯t just unpalatable, but damn near inedible, as in her teeth were not strong enough to chew through the hard-tack, and her jaw lacking the stamina needed to grind dried jerky into something soft enough to swallow. The cold nights were miserable, but still better than the soggy mornings when she¡¯d wake up covered in dew or rain. An experience made worse by the absence of her man¡¯s embrace, one she sorely missed. A few stolen kisses and clothed fumbling were hardly enough to dampen her ardour over the last week, though the fact that Howie knew about their little trysts had been a rude awakening indeed.


    Her fault really, for thinking they could sneak around without the Firstborn¡¯s notice. It started off innocent enough, with her sitting next to Errol for a bit of warmth and comfort in these trying times. A shoulder to lean on for a few minutes before bed, that¡¯s all she wanted, but once she was there, she quickly realized she wanted more, and her man wasn¡¯t one to say no. A tent. That¡¯s what they needed, no matter what Howie might say. Even a simple lean-to, something to keep the wind and rain off them as they slept, that¡¯s all she really wanted.


    After the better part of six days of riding, they were coming up to Meadowbrook, and Sarah Jay was desperate for a hot meal, warm bath, and a soft bed. Not to mention human contact aside from Errol and Howie. She loved her man something fierce, and still respected the Firstborn, but they were both getting on her last nerve. Six days they¡¯d been on the road, and if not for her, Errol would¡¯ve worn the same set of clothes throughout it all without so much as a second thought. As for Howie, he had better hygiene and was good company back in town, but out on the open road, it seemed like all he could talk about were the dangers they might find. Fisherfolk cultists who sacrificed animals to the Proggie under Last Chance Lake, pyromaniac bootleggers who set the forest on fire a few years back, a family of reckless alchemists with less than thirty fingers between the four of them, it all sounded so crazy and unrealistic that she could hardly believe him. Then there were the more mundane dangers which he overemphasized, warning them against camping with unfamiliar folk and pushing them to find a concealed camping ground each and every night.


    Except if Howie was really all that concerned with safety, then why did he spend his days slouched in his wagon seat with boots up and hat low? Man told tall tales and played cat¡¯s cradle with his Mage Hands by himself all day. Even now while they were riding through this supposed no man¡¯s land, he looked all relaxed and cheery as could be, no different from any other day. Even stopped a few times to snap Photos of wildlife and point out trails to unofficial settlements along the way. Only time he ever went alert was when they spotted people along the Highway, but Sarah Jay felt it was more of a show than anything else, something to keep his prospects on their toes.


    A show he kept up as the day wore on and the gates of Meadowbrook came into view, all without incident mind you. Though nowhere near as pretty as New Hope¡¯s solid stone walls, Meadowbrook¡¯s concrete fortifications were tall and sturdy enough to hold off whole armies of Abby, but Lord help them all if they didn¡¯t let Sarah Jay through those double darksteel gates. As they drew closer to the town, the road grew thick with wagons and travellers making the same trip, some of whom greeted Howie by name. He called back as friendly as can be and chatted most of them up along the way, once again undermining all his dire warnings and whatnot, but one could hardly fault the Firstborn for knowing a lot of folk. Spent more time on the road than in New Hope most years, and while he wasn¡¯t the most sociable sort, he was friendly enough when he wanted to be.


    They were less than an hour away from strolling through Meadowbrook¡¯s gates when Howie stopped chatting and called for them to pull over off the road. ¡°Change of plans,¡± he said, and Sarah Jay¡¯s heart dropped as she watched a second wagon pull over right behind them. She¡¯d long since started tuning Howie¡¯s ramblings out, so she hadn¡¯t the foggiest clue what he¡¯d been going on about with their fellow travellers. Was this a friendly stop or an unfriendly one? Seeing right through her consternation, Howie flashed his grin and gave a disapproving shake of his head to mock her for not paying attention, and she felt her cheeks go bright and hot. ¡°Mister Hendricks back there has graciously offered to buy my cargo at cost,¡± Howie said, which was puzzling to say the least. Selling at cost meant he¡¯d just wasted the last six days carting it over from New Hope, but he didn¡¯t seem too put off by it.


    Apparently, that was all the explanation they were gonna get as Howie hopped off the side of his wagon and sauntered on back to unload his cargo. Envying the ease with which he could walk, Sarah Jay slowly slid out of the saddle and stifled a groan as her abused and aching thighs spasmed in protest. Hopping off without so much as a wince, Errol took Fifi¡¯s reins from her hands and gave Sarah Jay a consoling look, one that did nothing but stoke her ire in more ways than one. Was her fault for repeatedly crossing the boundaries laid out by Howie, but she was supposed to be playing the part of Jay, a young man ready to make his mark on the Frontier. A story difficult enough to sell even without Errol making doe eyes at her. She didn¡¯t mind so long as no one else was around, except now wasn¡¯t the time. Giving him a dark glare, she snatched the reins back and shooed him away as she hobbled on back to cover Howie.


    That¡¯s what they was hired on for, so that¡¯s what she would do.


    Something Errol hadn¡¯t quite figured out yet, as he handed her his reins and reached in to grab a box from the wagon. ¡°Nah, none of that,¡± Howie said, similarly shooing Errol away. ¡°I pay you to shoot, not haul. Know your worth Errol. I ain¡¯t sharing no profits from trading, so I don¡¯t expect you to help with it.¡± Then, because he was too polite to say anything more, Howie gave Errol a look that said, ¡®So look sharp and make sure no shooting starts¡¯, a look that Sarah Jay¡¯s man missed entirely as he smiled and leaned against the wagon instead.


    In Errol¡¯s defense, this seemed like more of Howie¡¯s overabundance of caution, as the bald and burly Mr. Hendricks was content to watch his people load his new cargo into his wagon. Didn¡¯t not even bother checking most of the boxes, and when all that was said and done, Howie handed over a cargo manifest and Mr. Hendricks handed over a stack of bills. If it was truly at cost, then Sarah Jay could see why Howie was always out and about. There was no doubting his skills as a gunfighter and Spellslinger, but as far as she could tell, he was a God-awful trader. Man overpaid more often than not, and that was after insisting he pay full price rather than accept any friends and family discount. Now, here he was emptying his wagon at cost, which was essentially a loss considering how many transportation companies made their fortunes hauling cargo from New Hope to Meadowbrook, and here Howie was doing it for free.


    Didn¡¯t make a lick of sense, and Sarah Jay had half a mind to sit Howie down and teach him how to haggle once Mr. Hendrick¡¯s caravan was away and gone. ¡°Alright,¡± Howie said, with a smile on his face and his hands on his hips as if he¡¯d done something worth puffing his chest up about, ¡°Now that that¡¯s out of the way, let¡¯s talk shop.¡± That got Sarah Jay¡¯s attention, and Errol¡¯s too, because it meant Howie was about to give them a talking to. A gentle one, but that didn¡¯t make it sting any less when he pointed out all their mistakes. ¡°In any exchange, you want to at least appear vigilant,¡± Howie began, giving Sarah Jay¡¯s hands a pointed look. ¡°Means keeping your hands free to draw your sidearm if need be, instead of holding two reins of two horses who ought to be tied off, so they don¡¯t go running should any shooting start.¡±


    Made perfect sense, and Sarah Jay felt real small for overlooking so simple a fact. How was she supposed to cover him if she was busy clinging onto Fifi and Bruno? As for Errol, he got a talking to for turning his back to the strangers, crossing his arms, and watching Howie, which was the exact opposite of what he should¡¯ve done. Six days of boring, uneventful travel had left them both careless, and truth was, Sarah Jay wished Howie would come down on them harder for their mistakes. He was too nice about it, unlike the drill sergeants back in Basic who¡¯d berate you for every tiny mistake while you marched off your demerits, a shameful and exhausting experience which made you work all the harder to avoid having to go through it again.


    Howie pointed out a few more mistakes before pulling a map out of his pouch and spreading it out for them to look at. ¡°So here¡¯s what I was thinking,¡± Howie said, tapping a little crenellated marker on the map labelled Meadowbrook before tracing a path east along the Highway. ¡°We¡¯re here, and folks been saying there¡¯s a Ranger staging ground here, another fifty or so klicks away. Right around the bend of the Highway at the edge of the Coral Desert, which presents us with the perfect opportunity to do some hunting.¡±


    ¡°You want to bring us out into the desert?¡± Errol asked, sounding hesitant as could be, but Sarah Jay was all fired up for some action.


    ¡°And maybe have a gander at the badlands from afar while we¡¯re there,¡± Howie replied, like he was suggesting a picnic at the park. ¡°Let you see the sights as it were, shoot some Abby maybe, then get back to rest in relative safety next to a Ranger guarded location. Doubt we¡¯ll see much more than foraging goblins, but you never know. It¡¯d be about the best training conditions we can get short of hiring on a Strike Team to keep us safe, which I can¡¯t afford.¡± And shouldn¡¯t have to, as Howie had spent a damn fortune on them already.


    ¡°Why are the Rangers setting up a staging camp?¡± Sarah Jay asked. ¡°What they staging for?¡±


    ¡°Oh sorry, my mistake,¡± Howie replied, scratching his jaw. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t call it that. Official story is that it¡¯s a temporary outpost meant to improve public safety in No Man¡¯s Land, with a chance of turning into a permanent one should things work out.¡±


    ¡°And unofficially?¡± she asked.


    Giving her a big grin, Howie said, ¡°There are some things you don¡¯t ask, because if I could tell you, I would. What I can¡¯t do is tell you is that I can¡¯t tell you, or why I can¡¯t tell you, because if I did, then you¡¯d know something was afoot.¡± Which was really just a roundabout way of saying nothing at all, but Howie seemed so pleased by his twisty non-answer that Sarah Jay didn¡¯t have the heart to tug at any strings. ¡°Anywho,¡± Howie continued, ignoring any questioning gazes to turn back to the map, ¡°I figure we ought to push on ahead and travel through the night to reach the outpost by morning. Then we take the day to rest and prep before heading out to hopefully make some real money.¡± Giving them both a look, Howie asked, ¡°So? How about it? You two up for some hunting?¡±


    Errol and Sarah Jay traded glances, and she could see the doubt in his eyes, just as she knew he could see the yearning in hers, but he was a cautious one. ¡°What if we say no?¡± Errol asked, probably just to hear the answer.


    Howie blinked, then shrugged. ¡°I drop you off in Meadowbrook I suppose, then go hunting by my lonesome,¡± he said, after a moment¡¯s thought, as if only now realizing they might refuse. ¡°Guess we should¡¯ve had this conversation before I sold off all my cargo, yea?¡± That¡¯s the Firstborn for you though, an Abby killing machine who didn¡¯t think twice before diving headlong into the fray. Maybe in his eyes, this hunting trip really was more of a picnic than anything else, considering he did most of his hunting in the badlands. ¡°No pressure,¡± Howie added, still as kind and congenial as could be, which really wasn¡¯t what Sarah Jay needed right now. If Howie was gonna run his own crew, he had a lot to learn about leading.


    Which made Sarah Jay feel a bit better really, seeing how the Firstborn had flaws of his own. Made him more relatable.


    ¡°You think we¡¯re ready for this?¡± Errol asked, still not sold on the idea.


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t suggest it if I didn¡¯t,¡± Howie replied, with so much confidence it made Sarah Jay stand up straighter. ¡°You both showed your mettle during that harpy attack, and orcs and goblins are much less threatening than harpies, especially when you riding around in my wagon. There¡¯s more to go over, but we got time, so best we settle this now. You in or you out? No hard feelings either way.¡±


    Sarah Jay didn¡¯t need no convincing, and Errol was less reluctant than his questions made him appear. He was just worried is all, mostly about her, because he knew he was out of his depth and didn¡¯t quite trust Howie enough to see them through safely. Why, she couldn¡¯t say, as the Firstborn had shown his skills in that same harpy attack, one the whole town came out to celebrate. Pride maybe, as Errol didn¡¯t like playing second fiddle to the Firstborn, but he best get over that right quick, because Howie stood head and shoulders above them both when it came to skill and experience.


    Truth was, riding with the Firstborn was like a dream come true for Sarah Jay, the harsh discomforts of reality aside. Was even better than signing on with the Rangers in her opinion, because it gave her the freedom to go where she pleased and a chance earn big when she needed it the most, instead of being restricted by Ranger guidelines and responsibilities. The only reason she¡¯d wanted to sign on in the first place was for the pay and a chance to avenge her daddy. Killing a couple harpies wasn¡¯t enough, because that wouldn¡¯t change nothing. No, she wanted to put an end to the whole damn burrow, delve down into the tunnels from which them harpies emerged and butcher the Proggie which spawned them. Word was that Howie¡¯s daddy scoured the countryside for years looking for that particularly problematic Proggie, as did several other famous Ranger Scouts, like Drex Durden, Madigan Harper, or even Ekun, the West African Ranger living in Meadowbrook up ahead. Laid up with a broken leg, as it were, but still one of the best to ever do it, and not a single one of those famous Scouts had managed to uncover the harpy burrow.


    The way she saw it, joining the Rangers had been her best shot at taking part in the military operation to clear that burrow once it was found. Most believed the harpies were spawned somewhere deep in the Divide, the cavernous canyon smack dab in the middle of the badlands that in separated the two halves of the continent. Drex Durden and his corridor companions were often down there Scouting out burrows and killing Proggies, and they were the best of the best, so Sarah Jay had set her goals high to start with. Course, those dreams all went up in smoke when she saw how the Rangers treated Errol after his dust up with Richard, but she wasn¡¯t the only one who believed Howie would one day join the ranks of best Scouts this side of the Divide.


    The Rangers had always been a long shot to see her dreams come true, which was why she hadn¡¯t hesitated to drop out of Basic to support Errol, and she didn¡¯t blame him one bit for it. The mess with Richard wasn¡¯t his fault, but this was different, and Sarah Jay wasn¡¯t sure how she¡¯d feel if Errol¡¯s stubborn, senseless pride ruined their chances with the Firstborn too.


    ¡°Alright,¡± Errol said, after a long look at Sarah Jay¡¯s pleading eyes. ¡°We¡¯re in.¡±


    ¡°Great!¡± Howie exclaimed, tucking away his map and gesturing at the horses. ¡°Unsaddle Bruno and Fifi there, and get some water and feed in all four. Might as well do it now before we set off. Leave Sunshine and Winnie unsaddled, as you two can ride in the wagon now that it¡¯s empty.¡± That was a small mercy, though Errol made a face like he¡¯d rather spend all night in a saddle, a fate worse than death in her opinion. Once they were underway, Howie leaned back in his seat to talk them through the lesson, and Sarah Jay did her best to hang onto his every word. ¡°So the Coral Desert and the Snake Fang mountain Range behind it is gobbo territory,¡± Howie began, and for once, didn¡¯t immediately go off on a tangent. ¡°Dark green humanoid Abby, ugly, bipedal and built for close combat. Short bursts of high speeds followed by long hours of hacking and slashing, that¡¯s their forte. Real threatening if you go at ¡®em with sword and shield, but those times are long past. Shoot and scoot, that¡¯s the idea, hit and run until ain¡¯t none left standing. Jay, you¡¯ll be posted up front in the driver¡¯s seat, and Errol, you¡¯ll be hunkered down in the back. If we come across a patrol, then we¡¯ll hit them hard from range inside the wagon while Cowie brings ¡®em on a merry chase across the open desert. Be like shooting fish in a barrel really, because even if Abby do shoot back, most only got a standard range of forty to eighty metres and no Metamagics to speak of.¡±


    Seemed simple enough, but it couldn¡¯t be that easy, an opinion Sarah Jay didn¡¯t hesitate to share. ¡°You right,¡± Howie replied, nodding along with a grin. ¡°They won¡¯t just chase you endlessly, nor will they do it mindlessly. They a cunning bunch, will try to herd you towards another group, or spread out and take cover to wait for you to come back. Even seen some act dead so that when hunters came to collect, those Abby would get the jump on them. That¡¯s where the Bolt Cantrip comes in handy. Pays to put one through the skull of every corpse from afar before getting in close, because even a tiny goblin can tear the flesh right off your bones if it gets a good grip on you.¡± Waving a hand though, Howie said, ¡°You let me worry about keeping Abby on the hook though. You two just gotta stay in the wagon, and be ready to take whatever shots you get. Don¡¯t go looking for them, just let it happen.¡±


    There was more to go over, like angle of fire, best targets to aim for, and making every shot count, and Howie went over it all one by one, then made sure it all sunk in by referencing back to it often enough to get on Sarah Jay¡¯s last nerve. He also ran them through a couple drills to make sure they didn¡¯t make any mistakes once the fighting started, telling them in no uncertain terms that this was for serious. The sun set and the moons rose high into the sky before Howie let off, suggesting they get some shut eye while they could. More than happy to snuggle up with Errol, Sarah Jay quietly marvelled at what a difference having a roof overhead could make. Wasn¡¯t much inside the spacious wagon besides their saddlebags, some neatly stored tools and supplies, as well as a crate of bottles filled with what Sarah Jay assumed was alcohol of some sort, since it wouldn¡¯t make sense to cart water around in glass. Something to sell to the Rangers no doubt, so poor trader though he might be, Howie was always hustling, which Sarah Jay could respect. Considering how he made most of his money hunting Abby and outlaws, she assumed trading was mostly an excuse to get out of New Hope, one he needed to sell Aunty Ray on. Now that he was setting up a crew to watch his back, it seemed like he was gearing up to go hunting full time, and she looked forward to getting in on the ground floor.


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Nestled in Errol¡¯s embrace, Sarah Jay slept all through the night, the best rest she¡¯d gotten all week, and she didn¡¯t wake up until Howie knocked on the wagon. ¡°Wakey wakey,¡± he said, louder than necessary, and Sarah Jay fought the urge to snarl. ¡°Quit your snoring, open them peepers, and poke your heads out for a look-see,¡± Howie continued, oblivious to just how close he was to losing his head. ¡°Up and at ¡®em now. You gotta learn to wake faster than that, because Abby and outlaws ain¡¯t gonna give you time to stretch and yawn.¡±


    Which made perfect sense, but didn¡¯t help quell Sarah Jay¡¯s ire none as she leaned out to look at whatever it was Howie wanted them to see. Sometime during the night, they¡¯d left behind the peach-white forests and ventured into the Coral Desert, which wasn¡¯t quite the barren wilderness she¡¯d pictured in mind. It was quite lovely in fact, illuminated by the moons and the stars as it were, a pink and white sea of sandy dunes rolling across the horizon, dotted with coarse, purplish shrubs and prickly green cacti, as well as a smattering of colourful flowers here and there. If not for the sand, she wouldn¡¯t have known it was a desert, not exactly. Maybe it got worse further east, but it was rather pretty and lively as far as she could tell, not as dense in vegetation as the forests or grasslands, but still a land full of life and vitality


    No, they weren¡¯t quite in the desert just yet, as the sides of the Highway was still covered in white grass and black dirt, but with far less vegetation than she was used to seeing. There were a few trees here and there, sparse, spindly little things scattered across the landscape that were barely twice her height, if that. A far cry from the towering pillars she¡¯d grown up alongside, but cut from the same cloth as it were, and as she glanced back behind them, she saw the landscape slowly meld back into familiar grassy lowlands and hilly forests. So this was no man¡¯s land, a rather poor name for a place of such beauty, a crossroads between three vastly different but equally beautiful landscapes.


    Ah, not three, but four, and as Sarah Jay turned her sights to the Southeast, she couldn¡¯t help but gasp. Errol did the same beside her only a beat later, and she couldn¡¯t blame him, because no matter how much they¡¯d heard about the badlands, words could never describe it. Barren didn¡¯t even touch upon the empty vastness before her, a land completely devoid of any life or sustenance whatsoever. It was a wasteland, plain and simple, scoured clean of any and all biomass by Abby and brought back to feed their hungry Progenitors. The desert, though arid and inhospitable, was still a beautiful and natural landscape, one thriving in arid conditions, while the badlands were anything but. Dried and cracked ground stretched out as far as her eyes could see, and she saw not a single sign of life across those barrens, nor anything that hinted at any ability to sustain it. Even the dark soil seemed drained and enervated, dry and lifeless and bereft of that soft, loamy texture, but also lacking the finer aspects of sand and dust.


    This was a wound upon the world, the Divide a scar upon the Frontier, one dealt to these lands by Aberrations and Progenitors alike.


    ¡°Ugly ain¡¯t it,¡± Howie said, sounding chipper as ever, even though it seemed like he¡¯d been up all night. ¡°A land scoured cleaned by Abby, that¡¯s what that is right there, and what the rest of the Frontier will look like if we let them have their way. I won¡¯t be bringing you to the badlands anytime soon though, not until I know you can take care of yourselves. Orcs and goblins at least gotta eat and breathe and such, plus they fight in a familiar fashion. The badland favours bug-like Abby, ones who can burrow underground and hibernate for days, weeks, even months before coming up again. Makes things dangerous, as even if you walked a route before, that don¡¯t mean it¡¯s safe.¡± Though she was dying to hear more, Howie changed subjects without warning, much to Sarah Jay¡¯s chagrin. ¡°Outpost is up ahead,¡± he said, pointing out a distant blob that didn¡¯t look any different from its surroundings. ¡°We¡¯ll pull up there, have ourselves a hot meal, then you two can take turns standing guard while I sleep and prep.¡±


    ¡°What sort of prep do you need to do, hoss?¡± Sarah Jay asked, hoping she could help him along. They¡¯d done little enough all week, so it wouldn¡¯t hurt to remind Howie that he wasn¡¯t riding solo no more.


    ¡°Change out some Spells mostly,¡± he replied, shattering all of her hopes and dreams, but maybe she could salvage something from this.


    ¡°Oh? What sort of loadout you use for hunting?¡± Sarah Jay did everything she could to make the question sound casual, but she was just dying to know more about Howie¡¯s Spell slinging abilities. He played things close to the vest and didn¡¯t talk about it much, but she mostly wanted to know how many Second Order Spells he had at his fingertips. Misty Step and Web were the only ones she knew about, and both were Conjuration Spells, but she had yet to see him really flex his famed Divination abilities.


    Giving her a toothy grin that said she wasn¡¯t fooling him none, Howie answered all too casually, ¡°Depends really. For the Coral Desert, I like to throw in Detect Magic, Find Hidden Objects, and Find Magical Traps. On account of the illusionist hobgoblin what roams these parts, a real sneaky little feller that¡¯s been causing trouble for almost a year now with all its traps and ambushes. Doesn¡¯t normally show himself this far west anymore, but better safe than sorry.¡± That made for two more Second Order Spells, namely the last two listed, and Sarah Jay suspected he had many more. While they were in town, Howie worked himself like a madman casting Spells every night, exhausting himself in an effort to grow his limits just a tiny bit each day. The act itself wasn¡¯t particularly uncommon, as almost every Spell slinger did the same, but Howie would cast Spells until he could barely hold his head upright.


    Spell Slinging took a lot out of you, but mentally rather than physically. When Sarah Jay hit her limits, she felt all dizzy and foggy headed, with the world wrapped in a haze that narrowed her vision down to whatever was in front of her face. As for Howie, he pushed himself far beyond even that, like keeping fit by running suicides until he collapsed rather than going for a jog every night. Driven is what he was, not just to familiarize himself with the Spells at his disposal, but also no doubt pushing himself to reach Third Order Spells, a lofty goal for a man not yet eighteen. Sarah Jay would count herself talented if she could cast a Second Order Spell by this time next year, which only showed how far she still had yet to go.


    They didn¡¯t say much else until they reached the outpost, which wasn¡¯t much to look at, just a single wooden scout tower surrounded by shallow trenches and a smattering of wood-log spikes to discourage anyone from rushing in. There were sandbags aplenty too, and several large support weapons scattered about, including five gatling guns, a heavy Lancer, and even a pair of mortars she could spot, but the true heavy artillery was the Rangers themselves. They¡¯d be well equipped with area of effect Spells to slaughter Abby in droves, not just the basic Blast Spell, but advanced magics like Moonbeam, Scorching Fissure, and of course the versatile Third Order Fireball as well. There was a full company here, twenty battle-hardened Rangers working in shifts, and Sarah Jay wasn¡¯t ashamed to admit she quailed before their hardened gazes, fixed upon Howie¡¯s wagon as it approached.


    ¡°Ignore them,¡± Howie said, ignoring his own advice as he grinned and waved, a greeting which went unreturned. ¡°They all just sour because we taking advantage of their presence to earn a living. There might be other mercs dropping by, but ignore them too, and wake me if they approach. We¡¯ll set up a little further out away from the crowd, where the hustle and bustle of construction won¡¯t be more than a buzz.¡± A little further turned out to be about two hundred meters away, well within range of the Ranger¡¯s weapons, but also somewhat concealed by the smattering of loomshrubs and cacti. As soon as they stopped, he angled the wagon so it¡¯s back was facing the outpost before popping open the right-side panel on his wagon, which lifted up like a bird¡¯s wing and created an awning for them to sit under. Then he did the same to the other side, which turned his enclosed steel wagon into an open, breezy structure, one which went a long ways towards explaining why the Firstborn didn¡¯t own a tent, as he pretty much drove around in a steel camper.


    Say one thing about the Firstborn, but he came prepared. Even had an exterior cabinet on the side of his wagon for storing firewood, which he used to cook them up a hot meal of beans, pickled sneezeweed, and canned meat. The food was a far cry from Aunty Ray¡¯s delectable dishes, but a welcome change after so many weeks of travel rations, and Sarah Jay devoured it all with unseemly haste. Once done with breakfast and cleaning up, Howie crawled into the back of his wagon and fell asleep cuddled up with Cowie, while Errol took first watch and left Sarah Jay to study her notes. Two hours later, she switched places with her man, though he opted to clean his guns rather than study his Spells. She would have to have a word with him about that, as he really needed to put more effort into learning instead of wholly relying on his natural, Intuitive ways.


    Nothing happened over the course of the day, but Howie didn¡¯t sleep for more than six hours, and once he was up, he told the two of them to get some rest. ¡°Sleep while you can, because we¡¯ll be up hunting all night. Even if we don¡¯t find anything, I want you both alert and ready at all times, which is more tiring than it sounds. I¡¯ll keep watch from the driver¡¯s seat, so settle in and relax.¡± Try as she might, she couldn¡¯t quite get herself to fall asleep, and instead spent a lazy afternoon reclining in Errol¡¯s arms, who fell fast asleep in two shakes of a lamb¡¯s tail. While they lazed about the cool, breezy back, Howie sat in the driver¡¯s seat and went over his Spellbook which was always a sight to behold. Most Spellslingers carried around a thick hardcover, something large and durable enough to hold all the notes they¡¯d jot down over a lifetime of study, but Howie had himself a little pocket notebook, one that fit nicely in the palm of his hand. Kept it in his duster pocket and read it out in the open, unconcerned that anyone might steal or read it, because even if they did, what little notes he had were written in Qinese. While the numbers were all the same, the notation was entirely alien, but Howie was able to translate it with relative ease, which only further demonstrated just how frightening his understanding of arcana truly was.


    Didn¡¯t make him a good teacher though, and Sarah Jay suspected it was largely because everything came too easily to him, and he couldn¡¯t understand why it wasn¡¯t the same for everyone else. When it came to the raw mathematics of Spell Formulas, Howie¡¯s explanations were spot on, but things fell apart once you moved on to concepts that numbers couldn¡¯t quantify, like the actual shaping of the Spell Structures.


    ¡°What do you mean why does it spiral?¡± Howie had asked, tilting his head while pointing at the number Sarah Jay had just calculated. ¡°The pattern¡¯s right there. 987, 1597, 2584, all numbers in the Fibonacci sequence, so the rest should be obvious.¡±


    Except it wasn¡¯t, because those weren¡¯t three separate numbers, but the result of a single calculation which resulted in an answer of 98,715,972.584. Then there was the added difficulty of taking those numbers and using them to form a hyperbolic spiral with the correct curve, which required another formula that Howie claimed to have forgotten to put in his notes, but Sarah Jay was all but certain he¡¯d left it out because he thought she¡¯d intuitively know to use it. That¡¯s why Howie¡¯s Spellbook was so small and thin; because he had most of the necessary information already memorized, or was so familiar with the concepts he could derive the necessary formulas on the fly.


    It was one of many reasons why Howie¡¯s image didn¡¯t quite live up to his reputation. All the ways in which he stood out were subtle and difficult to understand, like how quickly and easily he memorized new Spells. Didn¡¯t look like much, just a young man sitting there counting his fingers, but he was solving a mathematical formula in his head and drawing the Spell Structure as he went, instead of jotting it all down on paper, graphing the resulting function, and tracking his progress as he went. He could draw four-dimensional constructs in his mind like it was nothing, able to translate numbers into multiple paths and timings on the fly as easily as a pianist reads notes off a sheet, an act that seemed more magical than any Spell could ever be.


    Amazing is what it was, but in a subtle sort of way, a facet of his reputation only those who really knew him could wholly understand and appreciate.


    Time flew by until it was about an hour or so before sunset, when Howie hopped out to cook another meal, more canned foods but with the addition of some pasta and pesto sauce. Once they were done eating, he washed up and announced, ¡°It¡¯s go time.¡± Meant it too, right then and there, tasking Errol and Sarah Jay with closing up the wagon as he saddled sweet Winnie for reasons unknown. Despite grumbling about being no horseman, he looked right proper as he hoisted himself up into the saddle, his posture every bit as good as Errol¡¯s as they set out into the desert. ¡°From here on out,¡± he said, addressing the both of them from the side, ¡°I¡¯m gonna be riding out ahead.¡± The words made Sarah Jay¡¯s stomach do a little flip, even though she¡¯d been expecting as much, since what use was a scout who stuck close to the wagon? ¡°I won¡¯t be far,¡± Howie continued, mostly to assure them while making no big deal of it for the same reason, ¡°But I won¡¯t be back until morning unless I find something. As for the two of you, all you need to do is sit tight and relax with weapons close to hand.¡±


    Taking her place up front, Sarah Jay took the 3-Line off the mount and checked it to make sure it was loaded and ready. Was nice having the hefty rifle in hand again, and back in the wagon, Errol had his El-Minister ready and waiting, all polished and pretty as can be. Seeing their nervous expressions, Howie smiled and said, ¡°No need to clutch them all night. If anything dangerous pops up, you¡¯ll either have plenty of time to go weapon¡¯s ready, or if not, you¡¯re better off using your sidearms. Silenced guns only unless you got no other choice though, so keep the Whumper and the 45 holstered, got it?¡± Sarah Jay nodded, and she presumed Errol did too before Howie added, ¡°So yea. Stay in the wagon and don¡¯t make no noise while we out there. Be ready, but relaxed, and if I don¡¯t get back before the shooting starts, just remember to prioritize your safety and adhere to your firing lanes no matter what. Got it?¡± Once they both nodded, Howie patted Cowie on the head as he passed and said, ¡°Look after the kids while I¡¯m gone, partner.¡±


    And with one last cheeky grin, Howie donned his googles and kerchief before setting off across the desert sands, riding fast and easy atop Winnie whose long legs covered ground faster than Sarah Jay thought possible. Silently too, her hooves whisper quiet as she galloped over a dune with fangs bared and mane blowing in the breeze. Stopping at the peak, she paused just beneath the red setting sun in the honey gold skies while her rider turned around to tip his hat, before horse and rider both disappeared into the desert.


    Wasn¡¯t nothing he could do about his Qin features, but from a distance, there was no mistaking Howie for anything but the all-American cowboy he was.


    Once he was out of sight, the world grew larger even as the darkness closed around Sarah Jay, and she found herself beset by doubts and questions. Stay in the wagon? What if they were approached by strangers or worse, attacked by outlaws? What if they stepped into one of those magical traps, something Howie might¡¯ve missed on his way out? What if they heard fighting in the distance? Or a call came in over the radio? Where even was his radio? She knew it existed, since he talked about having one, but she didn¡¯t have the first clue as to how to work it, or the big honking gun he had strapped to the roof. Seemed like that would be useful to know, but Howie was gone and it was too late to ask. Did Cowie know how to use the Big Stick? No, that¡¯d be ridiculous. Then again, Howie was the sort of man to try and weaponize everything, so it wouldn¡¯t be too far of a stretch to think he¡¯d arm his bull using some sort of crazy, cutting-edge arcana-tech, like whatever Chrissy used to change pictures with a wave of her hand.


    Yesterday, she thought the desert beautiful and luminous, a pretty landscape illuminated by the night¡¯s sky. Though nothing had physically changed as far as she could see, her surroundings seemed more ominous and foreboding. That sandy dune might well be concealing the movements a goblin warband, while the grove of spindly trees could be the lair of some magical beast, yet Cowie trotted ever onwards without a care in the world. Moved at a steady clip in a twisty path, curving this way and that with his eyes fixed on something over the horizon.


    Went like that for hours until sheer boredom took the edge off Sarah Jay¡¯s nerves and left her struggling to stay awake. Howie wasn¡¯t kidding when he said this would be tiring, and she couldn¡¯t even look back to trade silent glances with Errol since she couldn¡¯t find him in the dark interior. He could probably see her though, outlined by the night¡¯s sky as it were, and the thought made her sit up straighter so as not to appear scared and uncertain. To keep her mind focused, she checked her weapons again, the Squire, the 3-Line, and the Szass and Tam 45. Then she double checked her clips, magazines, and loose ammunition, before readjusting the straps to her armoured vest and taking inventory of her component¡¯s pouch by touch. A vial of glowhopper legs, various grass clippings, a flintstone, a paper envelope filled with phosphorus, and more, everything she needed to cast the Cantrips and Spells available to her.


    ¡°Hey. It¡¯s Howie.¡± The whisper came out of nowhere, and Sarah Jay almost threw her component¡¯s pouch into the air. Didn¡¯t matter which way she looked, she didn¡¯t see no rider or horse. ¡°I¡¯m climbing up front, okay?¡±


    The ¡®don¡¯t shoot me¡¯ was implied, and Sarah Jay had to bite back a scathing retort. Was her fault for not paying enough attention, but Howie was a right stealthy sort as he moved up from her blindspot and clambered over into the driver¡¯s seat. Tying Winnie¡¯s reins to keep her from running off, he turned and gave her grin that showed off the whites of his teeth. ¡°Found us a target,¡± he said, and her heart skipped a beat. ¡°Big group of gobbos, maybe sixty strong. Perfect opportunity really, as they all bogged down with their catch and moving real slow.¡± Lifting the goggles off his head, he wiped them with a clean handkerchief and pressed them into her hands. ¡°Put those on.¡±


    Though brimming with questions, Sarah Jay took off her hat and did as instructed, only to stop and gape as soon as the goggles were on. Rather than the dim illumination she¡¯d grown used to, the world around her was clear as day in black and white, or more accurately, varying shades of grey, with every plant and shrub in sight perfectly visible to the naked eye. Turning to look back in the wagon, she found Errol sitting there with his rifle resting against his shoulder, looking all pensive and anxious while running his thumb over the crucifix he wore around his next. Bringing her hand to her lips, she blew him a kiss and smiled as he blinked before catching it with a smile, his nerves melting away with one simple gesture. If only it could be so easy for her as she turned to focus on the dune Howie was pointing out as he outlined the plan he had in mind. ¡°This is your show tonight Jay,¡± he began, grinning as her stomach turned upside down and inside out. ¡°All you gotta do is¡­¡±


    Didn¡¯t take long for him to spell it all out, and as simple as it might be, she wasn¡¯t sure she was up to the task. ¡°You got this,¡± he said, giving her a pat on the shoulder, then before she could raise any questions, he slid into the back of the wagon to join Errol, leaving Sarah Jay all by her lonesome as Cowie crested the dune and brought her into full view of the goblin warband, some two-hundred odd metres away and on course to pass right in front of them. There were dozens of them, all hauling ass across the desert while pulling ropes and sleds carrying a bunch of big dead beasties about. Clever little bastards, assuming they built those contraptions themselves, but word was they died real easy, and the 3-Line was more than enough gun to handle the task at hand.


    ¡°Weapons free,¡± Howie whispered, and that¡¯s all he said, trusting her to do as they planned.


    And she did, falling back on her training without any need to think. Grabbing a single blade of white grass from her component¡¯s pouch, she cast her Spell and held it at the ready, then peered through her scope in search of a target, her vision almost clear as day with help from her Darkvision goggles. Found it right quick, a bigger, meaner goblin clubbing other goblins around it and hurrying them along without reprisal. An ugly fellow, with two notched, pointed ears sitting on either side of an angular, oval head and flat face that ended in rounded points at the chin and scalp. It had no hair whatsoever, a pointed nub of a nose, and a mouth full of sharp fangs which would be yellowish in the light of day and sharply contrast with its dark green skin and bloodred irises. Wasn¡¯t particularly large, no bigger than a twelve-year-old at most, yet five of these goblins were strong enough to drag what looked to be about eight-hundred pounds of dead meat at an easy jog. Their fingers would have yellowed claws too, filthy with all sorts of detritus and sharp enough puncture arteries if given the chance. Though they didn¡¯t look like much, she knew that if these sixty-odd goblins got in close, they¡¯d tear them all to pieces, Cowie included.


    But right now, she was the hunter, and they were her prey, so she took a deep breath, exhaled, and wished she could cast True Strike to let the magic guide her hand.


    Wasn¡¯t necessary though, as her aim struck true, and she felt a little sour over her lacking confidence, as doubt could spoil a shot as readily as shaky hands. Something to work on, but for now, she took a moment to enjoy the echoing crack of the silenced 3-Line which saw every goblin turn its head her way with a guttural cry. Scratch that. Every goblin except one, as her opening shot had blown her target¡¯s head clean off.


    ¡°Whoo!¡± Howie cheered, and Errol sounded off a moment later. ¡°Atta boy, Jay!¡±


    ¡°You got this!¡±


    Then for some strange, inexplicable reason, Cowie let loose with a bellowing moo and ran headlong towards the screaming, charging goblins, leaving Sarah Jay to wonder if it was really alright to let the bull have his way. It was too late for second thoughts now though, so she worked the bolt-action, lined up a second shot, only to miss her second target due to the bumpy ride. She made up for it with the third shot, only to discover there was always time for doubt as a good number of goblins waggled their fingers and unleashed a flurry of Bolts towards them. Most of which seemed aimed directly at Sarah Jay mind you, leaving her wondering if she should¡¯ve questioned Howie just a teensy, tiny bit more beforehand.


    ¡°Now,¡± Howie said, and Sarah Jay unleashed her Spell just a moment before Cowie made a wide 180 to turn them right around. None of the Bolts made it far enough to hit them, fizzling out a good ten or twenty metres short, and Sarah Jay leaned out over the side to look back at her work. Where before, the sand had been empty and pristine, there was now a sizable patch of pale white grasping grass ensnaring most of the goblin hunting party. The grass wrapped around their victims in a neat little spiral, so beautifully curled and evenly spaced it almost looked unnatural, because it was, a working of magic Sarah Jay had unleashed for the first time against a living target.


    The Entangle Spell, a First Order staple in any Marksman¡¯s Loadout, and with Howie¡¯s help, it was now part of Sarah Jay¡¯s. No wonder he said the Structure should be obvious, because those spiralling strands of grass embodied the math, perfection made manifest in a way only numbers and magic could accomplish.


    The fight was far from won, but this singular exchange proved to her that she was on the right track. She would¡¯ve needed four more months of Basic before even thinking of applying for a Sharpshooter specialization, and she probably wouldn¡¯t have been accepted without field experience. In contrast, now she was out in the desert shooting at live Abby and earning her keep while the other boots were running obstacle courses, learning field drills, and marching off demerits. Yea, riding with the Firstborn was the right decision, the best decision she¡¯d ever made, and she would not give him reason to regret it.


    Howie gave her two jobs, hold the Entangle Spell for as long as she could and shoot down any Abby, and by God she would do him proud.

 Chapter 20

    ¡°Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand¡¯¡±


    The warm fire of fearless determination flowed through Errol as his Heroism Spell took hold. His shaking hands stilled and his racing heart slowed as he let go of his crucifix and raised his El-Minister while peering out into the darkness, waiting for a target to emerge from the shifting shadows of the dark desert night.


    So he was understandably taken aback when Howie turned on the lights and ¡®whooed¡¯, revealing a gaggle of screaming goblins sprinting right towards them.


    The dull clang of the Ranger Repeater snapped him out of his funk, and Errol couldn¡¯t help but smile at the sweet sound of Howie working the lever-action with a smooth click-clack, followed shortly after by the tinny clatter of brass hitting the cold metal floor and a second clang. To follow suit, Errol took aim at the closest goblin and pulled the trigger, taking immense satisfaction from the silenced bark of his rifle as it spat forceful death at Abby. Would have been better if he hadn¡¯t missed, but he shot again, then again, and again, pulling the trigger as quick as he could until his target finally dropped.


    Only for it to get back up again, cradling its arm where Errol¡¯s shot had chunked it.


    A hand landed on Errol¡¯s shoulder and he threw himself to the side, moving away from the threat and slamming into the wagon wall. ¡°Easy there,¡± Howie said, his voice muted and low, except it wasn¡¯t. Errol¡¯s ears were the problem, his lack of Hearing Protection causing issues inside the closed confines of the wagon even with Silenced weapons. ¡°Just because you got thirty rounds in the mag don¡¯t mean you gotta use ¡®em all right quick. Take your time. Pick your shots. Slow is smooth and smooth is fast.¡±


    Cheeks burning from embarrassment, Errol nodded and refocused on the task at hand, but it wasn¡¯t easy to slow down when the world was moving at a hundred miles a minute. Between the jostling wagon, the harsh smoke of his gun, and the tiny, zooming goblin, it took two or three tries before he hit his target at maybe 70 metres, and that was with him going slow. Howie most certainly wasn¡¯t taking his time, rattling off his six Repeater shots from the hip without missing a beat before reloading faster than Errol thought possible, the movements so quick and efficient it hardly seemed human. Howie¡¯s Mage Hands were there to help, holding up handfuls of loose 22 cartridges so he didn¡¯t have to reach into his ammo pouch, and he slotted each one into the tube without fail. In the time it took him to reload and unload again, Errol was able to get another kill, but then Howie scored another six without blinking before letting out another ¡®whoo¡¯. ¡°Alright partner,¡± he called, and the wagon slowed just a bit before veering around and picking up speed once again. ¡°Stragglers¡¯r all taken care of, so let¡¯s see to our catch.¡± Turning to Errol with a smile, Howie added, ¡°Trigger discipline.¡±


    Could probably cook eggs on Errol¡¯s face with how hot he was burning as he removed his finger from the trigger and shouldered his rifle now that the shooting was done. Still had the original magazine in it too, so he swapped it out with a fresh one from his belt, fumbling all the while. In the meantime, Howie grabbed a bottle from the singular crate he¡¯d kept in the wagon, while his glowy blue Mage Hands grabbed one each and followed him out to the driver¡¯s seat. ¡°Look lively Errol,¡± he said, speaking over his shoulder. ¡°Might be you can learn something of the Spells I¡¯m about to use.¡±


    Unlikely. It probably took hundreds, if not thousands of casts before Errol¡¯s ¡®Intuitive ways¡¯ kicked in, but Howie expected results after a mere handful. Still, new Spells were new Spells, so Errol hustled his way to the front and poked his head out to watch the show. There weren¡¯t any lights up front, leaving things shrouded in darkness, but the ambient glow from the sides of the wagon was enough for now. Lit Sarah Jay up real nice, standing there with her rifle shouldered and goggles on as she stared off into the distance, her jaw set in a fetching expression that was both stern and seductive. This was the Sarah Jay she showed the world, the dark ice queen who only rarely smiled, which made them all the more precious when she did, and he couldn¡¯t help slipping his arm around her waist.


    Only to have his hand slapped away. ¡°Concentrating,¡± she said, without giving him a second glance, and for the third time in a minute, Errol almost died of embarrassment. Similar to the Heroism Spell, the Entangle Spell required the Spellslinger¡¯s focus to maintain it, meaning a moment¡¯s distraction might well have caused Sarah Jay to let the Spell slip and free whatever goblins were caught up in it. Not that Errol could see anything out in the darkness, but it didn¡¯t matter since Howie was already mumbling in Latin and slinging his Spell. At first, it seemed like nothing happened, but then he grabbed another bottle from a floating Mage Hand and the pieces fell into place. With another gesture and mumble, the second bottle shot out of Howie¡¯s still hand and sailed off into the darkness, and the third bottle followed a few seconds later. With no more bottles to Catapult away, he reached into his component¡¯s pouch and came out with a mottled red and brown stone the size of a bapple, so smooth and spherical it had to have been polished or cut. Holding it in his left hand, he made his gestures with his right hand for a change, and Errol soon saw why as a glowing globe of orange-red flame condensed around the Firstborn¡¯s left hand and grew the size of a man¡¯s head. Winding up like he was throwing a baseball underhand, he lobbed the fiery orb off into the distance, tracing a neat, lazy arc across the night¡¯s sky as it sailed through the desert and landed dead centre on a mass of goblins caught in a tangled growth of grasping green vines.


    Then everything went up in flames and a chorus of wails sounded off in the distance as the immolated Abby burned and died.


    ¡°Whooooooo!¡± Howie exclaimed for the third time this night, shaking Errol out of his awe as Cowie slowed to a trundle. ¡°Ain¡¯t that a sight.¡±


    ¡°Holy fuck.¡± Low and husky, Sarah Jay¡¯s voice was filled with admiration and disbelief, which made Errol feel even smaller than he already did. ¡°Was that a fucking Fireball?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d think so wouldn¡¯t you?¡± Flashing his big smile, Howie said, ¡°What with it being a literal ball of fire which you throw and explodes? Nah, oddly enough, Fireball ain¡¯t got none of that besides the explodin¡¯. That there was an Elemental Orb, First Order Spell. Nowhere near as powerful as Fireball, or even Blast, but it¡¯s got it¡¯s uses. The range and arc for one, letting you lob ¡®em farther than a Bolt and over obstacles in the way. Also lets you pick and choose the Element, namely Fire, Frost, Acid, or Electric, so long as you got the appropriate Elemental Stone.¡± Giving the red and brown rock in his hand a light toss, he caught it and said, ¡°Real handy to have when you need to deal a specific type of Elemental Damage and a Cantrip won¡¯t cut it. Most Spells need a whole different Spell Structure to change the damage type, or a Metamagic focus at least.¡± Gesturing at the bonfire some eighty metres away, Howie seemed to magically make the flames dissipate before adding, ¡°Elemental Orb also leaves behind a lingering Elemental effect that injures anything that steps in it. In the case of Fire, it¡¯ll even set things aflame, like the high proof alcohol I launched over before hand, but once the Spell effect ends, all those flames just go poof. Nifty little trick that lets you burn Abby to death without having to worry about losing Aberrtin or Spell Cores should the flames get too hot. Or you know, wildfires and such.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a First Order Spell?¡± Errol asked, his pride unable to silence him for long. ¡°How come we don¡¯t have an Aetherarm for that?¡±


    ¡°Elemental Orb launchers exist, but they ain¡¯t popular for lots of reasons really.¡± Giving a little shrug, Howie explained, ¡°The Spell¡¯s got quirks, what with the material component and how it don¡¯t self-propel like Bolt. You gotta throw it to get it going, and because of that, it don¡¯t go all that fast compared to Bolt. Doesn¡¯t take much effort to get it going, and could do it with little more than a flick of the wrist really, but it¡¯s the caster¡¯s will and intent that actually sets the parameters of the projectile¡¯s velocity and arc. Like, if I wanted to hit something two steps in front of me, I could spike the ground like I¡¯m playing football, let the Orb roll off the palm of my hand, or I could launch it high overhead and let it come crashing back down a few seconds later. In each case, the Spell behaves as expected and uses as much or as little force as required, and it uses my thoughts and actions to set the tone. Can¡¯t convey none of that using a Spell Core, so what ends up happening is the Core conjures up the Orb and then drops it right at your feet. That can be fixed using arcana-tech to give the Spell Core instructions and what not, but then the Aetherarm tends to get real expensive and bulky only to end up working best like a mortar or grenade launcher, and there are better Spell Cores for that sort of work, like Bombard and Shardburst.¡±


    Waving his hands to signal an end to questions, Howie said, ¡°Jay, you sit sentry up front while me and Errol collect our spoils.¡± Hopping off the side of the still moving wagon, he moved around back to meet Errol as he clambered down into the lights, which had somehow dimmed since he last saw them. Grabbing a hidden latch under the wagon, Howie gave it a pull to reveal a wide chute that opened up into a storage container underneath, one which smelled of sour death and harsh vinegar. ¡°Simple is as simple does,¡± Howie said, gesturing at the chute. ¡°Get your gloves on and toss them gobbo corpses in deep. Give ¡®em a good wack before approaching though. Some might be playing dead.¡±


    Wasn¡¯t the first time Howie had said as much, but for once, Errol was grateful for the reminder. After donning his thick leather work gloves, he reached down to grab his new weapon hanging from his belt, a heavy-duty steel chain made up of one and a quarter-inch links. A mundane weapon, neither Augmented nor Imbued, though truth be told, Errol wasn¡¯t sure what the difference was. Not that he expected a fancy magic weapon, as this was more than cool enough. The chain had a spiked lead-core weight at one end and a leather-wrapped wooden handle at the other, meaning it was pretty much a chain mace, but with extra emphasis on the chain so the Living Whip Cantrip could take effect. It¡¯d taken them both by surprise to learn that there were other Spellslingers who used a weapon like this, which was far more deadly and effective than any leather whip or rope could ever be, so Errol was glad to have it now. Holding the heavy coil in his right hand, he gave it a good heft to familiarize himself with the weight before letting a loop unfurl. Setting the spikey head to spinning and slowly feeding more chain into the loop, he muttered the words to the Cantrip as he approached the closest goblin corpse in sight, one laid out flat just to the left of Cowie¡¯s tracks.


    ¡°Wha-Pah!¡± Errol whispered, feeling his cheeks colour again as he sent the spiked head hurtling towards the goblin like a snake darting at its prey. Wasn¡¯t nothing as fancy as Howie¡¯s Latin, but not everyone was classically trained by Marshal Theodore Ellis himself. ¡®Wha-Pah¡¯ was the words Errol had taught himself to use to activate the Cantrip back when he was fourteen, and he wasn¡¯t sure how to go about changing them now. Or why he didn¡¯t have to say them when his blood was hot, like during the fight with the harpies. Could be worse though, as there was a ranch hand who used to sing ¡®When a problem comes along, you must whip it¡¯, to activate his Cantrip, which Errol only avoided copying because it took too long to sing.


    His chain arced out and struck his target with a meaty thwack, his first blow cracking a skull real good, and he waited a beat before casting the Spell a second time for good measure. Was real satisfying seeing that goblin corpse splatter beneath the weight of his strikes, splashing greenish-purple goo about the sands. Didn¡¯t last long when he remembered he had to haul the corpse away, but he kept his grumbling to a minimum. Howie told him the very first day that Sarah Jay was the better prospect, and while Errol agreed, he hadn¡¯t realized just how far behind he really was. All he¡¯d done tonight was shoot maybe two or three goblins, so hauling corpses was the least he could do to earn his keep.


    Though barely four feet tall and scrawny as could be, the goblin was heavier than it looked. Too heavy to carry one handed, so Errol gathered up his chain and grabbed it by the ankles to drag along behind him. When he got to the wagon, he fumbled about with the legs and head before figuring out the best way to dump it in, namely head first. Wasn¡¯t exactly difficult, but wasn¡¯t easy either, so as he steadied himself against the moving wagon, he looked over to see how Howie was faring. Well from the looks of things, carrying two goblins over his shoulders without a care in the world for how they were leaking viscous and acidic Abby blood all over his duster. Giving Errol a wink as he passed, he dropped the corpses in and said, ¡°Can¡¯t concern yourself with keeping clean and looking pretty. Gotta get this done right quick, as all the noise might bring more Abby down on us, or worse.¡±


    Right. To hear Howie say it, the Frontier was thick with bloodthirsty outlaws who¡¯d shoot you for so much as looking at them funny. Probably was exaggerating about how many there were to make himself look better, but Errol didn¡¯t doubt the existence of such wicked men. Especially out here in these lawless lands where no nation held power, a situation which seemed so unreal. How could they live without laws or morals to guide them? Wouldn¡¯t they just kill and kill until there was no one left? It made no sense, but according to Howie, there were plenty of thriving communities out here in the desert, though nothing as nice as New Hope.


    Wha-Pah and haul. Wha-Pah and haul. Wha-Pah and haul. Errol fell into a steady rhythm and worked up a sweat gathering up Abby corpses alongside the trundling wagon. Once again Cowie demonstrated his sharp wits, always sure to slow and stop whenever he passed a cluster of goblins to pick up. Errol could swear the bull was playing games though, because whenever it came time for him to dump his cargo, Cowie would move a few steps forward and force him to carry his load a little further. To make matters worse, he couldn¡¯t even match Howie in physical labour, who tagged corpses with a manually casted Bolt and went jogging off before Errol could even see them. Somehow, Howie didn¡¯t need goggles or lights to see in the dark, which meant he probably cast Darkvision on himself. Add another Second Order Spell to the list to put the Firstborn even further ahead of the pack. It wasn¡¯t even a matter of age anymore, as most folks learned a couple Cantrips and maybe a First Order Spell or two before calling it quits. Wasn¡¯t just a matter of skill, but time as well, because knowing a Spell wasn¡¯t enough to make it worthwhile. Anyone with money could just buy a Spell Core to do the same, and most industries ran on utilizing those very Cores. Sure, some arcana-tech might be needed to make them usable, but that meant you could also stack Metamagicks on it too, which would make the Spell Core more powerful than manually casting the same Spell. Most Spells just weren¡¯t worth learning for everyday use, full stop.


    Like the Bolt Spell. While the goblins were probably using Spell Cores, their Bolts were no different from a manually casted Bolt, and the brief fight showed that proper Aetherarms with Metamagic attachments were far superior in every possible way. Another example was Sarah Jay¡¯s Entangle Spell, which did an excellent job holding down a good portion of the goblins, but an Entangle mine or grenade would do the same without needing a Spellcaster to Concentrate on maintaining the effect. No, the only advantage of manual casting was the ability to push the Spells slightly further, like Howie did with his arcing Bolts, but that took dedicated practice and familiarity to accomplish. Cantrips aside, there were only so many Spells you could cast in a single day, so a single Spellslinger could only familiarize themselves with so many. Given the large number of Spells Howie had demonstrated already, chances were his familiarity with most of them was passing at best, meaning all his study and hard work could be negated by anyone with money enough to buy the necessary Spell Cores.


    Course, Howie also had money enough to buy all the best gear and trick out his wagon. Add in Spellslinging lessons from the Marshal, guns from Armand Kalthoff, and training from his daddy, who apparently had been a pretty big deal round these parts, it was no wonder Sarah Jay why was so starstruck by the Firstborn. Hard not to be ahead of the game with the deck was stacked in your favour, and Howie took it a step further by working harder than anyone Errol had ever seen.


    Wasn¡¯t fair, not one bit. Especially given how no one said nothing in the days following Howie¡¯s encounter with Richard, with no consequences to be had at all.


    ¡°Wah-Pah,¡± Errol declared, hurtling the weighted end of his chain mace high into the air before bringing it straight down on a goblin corpse like a pouncing marty. Had to do something to keep his mood light. Wasn¡¯t like he wanted Howie to get in trouble or anything. It just didn¡¯t seem fair is all. Didn¡¯t help when Errol noticed his aim was off, with his chain smacking the goblin in the shoulder instead of the back of the head, and he sucked his teeth in exasperation. Two months away from the ranch and already his rope skills were already suffering, though in his defense, the chain mace was a lot heavier and less responsive that good old-fashioned rope. It¡¯d come back soon enough though, so he stifled a sigh and trudged over to pick up the corpse. He¡¯d been getting good mileage out of the Heroism Spell at least, both today and during the harpy attack. Thankfully, he hadn¡¯t needed the defensive aspects of the Spell just yet, as his version could barely blunt a punch much less any claws or fangs, while people protected by Father Nicolas¡¯ Heroism Spell could get shot point blank with a Metamagicked pistol and live to tell the tale.


    Bending over to grab the corpse, Errol¡¯s heart skipped a beat when its beady red eyes pop open, so full of inhuman rage and hate. Letting loose with a wet, gurgling howl, the goblin lashed out with its clawed hand. The yellowed talons just narrowly missed Errol¡¯s nose as he threw himself back into the sand with a yelp. Falling on his ass with a thump, he crab-walked away as the goblin popped up onto its feet and turned to face him, one arm raised to attack and the other hanging limp as it threw itself forward with bloodlust and glee, its yellowed fangs parted and shockingly pink tongue sticking out from between dark green lips. Lifting both legs on instinct, he lashed out and hit the goblin with both boots in mid air. A sickening crack sounded, one which sent something flying up and away in a spray of green, purple-tinged fluid as the goblin collapsed into a heap. The object came back down a full two seconds later, smacking into the sand with a wet squelch, and it took a few seconds more before Errol realized what it was.


    The goblin¡¯s tongue, which had been neatly severed by his sturdy, Ranger issue boots.


    A sharp hiss sounded, followed by Howie asking, ¡°You alright?¡± Leaning sideways to appear in Errol¡¯s line of sight, Howie gave him a little wave with his shiny steel revolver in hand, the barrel still hot and smoking from a recent discharge. ¡°You get scratched or bit in any way?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Errol replied, his heart racing as he struggled to find breath. ¡°Didn¡¯t¡­ Didn¡¯t touch me. Just surprised is all.¡±


    ¡°Yea, they¡¯ll do that.¡± Glancing at the severed tongue sitting in the sand, Howie gave it a little kick while holstering his gun and said, ¡°Nice recovery, but best to kill it while its still pretending. Wounds inflicted by gobbos tend to get infected, as they a downright filthy bunch, so even a tiny scratch can turn life-threatening if not treated. Probably ain¡¯t any more playing possum around here though, as they¡¯d have gotten up when you screamed. They¡¯re clever, but not all that patient, always eager for a taste of blood.¡± Extending his free hand, Howie gave a little grunt as he pulled Errol up onto his feet. ¡°How ¡®bout you hop on the wagon and take a breather? I¡¯ll clean up the rest of the stragglers, and you can jump back in when you feelin¡¯ ready.¡±


    Much as Errol wanted to argue and keep helping, he couldn¡¯t find the courage to do anything but nod. He¡¯d lost hold of the Heroism Spell when the goblin spooked him, and now it felt like the world was squeezing him in from all sides, leaving his chest tight and mouth dry. As he climbed over the chute and into the back of the wagon, Sarah Jay asked, ¡°You alright hun?¡±


    ¡°Yea, I¡¯m fine,¡± he lied, fighting to keep his voice from cracking and praying she wouldn¡¯t turn around to see just how bad he was. She didn¡¯t, mostly because she was a good little soldier standing sentry and watching for threats like Howie asked, and Errol both loved and resented her for it. On the one hand, she was doing her job and that focus and dedication was a part of what he loved about her. On the other, he was her man, so shouldn¡¯t that warrant a glance at least? The worst part was that he wasn¡¯t even angry at her, just himself, because he should¡¯ve never been in this position to start with. He knew going in that he missed his strike, didn¡¯t deal a fatal blow before walking over, and he paid for his mistake. Who would¡¯ve known the goblin could keep still and quiet even after Errol broke its shoulder?


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    Howie. He¡¯d warned them a few times, and Errol still almost let himself get killed by his own pride and stupidity.


    The burned pile of goblins caught by Sarah Jay¡¯s Entangle stank of sour milk and barbeque pork, on account of all the hoggydilla corpses they¡¯d been hauling. Fighting the urge to throw up at the sickening, yet strangely alluring stench, Errol hopped off the wagon to help haul the charred corpses, and Howie didn¡¯t say anything to dissuade him. When they were done, he hurried them both back to the wagon and jumped into the driver¡¯s seat. With one last look to make sure Errol and Sarah Jay were sat and waiting, Howie reached over to a gem inside and turned off the Lights as Cowie trundled away, moving quick and quiet as a mouse. ¡°Good job tonight, the both of you,¡± Howie said, and Errol imagined he could see the other man¡¯s grin even through the darkness. ¡°A bit of a close shave towards the end, but you came through, and any fight you walk away from is a good ¡®un.¡±


    Settling into Errol¡¯s arms, Sarah Jay let out a soft little sigh before craning her head back to give him a kiss on the cheek. Touching his temple to her head, he held her close and savoured her smell and her warmth, but she had other things on the mind. ¡°How much you think we earned today?¡± She asked, her voice a hushed whisper directed at Howie. ¡°Just a ballpark, so we get an idea.¡±


    ¡°Hard to say, but not much would be my best guess,¡± Howie replied, in the same soft tone. ¡°Gobbo corpses don¡¯t got much Aberrtin in them. Be lucky to get a gram for each one we render down, which these days is about thirty cents worth, so sixty-three goblins would be eighteen ninety. Almost ain¡¯t worth the effort of cooking them, but it is what it is.¡± The fact that Howie could do math that quickly was always a surprise, rattling off numbers like he had it all worked out beforehand. Even more surprising was how little money goblins were worth, though it made sense considering how easy they died. A single hit centre mass on the goblin with a 22-10 was enough to cripple or kill it, and those were industry standard. Still, eighteen dollars was like two weeks worth of room and board for Errol and Sarah Jay, so it wasn¡¯t too terrible a haul.


    Howie just had higher standard is all, growing up rich and privileged like he did.


    ¡°What about Spell Cores?¡± Sarah Jay asked, with what others might hear as impatience, but Errol knew was desperation. She needed a lot of money and fast, and she figured following the Firstborn would be the quickest way to get rich. ¡°Had to be at least a dozen in the group throwing Bolts at us, so that ought to be something, right?¡±


    ¡°Sure, but not as much as you think,¡± Howie replied. ¡°Raw Bolt Cores are pretty cheap to purchase, as it takes a decent amount of work and experience to cut them down right. Then there¡¯s stuff like size and shape to take into consideration, but even the best don¡¯t go for too much more than a few dollars. Thing is, I doubt we¡¯ll find even a single Spell Core, as Proggies ain¡¯t fond of spawning goblins with ¡®em. Too weak and fragile for so much investment, especially with how most gobbos are haulers and fodder. Sometimes literally, as bigger orcs and bugbears¡¯ve been seen snackin¡¯ on goblins when they feelin¡¯ peckish.¡± Holding up a hand to forestall Sarah Jay¡¯s question, Howie continued, ¡°I know, you saw the Bolts, but a Spell Core ain¡¯t the only way to cast a Spell.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re Spellslingers?¡± Errol asked, his voice a little louder than intended.


    ¡°That they are,¡± Howie replied, and Errol could hear the glee in the other man¡¯s voice, as if to say, ¡®even a goblin can cast Bolt, so you best hurry and catch up¡¯. He didn¡¯t though, and instead said, ¡°Not all of them, and they ain¡¯t born knowin¡¯ how to sling Spells, but some develop the ability after surviving long enough. Bolt is the most common, but I seen some fling Magic Missiles, emit Caustic Sprays, throw down Grease, and even use Floating Discs. Theory is that all gobbos are thin-blooded Innates, weak casters than don¡¯t get a lot of Spells, though some think they learn Intuitively and teach their kin. No one¡¯s sure really. Every now and then you get a real powerful Spellslinger, like that hobgoblin illusionist I mentioned earlier. That one¡¯s strong enough to maybe have a Spell Core granted to them by their Proggie though. More likely it grew the Core itself, all natural as it were. Happens sometimes, especially when they go from gob to hob, or some other e-volution. Either way, fact of the matter is that most scholars believe goblinoids are the base form of all Aberrations, what they¡¯d all look like on a planet without any flora or fauna to speak of for Proggies to take inspiration from.¡±


    ¡°No wonder they ain¡¯t worth shit,¡± Sarah Jay grumbled, quietly and under her breath, but Howie still heard it.


    ¡°Indeed, but don¡¯t look down on them, else you get a scare like Errol did tonight,¡± he said, all too happy to poke fun and have a topic to expound on. Errol swallowed his anger and didn¡¯t let it show, but Sarah Jay caught on all the same, stroking his chest to soothe him as Howie continued, ¡°They baseline Abby for a reason, as gobbo are cheap and easy for Proggies to produce in big numbers. Imagine if we had to fight all them gobbo without an Entangle Spell holding a good three-quarters of them in place. Sixty-three shots minimum to take them all out. Sure, it¡¯s safe enough from the wagon, but we¡¯d have to keep running while making all sorts of noise, and if the fight goes long enough, we chance running into some other danger. Would¡¯ve gone entirely different, and doubly so if they¡¯d gotten the jump on us, which happens more often than not, as most folks don¡¯t got the Firstborn running point.¡± Giving himself a moment to bask in his own glory, Howie waited a beat before adding, ¡°That said, the scariest thing about gobbos ain¡¯t their strength or Spellslinging abilities. Don¡¯t get me wrong, they punch above their weight, and orcs and bugbears are scary strong for their size. When the Aether concentration rises, proggies will also start spawning ogres, trolls, and even giants later on down the line, but pound for pound, a Feral Abby will always outmuscle them, the same way Cowie here is physically stronger than any human could ever hope to match, even one in his same weight class.¡±


    Turning around to look at them, Howie asked, ¡°Either of you care to hazard a guess why goblinoids ought to be feared? Figure you¡¯ve both seen enough by now to have an inkling at least.¡± Neither Errol nor Sarah Jay had an answer, so after a few seconds, Howie said, ¡°Think back to what you saw tonight. No rush.¡±


    Was Sarah Jay who came up with the answer first, though she didn¡¯t sound too convinced. ¡°It have something to do with their little sleds?¡± she asked, and Errol almost smacked himself in the head for not seeing it sooner.


    ¡°Got it in one,¡± Howie replied. ¡°See, goblins are the smallest and weakest of the bunch, but we call the whole group of them goblinoids instead of orcoids or whatever for good reason. Without goblins, the rest of their ilk would be nothing more than shooting practice, and slow-moving targets at that. Feral Abby, ones modelled after local wildlife, they stronger, more agile, and got that animal cunning, but goblins have near human intelligence to make up for all their failings. They clever little craftsman, and while ropes and sleds don¡¯t seem like much, they¡¯re quick learners who¡¯ll improve real fast as they kill and plunder human settlements. They¡¯ll even take people alive and put them to work so¡¯s they can learn from ¡®em. That¡¯s why gobbos are the backbone of their particular brand of Abby, as they¡¯re a right frightening bunch with the potential to almost match us in technological advancement.¡±


    ¡°Match us?¡± Errol asked, unable to hide his doubt. ¡°You serious?¡±


    ¡°As the grave.¡± There was no glee in Howie¡¯s voice this time around, his tone grim and dark as could be. ¡°Old world underestimated them, and lost the whole island continent of Australia to gobbos. Let the fight drag on too long, and them gobbos developed their own industry to start pumping out guns, tanks, planes, and all sorts of nasty weapons of war. Mostly from factories they seized, but they clever enough to make use of their spoils, which left the old world no choice but to glass the whole island, and even that didn¡¯t clear out all the Proggies. Here on the Frontier, they ain¡¯t that far along, but I¡¯ve heard rumours of gobbo fungus farms up in them mountains, which ought to concern us all. Means they¡¯ll have a steady supply of biomass for their Proggies, who¡¯ll in turn pump out more gobbos, orcs, and bugbears faster than their ilk which favour Ferals or otherwise. Sure they¡¯ll die in droves to massed Aetherarms, but if they got numbers enough, they can overrun whole fortified towns and come out on top thanks to how cheap and efficient they are to produce, and that¡¯s before they get their hands on any Aetherarms.¡±


    Errol swallowed hard and heard Sarah Jay do the same as Howie fell silent to let them drink it all in. Hordes of gun totting goblins, now there was a thought that would keep him up at night. Or at least he thought it would, as the next thing he knew, Sarah Jay was patting him awake in the warm glow of the morning sun outside of the Ranger outpost. The day passed same as yesterday, in two separate five-hour shifts, with Howie resting first, then Errol and Sarah Jay. As night fell, Howie brought them out into the desert once again, but this time, they didn¡¯t find a fight. Instead, he brought them to a peak and had them lay in the sand to watch as a proper goblin warband made its way across the desert dunes, at least three hundred strong and eager as could be. There were no ropes and sleds this time. Instead, they carried spears, shields, clubs, and other improvised weapons as they scurried south across the sands, with a handful of larger, more muscular orcs scattered amongst them. The bigger, uglier Abby were bedecked in primitive armour, leather and bone crudely fixed together with twine. Not the prettiest or most effective stuff, but it¡¯d do the trick and might even stop a Bolt or two before falling apart, so Errol found himself a new appreciation for Howie¡¯s scouting skills.


    And in doing so, felt his own self-worth dwindle even further.


    ¡°Someone¡¯s in for a rough night,¡± Howie whispered, once they were back safely within the confines of the wagon. ¡°I¡¯mma call it in and hopefully get warning out to whoever that warband is looking to hit. No towers out here though, so range is limited and chances slim.¡±


    The radio turned out to be hidden in the roof of the wagon, behind a panel by the driver¡¯s seat. After repeating his message three times into the boxy little mic, the only response Howie got from the radio was crackling static, but he wasn¡¯t willing to follow the warband to see where they were headed. Instead, he turned them right around and headed back to the outpost. After a short break for breakfast, he then declared they were going back to Meadowbrook. On a whim, Errol opted to ride big Bruno instead of lazing in the wagon, which stank of dead Abby and wasn¡¯t all that comfortable to begin with. Sarah Jay joined him on the open road with Fifi, and together, they led the way back to town. Felt good to have the wind on his face and the sun shining overhead, but after a few hours of quiet riding, his eyes felt heavy and mind fuzzy.


    So when the bramble elk burst out of the forest growth, his first thought was how delicious a nice, juicy venison steak would taste. His Whumper was in his hands before the elk¡¯s hooves hit the street, the dial already set to its narrowest spread, since he liked how the weapon handled at longer ranges, even without the compressor. The elk didn¡¯t miss a beat as it skipped out across the highway, passing directly in front of Errol as he took it down with a hip-fire shot. A good hit to the chest from twenty, maybe twenty-five-meters, and he whooped in joy at the thought of cooking it up, so eager to get at it that his boots hit the ground before the echo of his Blastgun¡¯s deafening whump had even faded away.


    ¡°Weapons ready,¡± Howie snapped, and something in his voice made Errol stop in his tracks, an anger and urgency that was so unlike his usual cheery self. Weapons ready, that meant have them drawn but not aimed. Why though? ¡°Follow my lead.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s our quarry!¡± Bellowing out of the underbrush with a belly full of fire, a stranger rode out onto the Highway atop a dun mare. A wrinkled, rugged black man with eyes wild and fierce, the stranger carried a crude hunting rifle in hand with the barrel resting against his shoulder, its dark metal bearing a rusted sheen and a distinct lack of polish on its wooden stock. A ruddy Lakota rode in behind him, all painted up for the hunt and carrying a similar shoddy rifle. Nowhere near as nice as what Howie provided, but more in line with what Errol was used to seeing outside of the military. Top-quality Aetherarms were difficult to acquire for most, as not everyone had a direct connection to the Rangers or Armand Kalthoff. Though the two strangers slowed their horses to a walk when they saw Howie standing ready with rifle in hand, they made no effort to lower their guns from their shoulders and showed no signs of stopping as they made their way over towards them. The black man was all hopping mad as he bellowed, ¡°Chased it through the brush for a good ¨C¡±


    A sharp crack of thunder made Errol jump in place, and scared the strangers¡¯ horses too. Big Bruno shifted in surprise, but he was well-trained and stuck close to Errol¡¯s side, bumping his ribs against him to make sure he was there. A world of difference from these strangers¡¯ horses, both of which reared back on their hind legs as their riders struggled to get them under control. Neither one was an experienced horseman, that much was plain to see, both tugging and heeling their beasts and confusing them even more.


    None of which bothered Howie in the least. ¡°Our kill, our quarry,¡± he said, the barrel of his unsilenced 3-Line still smoking and pointed towards the sky as he rechambered and round while kneeling in the driver¡¯s carriage, and Errol blinked as he saw how deep the front of the wagon really was. Only Howie¡¯s head and shoulders were peeking over the front lip, and he could easily hunker down behind the metal plating if need be. Seemed a bit excessive, all this caution, even firing off a warning shot before so much as hearing them out. The first step towards establishing reasonable grounds for justified self defence, something Howie had gone in depth about back in New Hope, but the details escaped Errol for the moment. ¡°You head back the way you came now,¡± Howie said, never once taking his eyes off the strangers. ¡°Come any closer, and I¡¯ll shoot you both dead. You¡¯ve been warned.¡±


    The verbal warning was step two, though Errol thought Howie was overdoing it and scaring the daylights out of these two poor hunters. ¡°Woah now boy,¡± the black stranger said, still turning circles atop his nervous horse maybe fifteen meters away, his fierce gaze now showing a friendly, if nervous smile, one that showed several missing and rotten teeth. ¡°C¡¯mon. No need to get so hostile. Let¡¯s talk about this. Like men. I admit, I came in hot, and that¡¯s on me, but we got families to feed.¡±


    ¡°And they¡¯ll starve if you come any closer.¡±


    Cold as ice, Howie was, his words delivered without even a hint of compassion as he fixed the stranger with his unblinking eyes. Was as if he wasn¡¯t seeing a living, breathing man, but a target to hit. The stranger saw it too, saw the promise of death in the Firstborn¡¯s eyes and quailed before him, but he didn¡¯t turn around and leave. The reason was obvious; because he was desperate. His filthy linen shirt, crudely stitched hide jacket, dingy straw hat and ragged, worn jeans all said as much, and the big toe poking out of the hole in his boot just hammered the point home. This man lived a hard and destitute life, and while the elk represented a most welcome hot meal to Errol, Sarah Jay, and Howie, it might well mean the difference between life and death for this stranger and his friend, as well as their families back home.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t we split the elk?¡± Errol said, and his heart warmed to see the man¡¯s weathered face break out into a bright smile. His Lakota friend didn¡¯t seem any less nervous for it though, his eyes darting back into the forest as if ready to hightail it out of there, and Errol couldn¡¯t really blame him, not with Howie all gung-ho to kill them both.


    ¡°My man!¡± The stranger said, still struggling to get his skittish horse to obey as it took an anxious step forward, then two back in spite of the rider¡¯s commands. ¡°Thank you, brother. God Bless.¡±


    ¡°He don¡¯t speak for us,¡± Howie said, his tone even frostier as he worked the bolt-action on his 3-Line with a hair-raising clack-click, and Errol shuddered to hear it. Gone was the friendly and easy-going young man, and in his place was a cruel and callous killer, a man itching to turn his guns on the poor souls before him. ¡°Won¡¯t be splitting no elk, though I got plenty bullets to spare. You don¡¯t want none, then best you leave right quick.¡±


    ¡°Howie,¡± Errol began, but the Firstborn was having none of it, his murderous gaze fixed on the strangers and lip curled in a ferocious snarl.


    ¡°Shut the fuck up Errol.¡± Despite being the first-time hearing Howie be rude, much less outright swear, his anger mixed with steel and demand. ¡°Our kill,¡± he said once more, speaking to the strangers. ¡°Our quarry. Only mark on that beast is from our gun, which makes it ours and ours alone. Full stop. No split, no room for negotiation. Under the Accords, we have the right to stand our ground and claim our bounty uncontested. Your armed presence here constitutes an actionable threat of aggression, one which gives us the right to legally defend ourselves with lethal force if necessary, a right I will exercise if you do not leave.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t need much,¡± the man began, his desperate gaze boring a hole through Errol¡¯s soul as his horse took another step closer, but his Lakota friend was fixed in place, brow covered in sweat and rifle clutched in both hands like a defensive shield while his horse refused to budge. ¡°Not even half. A haunch, that¡¯s all.¡±


    This was too much. ¡°Hey,¡± Errol began.


    ¡°Ain¡¯t nothing here for you except death,¡± Howie declared, speaking right over him without taking his eyes off the strangers. ¡°You been warned, so I¡¯m done talking. I¡¯mma count to three. If y¡¯all ain¡¯t gone by the time I¡¯m done, then I will open fire. Three.¡±


    Cringing at the sound of Howie¡¯s voice, the man laid his rifle down on his lap and urged his horse closer a few steps more. ¡°Please, brother,¡± he pleaded, eyes darting over at the Firstborn before going back to Errol. ¡°Look! I¡¯m putting my gun down. See? Please, talk to this crazy Qink. Don¡¯t let him do this.¡± Pointing back at his friend while holding his other hand to his chest, his expression took on a bitter and broken look. ¡°That¡¯s Adie, and I¡¯m Caleb. We ain¡¯t asking for much, just something to bring home so our kids can eat.¡±


    ¡°Two.¡±


    ¡°We got two little ones each,¡± Caleb continued, a man at the end of his rope, terrified of moving closer but unwilling to leave. ¡°And they hungry, starving. Please, help a brother out!¡±


    ¡°One.¡±


    Unable to tear his eyes away from the desperate man¡¯s gaze, Errol said, ¡°Howie ¨C¡±


    His words froze in his throat as he watched Caleb¡¯s chest explode. There was no other word to describe it as a hole opened up in a spray of blood and bone. The force threw him from his horse back onto the road with a wet thump and crack. Adie was hit at almost the exact same time to similar results, Howie¡¯s Rattlesnake spitting death so quick that neither man had time to even scream. A sharp Tsst-Tsst, two short hisses, and two men were dead. No, not just dead, but murdered, killed in cold blood by Howie sitting pretty in his armoured wagon without so much as blinking an eye. This was the true face of the Firstborn, who he really was underneath all the smiles, jokes, and long lectures, a ruthless killer without a conscience.


    The horses screamed and galloped off, but Errol couldn¡¯t tear his eyes away from Caleb and Adie. Their bodies just laid there on the cobblestone, all contorted and lifeless, their limbs and spines bent at unnatural angles and their life¡¯s blood pouring out in spurts, but they were dead the moment they were shot. As for Howie, he spoke again, calm and cool as can be, his voice cold and steady as it boomed through the air. ¡°Leave now, and live. Stay, and die. Choice is yours.¡±


    Only then did Errol find the strength to look away from death, and he turned to find its advocate staring out into the woods. There was something happening, something Errol couldn¡¯t parse together as he studied the Firstborn¡¯s gaze, for he found it terrible to behold. Those hard, brown eyes spewed more anger and hatred in stoic silence than anything Richard had said to Errol in these past two months, except Howie¡¯s contempt was unfocused and undirected, a general malevolence which oozed out as he watched and waited.


    But for what? Who was he talking to? Errol and Sarah Jay? He keen on killing them too? To keep them quiet?


    ¡°Errol!¡± Howie¡¯s eyes snapped to Errol¡¯s, and he quailed before the Firstborn¡¯s silent promise of death or worse. Why wasn¡¯t his voice booming anymore? ¡°Get into cover!¡±


    A crack rang out, followed by a snap, then Errol¡¯s Blastgun went off in his hands with another deafening whump. The first sound made him look, the second, flinch, then he jumped out of his skin as the Whumper almost flew out of his trembling hands. ¡°Die you bastards!¡± Someone shouted, then the world spun about as Errol hit the dirt. The amber-hued sky stretched out before his eyes, only to be overshadowed by Cowie¡¯s furious, storm-cloud gaze boring deep into his soul. Only for a moment though, as the world turned dark and a giant weight settled upon his chest, pinning him in place and his gun against the ground while deafening gunshots rang out amidst heated shouts, panicked whinnies, and dying screams.


    Panic threatened to overwhelm him as he tried to struggle free amidst the screams and gunfire. There was no escape, no room to wiggle much less breathe, and he thought this would be his end. Then the shooting stopped and the world fell silent without warning, so silent the first thought to pierce through the haze was to question if he¡¯d died, and whether if not Saint Peter would find Errol¡¯s name in the good book. Then he wondered why Heaven would stink of blood and cattle, and he realized he wasn¡¯t dead just yet. Would be soon if Cowie didn¡¯t move, but the stubborn bull refused to budge no matter how much Errol struggled or squirmed. Seconds passed, then minutes as his chest grew tight and head light, unable to breathe beneath Cowie¡¯s ponderous mass.


    Freedom came without warning, the darkness and pressure replaced by warm sunlight and Howie¡¯s cold expression as he yanked the Whumper out of Errol¡¯s weak and senseless hands. Took the Squire too, right off of his belt, without ever breaking eye contact. Howie¡¯s dark scowl held the quiet potential for so much more as he tucked the pistol into his belt. A stormy look mirrored in Cowie¡¯s irate grimace, his black ears flicking about as he huffed and growled in threat, but Howie was silent as the grave, not even out of breath as he checked Errol for injuries without so much as a word.


    Unable to take it anymore, Errol met Howie¡¯s eyes and stammered, ¡°Y-you killed th-them.¡± Even to his panicked mind, he sounded scared senseless, and the accusation made Howie go scary still. ¡°Murdered them.¡± Was he going to murder Errol and Sarah Jay too, for having seen it?


    ¡°Damned fool.¡± Howie¡¯s expression turned even darker as he spat out the curse, followed by, ¡°Get up.¡± The last was said as he hauled Errol up none too gently by the collar. Howie was furious, and he wanted Errol on his feet for whatever came next. ¡°Come here.¡±


    Unable to resist, Errol stumbled forward a few steps, only to freeze as he spotted Caleb and Adie lying dead only a few meters away. A third man was dead too, his chest caved in and corpse lying out of the forest but not quite on the Highway, while his dead horse sat between Caleb and Errol. No, not the stranger¡¯s dying horse, but Errol¡¯s, as big Bruno had taken a hit somewhere, his blood pooling beneath him as his body shuddered and kicked in weak and feeble struggle to deny death. Had Errol¡¯s misfire hit him? No, couldn¡¯t be, there was a gouge in the road, proof positive that he¡¯d shot straight down.


    ¡°Let¡¯s have us a look-see,¡± Howie said, followed by the sharp, piercing hiss of his Rattlesnake as he casually shot Bruno dead in passing. Didn¡¯t even pause to look the poor beast in the eyes as they walked by, no dignity or grace about it. Inwardly, Errol was screaming in abject terror, but he couldn¡¯t muster the air for so much as a peep as Howie marched him to stand over Caleb and Adie, their bodies laid out on the highway and their chests broken apart by the shots that killed them. The former still had that look of desperation in his eyes, while the latter no longer seemed as nervous, his expression almost peaceful in death, but not quite. These weren¡¯t the first dead bodies Errol had ever seen, but they were by far the freshest, as he¡¯d never seen a man die right in front of him. Their blood had yet to stop pooling, the fluid darker and thicker than he¡¯d expected, and he watched their corpses twitch in a twisted mockery of life, a sight that would stick to him for the rest of his days as he gazed upon what the Firstborn had wrought.


    ¡°See here?¡± Releasing the grip on Errol¡¯s collar to grab him by the back of the neck, Howie pushed his head forward so he was bent over and staring down at the corpses. ¡°You see that?¡± A second hand took him by the chin and forced his head away from the bodies to something laying on the ground beside them. ¡°Open your eyes and look, Errol!¡± A dark metal pistol lay there in a pool of Caleb¡¯s blood, a crude thing that wasn¡¯t much more than a pistol grip with a tube attached to it. ¡°That there is a pistol. One your new friend there was fixing to kill you with, while you all but invited him to come right on over and shoot you.¡±


    When did Caleb have time to draw it? He¡¯d just put his rifle down, then pointed back at Adie. Or was he pointing? ¡°I don¡¯t understand.¡± The words sounded like they¡¯d come from Errol¡¯s mouth, and they had, but it felt like someone else was speaking for him as he looked Caleb in his dead, empty eyes. ¡°He said he was hard-up for food.¡±


    ¡°People lie Errol,¡± Howie hissed, his words dripping with scorn and rage. ¡°Especially outlaws looking to distract you from his three friends lurking about in the trees. Told you, didn¡¯t I? Said it plain and clear.¡± Howie¡¯s voice slowly raised in pitch until he was all but shouting. ¡°This here is No Man¡¯s Land, so if you see something suspicious, it¡¯s probably an ambush! That¡¯s what I said, but I guess it went in one ear and out the other, didn¡¯t it? Same as what I said not two minutes ago, before all this shit kicked off. I said to follow my lead, and what did you do? You went your own way, didn¡¯t you? Told you to shut your mouth, but you kept right on talking, thinking you know better. Well you don¡¯t Errol, because you don¡¯t know shit! Five dead and poor Bruno too, all because you wanted to play good Samaritan. Was my finger that pulled the trigger, but you the one that killed these men, because they¡¯d have all walked away if you¡¯d just. Fucking. Listened!¡±


    Letting go of his collar, Howie left Errol kneeling on the highway, searching for answers in a dead man¡¯s eyes and finding nothing except guilt and shame.

 Chapter 21

    It all played out in front of Sarah Jay¡¯s eyes, like one of them illusion shows on stage, so close to the action yet far removed from it all the same.


    She wasn¡¯t an actor or a participant, merely the audience, a spectator to events unfolding around her, one without any agency of her own. That¡¯s how she felt, seated atop her horse with Bolts flying about, all her hard work and training forgotten as she froze in place. It was exactly the same as what Mama did all those years ago during the harpy attack which killed Daddy, and Sarah Jay finally understood. Oh, if only she could go back and unsay all those hurtful things, but she¡¯d do the next best thing. Soon as she was back in Riverrun, Sarah Jay would find her mama and hug her tight, because now she knew what it was like.


    Even after the shooting stopped, Sarah Jay sat there like a fool, her fingers gripping the Ranger Repeater so hard it was a wonder the wooden stock didn¡¯t crack. The fact that she hadn¡¯t been shot was a miracle, and the same could be said of Errol. Howie handled all the fighting, even easier than cleaning up the harpies. Showed how he¡¯d mostly been playing around with Richard and his goons back in New Hope, as this was how he handled business. Popped two outlaws standing in the open with the Rattlesnake, then picked off three more with the 3-Line. One who¡¯d come riding in on the left, then two hanging back in the trees to the right. Five shots, five kills. One more to both numbers if you included poor Bruno. Clean and quick, except it should never have gotten so far, because Howie saw right through the scheme and called them out before the first two outlaws could draw close, which should have been the end of it all right there.


    That¡¯s the Firstborn for you. Took the measure of those outlaws and told them to turn back, and they would¡¯ve too if Errol had kept his lips buttoned up. Might¡¯ve scared off the other three as well, but then Howie took his eyes off the prize to tell Errol to get to cover, which gave the remaining three outlaws courage enough to attack. Howie was right, but he didn¡¯t have to say it that way, browbeating Errol out over those corpses like that. Sarah Jay was furious with both men, but even more, she was furious at herself for freezing up, still unable to force herself to let go of the carbine even after Howie came back out of the woods with two bodies on Cowie¡¯s back, and only stopping to grab the third.


    No less furious for it though, his brows still furrowed and gaze dark. Least she knew why Howie was so relaxed most of the time, because he could go from 0 to 60 in no time flat. The second Errol opened fire and took down the elk, Howie was up on his feet with Aetherarms in hand, telling them to go weapons ready. At first, Sarah Jay had been amused thinking the Firstborn had fallen asleep at the reins and Errol¡¯s shot had startled him awake, but then the two strangers had come riding out and the pieces all started falling into place. Not that knowing had helped any. Though she managed to draw the carbine thanks to Howie¡¯s warning, Sarah Jay hadn¡¯t fired off a single shot. Wasn¡¯t lack of time what did it, as she¡¯d spotted one shooter in the trees while Errol was still trying to play peacemaker and share the spoils with the outlaws who meant to kill them. A kind hearted man he was, but a fool sometimes too, unable to see what was happening right before his very eyes.


    Didn¡¯t mean Howie was right to throw it in Errol¡¯s face like that, but wasn¡¯t like anything he said was wrong either.


    Sarah Jay kept all of this to herself, because she couldn¡¯t bring herself to say a single thing. Could barely keep it together when Howie stopped by to check on her after making sure there were no more threats hiding in the trees. Had to all but pull her off of Fifi too, then looked her over for injuries, before treating his own mind you. He¡¯d been shot in the flank, a graze that bled something awful, but he didn¡¯t even ask her for help patching himself up. Disinfected it himself while sitting in the driver¡¯s seat, then slapped a bandage overtop while chattering away with someone over the radio before putting his bloody shirt back on to cover his thin, muscular frame. Wasn¡¯t like him to be a slob like that, but Sarah Jay saw why soon enough, as he set to hauling the dead outlaws up onto the roof where he stacked them like cordwood and secured them with rope.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you go check on Errol?¡± Howie said, once he was finished with the outlaws and looked ready to start on the elk, and only then did it occur to Sarah Jay to see what became of her man. Wasn¡¯t because she was angry, but because she¡¯d been waiting for Howie to dole out her lumps and point out all her failings. Was halfway across the road before she realized he hadn¡¯t said word one about her freezing up, meaning he was treating her with kid¡¯s gloves just because she was a woman. Now that was a kick to the gut, in more ways than one, and she wasn¡¯t sure if she ought to be grateful or furious. Was wrong of Howie to drag poor Errol around and throw his mistakes in his face like that, but Sarah Jay would rather suffer through the same than have him overlook her part in this mess. If she¡¯d laid down some covering fire, then those shooters in the woods wouldn¡¯t have had time to leisurely line up their shots and hit him in the flank. Wasn¡¯t a difficult shot, less than a hundred meters, and she could¡¯ve moved back along the Highway to flank even. A great idea which came far too late, as she¡¯d been too much of a coward to even remember to chamber a round into the carbine, much less point and shoot it.


    Wasn¡¯t fair to give her a pass just because she was a woman. How was she supposed to improve if he was gonna act like she could do no wrong?


    Coming up behind Errol, who was kneeling next to the first two outlaws, she gently touched his trembling shoulder to let him know she was there. He didn¡¯t react, so she knelt down and wrapped her arms around him. Still nothing, so she held him close and waited while doing everything she could not to look directly at the corpses, unlike Errol who seemed unable to tear his eyes away. ¡°Hun,¡± she said, and had to repeat herself a few times before he responded. ¡°How about we go stand in the shade?¡± Away from the blood and bodies, as Cowie was already waiting nearby to haul these last two away. Honest to goodness, the sweet bull all but rolled his eyes as they passed and gave a rumbling grunt before shaking his head with a snort. Once again, Sarah Jay marvelled at how smart the beast was. Or maybe he wasn¡¯t, and his anger was merely a mirror of Howie¡¯s, though if Sarah Jay were to put money on it, she¡¯d lay it on the first.


    Thankfully, Errol didn¡¯t notice, as he had enough on his plate to deal with without having to worry about winning the respect of a giant, Transmutating bull. Instead, he quietly followed her over to the side of the road, away from the wagon and Howie to give them some time apart. Sarah Jay made sure to stop somewhere they could be seen, but not in line of sight of the corpses on the street. Didn¡¯t help none, as Errol kept staring off into nothing while she held him close, his body trembling up a storm just like it had after the harpy fight, except this time there was no Howie to talk him down. Once the Firstborn was done hauling and stacking the last two bodies, he dressed the elk and strung its carcass up on a hook, one which swung out from the side of his wagon so the blood could drain without staining the highway. Then he headed over to poor Bruno¡¯s corpse, but he didn¡¯t get to work right away. Instead, he knelt over the poor beast for a full minute before giving it a feeble little pat on the neck, reminding Sarah Jay of his abrupt warning back in New Hope.


    ¡°Don¡¯t get too attached,¡± Howie had said, the moment he finished paying the stablemaster. It seemed so out of place at the time, a sudden switch from his happy go-lucky self to issue what felt like a warning to put them in place before moving on to talk about calves and wagons. This was what he really meant though, because he saw this coming from a mile away. Or the possibility, at least, and now he was sad because he failed to take his own advice. No wonder he¡¯d looked so sour when they told him the horses names. Sarah Jay thought he¡¯d wanted to name them himself, but didn¡¯t mention it because she didn¡¯t want to ride a beast with a silly and childish name like Horsie or Brownie.


    ¡°How did he know?¡± Errol asked, shaking Sarah Jay out of her thoughts. ¡°How could he have known they meant to shoot us? For all he knew, he was shooting two poor, starving men.¡±


    Oh, her sweet, fool of a man. He wasn¡¯t dumb, just in denial, else he¡¯d have figured it out for himself. He didn¡¯t want to though, because that meant admitting that he was wrong, so wrong that it¡¯d almost gotten them all killed.


    Some women would¡¯ve stood by their man and supported him to the end, no matter if he was right or wrong, but that wasn¡¯t Sarah Jay. She would do anything for Errol except lie to make him feel better, because she¡¯d seen and heard all the lies Mama told Oswald to keep him happy. Never made things better in the long run. Only worse, because when those happy lies didn¡¯t come true, he blamed it all on Mama. ¡°Bramble elk travel in herds,¡± Sarah Jay began, and Errol flinched like he¡¯d been hit. It broke her heart to see it, but some things needed to be said, so she pushed on with her explanation. ¡°Rare to see one running alone. Being chased by hunters could do it, but there¡¯s no way those nags they rode could¡¯ve kept up with one in the brush. We also didn¡¯t hear any Aetherarms fire to explain why it was spooked, which we would¡¯ve even if their guns were Silenced.¡±


    There was also the fact that most honest men weren¡¯t willing to get shot over a haunch of meat during spring. There was food aplenty to be foraged in these forests, but she left that unsaid as she couldn¡¯t bear to see her man break. Errol heard the ring of truth in her words, even though he didn¡¯t want to, and she reached out to cup his cheeks. ¡°Hey,¡± she said, her words as soft as could be and unfamiliar to her own ears. ¡°It ain¡¯t the end of the world. You made a mistake. You trusted them at their word and wanted to help, because you¡¯re a good man with a kind heart, but you can¡¯t trust no one out here, no one outside your crew. You and me, and yes, Howie too. He killed those men, but he did it to save both our worthless hides.¡± Giving him a sad little smile, Sarah Jay just about broke down and cried, ¡°I fucked up too. Froze up and watched while he got shot, so you ain¡¯t alone up there on his shit list.¡±


    ¡°Oh God.¡± Wrapping his big arms around her in a crushing hug, Errol held her close and tight. He knew about her mama and what happened to her daddy, and he knew her greatest fear had just come to pass. ¡°Don¡¯t call yourself worthless babe,¡± he said, his own pain forgotten as he helped her through hers, and she cried into his chest wishing he felt safe enough to cry along with her too. That was the way with men though, valuing pride and machismo above all else. ¡°You mean the world to me. We¡¯ll get through this together, you and me.¡±


    That they would, but she was more worried about their job prospects than anything else, because disappointing as their gobbo haul might be, she still needed to earn big. That¡¯s why she jumped when Howie cleared his throat to let them know he was there, though she didn¡¯t let go of her man. ¡°Sent word over the radio about what went down,¡± Howie said, dressed in a clean shirt as he held out the reins to their horses. Fifi for Sarah Jay, and one of the outlaw¡¯s nags for Errol, a skittish beast more feral than any horse she¡¯d ever seen. Maybe it was a message, or maybe Howie just didn¡¯t want to waste time saddling another horse, but either way, Sarah Jay didn¡¯t like it. ¡°There¡¯s a Ranger patrol about two hours ahead that¡¯s gonna turn around to meet us, so it¡¯s best we get gone.¡±


    Sarah Jay was about to ask why, when she pieced it together herself. Because the gunfire might draw more outlaws towards them, eager opportunists in search of wounded prey.


    That got her moving right quick, but once they were mounted and ready, Howie stood there in front of his driver¡¯s seat and looked Errol in the eye for a long half minute. Wasn¡¯t an angry or sour gaze, but a hesitant one, which was new, a doubtful expression that didn¡¯t suit the cocky, confident Firstborn at all. After a long, quiet pause, Howie sighed and pulled out a Squire from behind his back. Errol¡¯s Squire, which he handed back butt first. ¡°It¡¯s unloaded,¡± he said, instead of apologizing, and he made no move to return the Blastgun or hand Sarah Jay the carbine. Then, as if everything was all smoothed over, he looked away and continued, ¡°Got something else to say before we head out. Figure we ought to clear the air and set some things straight.¡± Taking a deep breath, he cracked his neck before looking them both in the eyes, without a hint of his usual smile. ¡°What just happened was messy, no two ways about it, but you ain¡¯t to blame. I am.¡±


    That was surprising, but Sarah Jay didn¡¯t dare glance at Errol to see his reaction. Instead, she watched Howie purse his lips and sulk, for lack of a better description. ¡°I knew you both weren¡¯t ready. Even said as much before we left, but I brought you out anyways because I was too¡­ well, irrational, foolhardy, and reckless. Should have faced facts and left you both behind. Taken more time to put you through your paces and paint a clearer picture of what you getting into.¡± Howie was full on rambling now as he often did, his words rushing out one after the other. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t have expected you both to just know what was happening either, because these sorts of schemes are meant to be disarming, so it shouldn¡¯t come as no surprise when you take the bait, hook, line, and sinker.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t get it though,¡± Errol said, and Sarah Jay resisted the urge to wince. ¡°If they were all ready and waiting for us, why didn¡¯t they just shoot us from cover?¡±


    ¡°Because they a bunch of half-assed lawbreakers who can¡¯t commit to the bit,¡± Howie replied, his sneer showing exactly how little respect he had for the dead outlaws. ¡°They flaunt the Accords with blatant disregard, but still want all the protections those same laws afford them, so they find ways to break the laws that won¡¯t get them jammed up. Bet you dollars to donuts Sheriff Glover will recognize these troublemakers on sight if not by name, as there¡¯s a good chance they live nearby. That¡¯s why they didn¡¯t ride in heavy or open up from the trees, because if one of us gets away, then lawmen are gonna come asking questions. Then it¡¯s only a matter of time before one of them would-be outlaws turns on the others for an offer of leniency. Don¡¯t matter what you¡¯ve heard; ain¡¯t no honour among thieves.¡± Shrugging, Howie gestured at Errol¡¯s chest and continued, ¡°Could¡¯ve also seen your armoured plate carriers and figured I¡¯d have one too, and they weren¡¯t confident enough to bank on hitting all three of us in the head while we was on the move. I wouldn¡¯t be either, not after seeing the garbage Aetherarms they was packing, all junk barely even worth scrapping for parts. That¡¯s why they tried to get two of their people in close, to make sure they got the job done right. Even if you didn¡¯t shoot the elk, they¡¯d have rode right into us, then blamed us for letting their quarry get away. Arguments get made, tempers flare, and then all they gotta do is say we drew first and wah-la, murder and banditry disguised as justified self-defence.¡±


    ¡°It can¡¯t be that easy,¡± Errol said, and bless his heart, the look Howie gave him was a tender one, something you¡¯d give a baby bird that¡¯d fallen out its nest, but her man was too wrapped up in his own head to notice. ¡°Say it works. They kill us all, take our stuff, then if anyone asks, they just say we shot first, and no one thinks twice about it?¡±


    ¡°Course people will know something¡¯s hinky,¡± Howie replied, with another carefree shrug. ¡°Especially if they¡¯ve done it before, but chances are, they was planning on leaving one of their own behind to better sell the story. Probably the nervous red. Other guy was too eager to be the patsy. Or maybe they figured us for easy marks, young and hot-blooded, but not so quick to kill. Could¡¯ve planned on goading us into actually drawing first and giving them the legal right to kill us in justified self-defence, though far as I can tell, none of ¡®em got a recording device.¡± What Howie left unsaid was what they would¡¯ve done if Errol went through with his offer to split the elk, but Sarah Jay could hazard a guess. Make friends, get to know them, then get some clean and easy kills once their guard was down. Errol¡¯s naivete had played right into their hands, and Sarah Jay shuddered to think how many other good folks had succumbed to those same tricks.


    Maybe Howie wasn¡¯t exaggerating about the dangers of the Frontier. If anything, now it seemed like he was understating it¡­


    ¡°That¡¯s neither here nor there though,¡± Howie said, waving aside any more questions. ¡°The important thing is that I was wrong to go off on you like that Errol. Shouldn¡¯t have laid hands on you or thrown their deaths in your face. Ain¡¯t the right way to go about teachin¡¯. As for freezing up, don¡¯t you worry about it Jay, because shooting Abby is one thing, but shooting people a whole different kettle of fish.¡± Seeing her doubt, Howie rolled his eyes and explained, ¡°Told you to go weapons ready, but never said to go weapons free, now did I? Didn¡¯t expect it of you, though it would¡¯ve been nice if either of you had enough sense to take cover.¡± Sarah Jay¡¯s cheeks flushed, and Errol shifted in his seat as Howie¡¯s joke feel flat, assuming it was one. Taking a deep breath, he fixed his gaze on Errol, and for a moment, it went dark and angry before he got his temper back under control. ¡°So like I said, this failure today was on me, in more ways than one. Errol, I apologize for what I did and said, and if you want to call it quits, I¡¯ll understand and make sure you both get back to New Hope safe and sound.¡±


    Though she knew her man wasn¡¯t one to quit over a little scuffle like that, she also knew he wasn¡¯t exactly in the best state of mind either. Whatever decision he made though, she would stand by him for better or for worse. Thankfully, he didn¡¯t hesitate to shake his head and reply, ¡°Won¡¯t quit so easily, but won¡¯t forget so quick either. I made plenty of my own mistakes though, so long as we both set on making sure it don¡¯t happen again, then I say we keep going.¡±


    As Errol extended a hand to slap palms, the boys ran into a spot of trouble when Howie went in for a shake, and they spent an awkward few seconds going back and forth for a bit. Eventually, they settled on a fist bump, and Howie continued, ¡°Great. Now, things are gonna be different moving forward. I been going about this all wrong, trying to be your friend when instead I should be teaching you good and proper. What that means from here on out is that if you want to learn, then you best act like proper boots. This ain¡¯t a partnership yet, which means I call the shots. I say go, you move. I say stop, you don¡¯t even blink. I say jump, you don¡¯t stop to ask nothing, you just jump as best you can before checking in to see if it was good enough.¡± Spreading his hands in a ¡®take it or leave it¡¯ gesture, Howie added, ¡°If you can¡¯t do that, then the next time the Bolts start flying, I ain¡¯t gonna risk my neck or Cowie¡¯s hide to save you. Understood?¡±


    Holding Howie¡¯s gaze for a long second, Errol huffed and looked away with a petulant pout, one that didn¡¯t suit his fetching features one bit. ¡°Understood,¡± he replied, all too easily, and Sarah Jay knew he didn¡¯t mean it. Wasn¡¯t that he was lying, or that he intended to disobey, but he wasn¡¯t taking this as serious as he should. He knew he made mistakes, but in his mind, good intentions counted for too much, which made him feel justified even though he was in the wrong. He might well make the same mistake again if he thought himself in the right, as Errol was a man who preferred doing things his way, which meant trying it out every which way until he found one he liked. That stubborn, independent streak was a part of his charm, albeit an infuriating part at this very moment, and Howie wasn¡¯t amused neither. The Firstborn didn¡¯t press the issue though, because he said what he said and he meant it too. If Errol got himself in another pinch ignoring orders, Howie wouldn¡¯t hang him out to dry, but he wouldn¡¯t risk nothing to save him either.


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    And likely wouldn¡¯t lose sleep over his death either. Cold as ice, the Firstborn was, but that¡¯s how he had to be¡­


    Hardly the most promising start to their new crew, with the first cracks starting to show in their fragile little arrangement, but Sarah Jay wouldn¡¯t let this ship sink without a fight. Ten percent of $18.90 wasn¡¯t much, but they were getting paid monthly, which was more than what they would¡¯ve made back in Basic. She needed this job to work out, because the future of her family counted on it, a future that didn¡¯t involve Oswald. She needed enough scratch to rent her own place and get Mama, Mary Ann, and little Jimmy away from that mean, lecherous drunk right quick. Didn¡¯t matter how many times he smacked them around or got caught leering at her daughters, Mama was just too scared to leave the man and strike out on her own, so Sarah Jay had to step up and show Mama that she didn¡¯t need no man. Wasn¡¯t simple or easy, but it¡¯s what she was fixing to do, and the Firstborn had the means to make it happen.


    Assuming he still wanted to keep them on that is. Though friendly enough most of the time, Howie had a real temper on him, and it was clear he didn¡¯t forgive or forget all too easily either. It wasn¡¯t their failures that irked him so, but Errol¡¯s repeated refusal to heed his calls or even think about why he made them. Made Howie feel disrespected, as he well ought to, but Errol didn¡¯t mean nothing by it, not really, so Sarah Jay would just have to make sure they learned to get along. The somber mood didn¡¯t help none as they rode along the Highway in complete silence, as every time Sarah Jay looked back thinking to start a conversation, Howie¡¯s grim and alert gaze made her think twice. Gone was the laid-back posture and nonchalant attitude, and in its place was a man spoiling for another fight, scanning the trees from left to right and back again in search of a threat. No, not a threat, but a target, something to shoot and kill because he wasn¡¯t in no mood to talk.


    Now there was a man who looked deserving of the Firstborn¡¯s reputation. Maybe Howie ought to smile less and show off his darker side more often. Would get in far fewer scuffles if he did, at least. It wasn¡¯t a menacing look, and certainly not friendly, but a scowl suited his features in a way that his smile never would. It was kinda sad really, because underneath it all, he was a sweet and caring soul, one every bit as kind and generous as Errol, except Howie knew the Frontier didn¡¯t treat kind folk gently.


    ¡°Company approaching,¡± Howie said, and Sarah Jay looked sharp. Took a bit of squinting, but she could barely make out a few riders heading towards them, riding down the middle of the highway at a nice, easy canter. Rangers then, since that lane was reserved for the military, and she marvelled at how sharp Howie¡¯s eyes were. Maybe he had an Eagle Eye Spell going, one he kept up to familiarize himself with the Structure, and she suddenly had a thought. If he kept the Eagle Eye Spell up to practice during his travelling hours, then what about his Mage Hands? Playing Cat¡¯s Cradle was obviously to improve his dexterity, but now that she thought about it, the Cantrip was only supposed to last ten minutes or so, except Howie kept his Mage Hands for much longer. At least a half hour, as he used them to help him cook and she never saw him recast the Cantrip while doing so, and she made a note to watch him the next time she saw him cast it to track how long it lasted.


    How many other ways was Howie practicing right in plain sight? The man was both brilliant and hardworking, which made catching up all that harder, but Sarah Jay was game to try.


    After a few seconds, Howie confirmed Sarah Jay¡¯s guess about the Eagle Spell. ¡°Rangers,¡± he said, even though they was still but blobs in the distance. ¡°Familiar ones, so you can both relax. Not too much mind you, as there ain¡¯t no thing as guaranteed safety round these parts, but enough so you don¡¯t shoot someone you ain¡¯t supposed to.¡±


    His joke fell flat again, as it hit too close to home, and Sarah Jay winced as she saw the set of Errol¡¯s jaw. Man was beside himself with guilt and self-recrimination after what went down this afternoon, and Howie¡¯s needling hit hard, so Sarah Jay moved Fifi a little closer to the nag to offer a bit of moral support. She didn¡¯t go so far as to reach her hand out, because she was supposed to be pretending to be a man, but Errol saw the gesture for what it was and gave her a beautiful and all-too-brief smile in thanks.


    Didn¡¯t take long for the Rangers to ride up to them, at which point one broke off and turned about to fall in line alongside. ¡°Howie,¡± the lead rider said, giving the Firstborn a little nod while his friends continued off in the same direction with little more than a wave. The Ranger was a black man on the younger side of the scale, maybe early forties at most seeing how he looked thirty. A slim but fit fella with a head full of short, natural curls, he didn¡¯t have the larger-than-life presence so many Rangers exuded. Seemed more like a sleepy rancher out for a ride, his small eyes half-lidded and body swaying from side to side as he rode. Wasn¡¯t even dressed in uniform, but blue jeans and red flannel, unbuttoned and untucked, with a white tee underneath, and no hat to speak of beneath the harsh red sun. The only thing that set him apart from any other traveller on the road was the brass Ranger star pinned to his chest, that and the silver semi-automatic 1911 pistol he wore on his belt. Had a carbine in his saddle holster too, and a leather case slung over his shoulder, but what it held was a mystery for now.


    Odd that Howie didn¡¯t return the greeting, with not even so much as a grunt, and Sarah Jay looked sharp, since he wasn¡¯t one to be rude for nothing. The Ranger didn¡¯t pay it no mind though, his tired expression lighting up as his lips broke out into a smile for Errol, a soft but friendly that made you want to smile back. ¡°Hey now. When¡¯d you start riding with a brother? Name¡¯s Wayne,¡± he said, his voice soft as his smile as he stuck his left hand out, but not for a shake. ¡°Lieutenant Wayne Marlon. Philly Ranger.¡±


    ¡°Errol Dillard,¡± Errol replied, casually slapping palms with the older man like they¡¯d had this exchange a thousand times before.


    ¡°Jay Kowalski,¡± she said when Wayne¡¯s gaze fell upon her, and judging from his smirk, he wasn¡¯t fooled by her hat and bulky jacket. His eyes didn¡¯t linger long though, lacking the hunger she saw in so many men¡¯s eyes, like Oswald. All the more reason to get her family away from him, and she was desperate to do it quick, because Mary Ann was fourteen now and round about the age when Sarah Jay first noticed Oswald¡¯s lecherous gaze. No, unlike Oswald, Wayne was more interested in the bodies stacked on the roof of Howie¡¯s wagon, which he looked at askew with an uncertain gaze. ¡°So,¡± he began, his smile gone but tone still friendly. ¡°See you found some trouble.¡±


    Howie didn¡¯t answer, not verbally at least, but when Wayne¡¯s attention went back to Errol, and Sarah Jay winced as he answered like a man compelled. ¡°They had guns,¡± he said, sounding like a fool, but at least he was standing on Howie¡¯s side since murder was punishable by hanging. ¡°The two who stopped us on the road. Had pistols. Rifles too. Three more in the woods ready to shoot us.¡±


    Then Errol clammed up and looked nervous, which really wasn¡¯t the way to go about it, but Wayne didn¡¯t seem to mind. ¡°Easy there,¡± he said, smiling as he gestured for them to relax. ¡°Only got five points on my star, so save it for the Sheriff.¡± That seemed to make Errol sweat even more, and Sarah Jay didn¡¯t understand why, as most lawmen were reasonable sorts, else they didn¡¯t hold office for long. Wayne even said as much, adding, ¡°Sherrif Glover¡¯s a fair man, so nothing for you to worry about brother, as long as it was a justified shooting.¡± Leaning in with narrowed eyes and a sly smile, he fake whispered, ¡°It was right? Justified? Because if it wasn¡¯t, then someone¡¯s gonna swing for this, and Howie¡¯s got the connections to make sure it ain¡¯t him.¡±


    ¡°Lay off, Wayne.¡± Howie didn¡¯t sound defensive, or even all that animated, like he was bored and tired of it all. ¡°Quit trying to scare him. Was his first gunfight.¡±


    ¡°Oh shit.¡± Wayne¡¯s smile was gone now, replaced by genuine concern, and Sarah Jay¡¯s heart surged to see it. Finally, someone to help Errol out of his funk, because she didn¡¯t know what to do and Howie didn¡¯t seem to care much. ¡°I¡¯m sorry man,¡± Wayne said, reaching over to place a hand on Errol¡¯s shoulder. ¡°I didn¡¯t know. Thought Howie wouldn¡¯t ride out with someone so green, and figured I¡¯d mess with you a bit. How you holding up?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m good.¡±


    The other man saw the lie for what it was, but he simply nodded along as if it were fact, and that was that. So taken aback by the dismissive attitude, she didn¡¯t say much when Wayne asked her the same, just shrugged a bit which was enough for him. Turning to Howie with a scowl, the Ranger said, ¡°What you doing man? You trying to get these kids killed? You don¡¯t bring two rookies out solo, not with your track record. Five more bodies puts you for double digits this year, and it¡¯s not even in April.¡±


    ¡°What can I say,¡± Howie replied, and Sarah Jay heard a trace of smug challenge in the answer. ¡°Business is booming, and I could use the extra hands. This trip is looking like a loss though. Had to put down a good horse, so unless these five got American warrants, I¡¯m in the hole big.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t change the subject Howie.¡± Sounding off like he¡¯d said all this before, Wayne continued, ¡°Lot of people travel the Highway, so how come your numbers are so much higher than everyone else¡¯s? It ever occur to you that you might be the problem?¡±


    Wasn¡¯t fair for the Ranger to go in on Howie like that, without having heard word one of the details, but Howie didn¡¯t bat an eye. ¡°If I am the problem,¡± he drawled, leaning back to point down at his sidearm without letting his hand get near, ¡°Then it¡¯s a good thing I got the solution right here.¡±


    Sarah Jay shivered to hear how calm and casual he said it, like he was talking about hammering in some nails or putting grease on an axle. Wayne didn¡¯t like that much though, not one bit. ¡°You know not all crimes carry a death sentence, right?¡± He asked sounding self-righteous as can be. ¡°Armed robbery with a deadly weapon for example, that¡¯s ten years minimum with a forty-year maximum, if no one is hurt or killed in the process. Murder though, that¡¯s life imprisonment or death, one or the other, and I can¡¯t say which I¡¯d prefer.¡±


    ¡°Well luckily, I was injured,¡± Howie replied, flashing teeth in a grin that never reached his eyes while showing off the damage to his duster. A tear about a half finger long, still bloody to boot. ¡°So the punishment fits the crime.¡±


    ¡°You know that¡¯s not what I mean Howie.¡± Though Wayne tried for patience, he sounded patronizing to Sarah Jay¡¯s ears. ¡°You¡¯ve been running into a lot of trouble lately, and most times, someone ends up dead. You¡¯ve been careful so far, but all it takes is one bad call to jam you up Howie, and then it¡¯s prison or the noose for you.¡±


    Now, Howie could¡¯ve doubled down on the facts and told the sanctimonious Ranger that he could¡¯ve ended things without bloodshed if not for Errol¡¯s mistake, but he didn¡¯t, and Sarah Jay¡¯s heart warmed to see it. Instead, he sucked his teeth and said, ¡°They were clean kills Wayne. I fired off a warning shot, ordered them to turn back, gave verbal notice of intent to shoot, and even read off the relevant bits of the Accords. Got it all on crystal too. Wasn¡¯t my fault they didn¡¯t take me serious, so I shot the first two when they made to draw. Gave the ones in the trees a chance to leave, but they didn¡¯t take it. These deaths? They ain¡¯t on me. It¡¯s on them. I pulled the trigger, but they was asking for it.¡±


    They rode in silence for almost a full minute before Wayne replied, but not before he studied all three of their faces. ¡°Okay,¡± he said. ¡°If you say it was a clean shoot, then I believe it. Just checking is all.¡± Flashing his easy smile again, Wayne asked, ¡°If I leave you to go catch up with my boys, you aren¡¯t gonna run off into the Coral Desert again, are you?¡±


    ¡°Wasn¡¯t funny the first time, and ain¡¯t funny now, Wayne.¡± There was an edge to Howie¡¯s voice, nowhere near as frosty as when he warned off Caleb and Adie, but not far off either. ¡°I had nothing to do with that dead merchant, and we gonna have more than just words if you keep implyin¡¯ I did.¡±


    ¡°Oh c¡¯mon Howie, just poking a little fun.¡± Despite the lighthearted delivery, Sarah Jay picked up on Wayne¡¯s real intentions then and there. He wasn¡¯t looking out for Howie. He was suspicious of him, which cast their whole conversation in a whole different light, one she went over in her head real quick. ¡°Besides, you gotta admit,¡± Wayne drawled, acting all coy and making Sarah Jay¡¯s stomach turn, ¡°It does seem mighty suspicious. A merchant is killed along the highway, leaving no body, but enough blood to know he didn¡¯t survive. His three townie guards then disappear into the desert, leaving only a campsite wiped clean of all traces. Professional work it was, like something your daddy would¡¯ve done to hide from Abby. Now, those townie guards? They would¡¯ve needed someone like him to guide them through the desert at night. Wouldn¡¯t you know it, you were sighted in the area that day, and not only that, you also went into the desert that same night to hunt Abby. Awfully coincidental, especially considering you were travelling along the highway for most of the day and didn¡¯t turn east until late afternoon, early evening.¡±


    It certainly sounded awful coincidental, and it took every ounce of self-control Sarah Jay had to keep from turning to look at Howie. Errol did though, his eyes wide and mouth agape with so much suspicion it wasted all her efforts, and she could almost imagine Howie fuming from indignation. Could hear Cowie¡¯s displeasure too, the big bull grumbling up a thunderstorm behind her and no doubt glaring daggers at Wayne, leading her to wonder just how much English the animal actually understood. Risking a backwards glance, she saw plenty of intelligence lurking behind Cowie¡¯s storm grey eyes, so expressive and human-like that he could almost see the warning written within, one telling Wayne to shut his mouth or Cowie would shut it for him.


    Wayne didn¡¯t seem to notice though, and he kept talking. ¡°Look, maybe you didn¡¯t know the guards had just killed a man. Maybe they were running, then saw you and knew your rep as a scout. Maybe they offered you payment to get them to the mountains, or a secluded little town in the desert, and you went along with it, because why not? Wasn¡¯t until after the fact that you learned you helped a bunch of murderers, and if so, that¡¯s no big deal. There isn¡¯t a judge around that would charge you as an accessory after the fact, assuming you came forward of course.¡±


    ¡°Lovely little story you¡¯ve put together there Wayne,¡± Howie replied, giving the man the best side-eye Sarah Jay had ever seen. ¡°Problem is, it¡¯s all fiction, heavy on the imagination and light on facts. Reason I kept to the highway most of that day is because I wasn¡¯t planning on hunting Abby, not until I crossed paths with a beat-up desert caravan who¡¯d run afoul of the desert¡¯s infamous hobgoblin Illusionist. Was the first time anyone had heard of it, so I was rarin¡¯ to bag it for myself. No guarantee it¡¯d have a decent Spell Core, but I figured I¡¯d roll the dice and give it a shot, seeing how I¡¯d gotten the news at least a day ahead of anyone else. Rode right into the desert that night looking for tracks, but gave up after a day when more mercs showed up. Since I was already out there, I figured I¡¯d try my luck in the badlands instead, and pay my respects to my parents while I was at it. Arrived home in New Hope maybe a week off schedule, with a load of Abby corpses and Cores, which I sold off for a pretty penny.¡± Meeting Wayne¡¯s eyes head on, Howie added, ¡°All of which I told Sherrif Patel way back when, who confirmed all the details and passed them along to Sherrif Glover.¡± Putting on a smile that never reached his eyes, Howie concluded, ¡°You¡¯d have known all this if you had a sixth point on that badge there, but I keep looking, and keep counting five. Makes a man wonder what your interest in all this is, though thus far, I been content to wonder quietly.¡±


    ¡°Just curious is all,¡± Wayne replied, and there was a glint in his eye that made him look decidedly unfriendly despite his easy smile and relaxed posture. Sleepy rancher? No, this was a wolf in sheep¡¯s clothing, and the realization sent a shiver down Sarah Jay¡¯s spine. ¡°We gonna have a problem?¡±


    ¡°You got something to say, then you come at me head on,¡± Howie replied, an answer that wasn¡¯t really an answer. ¡°Don¡¯t go dancing around the subject like...¡± Howie paused and smacked his lips, like he was trying to think of a comparison, while Wayne¡¯s eyes went dark and hard, which told her there was a story there. ¡°Like you cutting an Irish jig,¡± Howie concluded, only for his customary, toothy smile to come back in full force as he shook his head with a chuckle.


    Something passed between these two men, something Sarah Jay couldn¡¯t grasp, but Wayne simply pursed his lips and nodded, his soft smiles gone and forgotten as he cast his gaze over all three of their faces. ¡°Alright Howie,¡± he said, bringing his horse around in a wide turn. ¡°Don¡¯t go skipping town again though. You¡¯re good, I¡¯ll give you that, but not good enough to escape justice. Frontier¡¯s not as big as it used to be, and it¡¯ll only get smaller as time goes on.¡±


    And that was that. Wayne headed south to follow his fellow Rangers, leaving them to continue their trip in awkward silence. Trading a glance with Errol, she pursed her lips and frowned at his questioning gaze, a handsome look spoiled by the current circumstances. It was one thing for Howie to kill outlaws who¡¯d come gunning for them, but that was an American Ranger levelling accusations at him, and she wasn¡¯t sure how to feel. Especially since a big reason why she was so eager to sign on was his contacts in the Rangers, which she thought meant he¡¯d have access to jobs and information most civilians would never see. While Howie had plenty of pull in New Hope, it seemed like his influence didn¡¯t reach as far as she thought it would, and maybe all that bad blood regarding how they treated his daddy wasn¡¯t the only thing keeping him from signing on with the Rangers.


    ¡°Well?¡±


    It was almost a half hour later when Howie finally broke the silence, and when Sarah Jay turned to see what he was on about, she found a wry smile etched across his smug face. ¡°¡­Well what?¡± she asked, unsure what Howie was getting at.


    ¡°You ain¡¯t gonna ask?¡± Pumping his eyebrows twice, he added, ¡°You know. If I dunnit like Wayne said.¡±


    Smart man that he was, Errol looked to her before opening his mouth, and she gave him a look that said to keep his mouth shut. ¡°Nope,¡± she replied, confident that if the Rangers had any real proof, they would¡¯ve charged Howie with a crime.


    That got a belly laugh outta him, and a genuine smile too. ¡°Much as I appreciate the vote of confidence,¡± Howie began, shaking his head as he did, ¡°That might well be the dumbest thing I¡¯ve seen either of you do, and Errol almost shot his own damn foot off today.¡±


    Howie wasn¡¯t making it easy to like him at the moment, but again, it wasn¡¯t like it wasn¡¯t true. Hoping to keep Errol from saying anything dumb, she asked, ¡°Would you even tell us the truth if we asked?¡±


    ¡°That ain¡¯t the right question.¡± Grinning at them both, Howie leaned forward for another lesson. ¡°The question you ought to ask is if those are the sort of jobs I¡¯d take, guiding strangers across the desert in the dead of night. And the answer would be no. I ain¡¯t no kai-yote, you hear?¡± Surmising that they didn¡¯t from their blank stares, Howie explained, ¡°A kai-yote is a colloquial term for someone who smuggles people across borders, usually outlaws looking to get away from law enforcement. I don¡¯t do that, because one, it don¡¯t pay well, and two, it ain¡¯t worth the risk. Guiding outlaws through dangerous territory is a good way to get shot in the back once the job is done. Secret only stays secret if no one knows it. I don¡¯t carry contraband neither, and I ain¡¯t one to work with alcoholics or drug addicts, so you both best keep your noses clean. Skin too, because tattoos tend to send the wrong message. Also a great way to get infected for no good reason at all.¡±


    In many ways, Howie was too much of an adult to be any real fun, always focused on work and nothing else. Before he could go off on tangent about gang and prison tats, she asked, ¡°So then¡­ Did you do it? Guide those guards through the desert like Wayne thought you did?¡±


    Oddly enough, Howie almost looked pleased to hear her ask him point blank. ¡°I did not,¡± he replied, and she believed him, but he wasn¡¯t done talking. ¡°Now, I¡¯m gonna tell you both to never talk about what just transpired between me and Wayne, not where anyone can overhear.¡±


    Now it was Errol¡¯s turn to ask questions. ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°Because,¡± Howie began, struggling to find the right way to explain it. ¡°Well¡­ Hmm. How do I put this gently?¡±


    ¡°Wayne¡¯s into some shady business,¡± Sarah Jay said, and though Howie winced, he didn¡¯t deny it. ¡°Somethin¡¯ to do with the murdered trader, and the guards who took whatever he was peddlin¡¯. That¡¯s what that last bit was about. He was warning Howie to keep his mouth shut.¡±


    Looking like a kid who¡¯d just found out Santa wasn¡¯t real, Errol looked at her and said, ¡°But Wayne¡¯s an American Ranger.¡±


    Unable to help herself, she broke eye contact with her man and looked to Howie instead, who shrugged and said, ¡°Job don¡¯t make him a saint. Crooked Rangers exist, same as crooked lawmen and judges, but I ain¡¯t saying Wayne is crooked. I suspect as much, but could be wrong. Might just have friends that are, or maybe he got a personal connection to the trader which explains his interest, but if so, I doubt he¡¯d be so circumspect about his suspicions. Nah, chances are he¡¯s mixed up in somethin¡¯ and now it got his small-hairs in a twist. My guess is smuggling contraband like weapons or drugs, or skimming Aberrtin, Cores, and crystallized Aether from Ranger operations and selling it on the black market. The murdered trader was probably moving Wayne¡¯s product to be sold, and he ain¡¯t none too pleased at being robbed, as he got a pressing need for cash. Least that¡¯s my best guess.¡±


    ¡°Then why don¡¯t you bring your suspicions to someone in charge?¡± Cleary Errol couldn¡¯t wrap his mind around the existence of a criminal Ranger, because he grew up in a small community where most folks looked out for one another, but New Hope and Riverrun were too big for that tight-knit connection. ¡°You know the Marshal for Heavens sake,¡± Errol said, his expression one of pure indignation and disbelief. ¡°Can¡¯t he do something about it?¡±


    ¡°And what would I tell him?¡± Howie asked, patient as can be. ¡°That Wayne came by with a bunch of questions? Ain¡¯t nothing illegal about that, and it¡¯d take more than idle suspicion to open an investigation. Besides, I bet you dollars to donuts Captain Marcus already knows if Wayne is crooked, but it¡¯s tolerated so long as he don¡¯t step too far out of bounds. Good men are in short supply, and the Rangers are especially short on hands, so sometimes, the higher ups gotta look the other way when it comes to minor malfeasance, especially if no one getting hurt.¡± Howie shrugged again, though his pursed lips and furrowed brow showed he clearly didn¡¯t like the idea any more than Errol did. ¡°That¡¯s the nature of power though. It corrupts.¡±


    Sarah Jay had nothing to add as she watched her man slump down in his saddle, and she wished there was something she could do for him. Today was a one-two punch of hard truths, first a betrayal from a stranger and then another from a Ranger, someone who was supposed to look out for the people of the Frontier. That¡¯s why Errol signed on after all, to protect folks from Abby and outlaws, so learning the Rangers tolerated their crooked brothers and sisters was a rude awakening indeed. That¡¯s just the nature of the beast though, part and parcel of any large organization really, so all she could do was reach out and knuckle his shoulder, while counting down the minutes until they reached Meadowbrook and found a nice, quiet room to hole up in.


    It would do them all some good to spend some time apart after more than a week of roughing it out, and come tomorrow, their wounded pride will have mended and tempers cooled, making the task of patching up this fractured friendship that much easier for Sarah Jay. Though Howie went on and on about the dangers for women riding out in the wild Frontier, he would never make it out here with a group of men. He was too stubborn and prideful to ever bend, and too strong to break, so he¡¯d end up alone without someone to help him bridge the gaps of his social failings, and Sarah Jay would show him that she was the perfect woman for the job.

 Chapter 22

    The sun was red, the skies honey gold, the trees white, and the road in shades of grey, with not a single piece out of place, and yet no matter where Errol looked, all he could see was Caleb¡¯s dead, lifeless gaze, so full of remorse and condemnation.


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you keep your mouth shut, brother?¡± The dead man asked, his expression frozen in death with torso still askew. ¡°If you had, I¡¯d be home right now with my wife and kids, instead of dead and tied up atop that crazy Qink¡¯s wagon.¡±


    Imagined or not, the dead man was right. Howie had said as much, though he apologized and took it back, but even Sarah Jay thought Errol was in the wrong himself. She didn¡¯t say it out loud, just laid out the facts as they were, facts Errol should have seen for himself, but he was too wrapped up in his own head to see beyond his nose. Couldn¡¯t even blame it on his lack of experience, because it wasn¡¯t like he¡¯d never been out hunting before. Why didn¡¯t he stop to ask why the bramble elk burst out of the trees? Herd animals don¡¯t go running for the fun of it. Even if it wasn¡¯t an outlaw ambush, it could have been something equally as dangerous, like a pack of tuskwulves out for blood. A single one of those giant beasts could take down a hulking muskari, and they never hunted alone, so Errol should have known better than to do what he did, because he¡¯d been told to never let his guard down out in the wild.


    Stupid. That¡¯s what he was, and there was no excuse for it. How could one man make so many mistakes? Why didn¡¯t he just keep quiet and follow Howie¡¯s lead? Why could he never remember to take his finger off the trigger once he finished shooting? Why did he stand there like a fool instead of going for cover like he should¡¯ve? Then there was everything leading up to the gunfight itself, because in hindsight, it was so easy to see there was something wrong with Caleb and Adie, but Errol ignored all of Howie¡¯s warnings because he thought he knew better. This was the Highway, less than half a day away from a major city and a Ranger outpost, so what sort of idiot bandit would target them here? Surely Howie was overreacting, because even though there were people who¡¯d kill someone for the boots on their feet, Errol imagined that the type of man to do that sort of thing would be easy to spot. They¡¯d be grizzled and disfigured, as ugly on the outside as they were on the in, a hard-bitten rough-neck who¡¯d glare and draw their weapon for so much as looking at them wrong. That was the sort of person to be wary of out here on the Frontier, not a wretched, downtrodden hunter desperate for a catch, or a scared and nervous Lakota who might¡¯ve had too much to drink.


    And now five men were dead because Errol didn¡¯t know any better. Not good men, but men nonetheless, their lives taken in cold, calculated violence at the Firstborn¡¯s hand. He saw it again, Caleb¡¯s eyes going wide with surprise as Howie¡¯s Bolt opened up his chest and threw him from his horse, the very horse Errol was sitting on right now. A dun grey mare, skittish and far too thin, yet her coat and saddle were surprisingly clean considering how much blood had sprayed through the air. Caleb¡¯s blood, found in little drips and flecks, speckled across the beast¡¯s coat and only visible when the blood sunlight hit it just right¡­


    ¡°Don¡¯t fixate on it.¡±


    Howie¡¯s voice pulled Errol out of his thoughts, scaring him so much he almost jumped out of his saddle. The poor mare under him didn¡¯t like it much, dancing about on her thin wizened legs as she tried to muster the courage to roll or throw him. Someone had beaten the spirit out of this poor beast, whipped her into compliance instead of training her right, and Errol¡¯s heart broke to see it. Took a lot of effort to get her back under control again without scaring her any further, and only then did he look back to see what Howie was talking about.


    The Firstborn¡¯s eyes were still cold as ever, grim and alert as he scanned the surroundings in a slow and steady arc. A marked change from days past, when he sat with boots up and hat low as if ready to fall asleep in an instant, and he¡¯d been uncharacteristically quiet all afternoon. No jokes or stories, no in-depth lectures or rambling tangents, he just sat there like a real driver, upright with carbine at the ready while loosely holding a set of reins that didn¡¯t do anything besides get in Cowie¡¯s way. Pausing his vigilant watch long enough to meet Errol¡¯s eyes, Howie said, ¡°Focus on something else. Anything else. The trees, the road, the skies. Your place back home, your time with Jay, your favourite story, think about anything you want.¡± Holding Errol¡¯s gaze with a stern look, Howie added, ¡°Anything except what you been thinking of.¡±


    ¡°You a mind reader now?¡± The retort came out before Errol could stop himself, so irritated by the other man¡¯s know-it-all manner, mostly because it hammered home how he himself didn¡¯t know shit.


    ¡°You¡¯re trying to make sense of what happened back there,¡± Howie said, proving that he did in fact know everything. ¡°Wondering what you could¡¯ve done different, and how that might¡¯ve changed things.¡± Giving Errol a look before deliberately breaking eye contact, Howie continued, ¡°There¡¯s no point. They made their choice, which left us with only one. Don¡¯t matter why they did it, what you could¡¯ve done different, or how it might¡¯ve gone better. It¡¯s all in the past, so it¡¯s best you turn those questions towards the future instead, so that you don¡¯t make the same mistakes twice.¡±


    Shame and remorse turned to anger and frustration, but Errol took a deep breath and tried to let it all go. Made no sense to get angry at Howie, because he was just telling it like it is and offering some advice. Good advice, because even if he was a remorseless killer, Howie was right. There was no changing the past, so best consider the future instead. What would he do differently from today onwards? Heed Howie¡¯s advice for starters, so Errol tried to focus on something else, like soothing the dun grey mare beneath him. Leaning forward to give her neck a gentle pat, his heart ached to see her dance away from the touch with a panicked whinny. It would take a lot of love and even more attention to help her recover, as well as plenty of grain to put more meat on her wizened bones. Not many ranchers would care enough to give her the time and attention she so desperately needed, and even if he did help her regain her strength and courage, she¡¯d never be a match for big Bruno. He¡¯d been the best of the bunch back in New Hope, a prime stallion with all the markings of greatness. He was dead now, his corpse dressed and carted along behind Howie¡¯s wagon on two floating sleds he¡¯d pulled out from somewhere or the other.


    Bruno was a good horse, a great one even, but now he was bound for the butcher¡¯s block because he had the misfortune of carrying around a fool of a rider who didn¡¯t know any better.


    Hot tears streamed down Errol¡¯s cheeks, and he ignored them as best he could. Hope no one would notice either, but there was no chance of that, so he did his damnedest to pretend otherwise and focused on anything else he could. The way the white trees rose up overhead, straight as an arrow until they opened up all at once like flower, with pale branches forming petals to hold up a mass of verdant green leaves. Or the soothing cadence of horse hooves over the cobblestone highway and how it stretched off into the horizon until it disappeared around the bend. Meadowbrook¡¯s chalky grey walls soon came into view, and the roads grew thick with travellers pushing onwards to make it through those darksteel double gates before sunset. Thankfully, Errol¡¯s tears had long since stopped by then, though he felt no better for it as he sat and waited for their turn to enter the city. Aside from a quick glance at their papers and the corpses up top, the guards had no questions because they recognized Howie. Once inside, Errol followed Howie¡¯s directions while taking in the sights, and he was struck by how familiar the town felt. Not in the sense that he¡¯d seen it before, but rather in how the general mood and atmosphere made him feel like he was back at home.


    Beautiful as it was, New Hope was all stone streets and brick buildings, which gave it neat and sturdy but unapproachable look. Here in Meadowbrook, the streets were just as wide, except they were made of plain packed dirt with plenty of shrubs and hedges lining the sides. The buildings were built out of wood panels and painted in all sorts of bright, vibrant colours, with plenty of murals depicting all sorts of scenes to give the town an extra added touch of beauty, as well as a sense of communal history which he wasn¡¯t privy to. It was a rustic but cheery look, one that reminded him so much of home, where every building had its own personality, and he saw the same here. The white-washed general store with all its signs to advertise what they sold. The bright red saloon with a banjo band sitting out on the porch and a portrait of a beautiful woman painted on its side. The green grocer covered in paintings of all manner of unfamiliar fruits and vegetables, probably stuff from the old world. Though the buildings were a little rickety and the walls covered in dust, it looked so much brighter and happier than New Hope did, and Errol found himself falling in love with this town at first glance.


    The people seemed friendlier too. Oh sure, in New Hope, folks would nod in passing as you rode by, but most were too busy doing something or going somewhere to just stop and chat. That resulted in most town folk in New Hope adopting an air of indifference as they went about their days, while here in Meadowbrook the people were all part of the same community. Predominantly black people, but there were enough white folk too, and a smattering of red and brown. Not many yellow folks, though Errol spied a handful, which was only to be expected of course, but they all melded together in various mixed groups rather than dividing themselves up by colour. Not to say that it happened in New Hope, but people of colour were rare enough there that most folks looked twice wherever he went, especially when he held Sarah Jay¡¯s hand, but he suspected that if he did that here, no one would blink twice.


    Everywhere he looked, there were smiling faces, with plenty of folk just hanging about, chatting or dicing or playing instruments to pass the time. Some were even dancing in the streets, the mood bright and jovial throughout the entire town. Many stopped for a word with Howie while others introduced themselves to Errol and Sarah Jay, including a number of lovely young ladies. Too young maybe, and he made sure not to spare more than a smile, because sweet and loving as Sarah Jay might be, she was also a jealous one. That said, most townsfolk stopped to stare at Howie¡¯s wagon as they passed, and Errol could hardly blame them. There were five bodies stacked up top, uncovered for all the world to see, as well as an elk and horse carcass to boot, to say nothing of the imposing sight of the armed and armoured metal wagon itself. Howie didn¡¯t let any of that bother him though, saying little until they pulled up in front of the Sherrif¡¯s office. Didn¡¯t head right in either, and instead instructed them to see to all the animals first, a task Errol was glad to have. Sensing something up, Sarah Jay gave his hand a squeeze, and he flashed her a smile as best he could, even though he didn¡¯t feel like smiling much. After checking to make sure Howie wasn¡¯t looking, she leaned in close nuzzled his cheek, not quite hugging or kissing him, but just about. ¡°Don¡¯t you ever feel like you gotta hide your pain from me,¡± she whispered, her voice all hot and angry as can be. ¡°You my man, which means I want all of you. Every sob and tear, every laugh and smile, and nothing less.¡±


    Only Sarah Jay would get angry in a situation like this, and Errol couldn¡¯t help but laugh. ¡°Yes ma¡¯am,¡± he replied, giving her a tip of his cap as he lost himself in her warm, brown eyes and marvelled at how lucky he truly was to have won her affection. ¡°My mistake. Won¡¯t happen again.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± Giving his cheeks a one-handed squeeze, she gave him a quick peck before getting on with her work to water the horses. There were a few extras now, animals recovered from the bandits, but together, they weren¡¯t worth half of what Bruno cost, if that. Nothing to do about it now except make it up to Howie in the long-term, so Errol worked double time to get the horses settled. Once they were done, Howie marched inside and made a bee-line for the Sheriff¡¯s desk, where he handed over the medallion from his hat before making the introductions. Sherrif Glover was a grizzled old black man with salt and pepper hair and more wrinkles than Dr. Harding back in New Hope. There were no smiles from the gruff old lawman, no words even, just a grunt and a scowl as he looked them over from behind his desk with a cigar in hand and quietly conveyed just how tired and unimpressed he was. Grumbling up a wordless storm under his breath, Sherrif Glover placed Howie¡¯s medallion on top of a wired metal box, one fixed to a stand holding up an inch-thick pane of clear, quartz crystal.


    And suddenly, Errol was all too aware of the fact that Howie had a recording device in his hat, and his cheeks coloured as he went over the last week and a half to see if he and Sarah Jay had done anything untoward in line of sight. Not that he expected Howie would spy on them like that, but better safe than sorry after all, and the thought exercise kept him from having to watch too closely as Caleb and Adie died again.


    The recording was mercifully short, not even two full minutes from start to finish, and the Sherrif was content to only watch it once and stop as soon as the shooting ended, though it looked like it continued on for a bit more. ¡°You¡¯re clear Howie,¡± he growled, with the gravelly voice of a lifelong smoker as he handed the medallion back and collected a second crystal from the back of the metal box. ¡°Clean shoot. Don¡¯t darken my doorstep again for another month at least. Seeing too much of your scrawny ass these days. Ruins my whole damn week, showing up like you do with a mess of bodies stacked on your roof like this.¡±


    ¡°Oh I¡¯ll be back soon enough,¡± Howie replied, grinning even as Sherrif Glover¡¯s scowl deepened into a frown. ¡°Betting there¡¯s gonna be a bounty on least one of those fools, and I¡¯ll need you to sign off on it.¡±


    Sherrif Glover grunted and grimaced in reply before shaking his head, grumbling all the while as he filled out some papers and stamped them. ¡°Caleb¡¯s clean,¡± he said, ¡°But just barely. No bounty on him. Always was a clever one. Fat lot of good that did him. Never seen the Red before, and couldn¡¯t I.D the other three from the video, but I¡¯ll put one of my deputies on it.¡± Turning his sour gaze to Errol and Sarah Jay again, Sherrif Glover said, ¡°Don¡¯t know where you found these two fools, but send ¡®em back. They ain¡¯t ready for the open road.¡±


    ¡°No one ever is.¡±


    That¡¯s all Howie said, and Sherrif Glover grunted in acknowledgement. ¡°Least you had the good sense to get them armoured up, though not enough sense to wear armour yourself. Maybe they¡¯ll make something of themselves, but that might be even worse. One of you is already too much Howie. Can¡¯t imagine how much paperwork I¡¯ll have to do once there¡¯s three of you running around.¡±


    Wasn¡¯t comfortable standing around listening to Howie and the Sherrif talk about him like he wasn¡¯t there. Errol put up with it because he didn¡¯t know what else to do. Sarah Jay wasn¡¯t any happier, but she kept quiet too, and Howie soon switched topics to ask after the gruff Sherrif¡¯s wife and kids. That only made the man scowl even harder as he complained about this and that, but underneath it all, Errol could tell the man loved his family. He cared about Howie too, telling him repeatedly to leave off this ¡®fool¡¯s business¡¯ and settle down with a ¡®nice black girl who¡¯d set him straight¡¯. Then their conversation was cut short as the door to the Sherrif¡¯s office flew open and a bald, moustached giant of a man ducked down and stepped through.


    ¡°Howie!¡± The bellow was deep and guttural, one that struck fear into Errol¡¯s heart and he wasn¡¯t ashamed to admit it as he jumped aside with Sarah Jay. Stomping over with a wild look in his eyes and a ferocious glower etched across his rugged face, the angry ebony giant didn¡¯t stop until he was looming over Howie. Made the Firstborn look like a child, as the giant was at least seven feet tall and two and a half feet wide, with bulging black biceps thicker than most men¡¯s torsos which filled his short-sleeved cr¨¨me-coloured button-up to the seams. Chest heaving with barely restrained rage, the giant leaned down until he was almost forehead to forehead with Howie so he could look him dead in the eyes. ¡°You trying to give me a heart attack, boy?¡± the giant snarled, his tone surly and sharp as could be.


    Unperturbed, Howie stood there with neck craned and a big smile on his face. ¡°Oh hey Marcus,¡± he said, running his hand through his hair to move his bangs out of his eyes. Looked good with his hair slicked back, and Errol made a note to mention it to him sometime, since he could use a little help in the style department. ¡°Didn¡¯t see you there. How¡¯s tricks?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Marcus retorted, his tone filled with heat and intensity as he shook his head so hard that the veins in his neck and biceps started throbbing. ¡°Nuh-uh. Twice in one month now, you¡¯ve come through my gates with a new hole in you, and all you¡¯ve got to say is ¡®how¡¯s tricks¡¯?!¡±


    ¡°Aw c¡¯mon now. This hardly counts. Was barely a graze.¡±


    ¡°Barely a graze?!¡± Tilting his head for a better angle to intimidate from, Marcus repeated himself again, the whites of his eyes and teeth standing out in sharp contrast against his ebony skin. ¡°You really gonna stand there with a hole in your side and argue semantics with me?¡±


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t have to if you got your facts straight.¡±


    ¡°Boy, if you wasn¡¯t hurt and bleeding, I¡¯d whup your ass from here to New Hope and back again.¡±


    ¡°You ain¡¯t got the stones Marcus.¡± Howie¡¯s grin widened even further as he puffed up his chest. ¡°Aunty Ray¡¯d send you back clucking like a chicken the whole way.¡±


    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    Unable to keep up the angry fa?ade, Marcus¡¯s angry scowl melted away into the gentlest of grins as he straightened up and back off. ¡°Yea she would, wouldn¡¯t she? Always did dote on you. Spoiled you rotten she did.¡± Turning to Errol and Sarah Jay, he offered his giant hand and said, ¡°You must be Errol and Sarah Jay. Pleasure to meet you both. I¡¯m Captain Marcus Clay.¡± After shaking both their hands, Marcus turned on Howie and barked, ¡°What you still standing around for, huh? Get your bony ass to the hospital!¡±


    ¡°Had it about to here with everyone mentioning my ass.¡± Howie grumbled, but no one paid him any mind.


    Instead, Captain Marcus took a good long look at Errol, and he stood up a little straighter for it. ¡°I heard about what happened to you, son,¡± Captain Marcus said, clapping Errol¡¯s shoulder with a soft look in his eyes. ¡°I want you know how sorry I am about how things shook out. Were it up to me, I¡¯d have kept you on, but it¡¯s good to see you landed on your feet. Howie¡¯s got a couple rough edges, but he¡¯s a good man to have at your back in a firefight.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t I know it, sir,¡± Errol replied, awed that a man like Captain Marcus would know about him, or speak so highly of Howie. ¡°Saved my bacon today, and showed me I still got a lot to learn.¡±


    ¡°Work hard then,¡± Captain Marcus replied, giving him a nod of approval, and Errol¡¯s spirits soared to see it. This was a man who embodied what the Rangers were supposed to represent, he just knew it at a glance. Strong and powerful, but kind and compassionate, that was Marcus in a nutshell, his concern for Howie so genuine and heartfelt it couldn¡¯t have been faked. After a few words with Sarah Jay, Captain Marcus turned to Howie with another scowl. ¡°Boy, you must be dumb and deaf. Did I not tell you to get to the hospital? Twice no less. You waiting for me to drag you there myself?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll get there when I get there,¡± Howie drawled, making a point to rock back and forth on his heels. ¡°Soon as I get my prospects settled in at the travel lodge.¡±


    ¡°You just get yourself checked out, mind and body both, because there must be something wrong with you.¡± Putting his massive hands-on Errol and Sarah Jay¡¯s shoulders, Captain Marcus guided them towards the door. ¡°Simone got the guest rooms all cleaned up when she heard you was riding with two. Take a horse and leave Cowie and the wagon with me.¡±


    ¡°Much appreciated, you opening up your home to us, but I think it¡¯s best if we stayed at the travel lodge.¡± Seeing the frown on the Captain¡¯s face, Howie explained, ¡°I wanted to talk shop a bit, and they¡¯ll be stickin¡¯ round town for a stretch. Two weeks at least, so we wouldn¡¯t want to impose.¡±


    ¡°Now wait just a minute,¡± Sarah Jay said, rounding on Howie in a fury, and credit to him, he didn¡¯t flinch one bit. ¡°What you mean ¡®stickin¡¯ round town¡¯? You givin¡¯ up on us already?¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t say nothing about giving up,¡± Howie said, cutting Sarah Jay off before she could build up any momentum, and firing her up even more. ¡°I¡¯m doing what I should¡¯ve done to begin with, and leaving you someplace safe until I can train you up proper. I said it didn¡¯t I? You ain¡¯t ready, and you lucky to be alive after what happened today, so you both best sit tight while I handle my business. Regardless of what happens, I¡¯ll make sure you both get back to New Hope safe, if that¡¯s what you want. I mean, who knows. Maybe you¡¯ll like Meadowbrook so much you¡¯ll both want to stay. They¡¯d welcome a helping hand from two promising young folk like yourselves.¡±


    ¡°Talk about it after you get checked out,¡± Captain Marcus said, interrupting Sarah Jay before she could reply, and miracle of all miracles, she didn¡¯t shoot the big man a glare, though Howie bore the full force of it with only the slightest of flinches. ¡°All three of you are staying with me tonight, and that¡¯s final. Simone will have my hide if I send you off to the travel lodge after all the trouble she went through getting the spare rooms ready.¡±


    Even Howie knew better than to argue anymore, so he left with little more than a shake of his head. As for Errol and Sarah Jay, they waited around while Captain Marcus shared a few hushed words with Sherrif Glover before watching the gunfight on the strange device again. Apparently, that second crystal was a recording, and curious as Errol was to know how a gemstone could store words and images, he kept his mouth shut and concentrated on soothing Sarah Jay¡¯s temper while fighting down his guilt. He knew just how much she was counting on this job with the Firstborn and how eager she was to start earning, but now it looked like they were getting benched because of him.


    This day was just getting better and better.


    Truth be told, if it wasn¡¯t for Sarah Jay¡¯s situation, Errol would be more than happy to explore alternatives to working with the Firstborn, and maybe even find something where they wouldn¡¯t have to shoot people dead. Fighting against Abby was one thing, but he didn¡¯t know if he had it in him to shoot a living breathing person. Even knowing Caleb meant to rob and kill him, Errol kept seeing the man¡¯s eyes as he breathed his last before his body hit the highway, all bent and askew from the force of Howie¡¯s Rattlesnake. In retrospect, a boring life on a ranch didn¡¯t seem half bad anymore, or even a job here in Meadowbrook doing¡­ anything really. There was probably a ranch nearby, but if not, he could go into construction maybe, or mining if that¡¯s all that was available. It was hard and dangerous work, with plenty of long-term health hazards and the occasional dust up with Abby, but it paid well enough to support a family. Sarah Jay¡¯s family at first, but maybe one day, their own family too. That wouldn¡¯t be so bad, would it?


    No it wouldn¡¯t, but it wasn¡¯t the life Sarah Jay wanted. Money was only one reason why she signed on with the Rangers, so even if Howie washed his hands of them, she wouldn¡¯t give up so easily. Neither would Errol, and not just because he wanted to stand by her side. While he didn¡¯t contribute much during the fight with the goblins, he¡¯d never felt more alive or significant than in that moment when he shot that first goblin in the arm. Didn¡¯t even kill it, but it felt like he was doing something important, fighting the good fight against Abby and making the Frontier just a little bit safer. That¡¯s what he¡¯d dreamed of doing as a kid, to avenge his parents and do everything he could to make sure no more kids ended up like him, orphaned and alone.


    That was his goal, his purpose, his ambition in life. To be a fighter, a protector, a defender. Then again, one of the things people needed defending from was other people, so that wasn¡¯t something he could avoid¡­


    After a short jaunt through Meadowbrook, it was clear that Captain Marcus Clay embodied that ideal in a way Errol couldn¡¯t even begin to understand. Large and intimidating though he might be, that didn¡¯t stop the townsfolk from walking right up to him for a chat, asking him to look into this or what the progress was on that, and he seemed more than happy to answer on the spot, just as others were happy to help him by taking the elk and poor Bruno off his hands. The good Captain had his huge fingers on the pulse of Meadowbrook, his answers always quick and to the point, even if it was to say, ¡°I don¡¯t know, but I¡¯ll look in on it and get back to you.¡± They always took that answer in stride too, which told Errol that the Ranger Captain meant it, because he was a man who wanted this town to succeed.


    The man¡¯s home only reinforced that image, as they pulled up in front of a cozy wood panel cabin, the natural tones of the warm brown timbers offset by a lovely light-grey cobblestone foundation. ¡°It¡¯s not much to look at,¡± Captain Marcus said, giving them both a big smile as they headed past the front door for the barn next door, ¡°But this is home.¡±


    And home it was, just littered with little details and personal touches that spoke volumes to the love and attention that went into every decision. The large, well-worn outdoor furniture with neatly fitted cushions, picture frame windows with blackout curtains drawn aside, neatly carved door with its bronze, bull-head knocker, well-tended flowerbeds bursting with colour and variety, it all lent weight to the truth behind Captain Marcus¡¯ statement, that this was not just a house, but a home.


    ¡°It¡¯s a right lovely home in a right lovely town,¡± Sarah Jay said, as warm and bright as a summer day, and the earnest statement made the Captain¡¯s rugged features break open in a weather-worn smile.


    ¡°Figured we¡¯d only be living in this wooden box for a year or two before tearing it down,¡± he said as they headed up the well-trodden walkway, one lined with natural stones to hold back the encroaching grass. ¡°Problem is, the towns been growing faster than anyone expected, so all our stone and brick has been earmarked for expanding the walls. Good problem to have all things considered, because what good is a settlement without people to live there? Howie wasn¡¯t lying when he said you¡¯d be welcome here, as there¡¯s always work to be done.¡±


    But not the right kind of work, so Errol merely nodded along as he brought the horses into the barn and saw to their feed, pouring Cowie an extra measure of grains and a whispered thanks for saving his hide earlier today, which the bull graciously accepted with smug moo. Just as he was about to brush the horses, Captain Marcus sent Sarah Jay inside to help his wife before taking Errol aside to sit and chat on the porch bench. ¡°So,¡± he began, sinking into his seat and causing the wrought iron to bounce like rubber, ¡°First time seeing a man die?¡± Errol nodded, unable to speak past the lump that suddenly appeared in his throat, but the Captain took his silence in stride. ¡°Not an easy thing, nor should it be.¡±


    ¡°Seems easy enough for Howie,¡± Errol replied, suddenly finding his voice in his frustration. That¡¯s all it took to break the dam on his emotions, and his tears flowed freely as he told the other man everything that happened. ¡°Shot those men dead and shook it off like nothing. Cold as ice he was, cold as ice.¡±


    ¡°That what you think Errol?¡± There was a hard edge to the Captain¡¯s tone, and he couldn¡¯t bring himself to meet the other man¡¯s eyes. ¡°Tell me, when he dragged you over to those dead bodies and screamed at you, did that strike you as nothing? That strike you as ice cold?¡± It didn¡¯t, and right away, Errol understood what the man was getting at. ¡°It wasn¡¯t kind,¡± Captain Marcus said, shaking his head in marked disapproval, ¡°Or even called for, but we all do stupid things when we¡¯re scared, and make no mistake Errol, Howie was scared, for your life, if not his own. That¡¯s why he¡¯s benching the two of you, because he doesn¡¯t want your deaths on his conscience.¡± Giving him a pat on the back, Marcus fell silent and pretended not to notice as Errol wiped away his tears and rambled on to cover up his sniffles. ¡°You ever hear of Ming, Howie¡¯s daddy? Now there was a man who was cold as ice. Fourteen years, and I never once heard him raise his voice or lash out in anger. Always wore the same frosty expression, whether he was fighting or relaxing, and he never lost his cool. Howie on the other hand, he got his temper from his mama, and a double dose of stubborn from the both of them. An explosive combination to be sure, and you got the worst of it today.¡± Heaving a sigh, Marcus shook his head and turned to face Errol, now that he was done covering up his weakness. ¡°Enough about Howie though. We¡¯re talking about you, so how are you holding up?¡±


    The answer was obvious, but the devil was in the details as Father Nicolas liked to say. ¡°How am I holding up?¡± Errol asked, his body trembling once more as he stared into his open hands. ¡°Every time I lose focus, I see Caleb¡¯s face again, watch the life drain from his eyes again. Even though it¡¯s only been a few hours, I can already feel it eating away at me. I¡¯m exhausted, but terrified to even think about falling asleep, because I¡¯m worried that when I close my eyes, I¡¯ll find Caleb¡¯s face waiting there for me.¡±


    ¡°You will,¡± Captain Marcus said, and Errol felt the last vestiges of hope crumble away.


    ¡°So what do I do?¡±


    ¡°Hard to say.¡± The Captain wasn¡¯t exactly being helpful here, but he wasn¡¯t being intentionally difficult either, as when Errol found the courage to look up, he found a troubled but sympathetic man looking back. ¡°It¡¯s different for everyone. For some, they bottle these feelings up inside, while others will cry until it doesn¡¯t hurt. There are those who will try to justify their actions, say they were left with no choice, only following orders, or that they reacted on instinct. Me, I¡¯ve found that talking helps, with my wife, my pastor, my Rangers, anyone who knows what it¡¯s like. Now, none of this actually solves the problem, nor does it always help, but it can, so you should try it. Last of all, time will usually dull the pain, but for now, if you need someone to talk to or help you through this, I¡¯m here, Sarah Jay is here, and I know Howie will do his best to help you too.¡±


    There was a strength to Captain Marcus that had nothing to do with his size, a confident vulnerability shared that made him even greater than he appeared. There he sat, larger than life, yet he knew Errol¡¯s pain and was burdened by it too, which was enough to make him feel just a little better in the moment, but not by much. Heaving a sigh as he slumped in his seat, Errol took a deep breath and said, ¡°Thank you, sir. Not to sound ungrateful or anything, it¡¯s just¡­ I¡¯d hoped there¡¯d be an easier solution to all this.¡±


    ¡°Like I said, it shouldn¡¯t be easy,¡± came the reply, as Captain Marcus gently clapped him on the shoulder, ¡°Life is precious, and even more so here on the Frontier. You¡¯re conflicted because you know that, and there is no shame in this struggle. I¡¯d worry more if you didn¡¯t feel this way, because it means you¡¯re missing an important part of what it means to be human.¡±


    Which made perfect sense to Errol, and again made him feel a tiny bit better, until he wondered what that made Howie. No sense bringing it up just yet though, since Captain Marcus had the Firstborn¡¯s back. They sat in silence for a minute or two until the other man broke it to ask, ¡°So tell me, how¡¯s Howie holding up in your estimation?¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Captain Marcus began, running a hand over his mouth and moustache, a neat line of well trimmed facial hair. ¡°Would you say he¡¯s a good teacher, compared to say one of the drill sergeants from Basic?¡±


    ¡°¡­No.¡± Though it was true, Errol hurriedly added, ¡°It¡¯s just¡­ Howie covers a lot of ground really quickly and expects you to remember it all. In Basic, they told you one thing, and drilled it into you until it stuck. Don¡¯t get me wrong, I¡¯d take Howie¡¯s lectures over getting screamed at any day of the week, but it¡¯s hard to keep track of everything he says.¡±


    ¡°Yea, that sounds like Howie.¡± Heaving a sigh, Marcus shook his head and said, ¡°He¡¯s got more experience roughing it out on the Frontier than some Rangers and is naturally talented in many ways, but I was pretty sure teaching wouldn¡¯t be one of his strengths. Things come too easily to him, so he doesn¡¯t understand when people struggle with concepts he picked up without even trying.¡± After a short pause, he asked, ¡°Maybe this is too early to ask, but I got to know. You having second thoughts about your chosen profession? Maybe considering calling it quits to find a safer line of work? No shame in it if you say yes, because most aren¡¯t made for bloodshed. I certainly wasn¡¯t at first, but I managed, because I had people counting on me and people to support me. You, you don¡¯t owe anyone anything. Could walk away and find work doing almost anything else, and no one would think less of you.¡±


    Rather than say yes, Errol thought things through before answering. ¡°I¡¯d like to keep trying,¡± he said, once he realized he didn¡¯t know for certain. ¡°Fighting Abby, I know I can handle, even if it leaves me shaking in my boots. It¡¯s what I want to do, but as for the other stuff¡­ I don¡¯t know yet.¡±


    ¡°Good answer.¡± Nodding slowly, Captain Marcus smiled and said, ¡°That¡¯s all anyone can ask of you, Errol. To try. Might not sound like much, but most folks don¡¯t have courage enough to even do that much, not until they¡¯ve no other choice. C¡¯mon.¡± Getting up from the bench, the Captain gestured for Errol to follow him inside, which was as quaint and homey as the outside. Sitting at the dining table was Sarah Jay who looked up with teary eyes from her conversation with a petite black woman who couldn¡¯t be more than five foot two. Taking a quick moment to tip his hat at who he presumed was miss Simone, he hurried over to Sarah Jay and knelt down beside her. Taking her hand in his, he didn¡¯t know what to say, so he looked her in the eyes, held her hand to his lips, and waited for her to tell him what was wrong, but all she did was shake her head.


    ¡°Now ain¡¯t you a handsome young buck,¡± Miss Simone said, in that same southern drawl as Sarah Jay, her rich tenor voice smooth as honey. ¡°Sweet as honey too. No wonder she speaks so highly of you. You best hang on to this girl tight, because boy you got yourself a prize.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t I know it ma¡¯am,¡± he said, pressing Sarah Jay¡¯s hand against his cheek with a smile.


    Snatching her hand away in embarrassment, Sarah Jay scowled and said, ¡°Was just telling miss Simone how Howie¡¯s all but washed his hands of us.¡±


    ¡°Oh honey,¡± miss Simone said, patting Sarah Jay¡¯s cheek with a wry little smile, ¡°If Howie wanted to be rid of you, he¡¯d say as much. That boy don¡¯t beat around the bush, so he ain¡¯t done with you just yet.¡±


    ¡°Then how come he¡¯s talking like he¡¯s about to cut us loose?¡± Crossing her arms in adorable pique, Sarah Jay crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat. ¡°Goin¡¯ on about how we might want to stay in Meadowbrook for good while he¡¯s fixing to run off and hunt Abby solo for two weeks. Probably would¡¯ve hunted down that whole warband by his lonesome if we weren¡¯t there, instead of lying low and watching it saunter past.¡±


    ¡°What warband?¡± Burning with an intensity that made Errol¡¯s skin itch, Captain Marcus was sudden all business and ready to fight. ¡°How many?¡±


    ¡°Group of orcs and goblins in the desert, some two-hundred strong,¡± Howie replied, letting himself in through the front door and leaving a hang-dog baby Cowie to peer through the windows with a hang-dog expression. ¡°Spotted them last night moving southeast from round about twelve klicks northeast from the outpost. Howdy Simone.¡± Flashing a smile that was wider and more genuine than anything Errol had seen all day, Howie marched in before remembering to take his hat off, which he promptly threw over his shoulder without looking to land on a hook next to the door. A minor thing, but it hammered home just how aware Howie was of his surroundings at all times, yet another way in which he stood out from the crowd. ¡°Looking more lovely than ever I see.¡± The duster followed immediately after, tossed back without a glance to the same effect as he arrived at the table and opened up his map for the Captain to look at. ¡°Round these parts here,¡± he added, pointing at a stretch of desert. ¡°Likely mapping escape routes to make sure they catch as many as they can.¡±


    ¡°Means they¡¯re close,¡± Captain Marcus growled, and Howie nodded in agreement, leaving Errol and Sarah Jay both out of the loop. ¡°We¡¯ll have to watch for ambushes on our way in then.¡±


    ¡°Shouldn¡¯t be too hard so long as you keep a couple skirmishers a klick or two ahead of the rest.¡± Somehow, Howie¡¯s smile grew even bigger as he said, ¡°Or, you could hire on a trusted Scout to help clear the way.¡±


    ¡°Unnecessary.¡± Waving a hand in dismissal, Captain Marcus studied the map a bit longer and said, ¡°Not many places to stage a proper ambush out there, so it¡¯ll be good practice for the boots.¡±


    ¡°What boots?¡± Sarah Jay asked, though Errol figured she¡¯d have been better off keeping quiet, because Howie and Captain Marcus both looked surprised by her interruption, no doubt having forgotten they were both there. ¡°The boots from Basic? They¡¯re coming here?¡±


    ¡°¡­No?¡± Howie replied, his tone and expression so comically untrustworthy it had to be on purpose, but Sarah Jay wasn¡¯t laughing. ¡°Sorry,¡± Howie said, looking anything but. ¡°Information is on a need-to-know basis, and y¡¯all don¡¯t need to know.¡±


    ¡°Tell them,¡± Captain Marcus said, still poring over the map. ¡°Won¡¯t do them any favours treating them like porcelain. If they¡¯re willing, I¡¯ll stick them with the rest of the boots to maybe learn a thing or two.¡±


    Howie didn¡¯t answer right away, which wasn¡¯t a good sign, and he spent a long second looking Errol and Sarah Jay over while radiating doubt. ¡°You sure about that?¡± he asked, his brow furrowed in genuine concern as he turned to Marcus. ¡°They got the chops to face off against Abby once you lay out the plan, but they get a bit hard of thinking when the chips are down, if you know what I mean. If things play out like I expect them to ¨C ¡±


    ¡°Abby¡¯s all they need to worry about,¡± Captain Marcus interrupted. ¡°The Rangers will handle the rest. Captain Jung already assured me that there was nothing lacking in their abilities, so as long as they follow orders, they¡¯ll do just fine.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± Still looking unconvinced, Howie looked at them, then back to Captain Marcus. ¡°Not to cast any aspersions on Ava¡¯s abilities ¨C ¡±


    ¡°Captain Jung,¡± Captain Marcus growled, ¡°Knows her work better than you. You expect too much from them Howie. They¡¯re kids, and unlike you, they didn¡¯t grow up treating the badlands like their backyard. Give them time, and they¡¯ll catch up soon enough. Sooner once they cut their teeth in this operation, so I¡¯d worry less about them and more about yourself. I¡¯ve got permission from the Marshal himself to treat you like any other boot. You so much as step a single toe out of line, and I¡¯ll kick your ass six ways from Sunday while he holds Rachel back.¡±


    Rather than quail at the threat, Howie¡¯s eyes went wide with excitement. ¡°This mean you hiring me on?¡± He asked. ¡°All official?¡±


    ¡°Yes, but like I said, you best behave like a boot.¡± Poking Howie in the chest, Captain Marcus growled, ¡°The Marshal hoped you¡¯d have sense enough to stay away, but knew you wouldn¡¯t be able to help yourself, not after Tim checked in and went over your little heart to heart.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t blame Tim. He meant well.¡± After firing off a cheeky salute, Howie turned to Errol and Sarah Jay with a twinkle in his eye. ¡°Okay. Long story short, there¡¯s an army of Abby headed towards a town called Pleasant Dunes. It¡¯s about six days east of here, and a full Company of Rangers are riding out to defend it along with all them boots. I was gonna leave you here and join in on the efforts, because I wasn¡¯t about to risk your necks for nothin¡¯, but if you want, you can come along for the experience.¡± Shrugging, Howie made a face and said, ¡°Honestly, now that I¡¯ve said it out loud, I gotta say that the smart money is on stayin¡¯ here. Not much to learn fighting from a static position, and you ain¡¯t gonna earn more if you go, so you might as well take a week or two to relax.¡±


    It was so obvious now that Captain Marcus had pointed it out, and Errol marvelled at how he hadn¡¯t seen it sooner. It was right there in the way Howie offered them the easy way out, each and every time, not as a challenge like Errol thought, but a genuine offer because he was lacking confidence. Guess Howie wasn¡¯t as cold or cocky as he seemed then. He just had a strange way of going about it.


    ¡°That¡¯s why you were gonna bench us?¡± Sarah Jay asked, and Errol couldn¡¯t help but feel like she was missing the whole point. ¡°Because you was fixing on joining this operation?¡± Howie nodded, and oddly enough, Sarah Jay smiled, a knowing little smile which made the Firstborn¡¯s cheeks go red. Happy with whatever answer she¡¯d arrived at, she turned to Errol and gave him a look, one that said the decision was his.


    Errol didn¡¯t have to think too hard about it, because this was exactly what he signed on for in the first place, and he knew Sarah Jay felt the same way. ¡°We¡¯re in,¡± he said, giving Howie a half-hearted salute and a smile. ¡°You hired us on to watch your back, so that¡¯s what we¡¯re gonna do.¡±


    Which was exactly the right thing to say apparently, as Howie opened his mouth, then closed it, having been struck speechless. Now there was a feat to be proud of, so Errol basked in the accomplishment and prayed that he hadn¡¯t just consigned himself and Sarah Jay to doom.


    Maybe he should¡¯ve asked a few more questions, but if the boots in Basic were going, then it couldn¡¯t be that bad, right?

 Chapter 23

    One of the best things about travelling is trying all different sorts of cuisines.


    Most folk don¡¯t talk about the early years on the Frontier, and for good reason. Back then, they had to deal with all the same troubles we have now on top of building a settlement and securing enough food. Nowadays, you¡¯d have to work hard at not working to starve during spring, as any fool could forage a full week¡¯s worth of meals in half a day round these parts. Bapples, starmelons, grumble berries, sneezeweed, Alabaster nuts, potates, breadroot, and so much more, the forests and plains are brimming with delicious goodies to fill your belly without needing a knife or gun. Course, folks didn¡¯t know all this before coming to the Frontier, and not everything is safe to eat, so a lot of settlers died of starvation, dysentery, and malnutrition while sitting next to a treasure trove of edible goodies. Real sad stuff, but they wasn¡¯t exactly set up for success. Rather than teach everyone the simple First Order Spell Detect Poison, one that let you differentiate edible foodstuff from inedible, the old world governments spent a bunch of time and money researching how to make bio-organic baggies that could pass through the Gate, since dead or inorganic matter couldn¡¯t make the trip. They succeeded, and gave every settler in the First Wave one of those special baggies, filled with all the seeds they¡¯d need to start their first crop.


    Problem is, like Carl said, all them seeds were rendered nonviable during their passage through the Gate, so none of them were able to germinate and sprout. No one really knows why, or why all pregnant women miscarried, not with any certainty, but the important thing is that the old world governments¡¯ plans for getting familiar crops into the ground right quick was off to a disastrous start. And that¡¯s only one way they failed us, which begs the question as to why anyone even cares about them after seventeen years of separation, but that¡¯s neither here or there.


    Now, the Detect Poison Spell wouldn¡¯t have solved all their problems, since edible don¡¯t mean the same as palatable. You can eat leather if you really had to, so it¡¯s taken a good long while for folks to figure out what tastes good and what doesn¡¯t. Nowadays though, there¡¯s a new food craze showing up every other season as we connect with all the standalone settlements and start swapping ideas about. Believe it or not, Marcus served as a cook at one point during his time in the army, so it¡¯s always a treat to sit down for one of his homemade meals. Today¡¯s theme is what he calls Louisiana Creole Cuisine, with a nice spicy jambalaya, a thick gumbo stew, and clove-butter flatbread to mop it all up. Claims it¡¯s not an authentic re-creation, what with the chewy pearl beans, savory allium root, and crunchy caddishes instead of kidney beans, onions, and green peppers, but I ain¡¯t ever had the old world equivalents, so I think it tastes just grand.


    To top it all off, Simone¡¯s got fresh baked beignets for dessert, with sweetened condensed milk for dipping. A most welcome meal after so many days of travel rations and canned food, an ordeal made all the more miserable knowing it was self-inflicted. Didn¡¯t feel right making my prospects eat jerky and hardtack while I foraged and cooked for myself. Was nice to have help clearing out my supplies though, especially since they¡¯d been sitting around all winter. Will likely keep that last bit to myself, as what my prospects don¡¯t know can¡¯t hurt me.


    By the time dinner¡¯s done, I¡¯m so full you could pop my belly like a tick, but I still find it in myself to help clear the table and wash the dishes. My prospects ought to know better than to treat this here like a bed and breakfast, but it¡¯s been a hard couple of days so I suppose they¡¯ve earned themselves a pass to sit kick up their feet and de-stress. Besides, can tell Marcus has got some interest in them, seeing how he asked Ava about them before we even arrived, so I leave them to chit-chat. Probably heard how Errol got washed out and wanted to help him get back on his feet, which makes things a touch awkward considering I¡¯m about this close to calling it quits and going back to riding solo. Running my own crew is more work and less fun than I figured for, and today¡¯s fiasco really opened my eyes to everything I been doing wrong. I¡¯ve been too easygoing, expecting them to understand what I say and take it at face value. Instead, I need to instill some discipline and compliance into them so they follow orders in the heat of battle.


    Which is gonna take more effort than I care to give. I got things to learn and skills to hone myself, so I can¡¯t be dedicating all my hours to my prospects, now can I?


    Errol¡¯s the bigger problem, as he don¡¯t listen all that good. Sarah Jay ain¡¯t without her problems either, as she an ice queen who freezes under pressure. Nothing that can¡¯t be fixed mind you, but the juice ain¡¯t worth the squeeze. Like aging a whiskey eighteen years, it just take too damn long to reap what benefits I done sowed. Best case scenario? Marcus gets Errol and Sarah Jay back into Basic and on track to join the Rangers, leaving me free and clear to go on about my merry way without stepping on any toes. Could always shop for recruits after this first batch of boots finishes their first tour and their contracts up for renewal, and who knows? Maybe Errol and Sarah Jay will still want to sign on then. Means riding solo until after the Watershed though, and a big selling point of getting a crew together was having extra hands to help to cash in.


    So I got a decision to make, but for now, I¡¯mma keep on trying to train them up right, which means playing the drill sergeant for the next little bit.


    On that note, I catch up with Elise until Marcus is finished telling his latest story, then it¡¯s time to put an end to the fun. While Errol and Sarah Jay are still chuckling at the punchline, I step up to the table and give it a little knock to get their attention. ¡°Thanks for the meal Marcus,¡± I say, and my prospects echo the sentiment while I turn my attention to them. ¡°I want you both lights out in an hour. Lock your weapons in the wagon chest, then wash up and settle in.¡±


    While my prospects don¡¯t look none too pleased, they don¡¯t argue either, though Marcus feels inclined to butt in after they out the door. ¡°Howie, it¡¯s seven thirty,¡± he says, wrinkling his big ol¡¯ brow in a pouty frown. ¡°C¡¯mon now. I was gonna show them around town for a bit, let them see the sights and take a load off.¡±


    ¡°They can do the tourist thing after we get back,¡± I say, giving Marcus a look. ¡°You seen the recording? They got a lot to learn and next to no time to learn it, especially when the price of failure is a Bolt to the face.¡± Errol was all but inviting those outlaws to walk up and shoot him, assuming he didn¡¯t shoot himself first. Or worse, Cowie. Can¡¯t understand what¡¯s so hard about trigger discipline. Only one rule to it: keep your finger off the trigger unless you shooting. Don¡¯t rightly know how to teach that better.


    ¡°Look, I get it Howie,¡± Marcus says, leaning back in his chair to look me in the eyes. Doesn¡¯t have to look up to do it either, even though I¡¯m standing straight as an arrow. ¡°You¡¯re worried about them, and you¡¯re right to, but treating them like delinquents isn¡¯t the way to do it. Besides, you ever consider they might need something to take their minds off what went down today?¡±


    ¡°If they gonna have trouble sleeping, then all the better to have more time to work at it.¡± Giving a little shrug, I stop myself from saying anything more, because Marcus is a soft sort who ain¡¯t come to terms with the fact that the rules are different out here. Back in the old world, folks had the luxury of being squeamish about death. Here in the Frontier, it¡¯s a way of life, so if Errol and Sarah Jay can¡¯t get past it, then better we find out now rather than later. ¡°I appreciate your concern Marcus, I do, but we been up almost twenty-four hours now, and we got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.¡± I¡¯d already figured on leaving them here, and honestly ain¡¯t entirely convinced they ought to come with. I know they can shoot Abby, but any fool can pull a trigger at some monstrous miscreation. What I need is a crew that¡¯ll have my back in a fire fight, not weigh me down like they did today. Sarah Jay sitting pretty like a paper target while Errol almost shot his own damn foot off before waving his gun around in a panic. Ain¡¯t no second chances out here, and no team to help babysit, so I gotta make sure they¡¯re prepped and ready to survive the wild Frontier without a five-pointed star on their chests and a whole organization at their back.


    That¡¯s what Marcus don¡¯t understand about riding freelance. Folks treat him different because he¡¯s big, burly, and a Captain in the Rangers, so he thinks everyone is afforded that same level of respect and caution. Me, I¡¯m small, wiry, and unaffiliated, and Qin to boot, which only makes things harder. They been known to raid settlements from time to time, which is why I have to go through all that rigamarole with palms forward and arms out to the sides, so I don¡¯t get shot on the approach. I ain¡¯t talking about no outlaw raiders neither, I¡¯m talking government backed military attacks made under the guise of banditry. Ain¡¯t much of a cover when all tracks lead back to official Qin settlements, but no one cares to call them out on it. Reason is the Gate connecting the old world to the Frontier sits deep in Qin territory, right next to their capital in fact. The Forbidden City, that¡¯s what the Qin call it, because it once served as their Immoral Monarch¡¯s personal residence. Can¡¯t even imagine why one man would need a whole city to themselves, though I suppose hiding a portal to another world would do it. The people of the Qin Republic didn¡¯t even know about the Gate to the Frontier until twenty-five years after the death of their Monarch, and the rest of the world didn¡¯t figure it out until ten years after that. Then they spent some more time researching methods to stabilize the Gate and negotiating passage through it, which the Qin government didn¡¯t like much. They felt like the Frontier belonged to them and them alone, but the other nations weren¡¯t about to let them monopolize the resources of an entire second world.


    Thing is, possession is nine-tenths of the law, meaning that so long as the Gate sits in Qin lands, they¡¯re calling most of the shots. That¡¯s why the government-affiliated organizations of the Frontier ain¡¯t willing to risk raising the ire of the Qin, because once the Watershed hits, there¡¯ll be a period of time when we can communicate with the old world before anyone can pass through the Gate. Anything that happens here could have political ramifications back home, so ain¡¯t no one willing to risk it. It¡¯s why the Rangers disavowed my daddy after his death, because they didn¡¯t want to step on no Qin toes. I get why they did what they did, I really do, but that don¡¯t mean I like it any, because history shows appeasement be a slippery slope. How much they gonna let the Qin get away with then? Can¡¯t rightly say what the Rangers would do if the Qin Vanguard official declared war on some lesser, unallied faction, like say the Espa?a Conquistadores or the Prussian Grenzewehr, or one of them Middle Eastern or African countries.


    Probably shout day and night about how it ain¡¯t right, then do precisely nothing about it. Still better than what they did to my daddy, spitting on everything he¡¯d ever accomplished. That¡¯s why I don¡¯t care to be American, or pledge fealty to any other nation of the old world. Government don¡¯t care about the people here, only how we best serve their interests, and the interests of the old world, but here¡¯s the thing. This world don¡¯t belong to them. It belongs to us, the settlers of the First Wave and the sons and daughters born here. We put the work in, so reason stands that we ought to reap the benefits, and if the old world thinks different, then they¡¯re in for a rude awakening.


    That ain¡¯t neither here nor there though. Long story short, Errol and Sarah Jay are already at a disadvantage, what with being a mixed-race couple riding with a Qin as their point man, so they can¡¯t afford to be anything less than absolutely ready. As is, I ain¡¯t comfortably bringing them back out into No Man¡¯s Land, much less into the desert again, not after today, and I¡¯m worried they¡¯ll learn all the wrong lessons riding with the Rangers. Told it to them the first day I met them, we ain¡¯t Rangers, but I doubt the warning stuck. Not much else did, so why expect otherwise?


    Sounds bitter, even to me, which is how I realize I¡¯m still holding a grudge over what went down. Hardly surprising, knowing me and my temper, so I head to the barn and work out a little harder than I usually would when away from home. Push-ups, pull-ups, squats and suicides, I push myself to the limit and cast Mage Armour on Cowie in between sets, familiarizing myself with the Spell in an effort to make it better. Unfortunately, Abjuration is my third weakest school of magic, only slightly better than my shoddy Illusions and abysmal Enchantments, so it¡¯s an uphill battle. That¡¯s how it is though, as every Spellslinger got their own strengths and weaknesses. Me, I can¡¯t draw and got the natural charm of a hog in heat, skills which are pretty important when casting Illusions and Enchantments. I can learn and sling the Spells just fine, but most require the caster to specify the parameters, which I ain¡¯t great at. If I want to cast an Illusion of an orc, I gotta picture it in my head, and apparently, I don¡¯t pay enough attention to details that ¡®matter¡¯. Who cares how far apart an orc¡¯s eyes are, or how light casts shadow across muscled flesh? Illusionists that¡¯s who, because you need to if you fixing to craft a believable Illusion.


    As for Enchantments, they typically Spells meant to allure, enthrall, or embolden, like the signature Charm Spell the School is so reviled for, or Errol¡¯s Heroism Spell to ward off debilitating fear. It¡¯s a School of emotion, and apparently I don¡¯t do emotions right. Has to do with my inability to open up with genuine sentiment, and the fact that I come on too strong, wielding emotion like a hammer when instead I need a lighter touch. That¡¯s what Aunty Ray says at least, but despite having a world-class Enchantress to school me, I never could get them Spells working all that good. In my defense, they ain¡¯t exactly fool proof to begin with, as sentient minds are pretty resistant to outside influence in general, though they work pretty good on dumb, rank-and-file Abby.


    That¡¯s why I typically stick to using arcana-tech when I need an Illusion or an Enchantment, but for Abjuration, that¡¯s a whole other story. I say it¡¯s my third worst school because it¡¯s the one school of Spells that scales best with practice and familiarity. The more you use a Spell, the better you are at using it, but with Abjuration Spells, that effect is even more pronounced. Has to do with the nature of the Spells, being defensive and whatnot, and how a rigid defense is typically less effective than a flexible one. Rigid shatters. Flexible distorts, and an experienced Abjuror can do a lot with a distorted defense Spell. Take the Mage Armour Spell I¡¯m practicing with. The Spell sheathes the target in a formless protective barrier, almost like a second skin. The barrier ain¡¯t physical in nature, as in you can¡¯t see it without Detect Magic, and it defends the target by shunting force off into the Immaterium before it reaches your skin. Least that¡¯s what my mama¡¯s notes say, and while my Mage Armour is only good for blunting punches and kicks, the same Spell cast by an experienced Abjuror can ward off Bolts, blades, and other heavy impacts. That¡¯s a Bolt from a proper Aetherarm mind you, an Intensified, Empowered, and Maximized weapon like my Rattlesnake. While a direct hit on Mage Armour could still leave the target bruised, broken, and internally bleeding, it¡¯s worlds apart from dead or dying.


    Theoretically, I know what I gotta do to improve my Mage Armour. I gotta make it better at shunting force, but there¡¯s no easy way to make it happen. No definable method at least, as it¡¯s a bit like trying to explain how to stand up straighter. Most folks just do it, and those that can¡¯t usually got good reason. There¡¯s no twelve-step process or tips to focus on, because we¡¯re working with an invisible, intangible, and ineffable barrier. All you can really do is keep practicing until you get results, except it''s like tying knots you can¡¯t see or touch, and can only judge by success or failure. There¡¯s no feeling, no sensation, no sense of progress or improvement as I finesse the Spell Structure this way and that in an effort to get a better outcome. Doesn¡¯t help that there¡¯s not much I can do with the Structure itself. It¡¯s like the baseball analogy I told Errol and how you switch from a fastball to a curve ball by switching up your grip, except in this case, I¡¯m changing up my grip a millimeter at a time and trying to gauge if my invisible fastball changes any.


    And it never does, or maybe I just can¡¯t sense the changes. It¡¯s all the same, just solid, stable nothingness that don¡¯t seem no different no matter what I do. So unlike the controlled chaos of Evocation, the blossoming mathematical concepts of Conjuration, or even the intrinsic cohesion and propagation of Transmutation. Course, I love Divination the best, and not just because my daddy taught me most of what he knows, but also because the hidden patterns of the Spells seem so easily discernable once I get in the right mindset. It¡¯s like¡­ knowing the right way to get home, or walking around a familiar place in total darkness. You just know, and it¡¯s that easy.


    Truth is, Abjuration is my third worse school mostly because it¡¯s my third least favourite. I been getting shot a lot lately though, so it¡¯s high time I put a bit more effort into it. Would much rather have a Mage Armour Spell Core, one Metamagicked up the gills, but they¡¯re so rare, expensive, and contested I couldn¡¯t hold onto one even if I found one. Paint a target on my back for every merc, scav, and opportunist if I did, and while I got skills, ain¡¯t no one that good.


    Besides slinging Spells is pretty much free, and a penny saved is a penny earned.


    Once I¡¯m all Spelled out and feeling dizzy and lightheaded, I take a quick shower and change before heading back out to the barn, dressed in my PJ¡¯s with Cowie in tow. Carrying him up the ladder into the hayloft, I grumble about his bad manners getting us 86¡¯d from the house, but it ain¡¯t entirely his fault. Hard to gauge your size when you always shifting from big to small, and Marcus was the one who got him all riled up, wrestling in the living room like they were. Personally, I think Simone overreacted, as it was just a tea set, and I even replaced it right quick, but that wasn¡¯t enough to get him back in her good graces. So it¡¯s the hayloft for the both of us since neither of us like sleeping alone, which is fine by me. Giving the back of Cowie¡¯s head a good-night kiss, I snuggle up as the big spoon and hug him tight. ¡°You did good today,¡± I whisper, and he blows a raspberry to say ¡®I know¡¯. ¡°Don¡¯t you sass me. Still, you took a big risk. Errol could¡¯ve shot you when you rushed him like that, and then where¡¯d I be? Stuck on the Highway hauling my own wagon, that¡¯s where, so don¡¯t do you ever do that again.¡±


    Because if it¡¯s a choice between Errol and Cowie, I¡¯ll pick Cowie each and every time. No contest.


    Not entirely sure how much Cowie understands, but he gently butts his head against mine and grunts, so I leave it at that and sing him a lullaby. We¡¯ve been skipping out lately because it¡¯s embarrassing to sing in front of people, but ain¡¯t no one here in the barn. Feeling nostalgic, I sing ¡®Cat¡¯s in the Cradle¡¯</a>, an old favourite Uncle Raleigh used to perform that hits close to home. Doubly so since I wish he was still around, or my daddy, so I could ask them for advice. They ain¡¯t around no more though, so I got no one to lean on but myself. Aunty Ray got enough on her plate as is, and I can¡¯t be imposing on other folks so much. It¡¯s Howie and Cowie against the world, business as usual really, except today, it feels lonelier than ever.


    Despite the long night of scouting and tense day of travel, I wake up with the morning sun. Mostly because Cowie¡¯s gotta do his business and knows better than to do it in the feed, so I carry him down and get an early start to the day. Course, misery loves company, so I go a knocking at the guestroom windows without looking in, just in case my prospects decided to flaunt the rules once again. That¡¯s a fight I¡¯ve all but given up on, because there only so many ways I can politely remind Sarah Jay the dangers of being a woman, and it¡¯s wearing thin on the both of us. As they get up and about, I cook up some breakfast at the firepit outside so as not to wake Marcus and Simone, while adding camp duties to the list of things I¡¯ve got to discuss.


    Wasn¡¯t counting on being a full-time chef when I started a crew, or dishwasher neither. How¡¯s it I¡¯m paying for two sets of helping hands and got more work for it?


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    While chowing down on canned beans and pan-fried bacon, I study my prospects and note their distant gazes and deadpan expressions. ¡°Troubles sleepin¡¯?¡± I ask, knowing full well the answer is yes, and when they both nod, I say, ¡°Hard thing seein¡¯ a man die, even ones who mean to see you dead.¡± Not really, but people say it is, and I tag on that last bit just to emphasize the fact. ¡°If you wanna talk about it, I¡¯m here. Or not and we can move on, but I want you to know that you¡¯re free to speak your mind around me.¡± Better we find out sooner rather than later if they ain¡¯t got the stones, but it¡¯s too early to say just yet.


    Taking a deep breath, Errol stares down at his plate and says, ¡°Every time I close my eyes, I see his face again, hear his voice blaming me for his death.¡±


    ¡°Wasn¡¯t your fault,¡± I reply, and Sarah Jay gives me a look that tells me it was the wrong thing to say. Especially considering how I all but threw those deaths in his face yesterday. ¡°They came at us with violence in mind, and I responded in kind. Simple as that. I take no pleasure in their deaths, but I won¡¯t lose no sleep over it either, because it was them or us. Might not make things easier for you, but them¡¯s the facts.¡±


    Errol nods and moves his food around his plate while I try to think of something else to say. Got nothing though, as I never been bothered by the death of a stranger, much less a criminal. Shooting bunnies, now that was hard, because they was innocent and me well fed, but criminals? Seen too much of the harm they done to sympathize, or maybe I¡¯m one who ain¡¯t right in the head. Errol¡¯s all out of sorts, and Sarah Jay got that same distant look in her eyes, but she¡¯s much less talkative, unwilling to even give voice to what¡¯s bothering her. Could be the same as Errol, or it could be something else entirely, but can¡¯t know unless she says something, which don¡¯t seem likely. Aunty Ray would probably know what to say to cheer them up, but the best I can offer is a hot meal which they don¡¯t seem all too interested in.


    Maybe next time, I ought to shoot someone in the stomach or something, then set one of my prospects to finish the job. Do it right, like with that outlaw in Pleasant Dunes who was bleeding out his gut, and I can honestly say that the man¡¯s already dead, his body just don¡¯t know it yet. Then it won¡¯t be Errol or Sarah Jay¡¯s Bolt that kills the man, but rather their Bolt which frees him from his pain. Mercy killing¡¯s easier than doing it in cold blood, and from there, it¡¯s just a matter of repetition. Course, nothing¡¯s easier than killing in the heat of anger, believe you me. Only bad part of it is wishing you could kill the bastards again, but sadly Resurrection ain¡¯t a real Spell, just make believe from stories and movies.


    Unable to stomach their moping any longer, I clap my hands after a full five minutes of silence. ¡°Finish your food and wash up so we can move on,¡± I say, trying not to sound too harsh about it. ¡°Got a busy day ahead, which might take your mind off things.¡± While they do that, I borrow Marcus¡¯ Abby pot from the barn, a big metal cauldron I could comfortably curl up inside if it wasn¡¯t for the stink. After setting it up for a cook, I say, ¡°Time we got those gobbos cooking, else the wagon gonna stink something fierce.¡± Showing them how to detach the container from the undercarriage, I use the Floating Disc sleds to drag it closer to the cauldron so we can begin the unpleasant process of loading the corpses into the pot. Getting them to fit is even worse, as it involves a lot of chopping and folding to get the corpses packed in tight, but thankfully, Abby don¡¯t go all stiff after they die.


    ¡°It¡¯s fascinatin¡¯ really,¡± I say, more to fill the silence than anything else, though my voice is muffled by my kerchief tied over my nose and mouth to ward off the sour stench and keep errant splashes from getting in. ¡°Abby are unlike any other known lifeform, with the closest analogue being fungi, and even then it ain¡¯t all that close. That¡¯s why we call ¡®em Aberrations, ¡®cause they don¡¯t fit what we know about biology or chemistry in general. You know Abby bodies don¡¯t rot? Not the way we understand it, as their corpses will break down into a stinky goop within a week or two, but stays close to the surface and draws other Abby like flies to honey. They¡¯ll slurp that goop right up and become stronger for it, or bring it back to their Proggies to turn into new Abby. What we doin¡¯ here is speedin¡¯ that process along so we can break them corpses down into Aberrtin, which we then mix with other elements and compounds to create new materials, like Darksteel, Brightsteel, Mithril, and Adamantine among other things.¡±


    To get at that precious bio-mineral goodness, we gotta cook the Abby, a task far less appetizing than it sounds. Once the pot is filled with gobbo parts, we add in water, soda ash, soapweed, alum, gypsum, and a few other ingredients, all of which I keep in my wagon. Then we bring it to a boil, which makes it stink something fierce as Abby meat melts right of the bone. Those we fish out and break them apart before throwing back in to cook some more, because there be Aberrtin in the marrow, or whatever the Abby equivalent is. As I¡¯ve mentioned before, goblins don¡¯t got much Aberrtin in them, so once the first batch is done cooking, we add in more corpses water, and ingredients and keep right on cooking. Takes a few hours to render all the corpses into goop, whereupon we fish out all the chopped-up bones, teeth, tusks, nails, and whatnot to use as plant fertilizer before adding a good amount of lime powder and turning up the heat. From there, it¡¯s just a matter of waiting for all the Aberrtin to separate, as the hydrophobic ¡®black gold¡¯ comes right up to the surface to be skimmed off and collected in a tin mould shaped like a popsicle tray.


    Don¡¯t go lickin¡¯ any Aberrtin popsicles though. Rot your tongue right off it will, and hurt something fierce doing so.


    It''s a lot of work for not a lot of Aberrtin, far less than the expected sixty-three grams in fact, but not because we done goof. It¡¯s an expected result after fishing out a pleasant surprise while removing the junk, an irregular lump of purple crystal no bigger than my eye. Shaped like five cubes all fused into one another in a random mess, a Spell Core which sets a fire in Sarah Jay and brings her right out of her funk as I fend baby Cowie off to keep him from eating it whole. ¡°What kind of Spell Core is it?¡± she asks, though I know what she really wants to ask is how much it¡¯s worth. Hungry to learn and earn she is, and a right proper prospect it makes.


    ¡°Let¡¯s find out.¡± Grabbing a baggy of crystallized Aether and my Aberrtin tuning fork out of my component¡¯s pouch, I pull out a single grain and chant the words to the relevant Cantrip, one aptly named ¡®Identify Spell Core¡¯. At the culmination of the chant, I strike the Spell Core with my tuning fork and it comes alive in my mind¡¯s eye. There, I watch as it draws upon the Immaterium to cover me in ectoplasmic plates adhered to my skin, plates which chips away as I¡¯m hit by another me slinging Bolts from afar.


    Course, Sarah Jay and Errol don¡¯t see what I do. From their perspective, I muttered a bit and tapped the Spell Core with my eyes all distant, only to snap back without warning and draw a deep breath. It¡¯s always disorienting to have images and experiences shoved into your head, but I¡¯ve had worse, so it only takes me a moment to collect myself. ¡°Ablative Armour,¡± I say, and Sarah Jay¡¯s hopes fade right quick, because while it ain¡¯t the worst First Order Spell Core to have, it¡¯s not the best either. Much like Elemental Orb, Ablative Armour has a good number of quirks that make the Spell Core difficult to use as is, but the Spell itself is solid. A First Order Transmutation Spell, it turns ectoplasm into armour shaped by the caster¡¯s will. The British Protectorate and Knight Templars love to conjure heavy plate armour, while Abby typically go for chitin plates, but you can do anything you like really, as the form the armour take don¡¯t affect how it work much. No, the real value of the Spell is the ability to stack multiple instances of the Spell for more coverage and durability, or even repair damage done to the armour. Great Spell for a one-trick pony since it gets more effective with each cast, and you can¡¯t argue against the convenience of magically conjured armour. Not so great if you got a wide array of Spells to sling, like yours truly, since it ain¡¯t all that useful when you only cast it once.


    Wish Cowie could learn it, but them¡¯s the breaks of being Innate. Don¡¯t get to pick and choose what Spells you learn, and I ain¡¯t about to risk feeding him a second Core.


    ¡°That first goblin I shot was bigger than the rest,¡± Sarah Jay says, already back to sulking as she the eyes the Spell Core like it¡¯d done her wrong. ¡°Might be because it was using this Spell Core, with a second layer of armoured skin over itself.¡±


    ¡°Might be,¡± I say, though there¡¯s an equally good chance the Core came from a goblin that just didn¡¯t have time to cast the Spell, or burned up before we noticed. ¡°Either way, it¡¯s yours. I got three I¡¯m holding onto back home, and don¡¯t really need a fourth, so you can keep it or sell it as you please for a few bucks. Just don¡¯t let Cowie get at it.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± Errol asks, looking up from the boring dry fire drills I got him practicing to work on his aim and trigger discipline. ¡°Cowie¡¯s already an Innate, isn¡¯t he? What happens if he eats another Spell Core?¡±


    ¡°Best case scenario, he gets stronger and nothing else,¡± I say, rubbing my partner¡¯s fuzzy cheeks to distract him from the Spell Core. ¡°Worst case, he gets stronger, goes insane, and tries to kill us all. Could also just die on the spot, or turn stupid, or one of a million different things. Attunement ain¡¯t an exact science.¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡±


    I can see Errol wants to know more, and I¡¯m happy to oblige. ¡°See, Spell Cores are tailor made for Abby. Rather than mechanical tools or weapons, Proggies make biomineral Spell Cores to equip their Abby with, or Abby grow one themselves. Turns them into the Abby equivalent of Attuned, where they start out knowin¡¯ only the one Spell the Core provide, and developin¡¯ more as time goes by.¡± Holding up the shiny purple crystal, I continue, ¡°Important thing is, the Spell Core remains separate from the Abby like an extra organ. That way, if the Abby usin¡¯ it dies, another can snatch it up for their own use. Good for us, since it lets us harvest and use them. If a human or animal ingests a Spell Core however, it dissolves like salt in water and merges with the host. Y¡¯all know about D.N.A?¡± They both give a tentative nod, which is good because older children tend to have gaps in their basic knowledge, on account of how unstable life was growing up. ¡°Well, among other things, the Spell Core will change an Innate¡¯s D.N.A, which is why those magical abilities are passed down to their children. Nifty right? Except when you take in more than one Core, you¡¯re rewritin¡¯ D.N.A which has already been rewritten, which could lead to very bad things. I mean, things could go wrong the first time around too, but the more you push the envelope, the riskier it gets.¡±


    Like mutation and psychosis, creating Innates who don¡¯t even look human no more. Chrissy¡¯s inability to communicate stems from the same issue, because even though both her parents are single Core Innates, their combined bloodline shouldn¡¯t be much different from a double Core Innate. Far as I¡¯m concerned, she got off light, so I ain¡¯t about to let my partner gobble up a second Spell Core, no matter how much his instincts are telling him to get at it. Giving Cowie¡¯s cheeks a pinch, I go back to massaging them and say, ¡°So yea. One Attunement is usually as far as you want to go, though there¡¯s a Brit who fought in World War Two by the name of David Elten who had seven separate Attunements.¡± And was more or less insane because of them. Committed all manner of war crimes which mostly got swept under the rug, then defected after the war ended and had to be put down. Not before destroying vast swathes of London and killing a couple Royals in the process. Regular Royals, as the Brits had long since overthrown their Immortal Monarch. I know all this because I¡¯ve met the guy¡¯s grandson. Edward Elten. Real nice fellow all things considered, and a good friend. Fact is, my daddy got the idea of using non-verbal communication with Chrissy from interacting with Edward, who spends most his time bird watching, when he ain¡¯t tearing Abby apart with his bare hands. Claws. Whatever.


    Always eager to earn, Sarah Jay brings the conversation back to the Spell Core in her hands and asks, ¡°Why you hanging onto three of them?¡±


    ¡°Because of something Danny told me,¡± I reply. ¡°Long story short, Ablative Armour is a useful Spell Core, but we don¡¯t got the infrastructure to make use of it just yet. Time was, everyone considered it a junk Core, because to get it working, you¡¯d have to calibrate it for each specific user¡¯s physical dimensions. Then, if they gained or lost weight, you¡¯d have to recalibrate it again, which made it real awkward to use long term. During the First World War however, some Sicilian automakers got the bright idea of using the Spell Core to armour an inanimate object, like a truck or tank. Took a lot of finagling and more energy than you¡¯d like, but it worked real good. Didn¡¯t really take off in popularity until the Second World War though, when some Prussian Artificer figured out how to configure the resulting ectoplasmic armour to draw power from an Aetheric dynamo, which all vehicles have. With that in place, you could cast the Spell using the Spell Core and crystallized Aether, then restore the damaged bits using Aetheric energy from the dynamo, which really stretches the longevity of each cast and the protection it provide.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s nifty,¡± Sarah Jay says, stuffing the Spell Core into her breast pocket. ¡°How come we can¡¯t do none of that just yet?¡±


    ¡°Because the tech needed is too difficult to make by hand,¡± I replied, giving a little shrug. ¡°Something about silicon wafers and circuit boards and other such doodads. Also Aether concentration levels are too low to make it cost effective, so we gotta wait until after the Watershed anyways.¡±


    Stopping Errol before he asks another question, I point at the target on the barn wall and he goes back to his drills. Draw, aim, shoot, reload, repeat, with a second-long pause between each step to make him think every action through. Inane though it may seem, this isn¡¯t to punish him, but to help. He¡¯s always too rushed and skips over a few steps, like pulling the trigger before he aim¡¯s down sight. The exercise trains him to build good habits, including keeping his finger off the trigger at all times except when firing.


    As for Sarah Jay, her issue is a bit trickier to tackle, and I ain¡¯t got no idea what to do about her stage fright in the short term. It¡¯s a matter of confidence, and her¡¯s is shattered after what went down, so I gots to build it up. She does fine when she¡¯s got a plan laid out for her, it¡¯s just the element of surprise throwing her for a loop. Competence breeds confidence though, so training and experience will get her there, so I set her to doing drills too while talking them both through a couple common schemes they might run into on the road. Fake missing children, lured Abby attacks, staged drownings, and so much more, the number of schemes I¡¯ve come across in my time on the Frontier are too many to list, but most got one thing in common. They target your emotions, because people tend to think less when emotions run high, which is a luxury we can¡¯t afford.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter how dire the circumstances may appear,¡± I say, correcting Errol¡¯s posture with the El-Minister so he ain¡¯t bending his neck and head sideways over the sight. ¡°You always look before you leap. You only got one life, which means you gotta take care of yourself first before helping others. Even if the problem is real, what good are you if you jump in to save a drowning kid only to find out he¡¯s caught in a riptide?¡±


    Neither one of my prospects answers, which is how I know it¡¯s time for a break. Once they¡¯re done locking up their rifles, I lead the scrawny horses I claimed from the bandits yesterday out of the barn. ¡°You¡¯re bringing them out to sell?¡± Errol asks, and I nod in reply. ¡°Ah,¡± he says, looking hesitant as he shows his hand to one of the nags and winces as she dances away in fear. ¡°I thought, you know, you might want to keep them. I could train them up right. Get them healthy and presentable so you get a better price.¡±


    It''s a weak argument and Errol knows it, so I don¡¯t turn him down right away. ¡°It¡¯d double our travel time just to get them back to New Hope,¡± I say, trying to let him down gentle. ¡°They barely had the legs to make it twenty klicks yesterday. It¡¯ll take weeks before they¡¯re travel ready, and longer still to make ¡®em presentable. Besides, who¡¯ll look after them while we¡¯re out and about? Better if they¡¯re sold to someone who got the time and inclination.¡±


    ¡°Most won¡¯t bother,¡± Errol says, still holding his hand out for the same horse while he¡¯s turned to the side. If I did that with old Tux, he¡¯d nip me good, but these scrawny horses are too scared to even try.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you worry, Errol.¡± Flashing a smile, I tell him, ¡°Meadowbrook¡¯s got plenty of ploughs which need pulling. These horses will be treated right so they can be put to work, and we¡¯ll trade them for one that can carry you out tomorrow.¡±


    Even with the trade, it costs me a pretty penny to buy a horse to replace Bruno, a snowy white gelding who Errol immediately names Ivory. While resisting the urge to make the obvious joke, I must¡¯ve made some sort of face, because he looks at me with a wry little smile. ¡°I know you must think I¡¯m stupid or something,¡± Errol says, ¡°Naming the horse again after everything that happened. I get why you told us not to get attached, because you¡¯re worried we¡¯ll lose the horse and it¡¯ll hurt more because we named it. Makes sense, but I think that¡¯s the wrong way to go about it. If we don¡¯t name him, and we lose him, it might not hurt as much, but if we do name him, we might also think twice before doing something stupid that could cost Ivory here his life.¡±


    He''s got me there, and I can¡¯t help but grin as I give Ivory a pat on the nose. ¡°You a wise man Errol,¡± I say, as I lead him down towards the market distract for a spot of lunch. ¡°And I hope you right, because my wallet can¡¯t handle much more of this.¡±


    An arm appears over my shoulder and closes in on my neck. My heart seizes and stomach clenches as I duck under the attack and pivot about to meet my assailant. My fingers just barely graze the Rattlesnake before I realize who it is, and I stop myself short before drawing on Sarah Jay. ¡°Sorry,¡± she says, her eyes wide in a mixture of surprise and amusement as she stands there with one arm around Errol¡¯s shoulders to pull him in close for a hug. ¡°Just wanted a bit of a group hug is all, seeing how my boys were getting along again.¡±


    Heaving a sigh of relief that is wholly at odds with my burning embarrassment, I cough and try to make light of my overreaction. ¡°Sorry,¡± I say, pretending not to notice her unspoken invitation to complete the hug and turning away. ¡°Was surprised is all.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll say.¡± Sarah Jay is too clever by far, and she can see something is up, but unlike miss Laura, she don¡¯t recognize it for what it is. Lucky her, but as her brow furrows in genuine worry, she decides to change the topic rather than push the issue. ¡°I know you joking about your wallet and all, but you gotta be hurtin¡¯. You talked about a few types of jobs you don¡¯t take. What sort of jobs do you take then?¡±


    ¡°Odd jobs mostly.¡± Even though it¡¯s not the answer she wants, it¡¯s all I really got. ¡°Could¡¯ve made a bill or two selling my wares up in Nakoda, but the real profits come from selling to the settlements off the Highway. They don¡¯t get as much traffic, so they tend to pay more, though you gotta be willing to accept payment in barter.¡± It¡¯s also dangerous, because the folks who don¡¯t live in proper towns do so for good reason, but I don¡¯t want to overwhelm them with tales of the cultists, cannibals, and crazies you tend to encounter when moving off the beaten path. ¡°Come summer, trade usually slows down as the big companies pick up the slack, so I¡¯ll usually find a contract shuttlin¡¯ supplies somewhere. This year would mean going south past Redeemer¡¯s Keep. Three new fortresses slated to go up this summer means plenty of work to be done, and I¡¯ll typically hunt Abby and collect whatever resources I come across on my way back.¡± Doubt I¡¯ll do much of that with Errol and Sarah Jay in tow, because they ain¡¯t gonna be ready for the badlands anytime soon. ¡°Can make a mint finding Abby burrows and Aether node too. Never tried clearing or mining ¡®em myself. Too dangerous, but the finder¡¯s fee is a decent wage for not much work, and I usually get paid for transport too.¡± Once my prospects are up to snuff though, then work can really start picking up, though I leave the first part unsaid. ¡°Early winter, I usually head north to join a muscari hunt. Ain¡¯t much profit, but pemmican stores well and there always folks in need of pelts. Come next spring, there¡¯ll be plenty looking to move into the new settlements down south, so we could make a decent wage escortin¡¯ them to their destinations. Won¡¯t be easy, as there¡¯ll be outlaws looking to prey on newcomers, but the Rangers will probably offer a blanket bounty on any bandits killed while operating in the area.¡±


    There¡¯s plenty more work out there if you¡¯re willing to do it. I tend not to, because there more money in hunting Abby, so long as you ain¡¯t hunting goblins. Feral Abby are bigger and stronger, but also less numerous, which makes them easier and more profitable to kill and cook. They also tend to have more Spell Cores, because unlike goblins, orcs, and their ilk, Ferals ain¡¯t the best at slinging Spells any other way. This¡¯ll all have to wait until after Pleasant Dunes though, when I can dedicate time to really training Errol and Sarah Jay, not to mention maybe get them into Basic with me come summer. I still don¡¯t think I need the extra training, not after having seen their lackluster results, but the Marshal made it clear he won¡¯t give me any more difficult jobs unless I go through the rigamarole and show everyone I got the chops.


    Not gonna lie, I¡¯m good at what I do, but I ain¡¯t so arrogant as to think I can delve down into an Abby burrow and take out a Progenitor by my lonesome, or even with my own crew. Best to do so with the Rangers at my back, which means going along with the Marshal¡¯s plans. Doubt he¡¯ll send me delving anytime soon, but might be he gets me work supporting an operation, let me see how it goes down and get in good with the delving teams. That¡¯s where the best money is, albeit for good reason; only the best can fight Abby down under dark in their cramped tunnels and make it back out alive, much less clear it out to mine for crystallized Aether and other precious resources. Me, I intend to be the best there ever was, but everybody¡¯s gotta get started somewhere, and ain¡¯t no better option for me, Errol, and Sarah Jay besides learning with the Rangers.


    That¡¯s long term of course, but for now, it looks like I¡¯ll have to tighten my belt for a bit unless I can find some time to slip away this summer and get a good hunt in the badlands.


    These thoughts and more run through my head as I put my prospects through more drills for the rest of the day, while simultaneously getting ready for the long trip to Pleasant Dunes. The busywork brings us all around town until I call it quits about an hour before dinner, when we head to the south gates. Soon enough, the Ranger delegation arrives right on schedule, and I see a number of familiar faces, including Tim who¡¯s much too busy wrangling boots to spare time for a tongue wag. Don¡¯t stop Errol and Sarah Jay from chatting up their friends, and soon as the boots are set loose, my sorta-sister rides over atop old Tux, the black and white piebald that carried my daddy about for nigh over a decade. He almost as old as I am, which is downright ancient for a horse, though he looking hale and healthy as ever as he trots over and tosses his mane before leaning in for a nibble of my outstretched hand. A love bite is all it is, and his reunion with baby Cowie is a sight for sore eyes as Old Tux sets to grooming his best little friend.


    As for Tina, she looks like a right proper Ranger sitting up top in her peach-white button up and brown Stetson. Should get her a hat-band and a recording medallion of her own, maybe something with a bird, but that¡¯ll have to wait until I have cash to spare. Strikes me that she¡¯ll have finished Basic by the time summer rolls around, so maybe we could find time for a quick hunt in the badlands to put her through her paces and make sure the Rangers trained her up right. With her skills to back me up, we could earn some real cash if we hit the right targets, a thought which puts a big smile on my face, which in turn puts a smile on Tina¡¯s. ¡°Howdy stranger,¡± she says, tipping her Stetson with a grin. ¡°Fancy seeing you here. Figured you¡¯d be in Wabasca by now.¡±


    ¡°Well, you know how it is,¡± I say, using the same hand old Tux slobbered on to help her off the horse. Earns me a puffed cheek pout as she wipes her hand off on my duster instead of going for a hug, which was pretty much the plan. ¡°Heard about a new Ranger outpost north of town and figured it for the perfect chance to get some huntin¡¯ in with my new prospects. Earned us a fistful of Aberrtin and a Spell Core to boot. Ablative Armour.¡±


    Giving me a look that says she ain¡¯t buying what I¡¯m selling, Tina leans in and asks, ¡°How they doing then?¡±


    ¡°Off to a bumpy start,¡± I say, before lowering my voice. ¡°Ain¡¯t looking good, but here¡¯s hopin¡¯.¡±


    ¡°Mmh. We¡¯ll talk more about that later.¡± Glancing around to make sure she isn¡¯t overhead, Tina blows her blonde bangs out of her blue eyes and asks, ¡°So what¡¯s this all about then? They said it¡¯s a live-fire training exercise, but I know something¡¯s up, and I know you mixed up in it too, else you wouldn¡¯t be hanging around. They handed out Forzares and Strelkies instead of our usual El-Ministers. Armour Penetrating Aetherarms, just like the .45 you bought me, so you gots some explaining to do, mister.¡±


    ¡°Not here,¡± I say. Catching Ava¡¯s dark scowl from across the street and responding with a grin, I lead Tina and Tux out and away from the crowd. ¡°C¡¯mon. Marcus has been cooking all afternoon, so you in for a real treat. I¡¯ll tell you all about it while we eat.¡±


    Feels like forever and a day since I sat across the bar from Ron Jackson, and now that we¡¯re almost there, I can¡¯t wait to get back. Won¡¯t be riding in alone this time, so with a little luck, I might not even get shot again.


    Course, with how the dice have been rolling so far, chances of that seem slim to none.

 Chapter 24

    Dinner is once again a toothsome affair, but that¡¯s to be expected in the Clay household.


    The food is so good I feel all but obliged to let my prospects off for the night at Marcus¡¯ request, but not without a warning first. ¡°Don¡¯t be getting in no trouble now, you hear?¡± I say, trying to keep my tone light and breezy. ¡°No drugs or alcohol, and if you get in a brawl, you best win, because I ain¡¯t postin¡¯ bail for no losers. Spent enough on you both already.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Marcus interjects, looking all offended like I¡¯d said something controversial. ¡°No brawling. What are you teaching them, Howie?¡±


    ¡°How to be winners.¡± And survive, because showing weakness is a good way to get yourself killed. Marcus don¡¯t get it because folks don¡¯t run Rangers out of town, not in any direct manner, but I¡¯ve been around a bit and ain¡¯t welcome in many a settlement, so I know what I¡¯m talking about. Waving my prospects out the door with Marcus and Simone hot on their heels, I help Tina collect the dishes and get to washing while she rinses. ¡°Ought to teach them to do chores instead,¡± I grumble as I scrub away at the first plate. ¡°Didn¡¯t pick up two prospects just to nanny them full time, so how come that¡¯s what it feels like I been doing?¡±


    ¡°You tryin¡¯ to say something Howie?¡± Tina asks, studying me from the side as she soaps up a dish. ¡°You been real grumpy all night when it comes to Errol and Sarah Jay, picking at them like a vulture. Part of that bumpy start you won¡¯t talk about?¡±


    ¡°Yea, more or less.¡± Which is where I intend to leave it, but between my need to vent and the fact that Tina might learn something from their mistakes, I tell her everything that happened. ¡°So Cowie moves off of Errol and I take his guns right? And the whole time he¡¯s looking at me like I¡¯m some monster, accusin¡¯ me of murder like them banditos wasn¡¯t fixin¡¯ to put a hole in his head.¡± Feels good to give voice to my grievances, which I been keeping close to the chest, since airing it out with Errol and Sarah Jay won¡¯t do no good. They know they done wrong and aiming to fix it, so no sense kicking them while they already down. ¡°And you know what really sticks in my craw?¡± I ask, getting a little too carried away. ¡°Me and Cowie risked our hides to save theirs, and all this time, I ain¡¯t heard word one of thanks. Ain¡¯t like I want them grovellin¡¯, but a simple, ¡®hey thanks for taking that hit and keeping us alive¡¯ would be nice, you know?¡±


    ¡°You got shot again?¡±


    Oops. Meant to leave that out. ¡°Grazed,¡± I reply, turning away to put away the dishes and hide my embarrassment, only to be reminded of what she said the last time I tried to play down getting shot. ¡°Seriously, barely nicked me.¡± Left two holes in my duster though, which I Mended with the last of my spare materials. Gonna need to buy more Augmented leather and ask Aunty Ray for some wally wool sheets if I¡¯m gonna keep getting shot. ¡°But that just adds to my point. I got clipped, but they both seem to think it¡¯s just business as usual, you know? Didn¡¯t ask me how I was doing, did they? Feels a mite ungrateful is all.¡± Especially since I got shot from behind while I was taking down the bandit who¡¯d come riding in. Could¡¯ve hunkered down instead, gone after the ones in the woods, then taken out the rider once he was in my sights, but I didn¡¯t because that would¡¯ve given him a free shot or two at Errol and Sarah Jay. I figured my prized pupil would have my back, put down cover fire into the trees to keep them shooters hiding, but she didn¡¯t fire off a single shot.


    Which again, I didn¡¯t bring up because I didn¡¯t want them feeling worse than they already do. Can¡¯t be crippling their confidence right when they start, because confidence is what they need. You get that sorted, and you halfway sorted.


    Resting her head on my shoulder in a placating half-hug, Tina hip checks me after the fact to bump me off my high horse and goes right back to drying. ¡°You tell them any of this, or you play it all cool and casual like you always do?¡± she asks. ¡°Far as they know, that shootout was business as usual for the Firstborn.¡±


    ¡°It was, but it¡¯s the principal of the matter, understand?¡± Even I know my argument is weak, so I heave a sigh and say, ¡°Look, I know it¡¯s petty and dumb, but I don¡¯t mean nothin¡¯ by it. Just venting is all.¡±


    ¡°I get it. You thought it¡¯d be fun and games, but turns out teaching prospects is actual work.¡± Leaning forward to look at me sideways while I vigorously scrub a pot, Tina bats her big blues in mock sympathy and asks, ¡°You doing alright Howie? You want I should find a marty for you to pet?¡±


    Now, Tina¡¯s making fun, but that actually don¡¯t sound half bad. ¡°I said I knew it was petty. Don¡¯t got to rub it in.¡±


    Sticking her tongue out and looking adorable as all heck, Tina says, ¡°You can¡¯t play the big bad gunfighter and get upset when folks buy the whole schtick. Besides, you keep riding them so hard, you¡¯ll either push them away or watch them jump ship the moment they get a better offer.¡± Resting her head on my shoulder again, she asks, ¡°You okay though? Asking for real this time.¡±


    ¡°Yea, I¡¯m fine.¡± And I am, just annoyed is all. ¡°Not so sure what to do though. Can¡¯t trust them to do what they¡¯re told no more, or even do what¡¯s right for them. How hard is it to take cover when folks start shootin¡¯?¡± Tina don¡¯t got an answer this time around, and I sense something amiss. ¡°What¡¯s the matter Songbird? My bellyaching too much?¡±


    ¡°No, no.¡± Giving me the barest ghost of a smile, Tina shakes her head. ¡°It¡¯s nice to hear you complain for once. Better than you waving it off like nothing, at least. Shows you¡¯re taking it seriously, though I¡¯m thinking you¡¯re more concerned about their safety than yours.¡±


    ¡°Well, yea. I know how to handle myself.¡±


    ¡°Says the man who¡¯s been shot twice this month.¡± Turning on me in a huff, Tina hits me with her best glare, one that fall¡¯s short of Aunty Ray¡¯s, but not by much. ¡°Don¡¯t matter how good you are, Howie. Any layabout with an Aetherarm could take you out if they put a Bolt in the right place, and that there is the truth, no two ways about it. You best start taking better care of yourself out there, else I¡¯ll set Chrissy to latch onto your neck and never let you out of her sights again.¡±


    ¡°Psh.¡± Touched as I am, I can¡¯t rightly show it, because as the big brother in this here dynamic, it¡¯s my job to rag on my little sister, so she toughens up and learns not to take no guff from no man. ¡°See who buys you dresses then, once I¡¯m stuck homebound and broke.¡±


    ¡°We can live without fancy dresses Howie,¡± Tina hits back. ¡°Would much rather have you healthy and whole is all, so don¡¯t you go risking life and limb for no clothes.¡±


    ¡°¡­Will do ma¡¯am.¡± Ain¡¯t no winning against Tina, not when she¡¯s spitting facts, and truth be told, I¡¯m really looking forward to fighting Abby with her. ¡°So how you feeling now that you know what¡¯s what? Scared? Excited?¡±


    ¡°Bit of both.¡± After a bit of a pause, she gives me a sideways look and adds, ¡°More nervous really, after hearing how bad Errol and Sarah Jay had it. They weren¡¯t at the tippy top, but they wasn¡¯t mediocre neither, so now I¡¯m not sure how I¡¯ll hold up. What if I make a mess of things just like they did?¡±


    Ah. So that¡¯s why she was looking so sour. ¡°Well, why you think I¡¯m here?¡± Giving her a little hip bump of my own, I add, ¡°Like I¡¯d let you go into your first fight without being there to take pictures and watch your back. You¡¯ll do great Tina, and if things turn south, then you just follow me and I¡¯ll see you through it safe.¡±


    Would be best if I could suss out that Proggie before any real fighting goes down, because Tina¡¯s right. All it takes is the right Bolt in the wrong place to really ruin your day, and there¡¯ll be a whole lot worse than just Bolts flying around if it comes down to a straight up fight. Luckily I got Cowie and my armoured wagon, which means if push comes to shove, I got a better chance than most of getting us out alive, me, Tina, and whoever else happens to be close by when the going gets good.


    So lost in my plans of what to do about Pleasant Dunes, it takes a good minute before I realize Tina is crying, and I can¡¯t for the life of me figure out why. ¡°What¡¯s wrong, Songbird? Something I said?¡±


    ¡°Yea?¡± Nodding as the tears stream down her cheeks, she switches to shaking her head right away. ¡°But it¡¯s okay. Happy tears.¡± Which is about the most backwards thing I¡¯ve ever heard of, but I¡¯m more or less use to it by now. Since she looks like she wants one, I open my arms up for a hug, and she all but throws herself into my chest and cries a bit more. ¡°Just you been so distant lately,¡± she says between sobs. ¡°So its nice to know you still care.¡±


    ¡°Course I care.¡± Can¡¯t help but feel guilty as I say it, because it wasn¡¯t that long ago that me and Tina were thick as thieves, same as me and Chrissy really. Maybe closer even. Then Tina grew¡­ well, everywhere, and I developed a whole host of hangups about it all. It ain¡¯t her fault though, and I ain¡¯t never said nothing, so I can see why she might¡¯ve thought I didn¡¯t care anymore. ¡°I ain¡¯t the best at showing it,¡± I say, hugging her for all I¡¯m worth and fightin¡¯ back the panic, ¡°But we family. You know that right? Ain¡¯t nothin¡¯ ever gonna change that.¡±


    Which oddly enough only makes her cry more and hug harder, so I keep quiet, pat her back, and count prime numbers to distract myself from her scent and softness. Thankfully, Tina regains her usual cheer after a bit and we go back to doing dishes, after which she invites me out to meet her friends for a drink and a chat. Waving the suggestion off, I make a face and say, ¡°Terrible idea. Told my prospects they best behave, so how¡¯s it gonna look if I get thrown in the clink myself?¡±


    ¡°You gonna have to meet everyone eventually, you know.¡± Hands on her hips and cheeks in full puff, Tina pouts and adds, ¡°Besides, why can¡¯t you just behave? Ain¡¯t all that difficult mister. Just keep your hands to yourself instead of throwing them at the first fool who looks at you sideways.¡±


    ¡°Sounds complicated.¡± Giving her my best smile as I shoo her off to have fun, I add, ¡°Besides, I¡¯m getting somewhere with Mage Armour, and don¡¯t know when I¡¯ll have a chance to practice after tonight.¡± Bad form to waste Spells on training out in the field, since it puts more of a burden on those around you.


    Tina gets it, but she also doesn¡¯t, because familiarity with Spells comes too easily to her, unlike those of us who have to work at it. ¡°I swear Howie, you obsessed with training. Ain¡¯t anyone ever told you it¡¯s alright to take a break every once in awhile?¡±


    ¡°Good habits are hard to make,¡± I reply, my smile softening as I hear the words in my daddy¡¯s voice. ¡°While bad habits hard to break. It is what it is, Songbird. Go have fun. You need some spending money?¡±


    Thankfully, the answer is no, because I could use some myself. Least now the Rangers¡¯ll foot the bill for my ammunition, and I¡¯m even getting paid to haul cargo to Pleasant Dunes. Wagon¡¯s all loaded up and ready for pickup in the morning, so I work out and sling Spells until I can¡¯t do neither no more. My last shower before the long trek through the desert is a blissful one, and the second I step out, I already miss it, but them¡¯s the breaks. I¡¯m already up in the hayloft with Cowie by the time the others get back, and I tell myself I¡¯m not missing out on anything much. I ain¡¯t ever been one for friends, on account of spending so much time out riding with my daddy since I was eight. I mean, sure I know the names of people my age, but after my daddy passed and Aunty Ray sent me to school, only thing I learned was I didn¡¯t have anything in common with any of the other students, not even Tina and Danny. They was all stressed and worried about homework and tests, or concerned about some drama or the other that only they really cared about. Then there was the stuff all the kids cared about, but didn¡¯t matter one bit, like the latest fashion trends and where to hang out.


    Seemed trivial is all, especially knowing how much worse other folks got it. There people out there worrying about freezing over the winter, so excuse me if I can¡¯t sympathize with the poor teen who couldn¡¯t get his fancy new shirt in the colour he wanted. Didn¡¯t help that the lessons were way behind what my daddy had been teaching me. Even English, which was odd, considering it was the only language most of the other students could speak. You¡¯d think they¡¯d be better at it, but some of them could barely even read, though mostly for lack of trying. So I talked to Aunty Ray, then Uncle Teddy, aced a bunch of written tests, and got myself out of school right quick. Spent the year doing odd jobs instead, building up that nest egg and whatnot, but there¡¯ve been times when I wonder what I¡¯d be like if I went to school and made friends like a normal kid. Having seen the results, I can¡¯t say I¡¯m too torn up about missing out, but I also can¡¯t say I wasn¡¯t looking forward to making friends with Errol and Sarah Jay, except now I can¡¯t. A friend ain¡¯t what they need. What they need is a teacher and a leader, someone they¡¯ll listen to when things go south. For better or for worse, I¡¯m all they got, so that¡¯s what I gotta be.


    It''s okay though. I got Cowie, who¡¯s all the friend a man could need.


    The next morning is a busy one as I wake up bright and early again to help Simone with breakfast, since Marcus has got things to do and places to be. Nothing fancy, but fresh bread, hot beans, and crispy bacon always hits the spot, and once we all fuelled up, me and my prospects meet up with the Rangers at the northern warehouses, where my wagon sits waiting. Packed to the brim with ammunition no less, because there are only so many bull-driven tanks laying around, so they might as well put it to good use. I wouldn¡¯t want to be driving no open-backed wagon packed with crates of ammunition, no sir, not when a stray Bolt has a chance of setting the whole payload off and sending shards of brass in all directions. I know I said crystallized Aether is stable and don¡¯t explode much, but even a small explosion can get you when it sets off a big ol¡¯ chain of ¡®em. The chances ain¡¯t high, but it ain¡¯t nothing either, and those chances rise sharply when you throw in Spells like Elemental Orb, Shatter, or good ol¡¯ reliable Fireball. Least if my cargo gets set off, it¡¯s contained inside a steel box, and doubly so considering how gobbos have proven themselves clever enough to target things that go boom.


    Which is why everything is packed in similar looking crates, so as not to give away what¡¯s inside them. Well, everything except water, and while there¡¯s enough to be found in the desert proper to get by, I¡¯m still hoping the pencil pushers did their math right. I¡¯d feel much better having my own stores of water in the wagon, but that¡¯s my trust issues talking for me.


    Easy to see that Errol and Sarah Jay are mighty nervous as we gather around my wagon, eyeing the other boots and trading nods or glares as appropriate. A few familiar faces stand out, like the crewcuts I smacked around almost two weeks back, standing with chests puffed and guns shouldered, or Cute Bow Girl who¡¯s name I¡¯ve forgotten again, looking fetching as can be with her long, golden-brown hair plaited in a side ponytail hanging over her left shoulder. The off-white army hat kind of ruins the look, as does the bandolier she wears just brimming with knives. Meant for throwing, I¡¯m guessing, as they ain¡¯t got no proper hilts to them, not like on the two bigger knives tucked into her belt. Suppose I ought to call them small swords instead, as that¡¯s what they are, both criss-crossed together in their sheathes on her left hip. She¡¯s also got two quivers fixed to her belt, one on her hip and the other behind her back, both jam packed with arrows to use with the recurve bow she carries around in place of a rifle.


    ¡°Seen enough?¡± Catching my gaze with a narrowed glare, Cute Bow Girl¡¯s soft brow eyes peer out from under her ruffled, uneven bangs and bore deep into the back of my head, like she¡¯s fixing to put an arrow through me. She got a real cute glower though, on account of the baby fat that she ain¡¯t lost off her cheeks just yet, and I can¡¯t help but swoon inside. Especially given her accent, one so slight it¡¯s barely there, but you can tell from her clipped tones that she¡¯s really working to enunciate each syllable proper.


    ¡°Just wonderin¡¯ if you got somethin¡¯ against guns is all,¡± I reply, though in truth, I might¡¯ve been admiring the way her bandolier settles against her modest curves, which are again accentuated by her slender frame. ¡°If you need to borrow one, I got a couple spares in the trunk.¡±


    Which is a genuine offer, but in hindsight I realize it could sound condescending. Luckily, she ain¡¯t as hot tempered as her little brother and settles for more glaring, which I meet head on because I like the look of her honey-brown eyes. Would love to see her smile, but it¡¯s not meant to be, so I break it off before I get lost in her gaze and go on about my wagon inspection.


    ¡°Play nice Howie,¡± Tina whispers, showing she don¡¯t know me as well as she thinks she does. That was nice, or an attempt at least, so I wave her off and crouch down for a look at the axles. Once down there, I¡¯m promptly greeted by a white fanged furball sitting prim and proper as can be, a little beastie you could pick up and punt like a football. Growling up a storm, it bares its fangs and lashes its three tails about, which is the only clue I need to remember that this is Cute Bow Girl¡¯s conjured partner. Tina called it a fox, but what¡¯s its name? ¡°Hiya, Fluff,¡± I say, having long since forgotten, as names ain¡¯t all that important to me. ¡°You eat?¡± Reaching into my duster pocket, I fish out a tin of star-melon candies and rattle it about. ¡°Want a hard candy?¡±


    The little furball instantly stops growling and its pointy ears prickle in interest as I pop the tin and take a candy out for it to inspect. After a dainty little sniff, it accepts the offering and carries it off in its tiny, fanged mouth faster than my eyes can follow. By the time I spot it again, it¡¯s curled up in Cute Bow Girl¡¯s arms looking adorable as can be, its head raised and mouth working as it licks the candied treat. Course, Cute Bow Girl ain¡¯t none too pleased, glowering for all she¡¯s worth. ¡°Do not feed Inari strange things,¡± she says, though I notice she¡¯s making no effort to take the candy away.


    ¡°My bad,¡± I reply, because to be fair, she¡¯s right. I figured eating couldn¡¯t do it no harm, what with it being a Summoned beastie and all. Far as I know, they don¡¯t actually need sustenance, since they¡¯re Ectoplasmic constructs bound by a strand the caster¡¯s Soul or Spirit or what have you. They¡¯re simply conjured into existence by the Spell, and fade back into the Immaterium when it¡¯s done. Don¡¯t see why they can¡¯t enjoy a little taste while they here though, hence the offer. Then again, I suppose Inari there could be an exception to the rule, since Cute Bow Girl has some way to keep the little fox around 24/7.


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    It''s only after the tin is back in my pocket that I realize I should¡¯ve offered her one too, but it¡¯s too late for regrets. Instead, I spend an inordinate amount of time staring at the bottom of my wagon and lamenting my lack of social graces before I feel ready to stand up again. While I was hoping no one noticed anything, Sarah Jay¡¯s knowing smile dashes those hopes to pieces as she raises one eyebrow in comical question. Rather than engage, I shrug and ask, ¡°Y¡¯all check your saddlebags? Make sure everything there?¡± Suitably chastised, she hurries off to do as I say with Errol in tow, I ignore Tina¡¯s warning glower and turn away, only to come face to face with a dour and matronly grimace.


    Ain¡¯t a lot of yellow to be found round these parts, as they mostly stick together, and not without reason. Siam, Xiongnu, Tubo, Nanyue, Khmer, Srivijaya and more, all those minor nations in South East Asia spent centuries living under the Qin Immortal Monarch¡¯s boot, slave nations one and all that were just barely able to hang onto their own distinctive cultures. Then, after the Qin Immortal Monarch¡¯s death, most understandably rose up in rebellion. Given how the Qin Republic was busy sorting their own government out, they couldn¡¯t be bothered with keeping their ¡®inferiors¡¯ in line, but that didn¡¯t make those uprisings any less bloody. After the Second World War, almost no one wanted to keep fighting, as the world lost some 100 million plus lives over the course of five or six years of fighting. That didn¡¯t stop those foreign governments from wanting a piece of those new nations of the East though. Was decades before it became common knowledge that all those civil wars were being funded by world superpowers backing their own regimes, and the people living in those war-torn countries were not happy to say the least.


    So unhappy that most actually went back to the Qin Republic for aid, which I don¡¯t really get, but that¡¯s how it is. Either way, aside from Nippon, who were never under the Qin Immortal Monarch¡¯s thumb and hitched their wagon onto the U.F.A, and Goryeo, who got in good with the Soviets, most yellows have joined up with the Qin Republic on the Frontier and tend to stick with their own. Course, there are plenty of immigrants who moved to other countries, like Captain Ava Jung standing before me, a Goryeon-American whose family immigrated shortly after the Immortal¡¯s war in 1946, yet is still somehow considered foreign by most American nationals. ¡°Howie,¡± she says by way of greeting, standing all of five-foot five and no less imposing for it. Stocky is the only way to describe her, though sturdy and athletic fit the bill too, with hair as dark as mine and cropped close in as masculine a hair bob can get. Fair of skin and hard of eyes, she studies me up and down as I fight the urge to stand up straight or go for my gun, because next to the Marshal, Ava Jung might well be the most dangerous and accomplished Spellslinger this side of the Divide.


    And that¡¯s in general. If we talking about pure destructive abilities alone, then Ava takes the prize, no contest.


    A prize well-deserved, as she comes from a military family and has served all her life. Before coming to the Frontier, she was a door-kicker for the U.F Marines, an accomplished Evoker who¡¯s seen more action in the old world than most have seen here on the Frontier. That¡¯s not what makes me nervous though, because I know plenty of dangerous folk, but most of them have a bit of a soft spot for the Firstborn. Not Ava, and while I believe it¡¯s because she don¡¯t like people in general, I can never shake the feeling that she hates me just a little bit more just because I¡¯m Qin. Course, she¡¯s never said or done anything to give me reason to suspect, but when you live your life trying to overcome your racial heritage, it¡¯s hard not to suspect it when things go disastrously wrong.


    ¡°Spell Loadout?¡± Ava asks, and I mentally correct myself and change it to Captain Jung before I make a huge mistake. This minor delay is all it takes to darken the scowl on her face, and her piercing gaze does what Cute Bow Girl tried and failed to accomplish. ¡°I asked you a question, boot. I expect an answer.¡±


    ¡°Sir, Sorry Captain Jung, Sir. Scout, but Heavy,¡± I reply, and only just barely stop myself from snapping off a salute. ¡°Sir.¡± I hope she won¡¯t be in charge of the next class of boots, because truth be told, she¡¯s kind of a big part of why I refused to sign up in the first place. The Iron Maiden scares the bejesus outta me, and I ain¡¯t ashamed to admit it.


    I can tell she¡¯s not entirely pleased by how vague my reply is, but she also accepts that no Spellslinger likes to share their list of prepared Spells. ¡°How heavy?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ Not very?¡± Shrugging, I say, ¡°I¡¯ll make do in a pinch, but won¡¯t be good for much else after. Sir.¡±


    Giving a short growl in discontent, Captain Jung gives me a heated glare for daring to waste her time even mentioning it. Jerking a thumb over her shoulder, she says, ¡°I want you scouting out ahead. Won¡¯t have you napping instead of earning your keep. Check in with Lieutenant Wayne for your assignment.


    What does she mean earn my keep? Am I getting paid? I probably should¡¯ve asked Marcus for more details, but I don¡¯t dare ask Ava, so I turn to my prospects and say, ¡°Change of plans. If I¡¯m scouting, y¡¯all are wagon bound so we can keep the horses well-rested.¡±


    Mostly because there¡¯s a lot of back and forth when you scouting, which wears out a horse more than usual. To their credit, neither prospect complains, and Sarah Jay even looks happier for it, though I know I won¡¯t be after a full day of riding. Still, nothing for it except to give Cowie a goodbye pat before grabbing my Ranger repeater and hopping onto Ivory to see how he handles. Doesn¡¯t take long to find Wayne in the press, who greets me from atop his horse with his little rat-faced smile, all bug-eyed and toothy. ¡°Howie,¡± he says, and I give him a nod in reply. ¡°As I live and breathe. The Firstborn riding point for the Rangers. Never thought I¡¯d see the day.¡±


    Rather than rise to his needling, I just give him a shrug and wait for my assignment, which he gives after a beat. ¡°You and Michael here are on the right flank, sweeping a half hour ahead of the convoy. You are not to engage unless fired upon. At first sign of any possible threat, you are to safely fall back and report in. If you are pursued, then the call is Forecast, followed by Rain when asked to confirm. Signal word today is Action, response, Surge. Clear?¡±


    ¡°Crystal,¡± I reply, riding off with Michael in tow, who turns out to be a slim, white, all-American crew cut like most of the boots in Basic. He don¡¯t say much as we ride out the gates, and proceeds to dive straight into the trees without so much as a how-you-do. He¡¯s taking his job serious, so I keep mum and let him sweep our surroundings for signs of infiltrators as we proceed east alongside the Highway, as if there¡¯d be bandits hiding behind every tree trunk or under the bushes. Were there an ambush lying in wait, the only way he¡¯d find them is if he stepped on them, and by then it¡¯d be too late to make much of a difference. Got a lot to learn before he¡¯s ready for the Rangers, but considering where Errol and Sarah Jay were at when they washed out, I doubt Michael here knows enough to keep himself alive.


    ¡°Eyes up,¡± I say, and Michael¡¯s first instinct is to obey before his brain actually kicks in to wonder why he¡¯s gotta listen. ¡°Won¡¯t do you no good spottin¡¯ an ambush you about to walk into, which is what¡¯ll happen if you keep starin¡¯ at your feet. Look off into the distance instead, because while ambushers will work to stay hidden, they also gotta keep an eye out for their target, so that¡¯s what you looking for. Try not to focus on any one thing at a time, just take it all in as a whole. See the forest without getting lost in the trees, if you know what I mean.¡±


    Judging by Michael¡¯s deadpan expression, he doesn¡¯t, but he nods and accepts the advice anyways. Having long since gotten into the habit of lecturing on the go, I give him the crash course on stealth and awareness. Between snippets of advice, Michael reveals that all the boots are on rotation and having a try at the different combat roles, just so they get an idea of what they ought to be doing. Makes sense, since I didn¡¯t think anyone would bother ambushing a sixty-plus-man Ranger caravan anyways, even if more than half are boots. Marcus sent a full company of twenty battle-trained Rangers to help Pleasant Dunes, alongside thirty-nine boots and their teaching staff. Add in me, Errol, and Sarah Jay, and it makes for a right formidable force it does, and there ain¡¯t any outlaw outfits round these parts big enough to hit a target like us. Not even here in No Man¡¯s Land, but I learned it¡¯s always better to be safe than sorry.


    Fact is, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, you could mosey right on down the Highway without so much as a care in the world. It¡¯s that one time that gets you though, and I suppose the stakes are higher than usual considering what our caravan is carrying. Weapons and ammo enough to wage war against Abby, and it wouldn¡¯t surprise me to learn there¡¯s another full company of Rangers headed towards Meadowbrook to escort a larger, slower moving munitions caravan. That¡¯s all above my paygrade though, so I focus on the job in front of me, namely showing Michael the ropes. He¡¯s a good enough sort, far as I can tell. Not great for conversation, but he a soldier born, or one who been training since he could walk. Shows in the way he yields to authority, naturally without appearing meek or na?ve. He stays on task at all times and absorbs everything I teach him while integrating it with what he already knows. Not the best horseman, but not terrible either, and he holds his Strelky Type 56 Carbine like a man who knows how to use it. Doesn¡¯t take long before he looks like a proper scout too, with his head on a swivel and eyes forward as he rides at a calm and steady pace.


    To my surprise, we actually find something worth reporting after two hours in the brush, and it takes a split second to figure out the game. Rather than ruin the surprise, I sit back and wait for Michael to take notice, which he does a few seconds later. ¡°Possible contact,¡± he whispers, unslinging his rifle, but I¡¯m right there ready and waiting to make sure he don¡¯t do nothing dumb.


    ¡°Orders are to not engage,¡± I whisper, and wait to see if he argues the fact, but good soldier that he is, he nods and looks at the threat once again, a little poorly camouflaged tree stand less than a hundred meters away with what looks like a person sitting inside. It¡¯s a dummy, just a bunch of twigs wrapped in a cloak with a hat slapped overtop, but to Michael¡¯s eyes, it¡¯s a sharpshooter lying in wait. No idea when the Rangers had time to set this all up, but it¡¯s a level of detail I can appreciate.


    Which is why I don¡¯t interfere and follow Michael¡¯s lead as we slip away quick and quiet as can be, only to pick up the pace once we¡¯re out of ear shot. Not fifteen minutes later, we hear the challenge, ¡°Action.¡±


    I pull up to a stop, but Michael keeps ploughing on ahead and says, ¡°Uh¡­ Surge.¡±


    ¡°Too late. Already dead.¡± Popping out of thin air, Tim dismisses his Invisibility and shakes his head. ¡°Stop when you¡¯re challenged and answer quick, because friendly fire ain¡¯t all that friendly, understood?¡±


    ¡°Sir, yes sir.¡±


    ¡°Report.¡±


    Again, I leave it to Michael to handle all this, since he¡¯s the one who needs practice. Doesn¡¯t do a terrible job either, as it¡¯s all been ingrained into him from young. Once he¡¯s got the message across, we head back with Tim to check on the threat, which he assesses from long range as soon as Michael points it out and not a moment before. ¡°Bang, threat neutralized,¡± Tim says, without any dramatic flair whatsoever or even unshouldering his beautiful battle rifle, an M4 Gromph with a gorgeous caramel wood stock and blue-steel barrel. 44-40 that hits hard and hits often, but hell if I know how its name is supposed to be pronounced. Gas-operated semi-automatic that¡¯ll shoot as fast as my Repeater but hit at least twice as hard without the need to work a lever or bolt. Unsilenced and accurate as all heck, I want one real bad, but they¡¯re designed with machining in mind, and we ain¡¯t got no factory for it yet, meaning Tim¡¯s rifle was hand made with painstaking effort and far too expensive for me to afford.


    Since Tim doesn¡¯t care to say much else, I pat Michael on the back and say, ¡°Good job.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    Still having yet to catch on, Michael looks at little lost, so I explain, ¡°Training exercise.¡±


    It¡¯s a treat to watch the adrenaline drain right out of him. ¡°Oh,¡± he says, both relieved and disappointed after getting all amped up for a fight.


    ¡°You did good,¡± I say. ¡°Tell him Tim.¡±


    ¡°You did okay.¡± Turning his horse around, Tim sets off at a slow and sedate pace. ¡°Walk him through what he did wrong, Howie.¡±


    Tim ain¡¯t one for kind words, or many words at all, so I talk Michael through all the stuff he missed, like the other target to our left closer to the Highway, and the ¡®pitfall¡¯ trap he led all three of us right over, except it wasn¡¯t actually a pitfall, just a pile of suspicious looking leaves and twigs made to look like one. Rangers are real dedicated with this training, which is good because these boots need it. This is the sort of thing I can¡¯t afford to do with Errol and Sarah Jay, because it¡¯s just too much effort for one man. Besides, chances are, there are more boots playing scout behind us that are gonna go through this same exercise, so it¡¯s not like they went to all this effort just for Michael.


    That said, it seems like there¡¯s only room for one encounter per boot, as another soon arrives to take Michael¡¯s place. Nate is the newcomer¡¯s name, another white-skinned, brown-haired, all-American buzzcut, but this time with blue eyes instead of brown. He¡¯s not as disciplined as Michael, and even though he¡¯s willing to listen to my advice, Nate ain¡¯t great at following through. Man rides right past the waiting ¡®ambush¡¯ before I can think to warn him, but no one told me what to do if the boot fails, so I shrug and ride on with him. Not a minute later, Tim¡¯s voice sounds once more, only this time he don¡¯t reveal himself. ¡°Bang,¡± he says, scaring Nate something fierce, though I heard the man moving a while back. ¡°You missed the ambush. You¡¯re dead, Howie¡¯s dead, and the caravan¡¯s all but. Howie.¡±


    ¡°Yep.¡± Turning around, I bring Nate back to the scene of the crime and point out the clues he missed, but he doesn¡¯t seem all that twisted up about it. More annoyed than anything else, so I don¡¯t put much effort into it. Since its almost lunch time, I ride back to the caravan with him and switch out Ivory for Fifi, and after a quick meal of dried jerky, I head back out with yet another boot at my side. This time it¡¯s a familiar one. Alfred is his name, and he checks the same boxes, as he¡¯s big, blonde, and white with a crew cut. He was the first of little Dick¡¯s goons who I beat up, but I ain¡¯t one to hold grudges when I win. ¡°So, how much you know about scouting?¡± I ask, making no apologies and not caring about no awkwardness.


    ¡°Not much.¡± Ain¡¯t one for many words either, as Alfred plods along on his horse, looking this way and that without really knowing what he¡¯s doing.


    ¡°Want some advice?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    It¡¯s all old hat now, so I give him the run down then let him work at it a bit, pointing out where he went wrong and what he could do better. Unlike Nate, Alfred spots the ¡®trap¡¯ lying in wait, a tree that¡¯s been marked up as if it¡¯s been made ready to topple onto the road at a moment¡¯s notice. Pretty sure it¡¯s an Illusion though, because that would be really dangerous to set up and leave, but we hurry back anyways where Alfred passes his tests with flying colours.


    As we head back out and wait for him to be relieved, Alfred sparks up a conversation for the first time. ¡°Richard left,¡± he says, keeping his head on a swivel to avoid meeting my eyes. ¡°Went back home.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± I shrug. ¡°Broken left arm, broken right hand, couldn¡¯t take more than a month to recover with a daily Regeneration Spell cast on him.¡± The Spell don¡¯t heal nothing quick, just speeds the process along so you knit bone in weeks rather than months. Not great at treating lethal injuries, because even an enhanced healing ability can¡¯t stop you from bleeding out, but it cuts down on recovery time pretty well. ¡°Didn¡¯t figure him for a quitter.¡±


    ¡°Said you threatened him.¡±


    ¡°Did he now?¡± Giving Alfred a wry smile, I say, ¡°Didn¡¯t figure him to scare so easily either. And I didn¡¯t threaten him. I just told him the truth.¡± My smile stays, but my eyes go dark and hard. ¡°That folks in New Hope don¡¯t take kindly to the sort of talk he was spewing, and that he might want to watch himself. You best remember that too.¡±


    ¡°I get it,¡± Alfred says, ducking his head down and looking real small for a fellow so big. ¡°I¡¯m just saying¡­ Richard¡¯s dad, he¡¯s a powerful man, so you should be careful.¡±


    Words delivered like advice, not a threat, so I accept the sentiment for what it is. ¡°Thanks Alfred,¡± I say, paying no mind to what some bigwig peckerwood might do. Unless he cares to ride up to my town and try and lynch me, there ain¡¯t nothing I care to address, especially since I got little Dick on recording spewing hatred and technically assaulting me. Hurt him in self-defence I did, and ain¡¯t nothing anyone can say that¡¯ll change that, so I¡¯m in the clear. ¡°You ought to find yourself some new friends though,¡± I say, remembering how reluctant the other three goons were to jump in. ¡°Yours didn¡¯t seem none too keen on helping you.¡±


    ¡°They got us in mixed squads now,¡± Alfred replies, and to his credit, he seems happier for it. ¡°Working with whoever they put us with, instead of the people we choose.¡±


    ¡°Good to hear it.¡± Never one to make small talk, I go back to teaching Alfred about scouting and being a Ranger in general until Errol and Sarah Jay arrive to replace him. Bidding the big guy goodbye, I give Errol a look to see how he feels about Alfred, and he simply shrugs and says, ¡°Got no beef with anyone besides Richard, so long as they don¡¯t pick up where he left off.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough.¡± And I suppose this is what Ava was talking about, earning my keep, as now I get to put my prospects through the same song and dance the rest of the recruits got to play in. Having seen three other boots at work now, I¡¯ve a new appreciation for Errol and Sarah Jay¡¯s competence, as they listen sharp and put everything I tell them to work. Move a few steps past it too, and don¡¯t need everything explained, or at least Sarah Jay doesn¡¯t. While Errol is first to spot the ¡®ambush¡¯, Sarah Jay sticks around for a second look and finds three more ambushers lying in wait, information which we bring back to Tim who looks tired and done with it all.


    ¡°Full marks,¡± he says, before even riding back out to check, and he heaves a small sigh. ¡°You sure you don¡¯t want back in the Rangers?¡± Tim asks, directing his question solely at Sarah Jay before gesturing at Errol. ¡°Nothing I can do for him, but he¡¯ll be fine with Howie.¡±


    ¡°Quit trying to steal my prospect just because you don¡¯t want to do paperwork.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not the only reason I¡¯m fixing to steal her,¡± Tim retorts. ¡°I also need her to handle all this training bullshit.¡± His eyes light up, as much as they ever do, which is usually a bad sign for whoever he¡¯s looking at, or in this case, me. ¡°Hey Howie, you know, you¡¯ve done a real stand-up job prepping those boots. Three out of four passed, which is pretty good. How you feel about doing this again? Like say in a few months?¡±


    ¡°In a few months, I might well be one of those boots,¡± I reply, and I notice Errol and Sarah Jay¡¯s immediate alarm, so I explain my reasoning while inviting them along for the ride. From there, we make small talk as we approach the outpost, which has grown quite a bit since we first saw it. It¡¯s still just a bunch of trenchwork and log spikes, but now there¡¯s room enough for all our wagons inside the perimeter. Not enough for all of us to cram inside though, which is fine by me since I like my space. Dinner is a sad, sorry affair of dried rations eaten as the sun sets over the horizon, and I give Michael, Nate, and Alfred a nod as I pass them to set up for the night close to Tina.


    ¡°Look Howie,¡± she exclaims, turning to reveal a round, feathered kiccaw in her arms, one with tiny wings, and big, soulful eyes. No doubt the little beastie was charmed by her Animal Friendship Spell, the same one Aunty Ray uses to tame horses and marties alike, and Tina nuzzles it cheek to cheek with a grin. ¡°Take a picture! Chrissy will love this.¡±


    Snapping off a couple photos, I inwardly grumble at how easy she has it when it comes to charming animals. I tried casting the same Spell on a bunch of kiccaws before, because they¡¯re pretty bold and unafraid of people, but all I got in return was suspicion and mistrust. The bird in Tina¡¯s arms looks like he or she is in love, and the rest of the flock is wandering around looking mighty interested in her as well. Whatever. Those dumb round birds ain¡¯t even all that cute, not up close at least, though there are a lot of them. Good eating too, with the big, thick legs and soft tender torsos, but they eat a lot of bugs so most folks leave them alone.


    The kiccaws are a big hit with most the boots around camp, and plenty stop by to pet them while trading a few words with Tina along the way. I suspect more are interested in her than the bird, but can¡¯t say I blame ¡®em. She¡¯s all sorts of lovely and got a good head on her shoulders, a killer combination if there ever was one. She¡¯s also real popular for other reasons, namely her ability with the Bardcraft Cantrip to play a memorized recording of Chrissy¡¯s guitar play to accompany Tina as she sings ¡®Walking Slow</a>¡¯ for the camp. Not to show off or anything, but as a Spell in the form of a song, one Imbued with magic to refresh and revitalize her listeners after a long day¡¯s ride. Song of Rest is what the Spell¡¯s called, adding magic to music beyond what the words and notes convey to ease our troubled minds and minor aches. Don¡¯t do nothing to heal us, just makes it easier to bear, but that¡¯s enough for the kiccaws and boots to gather in close for a listen as we all wind down for the night.


    Tina ain¡¯t the only popular one, as plenty of boots drop by to catch up with Errol and Sarah Jay. I catch a few snippets while cleaning my guns and practicing reloads on the Whumper, but it¡¯s mostly polite greetings and well wishes, nothing too deep or friendly. Still better than what I get, which are plenty of stares and whispers. If it¡¯s not a challenging stare from some boot I beat up, it¡¯s one chock full of curiosity, like I¡¯m some exotic, never before seen animal or something. I pay it no mind though and switch to practicing the Mould Earth Cantrip to make myself a bed, though in truth I¡¯m just playing around and listening in on all the boring conversations the boots have. Not eavesdropping, just observing my surroundings and overhearing what they¡¯re saying. Ain¡¯t nothing special or secretive, mostly stuff about how they did in each role, how saddle sore they are, how bad the food is, and more such nonsense.


    Not much has changed since I dropped out of school it seems, with people my age still fixated on all the wrong things. Me, I¡¯m amazed at all the support these boots get just for signing on to Basic. Not just in material goods, like boots, uniforms, guns, and ammo, but also safety and security beyond anything I¡¯ve ever had. None of them seem to appreciate that they¡¯re at the edge of the Coral Desert and badlands both, where the people don¡¯t recognize the authority of the American government and most wouldn¡¯t spare their own spit for a stranger dying of thirst. Starting tomorrow, these boots will march six full days through the desert to hold the walls of Pleasant Dunes against an army of invading Abby, but you wouldn¡¯t know it from the mood of the camp.


    Because these boots don¡¯t got to worry about it just yet. They got a full Company of Rangers watching their back after all, twenty strong, dependable soldiers making sure everything is taken care of. On top of their teaching staff, who are Rangers one and all. The boots remind me of me, back when the world seemed safer while I was riding at my daddy¡¯s side, but I¡¯ve spent the last two years and change learning just how dangerous it really is. I seen the way Errol and Sarah Jay roll their eyes when they think I¡¯m being extra, and even Tina thinks I overdo it when it comes to training and caution, but they don¡¯t understand what it¡¯s really like out here, the same way I didn¡¯t understand until after my daddy died. Don¡¯t camp near strangers. Don¡¯t share food and drink. Don¡¯t let on what you can do. Don¡¯t give anyone the benefit of the doubt. I live by these rules and plenty more for good reason. Sure, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, won¡¯t nothing come of breaking them, but I learned the hard way what happens when things go bad that one time out of a hundred, and I wouldn¡¯t wish those lessons on anybody.


    As I lie back and stare up at the stars, I allow myself a moment of honesty to admit I¡¯m jealous of these boots. I love the open road and the freedom my lifestyle provides, but my first two years riding solo wasn¡¯t without it¡¯s bumps. Folks have noticed the toll it¡¯s taken on me, even if they don¡¯t know the reason why, and it¡¯s got my loved ones all twisted up with concern. It¡¯s been tough, but wasn¡¯t any other way to go about it without wasting too much time. Still stings to see how much hardship could¡¯ve been avoided if I¡¯d joined the Rangers. Was a time when all I wanted was a five-pointed star to wear on my chest. Truth is, I¡¯d still want it if I could have it. That¡¯s what most don¡¯t get. The Marshal, Aunty Ray, Marcus, and the rest, they all think I hate the Rangers and refuse to join out of principle, but far from it. My daddy would¡¯ve been the first person to tell me to stop being stubborn and give in, because ain¡¯t no good ever comes from sticking out like a sore thumb. That¡¯s why he brought me to church every Sunday even though we wasn¡¯t Christian, and never bothered correcting anyone when they collectively changed my name from Hao Wei to Howie. He knew being Qinese would make our lives hard enough as is, so he wanted us to become as American as apple pie.


    Problem is, it didn¡¯t take. When the chips were down, the Rangers disavowed my daddy all the same, and they¡¯d do it to me in a heartbeat. Wasn¡¯t me who said I don¡¯t want to be a Ranger. Was the Rangers who told me I could never be one, not even if I earned the right to wear that star on my chest. It is what it is, but don¡¯t mean I got no regrets. Howie Zhu, American Ranger. Got a real ring to it, don¡¯t it? Shame really. Started as a dream, and now it¡¯s nothing but a fantasy, one that won¡¯t ever come to pass.


    No matter how much I wish it were otherwise.

 Chapter 25

    Whether by luck or design, my name don¡¯t make it into the hat for night watch duty, so I sleep beneath the twin moons and wake as the rising, ruby red sun sets the amber skies aflame.


    It¡¯s a beautiful sight to behold, one I hear many older folk say is prettier than the sunrises back home, with their blue skies and yellow sun. Apparently, the old world skies can get this same amber colour sometimes when the light hits just right. Seems strange for a sky to change colour so often, but then again, they think it¡¯s odd to see stars during the day and white grass covering the plains, so it¡¯s really all a matter of perspective. Fact is, one of my favourite things is waking up this, where I blink the sleep out of my eyes and focus on the twinkling stars overhead, just barely visible in the early light and hiding the mysteries of the universe out there in plain sight. There are times when I can almost see a pattern in those heavenly bodies, a sequence of twinkling stars that puts me in mind of a flowing Spell Structure, but one far greater and more complex than I can comprehend. What I see in the morning light is something I imagine might well be the Spell Structure that defines quantum reality as we perceive it, that which keeps the Immaterium separate from the physical world while also intertwined with it at the same time.


    Or maybe they¡¯re just twinkling stars doing their thing off in the vast emptiness of space, and I study magic so much that I even dream about it. Who knows.


    The important thing is I¡¯m rested, recharged and ready to go, so I spend a bit of time poring over the Spell Structures in my mind. Sunrise stargazing always puts me in a mood to study, because seeing the grand scale of things helps put my own troubles into perspective. Motivates me to work hard too, because the only way to get good at Spellslinging is to start from the bottom and work your way up to the top. Got spurned yesterday by Ava for saying I was loaded heavy, which was true, since a gun that only shoots two or three times before it¡¯s gotta undergo eight hours of maintenance ain¡¯t of much practical use. Won¡¯t let that bring me down though, because I¡¯m working on raising my limits each and every day. Progress is incremental at best, but all the more reason to keep at it each and every chance you get, which is something most folks don¡¯t care to remember. When they see my skills, they always ask if I know some ¡®ancient Qinese secret¡¯ that got me slinging Spells so good, then get all prissy and upset when I tell them that there ain¡¯t no secret. I got a head start on my peers thanks to my age and natural talent, but it¡¯s hard work which keeps me ahead, and I aim to stay ahead right on up until the Watershed, then push even further once I can.


    From Cantrips to First Order Spells, then Second, Third, and more, these are all steps on the path towards arcane mastery. They say the Immortal Monarchs of the old world were capable of casting Ninth Order Spells, utilizing Spell Structures that required whole textbooks to depict their mathematical models, and several more to explain how they work. That sounds mighty grand to me, but I ain¡¯t exactly aiming to become an Immortal Monarch. I mean to follow this path as far as it will take me, no more, no less. Ain¡¯t no real reason why, except to say I love slinging Spells is all, especially ones that go boom. Besides, having a plethora of Cantrips helps a lot in everyday life, and I can¡¯t fathom why others won¡¯t take the time to learn them. Ten, twenty, forty hours of study, however long it takes I¡¯d say it¡¯s worth, because once you¡¯re finished, you got yourself a Cantrip Structure embedded in memory from now until the day you die, unless for some reason you decide you don¡¯t want it no more. A real sweet deal if you ask me, one that will pay triples dividends since they help push your Spellcasting limits every time you use them and elevate your understanding of each school.


    Besides, they¡¯re so darn useful you¡¯ll be using them everyday. Like the ¡®bed¡¯ I¡¯m sleeping on with Cowie. Dirt ain¡¯t ever gonna be as soft as hay or feather, but spend a little bit of time and effort with the Mould Earth Cantrip and you got yourself a raised earth bed with nice rounded lumps to support your head, back, and neck. Sitting up with Cowie still snuggled in my arms, I spoil him a bit with a hug and cuddle, because while I like to watch the stars when I wake, he likes to watch me, and its cute as all heck. Once he¡¯s finally ready to start the day, I use the Water Sphere Cantrip to wet a cloth and wash our faces, which I then clean with Prestidigitation. A right useful Cantrip it is, that does a whole lot of things, but is most useful for cleaning, softening food, and making hard-tack actually taste palatable, though it still feels like you eating sawdust. I used to experiment with making Cowie¡¯s oats and grains taste better, but he much prefers them natural, so I leave him to his meal while I check the weather with Druidcraft.


    Another useful Cantrip, albeit one that ain¡¯t all that specific, but it emits a warm, golden glow from my hands for a few seconds to tell me that there will be sunny skies ahead. Could still run into a sandstorm or an earthquake or something, but at least I know it won¡¯t rain or snow today or tomorrow. Now, some might say that¡¯s obvious, seeing how we headed into the desert, but that don¡¯t mean it don¡¯t got precipitation. Every now and then you get a flash storm come on, soaking the sand in rain for a quarter-hour or so, and it can get real cold out there after the sun goes down. Besides, more information is always better, even if it don¡¯t seem useful, because you never know what might come in handy later on down the line.


    To round out my morning routine, I hit myself with Deodorant and Prestidigitation to take care of general cleanliness, which is just about the next best thing to soap and water. Then I give Cowie a Bolstering Compliment to raise his spirits and Console him to let him really know he¡¯s loved and cherished. Not the most useful Cantrips, as they don¡¯t seem to do much really, but it gets him ready and raring to go for the day. Could also be the extra little boost he needs to shake off enemy Enchantments, which is always a concern. While there ain¡¯t all that many Enchanters out there, having grown up next door to a family full of them, I seen enough of what they can do to rightly be concerned. Last thing I need is for Abby to whisper Madness into Cowie¡¯s mind and turn him against me, because there ain¡¯t a thing I care to do to stop him.


    Don¡¯t matter if he gores me clean and stomps me dead, I ain¡¯t ever gonna shoot my partner. Had to put down his mama the day I met her, gutted and dying after a fight against Abby to protect her baby, and it still hurts to think about to this day. Thankfully, Cowie¡¯s an understanding soul and found it in him to forgive me, so I figured the least I can do is love and care for him like family.


    Even after I¡¯m done eating and washing up, most the boots are still fast asleep in their bedrolls. A mistake to indulge them so, because a bedroll is a bulky addition to your kit, which is why I do without. Got a pair of blankets instead, which has many other uses too, so I got used to going without unless absolutely necessary. Don¡¯t get me wrong, I like being comfy as much as the next person, but all those minor conveniences you just can¡¯t live without are like shackles out on the open road, or at least extra burdens weighing you down. That¡¯s how my daddy saw it, and how I see it too, though I don¡¯t got it in me to warn Tina about succumbing to the lap of luxury. She¡¯s looking snug as a bug in a rug wrapped in her bedroll, fast asleep and surrounded by a whole flock of kiccaws who took it upon themselves to protect her. Doing a terrible job of it, as they all sleeping too, letting out soft, whistling snores that are far too cute for a creature that squawks as ugly as they do. Still take a quick Photograph anyways, because Chrissy and Aunty Ray will want to see it, and I only just stop myself from making a video too, because Tina¡¯d never forgive me if I catch her snoring.


    With nothing but free time on my hands, I recheck my kit and saddlebags to make sure I got everything I¡¯ll need, from ammo, tools, components, and more. It¡¯s still dark enough that I could use a light, so I cast the Dancing Light Cantrip inside the bag and turn the brightness way down, instead of risking waking anyone with the harsh glare of the undimmable Light Cantrip. Then I get to casting my daily safeguards, namely Hearing Protection and Protection from Insects. Proper First Order Spells like Mage Armour and Eagle Eye can wait, since they don¡¯t last as long and will require multiple casts to get me through the day. Could do without, but you never know when the extra protection or added perception might save your life, so I keep them up as often as I can when out on the Frontier. Risk developing near-sightedness, overusing Eagle Eye like that, because then you get used to using the Spell to focus instead of the muscles in your face, but it¡¯s worth it. See, great as manual Spellslinging might be, it ain¡¯t without its flaws. Without Metamagics, the fastest you can cast a Spell is exactly 2.5 seconds, which incidentally is the same amount of time it takes for a Spell Core to prime. Similarly, it takes a caster at least 2.5 seconds to wind down after slinging a Spell, time in which you can¡¯t start casting a second one. It¡¯s a bit like having to take a deep breath after a good, long exhale, one you can¡¯t stop until you done. All of which means it takes me 7.5 seconds at minimum to cast Mage Armour and Eagle Eye, which is a lot of time in a firefight, so better to precast and be ready at all times. 7.5 seconds is more than enough to empty my Rattlesnake twice if I¡¯m quick about it instead of passing the job over to my Mage Hands, which have been playing cat¡¯s cradle this whole time by themselves. Used to take a fair amount of focus to get them to work independently from me, but these days, they might as well be the hands I was born with.


    ¡°How many Cantrips do you know?¡±


    The question catches me off-guard as I turn to face Kacey, who¡¯s still wrapped up in her bedroll across the way and glaring just as hard as ever. Didn¡¯t notice her there when I went to sleep, and only now do I realize that the other three girl boots are also sleeping close by, while the guys are further away. Probably by unspoken agreement, offering the ladies a little more privacy, so why didn¡¯t no one tell me to move? Even Sarah Jay ain¡¯t close by, snuggled up with Errol somewhere, and I feel my cheeks heat up even as I try to play it cool. ¡°Uh ¨C Whaa?¡±


    Real smooth and smart Howie. Just grunt. That¡¯ll impress her good.


    Kacey repeats her question, adding, ¡°By my count, you have cast twelve Cantrips since last night, with none of them standard fare save for Deodorant, Umbrella, and Hearing Protection, and only one hailing from the School of Divination which you supposedly specialize in.¡±


    ¡°Now who¡¯s staring?¡± I ask, flashing her a big smile that¡¯s more than real as she sulks a bit at being called out. After a leaving her to stew for a beat, I shrug and say, ¡°Dunno. Least 50? There are 16 standard Divination Cantrips and 10 Evocation, all of which I know.¡± Not to mention at least four Evocation Cantrips I don¡¯t know, because the churches keep them secret. Rude is what that is, especially given how effective those Cantrips are against certain Abby. ¡°Ain¡¯t ever sat down and counted the rest.¡± Why bother? Easier to count the ones I don¡¯t know, like Enchantment¡¯s Enhance Allure, or Coinshot, which Tim uses to fling random bits of metal when he¡¯s bored.


    ¡°Why learn so many?¡± Kacey asks, smoothing her hair as she sits up, but she looks good all dishevelled with her shirt ruffled like that. ¡°Would your time not be better spent focusing on more important matters, like doing almost anything else?¡±


    Again, I shrug, but not before turning around right quick so as not to stare at the lovely Nipponese beauty. ¡°Why do anything ever? Because I enjoy it. Most Cantrips I learned are ones that interest me, or have some niche use, though I will say I ain¡¯t ever used no Elemental Blade or Echoing Strike in an actual combat scenario.¡± Which I only mention as a bit of a probe. Considering how many knives Kacey carries around, there¡¯s no way she doesn¡¯t know those two Evocation Cantrips, but she doesn¡¯t take the bait.


    Instead, she changes tack. ¡°Strange,¡± she begins, speaking as she rummages through her bags to get ready for the day. ¡°Yesterday, you stared like a hungry predator while I was fully dressed, yet now you are too shy to even take a glance?¡±


    ¡°Predators get that look about them for two reasons,¡± I reply, my excuse locked and loaded the moment she caught me staring yesterday. ¡°They either see prey, or competition.¡±


    Can¡¯t tell how she takes it, as I¡¯m working real hard not to steal a glance, but all I hear is silence followed by a little high-pitched yawn. Inari likely, and I realize Kacey knows at least one Cantrip I don¡¯t, namely Bind Companion. Would be nice to learn it, especially if she¡¯s teaching, though I hear it¡¯s a tough specialty to get into.


    ¡°Good. You¡¯re both up.¡± Being large and bulky as he is, Marcus got no right being as sneaky and silent as he is, and he puts a right scare into when he pops up outta nowhere. ¡°Howie,¡± he begins, gently guiding me over for a pow-wow with Kacey, who fully dressed and out of her bedroll. ¡°I want you riding point with Kacey here. No more exercises, this is for real now, so look sharp and keep safe. Bring us as the bird flies, avoiding any towns or settlements. We got guns enough to punch through any Abby in our path, so you get us a warning and we¡¯ll handle the rest. I¡¯ll have skirmishers about fifteen minutes out, but I want you ranging an hour or two ahead. Kacey, you learn what you can from Howie. He¡¯s been riding solo for two years now, and he¡¯s still in one piece, so I suppose he knows what he¡¯s doing better than most.¡± Giving me a knock on the head, he adds, ¡°Even if he¡¯s got more sand than sense in that big head of his.¡±


    The somewhat backwards compliment still has me beaming bright, and doubly so since I¡¯ll be riding with Kacey. I even magnanimously ignore the comment about my perfectly normal-sized head as I listen to the rest of Marcus¡¯ instructions. ¡°Signal of the day is Reckless,¡± he says with a glare, warning me to be anything but, ¡°And response is Abandon. If you got something hot on your heels, emergency call is Divine, confirmation Fury. Got it?¡±


    ¡°Yes Captain, my Captain,¡± I respond, throwing out a lazy salute as Kacey snaps off a more official one, before shooting me yet another dark glare for my cheeky response. I figure it¡¯s fine. Ain¡¯t no one told me where I stand in the chain of command, except it¡¯s obvious I¡¯m at least one step above anyone else my age, so I get to it without missing a beat. ¡°Grab your gear and your horse and meet me out front,¡± I say, then wait a beat before clapping my hands to hurry her along. ¡°That means now. Go.¡±


    Can¡¯t help poking the bear with her, as she got a real mean glare, but cute at the same time. Those honey-brown eyes and round cheeks are what does it.


    As I turn back to Marcus with a grin, he gives me another look, having picked up on what I¡¯m putting down. ¡°We¡¯re trusting you here Howie,¡± he says, all serious as can be. ¡°So no messing around. That includes using your authority to bully poor boots, you hear me?¡±


    ¡°I hear you,¡± I say, though I will say that most Rangers bully the boots at least a little, so why can¡¯t I? ¡°One quick question though. If I kill anything out there, do I get to keep it, or is this an ¡®All belongs to the Rangers¡¯ sort of situation?¡±


    ¡°What did I just say Howie?¡± Hunkering down to meet me eye to eye, Marcus puts on his meanest face and growls, ¡°No. Messing. Around. You a Scout, so if you find trouble, report it.¡±


    ¡°Yea, yea, I get it, but this here is the Coral Desert.¡± Giving him my most innocent expression, I explain, ¡°Tend to find gobbos running around all willy nilly and the odd orc or two even. Hardly seems worth the effort to report a handful of stragglers, so...?¡±


    Marcus holds his angry glare for long seconds, but I don¡¯t back down one bit, even though I know he could break me like a twig. ¡°Fine,¡± he eventually says, sounding angry as can be. ¡°You kill something and cart it back without Ranger assistance, then it¡¯s yours. Leave Cowie and your wagon here though. Not about to have you riding through the desert with more than a tonne of live ammunition.¡±


    ¡°Yus sir, Captain Clay, sir,¡± I say, giving him a proper salute at attention, which earns me a scoff and ¡®light¡¯ tap to the ribs. Chuckling as I throw on my armoured plate carrier, I head off to saddle Sunshine before giving baby Cowie¡¯s cheeks a big old rub. ¡°You gonna be riding with the convoy, okay?¡± I say, and he gives a big ol¡¯ huff in response. ¡°Sorry partner. You heard Marcus. Wagon stays here, and ain¡¯t no one to pull it besides you, mister big strong bull that you are.¡± That gets his butt wiggling, and he turns big just to prance and strut his stuff for a bit, a show that gets a couple early risers to giggling.


    Before I go, I cast Mage Armour on him just in case, and make a note to have Danny look into crafting Cowie a set of armour or something. There¡¯ll come a time when my partner won¡¯t have to pull a wagon no more and can ride in the passenger seat of my automobile, but a lot can happen between now and whenever we get those going. Again, likely not until after the Watershed, so I gotta keep Cowie safe until then. I throw a Mage Armour on myself too, because it lasts for 3 hours now, or round about. The goal is 12 or 24, because then I could cast it once or twice a day and have it up permanently without sacrificing too many Spell casts. As for Eagle Eye, I¡¯ve got that Spell lasting 6 hours a cast now, which I¡¯d say is mighty impressive. That¡¯s the difference between Abjuration and Divination though, at least for me, as there¡¯s no way a Spell from my third worst school of magic can match a Spell from my best. From there, it goes Evocation, Conjuration, and Transmutation, then the rest, though I will say that I¡¯m naturally better at Conjuration, but have put a lot more hours into Evocation just because.


    I¡¯m a simple man. If Spell go boom, then Howie likey, and Evocation is all about making them big booms.


    Kacey arrives in full gear soon enough, with bow, daggers, and even a Strelky strapped to her red filly¡¯s harness, but still too slow for my liking. ¡°Best learn to do without Makeup,¡± I say as she shows up with mascara and eyeliner to highlight her naturally beautiful eyes, and it does wonders to her glare. Did something to her cheeks to make them bones pop too, but I don¡¯t know enough to say what. Makes her look more mature sorta, but her glare still the same as I say, ¡°Abby don¡¯t care if you got your good face on before they rip it off.¡± Ignoring her scowl, I run her through the list of essentials to make sure she¡¯s got everything she¡¯ll need, and have her dump the things she won¡¯t onto the wagon, like her bedroll. ¡°You don¡¯t got a bigger hat?¡± I ask, eying her military cap with all of an inch of brim out front, if that. She shakes her head, and I shake mine in turn. ¡°You ought to get one. Desert sun is gonna roast you alive, even with the Umbrella Cantrip helping filter out that UV. Get your goggles and kerchief ready too. Won¡¯t do to have you fumbling around your packs as a sandstorm is coming on.¡± Glancing at her thin, loose fabric pants, I add, ¡°Future note, jeans would be better than whatever it is those pants are made of. Lots of thorny brush in the desert, and ain¡¯t no Spell to cure infections.¡±


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    I get the sense that all my badgering ain¡¯t winning me any points, but I got a job to do and I mean to do it. Pretty as Kacey is, I ain¡¯t one to go all moon eyed for a smile and a wink. Not to say I ain¡¯t interested, but it ain¡¯t all about her pretty face and piercing glares. Even a friendship would be nice, because it¡¯d be nice to know if she went through the same things I did. Growing up in New Hope meant I was the only Qin within two-thousand klicks, and the only yellow kid in town. Wasn¡¯t all that bad when I was young, but got a whole lot worse after my daddy died. No, not worse. I just didn¡¯t have him shielding me from the worst no more, as most folks waited for him to move out of earshot before daring to mention the Yellow Devil. That¡¯s what they called him, alongside the Silver Arbiter and the Dark Judge, my daddy, the Marshal, and Marcus. Those other two names come from their sidearms, but wasn¡¯t no one calling my daddy the Rattlesnake, now was there? And why Devil? He didn¡¯t do nothing to nobody who didn¡¯t deserve it, so why they gotta do him dirty like that?


    I know good and well that most didn¡¯t mean nothing by it, that they called him a Devil because he fought like one, but it¡¯s the little things that stand out now that I¡¯m older and wiser. Like how every time we played Cowboys and Aberrations, the other kids always made me play Abby. Don¡¯t suit the image of a cowboy, now do I? Don¡¯t get me wrong, we was all kids without an ounce of hate for one another, and I tore it up as Abby chasing the other kids around. Thing is, I can¡¯t remember if they made me play Abby because I enjoyed it, or if I made it fun because I was always Abby.


    As for other people with yellow skin, Captain Jung aside, Kacey and her oversized brother are about the only ones I really talked to. Most yellow folk give me the evil eye whenever they see me, which was why I got all hopping mad when I saw someone I thought was my age doing it. Plus I got so many questions about stuff in general, like why¡¯s Kacey¡¯s hair light brown? I thought all people with yellow skin had black hair. Is it natural, does she dye it, or is it part of an Innate Brand? Her name actually Kacey, or is that anglicized for something Nipponese? What sorts of food does she eat? My daddy was always going on about soybeans and how we was missing out on an integral part of Qin cuisine, and I hear Nipponese like them some soybeans too. They ever find a replacement here on the Frontier, like we did for onions and potatoes? Would love to have a taste and see what I was missing out on, but that¡¯s just one small part of the things I want to know about growing up yellow in a white man¡¯s world.


    All that can wait though, as I see to business first, showing Kacey the ropes as we ride out into the desert proper. By lunch time, I¡¯ve got a decent idea of where she¡¯s at, and Mr. Morrison wasn¡¯t kidding when he said she¡¯d be my closest competition. Scouting is simple, as it mostly involves keeping your eyes open and knowing what to look for. Anyone can do it really, but that don¡¯t make it easy. The mark of a good scout is the ability to maintain your focus for eight to twelve hours at a time. Like Michael, who stayed on task the entire time, as opposed to Nate who got bored five minutes in and might as well have been riding with both eyes closed. As for Kacey, she¡¯s every bit as focused and vigilant as Michael except it comes naturally to her, taking in all there is to see while simultaneously absorbing the lessons I lay out for her.


    It¡¯s mostly the general stuff, like how to maximize your field of view while minimizing the risk of being spotted, or how to pace your water intake so you don¡¯t overhydrate and end up watering the plants instead. There¡¯s a lot to cover in just a single day, and I hit all the high points as quick as I can, though she¡¯ll still have to practice and discover some things on her own. Or so I thought, because after the first day passes by without incident, Kacey shows up first thing the next morning ready to ride out with me a second time. Let¡¯s me go into more details and specifics, like how to spot signs of passage in the shifting sands and what local flora and fauna to watch out for. We get together on the fourth day of travel too, and I continue our lessons in earnest, right up until mid-afternoon as we descend down the lee-side of a dune and my jimmies get to rustling.


    Ain¡¯t exactly sure why, but I ain¡¯t about to stop and gawk, so I slowly and casually angle us away from the flats we was headed towards. Makes my jimmies rustle a little less, but not by much, so I make a careful study of our surroundings to see what my conscious mind has missed. There¡¯s nothing too alarming about the wide valley unfolding east of us, just a short hundred metres of flat desert sands until we reach the base of the next towering dune. Can see a good distance to the north and south too, so no chance of an ambush succeeding from either direction, but despite how safe it appears, I ain¡¯t comfortable moving forward just yet and keep skirting the edges of the flats.


    Until it strikes me. There¡¯s a stillness to the sand, an emptiness to the desert that doesn¡¯t sit right, a darkness to the shadows that strikes me as just a bit too unnatural. Could be nerves, or could be a natural sheltered valley here in the desert, but I got them alarm bells ringing now and set course north, straight perpendicular from our original heading. While I try to make sense of the strangeness and figure out what¡¯s got my jimmies in a twist, Kacey decides this is a good time to challenge my competence. ¡°When will you speak on Divination?¡± she asks, glaring for all she¡¯s worth from behind her fresh, fetching tan. ¡°It¡¯s been three days, and I have yet to see you cast a single Divination Spell besides Eagle Eye.¡±


    ¡°Because I don¡¯t need no Spell besides it,¡± I reply, though I do feel the need to add, ¡°Not just yet at least. We ain¡¯t looking for trouble, we¡¯re on the lookout for it, understand?¡±


    Unwilling to cave and accept my words for Gospel, Kacey hits back with, ¡°You are often praised as one of the best Diviners of our generation, yet I have seen no evidence to explain why.¡±


    ¡°Because the true value of a Diviner lies not in how well or often they sling their Spells,¡± I counter, using something the Marshal has told me many a time, ¡°But how the caster interprets the results of the Spells they use.¡± Giving her a second to chew on that, I continue scoping our surroundings and find nothing out of place in the still and empty sands, but push our pace just a little faster all the same.


    ¡°An adage I have heard many a time before.¡± Moving up to make sure I can see her glare, Kacey watches me from behind her surly gaze as she adds, ¡°Though I fail to see how it applies to you. You are concerned, apprehensive about our current surroundings, yet instead of utilizing your lauded Divination skills to better gauge the situation, you stare aimlessly at nothing and turn tail to hide.¡±


    ¡°Caught that, did you? Clever girl.¡± My grin only grows wider as I take in her frustration at my refusal to rise to her bait, but I don¡¯t let my eyes linger on her for long. ¡°Don¡¯t like the look of things ahead. Can¡¯t say what for sure, so we gonna circle around and take a look from a different angle.¡±


    As I turn my gaze back towards the empty sands, I do a double take back at Kacey when she pulls out an Aberrtin tuning fork and holds it up between two fingers. My surprise is partially because of how pure it is, so dark and opaque it looks like a void in the world rather than an actual physical object. Means she¡¯s got indulgent parents or a wealthy sponsor helping to train her up, as there¡¯s enough Aberrtin compressed inside that tiny tuning fork to build a dozen darksteel gates like the one I saw in Pleasant Dunes. The other reason for my surprise is because I recognize the Spell she¡¯s in the process of casting, one I ought to interrupt, but I don¡¯t see how I could short of tackling her off her horse.


    So I sit there and watch as she mutters the words to her Detect Aberration Spell and smacks the tuning fork against her palm. There¡¯s no sound, so she turns to me with a triumphant smile to declare, ¡°There are no Aberrations within a fifty-metre radius.¡±


    ¡°Uh-huh.¡± Glancing around us at the sparse, open desert, with nary a plant or hidey hole to be found, I add, ¡°Could¡¯ve told you as much and saved you the effort. That¡¯s a First Order Spell you just wasted. How many of those you get a day? Eight? Nine?¡±


    Scowling as she crosses her arms, she wipes her brow and mutters, ¡°Eleven.¡±


    ¡°Not bad.¡± Not good either, nor should she really have revealed as much, because limitations are a weakness that can be used against you. ¡°They don¡¯t teach resource management in Basic, or you not get to those lessons just yet?¡± I ask, my tone harsher than intended, but I expected better from her. ¡°You start slinging Spells every time you get spooked, and you won¡¯t make it halfway through the day before you¡¯re spent. Especially if you use ¡®em to get answers anyone with eyes could tell you, or cast it as a Spell instead of Ritual, which don¡¯t drain you none.¡±


    ¡°You are the one who is spooked!¡± It¡¯s adorable how awkward she sounds as she throws the unfamiliar words back at me, all stilted and precise to make sure she gets all the syllables out right, which only adds fuel to her fiery glare. ¡°And fifty metres is the exact limit listed in the Spell Compendium for a novice caster.¡± Snapping like I done her wrong, Kacey bares her teeth and nestled in her arms, Inari follows suit, adding a little hiss to really punctuate its displeasure. ¡°I am not some simple fool, unaware of even the basic of Spellcasting. The range can be raised with practice and familiarity, of which I will get plenty of once I am able to cast more freely without reaching my limits.¡±


    ¡°Wanna know how to raise the range without casting Detect Aberration?¡± Rather than wait for an answer or denial, I push on and say, ¡°Familiarize yourself with Appraisal, Rangefinder, Compass, and Detect Heartbeat. Cantrips one and all, which means you can practice all you want without caring about your limits.¡±


    ¡°Nonsense.¡±


    Ignoring her stubborn pride, I trample all over it and explain, ¡°There¡¯s no fifty-meter base limit to the Detect Aberration Spell. That Spell you just cast is capable of detecting Abby within five-hundred meters easy, but you can¡¯t read anything past fifty because you don¡¯t know how, the same way your eyes can only perceive light in the visible spectrum, or how your ears can¡¯t hear anything above or below a certain threshold. Thing is, ain¡¯t no physical organ holding you back, it¡¯s your ability to parse through the information you¡¯re receiving. When you gain familiarity with the Spell, it don¡¯t show you more than it is right now, you simply learn to glean more from what it gives you.¡±


    Holding up a hand to forestall her argument, I explain, ¡°You know good and well that Divination don¡¯t tell the future or reveal the past. What it does is show you the present, the information available not just to your own five senses, but to other senses which we don¡¯t have. Like how some birds can sense changes in air pressure, or snakes can feel minute vibrations in the earth. The Spells are tools to allow us to perceive things we normally can¡¯t, and a better caster simply perceives more. Think about it. If we¡¯re casting the same Spell, why would it show us different amounts of information?¡±


    Though not entirely convinced, I can see my words having an effect on Kacey, but true to form, she doesn¡¯t take anything I say for granted. ¡°And these Cantrips you listed,¡± she begins, ¡°How is it they can improve my familiarity with a different Spell entirely? They are Divination Spells yes, but there the similarities end.¡±


    ¡°Because Cantrips aside, most Divination Spells weren¡¯t designed meant for the human mind to process.¡± The faintest hints of comprehension begin to dawn on her face, and I can¡¯t help but run my mouth a little more. ¡°Most Spells we use are mathematically modelled after Spell Cores. There¡¯s been lots of study over the centuries and tweaks made to make those Spells easier for humans to use, but most Divination Spells have been left untouched because we couldn¡¯t get them to work with any modifications at all. The reason being is because Abby brains work different from ours, and they perceive the world differently, which is where the trouble starts. We gotta work at understanding the information presented to us by Divination Spells because it wasn¡¯t meant for human minds to parse through. Anyone can learn the Spells, but a Diviner is someone who understands how to read them, and the easiest way to learn is to practice the various Divination Cantrips. Those were man-made and designed specifically to help you process the information from higher Order Spells without being overwhelmed. It¡¯s like learning to read. You start off learning the letters using flash cards, then you put them together to form words. From there, you move on to picture books, and then kid¡¯s books, and so on and so forth.¡±


    Pulling out my own Aberrtin tuning fork, I allow myself a moment to lament how it ain¡¯t nowhere near as pure as Kacey¡¯s, a dull, matte-black object that doesn¡¯t stand out one bit. Then I make ready to cast the same Spell, but not to show her up. She won¡¯t see nothing anyways, and would have to take my word regarding the results, so wasteful though it might be, I¡¯d feel a lot better casting the Spell myself for my own peace of mind. Intoning some nonsensical Latin underneath my breath, I tap the tuning fork against my ear and open up my mind to the flood of information that comes through.


    The thing about Divination Spells is that you never know how your brain is going to perceive the sensory information until you use it for the first time. Some see lights or colours hanging in the air, while others can smell the presence of Abby like a bloodhound, and still more hear clicks at a rate that increases the closer they are. That¡¯s the human mind at work, bridging the gaps in order to perceive a sense our body doesn¡¯t have, which means that unless you can break free of those limits and move beyond the five senses, you¡¯ll never make it as a first-rate Scout. When I cast the Detect Aberration Spell, the gentle hum of my tuning fork is translated into a whole different sense, one for which I have always struggled to describe. It¡¯s like explaining the concept of colours to a blind person and expecting them to understand how different hues blend or clash together, or telling a deaf person how a song can move you to tears. The sense itself is simple enough, like a sudden onset of awareness as if the lights just turned on and I can see again, or my ears popped and I can hear. It¡¯s not sight or sound that I¡¯m sensing now, but something else, the very presence of Abby lingering in the air and sand. Like a rainbow in the oily film atop a puddle of water, or that prickle you get when you think someone¡¯s looking at you, it¡¯s a sensation that¡¯s difficult to describe yet so familiar and instantly fathomable. It¡¯s not intuition like my rustling jimmies, all vague and indistinct, but an awareness of new information that comes as readily as knowing whether something in hand is hot or cold, which way is due North, or where my nose is on my face, information all readily available without even needing to think about it, a sixth sense utilizing a wholly different system to perceive everything before me.


    And right now, that sixth sense is showing me a horde of Abby slowly creeping towards us from the east, and even more still behind them. There are some circling around us to cut us off, while the bulk of the army sits not three-hundred meters away, behind the sand dune directly in front of us. Can¡¯t see, hear, or even smell them, but they most certainly there, sneaking across that patch of supposedly open desert with some less than a hundred meters away. A distance an orc can traverse in eight seconds flat mind you, and I would bet my last dollar there¡¯s bigger Abby hiding there too.


    No wonder I didn¡¯t want to move forward. Once again, my rustling jimmies have saved my hide, though it might be a touch too soon to call it just yet.


    The emergency signal of the day is Winter Court, so I say it as calm as can be. Credit where it¡¯s due, Kacey picks up on my meaning right quick, but she spoils it by looking around like a hawk. ¡°Stop that,¡± I say, moving Ivory closer so we can cover one another as we run. ¡°Count of three, we hoof it at top speed. Don¡¯t go straight up the dune to our left. Too slow, so go up at a diagonal and round the peak. If we have to split, you head straight back to the convoy while I buy you time, got it?¡±


    She nods, but also draws her bow, which is the clincher. ¡°Three,¡± I say, giving her filly¡¯s rump a slap as the illusion shatters to reveal what I already knew was there, an angry horde of gobbos, orcs, bugbears. Pounding through the shifting sands with a chorus of guttural bellows, they bare their fangs as they loose their crude spears and other objects in frenzied bloodlust, the projectiles going so wide I doubt they would have hit us if we¡¯d been sitting stock still. We ain¡¯t though, and fast as the big, mean greenies may be, our horses are much faster, breaking out into a run diagonally up the dune and free and clear of our would-be ambushers.


    Or so I thought, right up until the cold hammer of Fear hits me in the gut and drives all the air from my lungs.


    Ivory rears up and my mouth runs dry as I watch Kacey¡¯s filly do the same, sending the fool girl flying out her saddle and into the sand. That¡¯s all she wrote for Cute Bow Girl, as she¡¯s about seven seconds from becoming Dead Bow Girl once them greenies grab her up. Should¡¯ve held onto her saddle instead of her bow, then she¡¯d be safe and sound as her horsey, who¡¯s legging it off right quick. Ain¡¯t my fault, but I ain¡¯t free of blame, which is the only reason why I stop Ivory from following suit. Death has come for Kacey, but she won¡¯t go alone. Nor will I, as the Rangers will soon follow. Marcus put his trust in me, sent me ahead as a Scout, and I failed him the same way I failed my daddy. These orcs and bugbears are gonna tear me and Kacey apart, then do the same to Tina, Marcus, Tim, and my prospects after they walk into their ambush. I can¡¯t do anything right, so it¡¯s better if I die first so I don¡¯t have to see what comes next. There¡¯s no sense running, no sense in even fighting, so I should just sit here and hope they end things right quick.


    They won¡¯t. Gobbos and their ilk like to play with their prey, make ¡®em scream and squirm while dying real slow. Maybe I ought to take matters into my own hands, put Kacey and Ivory down before biting the Bolt myself¡­


    The heat of shame and anger burns me from within as I let loose a scream of rage and defiance. An instant of cold, mind-numbing terror, that¡¯s all it was, brief chill which cut through the oppressive desert heat and left me breathless and panting. Blink and you¡¯d miss it, but it still cost me plenty. Ivory makes up for my weakness though, joining his voice to mine in a whinny of challenge. Ready and raring to go, he¡¯s chomping at the bit to get a piece of whodunnit, but he keeps his head and shows his worth by heeding my commands. Turning about, he faces the horde without hesitation and springs over to Kacey while I lean over in the saddle, grab her by the arm, and swing her up behind me. She has the good sense not to fight it and leans into the assist, still panicked and reeling from the Spell and tumble, but focused on survival and nothing else.


    Got the makings of a first-class Scout, she does, with grit and gumption to boot.


    Heeling Ivory to get him running away from the horde, I intone the chant to a Spell through the Widen Metamagic bead on my left wrist while turning to get a good look behind us. The orcs and bugbears are creatures cut from the same cloth as gobbos, bigger, balder, and more muscular greenies formed in the general shape of men, with flat faces, bulbous noses, wide, fanged mouths, and yellow or red eyes. Most bear some form of asymmetrical disfiguration, whether it be one cheekbone higher than the other, a bulbous eye paired with a tiny squinty one, or just a general disproportion of facial features. The orcs ain¡¯t all that tall, most measuring five-foot zero, but they got big strapping shoulders and barrel chests that add a whole lot of extra mass to their robust, brawny builds. As for the bugbears, they¡¯re to orcs what Marcus is to me, all bulging muscles and sinewy skin on a six-foot minimum frame. Hooting and hollering up a storm, they wave their weapons and bang their crude armour of bone and leather as they rush headlong towards us, eating up the metres with their giant strides without so much as breaking a sweat. Three seconds at most, that¡¯s all it took to shake off the Fear Spell and get Kacey onto Ivory¡¯s back, and in that short time, our Abby assailants have closed the distance between us at a rapid pace. Alien through their features may be, the bloodlust and hatred in their eyes is all too familiar as they whoop and holler with glee, so eager to tear us apart they ain¡¯t even slinging Bolts or Spears.


    Well too bad for them, because it¡¯ll take more than a static Illusion and a Fear Spell to bring down the Firstborn.


    ¡°Tela!¡± I shout as I fling my hand out towards the crowd, snaring them in a mass of stick white Web. Though lacking any fixed steel posts to hold the Web in place, the Widened Spell envelopes all our pursuers and binds them together, and I flash a grin as they stumble as one and start fighting amongst themselves to be free of the Spell. The bugbears are strong enough to tear free, which is why I didn¡¯t use Entangle, but with the added weight of several orcs fighting and flailing about them, they caught good and well, giving Ivory plenty of time to bring us away from our pinned pursuers with all haste.


    And as my horse makes his way up the dune, I lock eyes with the Abby who hit us with the Fear Spell, a creature that is no bugbear, orc, or even a mere goblin. Taller than an orc but shorter than a bugbear, this Abby is a long, lean creature, all rangy and angular like it been starved too many days. There¡¯s no weakness about it though, not as it rears up to its full height and points from across the sands, its pinched face and long nose as inhuman as can be, yet the expression undeniably familiar as it watches us escape its clutches, one of rage, regret, and promise of suffering should we ever fall into its hands in the future.


    Why hello there, Hobgoblin Illusionist. You¡¯re looking mighty fine today, like a fat stack of cash just waiting to be claimed.


    The air ripples as the Hobgoblin¡¯s Spell slams home into me, but I grit my teeth and grin through the lancing pain wracking my mind and body as I pit my will against his. The alien rage and hatred is cold and impersonal, but there ain¡¯t nothing dispassionate about mine, so I pay him back in coin and watch him falter and fail. ¡°You feel that?¡± I shout once the agony subsides, and Kacey, shook as she is, leaves her arms wrapped around my waist and cheek pressed against my back until I nudge her with an elbow and ask again. Only then does so shake her head without looking up, so I say, ¡°Got hit with a Mind Spike, so they¡¯ll be tracking me now. Once we put a bit of distance between us, I¡¯m gonna slip off and lead them away.¡± The Second Order Divination Spell not only assaults the target, but also marks their location to the caster in question, one I know good and well how to evade, but I ain¡¯t one to run and hide. ¡°I¡¯ll keep them busy while you alert the Rangers,¡± I say, hoping she remembers it all. ¡°Tell them to dig in and sit pretty while I lead these Abby right to them.¡±


    ¡°Are you crazy?¡± Raising her head to reveal her tear-stained eyes, Kacey clutches at my waist through my duster and plate carrier, and much as I¡¯d like to enjoy it, there¡¯s still a hint of panic welling up inside from the unwanted physical touch of someone who¡¯s more or less a stranger, even one as fetching as her. ¡°You mean to fight them on foot all alone?¡± She asks, clinging for all she¡¯s worth while I lean forward and breathe deep, struggling with anxiety and hating myself for being the way I am. ¡°They will catch you and tear you apart in less than a minute.¡±


    ¡°You maybe,¡± I correct, resisting the urge to wrench her hands off of me, but unable to stop myself from slapping her hands ever so lightly. ¡°Quit squeezing so hard unless you fixin¡¯ to see what I ate for breakfast. But no, I don¡¯t mean to fight them.¡±


    ¡°Then why slip off?¡± Kacey asks, hands loosening just a bit while I cast a Console Cantrip to buoy Ivory¡¯s spirits, and the big, white horse flicks his head while his hooves pound away at the sand.


    Still feeling a mite constricted from Kacey¡¯s arms wrapped around my waist, I give her fingers a gentle squeeze. That gets her recoiling right quick, and I get yet another glare as she finds new handholds on the rim of the saddle behind her. ¡°Because,¡± I reply with a wink, detaching the saddlebag with all my extra ammo and shouldering it to buy time to come up with a proper answer. Can¡¯t tell her the truth, that the Fear Spell got me all riled up and dug up feelings best left buried, so I give her my best and brightest grin as the words come to me. ¡°I mean to hunt them.¡±


    And with that, I roll off of Ivory without slowing down and tumble down into the sands, before coming up just in time to see Kacey fumbling with the reins as the horse carries her away. Turning back towards the Abby horde, I chant yet another Spell as I set off through the sands perpendicular to their position and prep to blow off some steam. Make money too, as that hobgoblin Illusionist is worth a pretty penny. Not just in materials, but a cash bounty on top, and them big juicy bugbears are all chock full of Aberrtin just waiting to harvest. Looks like this trip could prove profitable after all, assuming I can turn enough Abby into corpses all by my lonesome. Reaching up to tap the bull¡¯s head medallion I wear on my hat, I let out a whoop to start the recording of my glorious hunt, or what might well be my final fight.


    Every fight could be my last, but I¡¯m a betting man, and I¡¯ll bet on myself each and every time.

 Chapter 26

    Growing up, Sarah Jay had always been a good girl, the model eldest child who could be trusted to follow the rules and look after the others.


    Wasn¡¯t easy, but she¡¯d seen often enough how things went bad when kids didn¡¯t follow the rules. Some would wander off and disappear, eaten by wildlife or carted off by Abby, while others would fall sick and die after playing out in the rain. Those who didn¡¯t clear their plates were quick to complain of hunger, and the ones who stayed up late couldn¡¯t keep up during the long marches. It was all cause and effect, a simple enough concept for even young Sarah Jay to grasp, but one her siblings never picked up as quick. They¡¯d complain about this or that and Mama would gather them up in her arms to whisper sweet lies and soothe their soft little whimpers, a role Sarah Jay soon took on as well, though without the lies. She never resented Mary Ann or little Jimmy for needing to be coddled, because they never went through those hardest of times, or were so young they couldn¡¯t remember the worst of it. Not just the Abby attacks, but long, hungry days spent trekking through the forests and over the hills, or the frenzied, panicked flights during the dead of night after things went wrong. Daddy tried his best to shelter her from the worst of it, but Sarah Jay saw and heard enough to know how bad things were, and she¡¯d seen more than once how easily everything could fall apart, so she made sure she was always on her best behaviour so as not to add to their problems on top of it.


    Because like it or not, Sarah Jay knew her birth was an accident, the result of a single night of passion and bad decisions that bound them together until the day Daddy died. Her parents never said as much, but she put the pieces together early on thanks to all the judgemental stares she got from strangers who crossed their paths, ones who often whispered amongst themselves wondering why anyone would be so foolish or irresponsible to have a child so soon after the Advent.


    So she became the model child, the responsible one who looked after the others and never once complained. Mama was always grateful for the help and called Sarah Jay her little angel, but then Daddy died and Mama fell to pieces, leaving Sarah Jay to look after the family all by her lonesome. Times were tough then, but still better than after Mama took up with Oswald. He was a mean one he was, a bitter bully of a man who drank like a fish and did nothing to help out around home. Fact was, they got more done when he was drunk and passed out, since it meant they no longer had to tiptoe around his fragile ego and do everything his way. Which was often the wrong way too, but he was quick to lay hands on anyone who tried to say otherwise.


    That¡¯s why Sarah Jay started acting out. Better she take the lumps than Mary Ann or little Jimmy, and she thought that maybe, just maybe, if she got hit enough, Mama would finally see sense and leave Oswald for good. Didn¡¯t work, as Mama would just fret and cry while treating Sarah Jay¡¯s bruises and scrapes, wondering out loud what could have possibly gotten into her little angel¡¯s head. ¡°Why can¡¯t you just do as he says?¡± Mama would ask, as if it was anyone¡¯s fault besides Oswald¡¯s that Sarah Jay got hit. ¡°You used to be such a good girl, so why can¡¯t you be good for him?¡±


    Because he was a lecherous tyrant of a drunk, that¡¯s why, one whose hands she¡¯d been dodging since the minute she turned fourteen. Mama didn¡¯t see it because she didn¡¯t want to, thought it only natural for a father to want to kiss his daughter or sit her on his lap, but Oswald was no father of Sarah Jay¡¯s.


    Eventually, she left home to sign on for Basic, where under the stern direction of the Drill Sergeants, she fell back into the routine of the model child. Except she wasn¡¯t a child no more. She was a model boot, a Ranger in training, and for the first time, she met others like her. Like Michael, the intense, deadpan soldier boy, or big Alfred, who looked after everyone around him until he got co-opted by Richard¡¯s sleazy charms and hateful rhetoric. Was clear they shared the same upbringing as her, one filled with struggles and hardships that forged them into the strong, stoic personalities that they were, the first generation of the Frontier who were born too soon. Howie had it too, though he hid it better than most. You¡¯d never know it from looking at his big smiles and easygoing mannerisms, but the Firstborn lived up to his title, working harder than anyone sane person would and taking on more responsibilities than most adults on the Frontier. It showed in how the Rangers treated him, because even though Captain Clay said he¡¯d treat Howie like a boot, everyone acted like he was an extra teacher instead. By day, he¡¯d ride out with Kacey and show her the ropes, and by night, he¡¯d sit Errol and Sarah Jay down for some lessons and review on what they¡¯d learned in his absence.


    All while practicing his Spells and Cantrips to the point of obsession mind you, whether it be throwing up a Dancing Light for some soft illumination, using Appraisal on various Aetherarms to find minor imperfections, or doing his damnedest to befriend the horses and kiccaws into loving compliance.


    With varying degrees of success, or mostly a lack thereof when compared to Tina¡¯s accomplishments. The first of the round, short-beaked birds she¡¯d befriended had been so smitten with her, he¡¯d convinced his whole flock to tag along with the Ranger convoy, a good twenty-three of the rotund, stubby legged, mostly flightless birds, all with the same sandy brown and off-white colouring. They were bigger than a man¡¯s head, but light as could be, which they used to great advantage by hopping all about. They¡¯d taken to roosting on the roof of Howie¡¯s wagon while they were underway, but a brave few preferred perching up front in the driver¡¯s seat with Errol and Sarah Jay instead. Was real cute how they explored every nook and cranny, though she had to be careful not to leave anything loose, as them kiccaws were prone to running off with anything that caught their fancy. Especially the Spell Core in Sarah Jay¡¯s breast pocket, which they seemed to think was food, but she kept it buttoned up and used it to lure the odd bird over to pet and coddle. Some tried to hitch a ride on Cowie, but he wouldn¡¯t have none of it and scared them off right quick, snapping at them with a mouthful of fangs he¡¯d conjured up lickety split before snorting out a lungful of wispy white smoke to scare Errol and Sarah Jay both. As for the first bird charmed by Tina, he sat firmly in her lap at all times as she rode alongside the wagon, happily chirping in tune and bouncing in rhythm to whatever song she was humming beneath her breath.


    The Songbird and her songbird, a right fitting pair, and Tina wanted to bring the whole flock back to New Hope as pets and pest control. They were a cute bunch, and unable to resist, Sarah Jay leaned forward to stroke the closest kiccaw¡¯s soft, brown head. It didn¡¯t pay her much mind except to peer at her sideways and make sure that¡¯s all she was after, its eyes all narrowed and suspicious, but enjoying the touch too much to move. They had such expressive little faces thanks to the off-white markings around their eyes, making them look like they was 40% face and 60% body, with only a teensy, tiny bit set aside for wings and clawed toesies poking out from the bottom of their rotund bellies. Made their little glowers or smiles seem that much bigger, though it was hard to explain how a beastie with no lips could do either.


    Settling back into the bench, Sarah Jay snuggled up closer to Errol and felt a dreamy little smile stretch across her face as his hand idly rubbed her shoulder. Dropping out of Basic to be with him was an act of rebellion made in the heat of the moment, and she didn¡¯t regret it one bit. Fact was, she wished she¡¯d made big waves like this even earlier, because then things with Oswald might¡¯ve been long since solved. She had half a mind to go home for a visit the first chance she got and have a nice long chat with the man, all while fondling the grip of the borrowed Squire hanging from her hip. That¡¯d set him straight right quick, because like all bullies, Oswald feared anyone strong enough to truly cause him harm, and Sarah Jay was fixing to do just that. Would love to do worse, get payback for all the lumps they¡¯d taken, with double interest for every time he dared to lay a hand on Mama, Mary Ann, or little Jimmy, but that wouldn¡¯t help things none. For now though, she was content to sit alongside her man and play at being a boot again, even if it did rankle her nerves something fierce.


    Was only a short time ago when she felt like Ranger life was tailor made for her. All the rules and regulations made the world make sense again, but she¡¯d gotten a taste of true freedom with Howie, and now she wasn¡¯t sure if she could ever go back. Staying disciplined was one thing, but the boots were saddled with so many arbitrary rules that it irked her something fierce, especially since most actually Rangers shirked those same rules. Her uniform had to be perfect, with shirts buttoned up to the collar, sleeves cuffed and straight, and laces pulled to the exact perfect length. God forbid she get a stain, because then she¡¯d have to scrub it out with sand and clean it with Water Sphere, since boots couldn¡¯t look anything less than spic and span even out on the open road. Pulling her long brown locks back into a ponytail wasn¡¯t good enough either, it had to be braided or tucked away, and any jewellery outside of equipment or Spell Focus¡¯s were a no go. Not to mention the constant inspections, making sure every boot had everything they would need on them at any given moment. One of the Sergeants had even tried to lambast her over ¡®forgetting¡¯ to pack her bedroll, until Sarah Jay snapped and told him to take it up with Howie.


    That earned her a good fifty push-ups, which she did, but she also noticed the Drill Sergeants gave her a bit more leeway afterwards. Whether it was due to her outburst or something Howie said, she couldn¡¯t say, only that it felt good to stand up for herself and see some result for it.


    No, the Ranger life wasn¡¯t for her, not anymore. For most her life, Sarah Jay had lived in a cage of her own devising, one of rules and expectations that she didn¡¯t dare defy. Now, she was embarking on a life on the open road with the man she loved and set to earn enough to show Mama that she didn¡¯t need Oswald anymore, so that she might finally kick the drunken lech to the curb and they could be a family again.


    A dream come true, one she¡¯d never even known she¡¯d had, but unfortunately, dreams didn¡¯t always work out as planned. For starters, she noticed that Errol was thriving here in Basic, especially without Richard there to stir things up. Discipline didn¡¯t come naturally to her man, not like it did for her, or Michael, Alfred, and Howie. No, Errol needed the structure and social obligation to keep him on the straight and narrow, because even though he liked to do things his own way, he also didn¡¯t like to stand out from the crowd. The support did him wonders too, especially when it came from someone like Captain Clay who dropped by every so often to see how they were holding up, a strong, black leader and pillar of the Rangers to show just how full of nonsense Richard really was.


    Made Sarah Jay all too aware of Errol¡¯s rough upbringing, because in spite of all the hard times she went through, at least she had the love of both her parents to help her through it, right up until she was twelve. As for Errol? He lost both his parents when he was half that age, and while Father Nicholas sounded like a stand-up fella, he wasn¡¯t Errol¡¯s daddy and couldn¡¯t give him the love and attention he needed, not with more than a dozen other orphans to look after as well. Getting those kids clothed, fed, and educated was an amazing accomplishment in and of itself; if Father Nicholas managed to raise them all up as well-adjusted young men and women as well, then he might well be a bonafide Saint.


    Course, Captain Clay wasn¡¯t Errol¡¯s daddy neither, but he made a fine father figure to look up to. Fact was, there were plenty to be found among the Rangers escorting them, good, dependable men and women of all colours and creeds. Most prominent among them was the lean and wiry Reggie Williams out of Atlanta, the company¡¯s heavy-set heavy weapons specialist, and the company Artisan Conner Bell out of Chicago, whose big afro made it impossible to fit a hat overtop his already oversized head. They came by the first night to offer their sympathies to Errol regarding how he¡¯d washed out and explain how the deck had been stacked against him, jawing about it until Captain Jung came by at which point they went quiet as a mouse. They came back the next night around chow time for a bit of quiet conversation, showing support without ever outright offering it in that manly sort of way, supposedly so they could lend a hand while letting Errol feel like he was still making it on his own. A complicated thing, men and their pride, but it was what it was, and there wasn¡¯t nothing no one could do to change it.


    As for Sarah Jay, she wasn¡¯t a fan of how they acted like Errol had won some great big prize solely because of the colour of her skin, but it was a harmless bit of joking between men that she magnanimously overlooked. What she couldn¡¯t get past was the fact that Reggie and Conner were the two Rangers who¡¯d been out on patrol with Wayne when they first crossed paths a few days back. The three of them were snug as three peas in a pod they were, but Howie said the two of them were good people, and even Wayne wasn¡¯t all that bad for someone bent as a corkscrew. Was real circumspect about it, but Howie claimed the Ranger had good reason to have need of material wealth, and he had yet to let his filching affect the quality of Ranger gear or supplies, so most looked the other way when Lieutenant Wayne fudged a few numbers here and there.


    Regardless of her personal feelings, it was clear Errol enjoyed their company, so for this reason alone, Sarah Jay was willing to swallow her grievances and leave her man to enjoy his time with the Rangers for as long as he could. Meanwhile, she was working hard and taking notes for Howie to look over, so he¡¯d have a better idea of how to train them. That meant putting her nose to the grindstone and taking advantage of the Ranger training while she still could, but after four days of strict micromanagement, mind-numbing drills, and sleepy training exercises, she was fast reaching her limits. Mostly because of the desert¡¯s blazing heat and the fact that she¡¯d earn herself a demerit if she dared unbutton her collar or roll up her sleeves. Not that she would, since exposing even more skin for the sun to bake red was silly, and she hated to think what life would be like without the sticky, white, viscous gel Howie scraped out of some plant to help soothe her sunburned neck. Wasn¡¯t no helping it. The Ranger-issued army caps didn¡¯t do nothing to block the sun, nor did the wagon have an awning that opened up over the driver¡¯s seat. Silly really, to have the sides open up for shade and circulation but not install something to block rain and sun while driving. Then again, knowing Howie, he probably designed those awnings not for shade or comfort, but so he could sit inside the wagon and shoot out from behind cover. If that¡¯s the case though, why was the driver¡¯s seat so open and exposed? Would be safer if it was enclosed, with a steel roof and reinforced glass windows to peer out of. The only reason she could think of building it like this was so that it would look more like a wagon than a tank, but then you might as well put horns on a kiccaw and call it a bull.


    A one-track mind, the Firstborn had, a failing Sarah Jay was fixing to mend, though judging from Kacey¡¯s increasingly sour mood as the days wore on, it might be a job too big for one woman. Obvious to anyone with eyes that Howie was sweet on her, but instead of using his charms to win her over during their scouting sessions together, he put her through her paces and demonstrated how she was lacking at every turn. Wasn¡¯t no one who liked being put down like that, even if he meant well by it, but Howie was the Firstborn in more than title and circumstance. He embodied responsibility in a way that made Sarah Jay wonder what it¡¯d be like if he ever learned to cut loose.


    ¡°Look sharp.¡±


    Tina¡¯s whispered warning had Sarah Jay bolting upright, and beside her, Errol did the same, the two of them separating just as the unfortunately named Drill Sergent Begaye rode up alongside them with a surly scowl. The Navajo Conjuror wore a feather in his cap, one taken from an American Eagle in the old world and brought over to the Frontier, the only indication of his heritage aside from his ruddy tanned complexion. All but spit in the sand as he took them both in, like he was looking at last night¡¯s dinner after it¡¯s morning encore, but not because they were dropouts or because ¡®fraternizing¡¯ was against the rules. No, the grizzled, salt-and-peppered Drill Sergent¡¯s foul mood was par for the course, and he had gave that same look to all the boots besides Tina, because in his eyes, she was the only one worth training. ¡°Saddle up washouts,¡± Begaye barked, already out of patience despite having only just arrived, and Sarah Jay felt Errol tense up beside her. Foolish man couldn¡¯t see that his reaction was exactly why the Drill Sergeant kept calling them that, and no amount of explaining would change Errol¡¯s mind. ¡°You¡¯re joining Strike Team One for patrol duty in ten, and I¡¯ll be damned if the two of you drag them down.¡±


    The last was delivered loudly to everyone within earshot, as First Squad was just finding out about this too, so Sarah Jay took it all in stride and hopped off to see to the horses. Today was Winnie and Sunshine¡¯s day to rest, but they¡¯d hold up well enough for a short patrol. Howie treated his horses like they was made of glass, which to be fair, they might as well be when compared to Cowie. The big bull could happily haul his fully loaded wagon a hundred klicks a day for a week and be no worse off for it, but fifty a day with a rider wouldn¡¯t hurt the horses long term. Winnie was plenty happy to see the saddles come out, prancing her pretty hooves as Sarah Jay cinched the saddle tight, and over on the other side, Sunshine let out a little excited whinny as Errol did the same.


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    Stopping to grab her 3-Line from the weapon¡¯s locker, she only hesitated a moment before grabbing a Whumper and a pouch of 12-gauge shells for Errol. Howie had yet to sign off on his Blastgun privileges after the mess with them bandits, but it was a better weapon on horseback than the long-barrelled El-Minister, especially considering his aim. Or lack thereof if she was being honest, but just because she wasn¡¯t willing to lie to her man didn¡¯t mean she was keen to bash him upside the head with the truth, a distinction Howie could stand to learn. Errol accepted the weapon with a nod and a look, holstering it in his saddle as he sat pretty atop Sunshine with his gorgeous smile. Cut a mighty fine figure when he flashed his pearly whites, what with his warm eyes and strong chin, and his clean, unwrinkled off-white button up made him look even better. That¡¯s the thing about men. They didn¡¯t seem to grasp how much better they looked when dressed to the nines, though at this moment, Sarah Jay had to stifle a growl while admitting she¡¯d much rather have Errol¡¯s shirt all wrinkled and tossed aside on her bedroom floor.


    Been close to three weeks since they¡¯d spent some quality time together, and they¡¯d only been together for a month before that, so the separation was starting to wear thin.


    Intimacy would have to wait until they had a bedroom again, or at the very least a tent. For now, she¡¯d have to make do with an eyeful as they linked up with Tina¡¯s Strike Team One, which consisted of whiny Nate, angry Ike, horse-faced Sally, and mopey Antoni. The last was Polish American too, and Sarah Jay had enjoyed a bit of discourse with the man about their shared heritage, as it put her in mind of her daddy. She greeted Antoni with a nod, and got one in return, then gave the same to the others and got nothing. Nate was too busy failing miserably at getting his pack up to snuff, while Ike was intentionally ignoring her, Errol, and Tina on account of the beat-down he suffered at Howie¡¯s hands.


    As for Sally, she was just a roody-tooty bitch.


    ¡°Why are they even here?¡± Sally asked, directed at no one in particular as she played with her pretty auburn curls that were little more than ribbons on a hoggidilla. ¡°Weren¡¯t they like, washed out or something?¡±


    A question she¡¯d asked several times before, but again, Sarah Jay, Errol, and Tina didn¡¯t bother giving her the time of day. The girl lived for drama, and with Sarah Jay out of the running, Sally was the top marksman of the class. Michael was a close second, and could take the prize if he cared to, but he spread himself too thin to come out on top in any one subject. Didn¡¯t stop him from being top five in multiple fields, which made many Rangers take notice, while Sally was sour that the ¡®broody and handsome¡¯ Captain Tim Hayes didn¡¯t even know her name.


    Then again, Sarah Jay was pretty sure Captain Hayes didn¡¯t know any of the boots names besides Tina¡¯s, and only because he was a close friend of the family¡¯s, but she wasn¡¯t about to tell Sally as much.


    So it came as some surprise when Drill Sergeant Begaye arrived with Captain Hayes at his side, the latter looking glum and sleepy as can be. Oh sure, he was handsome enough, with his youthful good looks, tousled chestnut curls, and dour, dismal expression, but there was something about him that spooked Sarah Jay fierce, a focused intensity to his gaze that put her in mind of a lazy predator. He could kill her without blinking an eye, wouldn¡¯t hesitate if it came to it, and the only reason she still drew breath was his distinct lack of interest in seeing her dead. ¡°Tina,¡± he greeted, giving the girl a nod as he sat with arms crossed and rifle cradled atop them. ¡°Boots.¡± Strangely enough, he offered Errol and Sarah Jay a nod as well, though he had nothing for the actual boots, which made Sally¡¯s horse face turn a darker shade of red. ¡°Patrol time. Show me what you know, and I¡¯ll tell you what you missed.¡±


    Wasn¡¯t their first time going on patrol, so Sarah Jay looked to Tina and silently indicated that they¡¯d follow her lead. ¡°Alright then,¡± Tina began, flashing a smile that wasn¡¯t directed at anyone in particular, and the kiccaw in her lap chirped along with her cheery declaration. ¡°Sally and Nate on the left, Antoni and Ike on the right. Errol, Sarah Jay and me will take centre. Keep fire lanes open and no more than fifty paces apart. Hop to it.¡±


    ¡°Rangers don¡¯t hop, little lady,¡± Captain Hayes interjected, without even so much as a ghost of a smile, but Tina treated it like a joke and just smiled.


    ¡°Well, get it done, then,¡± she said, with a bit more gravel in her voice, and since Captain Hayes didn¡¯t say nothing, the others rode off to take the flanks. Drill Sergeant Begaye followed close behind Sally and Nate, and a third Ranger that Sarah Jay didn¡¯t know joined Ike and Antoni. A touch too much babying for Sarah Jay¡¯s liking, and showed how much faith the Rangers had in Howie, but she could understand why the difference in treatment. Just yesterday, a patrol of boots rode straight into a patch of briarbane because they were too lazy to ride around. What they didn¡¯t know was that briarbane nettles were coated in a highly toxic wax that stung something fierce when it got into the bloodstream. Ended up with the boots and their horses all screaming bloody murder until the medicos got them all coated in balm and wrapped in gauze like how them Egyptians clothed their dead. Mummies, they were called, though it didn¡¯t explain why Brit¡¯s called their mothers the same way, which didn¡¯t make a lick of sense.


    Seeing them miserable and wrapped boots went to show how comprehensive Howie¡¯s lessons really were. Sure, he rambled on for a long time making it difficult to take it all in, but she was almost a hundred-percent sure he¡¯d mentioned briarbane sometime in the last two weeks. Sorta red-brown brushes that grew taller than a man¡¯s height with purple and white flowers that had sliver-thin petals, that¡¯s what they looked like, something she knew well before the Drill Sergeants made certain all the boots knew what to look out for after the fact.


    A flash of movement in the distance caught Sarah Jay¡¯s eye, and she stopped for a better look. Errol, silly man that he was, turned to look at her in confusion, but Tina started scanning the horizon right quick. ¡°There,¡± she said, pointing out over a dune in front of them. ¡°Looks like someone¡¯s riding in fast.¡±


    ¡°Should¡¯ve seen it sooner,¡± Captain Hayes drawled, his tone bored but gaze vigilant. ¡°Now what?¡±


    ¡°Send word back and wait for contact?¡±


    Tina¡¯s tone was filled with doubt, but Captain Hayes didn¡¯t say nothing, until Sarah Jay suggested, ¡°Maybe we ought to tell the squad? Don¡¯t think they can see what we can.¡±


    ¡°Right.¡± As Tina got right on it, Captain Hayes gave Sarah Jay a little nod, which had her sitting up straighter than before, or as straight as she could atop of a horse. Didn¡¯t know how Howie and Errol did it, looking all cozy and natural in the saddle, especially with their dangly bits getting in the way.


    She didn¡¯t let the thought distract her none though, and instead took up a position slightly to the left while readying to draw her rifle, but soon enough, she saw that it wasn¡¯t needed. ¡°It¡¯s Kacey,¡± she said, relaxing a touch, but before she could ride up to meet with her, Tina¡¯s arm shot out to tell her to hold.


    ¡°Primal,¡± Tina called, her voice booming like Howie¡¯s had when he warned off those bandits.


    ¡°Fury,¡± came Kacey¡¯s distant, muffled reply, her sharp and concise enunciation still audible even over Ivory¡¯s hoofbeats, which was when Sarah Jay¡¯s brain started itching something fierce. Then, the Nipponese Archer shouted something else. ¡°Winter!¡±


    The emergency word of the day.


    ¡°Confirm.¡± Exploding into motion once they heard Kacey shout ¡®Court¡¯, Captain Hayes surged forward atop his horse and left them in a spray of sand. To her credit, Tina followed close behind, while Errol and Sarah Jay sat and waited. Signalling the others to stand firm, she watched with trepidation as Tim and Tina escorted Kacey back atop Howie¡¯s newest horse, the lovely Ivory who looked all but spent. ¡°You and you,¡± Captain Hayes barked, pointing at Sally and Nate with uncharacteristic animation. ¡°Get word back to the Rangers. Tell them we got incoming Abby with the Firstborn running interference.¡± Snarling when he saw Sally and Nate frozen in shock, he shouted, ¡°Move!¡±


    ¡°There were so many of them,¡± Kacey said, babbling as she shook in the saddle and stared down at nothing. ¡°Orcs and bugbears appearing out of nowhere, close enough to reach out and grab us.¡±


    ¡°Where¡¯s Howie?¡± Tina demanded, and when Kacey didn¡¯t answer, she drew closer and gave her horse, old Tux, a pat on the neck when he tried to give Ivory a nibble. ¡°Answer me. Where¡¯s Howie? Why you riding back on his horse without him?¡±


    ¡°He jumped off,¡± Kacey replied, trembling as she tried to bury her face in her hands. ¡°Said he was a fool for doing it, but he did it all the same.¡± Drawing back with a frown, Tina hands moved with the practiced cadence of a Spell casting, but before she could mutter a single syllable of the chant, Kacey drew back and screeched, ¡°No! Keep your tainted mind magic away from me, Aberrant filth!¡±


    A torrent of Nipponese followed next, but there was no mistaking Kacey¡¯s tone. Whatever choice words she had for Tina, they weren¡¯t something you¡¯d repeat in pleasant company, and Sarah Jay was shocked to see it. She¡¯d heard that the Nipponese weren¡¯t the biggest fans of Innates as a whole, but Kacey¡¯s reaction was all too similar to Richard¡¯s when he found out about Errol and Sarah Jay. An angry, hateful deluge of what could only be abuse spewed out of Kacey¡¯s mouth, and she made a motion like she was brushing her shoulder off with sandpaper.


    To her credit, Tina didn¡¯t get angry or frustrated, though Sarah Jay got plenty heated for her, and no doubt Howie would do the same once he heard about this. Tina though, all she did was gesture at Errol and ask, ¡°What about him? You mind if he casts a Spell on you? Just Heroism to help settle your nerves, okay? I can feel the Fear Spell still lingering on you, so even though it¡¯s over, you ain¡¯t in your right mind.¡±


    Seeing how she Kacey didn¡¯t recoil from his approach, Errol did as he was asked and cast Heroism on her, and the change was startling to behold. Kacey went from manic tears to stoic calm in little more than a blink of the eye, and she even had the good sense to look ashamed of her behaviour as she panted and heaved. ¡°So it was a Fear Spell,¡± she said, as if that excused her behaviour. ¡°I did not think it would be so¡­ unnerving.¡± Looked right sorry enough, but didn¡¯t have enough good sense to apologize, and she wiped her tears away as she explained what befell them. ¡°We could have both ridden away to safety,¡± she concluded, her brow furrowed in confusion, if not outright concern. ¡°Instead, because of his greed and overconfidence, he is likely dead or wishes he were.¡±


    Now that got Tina all heated and out of sorts, her big blue eyes blazing with vengeful fury, but before she could say anything, Captain Hayes let out a little chuckle. ¡°Nah,¡± he said, drawing the single syllable out for several seconds. ¡°Not Howie. How many would you say there were? Rough estimate.¡±


    ¡°Maybe five bugbears?¡± Kacey replied, after taking long seconds to think about it. ¡°With dozens of orcs alongside them, and a leader cunning enough to lay in wait with magic to hide them.¡±


    Captain Hayes was already shaking his head. ¡°If that¡¯s all there was, Howie could¡¯ve cleaned them up all by his lonesome, even riding double with you. If he sent you back to warn us, there are probably a whole lot more.¡±


    By now, the bulk of the Rangers were closing in, moving double-time with Captain Clay and Captain Jung at the forefront. ¡°Report,¡± Captain Clay demanded, and Captain Hayes explained it all right quick. ¡°What¡¯d Howie say?¡± Turning to Kacey, the towering giant of a Ranger asked, ¡°Is he running circles or leading them towards us?¡±


    ¡°Leading them,¡± Kacey replied, and after a moment of hesitation, she added, ¡°His exact words were to tell you to¡­ ¡®dig in and sit pretty¡¯ and he would lead them to us.¡±


    ¡°Then that¡¯s what we¡¯ll do,¡± Captain Clay replied, before barking out orders to his Rangers. Captain Jung did the same to her Drill Sergeants, who in turn started barking orders at the boots.


    ¡°But Howie¡¯s on foot,¡± Tina whispered, almost too quiet to be heard, except Captain Hayes had sharp ears to match his eyes.


    ¡°You ever known him to bite off more than he can chew?¡± Patting Tina on the shoulder, Captain Hayes flashed his stilted, underused grin that made him look handsome and terrifying both. ¡°He¡¯ll be fine,¡± he said, his tone pitched to sound comforting but the result was more dismissive than anything else. ¡°You¡¯ll see soon enough.¡± All too eager to be done with this atypical bout of empathy, Captain Hayes pointed at Sarah Jay and said, ¡°You¡¯re with me. You,¡± he added, pointing at Errol, ¡°Stay with Tina. Come on.¡±


    And off he went, moving south up a slope and collecting boots along the way, namely Michael, Alfred, Sally, and a few others who were better than your average shooter, except Captain Hayes didn¡¯t seem to know any of their names and simply pointed each of them out, shouted, and gestured them over. ¡°We¡¯re sitting overwatch,¡± he explained, once everyone was there. ¡°Target priority goes Spellcasters, commanders, then largest to smallest. Once we stop, dismount, hobble your horses, and try not to move too much before the shooting starts.¡±


    That¡¯s all he had to say before tuning them out to check on his weapons, and true to his word, once they crested the dune and dismounted, he laid down and didn¡¯t move a muscle as he stared east out into the sea of sandy dunes. As for Sarah Jay, she tried to do the same, but the nervous jitters had her all but dancing as she shuffled her feet while the minutes ticked by. Fiddling with the ammo clips on her belt, she spent the time sighting landmarks and guessing the approximate range so she wouldn¡¯t have to think as much in the heat of battle. While she tried to find something more or less a kilometre away to gauge her range, she spotted movement even further out over the horizon, a cloud of sand slowly approaching from the northeast. ¡°Contact,¡± she said, pointing it out, and the boots beside her all swiveled their heads as one to peer out at it. ¡°I think that¡¯s Howie.¡±


    ¡°It is.¡± Relaxed as could be, Captain Hayes rested his chin on one hand while the other held his rifle perched atop a small sandbag and loosely at the ready, looking all calm and casual save for the lack of movement. ¡°Relax. It¡¯ll be a few minutes more before he gets here.¡±


    A few minutes? That had to be at least five klicks away, and even if Howie could keep up a world record pace of ten klicks an hour, that was still thirty minutes of running to be had. Assuming them orcs and bugbears didn¡¯t catch him first, which they most certainly could, as peak human speed and endurance was close to standard Abby capability. Before she could argue the facts and insist they ride out to save him, Sarah Jay noticed that the cloud of dust getting closer at a breakneck pace. Maybe Howie found Kacey¡¯s horse and was riding it back? Raising her 3-Line to her shoulder, she peered through the scope and gasped at what she saw, barely able to believe her eyes despite everything they were telling her.


    ¡°Scopes are good,¡± Captain Hayes began, launching into a lesson at what seemed like the worst time possible. ¡°I learned to shoot with them too, because they help you focus on your target at the expense of everything else. Notches help too, and you don¡¯t need good awareness if you got a spotter to watch your back, so you can put everything you have into popping heads. The Eagle Eye Spell don¡¯t let you do that. You can see farther, sure, but your peripherals still work, so you see any and all movement in front of you, most of which is just a distraction. Takes a lot of training to close all that out and learn to shoot at range with an iron sight, but I¡¯d say it¡¯s worth it out here. Clocked signs of what the little lady is seeing as soon as we got up here, but it¡¯ll be a little longer yet before the rest of you see it too.¡±


    Because none of the others had a rifle with a scope, or the Eagle Eye Spell to help them see. ¡°What exactly are we going to be seeing?¡± Michael asked, directing his question more at Sarah Jay than Captain Hayes, as the Strelkies didn¡¯t come with no scope. Rather than explain, she offered him the rifle and let him see for himself, which surprisingly brought a smile to his usually intense gaze. ¡°That crazy son of a gun,¡± Michael said, shaking his head before checking to see if Sarah Jay was okay with him passing the rifle on to someone else. She was, so she drew up to her full height and grinned as she took in the others reactions to seeing Howie zipping down the sand dunes atop his Floating Disc, like a surfboard getting pulled across the surface of Last Chance Lake while a dark-green wave of mean, muscled Abby followed in his wake.


    Hundreds of them to be sure, but Howie kept well ahead of them so far, and she trusted he¡¯d stay well ahead of them until it was time to fight.


    When the rifle got back to Sarah Jay, she didn¡¯t need to peer through the scope to see Howie crest the second closest dune, one which was conveniently shorter than the final sand dune standing between the horde of Abby and the readied Rangers and boots sitting on their own dune across from it. They were all hunkered behind sandbags, wagons, and other fortified positions hastily thrown together in the last quarter hour or so. From her vantage point, she grinned and shook her head as Howie slid down the second to last dune and halfway up the final one, letting his momentum almost play out before hopping off and legging it the last little bit. At speeds faster than any person ought to run no less, crossing a good hundred and fifty metres uphill in seven seconds flat and giving her good cause to reconsider her stance on Longstrider. There had to be more at work there, but she had no more time to think, because when Howie reached the top, he did something almost unthinkable that made her heart freeze in her chest.


    He stopped, turned around, and took a moment to casually take off his hat and wipe the sweat from his brow. ¡°C¡¯mon, you slowpokes,¡± he shouted as he waited for his pursuers to catch up, and not only could Sarah Jay hear the smile in his tone, she could imagine the giant grin stretched across his face as he popped off a few shots with his unsilenced Szass and Tam revolver. The tiny gun let loose with a thundering boom with each shot, ones that echoed across the desert and was far more intimidating than the metallic bark of her slender .45. ¡°You want some of this? Then come get some.¡±


    The Bolts were flying back at him, but Howie ran three steps, leaped off the peak of the dune, and landed on his Floating Disc some ten metres down with a cheery whoop. From there, gravity did the rest as he rocketed down the dune, spraying sand from both sides and leaving a furrow behind him as he plummeted down at a breakneck pace, hooting, hollering, and waving his hat overhead all the while. So eager to sink their teeth into his flesh, the Abby horde was over the dune and a quarter way down before they noticed the Ranger¡¯s waiting on the next dune over about two-hundred meters away, and when they hesitated for all of a moment, Captain Clay¡¯s voice boomed out for all to hear. ¡°Weapon¡¯s free. Fire at will.¡±


    The words were barely out of his mouth when a deafening orchestra of thunderous shots threatened to overwhelm Sarah Jay even through her Hearing Protection, and her heart went out to poor Errol who still had yet to figure out the Cantrip. Then her spirits rose as the first volley of Bolts slammed home into the orcish horde, dropping dozens of the vanguard where they stood. Bellowing in unison, the enraged Abby charged headlong into the fray as the Rangers unleashed hell, and Sarah Jay joined in alongside Captain Hayes as he rained death down from above with his lovely semi-auto M4 Gromph, going Tak-Tak-Tak as it spit Bolts as fast as the dark-eyed Captain could pull the trigger.


    Was a wonder to behold as the Rangers unleashed a barrage of Spells, and all hell broke loose as they laid waste to Abby. The battle had only just started and she could see victory already well within their grasp, but these orcs and bugbears were fixing to fight to the last. It was like shooting fish in a barrel, and as Sarah Jay picked her shots and popped their heads, she realized all of this was only made possible by Howie¡¯s quick thinking, faster feet, and brilliant taunting. In a standup fight, the Abby horde wouldn¡¯t have come at them head on in one big clump, or might even have come at them in an ambush, and then what? Boots would have died, that much was sure, and Rangers too even, but Howie sussed the danger out and rendered it as close to harmless as could be.


    Yea, the Rangers were impressive and all, but the Firstborn, now he was something else, and Sarah Jay was happy as a hog in mud to be a part of his crew.

 Chapter 27

    Controlled chaos.


    That was battle in a nutshell, as far as Errol could tell. Then again, it was hard to see the full picture while kneeling behind a stack of sandbags and firing Bolts downrange. The thunderous din from the unsilenced Strelky¡¯s issued to the other boots left him dazed and out of sorts, while the glaring muzzle flashes and wispy white smoke rendered him blind in broad daylight as he unloaded his El-Minister at the oncoming horde. There was no telling if his Bolts hit, but he tried his best to focus on the fight instead of his dry mouth, sweaty hands, shaking knees, and struggling lungs as hundreds of Abby drew down upon him. Orcs and goblins were dropping like flies, yet still they ran headlong into the fray, trampling over their fallen brethren in a frenzied rush to get in close with the Rangers and boots.


    These orcs were an ugly, angry bunch, even more so than the goblins he¡¯d faced down some days ago. They bared giant fangs stained in ugly yellow while their deep, bellowing voices roared in wordless challenge, and Errol shook to hear it. They were so much bigger than the goblins, which he already knew from having seen them before from afar, but as the horde barreled down towards him, their size became so much more concerning. At a scrawny, four-foot zero, a regular goblin was about as strong as an average man, and while orcs were only about a foot or so taller, they were also three times wider and twice as thick, covered in hard, rippling muscles and primitive armour of leather and bone. Though still shorter than most men, their proportions reminded Errol of Captain Clay. He¡¯d never seen anyone as well-built as the kind and soft-spoken giant, with biceps bigger than most men¡¯s thighs and a chest better described as double barrel than single. Carried four boxes of ammo without breaking a sweat when most struggled with one, and stood out in a crowd no matter where he went, but every single orc charging towards Errol now was every bit as overblown and exaggerated in their physique, with some shoulders reaching as high as the bottom of their ears due to how densely overpacked their frames were.


    And the bugbears were even bigger, meaner, and uglier than the orcs, a feat he didn¡¯t think was possible.


    More surprising was how different and distinct each orc was from the next. Goblins were all more or less cut from the same cloth, so Errol thought orcs would be the same, but there was with as much variation as you¡¯d see in a normal crowd of people. Sure, these Abby were all green, but the specific shade of green ran the gamut from bright leaf green to hue so dark it was almost black as night. Their faces differed greatly too, with most bearing gnashing fangs, but a select few sporting horizontal tusks that jutted out horizontally from their mouths, which changed the shape and outline of their features greatly. Some had big round eyes, and others squinty ones overshadowed by prominent, protruding foreheads, or square, bulging jaws versus weak, recessed chins that opened into cavernous maws. The variation was so great, there didn¡¯t seem to be a common thread amongst them other than a general lumpy, muscled, and battle-scarred savagery that tied them all together.


    That was all before getting into their manner of dress, though there was a commonality to their fashion. Most went buck naked, making him glad for their lack of genitals, while a select few were clad in crude armour of bone or hide. A larger minority wore what most would call ¡®tribal wear¡¯, which was typically a crude, single shoulder leather wrap that covered you up from chest to thighs, like a tighter, tougher toga. Most settlers had worn such clothing for the first few years after the Advent because it was easy enough to make, though there¡¯d been a recent spike in ¡®fashionable¡¯ tribal-wear as a throwback to simpler times. That¡¯d end right quick soon as folks saw Abby dressed the same, and far as Errol could tell, these orcish garments were made from a variety of hides, with some outfits so suspiciously pale and pink they made him want to stop looking.


    But as the horde bore down on him, Errol confirmed his earlier suspicions by way of spotting a face in the crowd, one sewn in as a patch over the chest of an orc¡¯s crude garments.


    Underneath all his internalized screaming, he wondered why these orcs bothered wearing clothes in the first place. To protect themselves from the elements and attacks? Or did they see clothing as some kind of status symbol? Possibly the latter, because while there were many naked orcs, none went about unarmed, even if most carried crude weapons of bone or even wood. He could even pick out a few rifles in the crowd, which was a frightening sight to behold considering what Howie had told them about goblinoids using Aetherarms, but thankfully, the ones here were using their weapons like clubs instead of guns.


    All this and more passed through his head as the horde drew closer and closer despite a steady stream of Bolts from the Rangers and boots thinning their ranks. Or steady until it wasn¡¯t, as Errol¡¯s El-Minister stopped kicking when he pulled the trigger and he realized the deafening din of gunfire had died down to a mere clamour. It took a precious second of gawking before he realized his magazine was empty, and he looked around to see other boots struggling to reload their guns too. Poor teary-eyed Nate was so out of sorts he hadn¡¯t even noticed his gun had run dry, his arms still working to compensate for recoil that wasn¡¯t there as he pulled the trigger again and again to the same lack of effect. He was having the worst of it as far as Errol could tell, but there were plenty of other boots floundering where they knelt, fumbling with the unfamiliar ten-round clips of ammo that fed into the SKS type 56¡¯s top-loaded internal magazine.


    Not as simple as popping a fresh, 30-round magazine into the El-Minister, and for the first time, Errol was glad Howie picked out a beginner¡¯s weapon for him and made him stick with it. Still had to turn the magazine around three times before finally slamming it in right, so he didn¡¯t judge the other boots who were still struggling to load their unfamiliar weapons in the heat of battle and driven near to panic by their failures.


    Well, most of the boots Errol could see, though there were a handful of stand-out exceptions. Like cold, calculating Michael, who held his rifle up against his shoulder in a textbook stance and emptied his clip with mechanical speed and accuracy before reloading without even looking. Tina too, beaming bright and bobbing her head from side to side while shooting and reloading like she was listening to tunes while sport shooting at the range, or Kacey who wasn¡¯t even using her gun. Instead, she had her bow in hand, a short recurve that was maybe a meter long when strung, which was so very different from the giant longbows the Pathfinders favoured. He¡¯d seen them at practice, and they¡¯d have to put all their strength into drawing the bow to loose each arrow, but Kacey used her shorter weapon with effortless ease while kneeling. Was no less deadly for it either, her arrows bursting into clouds of piercing projectiles which hammered home into the horde, dropping three orcs in a small group and peppering several more around them. Not all of her arrows were Spell like that, as her next shot was of the mundane variety, but it dropped an orc all the same.


    Then there was Howie, who stood there as calm and collected as can be after zooming down the hill on his invisible board, Levitation Spell or what have you. Didn¡¯t bother taking cover behind the sandbags, just stood next to Tina feeding ammo into his rifle one bullet at a time with a blue-light shield on his wrist, a grin on his face, and a gleam in his eye. If Michael¡¯s posture was textbook, Howie¡¯s was anything but as he started shooting, firing his repeater off at the hip while working the lever with both hands, and it was a sight to see. Had to wait a half-beat between each shot for the Metamagic Etchings to reach full purple glow before pulling the trigger again, but he never let that slow him down. It was almost hypnotic watching the Etchings light up and go dark, a perpetual violet wave that started at the base of the cylinder and coursed down to the tip of the barrel in less than a second before going dark with a clang, only for the process to repeat itself again over the course of a single second.


    The sustained gunfire started up once more and brought pain to Errol¡¯s ears as he added the dull thump of his El-Minster to the din. The brief lull only lasted a handful of seconds at most as the boots finished reloading their weapons, but to his horror, the damage had been done. The orc horde covered more ground than he thought possible in so short a time, racing towards the firing line without any care for safety or survival. They¡¯d gone from distant, but visible to looming targets that were all but impossible to miss, which was a good thing because Errol emptied half his magazine panic firing into the mass. Then he looked beside him at Howie and saw the Firstborn still shooting in a calm and orderly fashion, and thought back to his training. Slow is smooth and smooth is fast. That¡¯s what Errol stuck to, hoping to make every shot count before the tide of Abby crashed into their ranks. To his horror however, he watched as his target orc shrugged off a Bolt to the chest, then another, then a third, before finally succumbing to a lucky headshot Errol made thanks to the recoil from the previous shot.


    Yea, their armour was most certainly for show, because they didn¡¯t really need it. Supposedly, there were actual armoured orcs and bugbears waiting for them in Pleasant Dunes, covered in bio-mineral chitin or whatever. How tough would they be to kill with this pea-shooter of an El-Minister?


    For that reason alone, when his rifle clicked empty for the second time, he didn¡¯t bother reaching for another magazine. Instead, he let go of the weapon and let it hang loosely from its shoulder strap while he grabbed the Whumper beside him, leaning neatly against the sandbags thanks to a rare moment of foresight. Making a last-minute decision to widen the spread, he cranked the dial until the arrow was somewhere around the midpoint before levelling the weapon towards Abby.


    Only to stop and duck down behind cover as he saw a wave of Bolts sailing towards them.


    The impact was somewhat anti-climatic as the orcish volley thudded into the sandbags in front of him, but he almost couldn¡¯t bring himself to look up again. If they were in range to loose Bolts, that meant they¡¯d been less than forty meters away, and by the time he stood up, they¡¯d be on him like flies on honey. Beside him, Nate was doing the same, falling face down in the sand and shaking something fierce. Errol took solace in this shared cowardice, until he noticed the growing red stain on Nate¡¯s off-white collar. Flipping the other boot onto his back, Errol saw a mess of red where the Bolt had clipped Nate in the collarbone, and he cursed himself a fool for ever thinking a manually cast Bolt was worthless compared to a proper Aetherarm. The other man¡¯s shockingly blue eyes gazed up at him, so full of fear it struck a chord in Errol, wondering if Nate could see the same fear mirrored in his own brown eyes.


    For days after the encounter with Caleb and his bandit friends, Errol thought himself a spineless coward. How could he be so unmanned over the death of a stranger, especially one who meant him harm? Sure, he¡¯d fought Abby without thinking twice, but both times, he¡¯d been under the effect of the Heroism Spell, and he didn¡¯t have time to throw it on after Howie appeared front and centre. Magical courage was the same as medicinal though, fake and fleeting, meaning down at the core of it all, Errol wasn¡¯t made for this life. Or so he thought at first, until Captain Clay¡¯s words finally sank in, something he said on the first day they¡¯d met but didn¡¯t make sense until he¡¯d had time to think it through.


    Taking a life shouldn¡¯t be easy. Death should weigh heavily on a man¡¯s conscience, because life was precious, which made Errol¡¯s next decision as straightforward as could be.


    ¡°Man down!¡± he shouted, barely able to hear himself over the ringing in his ears, but he shut that out alongside the rest of the world to tend to Nate¡¯s injuries. Didn¡¯t look at the horde to see how close they were, didn¡¯t care what might happen to him if they arrived. The others would cover him, or Abby would get them both, but either way, Errol wasn¡¯t gonna let Nate bleed out beside him. Remembering his lessons on first aid with Father Nicolas, he uncapped his waterskin and poured some of his precious water over his hands to wash away the grit. Wasn¡¯t even close to clean or sterile, but it was the best he could do for now, so he set to unbuttoning Nate¡¯s shirt and pulled it aside for a better look at the wound. The white of bone peeked out from underneath a surge of red and pink, blood pumping and muscles spasming as Nate¡¯s body tried to reconcile the wound where part of his shoulder used to be, a hole the size of a bottlecap and too deep to gauge with a glance.


    Far as Errol could tell, the Bolt hadn¡¯t nicked any arteries running through the general region, because if it had, the blood would be coming out in spurts rather than flowing out in pulses. Good news, but Nate could still bleed out if the wound was left untreated, so Errol grabbed a wad of clean, disinfected gauze from the first aid kit he kept on his belt, one provided to him by the gruff Dr. Harding back in New Hope. Slapping the gauze over the wound, he kept pressure on Nate¡¯s shoulder despite the other man¡¯s agonized groan. ¡°Bear with it man,¡± Errol said as he pressed down hard with both hands, speaking only because he remembered Father Nicolas would always do the same for his patients. ¡°Pain means you¡¯re alive, so be glad for it.¡± That got a weak smile from scared Nate, one that filled Errol with confidence. ¡°Heavenly Father, we come before you in faith to seek your healing touch,¡± he intoned, bowing his head in prayer as the Spell Structure lit up in his mind¡¯s eye. ¡°We believe in your power to restore health and well-being. Please lay your hands upon Nate and mend his wounds, granting him the strength and vitality needed so that he might continue to serve you and others.¡±


    There was more to the prayer, but the words slipped out without thinking as he focused on the Spell¡¯s effects. It was nothing like Howie¡¯s simple, Latin phrases designed for brevity and impact, but it worked for Errol. It was as if the cadence of his prayer was a perfect match for the flow of Aether in the Spell, one that started in his mind, coursed through his body, and flowed out his hands into Nate¡¯s wound. It was a First Order Spell from the school of Abjuration simply named Staunch Wounds, and one he¡¯d practiced on plenty of injured ranchers and animals before. The details escaped him, but as Father Nicolas explained it, the Spell would stem bleeding wherever it found it using ectoplasmic barriers, giving the ruptured blood vessels time to clot and mend before the Spell faded away an hour later. It took a modicum of control from the caster to keep the Spell from penetrating too deep and stopping the flow of blood inside healthy vessels, but Errol had never treated a wound this deep or wide before, and wasn¡¯t entirely sure where to stop. The edges of the cavity, he decided, because so long as Nate didn¡¯t bleed out, then Errol would count that as a win and leave the rest to the experts. No sense making things worse by going too far, so he did what he could, then wiped his sweat before moving on. ¡°The one who endures to the end will be saved,¡± he said, reciting Mathew 24:13. Thankfully, Nate was too out of it to question why Errol was quoting scripture, because that was the only way he knew how to cast the Power Word: Endure Cantrip.


    Seemed silly to have to say so much for a Cantrip literally named for the fact that it was usually cast with a single word, but that¡¯s how Father Nicolas had taught him, and there was no changing it now.


    ¡°Need a hand,¡± he shouted, speaking to no one in particular, and he was gratified to see someone appear on Nate¡¯s other side. ¡°Grab his hips and match my pace. Gotta get him to the medics, but can¡¯t risk bumping his shoulder and tearing the wound again.¡±


    ¡°Got it,¡± Ike said, and Errol had to do a double take. Ike had been the most vocal and eager of Richard¡¯s crewcut thugs, one who seemed to wholly buy into all that hateful rhetoric, so Errol was surprised to see the man come to his aid. Seeing the disbelief in his eyes, Ike grimaced and looked away, unable to meet his gaze.


    Realizing now wasn¡¯t the time to confront the other man for past misdeeds, Errol collected himself and said, ¡°On three. One. Two. Three.¡± Together, they half-carried, half-dragged Nate back through the sands and away from the fighting. A quick glimpse showed him that all his fears were for naught, that the orc horde had stalled a good twenty, thirty metres from the Ranger¡¯s defensive line. The vast majority were caught in patches of Entangling growths, struggling to push through the thick masses of vines and easy targets for the boots. Others avoided the grasping white spirals of grass only to get tagged by one of three Flaming Clouds, orange-red clouds of billowing flames measuring a metre and a half in diametre. They floated at chest height above the sand, moving back and forth to connect with as many targets as possible, but they didn¡¯t physically stop any orcs or goblins from passing through, under, and around them. Most died at touch, though some were tough enough to push past with merely an arm charred to a crisp, only to topple over dead after a few more steps. Others burst into flames as they drew close, and died screaming in guttural agony as their bodies were consumed by fire. The small trickle of Abby lucky enough to avoid the Flaming Orbs, Entangling Growths, and massed Aetherarm Bolts were greeted by fiery, fist-sized orbs hurtled by Captain Jung, who stood front and centre amongst the boots dealing death with little more than a flick of her fingers, or some other deadly Spell launched by a Drill Sergeant or veteran Ranger.


    Even baby Cowie was lending a hand by unleashing massive, conical gouts of flame from his puffed cheeks and bellowing the whole while, giving Errol yet another reason to be terrified of the size-changing, horn growing, fang extending, and now fire-breathing bull. It helped that Cowie was stood next to Howie, who in turn was standing directly in front of the sandbags Errol had just left behind. Man was calm and collected could be as he stood there with a stubby double barrel Blastgun in each hand, taking his time to line up his shot despite standing in arm¡¯s length of his targets. The boom of the Blastguns echoed out even in the clamour of battle, four boneshaking claps sounding out one after the other to launch orc and bugbears away in comical fashion as the Firstborn danced alongside Tina fighting next to him. And in front of him, as well as behind and on his other side too, with a grand total of five Tina¡¯s standing clustered together unleashing a storm of Bolts with their dual 1911¡¯s. Those were some beautiful pistols, shiny, expensive semi-automatics rather than boring revolvers, and Errol marvelled at how each illusion of Tina moved and fired independently from the others, taking their own stances as they bobbed and weaved around Howie.


    Now there was a deadly duo if Errol had ever seen one, two Spellslingers standing at the forefront of their generation.


    As soon as the medic took Nate off his hands, Errol stopped to heave a sigh of relief and wonder why the Rangers had let the orcs get so close to begin with. Then the pieces fell into place and he wasn¡¯t sure if he should be angry or scared. Today¡¯s fight was yet another test, or perhaps the first true test the boots had gone through, a trial by fire to see how they would hold up under battlefield conditions. A necessary test, but one that could have gone much worse all things considered. Had that Bolt hit Nate a half-inch to the right, it could have severed his artery and caused him to bleed out in a matter of seconds. A full inch and it might¡¯ve killed him outright, or pierced through his lung, or any number of ugly endings that would¡¯ve seen him headed home in a coffin, but Errol saw now that this was exactly what the boots had signed on for. Maybe they didn¡¯t know it at the time, and some were only just learning it now, but being a Ranger was about more than riding around with a five-pointed star pinned to your chest.


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    The boots were here to fight Abby, and the Rangers let them do just that, allowing them to come under fire for no real reason than to see how they¡¯d fare. Cold logic let Errol understand why it was necessary, while his anger, fear, and resentment made him wonder who decided this was how things ought to be. The kind and congenial Captain Marcus, who just a few days ago sat with Errol in a show of emotional support? Or the aloof, yet concerned Captain Jung who dropped by several times after he was washed out and offered to help him get back on his feet?


    With those thoughts rattling around his head, Errol made his way back to the front lines while reloading his El-Minister on the way. Only then did he think to look for Ike, who was plodding along beside him with his gaze fixed on the fight. There were plenty of things Errol wanted to say, but now wasn¡¯t the time, so he simply gave the other man a nod in thanks before they took their positions and started shooting once more. Turning around at the sound of their guns, Howie flashed him a cheeky grin before leading baby Cowie and Tina out of their lane of fire, bringing Errol¡¯s Whumper with him which he¡¯d picked up sometime during the fray. The rest of the fight was little more than a formality, minutes spent shooting trapped and fleeing Abby until none were left, only for a heavy silence to fall over them and engulf them in still calm.


    One that lasted for all of three seconds before Howie broke it. ¡°How¡¯s Nate?¡± he asked, lacking his customary smile as his voice came in all muted and distant, his Mage Hands reloading the revolver Blastgun with enviable ease while he scanned the horizon in search of more targets to hit.


    ¡°Dunno,¡± Errol replied, looking back at the tents and seeing more boots being carried over for treatment, though none seemed too injured or dead. ¡°I think I stopped the bleeding, but even if I didn¡¯t, Ike and I got him to the medics quick as we could.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± Clapping Errol on the shoulder, Howie nodded and said, ¡°Now go get your horse and collect Jay from up that dune over there before meeting me back here.¡± Pointing at the area in question, he added, ¡°I know you could use a moment to decompress, but you¡¯ll have to do it in the saddle. Left a lot of dead Abby behind me, a real bounty that¡¯ll put those goblins we hunted to shame, but we gotta collect it before we can cash in.¡± Flashing a smile, Howie leaned in and whispered, ¡°Ain¡¯t easy, earning that 10%, but this one will be worth it, I guarantee you that.¡±


    Or he said something to that effect, because truth was, Errol was having a real hard time hearing him over the ringing in his ears. Was really starting to regret all those nights spent fooling around with Sarah Jay instead of studying the Hearing Protection Cantrip, because a few more fights like today might well leave him deaf for life. Still numb from the abrupt end of battle, he almost broke down crying when he saw his girl¡¯s bright, brilliant smile, happy tears to know she¡¯d been far above and away from all the chaos and terror on the front lines where he¡¯d been. Her smile grew even wider when she heard why he was there, though it dimmed as they rode back to link up with Howie and found him in the middle of a heated discussion with Captain Jung.


    ¡°Marcus said I get to keep what I bring back,¡± Howie was saying, half of which Errol had to read from his lips, ¡°So that¡¯s what I¡¯m fixing to do, with help from my prospects. Can¡¯t bring it all back on my lonesome, now can I? Not like I¡¯m bringing Cowie either, so won¡¯t be any problems if you gotta up and move while we gone.¡±


    ¡°You have been commissioned to this unit as a Scout,¡± Captain Jung replied, her tone frosty and image made all the more frightening by the six fiery orbs still circling her head, all red-hot and ready to fly off with a thought. ¡°So you will do exactly that. Since you saw fit to leave us no choice but to take this fight in this valley here, you will ensure that we remain safe from any opportunistic Aberrations or bandits while we clean up the battlefield.¡±


    ¡°That ain¡¯t a job for a Scout,¡± Howie countered, utterly unafraid to stand up to the intimidating Goreyeon Captain. ¡°Anyone with eyes can keep watch, and it¡¯s not like I had much of a choice on where we was gonna take this fight. I ran them in circles for as long as I could to buy time for Kacey to pass the word, else we¡¯d have both ridden in with them hot on our tails. Leaving all y¡¯all without any time to prep mind you, so you¡¯re welcome for that.¡±


    ¡°A decision you made for the sake of greed, not selflessness.¡± Poking Howie hard in the chest, Captain Jung gave him her best glare and got Howie¡¯s best in return. ¡°You could have ridden back with Kacey and passed along better information while a Strike Team distracted the horde. Instead, you left her to make her own way back under the effects of a Fear Spell because you prioritized fattening your own pockets over the safety and development of this group.¡±


    ¡°Kacey was fine,¡± Howie countered, showing once again how he didn¡¯t know everything like he thought he did. ¡°Shook off the Fear like water off a duck. Besides, didn¡¯t she tell you? I got marked with a Mind Spike. They¡¯d¡¯ve known you was here before charging in if I showed up right quick. Had to split up to keep them unawares until the Spell effect faded, else they might¡¯ve rallied for a harder fight or slipped away and disappeared.¡±


    Straightening up, Captain Jung turned to Kacey for confirmation, who nodded without hesitation before bowing her head in shame. ¡°Yes. A detail I failed to mention in my haste. I have no excuse for this failure, and will accept any punishment you deem appropriate.¡±


    Eyes narrowed and temple throbbing, Captain Jung stood in silence for long seconds before waving the other girl off and focusing on Howie once more. ¡°You mean to say,¡± the Captain began, speaking between gritted teeth as she loomed under the Firstborn, ¡°That you are incapable of masking or removing the effects of a Mind Spike?¡±


    ¡°Course not,¡± Howie replied, after only the briefest of pauses. ¡°I could¡¯ve wiped it clean, but you gotta understand, I lucked out spottin¡¯ this ambush hidden behind an illusion like it was. I¡¯m good, but ain¡¯t no guarantee I¡¯d see through it a second time, or that your other outriders would do the same, so why take the risk? They scented blood, so I figured we better off facing them down here and now instead of giving ¡®em another chance to catch us unawares.¡±


    ¡°I think that¡¯s enough, Captain Jung.¡± Arriving with little fanfare and without notice, Captain Clay put a gentle hand on the other Ranger¡¯s shoulder in a calming gesture. ¡°No sense second guessing decisions that have already been made, and I for one am just glad we made out as good as we did. Three out of commission, eight walking wounded, and zero dead after tackling a horde of that size is cause for celebration, especially for their first fight.¡± This from a man who allowed them to come under fire as a test. Left Errol with a bad taste in his mouth, even if he understood the need, so he kept quiet and watched as Captain Clay looked over at all the boots and said, ¡°Today, each and every one of you proved you¡¯ve got the stones to become an American Ranger. That¡¯s a good start. Your instructors and Drill Sergeants won¡¯t say it, but let me tell you, you¡¯re the best damn bunch of boots I¡¯ve ever seen.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s cuz they Frontier born,¡± Howie said, with so much pride infused into his words that almost every boot straightened up to hear it, Errol included. ¡°All y¡¯all old worlders love to talk about how you come outta Philly, Memphis, Chicago, or whatever hotspots y¡¯all had, but ain¡¯t none of that compared to life out here. Frontier living makes for a tough bunch, and this here is the toughest of the lot.¡±


    ¡°True enough,¡± Captain Clay replied, shaking his head with a chuckle. ¡°Damn fine crop of Frontier Rangers we got here, and I look forward to seeing the harvest.¡± From there, he gave a few orders to the boots and sent them on their way before engaging in a quiet but heated discussion with Howie and Captain Jung.


    The talk didn¡¯t last long, and Howie came away smiling. ¡°Kacey,¡± he called, who looked up from her work hauling Abby corpses. ¡°Where¡¯s my horse? I¡¯mma need him back, but don¡¯t you worry. Saw your fox circling around to the northeast with your filly. Looked like they was avoiding the horde and making their way back here, so should show up soon enough.¡±


    The other girl responded with a glare before pointing in a general direction towards where all the horses were staked out. Was difficult to coordinate a fight on horseback, especially with so many boots around, so Captain Clay hadn¡¯t even tried and ordered them to dig in. Seemingly unconcerned by Kacey¡¯s cold response, Howie smiled and thanked her before heading off to collect Ivory. Sarah Jay was positive Howie was sweet on the girl, but Errol didn¡¯t see it. The Firstborn treated Kacey no different from any of the other boots. Was all business as usual and didn¡¯t ever seek her out at the campfire for conversation, preferring to spend his time on lessons with Errol and Sarah Jay, chatting with Tina, or just studying by his lonesome. The only time he allowed himself to have fun was that one night he ran off to play cards with Conner, Reggie, and a few others, though they got caught by Captain Clay and had to call the game off halfway through.


    Yea, if Howie was sweet on Kacey, then he had a peculiar way of showing it by interacting with her only when absolutely necessary and only with regards to work. That being said, if Sarah Jay was right, then Errol would be shocked, because he knew what it was like to get all tongue-tied and muddle headed around a pretty face, and had seen plenty of the other boots make fools of themselves in front of the women. Lord knows how he ever caught Sarah Jay¡¯s eye, what with how he used to stare and stutter around her. The first time she took his hand, he must¡¯ve lost a full gallon of sweat to that one palm alone. Didn¡¯t see any of that from Howie though, as he didn¡¯t pay Kacey, Tina, or Sarah Jay¡¯s looks any mind, no more than he did Errol¡¯s, always ready with a smile while remaining at a polite distance, both physically and emotionally. Wasn¡¯t anything better than a hug from Sarah Jay, as she was all soft curves and exquisite scents, but Howie dodged those like he was dodging punches, and only barely tolerated Tina¡¯s hugs, something most other boots in camp would fight and die for.


    Wasn¡¯t like that with Chrissy though, and Errol could see Howie loved the strange, silver-haired girl with all his heart. A little odd, but maybe Sarah Jay was right and it was a brotherly kind of love, without any lecherous intent as she put it. Errol hoped as much, but he wouldn¡¯t put money on it, not even a single cent, because as far as he was concerned, he might as well burn the money if he was gonna be giving it away like that.


    Money he was eager to collect as Howie led them out into the desert at a canter, a pace the horses wouldn¡¯t be able to keep up for long in the heat. Sensing Errol¡¯s unease, or maybe just reading it off his expression, Howie flashed a smile and said, ¡°Don¡¯t worry. They just need to get us there and back, maybe an hour tops. Won¡¯t need to do no hauling, and they¡¯ll all have the rest of the day to recover, as we won¡¯t be going nowhere until them Abby corpses are cooked and sorted. The Rangers use pressure cookers, which¡¯ll cost a pretty penny in Aether to run. Still worth it for the time saved, but I ain¡¯t got no pressure cooker on account of how it¡¯s restricted tech. Can apparently be turned into bombs, which to me sounds like an added bonus, but it is what it is.¡±


    Was less than five minutes before they came across their first pile of Abby corpses, all torn and cut up like someone took a sword to them and sliced them dead. Giving a low whistle as he slowed, Errol said, ¡°Can¡¯t say I can see why you¡¯d want a pressure cooker bomb, not when you can do something like this.¡±


    ¡°Because I can only do it a limited number of times a day,¡± Howie replied, gesturing for them to keep riding and explaining as they went. ¡°Used a Second Order Spike Growth Spell, which is a step up from Entangle. Don¡¯t bind Abby in place, but slows them instead, on top of piercing and cutting them as they pass through. Is good because orcs are strong enough to break free of Entangle about half the time. With Spike Growth, it costs them big to make it through, and those who do tend to bleed out soon after, making it a mighty fine Spell indeed. The Rangers don¡¯t use it much, because like you saw, Entangle and Aetherarms are a more effective and efficient combination, but we won¡¯t be riding with fifty, sixty other gunners, now will we? Takes a lot of effort to setup though, and truth be told, there are more effective Second Order Spells to use, but I figured it¡¯d be an easy Spell for Jay to pick up and wanted to show it off, which is why I¡¯ve kept it prepped these last few days.¡±


    ¡°So why ain¡¯t we collecting them then?¡± Sarah Jay asked, glancing back at the pile of Abbertin and seeing fat stacks of cash. ¡°That was a big group of orcs, least thirty dead, if not more.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll get ¡®em on the way back,¡± Howie replied. ¡°Best we take a look-see at our earliest catch first, so we won¡¯t be weighed down if we come across something unexpected.¡± Winking with forced cheer, he added, ¡°Don¡¯t let what Ava said back there fool you. I¡¯m greedy, sure, but I will always prioritize safety and survival above earning. Ain¡¯t no reward without risk in our line of work, but you can¡¯t spend if you dead.¡±


    Took Errol a moment to realize who Howie meant by ¡®Ava¡¯, and he shuddered to think of ever calling the formidable woman by her first name. ¡°Captain Jung was just worried about us is all,¡± he said, because he could tell Howie was burning mad at being called out like that. ¡°She acts all gruff and unconcerned, but she was the only Ranger who checked in on us after I washed out. She didn¡¯t mean anything by it.¡±


    ¡°Yea, I¡¯m sure you right.¡± Sounding anything but convinced, Howie rode on in silence, and they soon passed a second pile of corpses bearing similar injuries to the first. Still they kept on riding, and though Errol spotted an Abby corpse or two every now and then, they didn¡¯t come across anymore big piles of corpses. Was almost twenty minutes before Howie pulled up and set the horses to walking, his eyes fixed on something in the distance with an intensity you couldn¡¯t miss. ¡°When we get back,¡± he said, without turning his head, ¡°You don¡¯t say word one about our haul, got it? We¡¯ll let them look at the pile, but if they ask for details, you just shake your head and tell them nothing. You don¡¯t know how many, how much they worth, what Spell Cores we got, nothing. Understood?¡±


    ¡°So the truth?¡± Errol asked with a smile, but Howie wasn¡¯t having none of it.


    ¡°Won¡¯t be the truth for much longer,¡± he said, eyes still staring off at the horizon. ¡°But we¡¯ll try to keep it that way. Don¡¯t ask too many questions, and I¡¯ll try not to answer any. Don¡¯t worry about me skimming nothing though. I¡¯ll keep you with me when we do the rendering and give you a full account of the finances after it¡¯s all weighed and measured.¡±


    ¡°No need for that,¡± Sarah Jay said, beaming pretty as could be. ¡°We trust you.¡±


    ¡°And I¡¯m glad for it, so I want to show you I¡¯m worthy of that trust.¡± There was a rare hint of hesitation in Howie¡¯s tone, and he tore his eyes away from whatever he was looking at to meet their gazes. ¡°My daddy used to say, ¡®Trust, but verify¡¯. Not because you expect someone trustworthy to scam you, but because doing so reinforces that trust, strengthens the foundations of it. That way, if there ever comes a time when you got nothing to go on besides trust, then it¡¯ll be strong enough to endure beneath the weight of your doubts.¡±


    ¡°A wise man,¡± Errol said, because it made perfect sense, and Howie beamed to hear it before turning back to face forward.


    ¡°There,¡± he said, a moment later, pointing out a spot in the desert that didn¡¯t look any different from the rest of it. ¡°That¡¯s where I dumped it. Come on.¡± Despite his eagerness to get there, Howie didn¡¯t push the horses too hard and let them walk the rest of the way. Still jumped off and ran over when he was close enough, and Errol still wasn¡¯t sure why. There were no corpses to be seen, no Abby to cart off, so why was Howie so eager to stop here of all places?


    A question soon answered as Howie¡¯s gooey little mud man popped out of the sand and started clearing it away. Howie joined in with all four hands, digging like a marty without any regard for pride or appearance, and reluctant as Errol was to do the same, he hopped off and joined in. So did Sarah Jay, arriving two steps ahead of him as she hadn¡¯t hesitated one bit, and soon they was all scooping sand aside in a frantic flurry while grinning like kids at the beach.


    ¡°Here!¡± Sarah Jay said, reaching into the sand and pulling hard to reveal a small, crispy hand, one she let go of right quick with a little muted shriek.


    Laughing up a storm and heedless of her glare, Howie chortled and dug around the hand. ¡°Good eye,¡± he said, unearthing more of the corpse as he went. ¡°Blobby little guy can¡¯t carry much, but he sure can dig.¡± The good cheer didn¡¯t last long as it revealed the head of the burnt corpse, a small, oblong skull that clearly belonged to a goblin.


    ¡°Why¡¯d you bury a goblin?¡± Errol asked, only to belatedly wish he¡¯d kept his mouth shut as Howie threw his hat into the sand.


    ¡°Because I thought it was the hob,¡± he hissed, stomping his boot down hard in a fit of pique. ¡°That rotten, low-down, tricksy Illusionist! This is why no one likes ¡®em!¡±


    No doubt thinking about all the money lost, Sarah Jay heaved a sigh and leaned in against Errol. ¡°Well, maybe next time.¡±


    ¡°If only it was that easy.¡± Snatching up his hat and brushing it off with care, Howie growled as he plopped it back on. ¡°Meant what I said back there. Ain¡¯t all that confident about spotting a second ambush, but hopefully we¡¯ll make it to town before it gathers enough Abby for a second try. Hobgoblins are a dangerous bunch, moreso for their smarts than anything else. Remember what I said about goblins and why they ought to be feared?¡±


    ¡°Because they clever little craftsmen,¡± Errol supplied, remembering all the clothes, armour, and weapons the orcs had carried, as well as the sleds those goblins used to haul those hoggidilla corpses.


    ¡°Yep, and hobgoblins are the smartest and strongest of the bunch. Smart enough to drop its Mind Spike to make me think it was dead, else I¡¯d have kept hunting it.¡± Hauling the corpse out of the sand pit, Howie tossed it onto the back of his horse, unwilling to give up even the few scraps of Aberrtin from a single goblin. ¡°See, hobgoblins ain¡¯t birthed by proggies, not directly. They start off as plain old regular goblins, and just live long enough to grow long and lanky. Ain¡¯t just humans and wild predators they gotta avoid, they also gotta keep themselves from dying to other Abby, whether it be snacky allies or hostile competitors looking for a quick and easy catch. Proggies don¡¯t go to war with one another, but they will compete for resources, and gobbos from one proggie will feed another just fine. Means any gobbo that lives long enough to grow into a hobgoblin is a crafty one, smarter than any Abby short of a Synapse, which ain¡¯t exactly a fair comparison since those are just puppets directly controlled by the proggies. Either way, this particular hobgoblin is even smarter than most, one that¡¯s been plaguing caravans in the Coral Desert for nigh on a year now.¡±


    And all of a sudden, Howie¡¯s vague warning made sense, and Errol felt silly for not catching on sooner. Judging from Sarah Jay¡¯s knowing expression and subtle shake of her head, she¡¯d figured it out before he did and had kept quiet, because Howie had warned them about saying too much. Not without reason either, because if he¡¯d truly killed the infamous hobgoblin Illusionist, it¡¯d be worth a pretty penny in bounty and Spell Core both. Still begged the question as to why he dragged the corpse away and had a Simple Servant bury it, or how he burnt this goblin up so good, as it was blacker than the corpses he¡¯d set on fire using three bottles of alcohol and a Fire Orb while they were all held in place by Sarah Jay¡¯s Entangle Spell. No questions though, so Errol zipped his lip and made ready to follow Howie further out into the desert.


    ¡°Alright then,¡± he said, looking sour as could be as he washed his hands with a Water Sphere, another Cantrip Errol wished he had. ¡°Let¡¯s head over to collect our catch.¡±


    The mood was heavy as they walked their horses up the side of a steep desert dune, which wasn¡¯t easy as it looked. By the time they were nearing the peak, Errol was ready to swear off desert hikes for the rest of his life and let his horse walk around every dune they crossed, but Howie stopped them short and turned to pat Ivory on the nose before signalling them to stand and wait. Careful and quiet, the Firstborn slowly clambered up to the peak on all fours before sliding over the lip on his belly. Looked real silly doing it, but Errol didn¡¯t laugh, because he could sense something off about Howie¡¯s mood. After long seconds, he turned and waved them over with a grimace, gesturing for them to stay low and quiet. Copying the other man¡¯s moves, they made their way up and Errol¡¯s heart skipped a beat in his chest when he saw what was waiting for them down below.


    A pile of burnt and dead Abby atop a circle of glassed sand, surrounded by a group of a half-dozen, heavily-armed strangers dressed in desert camo.


    Strangers loading Abby corpses onto two wagons hitched to a pair of giant, long-necked birds, which explained why Howie was so sour. If looks could kill, then those men down there would be dead three times over, but he didn¡¯t stick around for long. Instead, he waved them back down and brought them away as quiet as could be, walking until they were well out of ear shot before mounting up to ride around the dunes instead of over them. ¡°Bunch of dirty, rotten, low-down scavs,¡± Howie growled, staring daggers back towards the thieves with so much hatred packed into the words it shook Errol to the core. ¡°A long drop and a short stop, that¡¯s all they deserve. Lives ain¡¯t worth the Aether spent to put a Bolt through their heads.¡±


    This wasn¡¯t just a tantrum from the Firstborn. It was murderous rage, a thunderous storm of barely restrained wrath and fury just bubbling beneath the surface. Once again, Errol caught a glimpse of Howie¡¯s dark nature, so eager to inflict death and violence at the drop of a hat. Couldn¡¯t be easy, watching thieves walk away with his hard-earned spoils, but like Wayne had said, not all crimes were deserving of death.


    Errol¡¯s thoughts must¡¯ve shown on his face, because Howie met his gaze without a hint of shame and said, ¡°You think it¡¯s a coincidence they out here ridin¡¯ heavy with empty wagons? They ain¡¯t no innocents who happened to be wanderin¡¯ by, Errol. They¡¯re vultures is what they are. Saw Abby gathering to lie in wait, with a Ranger convoy headed straight for them, so they figured us for an easy payday. Dollars to donuts, they was waitin¡¯ fer us to march right into that ambush. Would¡¯ve watched it happen without so much as a peep, let us fight it out a good bit, then opened fire on whoever¡¯s winning. Keep us fightin¡¯ until both sides weak enough for them to sweep in and clean up, all so they could claim the spoils for themselves.¡±


    Licking his lips, Errol tried to point out the flaw in Howie¡¯s logic. ¡°If that¡¯s the case, then wouldn¡¯t there be more of them waiting nearby? Six men, even heavily armed ones, can¡¯t take out a Ranger convoy.¡±


    ¡°Rest were likely in the area, watching for our approach,¡± Howie replied. ¡°Or gathering up other corpses I left in my wake. Why you think I buried that gob to begin with? Ain¡¯t nothing on the Frontier more dangerous or treacherous than other people, and that¡¯s a fact. We just lucky we didn¡¯t get here sooner, else they might¡¯ve chanced gunning us down and running off with the catch before the Rangers respond.¡±


    Lord help him, Errol didn¡¯t get how Howie could look at someone and see only the worst. Maybe those men down there were truly as reprehensible as he said, but how could he be so sure with nothing more than a glance? Was this how he operated out here? Shoot first, ask questions later? Granted, Howie hadn¡¯t killed anyone, but he sure looked ready to. What if there came a day when the stakes were too high for him to just walk away? It was one thing to kill in self-defence, but to kill for material gain¡­ Even if they were thieves, that didn¡¯t justify murder. A moral dilemma, because the right thing to do was challenge those thieves and give them a chance to leave. It¡¯d also be stupid, seeing how Errol, Sarah Jay, and Howie were outmanned and outgunned. Those scavs had a lot of fancy looking weapons, and the look of men who knew how to use them, so Errol could easily imagine how they¡¯d react if Howie demanded they walk away and leave those Abby corpses behind. Would probably step away, gather some friends, then come back guns blazing to fight for the catch.


    So what were you supposed to do in a situation where you knew others meant you harm, but had yet to act on that intent? Wasn¡¯t sure if the law was on Howie¡¯s side, but that didn¡¯t mean much out here in the Coral Desert, and the way he told it, it wasn¡¯t like the Rangers were all strait-laced either. Howie might¡¯ve walked away this time, but from they way he was acting, it was clear he wouldn¡¯t always be so willing. Sarah Jay didn¡¯t seem all that thrilled either, and while Caleb¡¯s death had her shook, she was more bothered by her reaction to the fight, than the deaths themselves. Then there was the fact that she pretty much idolized the Firstborn, took his statements as fact, so if Howie said killing scavs was justified, she might well just go along with it, even if the law or the Good Book might say otherwise. Was it right though? Gunning down men without warning just because you knew they would shoot you if given the chance? Killing in¡­ what? Pre-emptive self-defence?


    Not for the first time, Errol wished he could find Father Nicolas and pick his brain on the matter, but for better or for worse, he¡¯d have to make up his mind on his own.

 Chapter 28

    Brown orn-hide ridge top hats.


    Black reinforced glass goggles.


    Rough hemp kerchiefs, undyed and unembroidered.


    A dark brown fella with a limp. Bum left foot maybe. Broken and never healed right would be my guess, or a crude, poorly fitted prosthetic.


    One tanned, overweight man. Maybe white, light red, hell could even be yellow. Hard to tell while wearing a hat, goggles, and kerchief. Missing his right ear, torn not cut, meaning something nibbled on him. Probably them big birds pulling their wagon.


    A slim runt working harder than the rest. Got something to prove, wants to earn their spot on this crew maybe. Pasty white, with long brown hair blowing in the wind. Could be a woman, or older kid. Either way, they greener than green.


    Two more men of indeterminate origin. Medium builds, short hair, heads down, and noses to the grindstone. They know their business well enough, but got nothing that makes them stand out in a crowd. Could walk past them tomorrow and not recognize who they are, so lucky them.


    Last one¡¯s the leader, the one barking orders and keeping watch. A tall, dirty blonde on the thicker side of slim carrying what¡¯s likely a looted weapon. A real nice one too, bolt-action rifle with a peach-wood stock, decent sized mag, and extra long, stainless-steel barrel, one that can fit all those extra Etchings done in Orichalcum that mark it as a supercharged Aetherarm. Easy to spot, as the metal looks like gold, tarnishes like bronze, and makes the Aether glow dark blue instead of soft purple. I¡¯m guessing that¡¯s a 22-20 rifle, if not 44-80, double the Grainage of what most consider ¡®safe¡¯, but not necessarily double the power. Still, all them extra Metamagics means the rifle will hit hard and shoot fast, which ain¡¯t no one complaining about. Will also get real hot real fast and require constant maintenance to keep it from turning into scrap.


    Rest of their Aetherarms were too difficult to identify while they holstered or tucked away, which was a real shame. That single rifle alone was tempting enough to risk a fight, though I would¡¯ve had to send my prospects away first. Tell them to go get reinforcements or something, get them out from underfoot before I take care of business. Almost did it too, but reason prevailed, so all I can do is bide my time and hope for a second encounter.


    Ain¡¯t got much to go on to identify the scavs what robbed me. Everything else about them was too generic and nondescript. The wagons could¡¯ve been built anywhere, their boots nothing special, and their hemp ponchos were just as plain as their kerchiefs. Them big, flightless birds might be something, as they¡¯re relative newcomers to the domesticated scene. Ornitheros is what the locals called them, big, ornery creatures who¡¯re dumber than a bag of bricks, but they¡¯re omnivores that can fend for themselves and haul heavy loads through sandstorms without blinking an eye. They ain¡¯t all that popular on account of their propensity for nibbling on their handlers, and I ain¡¯t talking about little love bites. Means chances are, one of those six scavs is an Enchanter, or at least familiar enough with the Spells to keep them ornery ornitheros from tearing off strips of their handler¡¯s flesh.


    Not a great Enchanter, considering the one-eared fellow of indeterminate origin, but even a bad Enchanter is someone to be wary of.


    Might lead to something if I care to follow that thread, but asking questions is a good way to get got out here in the Coral Desert. Best to leave sleeping dogs lie while keeping those details in mind, so if I do spot our scavs down the road, or identify what outfit they working with, then I¡¯ll know where to go to collect on this debt. See, they think they¡¯re making off big with my hard-earned spoils, but what they don¡¯t know is they just took a loan from the Bank of Howie, and there gonna come a day when I come calling to collect. With plenty of interest too, though I doubt I¡¯ll ever see the cash, because scavs tend to spend as fast as they earn since hoarding wealth is a good way to paint yourself as a target. A smart scav leader will make sure all their wealth is spent too, because hungry scavs are all the more eager to hunt. That¡¯s why the big man will make sure his crew eats, drinks, snorts, or otherwise indulges to their dark hearts¡¯ content after a score like todays, so they¡¯ll all be ready and raring to go when the next opportunity presents itself.


    Self-destructive is what it is, a sorry bunch of no-good layabouts who can¡¯t hack it doing honest work. They¡¯re bottom-feeding freeloaders who contribute nothing to society and serve no purpose save to bring the rest of us down. Case in point, I ought to be pleased as punch after a day like today, having done a bang-up job and gotten me a good haul to boot, but instead I got my head up in the storm clouds trying to calculate how much I lost out from giving up that first batch of Abby. The hob and his bodyguards represented the biggest threat in the horde, so I took them down fast and hard the first chance I saw. Even though I missed out on the hob, the most valuable corpses were probably stacked in that pile we was robbed of. Going forward, I ought to Mark the bigger corpses so I can track them down should something like this happen again, so I suppose I can chalk this loss up to live and learn.


    ¡°Hey, Howie?¡± Sarah Jay¡¯s hesitant tone draws me out of my funk, and I turn in the saddle to meet her uncertain expression. Beside her, Errol is looking more determined as he sits upright with shoulders squared, but he won¡¯t look me in the eyes. ¡°We was talking,¡± Sarah Jay begins, looking mighty fetching with her sullen pout as she gestures at our catch, stacked atop my Floating Disc sleds. ¡°And these Abby you killed? We didn¡¯t do nothin¡¯ to earn our share, so there ain¡¯t no reason to cut us in. This is your haul and yours alone.¡±


    Now if that don¡¯t stick in my craw like hair in a biscuit. ¡°What¡¯chu goin¡¯ on about?¡± I asked, all too conscious of how sharp my accent has suddenly become. ¡°We a crew or not?¡± Without waiting for an answer, I continue, ¡°Before we rode out, we said it plain and clear. 10% of the haul goes to the two of you, and that¡¯s what you¡¯ll get. And what¡¯s this about not earning your share? I mistaken, or did I not see Errol standing front and centre against that Abby horde and risk his neck to save...¡± I know the boot¡¯s name. Said it less than an hour ago. Met him and walked him through basic scouting. Lazy, distracted, kinda whiny. ¡°¡­Nate.¡± There it is, but the pause cost me all my momentum. ¡°And Jay, you was up on that dune with Tim standing overwatch, so I¡¯m sure you killed more than your fair share too. Y¡¯all ain¡¯t gonna earn from that fight, but you sure as shooting gonna earn from this.¡±


    Steamed for no good reason, I take a beat and help myself to a hard candy to cool down. Then, because it¡¯s only polite to share and I got more to say, I turn back, hold out the tin and say, ¡°Besides, I ain¡¯t mad because we ain¡¯t earning enough. Even without the hob, this a good haul for a day¡¯s work. Can get round about three grams of Aberrtin from an orc, sometimes more if they bigger, and ten from a bugbear easy.¡± I know I said I¡¯d try to keep them ignorant of the value, but I¡¯m counting on their terrible mental math to do that for me. Even Sarah Jay would have to put pen to paper to figure out the total value of our haul, but I got us at round about $120 in Aberrtin easy. That¡¯s half a month of Ranger pay, which ain¡¯t bad considering all the ammo I used is on the Ranger¡¯s dime, even after factoring in the cost of Aether to haul everything back on my Floating Disc sleds. Four or five hunts a month like this and we¡¯ll be in the black, without accounting for any Spell Cores or precious resources we might come across along the way.


    Now, I¡¯d have been over the moon with a payday like today¡¯s little more than a month ago, but that was before I picked up six large for killing five men. Worst part is, I had proper justification to gun them scavs down without warning, though I figure Errol would¡¯ve looked at me like I was some sort of monster all the same, even if I gave them fair warning and a chance to walk away.


    Which brings us back to why I¡¯m upset. ¡°So I¡¯m a little sour about getting robbed. Lost maybe a quarter of our profit there, but we still made out good.¡± Had to be at least ten bugbears in that pile, and they¡¯d¡¯ve been the ones most likely to have Spell Cores. Meeting Errol¡¯s eyes, I hesitate to speak my mind, but do so anyways because some things got to be said. ¡°Them scavs though? I meant what I said. A Bolt¡¯s too good for them, and not just because they robbed me. They¡¯re parasites is what they are, a God-damned blight on society who don¡¯t offer any value to the Frontier. Pardon my French.¡±


    Errol doesn¡¯t say anything, but Sarah Jay pops a candy in her mouth and says, ¡°Careful now,¡± she says, flashing a soft smile that don¡¯t crack her Ice Queen fa?ade. ¡°You starting to sound like some sorta socialist.¡±


    I know it¡¯s a joke, but I can¡¯t help but roll my eyes. ¡°Them old timers spit out that word like it¡¯s some sort of curse, but lots of what we do could be considered socialism. We look out for our own, with plenty of funding to keep folks from going without food or shelter, all on the government¡¯s dime. Hell, look at how you getting treated in Basic. Not just the free food and gear, but all the training you getting without having to pay a single cent or commit to joining the Rangers. You think Ava¡¯s time comes cheap?¡± Realizing how that sounds, my cheeks colour a bit, but I push on and pretend like I don¡¯t notice, even though both Errol and Sarah Jay are grinning now. ¡°The Marshal said that even though it costs a fair bit to run things this way, the return is always well worth it, because the greatest bottleneck we face here on the Frontier is manpower. Even if none of them boots end up signing on, they¡¯ll have the skills necessary to take care of themselves and maybe even protect their communities moving forward.¡± Shooting a dark glare off into the distance towards where we last saw the scavs, I add, ¡°So when a bunch of able-bodied folks in fightin¡¯ form won¡¯t do nothing except thieve and kill to survive, it¡¯s a double drain on the resources required to keep ¡®em alive. They ain¡¯t just taking one man¡¯s portion of food, because whoever they steal from has got to work twice as hard to stay afloat, and every working man they kill is one less set of hands to help bring us forward into the future.¡±


    Would be better off gunning down scavs on sight in my opinion, but that¡¯s the problem with having a conscience and following the Accords. Makes us do stupid things, like giving murderous thieves fair warning. Much as I hate the Qin, I gotta admit that they do some things right. If you don¡¯t contribute, then you are made to contribute, whether it be as fodder on the front lines or in prison labour camps, though most nations got their own version of those going on.


    ¡°So that what we are then?¡± Sarah Jay asks, her tone playful and teasing. ¡°Your little socialist project?¡±


    ¡°Already said you an investment,¡± I counter, smiling to show I¡¯m only partially serious. ¡°Can¡¯t have you going hungry while I train you up now, can I? Besides, if I treat you poorly, then what¡¯s to stop you from jumping ship once you ready for the big leagues?¡±


    ¡°Nothin¡¯ at all,¡± she replies, looking nonchalant as can be from atop Sunshine with that same soft smile. ¡°But we might consider stickin¡¯ around if you cook a bit more often.¡±


    ¡°Long as one of you does the dishes, I¡¯m all for it.¡± Joking aside, it¡¯s nice to get that chip off my shoulder and set the record straight, and we get to chatting about what we gonna eat as we make our way back to camp. Ranger rations are even worse than what I fed them our first week out, but I restocked on foodstuffs in Meadowbrook, so we¡¯ll be eating good tonight.


    Better than I thought too, because we arrive back in camp to find an impromptu barbeque underway, with Marcus prepping the grill while Tim and his shooters are off hunting. Ava has the boots rendering Abby using their fancy schmancy pressure cookers, and Tina greets us with a smile and a wave. I take a Photo of her hard at work while we pass, and ignore the other boots peeking at our haul, but they keep the chit-chat to a minimum due to Ava¡¯s withering glare fixed firmly on my face. Never one to back down, I smile and wave at the matronly Ranger, though I just barely keep myself from saying ¡®Hi Honey, I¡¯m home¡¯.


    I¡¯m cocky, not suicidal.


    After stopping by the grill to let Marcus know about the scavs, I find a spot close to Tina so we can render our own catch. The Ranger pressure cookers look like big metal, gem-studded pots with air-tight lids and fancy hinges to lock it down, but I don¡¯t got one of those. All I got is a normal, everyday pot, which means I gotta do my rendering the old-fashioned way, but there¡¯s enough water and kindling to be found even in the desert to get a cook going, plus I keep the wagon stocked with wood and coal for just this reason. Using Mould Earth, I dig out a small, cylindrical shaft in the sand that¡¯s about a foot and a half deep and almost as wide as my Abby cooking pot. Then, I dig another shaft at a forty-five-degree angle on the windward side, so that both shafts connect at the base. ¡°This here is a Dakota fire hole,¡± I explain, dropping a couple coals and some tinder down the main shaft before hitting it with an Ignite Cantrip. ¡°Or Lakota. Or Cherokee maybe. Can¡¯t remember. Keeps the flames hidden for the most part, plus it¡¯ll give off less smoke and burn hotter too, which is perfect for cooking, Abby or otherwise.¡± Feeding more tinder into the small fire, I cast a Gust Cantrip to drive air down onto the embers and go over a couple more things while we chop up Abby and wait for the water to come to a boil.


    Unpleasant though it may be, rendering Abby is simple, straightforward work, and after a big, high-octane fight like today, is just what we all need to decompress, to say nothing of my stiff, overworked legs. Besides, cooking Abby is always at least a little bit exciting, because there¡¯s always the chance you¡¯ll fish out a high-value Spell Core like Protection Against Aberrations, Detect Magic, or Bless. Much as I hate to admit it, I do love me a good gamble, especially when it don¡¯t cost me any cash, so I¡¯m on pins and needles the whole time we cooking. The first batch produces no Spell Cores, nor does the second, and I¡¯ve all but given up hope when Errol fishes something out of the third batch and says, ¡°I think I found a Spell Core.¡±


    Much too loudly for my tastes, as that gets the boots and nearby Rangers looking. Don¡¯t matter how many times I warn him, Errol thinks he¡¯s safer than he really is all the way out here in the desert, and I almost hope it¡¯s something I can give away like the Ablative Armour Spell Core I handed off onto Sarah Jay. Should we ever get a high value target like the hob, you can bet your bottom dollar that I¡¯ll be cooking it somewhere far away from prying eyes, because loose lips sink ships and get folks killed every day. ¡°Let¡¯s see,¡± I say, only for Errol to make the worst move possible and hold it up for everyone to gawk at. The irregular purple nugget sparkles in the late afternoon sun, and there¡¯s no covering it up now, so it¡¯s a good thing Spell Cores don¡¯t look all the different from one another. They can vary in size though, and this one is bigger than usual, about the size of a bapple, or plum-sized as Aunty Ray would say. I calmly and casually reach out to take the Spell Core from his hands just in time to keep Cowie from gobbling it up. ¡°Oh hi there,¡± I say, trying to draw attention away from the Spell Core as I give his chin a tickle. ¡°You done ignoring me now? Ain¡¯t happy about being left behind to guard the wagon, were ya? Well, if you weren¡¯t so mean to your babies, then maybe you¡¯d have a crew of your own to help pick up the slack, instead of being the only one around strong enough to haul.¡±


    Blowing out a huff in response, Cowie gives the Spell Core a good sniff before licking my closed hand and hitting me with what Aunty Ray calls his puppy dog eyes. All big, sad, and soulful is what it is, but I stay strong and press my forehead against his. ¡°No Cowie,¡± I say, trying to be firm and considerate at the same time. ¡°One Spell Core is enough for anyone, even you.¡± Instead of accepting things as they stand, Cowie shrinks down to baby size and slides into my lap to try his puppy dog eyes again, and I can¡¯t say it ain¡¯t effective, but I hold the course and give him a cuddle instead. ¡°Won¡¯t work,¡± I say, while inwardly wondering how bad it could be, but much as I love to gamble, I ain¡¯t about to risk Cowie¡¯s life and sanity for nothing. ¡°You can try all you like, but my answer always gonna be no.¡±


    Grumbling for all he¡¯s worth, Cowie settles down in my lap while I massage his cheeks and buy time for folks to lose interest, but no dice. After delaying for as long as I can, I pull out my Aberrtin tuning fork and packet of Aether to give the Identify Spell Core Cantrip another go. Soon as I set the tuning fork to singing, the Cantrip knocks me out of this plane of reality into another contained within the Spell Core itself. The scene it shows is simple and to the point, as I stand there enshrouded in cascading blue energies that protect me from the savage blows of the Aberrations assaulting me. That¡¯s all there is, but it¡¯s enough to shock me something fierce and wish Errol had been more circumspect about all this, so there¡¯s only one thing to do now.


    Lie.


    ¡°What are the chances?¡± I ask, flashing a wry little grin. ¡°Another Ablative Armour Core.¡± As if. What I got in my hands is armour, but of the Mage variety, one of the most valuable First Order Spell Cores around. Uncut and unpolished, a Mage Armour Core is worth five grand easy, as it¡¯s a Spell that scales well with increased Aether costs and requires minimal fiddling to get working right. It¡¯s also highly coveted by folks from all walks of life, as the Spell offers increased protection with almost no downside. There are always folks looking to buy a Core like this, and almost never any for sale, because those who do find them would rather use them than sell them. Fact is, the Spell is so useful, I suspect this Core was tailor made by a proggie so the hobgoblin would have an Abjuror on hand to keep it nice and protected, lest it get killed out of hand by an angry bugbear or three.


    Yea, this here is a right precious find, so instead of tossing the Spell Core to Sarah Jay, I give her a look that says in no uncertain terms to keep quiet and keep Errol quiet too, because if I give him the same look, his expression will give up the game. She catches on quick and sags heavily against Errol¡¯s shoulder in a mock fit of pique. ¡°Figures,¡± she grumbles, cozying up to her man as if to seek out comfort, and at the same time distracting him enough to pay no mind to the Core. ¡°Two Spell Cores on one trip, and they both cheap and useless.¡±


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    ¡°It is what it is,¡± I say, forcing myself to sound cheerful to sell the act, though it don¡¯t take much, as this nice surprise is just what I needed after losing big to the crafty hob and thieving scavs. ¡°Bright side is that my daddy didn¡¯t like the number four anyways, which is why I gave you that last one.¡± Casually tucking the Spell Core into my inner duster pocket, I resist the urge to get it locked up quick and go back to chopping Abby. ¡°Now we got five Ablative Armour Cores in total, so once the infrastructure in place to make use of ¡®em, we¡¯ll have a nice little armoured convoy ready and waiting to go, with enough Ablative Plating to drive through heavy weapons fire. Won¡¯t that be a sight?¡±


    This Mage Armour Spell Core is of more immediate use however, since it requires next to no finagling to get working. All you need to do is work up an Actuator and feed it Aether, neither of which is difficult. As is, it can only cast the Spell at base value though, which means it¡¯s only any good in a fistfight and won¡¯t last more than an hour, but that¡¯s still better than nothing. With a bit of trial and error, I could probably Etch out an arcane circuit and put together a Metamagic matrix to make it slightly more effective, or at the very least last longer. Even Danny might not be able to do much better, but I¡¯m sure the Marshal will be happy to put me in touch with a trustworthy Artificer who knows how to get the most out of a Mage Armour Spell Core and keep his mouth shut.


    Then again, can I in good conscience keep this a secret until we get back to New Hope? Especially after seeing poor Nate laid up like that. A basic Mage Armour Spell wouldn¡¯t have kept him from going down, but with another Bolt on another target, it could mean the difference between life and death. Mage Armour is a basic staple in the Ranger Spell Loadout, so aside from the boots, everyone present can cast it. Won¡¯t take much effort for each of them to throw a Mage Armour on a boot or two before a major encounter, but those resources could be better spent. A Spellcaster can only sling so many Spells a day before needing to sleep, while a Spell Core can be activated once every five seconds without limit so long as you got enough Aether to do so. At base values, that¡¯s only four Grain, meaning every bullet we fire could power the basic Mage Armour Spell two and a half times at the minimum. Wouldn¡¯t be right to keep quiet about it, but that means letting everyone here know I got a Mage Armour Spell Core. I ain¡¯t all that worried about getting robbed by Rangers or boots, but the only kind of secret that stays secret are the ones you take to the grave. Once word gets out that I got a valuable Spell Core like that, it¡¯ll paint a target on my back to every outfit looking to secure one for themselves. Some will ask nicely if they can buy it before resorting to other methods, but there are always those who¡¯ll shoot first and take it off my corpse, like them dirty scavs who robbed me earlier.


    While inwardly grappling with my moral dilemma, I¡¯m so distracted it takes me a second to realize someone said something to me, someone that isn¡¯t Errol or Sarah Jay. Looking around as my brain catches up, I can¡¯t help but scowl as I fix my gaze on the speaker in question, rat-faced Wayne sitting slouched on his saddle, which is resting on the sand. ¡°Just doesn¡¯t make sense, is all I¡¯m saying,¡± he continues, after asking why I¡¯m the only one who gets to profit from today. ¡°I mean, we all worked together to kill these Aberrations, but I don¡¯t see anyone else pocketing Spell Cores or Aberrtin.¡±


    ¡°You buy that 1911 on your hip?¡± I ask, knowing full well he didn¡¯t. ¡°Or the SKS you got holstered in your saddle there? Tell you what, let¡¯s lower the bar. Since joining the Rangers, you ever buy your own ammo?¡± Giving a good-natured chuckle that is anything but, I shake my head and stare the man down. ¡°Armour piercing semi-automatic carbine, that SKS¡¯ll come in handy where we¡¯re headed, except I couldn¡¯t even buy one, because the Rangers snapped them all up. Had to pick up this pretty piece instead.¡± Leaning back to tap the tiny Szass and Tam Model 10 on my left hip, I add, ¡°Cost me a quarter-grand, and nice as it is, it ain¡¯t a match for the SKS, nor am I anywhere close to breaking even just yet.¡±


    Well, Bolt for Bolt, my cute little baby revolver is definitely more reliable and powerful, but the SKS can put a lot more Bolts downrange in very little time, and it only takes one to really ruin your day.


    Course, Tina and Sarah Jay¡¯s Szass and Tam 45¡¯s cost me even more, while the two Whumpers cost the most if you include the compressors, but they were all well worth the expense. Okay, maybe I didn¡¯t need two Whumpers, but I wanted one for myself. The Doorknockers are nice and all, but their five-metre range means I don¡¯t get many chances to use them, and Blastguns are just fun to shoot. Marcus knows what I¡¯m talking about, as he carries the Judge, a revolver Blastgun in pistol form with so much kick I almost broke my wrist the first time I tried shooting it. Granted, I was twelve at the time, but I doubt I could shoot it one handed even now, though Marcus makes it look easy. Then again, I doubt most regular pistols would even fit in his big ol¡¯ meaty mitts, so it is what it is.


    Before I get too far off-track thinking about guns, I stop myself short and stick to the matter at hand. ¡°Weapons are just one of my expenses,¡± I say, directing my words to the curious boots rather than Wayne directly, because I know he only brought it up to drive a wedge between us. ¡°Those Floatin¡¯ Disc sleds ain¡¯t free to run, and the cost climbs exponentially under heavy loads. Any ammo I use? I gotta keep track of and fill out a requisition form to be reimbursed, and the same goes for Spell components. Maintenance is all on me too, not just my guns, but the wagon and my gear, not to mention the fortune it takes to keep Cowie fed.¡± After pausing to soothe my partner¡¯s bruised ego and let the boots laugh, I continue, ¡°I pay for my own food as well, and Errol and Sarah Jay¡¯s too, because what the Rangers feed you most days is downright criminal.¡± That gets me another chuckle from the crowd, which gets Wayne looking real sour, but I pay him no mind. ¡°I got a lot of expenses, and seeing how I ain¡¯t getting paid in cash, gear, or training for this here excursion, they treating me like a freelance mercenary. Little less actually, as I ain¡¯t drawing no base pay and only get to keep what I kill on my own so long as it don¡¯t interfere with my job. Didn¡¯t see me collecting Abby corpses from the big battle, now did you? All this is from what I hunted while running that horde around the desert for a good forty minutes or more, buying time for you lot to dig in and prep.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯d you do it?¡± Michael asks, which is surprising, because he¡¯s a quiet man who treats his words like gold and silence like it¡¯s the most valuable thing in the world. ¡°Run like the wind and slide down the sand dunes like that? Haste and Fly?¡±


    ¡°Wasn¡¯t no Haste or Flying involved,¡± I reply, enjoying the attention for once, because now I got a captive audience eager to hear me talk Arcana. ¡°No Levitatin¡¯ either. Fact is, flattered as I am by your high opinion, I wasn¡¯t using no Third or even Second Order Spells.¡± Not that they saw, at least. ¡°What I did was use Longstrider and Expeditious Retreat to get a running start up the sand dunes, then I¡¯d jump onto my Floatin¡¯ Disc and let gravity and momentum carry me down. The Floatin¡¯ Disc Spell mind you, as a sled won¡¯t work, but they all First Order. A combination y¡¯all could easily learn, and you should because it¡¯s not only useful for gettin¡¯ out of dodge, but a whole lot of fun.¡± Grinning from ear to ear, I meet Tina¡¯s imploring stare with a little nod and say, ¡°Was planning on taking you up Mount Rime to learn after you graduated from Basic. My daddy took me when I was ten, but Aunty Ray had a conniption when I showed her the video. Told him that if he ever took you snowboarding, she¡¯d hang his sorry hide from the peak and leave him there to freeze, so we all thought it was best to keep quiet.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t wait,¡± she says, and it ain¡¯t a figure of speech. ¡°Can¡¯t you teach me now?¡±


    ¡°Wait, wait, wait. Floating Disc?¡± The voice is an unfamiliar one, belonging to a stuffy little brown fella with brows as thick as a thumb. ¡°Doesn¡¯t that Spell destabilize and come apart when moving at high speeds?¡±


    ¡°Sure does,¡± I reply, happy to engage. ¡°But that just means you gotta concentrate on maintaining the Spell when you go over the speed limits. It¡¯s a simple matter of drawing Aether from the Immaterium to keep the Spell stable, same as what you¡¯d have to do if you wanna extend the base duration. With a Spell Core, it¡¯ll draw excess Aether directly, but regulating how much it draws is difficult to do on the fly without overloading the Core, and impossible with our current level of tech. Hence why a sled won¡¯t work and why you gotta cast it manual.¡± It¡¯s also why I would¡¯ve brought Tina up Mount Rime, because falling on snow is a lot softer than rock or sand.


    ¡°But Expeditious Retreat also requires the Caster to maintain Concentration.¡± I can hear the capitalization in the words as the brainy brown says them, which tells me he book smart, but maybe a little short on experience. ¡°How were you able to maintain both Spells at once?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t,¡± I reply, trying not to smile too much in case he thinks I¡¯m mocking him. Not my fault, is just how my face looks, so I try to sound as patient as I can. ¡°Expeditious Retreat only lasts a minute. So long as it gets me the peak of the next dune, ain¡¯t no big loss dropping it to Concentrate on the Floating Disc while boarding down. Besides, I didn¡¯t want to get too far ahead of the horde either, since I wanted them chasing me down.¡±


    It''s clear the boots got other questions, but Wayne ain¡¯t done being a giant pain in my backside just yet. ¡°Seems odd is all,¡± he says, smiling his rat smile while looking out from behind his narrow, beady eyes. ¡°You taking a cut of the spoils. I know your daddy never did that. Worked for a wage like the rest of us. The Yellow Devil Ming was a lot of things, but greedy wasn¡¯t one of them.¡±


    My smile widens even as the cheer drains out of my eyes, and I fix Wayne with a long, unblinking stare. Credit where it¡¯s due, he don¡¯t flinch at all, even though he knows that I know he¡¯s on the take, because he knows I got no proof, or at least nothing I could come clean with. The boots ain¡¯t fools, and most pick up on the tension, while Tina shuffles over to sit beside me and maybe hold me back. The silence hangs for a good minute as I work through my rage, and another as I come up with an answer that ain¡¯t a direct attack on Wayne. That¡¯s what he¡¯s hoping for, because he¡¯s trying to get under my skin. Why, I can¡¯t say, as I thought we¡¯d had ourselves an understanding, but I don¡¯t care anymore. He started it, and I¡¯m of a mind to end it.


    ¡°You right,¡± I say, my voice soft and quiet, because I don¡¯t trust myself to speak too emphatically. ¡°My daddy was a kind and generous man. Worked hard every day here on the Frontier, spending weeks away at a time trackin¡¯ Proggies, defendin¡¯ settlements, or buildin¡¯ walls if that¡¯s what was needed. Gave freely too. Ain¡¯t a church, temple, or mosque in New Hope that he didn¡¯t donate to, and we both had a hand in helpin¡¯ build most of them. For fourteen years, he risked his life and gave his all to make the Frontier a safer place, without ever asking for anythin¡¯ besides basic Ranger pay and the right to wear that badge on his chest.¡± The heat in my voice is impossible to douse, the fires of rage and indignation burning too hot to ever die out, but I take a deep breath, then another, before finally trusting myself to continue.


    Because what did all his hard work, dedication, and sacrifice get him? Nothing. Worse than nothing in fact, as they took his badge away and spit on his legacy, so I ain¡¯t one to make that same mistake.


    ¡°Yea, my daddy was a good man,¡± I say, straightening up and looking as calm and relaxed as can be while keeping my hands away from my guns. ¡°Better than me, I ain¡¯t ashamed to admit. He taught me well enough though, which is why I¡¯mma warn you this once.¡± Meeting the rat-faced weasel¡¯s eyes with a hard stare, I let go of the hold I got on my anger and let the savage loose. ¡°You call him that again, Wayne, and I¡¯ll show you what a real Yellow Devil looks like.¡±


    Wayne¡¯s fake smile falls off his face as he struggles to look amused by the threat, but anyone with eyes can see that he¡¯s shook. Whether his suspicions are true or not, he ain¡¯t wrong when he says I got the skills to cover up a murder, and now he¡¯s wondering if he¡¯s given me motivation enough to commit one. It ain¡¯t ever been a question of ability. Any fool with an Aetherarm can kill another man. Getting away with it is another story, and he already thinks I got away with at least one.


    That said, his smile returns in full force as he realizes he¡¯s accomplished his goal and made me show my true colours. Holding both hands up in mock surrender, Wayne puts on a comically scared face and says, ¡°Alright there killer. Meant no disrespect to your daddy, that¡¯s just what folks called him. I didn¡¯t realize it was such a touchy subject. Won¡¯t happen again.¡±


    I don¡¯t dignify his non-apology with a response. I just stare him down till he turns away to chat with Reggie sitting beside him. Always close by, Conner puts on a helpless expression, one that says he¡¯s sorry for what Wayne said, but that he don¡¯t approve of what I said either. I got no response, not one I care to say out loud at least, and while I¡¯m thankful for the supportive nods from the Rangers who overheard the exchange, I note none of them care to voice their dissent. I also note none of them said word one after my daddy was disavowed, and it¡¯s hard not to resent them for it. Even Tim and Art didn¡¯t protest the decision, just offered their commiserations in private, and they were his closest friends. I know it¡¯s asking a lot for them to speak out against their Lieutenant or their own organization, but what happened to ¡®Once a Ranger, always a Ranger¡¯? Guess it don¡¯t count when you ain¡¯t American, except I don¡¯t see how that changes things. My Daddy fought for them, bled for them, and while he didn¡¯t die for them, he almost did more times than I care to list. I figured that¡¯s gotta count for something, but I guess not.


    Unwilling to risk alienation from the Rangers, most of the boots go back to cooking while waiting for Marcus to grill up whatever Tim and the other hunters brought back, but I ain¡¯t got an appetite anymore. Instead, I let Errol and Sarah Jay have the rest of the night off while I finish up our Abby cookoff. Ain¡¯t no more surprises to be had, only bones to fish out, which I leave to dry and will later break up to serve as fertilizer for the first patch of plant life I come across. Tina sticks around after she¡¯s done instead of leaving to grab a plate. Knows me well enough to leave me alone when I¡¯m in one of my moods, and spends her time playing with the kiccaws and teaching them some tricks. That plus Cowie¡¯s adorable efforts to cheer me up eventually bring me out of my funk after an hour of sulking and put a smile on my face, if only a small one.


    ¡°What you gonna name him?¡± I ask, settling in beside Tina and giving the fat bird a belly poke. Makes him squawk out his namesake, puff his chest, open his round eyes wide, and spread his tiny wings to either side, which only makes the little kiccaw look cuter.


    ¡°Dunno,¡± Tina replies, giving the little guy¡¯s head a gentle scratch and beaming as he deflates and closes his eyes in unmatched bliss. ¡°I figured I¡¯d let Chrissy weigh in first. She¡¯ll love having them around to sing along while she plays guitar.¡±


    Cuteness aside, there are practicalities to cover. ¡°You figure out what we gonna do with them?¡± Trying not to look too hopeful, I say, ¡°I mean, I hear they good eating.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t say that!¡± Covering the fat kiccaw¡¯s feathered ears, Tina gives me a teary-eyed pout. ¡°You can¡¯t eat them, no matter what. You wouldn¡¯t eat Cowie, would you?¡±


    ¡°Ah, he¡¯d barely be a snack.¡± Giving him a kiss on the head to show I don¡¯t mean it, I pat his neck and eye the kiccaws gathered around us. Some are begging for attention, while others are busy pecking at the sand for grubs, and still more have got their tiny wings spread while doing a little bouncy, back and forth dance that¡¯s either a ritualized challenge or mating behavior. Or both. Who knows. ¡°Still, we need to find some way for these birdies to earn their keep. Besides, even if Aunty Ray can keep the stray marties from eatin¡¯ ¡®em, you sure these kiccaws can survive the winters in New Hope? Gets a lot colder down there than it does up here.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll build them a barn then,¡± Tina replies, always with her head in the clouds, but that¡¯s a part of her charm. ¡°You got the room for it. Or they can live inside with us. Won¡¯t be hard to get them house-trained. Already taught them not to make a mess of your roof.¡±


    ¡°After they made one the first day,¡± I counter, and she concedes the point with a subdued nod before falling silent, resting her chin on her kiccaw¡¯s head and losing herself in her thoughts. Even though I¡¯ve shaken the foul mood brought about by Wayne¡¯s mouth, it seems she¡¯s not quite over it just yet. I¡¯ve always treated her like my sister, but it¡¯s easy to forget that my daddy was a father figure to her too. One she lost only four years after losing her real daddy, so in some ways, she¡¯s had it even worse. ¡°You alright, Songbird?¡±


    ¡°Yea,¡± she says, though her tone and posture says otherwise. ¡°I just miss him, is all.¡±


    ¡°Me too.¡± Sitting up so our shoulders are touching, I hesitate too long and miss my moment to throw my arm around her. Had I done it earlier, it¡¯d be normal and brotherly, but now it¡¯d seem calculated with ulterior motives, so I just sit there and awkwardly bump against her, shoulder to shoulder. ¡°You know, they¡¯d have been so proud of how you handled yourself out there. Drawing down on them Abby with your dual 1911¡¯s, even pulling out the 45 towards the end. Flawless transition between carbine and pistols, smooth and quick as can be, just like your daddy. Mine always said you had a knack for it, one I had to work twice as hard to match.¡± Ain¡¯t lying either. Most folks see me switching guns with my Mage Hands and think it¡¯s natural talent, but I must¡¯ve fumbled the handoff more than ten-thousand times during all my hours of practice. Tina don¡¯t got the Mage Hands to work with, but she has to transition from dual pistols to single when casting Spells, and I know for a fact she had to work hard to get it flawless and win all them speed shooting competitions back home.


    That¡¯s the part most people miss when they see our skills, how hard we gotta work at it. Ain¡¯t nothing more aggravating than having all that effort belittled by chalking it up to ¡®talent¡¯ or some non-existent ¡®ancient Qin secret¡¯.


    ¡°Thanks Howie,¡± she says, giving me an amused, but patronizing smile that says I¡¯m doing a terrible job of cheering her up. Then her smile blossoms into a genuine one, and I get all twisted up inside reminding myself that she¡¯s my sorta sister. ¡°And thanks again for being here,¡± she adds, resting her head on my shoulder in way that ain¡¯t awkward at all, and I¡¯ve no idea how she manages it. ¡°Was so nervous waiting for the fight, could barely hold my Strelky up right. Then I saw you sliding down that sand dune with that big smile on your face, and all my worries just melted away. Means a lot to have you here, especially since I know you could be off earning more. Heard you sold all your cargo at cost, and didn¡¯t even consider selling on consignment.¡±


    ¡°Would¡¯ve been too much paperwork.¡± Shrugging, I add, ¡°It¡¯s fine, though I don¡¯t think Jay¡¯s forgiven me just yet. Besides, I ain¡¯t just here for you. Didn¡¯t you see my haul? Had Wayne all jealous and twisted in knots.¡±


    ¡°Uh huh.¡± Giving me a knowing look which pales in comparison to the one her Mama hits me with, Tina asks, ¡°You gonna tell me what¡¯s going on between you two?¡±


    ¡°He thinks I cost him a lot of money,¡± I reply, keeping the answer as generic as can be. ¡°Can¡¯t prove it though, so instead he¡¯s fixing to be a pain in my backside.¡± And working his way towards earning a Bolt between the eyes if he steps on my daddy¡¯s good name a second time.


    ¡°Okay¡­¡± From the look in her eye, Tina is wondering if she wants to know, but she settles on ignorance is bliss for now. Mostly because it don¡¯t interest her, which is why I made it sound boring as I did without any mention of missing guards, dead merchants, or ill-gotten goods. Moody as ever, her good cheer dissipates into a mopey pout as she brings her knees up and lays the kiccaw on them, where she proceeds to tickle his round belly. After a long moment of silence, she asks, ¡°Hey Howie? If you ain¡¯t ready to talk about it, you don¡¯t have to, but could you tell me more about how Uncle Ming died? All I know is that some Qin Vanguard did him in, but that¡¯s all you¡¯ve ever said. Why¡¯d they go after him? How¡¯d they get him? How¡¯d you get them and get away?¡±


    Because it¡¯s my fault my daddy died. The words get stuck in my throat, and no matter how much I want to unburden myself of this guilt, I can¡¯t bring myself to voice my shame so directly, but she deserves to know this much at least. Taking a deep breath, I fight the urge to bury my face in my hands and explain, ¡°Ain¡¯t much to say. We were headed to the house in the badlands, to pay our respects to my mama. After so many days of hard travel, I was tired and ready to rest, so when we got to the mesa, I rode on up ahead with Cowie. Figured the wards and traps we¡¯d laid on the ramp meant we were home free. I was wrong. They were waiting there at the top, three Vanguard armed with shoddy, one-shot rifles. I spotted them right quick, because there ain¡¯t many places to hide atop the mesa, and they didn¡¯t work too hard at it. Didn¡¯t shoot me neither, because I wasn¡¯t their target, but I froze up. Didn¡¯t draw my gun, didn¡¯t shout out a warning, just sat there and stared into the killer¡¯s eyes for a good two seconds at least. Then daddy cleared the plateau behind me, and those Vanguard shot him centre mass.¡±


    If I¡¯d have warned him, he could¡¯ve come out guns blazing and sent them Vanguards diving for cover. If I wasn¡¯t wearing the Shield bracer, he might¡¯ve blocked their shots and come out ahead. Hell, if it wasn¡¯t for me, they wouldn¡¯t have bothered to target my daddy, because they saw me as a victim of his hubris, a wayward Son of the Republic led astray by my ¡®traitorous¡¯ father. Thought I¡¯d be grateful once I saw what awaited me amongst my own people. It was patriotism which drove them to kill my daddy, a delusional desire to bring me back into the fold, because they thought I¡¯d be better off as one of them. That¡¯s why those Vanguard didn¡¯t shoot me, and why they didn¡¯t resist when I drew my Squire and opened fire. A full second between each shot, that¡¯s the rate of fire on the Squire, and I shot all three of those Vanguards without moving a step. They didn¡¯t run, didn¡¯t fight, didn¡¯t fumble their reloads, hell, the first one didn¡¯t even blink. Died throwing up a salute, like he was honoured to go in service to his county, but the other two broke down and cried. Tossed their guns aside and pleaded for mercy in Qinese, going on about how they had wives and children waiting for them back home. I had no mercy for my daddy¡¯s killers though, and they accepted their deaths with fatalistic grace, robbing me of any and all satisfaction.


    Worst of all, I think seeing me kill those unresisting men hurt my daddy more than the three Bolt holes in his chest. He hated his country for what it put him through, but that don¡¯t mean he hated his countrymen, his brothers and sisters in arms who¡¯d been brainwashed just like him. Wanted to be an example to aspire to, show them that they could make it out here on the Frontier without the Republic telling them what¡¯s what, so seeing me kill in cold blood as he lay there dying was the nail in the proverbial coffin. Might well be the only thing keeping me from going on a rampage in search of his killer, the knowledge that he¡¯d disapprove. I can¡¯t tell Tina any of this though. Couldn¡¯t even tell Aunty Ray, or anyone else for that matter. The fact that my daddy spent half of his last words chewing me out for my dark deeds is my dirty little secret, one I will take to the grave, because I am too ashamed to ever admit the truth out loud.


    I didn¡¯t just get my daddy killed. I disappointed him too.


    ¡°That¡¯s why you don¡¯t talk about it? Because you think it¡¯s your fault?¡± Tina¡¯s voice is barely a whisper as tears stream down her cheeks. ¡°You know it¡¯s not, right? You was only fourteen.¡±


    ¡°Yea,¡± I lie, one which comes all too easily to my lips, because it¡¯s one I¡¯ve tried telling myself for years. ¡°I know.¡±


    If only it were true.

 Chapter 29

    Eager to put all the heavy talk behind us, I spend the next little bit reminiscing with Tina about our daddies.


    We was only eight when Uncle Raleigh passed, but we both remember enough to know how much he loved us. He was always saying it, and he showed it by spending every free moment he had with the three of us and Aunty Ray. Got plenty of good memories of him teaching me how to ride, swim, sail, build a snow fort, and lots of other little lessons too. Nothing important, but just like a town ain¡¯t a town without a touch of the non-essential, a life ain¡¯t a life without a bit of fun, and Uncle Raleigh was a fun man to be around. Before I started riding solo, Aunty Ray sat me down to learn how to be charming and disarming, but most of what I do is just copying Uncle Raleigh, right down to the big smile and disarming story telling. He was a friendly and charismatic man who could always bring a smile to your face, with a mind like a steel trap that never forgot a name, face, or conversation.


    As for my daddy, he wasn¡¯t the affectionate or emotional type, but he showed his love in other ways. Never raised his hand or voice to any of us, even when we might¡¯ve deserved it, like that time I snuck into Mr. Kalthoff¡¯s gun store for a look-see at his latest prototype. My daddy was more worried about me hurting myself than angry at my gumption, though Aunty Ray was mad enough for the both of them. He always made sure to bring us something back from his trips too. Toys, candies, or just little bits and bobs, like seashells interlaced with metallic veins picked off the beaches of Thunder Bay, or hardened amber fossils mined out of the Serpent¡¯s Teeth mountain Range. My favourite were the books he bought to read to us at night, because amazing as he was, he wasn¡¯t great at telling stories on the fly. That was more Uncle Raleigh¡¯s thing, but after he passed, my daddy stepped up to fill in for his absence. Did it right up until we was too old for bedtime stories, though he¡¯d gotten better at the craft and would talk while we travelled, telling me about my mama and how she became the light of his life in so short a time.


    Their story always sounded more unbelievable than most fairy tales, so inconceivable I still don¡¯t think its real. Two people who¡¯d never met in the old-world crossing paths on the very first day of the new, only to fall head over heels in love and set out to start a family together. Sounds nice, but I ain¡¯t so sure about the love part. Even though I wholeheartedly believe my daddy loved my mama right up until the day he died, the cynic in me wonders if the circumstances of my conception was less romance and more propaganda.


    I ain¡¯t the Firstborn solely because of my premature birth. Might we¡¯ll have earned the title even if my mama carried me to term. Means I¡¯d¡¯ve had to have been conceived within the first week of the Advent, or maybe even on that very first day my parents met, else I¡¯d have died alongside my mama. Uncle Art told me so himself, said it was a damn near miracle I pulled through the first night, cradled in my daddy¡¯s arms as he braved the long, dark trek through the badlands in hopes of finding help. Might well have starved if Aunty Ray hadn¡¯t been in that Ranger camp, five months pregnant and unwilling to let Uncle Raleigh face the dangers of the Divide without her by his side. Always said he was a reckless, feckless, and impetuous man, traits his daughters thankfully didn¡¯t inherit, but might¡¯ve rubbed off on me a little bit.


    Either way, the point I¡¯m getting at is that my daddy said I was a planned baby, not a happy accident like Tina and Chrissy as Uncle Raleigh often joked. I believe it, as my daddy wasn¡¯t one to paint a pretty picture over the ugly truth, except I don¡¯t understand how two strangers can meet under less-than-ideal circumstances and decide it¡¯s a good time to start a family during their first week on a hostile and unfamiliar world. Would¡¯ve been much safer to wait a few months to get things in place, or better yet, until they had a community to lean on. If Uncle Art had been there with my mama, he might well have kept her alive, and my daddy wouldn¡¯t have had to risk life and limb trekking through the badlands at night with a newborn in hand. Difficult to reload a single-shot, breech loaded Aetherarm with only one hand, and impossible if he actually had a musket like I told Carl and them other guards.


    Now, my daddy told me a lot of things about my mama, and what stands out the most is how smart she was. Brilliant even, according to Uncle Teddy, who helped my daddy translate all her notes and studied them almost religiously after the fact. Wasn¡¯t just her ability to memorize all those theories, formulas, and concepts so she could jot them all down after passing through the Gate, but also her idle notes on how certain Spell Structures could be calibrated or manipulated for added effect. Theories she came up with for Spells she had yet to learn or sling mind you, as she could only cast up to Second Order Spells. Didn¡¯t stop her from offering insight on Spell Structures up to the Fourth Order, as she had those formulas locked in mind and ready to go as soon as she arrived on the Frontier. I seen the formulas myself, pored over them night and day hoping to learn something about who my mama was from the way she wrote, and each one of them Fourth Order Spell Formulas fills several pages with just numbers, letters, and mathematical notation.


    So I gotta ask; how¡¯s a woman as smart as my mama not understand how risky it is to get pregnant without a social safety net to rely on?


    Maybe it was overconfidence, thinking they¡¯d find plenty of Qin to support them, only to find none. Could also be naivete, believing in the best of humanity and expecting everyone to help a pregnant woman, regardless of race, creed, or nationality. That turned out poorly, which was why my parents migrated down into the badlands, because dangerous as Abby might be, they was more afraid of other settlers in those first few years. Me, I think my mama just wanted a baby so bad she didn¡¯t care about the risks, or who the father was even. Being a Qin Vanguard, my mama would¡¯ve been subjected to the same indoctrination as my daddy, who up until the day he died still loved his people, if not his country. See, to prepare him for the Frontier, he and other prospective settlers were taken away from their parents at the tender age of six. Brought them all to a big school, one isolated from the modern world so they could learn the skills needed to survive here on the Frontier. Once there, they were told to forget their families, because they was sons and daughters of the Republic now, children who would conquer a new world for their nation and homeland. Their individual lives became less important than the success of their collective mission, to settle the Frontier and pave the way for the Second Wave of settlers due some time after the Watershed.


    Which means it probably wasn¡¯t love that brought my daddy and mama together. Was their desire to fulfill their roles as the Vanguard, to survive and propagate, because to the head honchos of the Qin Republic, this was all a game of numbers. More settlers having more children means more survivors making it all the way to the Watershed, with a bigger workforce all ready and waiting to help the Second Wave get past their initial growing pains and eventually dominate the Frontier through strength of numbers and industry. That was always their plan, and my parents were doing what was expected of them, no more, no less.


    Would much rather believe in love at first sight, but I can¡¯t believe in something I ain¡¯t ever seen or felt. Even Cowie takes some time to warm up to his ladies, and he won¡¯t accept just any old gal either. No idea what his standards are based on, but he¡¯s got them, which is why we only got three lady cows for him back home.


    Didn¡¯t mean my daddy didn¡¯t love my mama, but I don¡¯t believe I was born out of love between them. A day, a week, even a month don¡¯t seem like enough time to fall head over heels for one another, and it amazes me that Errol and Sarah Jay are so comfortable after only knowing one another for two or three months. I¡¯ve known Tina all my life, and I still find it awkward to sit beside her with our shoulders touching, which is why I¡¯ve taken to leaning heavily on my left elbow away from her and almost lying down in the sand as we talk the minutes away. Ain¡¯t because it¡¯s comfortable. My abs and lower back are burning with effort at keeping this up, and I almost heave a sigh of relief when she gives a little sniffle and claps her hands. ¡°Alright then,¡± she declares, dusting herself off as she hops to her feet. ¡°That¡¯s enough maudlin chit chat for the both of us. Time to eat.¡± Seeing that I don¡¯t follow suit, she shoots a glance at the crowd gathered around the grill, where the boots and Rangers are busy celebrating their hard-fought victory and realizes that ain¡¯t my thing. ¡°Want I should bring you a plate?¡±


    ¡°Nah, I¡¯m good.¡± Waving her away, I let myself fall back into the sand and stare up at the twinkling stars suspended in the reddish-gold skies, the setting sun not quite gone and the rising moons yet to show themselves over the horizon. ¡°The stink of cooking Abby always sours my stomach,¡± I say, not to mention the moral dilemma of what to do with my Mage Armour Spell Core. ¡°Had a bunch of candy after the fight, so I should be good till breakfast.¡±


    ¡°You sure? Be a shame to skip out on Marcus¡¯ cooking.¡±


    ¡°Yea, I¡¯m sure. Thanks.¡± Bringing my hat low over to cover my eyes, I trace a sigil through the air with my left hand, the somatic component to an Abjuration Cantrip called Blade Ward that should provide insight into Mage Armour. ¡°Go on and celebrate, Songbird. This a big day for you, so don¡¯t mind me and go bond with your future squad mates.¡±


    ¡°¡­Alright.¡±


    The sombre sadness in her tone punches through the thin veil of indifference I¡¯ve thrown up, but she understands me better than I understand myself. I don¡¯t mind conversating with folks in quiet, intimate settings, but crowds exhaust me. There¡¯s too much to keep track of, too many social niceties to observe, and it ends up grating me down to my last nerve. It¡¯s why I get into so many fights, because after enough time spent straining to be cordial and polite, my temper tends to get the better of me when I¡¯m disrespected. If I walk into that crowd and subject myself to all that with how I¡¯m feeling now, I might end up shooting Wayne if he opens his rat mouth and makes another pithy comment about my daddy.


    Okay, so fine. Wayne might be right, and I could be the problem, but so what? World¡¯s a dangerous place, and I¡¯d rather err on the side of caution when it comes to keeping myself in one piece. Ain¡¯t like I got the Rangers to back me up. Most days, I¡¯m a man alone on out on the wild Frontier, and the fact that I abide by the Accords the vast majority of the time already makes me better than most. I don¡¯t judge the farmer for raising muscari only to betray their trust and slaughter them, so they shouldn¡¯t judge me for doing what I gotta do to survive.


    Takes four casts of the Cantrip before I realize I ain¡¯t actually studying, too distracted by thoughts of my parents, the Rangers, my present and uncertain future. Part of it is mental and physical exhaustion, but I¡¯d be lying if I said these thoughts didn¡¯t feature front and centre most nights. Few years ago, it was all simple enough. I¡¯d follow in my daddy¡¯s footsteps and join the Rangers as a Scout, where he¡¯d most certainly get us posted with Tina so he could keep an eye on the both of us. Then it¡¯s just a matter of following orders, and while I got my issues with authority, I was keen to play my part in seeing Uncle Teddy¡¯s dream through to completion and helping raise a Bulwark of fortresses with which to contain Abby in the badlands.


    That plan went udders up though, so now I¡¯m scrambling to figure out how to make it all on my lonesome. Today was a rude awakening, as it¡¯s only gonna get harder from here on out. What happens to trade when automobiles start rolling in? Right now, it takes two days to travel the hundred klicks between each fortress, three for heavily loaded caravans, but even a basic truck could make that distance in an hour or two. Won¡¯t be no easy money to be made come spring when every farmer, trapper, and hunter has an automobile of their own to make the trip to New Hope whenever the mood strikes them. Then there¡¯s Flight, a Third Order, single target Spell which requires concentration and lasts ten minutes at base. While limited in scope, the Spell allows for relatively safe, single man travel over the mountain ranges to the north and south of the Divide. Can¡¯t carry much in goods or cash, but it allows for coordination of Radio towers in order to open up even better communications with the rest of the Frontier.


    Yea, a twelve-hundred kilometre stretch of Highway might seem long right now, but the Frontier is gonna get a whole lot smaller once the Watershed hits, and I don¡¯t rightly know where I¡¯ll fit it. I¡¯m pretty sure there¡¯s always gonna be work for someone with my skills, and hiring Errol and Sarah Jay on as part of my crew is the right move, but what if I¡¯m wrong? What if we can¡¯t keep up with government outfits equipped with machineguns like the Blackstaff Assault Rifle Marijke was fiddling with, weapons I ain¡¯t allowed to purchase? What if my Scouting skills are made obsolete by a wave of new tech, all that Radar, Lidar, Sonar, and Aadar Danny¡¯s always going on about, stuff that¡¯s supposed to map square kilometres in seconds and show you all the twists and turns of an Abby burrow before you even set foot inside? Or worse, what if I get got by some stupid twist of fate, like if we¡¯d arrived five minutes earlier to collect those Abby corpses and ran afoul of them scavs today?


    And on top of all that, how am I supposed to find the man who ordered my daddy¡¯s death? Those Qin Vanguard were only following orders, orders they wholeheartedly believed were for the good of the Republic and in my best interest. Maybe the person who ordered it thought the same, but that don¡¯t matter, because good intentions don¡¯t count for much. While my daddy would rather live and let lie, I ain¡¯t about to let the man who killed my daddy live a long and happy life. Won¡¯t go killing indiscriminately out of respect for his wishes, but soon as I know who to hit, then I¡¯ll take my pound of flesh and go to war with anyone who stands in my way.


    Don¡¯t got many leads on whodunnit, but if my main suspect ain¡¯t it, then he¡¯s liable to know who is.


    Met him a full two years before my daddy passed, and only the once, but I can¡¯t think of anyone else to blame. The man¡¯s face springs to mind unbidden, so plain and unremarkable its difficult to describe. Black hair and brown eyes, but that¡¯s par for the course when it comes to the Qin. Neither tall nor short, not skinny or fat, just average all around, yet somehow also eye-catching in an androgenous sort of way. No beard, not even a wisp of a five-o-clock shadow after what must have been weeks travelling by foot. Spotless uniform too, a black, double-breasted, double buttoned, long jacket with a red-fur trim around the collar to ward off the chill, topped with a black peaked cap lined in the same fur. His head was more rounded than oval, his ears a little wider than most, his nose neither large nor small, lips a touch thin, and a gaze as hard as steel, even though he tried to soften it as he turned his eyes away from my daddy and over to me. ¡°Ni Hao, Hao¡¯er,¡± he said, in that melodic, singsong way the Qin speak. A greeting, which directly translates to ¡®you are well, Howie¡¯. ¡°Wo shi Zhu Yuanzhang, ni di jiu jiu, ni ma ma di da ge.¡±


    Now, I was only twelve at the time, and while I could read Qinese just fine, that ain¡¯t the same as hearing it, so I had to look to my daddy for a translation. There he stood, calm as could be while surrounded by twenty or so heavily armed Qin Vanguard who¡¯d appeared out of nowhere and didn¡¯t seem none too friendly, but he didn¡¯t pay them no mind. Didn¡¯t even lay hand on his pistol, though I had my Blastgun out and at the ready. Instead, he watched me with a curious expression, one I¡¯d never seen before and pegged as uncertainty after the fact. ¡°He says his name is Zhu Yuanzhang,¡± Daddy translated. ¡°Your maternal uncle and mother¡¯s older brother.¡± After a brief pause, added, ¡°I believe he speaks true.¡±


    Zhang frowned, unhappy that I couldn¡¯t understand him all that well, but his English was even better than mine. ¡°Your traitorous father has not only failed to keep my sister safe, he has failed in your education,¡± he said in clipped and precise tones, which got my hackles up even then, ¡°Raising you as a foreigner instead of allowing you to take your rightful place amongst your people.¡± So much hate packed into that word, foreigner, like it was some kinda cuss or something. ¡°Come with me, Hao¡¯er,¡± Zhang said, holding a hand out like I was some dainty damsel who¡¯d need help off a wagon. ¡°Stand at my side, where you belong, as the Firstborn Son of the Republic, and I will spare your unworthy father¡¯s dog life.¡±


    In response, I worked the slide of my pump-action Blastgun, a cute little Bashere Black Eagle meant for hunting elk and such, but would make a real mess of my mother¡¯s brother standing barely fifteen feet away. ¡°Like where I¡¯m at just fine thanks,¡± I said, and I remember telling myself that if the shooting started, I¡¯d kill my uncle first. ¡°Like it better if we were on our way. Got supplies that need deliverin¡¯, and no time for jawin¡¯ with the in-laws.¡±


    The Qin are big on familial lines. My daddy, he didn¡¯t have no family name to give me, which is why I use my mama¡¯s family name of Zhu, but right then and there, I made my stance clear. I was my father¡¯s son, and thus, of no concern to my mother¡¯s family, especially not if they was gonna badmouth my daddy right in front of my face. Zhang, he didn¡¯t like that much, no siree, and once the rest of his crew were done whispering the translation around, they liked it even less. I remember clear as day some of the more frightening faces, the warped Innates that seemed more monster than human and were just raring to tear me limb from limb.


    There was a fellow with eight, human eyes all dotted around his narrow face. There were the two standard eyes where they ought to be, and under those, two on each side of the bridge of his nose. The last pair of eyes were squished together in the middle of his forehead, except they were oriented along the vertical axis, instead of horizontal like the others. What made it worse was that each eye had its own set of lashes and eyelids, and they all blinked independently of one another save for the standard two as they glared at me with undisguised hatred. Had his hand clenched tight rough the pommel of his sword, as if he¡¯d like nothing more than to draw it and slice me to pieces for being a traitor to his people. A Sword Saint, or so my daddy told me once the dust settled, and one to be wary of no matter how strapped you were.


    Then there was the purple man. Not a pale, lilac like Chrissy¡¯s eyes, but a darker, ugly reddish-brown sort of purple. Like one giant bruise he was, with fleshy, twitchy tendrils dangling from everywhere he ought to have hair. Head, upper lip, chin, arms, chest, there were even tiny tendrils poking out of his nostrils as he breathed deep and slow, utterly unconcerned by the tension unfolding all around him. Didn¡¯t carry no gun, nor even a knife, but my daddy told me that the man¡¯s loose, golden yellow robes identified him as a Republic Battle Monk, a Spellslinger specialized in unarmed combat.


    There were other Innates too, with maybe half the party being as such. One fellow had cat¡¯s eyes, another a set of jutting tusks, and still more with Aberrtin scleroderma, which is the fancy term for the little crystal and metallic markings on Chrissy, Tina, and Aunty Ray¡¯s foreheads, though how they present varies wildly. Those fellows were probably single or double Core Innates, while eight-eyes and squid-face likely had three or four at the least, but there was one woman who scared me most of all, because I couldn¡¯t even guess at how many Cores it would take to overwrite someone¡¯s entire face. It was just smooth, veiny, mottled skin, with no indication of where her eyes, nose, mouth, or ears would have been, and only a few locks of greasy, strung-out hair on her head, but I could tell that all her focus was on me. The harsh, guttural growl emanating from her throat was the sound of nightmares, but even now, it¡¯s her posture which haunts me most of all, so bent and twisted it barely seemed human, while conveying the sense of a voracious, starving beast ready to rend and tear and feast¡­


    Wasn¡¯t no Qin discipline to lay at her feet. No, she was just raw arcane power and feral instinct, easily mistaken for some humanoid Abby Mimic, and I still don¡¯t know whether she¡¯s more worthy of fear or pity.


    Then my uncle barked a command and reined all that hostility back in, with every last single one of the Qin both Innate and otherwise falling into line without hesitation. Impressive discipline made only possible by a lifetime of indoctrination, but it wasn¡¯t just old worlders in the crowd. Least a third of them were kids, all younger than me, but not by much as far as I could tell, and they was every bit as fanatical as the rest. There they stood at full attention and strapped heavy, paying me and my daddy no mind as Zhang cut a patch off of his jacket shoulder, tossed it over to me, and proclaimed, ¡°If you ever so desire to take your rightful place at my side, bring that to one of our countrymen and they will see to it you are brought safely to my side.¡±


    Being young and green as I was, I caught the damn thing, which could¡¯ve gone bad, but it didn¡¯t, and then I looked at it. Another mistake, as I should¡¯ve kept an eye on the hostiles, but luckily, they wasn¡¯t out of blood that day, mine or my daddy¡¯s. The patch was a military insignia, but I wasn¡¯t all that familiar with Qin ranking, so it wasn¡¯t until after they left that I asked and my daddy told me what six stars over crossed staves meant. ¡°A Great General and Grand Magus,¡± he replied, meaning that Zhang was highly ranked and arrogant beyond all belief, to claim himself capable of casting Sixth-Order Spells despite looking the same age as my daddy, or maybe a year or two older. Back in the old world, a twenty-eight or thirty-year-old Grand Magus was almost unheard of, or at least that¡¯s what the Marshal told me later on. Talent like that belongs to the greatest of the greats, the once in a lifetime prodigies like Sir Issac Newton, Benjamin Franklin, and John Von Neumann.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    Course, it¡¯s possible some of the Immortal Monarchs could¡¯ve done it too. Most of what we know about them can¡¯t really be verified, since they were Immortal and might well have influenced what was written about them in historical record while ruling from the shadows. Either way, for Zhang to claim the rank of Grand Magus while metaphysically incapable of casting any Spells beyond Third Order is pretty much the definition of blowing hot air. Personal distaste aside, I can¡¯t think of anyone besides that grandstanding peacock who¡¯d care to order Qin Vanguard to kill my daddy and die for it, much less have the pull to get it done, so he¡¯s my one and only suspect. Was a time during the days after my daddy¡¯s death when I was of a mind to use that patch to get a meeting with the man so I could kill him on sight, but reason prevailed. That¡¯s still the plan, but my daddy wouldn¡¯t want me dying to see him avenged, so Zhang¡¯s comeuppance will have to wait until I¡¯m good enough to kill him and get away clean.


    Don¡¯t care if I gotta wait until I¡¯m a Grand Magus myself; I¡¯mma find who ordered my daddy¡¯s death, and then I¡¯mma make sure their dying is long and slow.


    ¡°Up and at ¡®em, sleeping beauty.¡±


    Marcus¡¯ gruff tone shakes me out of my thoughts, and I bolt upright with a start. ¡°Damnit Marcus,¡± I say, scowling as catch my hat and put it back on my head. ¡°How¡¯s a man as big as you move so quiet?¡±


    ¡°Practice,¡± he replies, flashing a grin that makes his mean mug look all soft and friendly. Holding out a giant wooden tray stacked to the edges with grilled meat and all the fixings, he says, ¡°Eat up. Boy as scrawny as you can¡¯t be skipping no meals, especially not after today¡¯s big fight.¡±


    ¡°Wasn¡¯t all that big. Just a touch of cardio is all.¡± Accepting the tray with both hands and faking a grimace, I ask, ¡°What, no a-moose booshe? You losin¡¯ your touch Marcus.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll moose booshe you.¡± Pausing a tic to mutter something under his breath and use the Mould Earth Cantrip to fashion himself a block of sand to sit on, he shakes his head and laughs. ¡°You keep leaning into those ¡®dumb hick¡¯ stereotypes, and there gonna come a day when you forget you¡¯re pretending.¡±


    ¡°Who says I am? Never did go to school after all.¡± Ain¡¯t got much appetite, but Aunty Ray would have my hide if she heard I turned down a plate, and doubly so if it came from a Ranger Captain who had better things to do than worry about my diet. Stuffing a bite into my mouth, I chew around it and say, ¡°Delicious as always. Thanks for the plate.¡± Glancing up at Tim and Ava, who stand a little ways behind him to his left and right, I ask, ¡°So what¡¯s this all about?¡±


    ¡°We wanted to talk to you and go over a few things,¡± Marcus says, his grin slipping as he gestures at the other two Captains to get comfortable. ¡°Nothing official or serious, just a chat is all.¡± Tim plonks himself right down in the sand, with one knee raised so he can rest his arm on it, but Ava remains standing with arms crossed and glowers at me while I stuff my face with boiled greens and pretend not to notice. After a good thirty seconds of being ignored, Marcus gives up on the matronly Evoker and pulls out a cigar, cutting the end off with his knife before holding it out towards me for a light.


    Was a time when I¡¯d go round asking everyone if they needed a light, especially when the Rangers came by for a drink and a smoke on Uncle Raleigh¡¯s porch. My daddy would partake every now and then, and so would Uncle Raleigh with his big, fancy pipe, while the Marshal would join them but always decline a cigar for himself. The gesture brings a smile to my face, one made all the more bittersweet after my walk down memory lane, so I touch the flintstone in my components pouch, snap my fingers and say, ¡°Ignis,¡± to bring forth a tiny, flickering flame stuck to my thumb. Leaning forward as I reach out, Marcus gives his cigar a few puffs until the end is glowing red and ember hot. ¡°Thanks Howie,¡± he says, sitting up as he exhales a big mouthful of sweet, earthy smoke, which Tim waves off with his customary lack of expression. Tim drinks a bit, but he don¡¯t smoke, because he says the smell would give him away. Me, I kinda like the smell of cigar smoke, though I can¡¯t stand the taste. Everyone tells me it¡¯s an acquired one, but they say the same about alcohol, and I can¡¯t even imagine how folks can enjoy downing a glass of harsh, liquid fire.


    Nah, gimme a fruit milkshake, bottle of fizzy sarsaparilla, or even a cup of chicory coffee over beer or whisky any day, and that¡¯s a hill I don¡¯t see myself coming down from anytime soon.


    For the most part, I¡¯m content to sit and eat in silence, but Ava¡¯s unblinking stare has got me shook. Woman might well be the deadliest Ranger around, not just in the breadth and depth of her Spellslinging, but how familiar she is with them. As for Marcus, despite his opening statement, he¡¯s in no rush to talk as he slowly but surely enjoys his cigar. Means if I want to get this over with right quick, I gotta put the screws to Tim. Don¡¯t take much, just a few seconds of direct eye contact which ain¡¯t enough to make him blink, but does get him talking. ¡°Can¡¯t be going around threatening people Howie,¡± Tim says, his disapproval clear from tone and expression both, but I brace myself for what I know is coming next. ¡°If you mean to kill a man, then do it quiet. No sense jawing about it beforehand.¡±


    Marcus and Ava turn their incredulous stares towards Tim, snapping onto him like a sharpshooter on target, but he don¡¯t pay them no mind and continues, ¡°Now if something were to happen to Wayne, people are gonna suspect you had a hand in it, even if you didn¡¯t.¡± Tim would know, what with how often he jokes about putting Bolts in people¡¯s heads, but we all know that¡¯s all it is. Talk. ¡°Abby could gut Wayne in plain daylight, and the boots will still whisper that the Firstborn got him. Best to keep those thoughts close to the vest, then no one will ever think to lay the blame at your feet.¡±


    God¡¯s honest truth, keeping a smile off my face might well be the hardest thing I¡¯ve ever done to date, including burying my daddy six feet under. Nodding along with Tim¡¯s words, I take a beat before saying, ¡°You right Tim. I¡¯ll keep that in mind. Thanks for the advice.¡±


    ¡°Shut up and eat your food Howie.¡± Giving me a glare that says he don¡¯t find this all that amusing, Marcus turns his gaze back to his fellow Captain. ¡°You know what, Tim? My bad. I should¡¯ve listened when you said I didn¡¯t want you here.¡±


    ¡°Told you.¡± Hopping to his feet in one smooth motion, Tim hits me with a finger gun and a wink before turning to leave. ¡°See ya Howie.¡±


    ¡°Bye Tim.¡± He leaves without looking back and fades into the crowd, and I mean literally fade as he goes invisible to avoid any and all responsibility. Even his footprints in the sand too, which is a real neat trick. An unparallelled sharpshooter and sniper unlike any I¡¯ve ever met, but by far the worst Captain the Rangers have ever had. Course, wasn¡¯t like the Marshal was spoilt for choice back in the day, and my daddy already turned him down three times. Always said his skills were better suited for Scouting, and it¡¯s difficult to run a Battalion when you spend all your time out on the road. Tim was the next best choice, which is really saying something, so he got the pins and fobbed off all the extra work to his subordinates, most of whom were grossly unqualified too.


    Shows that despite all his lofty qualifications and accomplishments, Marshal Theodore Ellis is still human underneath it all, capable of making mistakes just like the rest of us mere mortals.


    Having tucked away a good quarter of the plate, I set it aside so we can talk, but Marcus hits me with a scowl like I done goosed his wife. ¡°Keep eating,¡± he says, with all the gruff authoritarianism he can muster, which is more than a fair bit. ¡°You need the fuel after all that running and slinging.¡±


    ¡°Had a bunch of candy earlier,¡± I reply, tapping the tin I keep in my jacket pocket and just barely managing not to wince when I hear it clang against the all too valuable Mage Armour Spell Core sitting next to it.


    ¡°Rot your teeth with how much candy you eat.¡± Shaking his head as he takes another puff of his cigar, Marcus leans in and says, ¡°You know why sugar helps counter the mental fatigue of Spellcasting?¡±


    Feeling a little put on the spot, I try to be as accurate as I can with my answer. ¡°Slinging Spells requires increased brain activity, the reasons for which are still widely debated, but the leading theory is that the brain acts as the engine to bridge the gap between the Immaterial Spell Structures and our physical reality so that the resultin¡¯ Spell can take effect. Something about quantum states and such, but I don¡¯t think anyone all that clear on the specifics. Regardless of the why, that brain activity don¡¯t come free, as even without slinging Spells, the brain accounts for 20% of your daily caloric requirements. Sugar, or rather glucose is a great way to top up after slinging a bunch of Spells, because it¡¯s quick and easy calories.¡±


    ¡°On point,¡± Marcus says, before gesturing at my plate of food with his cigar. ¡°Sugar¡¯s great for a quick top up after slinging Spells, but for long term energy and growth, you need carbs, proteins, vitamins, and nutrients. Of which, sugar has none, so eat up before I ask Captain Jung to blend it up and pour it down your throat.¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯d hate to inconvenience the good Captain,¡± I reply, hastily stuffing another mouthful of unidentified meat into my mouth.


    It''s not until I clear another quarter of the plate that Marcus sees fit to continue our conversation, as Tim¡¯s blunt and straightforward approach threw all his plans out the window. ¡°I¡¯m not going to ask about what¡¯s going on between you and Wayne,¡± Marcus begins, his cigar barely three-quarters burnt and still going. ¡°Says he only brought all that up because he thought the terms of our arrangement didn¡¯t seem right, not with you being only a little older than the boots, and he isn¡¯t the only one muttering.¡± Holding up a hand to forestall my argument, he adds, ¡°I don¡¯t agree with any of it, not one bit. You¡¯re worth far more than what we¡¯re giving you, and you proved it today, though I will say we never asked to hire you on.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough,¡± I say, my raised hackles settling down once more, and I stuff another bite of veggies into my mouth. Again, no idea what it is, and would really rather not know, because sometimes that ruins the whole meal. ¡°So what? You changing the terms of our arrangement, or do I still get to keep what I kill? I¡¯mma say this now, you ain¡¯t getting what I done already carted and cooked. That¡¯s mine, fair and square.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re not changing anything Howie,¡± Marcus says, and I relax a mite, because I ain¡¯t even sure if I want to sell the Mage Armour Spell Core, so having to give it away would put a bee in my bonnet. Not even sure if I would if push came to shove, though I¡¯d have to hide it for a few weeks until I go on another big hunt and can account for its existence. We¡¯d have to hand over the Ablative Armour Spell Core we already got, which makes me glad I said what I did instead of making something else up. ¡°We¡¯re just talking,¡± Marcus continues, though Ava¡¯s posture and unyielding glower tells a different story. ¡°Wanted you to know where we stand is all. Now, let¡¯s have your report. Start with how you spotted the ambush.¡±


    ¡°Shadows were off,¡± I reply. ¡°Sand too still, instead of blowing in the wind. No plants to be seen, no critters scurrying underfoot, no bugs buzzing about. Whole scene was just¡­ off.¡± I shrug. ¡°Wasn¡¯t any one thing that stood out in the moment, just didn¡¯t seem right is all. So I brought Kacey along a new heading to study it some more, until I cast Detect Aberration on a whim and got a big read. Thought we was out clean, then got hit with a Fear Spell and the girlie got thrown off her horse, hanging onto her bow instead of the reins like she ought to. I circled around, pulled her onto my horse, then told her to ride straight to you and tell y¡¯all to sit tight before hopping off.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    The delivery is innocuous enough, but I can tell Marcus ain¡¯t playing around. Still, I already established I wasn¡¯t giving nothing back, and said that was fine, so I suppose telling the truth wouldn¡¯t be the worst thing in the world. ¡°Well, partially because I wanted to buy some time and thin out the horde, but mostly because I spotted the infamous hobgoblin Illusionist and wanted to bag him.¡±


    ¡°Tch.¡±


    ¡°Hmph.¡±


    Disappointment from Marcus, and confirmation from Ava, as if she¡¯d known about it all along, and I suppose she did, but I ain¡¯t got nothing to be ashamed of. ¡°I did my job,¡± I say, sounding a touch more defensive than I care to. ¡°Didn¡¯t bag me no hob, but I spotted that ambush didn¡¯t I? Was a close call too, because even after I thought something wasn¡¯t right, I still almost walked straight on in. Said I wasn¡¯t confident about seeing through it a second time, and I meant it, which is why I played bait to keep them on the hook. Decapitated their leadership and sent the hob running to boot, else that horde wouldn¡¯t have come chasing whole hog like they did. Far as I¡¯m concerned, I did no wrong, and anyone saying different is plain wrong.¡±


    ¡°No one is saying anything of the sort, Howie.¡± Taking a couple quick puffs of his cigar, Marcus taps the ash off and blows out a ring to buy time to think. ¡°We¡¯re concerned is all. You did good, but you took a big risk doing what you did, a risk you didn¡¯t have to. I saw the haul you brought back, and you can¡¯t tell me you did all that damage just to reel the horde in.¡±


    ¡°Bah.¡± Waving away his concerns, I play it cool and say, ¡°Ain¡¯t no reward without risk.¡±


    ¡°But not all risks are worth the reward.¡± Gesturing at me, Marcus asks, ¡°I seen your jacket and all the new Bolt holes you picked up. How many times you get hit?¡±


    ¡°Me? None.¡± Shrugging, I add, ¡°My duster got hit a whole lot though. Took it off and used it to bat Bolts aside. You know how it is with non-Penetrating Bolts. They¡¯ll spend themselves against the first object they hit, like your shirt, and it¡¯s the transference of force that really does you in, even through armoured plates. So while I was running, I waved my duster about like a flag trailing behind me to make made sure them Bolts hit it instead of me, letting all that kinetic energy go to waste.¡±


    Really tore up the bottom half of my duster, which is good and bad. Good because I actually have the treated leather to Mend it, but bad because that costs a lot more than the wool lining which I don¡¯t have.


    ¡°Why¡¯d you have to get in so close though Howie?¡± Exasperated by my casual indifference, Marcus leans in and lowers his voice so only we can hear it. ¡°You could¡¯ve easily outranged those Abby Spells using your Metamagic bracelet and still kept them on the hook, so why didn¡¯t you?¡±


    Because I wanted to take down the hob and as many bugbears as I could with one, big Spell, which worked pretty well, disguised goblin stand-in aside. Before I can come up with a good way to phrase it, Ava growls, ¡°Because he is reckless and greedy.¡±


    Which ain¡¯t exactly wrong, but is not how I would say it. ¡°I wanted to maximize the efficacy and effectiveness of my opening attack,¡± I correct, only stumbling over the words a little. ¡°It¡¯s straight out of the Ranger playbook, an alpha strike to hit them hard and fast before they know what sort of heat you can bring.¡±


    ¡°And what if one of those Bolts missed your duster and hit you dead on?¡± Marcus asks, all angry and intense out of nowhere. ¡°Or you slipped in the sand and went tumbling back down into the horde? Or one of those Abby had a Spell to slow or hold you in place? What then Howie?¡±


    ¡°¡­Well, hard to say Marcus.¡± I shrug. ¡°I might¡¯ve gotten out clean, not so clean, or not gotten out at all. Them¡¯s the options.¡±


    ¡°Boy I know what the options are!¡± Leaning forward to put his finger in front of my face, Marcus growls, ¡°What I¡¯m saying is you took multiple unnecessary risks. What did I tell you? Your job is to scout, and we¡¯ll handle the rest. That¡¯s what I said, but you didn¡¯t listen. Instead, you ran off to thin the horde and didn¡¯t just risk your own neck doing it, you left a terrified, half-trained girl stricken by a Fear Spell to travel alone through the desert without any support. Maybe Captain Jung is right and you did it because you¡¯re hard up for cash, though I don¡¯t see why you would be. I¡¯ve seen how you live Howie, and it¡¯s not in high fashion, so that big bounty you cashed should tide you over for a good while.¡± Easing back, he sighs and continue, ¡°I don¡¯t think money is why you did what you did, but if it is, then tell me Howie. I could help you find safer ways to earn a living. You said it yourself, Meadowbrook would welcome the help of two promising young folks like Errol and Sarah Jay, but you¡¯d be just as welcome, if not more.¡± Without waiting for an answer, Marcus points his meaty finger at my face again and gives me his fiercest look, one which would have even the bravest boots quivering in theirs and got me sweating a little bit. ¡°Hunting is one thing, but you pull this yee-haw, cowboy bullshit on me again, and I¡¯ll tie you to my belt and keep you there until you¡¯re someone else¡¯s responsibility again.¡± Shaking his head with a grimace, he says, ¡°I won¡¯t have your death on my head, Howie. I can¡¯t handle the heat.¡±


    Suitably cowed, I take another bite of my food to keep myself from talking wise. Yee-haw bullshit happens to be some of the best bullshit, but Marcus ain¡¯t wrong. Still, what else am I supposed to do? Can¡¯t afford to take it slow and steady, not if I want to keep the head start I got on my peers, many of whom are already nipping at my heels. With Ranger training and experience, they¡¯ll overtake me soon enough, and then I¡¯ll be the one struggling to keep up, so I gotta take risks while I still have the Rangers to fall back on. Seeing that I ain¡¯t buying what he¡¯s selling, Marcus takes a deep breath, then another, and one more for good measure before sighing and shaking his head. ¡°Tell me about the scavs,¡± he says, changing the topic, and I share everything I know. When I¡¯m done, I go back to eating, and it takes him a good minute before he asks, ¡°You let them run off with the lion¡¯s share of your haul. Why? There were only six, so even if your Spells are spent, you could¡¯ve shot them dead before they even knew what hit them. The Accords are shaky, but armed larceny outside of government territory gives you proper justification for the use of lethal force.¡±


    ¡°Wasn¡¯t sure how many of them were still around, and my head was heavy as a rock.¡± Still is if I¡¯m being honest, as I did a lot of running, Spellslinging, and gunfighting to boot. Also can¡¯t count on my prospects, not when it comes to killing men in cold blood, though I shouldn¡¯t admit that out loud. ¡°Besides, it wouldn¡¯t feel right, gunning them down without warning,¡± I say instead, and to my surprise, it¡¯s actually true. ¡°They might¡¯ve done the same to me, but I ain¡¯t them.¡±


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t feel right.¡± There¡¯s a sadness in the way Marcus says it, and too late, I realize I¡¯ve misspoken and failed his little test. ¡°Not wouldn¡¯t be right.¡± Heaving a sigh, he looks me in the eyes and shakes his head. ¡°You did good, but you understand why we¡¯re worried, Howie? You¡¯ve been so full of anger since your daddy died, and it¡¯s changing you for the worse. I see you rushing into fights and struggling to stick to the beaten path, and I worry that you¡¯ll stray and never find your way back again. Take it from someone who knows. It¡¯s harder than you think.¡± He stops for a beat, and I can see his hesitance, which is a rare sight indeed. ¡°He wouldn¡¯t want you to live your life for vengeance, you know?¡± Marcus says, his voice low and eyes soft. ¡°All he ever wanted was to see you smile.¡±


    ¡°Well, he can¡¯t do that no more, now can he?¡± The words spill out before I can think better of it, and it pains me to see him wince. It¡¯s God¡¯s honest truth, and ain¡¯t no one can deny it, not even Marcus, who¡¯s speaking from personal experience. Instead, he nods, leans over to pat my head, and leaves me alone with my thoughts.


    Or not so alone, as Ava stays behind, standing there with arms crossed and lips pursed. ¡°I spoke with the Marshal before we left,¡± she begins, once she knows she has my full attention. ¡°Told me how you were angling for special permission to join Basic late, and how he shut you down.¡±


    ¡°Yea, yea, would¡¯ve been a terrible idea, set everyone back by weeks because I¡¯m disruptive and whatnot,¡± I grumble, shovelling another forkful of food into my mouth so I don¡¯t have to talk.


    ¡°I¡¯ll allow it,¡± she says, catching me off guard. ¡°You can keep your haul from today, but for the rest of the trip, you¡¯ll be a boot like any other.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the catch?¡± I ask, because there¡¯s always a catch.


    Leaning forward to look me in the eyes, she bares her teeth in a feral smile. ¡°Right here, right now, you agree to sign on with the Rangers for a five-year term once Basic is done.¡± Straightening up, she adds, ¡°I¡¯ll take Errol and Sarah Jay back too. There¡¯ll be a bit of a fuss about it, but nothing I can¡¯t handle. Never agreed with the decision to wash him out in the first place, and never would¡¯ve done it if I¡¯d known she¡¯d leave with him. Add in the fact that Richard ran home crying after you broke his other hand, and the two of them will be worth far more than whatever those rednecks pay in taxes and bribes, especially now that I know Errol¡¯s an Intuitive Caster.¡±


    While Ava grimaces over missing that one little fact, I stare at her in open-mouthed shock. Seems I¡¯ve misjudged this woman gravely. Thought she was a strait laced, by the book, fuddy duddy, but turns out she¡¯s a firebrand, a trail blazer, and a god-damned Ranger to the core. Damn me, but I think I actually like her now. It¡¯s a shame I can¡¯t accept this more than generous offer though. ¡°I won¡¯t join the Rangers,¡± I say. ¡°Anything else is negotiable, but ain¡¯t no point putting a star on my chest if the government won¡¯t recognize it.¡±


    ¡°Then ask Rachel to adopt you.¡± Rolling her eyes, she adds, ¡°Or the Marshal. Hell, I¡¯ll adopt you myself if that¡¯s what it takes. You¡¯re only seventeen, still a minor by law, so no one can argue the facts. You¡¯d be as American as I am, which I know isn¡¯t saying much when it comes to those who share Richard¡¯s views, but it¡¯ll be ironclad in the eyes of the law.¡± Seeing that I¡¯m still not jumping for joy, Ava does something I¡¯ve never seen or expected. She softens her gaze to something that¡¯s almost sympathetic. ¡°What they did to your father is unforgivable, but he¡¯d be the first to tell you to stop making waves and conform.¡±


    She ain¡¯t wrong, but I didn¡¯t think she knew him like that. ¡°I thought you didn¡¯t like him.¡± Hated him in fact, but I ain¡¯t about to say it.


    ¡°Hated that smug prick,¡± Ava says, without missing a beat. Ain¡¯t no heat in it either, just honest truth, which I can respect. ¡°Thought he knew better than everyone else, and made no secret of it. Arrogant is what he was, same as you.¡± Bringing back her familiar scowl, she adds, ¡°But I respected the hell out of him and everything he did. Half my lesson plans are based off his lessons with you, though the Marshal won¡¯t let me starve or dehydrate the boots even with medical supervision.¡± Ah, I remember those lessons. They were kinda fun, not gonna lie. Sucks in the moment when you hungry and thirsty while sitting in front of a veritable feast of food and juice, but it sure does teach you discipline. ¡°How¡¯d you shake the Fear Spell so easily?¡±


    ¡°Daddy and Aunty Ray would cast it on me every so often,¡± I reply, all too happy to laud praises upon him. ¡°You should talk to her, maybe hire her on for a few hours a week. Fear, Blindness, Deafness, Hold Person, Bane, Taunt, would do wonders to let the boots experience some offensive Illusion and Enchantment Spells.¡± Lot harder for those Spells to take hold when you know what you up against. They real hit or miss though, which is why I don¡¯t put much stock in them, but when they do work, they work wonders.


    ¡°I will.¡± Meeting my eyes with a look that says Ava knows I¡¯m stalling and is allowing it, she waits all of five seconds before asking, ¡°So? Let¡¯s hear it. Yes or no?¡±


    ¡°My daddy never wanted us to stand out,¡± I begin, so tempted to just accept and take the easy way out. ¡°We went to church every week, helped out everywhere we could, did everything to fit in and become a part of the town and community. They welcomed him wherever he went, sang his praises when they saw him in the streets, even carved his name into a stone that became a part of city hall¡¯s foundation.¡± Meeting her eyes, I ask, ¡°You know what happened after he died?¡±


    Being a suspicious soul, Ava studies my expression for a long second before asking, ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Nothing.¡± Taking another small bite, the food turns to ashes in my mouth, but I chew and swallow all the same. ¡°Everyone just sorta shrugged and went about their day. Couple folks came by to share their condolences, like Tim, Art, and the Marshal, while plenty of mugs were hoisted in bars and whatnot, but didn¡¯t no one care enough to do anything for a murdered Ranger and so-called pillar of the community. Never noticed it at the time, but after I got that letter from the government saying my daddy wasn¡¯t no Ranger, I realized it was only saying what everyone was already thinkin¡¯. Despite everything my daddy did for them, most folks never saw him as one of ¡®em. He was always the Qin, the foreigner, the outsider, even to those who came after, and there was nothin¡¯ he could¡¯ve ever done to change that.¡± Meeting her eyes with a hard stare of my own, I take a deep breath and tell her the honest truth. ¡°Figure ain¡¯t much I can do neither, nor much I care to, because if that¡¯s what it¡¯s like bein¡¯ American, then I¡¯d rather live and die Frontier born.¡±


    Even if it means dying young.


    Much as Ava wants to argue the facts, she knows I¡¯m spitting truth, so she leaves me to my meal while I reflect on how she¡¯s right too. My daddy would be the first to tell me I¡¯m being dumb and making a mistake by riding solo instead of signing on with the Rangers. My little temper tantrum won¡¯t change nothing in the long run, won¡¯t make anyone act or think different, but it¡¯s my mistake to make. It¡¯s not about hating the Rangers, or even hating America. Being Firstborn don¡¯t mean much, but being Frontier born means the world to me. It ain¡¯t a country, religion, or ideology, but it¡¯s who I am, an identity as good as any, because we look out for our own. That¡¯s why I got no desire to be American, because America don¡¯t care to look after me and mine. Simple as that, and I ain¡¯t just talking about me and my daddy neither. The Qin Republic didn¡¯t do their Vanguard no favours tossing children onto the Frontier, but the United Federation of American States didn¡¯t do much better.


    That¡¯s why I say this world is ours. We lived here. Bled here. Fought here, and plenty of us died here, so I ain¡¯t bout to give it up without a fight. If they think they can come collect on the fruits of our labours, well then they best think twice, because I¡¯ll take up arms against them all to protect what¡¯s ours, even the Rangers if it comes down to it.


    Course, here¡¯s hoping it won¡¯t. I¡¯ll always bet on myself, but even I gotta give me some long odds if I go to war with the entire old world.

 Chapter 30

    Pleased as Sarah Jay was to ride with the Firstborn, hanging out with the boots was a whole lot more fun.


    Been less than a month since she dropped out of Basic to support her man and signed on with Howie, but it felt like a lifetime had passed since she¡¯d had any decent conversation. Errol was a sweetheart and a gentleman, but he was happy to sit and smile while she went on and on about herself, and would only ever open up about himself when she pried the words right out of his mouth. Was like pulling teeth, an exhausting effort which left her drained and weary, whereas a proper chit chat ought to liven you up. As for Howie, he didn¡¯t talk with you so much as talk at you, always telling tall tales or lecturing you on this or that while acting all mysterious and evasive when questioned directly. Big smile and closed book, that¡¯s the Firstborn in a nutshell, because while she had him pegged as an angry, thrill seeking, Spell slinging gunfighter with a love of animals and no head for money, she didn¡¯t have the first clue as to what made him tick. Was infuriating is what it was, but far as she could tell, that¡¯s just how her boys were, and she¡¯d have to live with it until Howie was ready to hire on more help.


    Or at least, that¡¯s what she told herself until she got a chance to catch up with the boots. After getting through all the pleasant niceties about what they¡¯d been up to, they got right down into the nitty gritty of it, talking about who was sweet on who and what they were doing about it. Lots of boys were still head over heels for Tina or Kacey, while Sally was stirring up drama same as always, but there were a few other couples sorting themselves out. Mostly with the locals in New Hope, and Sarah Jay spent a good hour or two just working through all that. There was other gossip of interest too, and it was great to talk to someone about something other than Abby, training, dangers of the Frontier, or what the future might have in store.


    It was a rare thing for Sarah Jay to feel her age these days, a girl of seventeen who wanted nothing more than to be free of all the responsibilities she¡¯d been burdened with, but couldn¡¯t because you don¡¯t turn your back on the people you love. Didn¡¯t have to worry about all that today though. Thanks to Howie, they¡¯d pulled in a big haul, and with how squirrely he was acting about the Spell Core Errol fished out, she suspected their payout was bigger than expected. Only 10% was coming their way, but it''d add up soon enough. Might take a month or two to earn enough for first and last month¡¯s rent, and then she could get Mary Ann and little Jimmy out from under Oswald¡¯s roof and thumb at the very least. It¡¯d take a lot more to convince Mama to leave that mean drunk behind, months, maybe years even. One step at a time though, as any progress was good progress, so Sarah Jay ate, laughed, and made merry with her friends around the cookfires while Errol sat by her side and quietly took it all in.


    That¡¯s just how he was. Not exactly a wallflower, as he didn¡¯t wilt under attention, but he always kept himself apart, locked in his own little world. Probably because he¡¯d never had any friends his own age growing up in a small town like he did. Was either helping out with kids two or three years younger than he was, or hanging out with the ranch hands who were all old timers. Least Errol had an excuse for being socially awkward; Howie was even worse sometimes, and he grew up in New Hope with Tina, Chrissy, and at least seven other children born within a year of the Advent. Ironic how only one of them signed on as a Ranger, namely Tina and no one else. Chrissy was Chrissy, and Howie had his reasons, while Marijke was on track to becoming the premier gunsmith of their generation. Then there was Danny, who seemed smart as a whip and well off running his own shop, but Sarah Jay didn¡¯t know any of the others, who were all off learning their own chosen professions. That was the biggest advantage of being born early, because so long as you wanted it enough, you could do anything your heart was set on. Things were gonna change quick, so even if little Jimmy wanted to join the Rangers, Sarah Jay doubted it¡¯d be as easy to get in once he was old enough to sign on. As for Mary Ann, Mama was already talking about how she¡¯d have to work hard to find herself a good husband to rely on. Never was any of that talk for Sarah Jay, so she was worried for her younger sister, who was pretty as a peach but didn¡¯t have a lick of good sense in her head, and would always do whatever Mama said.


    Which was a problem, seeing how these days, Mama always did what Oswald said¡­


    Course, as much fun as Sarah Jay was having with people her own age, there were some habits so ingrained that they were hard to break. That¡¯s why when she spotted Gabe and Steve sharing a waterskin with a few other boots, she honed in on that like a whisperwing and spotted their red cheeks, slack grins, and general good cheer. Seemed like even though little Dick¡¯s group of racists had splintered apart without him to keep them together, they were still up to no good. Least Alfred had the good sense to apologize and distance himself, while Ike was man enough to put aside his beef and work with Errol to save Nate, but Gabe and Steve? They¡¯d gathered up the scraps of their old group and were now set on getting shit-faced here in the desert.


    Snitching wouldn¡¯t do, because not only were the Rangers supposed to look out for one another, she was now an outsider amongst them, meaning it¡¯d raise some hard feelings if she were to speak out. Luckily, she didn¡¯t have to do nothing as Captain Clay came in all hot and fired up, his sour mood no doubt having something to do with the sit down he and his fellow Captains just had with Howie about twenty minutes back. ¡°Give it here,¡± the dark giant demanded, holding out a meaty hand that looked capable of plucking Gabe¡¯s head right off of his neck, so Sarah Jay didn¡¯t blame the big guy for giving the skin up right quick. A quick sniff made the Captain¡¯s fearsome, punch-scarred features contort into a frightful scowl, one he wore to glower at the five cowed boots who¡¯d been drinking, and plenty of those just watching from nearby. To say he had a powerful presence was understating it, as he towered high overtop them all and had enough brawn to match any three. Having gotten a peek behind the curtains so to speak, Sarah Jay could tell it was all an act, as Captain Clay was a kind soul who cared deeply for his wife and community. Howie too, which was probably why the Captain was so steamed, what with the Firstborn having come back with more holes in his duster than bramble elk antlers had points.


    ¡°Hope you brought this from home,¡± Captain Clay grumbled, one so deep and resonant it shook you to the bone. ¡°Because if you paid for this swill, then you were robbed. Bad look, Ranger prospects getting swindled, almost as bad as seeing them drunk in public.¡± Emptying the waterskin out onto the sand, Captain Clay fixed the boys with a hard stare, as if waiting for one of them to speak, but dumb, drunk, and racist though they might be, they were still smart enough to keep quiet. Wasn¡¯t till the last drop was out of the waterskin and drying out on the sand that Captain Clay cared to continue. ¡°Here on the Frontier,¡± he began, turning his gaze away from the delinquents to take in the rest of them, all of whom were watching with bated breath, ¡°The job of an American Ranger is about more than being a soldier. We¡¯re also part-time lawmen when the local Sheriffs require it, which means we¡¯re expected to uphold the Accords. Can¡¯t be doing that if we¡¯re seen breaking them. Accords says you got to be eighteen to drink, and there isn¡¯t a single one of you here older than sixteen.¡± For a long second, he drank in the silence and attention, his steely features daunting and disapproving, until, without warning, they melted into a big, boyish grin. ¡°Then again, I don¡¯t see any civilians around, so I don¡¯t mind saying that the Accords don¡¯t always make sense. They say sixteen is old enough to serve in the military with parental permission, but if you¡¯re old enough to fight, then I¡¯d say you¡¯re old enough for a drink. A proper drink, not this toilet swill you got here.¡±


    As if on cue, the Meadowbrook Rangers brought out their bottles of alcohol, all top shelf looking bottles labelled cognac, whatever that was. A lovely golden-brown liqueur with a powerful smell, as she discovered firsthand when the big-haired Conner handed her a half-filled shot glass of it. She didn¡¯t down it, nor did Errol who had to be convinced to take it, and only did so after she elbowed him in the side and gave him a look that said quit making a fuss. Soon enough, every last boot had a glass in hand, though she noted Howie was nowhere to be seen. Most of the Rangers were here though, including their instructors, plenty of whom looked sour as could be. Drill Sergeant Begaye was grim as always, and his hands were notably empty, as he was a notorious tee-totaller when it came to alcohol and hated anything to do with it.


    Just saying, Gabe and Steve were lucky Captain Marcus was the one to catch them out, else the Drill Sergeant might well have set them to doing suicides till they threw up¡­


    Hoisting his own tiny shotglass overhead, Captain Clay gave them a big smile and said, ¡°To today¡¯s victory!¡±


    ¡°Hooyah!¡± Came the resounding reply, mostly from the Rangers while the boots belatedly joined in. Everyone tossed back their shot, and though it burned going down and made Sarah Jay¡¯s eyes water, she didn¡¯t hate the taste. Sweet and smoky, with a hint of spicy, and she immediately wanted another glass to explore the flavours more. Loved how warm it made her feel too, which somehow made the oppressive desert heat feel a mite more pleasant without changing a thing, and she relished the moment as best she could while struggling to come to grips with her prior distaste for alcohol.


    ¡°Keep your shotglasses safe,¡± Captain Clay said, his smile wide and bright as could be. ¡°Those are yours now, and I hope to raise them with you again soon. That said, I don¡¯t want to see anyone drinking without my say so. You might not be Rangers yet, but if you ever hope to be, you will not drink on duty again.¡± Giving Gabe and his ilk one last glower, Captain Clay broke it off to continue addressing the crowd. ¡°Today, you fought Abby and got a taste for battle. Tonight, we ate, drank, and celebrated our victory. Tomorrow morning however, each and every one of you have a decision to make.¡±


    Taking a beat to let his words sink in, Captain Clay cast his gaze across the boots and waited for the muttering to die down. ¡°You were told this trip would be a live-fire training exercise against Abby, which is true, but today was just the appetizer. It¡¯s time you learned what the full-course will be like, so listen close. In two- or three-days time, we will arrive at Pleasant Dunes, a fortified mining town at the base of the Serpent Teeth Mountain Range. We have reason to believe it will soon come under attack by a sizable Aberration horde. Our mission is to repel the attack and wipe out any and all Aberrations who come pouring out of the mountains, or failing that, extract as many locals as we can and get them to safety.¡±


    This was all old hat to Sarah Jay, so she had plenty of time to watch the boots process the news. Some, like Michael, Alfred, and Tina were excited as could be, while others were breaking out into a cold sweat. Most were just stunned though, not reacting because they wasn¡¯t sure how to feel about it just yet. Giving Errol¡¯s hand a squeeze, Sarah Jay smiled and got herself a smile back as they reaffirmed their convictions to carry on along this path, to fight Abby and help others even if they weren¡¯t gonna be no Rangers anymore.


    And make good money while they were at it, of course, but once she had enough to convince Mama to leave Oswald and move back to New Hope, she wouldn¡¯t have to be so desperate for cash no more.


    ¡°Make no mistake,¡± Captain Clay continued, after waiting long enough for the bustle to die down. ¡°This will be a difficult task. No one died today, but a few came close, and I make no guarantees that everything will turn out alright, not even for my Rangers. The days ahead will be arduous and full of danger, so if you have any doubts about what we¡¯re walking into, tomorrow morning is your last chance to step away. When the sun rises, we¡¯ll be sending the wounded back to Meadowbrook, and any of you are free to join them.¡±


    ¡°Even us?¡± Wayne asked, eliciting a chorus of laughs from the Rangers and a few chuckles from the boots.


    ¡°No, not you,¡± Captain Clay replied, flashing a grin at his Company. ¡°You lot are stuck with me. The rest of you though?¡± The grin disappeared, replaced by grim severity. ¡°Those who stay will be officially conscripted into the Rangers for the duration of the trip. Won¡¯t make you Rangers, but I¡¯ll treat you like one. That includes punishment for drinking on duty, which could be as small a hundred hours of heavy labour and a cash fine for a minor offense, or being charged with dereliction of duty for a more serious one. That¡¯s prison time at the least, and the same goes for desertion and failure to heed orders in a warzone.¡± There were no smiles now, no gentle giant to be found, but Sarah Jay knew this was his way of being kind. ¡°None of that applies until tomorrow morning, after the wounded have left,¡± Captain Clay declared, meeting the eyes of every boot watching, one by one by one. ¡°Once they¡¯re gone, then you are all mine until I say otherwise. Questions?¡±


    ¡°Will we be booted from Basic if we don¡¯t stay?¡± Someone asked, and Sarah Jay saw it was one of Gabe¡¯s cronies. Didn¡¯t know she could respect them even less, but they was working hard to scoot right under that bar.


    ¡°No,¡± Captain Jung replied, standing off to Sarah Jay¡¯s left and so still you¡¯d think she was a statue. ¡°Your classes will continue in my absence, and so long as you exert a willingness to learn and work within the rules, then you will be fed and housed until the end of the program come June. Having already shown unwillingness to fight however, you are unlikely to be enlisted by the Rangers once training is complete. Know that this will have no bearing on lessons moving forward, or how any of us treat you. We offer this training for free because we are teaching you skills you might one day require to survive, whether you enlist or not.¡± Taking in the crowd, Captain Jung¡¯s stony expression softened in a way Sarah Jay had never seen before, and suddenly she didn¡¯t look all that mean anymore, just sad and jaded. ¡°The Watershed is coming. Sooner or later, you will all have to fight, whether you want to or not. In my opinion, it is better you learn now under our guidance, than be left scrambling when Aberrations come knocking on your doorstep.¡±


    ¡°Talk amongst yourselves,¡± Captain Clay said after it was clear no one had anymore questions. ¡°None of you are scheduled for night watch, so take as much time as you need.¡±


    With that, the Rangers left the boots to talk, and many of them did, turning this way and that to whisper amongst themselves. Sarah Jay didn¡¯t have nothing to say though. She and Errol had had this talk some days ago, and a variation of it every now and again since, but long story short, if Howie thought it was too dangerous to go, then he¡¯d have damned the consequences and run off with Tina in tow, no two ways about it. As for Tina herself, she also knew beforehand, so she didn¡¯t seem none too fussed as she set to calming and consoling her squad, minus Nate of course, who was heading back tomorrow morning whether he wanted to or not. Was a close thing, the Bolt he took, and the medic said that if it wasn¡¯t for Errol¡¯s quick work, Nate might well have fared worse.


    Sarah Jay was so proud of her man and of how well he was shaping up, which again brought her a pang of guilt over not pushing him to try and sign back on with the Rangers again. This was where he would thrive, or at least get there with less growing pains than he would have riding with Howie, but that wasn¡¯t neither of their faults. It was circumstance, that¡¯s all, and despite the difficulties, they were all doing their best and giving it their all. Case in point, Errol gave her a wry grin and said, ¡°Why don¡¯t we leave them to it? Our decision¡¯s made, so not much for us to do besides stand around and gawk. Might as well head back and relax a bit.¡±


    ¡°Sounds good,¡± she replied, eager to give the Longstrider Spell Formula a closer look now that she knew how effective it could be when paired with Expeditious Retreat. For the most part, Howie only made suggestions about what Spells they ought to pick up. Up until now, Sarah Jay had deferred to his expertise, but that didn¡¯t mean she couldn¡¯t decide for herself. Learning Entangle had taken a fair bit of effort, and she couldn¡¯t keep any more Spell Structures in memory without clearing out an existing one, but there wasn¡¯t no harm in expanding her pool of available Spells to draw on.


    Granted, Howie said her efforts would be better spent familiarizing herself with the Spells she already knew, but she wasn¡¯t in no mind to cast Jump and go hopping around in this heat, or test out her Mage Armour which was about as sturdy as a sheet of paper. Entangle would be fun to practice, but she only had so many strands of grass and couldn¡¯t count on picking more out here in the desert. As for her last memorized Spell, Aegis was notorious for being highly effective with next to no room for improvement without upcasting, as all it did was conjure up a temporary, skin-tight shroud around the caster that would protect you for about five seconds or so. Like Mage Armour, only backwards, in that it provide a lot of defense for a very short time rather than the other way around. Great in a pinch, but only as an option of last resort, since the shroud was solid and kept you from moving until the Spell was done or dismissed.


    Unfortunately, Howie hadn¡¯t written out the Longstrider Spell Formula for her just yet, mostly because the next Spell on the list to learn was supposed to be Eagle Eye. After leaving Errol to stare at the stars, she sauntered over to where Howie was sitting all by his lonesome and clearing the last of his enormous plate. ¡°Hey there,¡± he said, flashing her a fake smile that didn¡¯t reach his eyes, but not because he wasn¡¯t happy to see her. Between getting fooled by the hob, robbed by scavs, and needled by Wayne, Howie was in a foul mood, and it took all of two seconds to notice all three Captains converging on him earlier. While that was going on, everyone took to whispering about what it could be about, and Sarah Jay had honestly told one and all that she had no earthly idea. Curious as she was, she could see he wasn¡¯t in the mood for conversation, as evidenced by his almost curt utterance of, ¡°What can I do you for?¡±


    Nothing wrong with the words, only his delivery, utterly lacking in enthusiasm as he was distracted by other thoughts. ¡°Well,¡± she drawled, then got straight to the point since he¡¯d likely appreciate the lack of small talk. ¡°Was hoping to see the Spell Formula for Longstrider if it ain¡¯t too much trouble.¡± Expeditious Retreat could wait, as well as Floating Disc, since those seemed more situational or recreational than anything else. Or not, actually. ¡°Floating Disc would work too, whichever is easier. Eagle Eye is more of a long-term goal that¡¯ll need a lot of hours at the range, and I figure I could help you cover ground or haul corpses in the interim. Increase survivability and cut back on those expenses, you know?¡±


    That brought a genuine smile to Howie¡¯s face, a real toothy, open-mouthed one that made his eyes almost disappear into his cheeks. ¡°Thinking like a team player, I like it. You sure about Longstrider though? Ain¡¯t you worried I¡¯ll send you out as Abby bait?¡±


    ¡°At the cost of your best shooter?¡± Giving him a mock smug look, she put her hands on her hips and smirked. ¡°You a lot of things Howie, but dumb ain¡¯t one of them.¡±


    ¡°Jury¡¯s still out on that,¡± he replied, his smile melting away, and for a moment, she thought he¡¯d open up then and there, only for the moment to pass as he bottled it all up tight and reached into his duster for his Spellbook. Didn¡¯t matter how often she saw it, it still jarred to see him pull out a leather-bound notepad, as opposed to the big, hardcover textbooks most Spellslingers carried around. ¡°I¡¯ll have you learn Longstrider first,¡± he said, flipping through the pages until he found what he was looking for and held it out for her to take. ¡°Easier to find dirt than iron dust out here, and the ability to run faster might come in handy soon enough. Look it over while I clean my plate, then I¡¯ll walk you through it.¡±


    ¡°How ¡®bout you hand that plate over and scrawl out a copy instead,¡± she said, and wouldn¡¯t you know it, Howie¡¯s eyes went wide with surprise. Wasn¡¯t joking neither, which made her scowl. ¡°Don¡¯t expect me to wait hand and foot on you, but I¡¯d say washing a plate is a mighty small price to pay for a Spell Formula and lessons to boot.¡±


    ¡°Lessons? As in more than one? You some kind of slow or somethin¡¯?¡± Now he was cracking wise, but if anyone had the right to, it was Howie. Was almost unnaturally how quick he could solve a Spell Formula and engrave the Structure into memory, something he could do on the fly whenever he pleased. Didn¡¯t take him long to copy out the Formula, as the plate and shot glasses were barely dry from her Water Sphere Cantrip when he tore the page out of his notepad and held it for her to take. Only then did he notice the glasses, and he gave a little frown. ¡°Don¡¯t see how anyone can like the stuff,¡± he said, making a face like something little Jimmy used to when Mama told him to eat his greens. Didn¡¯t make those faces no more, because Oswald would whup him something fierce for the ¡®disrespect¡¯. ¡°Foul as can be.¡±


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡°It¡¯s not all that bad,¡± Sarah Jay replied, pushing the unhappy thoughts aside with a wry smile. Wasn¡¯t like the Firstborn was the only one holding things back, as she had yet to tell him about her family situation. He knew something was afoot, but didn¡¯t ask because that was only polite. She didn¡¯t tell him because she was worried he¡¯d offer to loan her the cash needed to get her siblings out, and she owed him too much already as it was. Was her problem, so she¡¯d fix it herself, or at least that¡¯s what she hoped. Besides, there was an equally good chance Howie¡¯d march right over to Riverrun and beat Oswald bloody the second he learned about the man¡¯s misdeeds, which Sarah Jay would love to see if it wasn¡¯t for the fact that it¡¯d only drive Mama closer to that foul man¡¯s side. Didn¡¯t matter that he¡¯d smack her around for any reason that came to mind, all he had to do was apologize and it was all forgiven and forgotten. Sarah Jay didn¡¯t understand it, but she knew fighting with Oswald wouldn¡¯t solve a thing. Instead, she¡¯d replace him as the pillar in Mama¡¯s life and show her that he wasn¡¯t necessary to ensure their continued survival.


    The Longstrider Spell was fairly straightforward all things considered, though Howie ignored her suggestion that he demonstrate by going for a lap around camp, once without the Spell, then again with it equipped. ¡°You¡¯ll know if it¡¯s effective,¡± he said, rolling his eyes in fake exasperation. ¡°You don¡¯t feel like you runnin¡¯ any faster or harder, but you¡¯ll move further with every step. Don¡¯t rightly understand how it works really, not with the physics and whatnot, and lots of Transmutation Spells don¡¯t seem to make much sense on the surface of it. Remind me some other time to tell you about where Cowie¡¯s mass goes when he gets small. The answer is long-winded and wild, I¡¯ll say that much.¡±


    Wasn¡¯t like him to cut himself short like that, but he left her to her studies and flipped open his notepad to another page, one much further back from the one he copied Longstrider from. Didn¡¯t take him more than a second to tune out the world around him and start solving the Formula, counting on his fingers in his mysterious way that let him do sums using a mental abacus, though she didn¡¯t understand how. Chances were he¡¯d be done memorizing the Spell Structure before she finished solving the Formula in front of her, which was just straight math with no memorizing involved, yet another reminder of how much catching up she had to do to get on par with the Firstborn.


    The massive circle of charred, superheated sand just packed full of dead orcs and bugbears was another, a circle she suspected was exactly twenty-four metres across in diameter. The fact that there were folks brave enough to steal from the Spellslinger who¡¯d done that was incredible to behold, and if those Scavs knew what was good for them, they¡¯d make sure to never cross Howie¡¯s path again, lest he set loose the Yellow Devil inside. Wasn¡¯t kind or courteous to think of him as such, even if he owned up to the name, and she hated Wayne for bringing it up. Mr. Ming was a good man who dedicated his life to helping others, so even though he might not have been an American hero, he was a hero all the same, one deserving of respect and admiration. Wasn¡¯t right for Wayne to push Howie¡¯s buttons like that, and if that crooked Ranger dared do it again, Sarah Jay might well be the one to threaten him next.


    Was next to impossible for her to settle in and really study with all these thoughts bouncing around in her head, but she did what she could. Didn¡¯t help when Howie snapped his Spellbook shut and proved her right not twenty minutes later, having memorized his new Spell and about to put it to use. After waving Errol over and taking a seat, Howie waggled his fingers and muttered a long chant that was probably in Latin, except Sarah Jay wouldn¡¯t have known it if not for the fact that all his chants were in the same language. As soon as he finished, a silence settled upon them. Not a calm lull of quiet following the end of his chant, but rather a complete and total absence of sound. Wasn¡¯t anyone making a fuss or nothing, but there wasn¡¯t no way to keep a crowd of sixty plus boots and Rangers completely quiet, except now all the hubbub of camp was shut out. No more muttered conversations and whickering horses in the background, no stomping of boots over sand or clanging of pots and pans being moved or washed. The only sounds Sarah Jay could hear was her own breathing while her heart pounded in her chest, and she couldn¡¯t help but snap her fingers and sigh with relief when they made a loud and audible crack.


    ¡°Picked up on that right quick,¡± Howie whispered, his words filling the silence like a dull roar. ¡°This here is a Silence Spell modified by Selective Metamagic to exclude an area inside for us to talk freely. Any noise generated inside this area can¡¯t pass through to outside, and any noise outside can¡¯t reach us in here, leaving us free to make noise without being overheard.¡± Flashing a grin which cut off Sarah Jay¡¯s question before it even left her lips, Howie winked and said, ¡°Second Order Illusion Spell which requires Concentration, so you¡¯ve a ways to go yet. One of the easier ones though, so not too far.¡±


    Damn it. Be awhile before she was ready to learn it, which meant even longer before she could cover up her night-time trysts with Errol, who was grinning same as Howie as if it didn¡¯t affect him none. She¡¯d also need a Selective Metamagic Rod, or a bead bracelet like Howie¡¯s, assuming that¡¯s what it was. A fancy bit of craftsmanship, Etching a Rune into a glass orb only slightly bigger than her finger tip, though it seemed much easier than carrying around eighteen separate Metamagic focuses, which usually came in the form of a rod. Those were typically about as thick as her thumb and long as her forearm to boot, like the three Captain Jung carried strapped to her gun belt. Howie was real squirrely about his bracelet though, to the point where he never outright admitted it was a Metamagic focus, but he didn¡¯t work all that hard at hiding it neither. More of that honesty, showing his cards without laying it all out plain and clear, a real awkward way of going about showing his trust. All that was neither here nor there though, so Sarah Jay refocused on the important issue at hand and asked, ¡°This about the Spell Core?¡±


    ¡°Got it in one,¡± Howie said. ¡°Wasn¡¯t Ablative Armour. Work very hard to appear casual and not look shocked at all. Ready?¡± They both nodded, but they weren¡¯t to know it was a lie, not until Howie declared, ¡°It¡¯s a Mage Armour Spell Core.¡±


    ¡°Holy fuck,¡± Sarah Jay whispered, before closing her mouth and elbowing Errol to make him do the same, because Mage Armour was a big score and a bigger payday just waiting to be cashed. ¡°You for real?¡±


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t joke about it, not something big as this,¡± Howie replied, looking all serious for once. ¡°So we got a choice. Sell it to the Rangers, or keep it secret and tell no one ever. I¡¯m of a mind to sell it, even though losing access will hurt. My Mage Amour Spell ain¡¯t worth much, but we get the right Artificer, and we could all be armoured up to the gills like we walking around in full-plate 24/7. Won¡¯t always be enough to let you walk away unscathed from a direct Aetherarm hit, but might could keep you alive. For a better comparison, if Nate had been protected by a souped-up Magic Armour, he wouldn¡¯t have needed Errol to stitch him together. Would¡¯ve still gone down and bled some, but he¡¯d be sitting out here with the rest of us now, instead of laid out in the medic¡¯s tent all hopped up on painkillers.¡±


    ¡°Sell it then,¡± Errol said, and Sarah Jay turned to regard him with surprise. Shrugging, he explained, ¡°The Rangers could make better use of the Spell Core than we can, especially right away. Needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.¡±


    ¡°Huh.¡± Sitting there with a thoughtful look pasted across his face, Howie asked, ¡°That from the bible? How come I never heard it?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Looking sheepish all of a sudden, Errol explained, ¡°It¡¯s from something called Star Trek? Some show Father Nicolas used to watch, where people went into space and¡­ I dunno. Did stuff. Said it was why he volunteered, because he wanted to go where no man had ever gone before.¡±


    ¡°Huh. Never heard of it.¡± Shaking his head, Howie turned to Sarah Jay and asked, ¡°You feel the same way?¡±


    ¡°Yea.¡± For different reasons which left her feeling sour as could be, but they couldn¡¯t keep it. Soon as word of the Core got out, and it inevitably would, it¡¯d be like painting a target on their backs. Wouldn¡¯t be just scavs looking to poach their catch, but mercenaries coming to recruit or rob them. ¡°It¡¯s a hot potate, and we don¡¯t want to be the ones left holding it.¡±


    That made Howie scowl something fierce, no doubt unhappy to be strongarmed into giving it up. ¡°Yea, I figured,¡± he grumbled. ¡°Just thought I¡¯d run it by you both before I did anything.¡± Blinking twice, he put on a smile and said, ¡°Look sharp. We got visitors.¡±


    The Silence Spell fell away and the noise of the camp came roaring back, even though most were being quiet as could be. Their visitors turned out to be Tina, leading a small procession of boots and birds behind her. ¡°Heya Howie,¡± Tina began, looking bashful all of a sudden as she cuddled a fat and contented kiccaw close. ¡°Hope we¡¯re not interrupting anything, but my friends had a lot of questions and I told them you¡¯d probably have good answers for them.¡±


    ¡°Well then have a seat,¡± Howie said, turning on his rarely used charm with a smile. ¡°Michael, good to see you again. Alfred, Ike. You there, never caught your name, but ain¡¯t surprised you got more questions. Before you fire them off, what do I call you?¡±


    ¡°Saheed,¡± the Saudi boy replied, who claimed he was a prince of some sort, but assured them that his family¡¯s bloodline was merely royal, rather than Immortal. ¡°Sorry if I asked too many questions earlier.¡±


    ¡°Never be sorry for your curiosity, Saheed.¡± Grinning like a Cheshire cat, Howie added, ¡°Besides, if anyone deserves it, it¡¯s me. I used to pester anyone and everyone to teach me something about magic, just because I wanted to know more. Annoying as could be, but it paid off, so I can¡¯t fault you for your questions, now can I?¡±


    One by one, Howie got to know the rest of the boots Tina brought by, and even gave Ike a pat on shoulder while complimenting him on how well he could take a hit. Made Sarah Jay bristle to see Howie being all charismatic and likable, because he never bothered breaking out his charms for them, not after that first day. Then it hit her. He was being charming now because it was all an act. It didn¡¯t come natural to him, and he had to work hard to be this way, but he didn¡¯t bother with it in front of Errol and Sarah Jay because he wanted to show them the real Howie. A boring, long-winded fella who¡¯d rather study than socialize, which wasn¡¯t all that glamourous, but was entirely genuine. In his eyes, he was fixing to make them a part of his crew, which was why he didn¡¯t want to lie to them and pretend he was someone he wasn¡¯t.


    Yea, the smiling, sweet-talking, story-telling Howie might be more pleasant to be around, but that wasn¡¯t the real Firstborn, and Sarah Jay felt privileged to know he was comfortable enough to let it all down around her and Errol.


    ¡­Still be nice if he¡¯d smooth out some of those rough edges. Just saying.


    After a bit of chit chat to get them all comfortable, Howie went right for the jugular, conversationally speaking. ¡°So,¡± he said, taking in the small crowd before him after making a face at Tina for sitting too close beside him. ¡°What can I do you for?¡±


    ¡°Heard you were there recently, in Pleasant Dunes.¡± Never one to beat around the bushes, Michael dove right on into it, his eyes fixed on Howie¡¯s with focused intensity. He was a real straight shooter, and would make an exceptional leader if he ever learned to think about anyone besides himself, or talk in anything besides monotone. Wasn¡¯t that he was conceited or arrogant, but the only thing he cared about were his results, and pushing himself further to become a better Ranger. Granted, she might¡¯ve been the same way before she met Errol, so maybe all Michael needed was to find the love of his life too. ¡°Any idea what we can expect?¡±


    ¡°Tall towers, thick walls, and a decent layout for defense.¡± Shrugging, Howie added, ¡°Does it matter? There are people that need help, and Abby what need killing. You¡¯ll find out the rest soon enough.¡±


    ¡°But like, how bad is it?¡± Sally asked, twirling her brown hair around her finger. Sarah Jay wasn¡¯t sure if she was trying to flirt with Howie, was just nervous, or both. ¡°They¡¯re Independents right? They like.. don¡¯t recognize Federal authority or pay taxes or anything. They¡¯re not even Ranger Affiliated, so it¡¯s gotta be like, really, really bad if they¡¯re asking us for help.¡±


    ¡°Technically, they didn¡¯t. Ask, that is,¡± Howie clarified. ¡°I was there, saw the signs, and brought word back to Captain Clay. He independently verified what I found, and made the decision to come out and help. As for how bad, well¡­ the town is about to be attacked by a force coordinated enough to send a group out to ambush us, led by the infamous hobgoblin Illusionist that¡¯s been roaming these parts for the last year or so. That¡¯s about how bad it is.¡±


    Howie fielded a few more questions while giving the same non-answers, but few reassurances, which was what most of them were looking for. A little encouragement, that¡¯s all they needed, but he didn¡¯t say word one to inspire faith or optimism the whole time, and Sarah Jay was at a loss on how to convey that to him without saying it outright. Turns out she didn¡¯t have to, because Howie had good reason for acting the way he was. ¡°Look,¡± he began, still smiling but clearly running out of patience. ¡°If you here to hear me say, ¡®It¡¯ll be easy as pie¡¯ or something like that, I won¡¯t lie to you. It¡¯s gonna be a hard fight, because they¡¯re never easy. Every time you square up and draw, there¡¯s a chance you won¡¯t walk away. That there is a fact. All it takes is one wrong move, one wrong step, one wrong look, and you could wind up dead.¡± Shrugging, he added, ¡°Ain¡¯t nothin¡¯ new really. That¡¯s life on the Frontier. You know that. You should also know that the choice before you ain¡¯t one of safety versus danger. It¡¯s whether you choose to walk forward and face the danger with both eyes open, or turn around and walk away while pretending that same danger ain¡¯t still staring you in the face. Watershed¡¯s coming, and once it¡¯s here, every settlement on the Frontier will come under attack, no two ways about it.¡±


    ¡°¡­Why?¡± Everyone turned to look at the speaker, and poor Antoni shrank back before all the attention. Which was a stark contrast from the wild-eyed shooter she watched gun down Abby with a grin. ¡°I like¡­ get what the Watershed is,¡± he began, and to prove it, he continued, ¡°When the local Aether concentration levels rise to a-a point of uh, full saturation, but what¡¯s that have to do with Aberration attacks?¡±


    Blinking in surprise at the question, Howie looked around and found little support, not even from Sarah Jay. Most folks didn¡¯t like talking about the Watershed, and whenever it was brought up, Mama would hush them quick and make the sign of the cross, as if it were something she could ward off with thoughts and prayers. Blinking in surprise, Howie didn¡¯t say anything to make them feel bad, and just launched right into his explanation. ¡°Well, Antoni covered the broad strokes more or less, but to answer the question, I gotta go into a bit more detail.¡±


    Furrowing his brow as if deep in thought, Sarah Jay stopped to wonder what could be so complex that even Howie was having trouble putting words to it, but it turned out he was just Concentrating on a Spell. A Minor Illusion Cantrip, and for a moment, everyone just stopped and stared in complete shock, before bursting into laughter at the sight of Howie¡¯s terribly depicted cup. Was worse than a drawing on a piece of paper, without any depth to it at all, just 3 thick sides of a rectangle hanging in the air to denote a 2-dimensional container. ¡°Go on, laugh it up,¡± Howie said, playing up his displeasure for even more laughs. ¡°Yea, real funny, the Firstborn can¡¯t draw. Can¡¯t all be perfect.¡± Rolling his eyes, he cleared his throat and said, ¡°Okay. So pretend this cup is the Frontier¡¯s metaphysical capacity for Aether, which pours in from the Immaterium.¡± A poorly drawn pitcher appeared above the cup, spewing animated blue lines that were meant to be water, drawing another round of chuckles which he spoke over. ¡°Before the Advent and before Abby arrived, the base concentration levels of the Frontier were at the bare minimum requirement to sustain Aberration life. That¡¯s why no one can cast any Spells higher than Third Order, because our environment can¡¯t sustain it, and Abby hate that. That¡¯s why the Proggies set about making it more pleasant for themselves soon as they arrived. No one knows from where, so don¡¯t ask. Could be they came crashing down on a meteor which created the Divide, or maybe they stepped through a Gate of their own and came over from the old world. Could even be the other way around, but it don¡¯t matter.¡±


    The blue line denoting how full the cup was slowly rose, until Tina elbowed Howie in the ribs and threw up a much better Illusion of a glass wine cup and water pitcher so his bad drawings would stop distracting everyone from the message. Beaming ever so sweetly, Howie said, ¡°Thanks Tina. Anyways, like I was saying, Abby like high Aether Concentration levels, so they set about raising them, which they do by drawin¡¯ in and trappin¡¯ ambient Aether. Natural Aether is formless and exists in a metaphysical reality overlapping our own, so to raise local concentration levels, Proggies crystallize that Aether and trap it in our physical reality, thus creating a void in the connected metaphysical plane that must be filled.¡± Tina depicted this by scattering ice cubes around the glass, lowering the volume of water inside the glass and the speed of pouring as she did. ¡°This void causes Aether Levels to rise even faster,¡± Howie continued, ¡°Because as far as we can tell, nature abhors a vacuum, and momentum carries a whole lot of weight.¡±


    Pausing a beat to watch Tina¡¯s realistic glass cup fill up with water, Howie waited until it was almost overflowing and surrounded by ice cubes to say, ¡°Stop. See here? One more drop, and the water will spill over the rim of the cup, which is what we call the Watershed moment. When we reach this point, it means the Frontier is at full saturation, as Antoni said earlier, meaning the metaphysical reality overlapping our physical reality is incapable of holding any more formless Aether. The flow of Aether is moving so quick that it fills the entire space before Proggies can make a dent in it, but that ain¡¯t enough for them. They want even higher Aether concentration levels, so they keep crystallizing Aether in an effort to draw more in, until¡­¡±


    The pitcher resumed pouring and the water in the cup overflowed, only for four more cups to appear underneath and catch the resulting run off streams. ¡°The Frontier¡¯s capacity for Aether overflows and expands,¡± Howie declared. ¡°No idea how or why or when it¡¯ll happen, but it will in the next few years, and it¡¯ll never drop below it¡¯s previous maximum capacity, which means¡­?¡± No answer was forthcoming, so Howie continued, ¡°Aether Concentration Levels will continue rise, but at an accelerated rate, because again, nature abhors a vacuum, and now there¡¯s four times more empty metaphysical space than before. Well, not exactly four times, as this is just a visual demonstration and the real math don¡¯t work out like that, but essentially the rate at which the Frontier gathers Aether from the Immaterium will increase exponentially for a time, until them bottom cups got enough water in them to level the speed off. This in turn means there will be a glut of Aether available for existing Proggies to draw on, which they¡¯ll use to births smarter, stronger, Spellslingin¡¯ Abby in rapid succession as well as more Proggies to send forth and conquer.¡± As Tina accentuated the point by animating tiny Abby gobbos swarming out from the base of the cups, Howie gave them all a look and said, ¡°See why that¡¯d be bad for the rest of us?¡±


    Again, no one said anything, but that never stopped Howie before. ¡°Good news is we¡¯re pretty sure that once the Watershed moment hits, we¡¯ll no longer be limited to Third Order Spells. Aether won¡¯t stabilize right away, and there might be a time when the limit is Fourth Order Spells, before rising to Fifth and Sixth after a few months or years. No one knows for sure, because we ain¡¯t ever seen a situation like this, so this is uncharted territory for everyone. Either way, there¡¯s gonna be a whole lot of powerful Abby running rampant for a few weeks, months, or even years after the Watershed, and I doubt there¡¯ll be a single place on the Frontier with more than two people that won¡¯t get hit. Pound for pound, humans ain¡¯t worth much in terms of biomass, but Proggies steal from what they eat, and ain¡¯t no animal got brains like ours.¡± Looking around, Howie waited till he had their full attention again and concluded, ¡°So like it or not, eventually you gonna have to fight. Better learn what you can while the stakes are low, so you don¡¯t mess up later on when you got everything ridin¡¯ on success.¡±


    Which was pretty much what Captain Jung said, and reinforced the point they both made. Howie talked for a bit more before sending the others away, but he kept Errol and Sarah Jay close afterwards. ¡°Was bout to get to the real good news before we was interrupted,¡± Howie said, once they were alone. ¡°I¡¯m pretty sure Captain Jung would let you both back into Basic if you asked real nice. I wouldn¡¯t even have to do anything, because she¡¯s miffed about losing you both and wants you back right quick. I strongly recommend you take this chance, and not because I¡¯m looking to be rid of you both. I¡¯d still pay you your cut, but it would sit heavy on my conscience if I didn¡¯t stress how much safer you¡¯ll be with the Rangers than riding with me.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t seem all that safe,¡± Errol said, with a far off look in his eyes. ¡°Just look at Nate.¡±


    ¡°You mean Nate who took a Bolt to the shoulder?¡± Howie asked, but he wasn¡¯t done just yet. ¡°The same Nate who underwent emergency field surgery out here in the middle of nowhere? The Nate who¡¯d be dead if it wasn¡¯t for your quick thinking and the Ranger medics on standby? That Nate?¡± Shaking his head after overcompensating for forgetting the man¡¯s name, Howie said, ¡°Lemme put it this way. Say it was just the three of us out here and I took a Bolt the same as Nate. Then what you gonna do? You¡¯re the closest thing this crew¡¯s got to a medic, meaning you alone would be solely responsible for keeping me alive.¡± Turning his gaze to Sarah Jay, he smirked and added, ¡°Leaving you the closest thing we got to a Scout. How you feel about finding your way out this desert and back to Meadowbrook?¡± The blood drained from her face as she considered the scenario and realized she had no idea where they were, or how to figure out which way was straight West. The sun set in the south, so she knew the general direction to go, but being off by a degree or two could add days to their trip, days an injured Howie might not have, not to mention how impossible it was to move in a straight line with all the sand dunes scattered about.


    And that¡¯s without having to account for Abby, natural beasties, scavs, or bandits¡­


    ¡°Safety net,¡± Howie said, his smirk melting away to a grimace. ¡°We don¡¯t got one, can¡¯t afford one, and might never could. Won¡¯t have fully automatic rifles neither, not unless we loot them and keep them hidden when we head back to town. Or modify them ourselves, but that¡¯ll be tricky, and risk fines or jail time if we found out.¡± Wasn¡¯t talking to or at them no more, as Howie¡¯s gaze went distant while reflecting on the road ahead. ¡°Can¡¯t keep a Mage Armour Spell Core, which means we won¡¯t be able to keep any other expensive Cores we might find in the future. If we¡¯d hunted down that hob, we would¡¯ve had to keep it quiet until we got back to Meadowbrook to claim the bounty, and then everyone would be wondering what Core its corpse yielded, so we¡¯d probably have to sell that too.¡± Blowing out a long sigh, Howie slumped over where he sat, and Sarah Jay hated to see it. All his swagger and confidence had been sapped away, and she saw her own self in what was left behind: someone who knew what had to be done, but wasn¡¯t sure it was even possible.


    ¡°Not gonna lie, as my plans never got this far, so now I ain¡¯t so sure about what to do.¡± The smile Howie gave was every bit as genuine as before, except now it was full of fear and uncertainty, not for himself or their safety, but for the future in general. ¡°Been working so hard to stay ahead, and thought I could do it with a crew, ¡®cept now things ain¡¯t looking so bright. Too many limits to bein¡¯ a civilian, and lot more hurdles to overcome than expected, so I¡¯d say the smart money is on getting out while the getting is good. Hell, I¡¯m half tempted to sign on with the Rangers myself, because I don¡¯t see any other way to hack it.¡±


    Except he never would, not after what they did to his daddy. Sarah Jay didn¡¯t need to know him all that well to know that. She wanted to say something to assure him, claim they¡¯d work it out together, but she knew the words would ring hollow before she even said them, because she didn¡¯t know shit. Even with all his skills, Howie was having his doubts, so how could she refute them?


    Still, he was the one who gave her hope when she thought there was none, so she ought to at least try and repay him in kind. ¡°Whatever the obstacles before us,¡± she began, holding back a wince even as Howie did the same, ¡°We¡¯ll face them together. We a crew ain¡¯t we?¡±


    Wasn¡¯t half as cringy as she¡¯d thought it be, but still made her flush. Errol didn¡¯t help none, sitting there all quiet and pensive, and as for Howie, he mustered up a ghost of a smile that turned genuine the moment it appeared, because he couldn¡¯t help himself. ¡°Sounds good,¡± he lied, nodding as he repeated himself with more conviction. ¡°Sounds good.¡±


    Well, Daddy used to say ¡®fake it till you make it¡¯, so maybe that applied here. Wouldn¡¯t be no telling how they¡¯d fare until they gave it a shot, so no point giving up the ghost before even trying, right? Besides, if anyone could do it, it¡¯d be the Firstborn, and with her there to make sure he didn¡¯t give up, then there was no telling what they¡¯d accomplish.


    ¡°Which reminds me,¡± Sarah Jay said, hoping to bring up the mood. ¡°What¡¯re we gonna call ourselves? Crew needs a name, don¡¯t it?¡± Clearly, Howie had never thought about it, nor had Errol, and somehow, they both arrived at the same conclusion.


    To crack wise.


    ¡°We black, white, and yellow,¡± Howie said, unable to keep his smile from breaking out into a big ol¡¯ grin. ¡°So how about ¡®The Multicolour Crew¡¯?¡±


    ¡°Nah, check this,¡± Errol said, holding his hands up as if to paint the words in front of him. ¡°Equal Opportunists.¡±


    ¡°Oh that¡¯s got a good ring to it. What about, ¡®The Diversity Hires¡¯?¡±


    ¡°Bit too on the nose. Gotta be more subtle about it. Like¡­ ¡®Affirmative Action.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t what she was hoping for, but Sarah Jay was just glad to see her boys smiling and on the same wavelength again. For now, that¡¯d have to do, and whatever tomorrow may bring, they would face it together as a crew, no matter how ham-fisted that might sound.

 Chapter 31

    Sitting around and cracking wise after a hot meal and a dust up with Abby. This was the life, the Ranger life Errol envisioned before signing on for Basic.


    One made all the better with his girl at his side, sitting in the coral sand while hugging her knees, all dark and scowling over what she deemed ¡®inappropriate¡¯ and ¡®racially charged¡¯ banter. It wasn¡¯t a real scowl, as there was a quiver to her lovely lips which said she was fighting to hold back her smile, and it took every scrap of self-control Errol had not to stretch his arm around her and give her sides a poke. She was ticklish as could be, and her almost violent reactions were a sight to behold, one he would never grow tired of. Howie was the same way with hugs, though it was less funny and more frightening considering how his first instinct was to go for his pistol. The man was a contradiction and a conundrum, that much was sure, able to go from ¡®storm-clouds to sunny skies in two shakes of a lamb¡¯s tail¡¯, as Sarah Jay would say, and today was a perfect example. Went from bright and cheery after the fight to dark and murderous once they came across those scavs, and now he was cracking jokes and grinning like a fool only seconds after a solemn and serious admission of his fears regarding his future.


    Say what you will about the Firstborn, but he switched emotional tracks so fast Errol was feeling the whiplash second hand.


    ¡°Whatcha¡¯ll laughin¡¯ ¡®bout?¡± Tina asked, skipping back over before taking a seat next to Howie, her blue eyes bright and inquisitive as they honed in on Errol¡¯s. There was a lighthearted cast to almost everything she did, a lively and carefree attitude that she embodied in every way, shape and form. Made her seem silly and senseless at first glance, but she was the sharpest boot in Basic, and having seen how she handled her dual 1911¡¯s, he wasn¡¯t looking to get on her bad side.


    So rather than answer honestly in case she shared Sarah Jay¡¯s perspective, he looked to Howie, who didn¡¯t miss a beat as he shifted over to make room for Tina and answered, ¡°Discussing names for our crew. What¡¯chu think about ¡®Ethical Ethnics¡¯?¡±


    Errol snorted with laughter and earned himself an elbow to the ribs from Sarah Jay on top of a disapproving scowl from Tina, but even her scowls were bubbly and cheery. ¡°Don¡¯t you encourage him,¡± she said, crossing her arms in a huff over the kiccaw she never seemed to let go of. ¡°He¡¯ll do it, you know? Use those ¡®joke¡¯ names for real if he gets a mind to. Just look at poor Cowie.¡±


    At the sound of his name, the baby-sized bull trotted over with a bellowing moo, a deep and booming call that sounded so out of place coming from a creature so ¡®small¡¯. Course, Tina¡¯s warning gave Errol something to chew on, as he thought they were just joking around and would really rather not work for a crew called ¡®Affirmative Action¡¯.


    ¡°That ain¡¯t entirely my fault,¡± Howie complained, patting Cowie¡¯s flank fondly while Tina scratched the bull¡¯s head. What followed was a long and lengthy explanation about the difference between English and Qinese and why Cowie ended up with such a strange name, which Howie eventually concluded with, ¡°¡­ and by then, he wouldn¡¯t respond to any other name.¡± He gave a soft smile at the end of it as Cowie curled up in his lap, one which looked more natural than the toothy grin he normally flashed around, and all the more so because it was. Made for a jarring contrast from the black-eyed, murderous Firstborn who was all too eager to gun down six men in cold blood, a realization which cut Errol to the quick. Was hard to get a read on Howie, what with how fast he was to change masks, whether it be the charming and charismatic young go-getter who was happy to answer questions for the boots, or the angry, trigger-happy killer threatening an American Ranger for speaking ill of his daddy.


    Wasn¡¯t that Howie was two-faced, because he didn¡¯t hide his worse aspects. No, he was upfront and honest about it, which somehow made him all the scarier.


    Evidently having heard the story many times before, Tina rolled her eyes and gave Errol and Sarah Jay a look to convey a silent apology. ¡°Anywho,¡± she said, jumping right in to take control of the conversation before Howie could derail it any further. ¡°They ain¡¯t even got callsigns yet, so why you in such a rush to pick out a name for your crew?¡±


    ¡°Because if I give ¡®em callsigns, then they gonna wanna use ¡®em over the radio,¡± Howie replied. ¡°Means I¡¯d hafta teach them the lingo and etiquette and all that, not to mention radio in, which opens the door for your mama to jump on and ask for an update.¡± Pursing his lips like he¡¯d eaten something sour, Howie grumbled, ¡°I swear she walks around town with one of them backpack radios strapped to her back and listens for my callsign. Ain¡¯t no privacy over the Aetherwaves, your mama know that good and well, but she don¡¯t pay it any mind.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s so embarrassing about sayin¡¯ ¡®love you lots¡¯ over the radio?¡± Even though it was the same toothy grin as Howie¡¯s, it suited Tina¡¯s face in a way that would never work for the Firstborn. ¡°Ain¡¯t like it¡¯s some big secret, you bapple-polishing brown-noser.¡±


    ¡°Just you wait ¡®til it¡¯s your turn, and she askin¡¯ if you eatin¡¯ your greens and washin¡¯ your smallclothes/ See how you like it.¡±


    It was fascinating to see this side of Howie after everything that¡¯d gone down, like a tuskwulf relaxing on its haunches outside the bar. Sure, it might look tame and docile as can be, but approach it the wrong way and it¡¯ll take your hand off clean. Least that¡¯s what the traveller who tamed it said, and Errol wasn¡¯t brave enough to test it. Howie was the same way, seemingly wholesome and harmless as can be, until it came time to draw and he turned into a gun shooting, Spell slinging, murder machine. Didn¡¯t take much for him to turn feral, and Errol wasn¡¯t sure what to make of it. Wasn¡¯t like Howie treated them poorly; the very opposite in fact, as he was every bit as generous and supportive as he appeared to be, but he was also merciless to anyone who dared cross him, which left Errol feeling like he had to walk on eggshells around the Firstborn¡¯s hair-trigger of a temper.


    Wasn¡¯t fair to judge Howie for a crime he had yet to commit, but Errol didn¡¯t know how to feel about a man who seemed more than comfortable with the idea of gunning people down without warning and calling himself a ¡®Yellow Devil¡¯.


    Sarah Jay didn¡¯t see it, or if she did, she thought nothing of it, which was strange as could be. ¡°So while we on the subject,¡± she drawled, once she could get a word in edgewise around Howie and Tina¡¯s weirdly intimate banter, ¡°About our Callsigns¡­ I got a few suggestions if you care to hear ¡®em.¡±


    ¡°Oh no,¡± Howie said, shaking his head with mock disapproval. ¡°Ranger tradition says you don¡¯t get to pick your Callsign, or weigh in on the discussion. Ain¡¯t just a name you use over the radio, it¡¯s what you use out in the field so bandits don¡¯t track you down after hearing your real name. Usually has to do with how you operate, and it¡¯s too early for you both to earn yours yet.¡± Flashing a grin, he added, ¡°Not unless you wanna be Trigger-happy and Try-hard.¡±


    There he went, poking at Errol¡¯s sore spots again. Wasn¡¯t half as bad as the Drill Sergeants yelling while only an inch away from your ear, but somehow, the criticisms hit harder coming from Howie. Least he took it easy on Sarah Jay and didn¡¯t call her ¡®Ice Queen¡¯ to poke fun at how she froze up, but she didn¡¯t seem any happier than Errol was. Perhaps realizing he¡¯d fumbled the joke, Howie sat up straight, stretched, and heaved a sigh. ¡°Alright, now that we done chittin¡¯ and chattin¡¯,¡± he began, as if he wasn¡¯t the one who killed the vibe, ¡°How bout we have ourselves an AAR?¡±


    ¡°AAR?¡± Sarah Jay asked, switching seamlessly into her best boot behaviour, and Errol shook his head to see it.


    ¡°After-action Report,¡± Howie replied. ¡°We don¡¯t gotta do no paper work or nothing, but I figure it¡¯d be good to talk it out, share how things went from our perspectives and mention things you did good or not so good.¡± Giving Sarah Jay a finger gun, Howie added, ¡°You can start.¡±


    ¡°Alright.¡± Serious as can be, Sarah Jay gave a brief, no-nonsense summary of events like reading points off a list, made the controlled chaos and confusion of the battle sound cut and dry until she reached the end and added a cheeky, ¡°Then I sat down and gave my AAR.¡±


    ¡°Solid,¡± Howie said. ¡°What¡¯d you do well?¡±


    ¡°First to spot Kacey, not including Captain Hayes. Spotted you too. During the fight, I hit my shots and bagged two dozen kills easy.¡± Wasn¡¯t too much pride in the statement, but some slipped through, only to deflate at the end as she remembered who she was talking to. That was her biggest flaw, in Errol¡¯s opinion, how she was always comparing herself to others and finding ways to come up short, instead of focusing on her strengths and being happy about her accomplishments.


    ¡°Good. And what could you have done better?¡± Howie¡¯s question threw Sarah Jay for a loop, and Errol watched as she silently panicked and went over everything she did in detail to try and find some glaring mistake. It hurt to see her be so hard on herself, and he was a little annoyed at Howie for sitting silent and letting it happen, all too pleased to leave her to stew in self-doubt. ¡°You work great when you got some distance from the action,¡± Howie eventually explained, though he waited far too long for Errol¡¯s liking. ¡°But you ain¡¯t so great in the mix of things. The unexpected is what throws you off, so the best way to fix that is to acclimate yourself to the chaos and disorder of battle. I know Tim pulled you out to stand overwatch, and he meant well, but he soft underneath his frosty exterior, and you ain¡¯t doing yourself no favours by avoiding the fire.¡± Holding up a hand to forestall her argument, Howie said, ¡°Note I asked what you could¡¯ve done better, not what you did wrong. Wasn¡¯t a mistake, just a word of advice moving forward. Firefights are a whole lot messier when you in the thick of it, as I¡¯m sure Errol will agree, so best you experience it firsthand sooner rather than later.¡±


    Which apparently was Errol¡¯s cue to give his own version of events, one far less concise and orderly than Sarah Jay¡¯s. He got there eventually though, and concluded, ¡°Fight didn¡¯t last all that long, but feels like it took hours instead of minutes, if that.¡±


    ¡°Yea, it do be like that sometimes,¡± Howie replied. ¡°Ninety-nine percent of our job is ¡®hurry up and wait¡¯. Then the action kicks off and fight time kicks in, slowin¡¯ everythin¡¯ down ¡®til it¡¯s all over and done with.¡± Pointing at Errol with an encouraging look, Howie added, ¡°No shakes this time though. Saw that much, which we¡¯ll chalk up as the first point on your scoreboard.¡± Honestly, Errol didn¡¯t even notice it this time around, and he warmed to hear it. He¡¯d been shaken a fair bit after the dust up with the goblins, not from the fire-fight itself, but the near brush with the goblin pretending to be dead. ¡°You also probably saved Nate¡¯s life after he took a hit, which was some damn fine work,¡± Howie continued, once it was clear Errol wasn¡¯t gonna toot his own horn. ¡°Brave thing to do, put aside any concerns for your own life to tend to someone else. Smart to call it out too, instead of hoping someone¡¯d notice.¡±


    Shrugging, Errol tried to play it cool and thanked the Lord for his dark complexion, as it was doing a great job of hiding the colour of his heated cheeks. ¡°Didn¡¯t even think about it. Just did what we were told to do in training.¡± A habit ingrained into him by the Drill Sergeants, who¡¯d pace behind them during range time and kick one of the boots to signal them to drop and play dead, then berate their neighbours if they failed to notice and call it out. That¡¯s the sort of training that worked for Errol, not long, tiresome lectures that put him half to sleep. Which wasn¡¯t to cast blame on Howie on anything. He¡¯d been upfront about how they¡¯d be better off in Basic, and he had yet to change his tune. It was just the way things were, is all, and Errol wished they were otherwise.


    ¡°Which brings us to what you could do better.¡± Meeting Errol¡¯s gaze with an open and honest expression, Howie said, ¡°Far as I seen, all your mistakes were things I already done pointed out before. Saw you fumblin¡¯ your reload again, but ain¡¯t seen you run any dry fire or mag drills since Meadowbrook. Told you to practice using your chain with your left hand, but you still using your right, and shootin¡¯ righty too. Jay there just asked for the Longstrider Spell Formula so she can get a head start on practice, but you ain¡¯t come to me once to ask for help with the Bolt Cantrip, or even ask about Hearing Protection.¡± Leaning back on both hands, Howie shrugged and said, ¡°I ain¡¯t got the time or inclination to stand over your shoulder all day and make you to train. You gotta find the drive to do that yourself. I got things to learn and improve on too, so best I can do is point the way and leave you to see it through on your own. If you can¡¯t, well¡­ you got potential Errol, got it in spades, but the man you could be ten years from now ain¡¯t gonna help you today.¡±


    Howie was only speaking facts, but Errol still bristled to hear them. Mostly because the Firstborn was right, as Errol hadn¡¯t done any real training to speak of unless pressed to. Rather than lash out though, he nodded, took a deep breath, and tried to crack a joke. ¡°If only we could all be as perfect and talented as you, right?¡±


    Said it lightly with a smile, and Howie raised an eyebrow in exaggerated surprise. ¡°Perfect? Talented? You barkin¡¯ up the wrong tree my man. Look at you. I mean really. Look at yourself. You a six-foot tall hunk of handsome man chocolate.¡±


    ¡°Yea he is,¡± Sarah Jay said, and her tone made set Errol¡¯s ears aflame.


    ¡°Hold your horses, Jay. There¡¯s a lady present,¡± Giving Tina a quick glance, Howie added, ¡°Or a close approximation at least.¡± Grinning like fool, Howie weathered Sarah Jay¡¯s glare, ignored Tina¡¯s pout, and said, ¡°If anyone here was born perfect, it¡¯s you Errol, what with your fetchin¡¯ features, strappin¡¯ build, and towering height. As for talent, you forget you an Intuitive caster? Magic comes so easily to you, you don¡¯t even need lessons to learn it. All you need is exposure and you good to go. Me, my talent is math. I understand numbers. Ain¡¯t as grand as it sounds, as I still had to spend years learning all the foundational theory.¡± Shaking his head some more, Howie continued, ¡°For the sake of comparison, the greatest Intuitive caster known to man was the Mamluk Immortal Monarch, who was captured by mongols as a child and sold into slavery back in the 1200¡¯s. Lucky for him, he was bought by the Royal Family, and spent the next thirty years secretly learning every Spell they could sling. Once he was ready, he overthrew them in a single bloody night and crowned himself King, a title he held for some five hundred years before stepping down to live in obscurity. Died in 1943 fighting against other Immortal Monarchs, and by all accounts was a pretty decent guy. There¡¯s also some ascetic shapeshifter in Finland who¡¯s an Intuitive, and most the old world thinks he¡¯s got a good chance of being the next Immortal Monarch, assumin¡¯ he ain¡¯t already one in hidin¡¯. Both Popes are Intuitive casters, Catholic and Latin Catholic alike, as well as a few other notable individuals right here on the Frontier. Know who the greatest mathematician there ever was?¡±


    Rather than keep silent and let things drag out, Errol stifled a sigh and threw out a guess. ¡°Newton?¡±


    ¡°Nope,¡± Howie proclaimed, pleased as could be. ¡°Not that he wasn¡¯t a great mathematician, but he wasn¡¯t the greatest. That title arguably belongs to Leonard Euler, who you probably ain¡¯t never heard of. Reason bein¡¯ is he pioneered too many mathematical concepts, so many we couldn¡¯t name anything after him, else everything¡¯d be Euler¡¯s law, principle, theorem, or whatnot. Thing is, man also never cast a single Spell in his life despite being born in the renaissance of magical discovery. No one knows why he didn¡¯t learn to sling Spells. Some claim it¡¯s because he was a mathematical purist and cared only for numbers, while others suspect he might¡¯ve had aphantasia and been incapable of picturing Spell Structures in his mind. Whatever the reason, that ought to show you the value of our respective talents, and I¡¯d pick yours over mine any day of the week. Anyone can learn to math if they put their mind to it, but some Spells are just out of reach.¡±


    ¡°Got it,¡± Errol said, trying not to sound too tired or resigned. ¡°I¡¯ll work harder at working hard.¡±


    ¡°Glad to hear it.¡± Pausing a beat, Howie seemed reluctant to say something for once, but he still went ahead and opened his mouth. ¡°I ain¡¯t trying to pile on you Errol. Nor am I saying you lazy or anything of the sort. Thing is, while you good enough to get by for now, things move fast on the Frontier, and you¡¯ll soon find yourself falling fast behind if you don¡¯t work hard to keep up. Abby¡¯ll only get stronger as the years go by, and if you don¡¯t got the Spellslinging chops to compete, then you won¡¯t make it out here, as a part of my crew or the Rangers. You¡¯d be better off serving in the Army or National Guard, who rely more on tech and numbers than Spell slinging to get things done, though you¡¯ll have to wait until after the Watershed when we got the numbers to field a standing army and reserve forces.¡±


    Which was a roundabout way to say that Errol needed to shape up if he wanted a place on the Firstborn¡¯s crew. Thing was, he wasn¡¯t sure if he did, so he kept quiet and simply nodded until Howie seemed ready to move on.


    ¡°Alright then, Songbird,¡± he said, turning to Tina with a serious expression he had to work hard to maintain. ¡°Your turn.¡± Her version of events weren¡¯t much different from Sarah Jay¡¯s, though Tina went more in depth about her Spell Slinging and gunfighting, but Howie didn¡¯t give her one word of praise before asking, ¡°And what could you have done better?¡±


    Puffing up her cheeks in consternation, Tina showed a side of herself that none of the other boots had ever seen. ¡°You said I done good,¡± she exclaimed, pouting for all she was worth under the brim of her wide hat.


    ¡°And I ain¡¯t saying nothin¡¯ different,¡± Howie replied, his tone softening just a touch, ¡°But you remember what my daddy used to say?¡±


    A lot of things apparently, but Tina picked up on it without missing a beat. ¡°There¡¯s always room for improvement.¡± Heaving a sigh, she cuddled her kiccaw and sank deep into thought, while Howie stroked the snoring baby Cowie who¡¯d fallen asleep in his lap. ¡°Gimme a hint?¡± she asked, after a few seconds of silence.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    ¡°Spell selection.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with Mirror Image?¡± Gone was the bubbly, happy-go-lucky Tina and in her place was a pouty little girl. She had all sorts of emotions and could go from one to another in the blink of an eye, which explained where Howie learned it from. All fired up and indignant, Tina turned on Howie in a huff and said, ¡°It¡¯s a staple in Mama and Daddy¡¯s Spellbook for good reason, and your daddy even used it often enough.¡±


    ¡°Sure, when they went delving deep under dark with a strike team of five,¡± Howie replied. ¡°Makes three or four illusory bodies pretty valuable, as it almost doubles the total number of targets for Abby to attack.¡± Giving Tina¡¯s nose a gentle tap, Howie asked, ¡°But you gotta ask yourself, was it the best Spell to use in this particular situation? Out on the open desert with some sixty guns behind you? Four more bodies don¡¯t mean as much, especially since any Bolts¡¯ll fly right through your illusions and hit anyone standing behind them. Why not Bless to help your fellow boots out? Or Mantle of Inspiration, to steady their nerves and protect them a bit? Both First Order Spells mind you, and would¡¯ve been more effective than your Second Order Mirror Image. If you set on throwing out something big though, then why not Madness? I know you got it, and today would¡¯ve been the perfect time to use it. Whisper a little crazy into Abby¡¯s ear and get them fighting amongst themselves.¡±


    Howie continued talking at Tina, but Errol tuned it out as he tried not to stare too hard at the Innate. Or look too scared either, as Madness was a Spell that everyone knew and no one liked, an Enchantment which robbed you of all rationality and turned you against your friends. Forget the War of the Immortals, or any major conflict from the old world really, as there were plenty of stories of Enchanters using Madness to turn townsfolk on one another right here on the Frontier. Charm and Discord were only slightly better, as there were limits to what they could drive a target to do, but Madness could make a man murder his wife or a mother her own children if the caster were of a mind to. If that wasn¡¯t monstrous enough, Errol heard tales that said even though the target would know they¡¯d been ensorcelled after the fact, it did nothing to blunt the guilt of not only killing someone you loved with your own two hands, but also knowing that in the heat of the moment, you truly wanted them dead.


    And though Tina would never do something like that, it made a man mighty uncomfortable knowing she could with nothing more than a Second Order Spell.


    Now, this didn¡¯t mean Errol agreed with Kacey¡¯s outburst when Tina tried to cast a Spell on her, but he understood her concerns a little better now. That being said, he realized his attempts to hide his alarm failed miserably when Sarah Jay elbowed him in the ribs and gave him a good, long, wide-eyed stare, a deep and penetrating look that told him in no uncertain terms he was acting the fool. Howie noticed too, and spent a good second looking back and forth between Errol and Tina before asking, ¡°What¡¯s this about then?¡±


    ¡°Nothin¡¯,¡± Tina said, glaring at Errol something fierce until he felt compelled to do the same.


    ¡°Yea, nothing.¡± Then, because he was an idiot, he added, ¡°And for what it¡¯s worth, I don¡¯t agree with what Kacey said.¡±


    Which of course was a stupid thing to say. Not because it was wrong, but because Howie was sitting right there. ¡°Oh?¡± he asked, and Errol felt any and all affection the Firstborn might¡¯ve had for the Nipponese girl go right out the window with that monosyllabic expression. ¡°And what did Kacey say?¡±


    ¡°Nothin¡¯,¡± Tina replied, her big, blue eyes still fixed on Errol¡¯s face as she tilted her head, daring him to say something and warning him of the consequences if he should.


    ¡°Nothin¡¯ huh?¡± Now it was Howie¡¯s turn to glare, and Errol couldn¡¯t help but look away. From Howie, Tina, and even Sarah Jay, as he couldn¡¯t bear to meet their eyes. ¡°If it¡¯s nothin¡¯,¡± Howie continued, working hard to sound cordial and relaxed, ¡°Then why won¡¯t no one say what it was?¡±


    ¡°Because you one to make mountains out of molehills,¡± Tina snapped, mercifully freeing Errol from her piercing gaze as she turned on the Firstborn. ¡°Keep out of it Howie. I¡¯ll handle my own business, thank you very much.¡±


    A long, heavy pause followed her statement, one in which Errol suspected Kacey¡¯s fate was weighed against the blackness of Howie¡¯s heart, after which he sighed and said, ¡°I hear you.¡± Which wasn¡¯t saying much, but thankfully, he dropped the subject. At least for now. ¡°Anywho,¡± he said, trying to inject some cheer into his voice while trying real hard not to look around for Kacey. ¡°All of you can stand to learn from this. Spell choice can make or break an encounter. Don¡¯t get stuck in your ways. Me, I¡¯m guilty of it just as much, as I could¡¯ve thrown out another Spike Growth or something.¡± Rather than go into detail of his encounter however, Howie just nodded and said, ¡°Alright then. Good talk. We all got somethin¡¯ to chew on, so if we get to it, then we¡¯ll all be Ranger ready soon enough.¡±


    And true to his workaholic nature, Howie settled in to flip through his Spellbook while his Mage Hands got to work reloading and unloading the Whumper behind his back. Yea, the Firstborn always had his nose to the grindstone, there was no denying that, which made Errol feel all the more ashamed for slacking off like he did. It wasn¡¯t even slacking, as they spent long days in the saddle these past three weeks, with a lot to learn and go over each and every day. Wasn¡¯t like he was goofing off all the time, or even most of the time, but a man needed to stop and breathe every once in awhile. At least, most men did. Not the Firstborn, no siree, he was all work all the time. Could ride all day, gun a man down before suppertime, and be in bed fast asleep by lights out after a good, long work-out.


    Complaining wouldn¡¯t change a thing though, so Errol headed over to the wagon to do some dry fire drills. Raise. Aim. Click. Lower. Reload. Repeat. Mindless is what it was, but Howie said he ought to focus on each and every repetition, aiming at the same or different targets and trying to find ways to get better with each pass. Felt odd doing drills without real purpose, or at least none besides the vague goal of ¡®improving¡¯. How many sets should he do? How was he supposed to know if he was getting better, or when he was done? Judging by Howie¡¯s standards, the answers were until it was time to sleep and never, as there was always room for improvement right? There wasn¡¯t anything wrong with that sort of mindset, but Errol needed something more than just ¡®get good¡¯ as a goal. It was a world of difference from his time back home where Father Nicolas or one of the other priests or nuns would give him a task. Sweep the steps, do the laundry, chop some firewood, or teach the kids their letters, there was always something to do around the church, so Errol spent most his days moving from one chore or lesson to another.


    Basic wasn¡¯t much different. You had roll call in the morning, and standards to measure everything by, whether it be how to make your bed, pack your kit, or even tie your boots. And for good reason, as Errol learned firsthand after briefly losing a boot during the harpy fight, which made him miss Basic all the more. None of it had been easy, whether it be leaving home, the gruelling training, or remembering all the rules and regulations, and Richard had only made things worse, but signing on was the first thing Errol had ever done for himself, and it felt¡­ right. Not necessarily good, or even pleasant, save for how it felt like he was going somewhere in life, had a goal to strive for and a purpose to fulfil.


    All this and more went through Errol¡¯s mind as he went through his dry fire drills. It was boring, repetitive work, and try as he might to stay focused and look for ways to improve, he found his mind wandering as he considered the path before him. Signing on with Howie was more of a consolation prize than anything else. Wasn¡¯t really much other choice to be had, except now Richard was gone and the Rangers were willing to take him back. Thing is, while Errol had his concerns about Howie, it didn¡¯t feel right abandoning him at the drop of a hat, not after how well he treated them. Man insisted on sharing profits without batting an eye, even on something as big as a Mage Armour Spell Core, but at the same time, he was all but pushing them back to the Rangers anyway. Truth was Errol and Sarah Jay were better off in Basic, even if she might say different, so shouldn¡¯t they at least discuss it?


    So after a solid half-hour of dry-fire drills, Errol set out to do just that. A feat made easier thanks to Sarah Jay¡¯s perch on the driver¡¯s seat, well away from where Howie and Tina were quietly feuding. As for Errol¡¯s girl, she was looking over her new Spell, all serious and studious as can be. Longstrider, for getting where you¡¯re going right quick, as Howie would say.


    It occurred to Errol that he ought to talk to the other boots more, or at least the Rangers, else he¡¯d soon start slurring all his words together and spouting folksy sayings that made no sense.


    ¡°Hey,¡± he said, stopping himself short of asking, ¡®how¡¯s tricks?¡¯.


    ¡°Hey yourself, you hunk of handsome man chocolate you.¡± It wasn¡¯t just her words heating up his ears this time, as she threw him a sultry look.


    Chuckling as he climbed in beside her, he shook his head and asked, ¡°You¡¯re never gonna let me live that down, are you?¡±


    ¡°When he¡¯s right, he¡¯s right,¡± Sarah Jay replied, leaning in to touch her head against his. No kiss though, not with so many eyes about, and she leaned away as soon as she was done. Giving him a look with a glint in her eye, she continued, ¡°Though I am starting to wonder if I gotta keep a closer eye on the two of you, especially now that Kacey¡¯s out of the running for Howie¡¯s affections.¡± Sniffing primly without meaning to, she added, ¡°Knew they weren¡¯t good for each other from the get go, but didn¡¯t say as much because it ain¡¯t polite.¡±


    Errol never saw a spark to begin with, but he knew better than to say anything this time. Instead, he waited until she ran out of steam before guiding the conversation back on track, or at least back to where he wanted it. ¡°So I was thinking.¡±


    ¡°Were you now?¡±


    ¡°Yea. Big surprise, I know.¡± Smiling in spite of the serious conversation he was hoping to have, he took a moment to bask in the moment, one spent next to his girl, the love of his life. And a pair of kiccaws, who suddenly decided their perch on the roof was no good and they¡¯d rather rest on the driver carriage railing. Close to Sarah Jay, so they could nose at the Ablative Armour Spell Core she kept in her breast pocket despite Errol¡¯s concerns about Aetheric emanations causing mutations or cancer. Waving the birds off before they poked a hole in her shirt, Errol took a deep breath and tried to think of the best way to say it. ¡°I think we should talk about getting back into Basic.¡±


    ¡°¡­Okay. Let¡¯s talk then.¡± Despite the agreeable statement, her tone was anything but, steady, even, and frosty as could be. ¡°What¡¯s Basic got to offer us that Howie can¡¯t?¡±


    ¡°Structure for one,¡± Errol said, only to regret opening with it as it made the decision seem selfish. Sarah Jay was doing just fine without Howie hounding her every step of the way, so that was hardly a plus in her book. ¡°And a safety net for two, like Howie said, as we¡¯d be all on our own if he gets injured.¡± Which seemed all but inevitable given how he liked to live life on the edge, but that didn¡¯t need to be said. Even if the Rangers let the boots come under fire, at least they were prepared to save them too. ¡°For three, legitimacy. You heard how down and out he was about fully-automatic weapons and popular Spell Cores. He doesn¡¯t even know if he can make it work anymore, so maybe we ought to take his advice about going back to the Rangers.¡±


    ¡°All good points,¡± Sarah Jay said, nodding in agreement. Which threw Errol for a loop until she continued, ¡°Not good enough though. Said he was going through next round of Basic, didn¡¯t he? And that we could go through it with him, so there¡¯s your first point out the window. Doubly so since I¡¯d say we¡¯ve both learned more from him in three weeks than the first two months of Basic. A lot more, most of which we¡¯ll likely forget, but even the little bit that sticks can put us at the head of the pack, Tina notwithstanding.¡±


    Which was all true, and left out the most important bit, that they were getting paid well to learn alongside Howie too, wages Sarah Jay needed to get her family away from her abusive, alcoholic step-dad. Moving right on, Sarah Jay said, ¡°As for your second point, we¡¯ll circle back to that later and move onto the third for now. Yea, Howie got his doubts, but they about us mind you, not himself. He got plenty of options all on his own. He¡¯s only concerned because we ain¡¯t measuring up to expectations, and he don¡¯t think he can carry all that extra weight. He ain¡¯t worried about his future Errol; he¡¯s worried about ours, the three of us together as a part of his crew.¡±


    She made a fair point, and it cast Howie¡¯s earlier doubts in a whole new light. ¡®Been working so hard to stay ahead,¡¯ was what he said, followed by, ¡®And thought I could do it with a crew¡¯. Meaning he still thought he could cut it on his own, which was just a whole new level of cocky that rubbed Errol the wrong way.


    ¡°Now as for that Ranger safety net,¡± Sarah Jay continued, once it was clear her earlier statement had sunk in, ¡°I think you and Howie both overestimate the safety they provide. The badge do work wonders, and the Rangers as a whole will have our backs, but we gotta get there first. Even if they pin a star on our chest, it¡¯ll take more than six months of Basic to make us Rangers.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± Errol asked. ¡°I thought the whole point of Basic was to train us up as Rangers.¡±


    Sarah Jay smiled and pursed her lips ever so slightly, which meant she found something he said funny in a way it wasn¡¯t meant to be. Usually when he said something stupid. ¡°They¡¯re the tip of the spear in the war against Abby,¡± she said, with a small shake of her head. ¡°Means they¡¯re used to drawing their recruits from a pool of highly trained veterans and special operators. Captain Jung? Former U.F. Marine. Captain Marcus? Ran a team on Delta Force.¡± Seeing that Errol still didn¡¯t get it, Sarah Jay said, ¡°Lemme put it this way. Captain Hayes was the least qualified Ranger sent to the Frontier. One year in the army, but he was given a brevet promotion to Army Sniper after three months in the field. Shows how good he really was, but even then, he never would¡¯ve made the old-world standards for Ranger recruitment if it wasn¡¯t for the Frontier. Hear they had to lower requirements all across the board to find enough volunteers, and the U.F.A still had to resort to sendin¡¯ criminals and sellin¡¯ open spots to the highest bidder.¡±


    Captain Hayes? Least qualified? Forget what Howie said about the man being soft. Tim Hayes made ice seem warm and inviting, as he had a way of looking at you like he was gauging the distance and reading the wind for a clean headshot. If he wasn¡¯t Ranger qualified, then who was?


    As if reading his thoughts, Sarah Jay gave him a look and said, ¡°Even Howie ain¡¯t up to Ranger standard, and he¡¯ll be the first to admit it. Already did, ¡®cept you weren¡¯t listening. That¡¯s why he¡¯s goin¡¯ through Basic, so he can prove to the Marshal that he¡¯s worth trainin¡¯ up.¡± Waving her hand to change the subject, she continued, ¡°So yea, even if we finish Basic and get hired on, there¡¯s no guarantee we¡¯ll prove ourselves as ¡®real¡¯ Rangers, not anytime soon. We¡¯d still be boots, but treated like army grunts instead of raw recruits, and I ain¡¯t all that eager to spend five or more years provin¡¯ myself as a Ranger.¡±


    Spreading her arms to let a kiccaw hop into her lap, Sarah Jay cooed and stroked the round bird¡¯s head while giving him time to think, but eventually she grew tired of waiting. ¡°All I know is,¡± she began, meeting his eyes with an almost apologetic wince, ¡°Howie done right by us. Better than right in fact, with more concern for our hides than his own. Yea, he went off on you after that dust up with Caleb, but only because we both almost got ourselves killed, and almost brought him and Cowie down with us. Way I see it, ain¡¯t no benefit to be had going back to Basic here and now. Might as well learn and earn what we can with Howie, and join him in Basic when he goes too. Worst comes to worst, we¡¯re half a year behind starting our career in the Rangers, no harm, no foul.¡± Studying his face for a long second, Sarah Jay asked, ¡°Unless you¡¯ve some other reason to part ways?¡±


    It took a long minute before Errol was ready to speak, and before he did, he looked Sarah Jay in the eyes. He had to, because for better or worse, he needed to see her reaction, even if it was one of pity, disgust, or contempt. ¡°He doesn¡¯t scare you?¡± Errol asked. She didn¡¯t laugh or recoil right away, which was good, so he continued, ¡°Howie¡¯s always so ready, so eager even to kill, like he¡¯s holding himself back out of¡­ good manners or something.¡± Blowing out a long breath, he rubbed his chin and heaved a sigh. ¡°I-I don¡¯t understand it. How can he shoot five men and not lose a wink of sleep? Or look at six more and become furious because he can¡¯t gun them down? Then there¡¯s all the stuff Wayne said about him, and¡­ I don¡¯t know.¡± Shaking his head, he bit his lip and looked his girl in the eyes, hoping against all hope to see the same fear he knew was shining out of his.


    He didn¡¯t. Instead, he found cold sorrow, warm compassion, and tender love in her beautiful brown eyes, all good and well, but not what he was looking for. Sensing as much, she reached out to take his hand and gave it a good squeeze until he squeezed back, holding her tight for all he was worth because he was so afraid to lose her to his cowardice. It must¡¯ve only been seconds before she spoke again, but in his heart, he felt like hours had passed. ¡°Caleb was the first man you ever seen die,¡± she said, and she got a faraway look in her eyes as she continued, ¡°Let me tell you about mine. It was early spring, only a few weeks after I turned seven. Daddy was out hunting or foraging or something, so the four of us were together at home, me, Mama, Mary Anne and little Jimmy who wasn¡¯t even a full year old yet. Wasn¡¯t much more than a shack, if that, one built right up against a rock face next to the Wayfarer, but it was ours. Mama was cooking supper over a fire, while I was playing with Mary Anne and little Jimmy takin¡¯ a nap. These were the rough years, before we made it to New Hope, where we spent winters alone, because food was scarce, and you couldn¡¯t trust no one. Come spring, the survivors would all get together again, or go on their own way depending on their mood, but with little Jimmy being just a babe and Mary Anne a few months shy of four, my parents wanted to press their luck and sit tight as long as they could instead of travelling round with all three of us in tow.¡±


    Errol held her hand tight, because he felt she needed it more than anything else. She paused for a bit, but he didn¡¯t rush her, letting her bask in the memories of her past, even if they clearly weren¡¯t some of the best. ¡°Man showed up one afternoon,¡± she said, continuing out of nowhere, ¡°Just let himself in without so much as a how you do. A ragged traveller, shaggy, filthy, and bone-thin. Must¡¯ve smelt our supper or seen the smoke from the campfire, or maybe he¡¯d seen Daddy walking away and traced the path back. Don¡¯t matter how he found us, but he did. A stranger, someone we¡¯d never met before, and he walked right through our front door with a bone ax in hand. Sat down at the table like he owned the place and said one word. ¡®Food¡¯.¡± Shrugging, Sarah Jay continued, still lost in the memory of that day. ¡°That¡¯s all he said, didn¡¯t wave his weapon around or mean mug me or Mary Anne, but didn¡¯t put down his ax neither. Kept it right on the table and rested his hand over top it while he ate what mama served him. Warm stew, but no bread, as none of us knew about breadroot just yet. Scarfed down the first bowl, then the second, and took his time drinking the third while eyeing Mama, me, and little Mary Anne in turn, like he was decidin¡¯ what to do with us.¡±


    Taking a deep breath, Sarah Jay let it out and finished the rest of her story in one go. ¡°Then Daddy came home. Kicked open the door and put a Bolt clean through the stranger¡¯s neck before he could turn. Died right there at the dinner table with both eyes open, and we left soon after, taking only what we could carry for fear the man had friends lingerin¡¯ about.¡±


    Finished with her story, Sarah Jay sat there and looked Errol in the eyes, and he felt like she could hear all the questions swimming around in his head, questions he dared not ask. Like, did the man threaten you? Throw things around? Did he even raise his voice? Sure, he had an ax, but the way Sarah Jay told it, he was just holding it, which was concerning, but not exactly a crime deserving of death.


    And that¡¯s when it hit him, the message she was trying to convey. ¡°You think I don¡¯t have what it takes to make it out here?¡± The question just slipped out, and it broke him to see her silent agreement while she struggled to come up with a nicer way to frame it.


    ¡°I think you¡¯ve lived a safe life,¡± was what she came up with. ¡°Or at least safe in comparison to others around these parts, which is why you see the best in everyone. I love that about you, but you gotta realize, not everyone grew up like that. Sure the area round the Highway looks civilized and settled these days. Wasn¡¯t always like that though. Was a time when most right-minded folks ran west the second they saw the badlands, while those seekin¡¯ to evade justice came out east in droves. Made life hard for all of us, and the Rangers had a rough time maintainin¡¯ order round these parts. That¡¯s the world Howie saw while travelling from town to town with his daddy, one in which he saw the worst humanity has to offer, and so he suspects the worst in everyone he meets.¡±


    Shaking his head, Errol said, ¡°That doesn¡¯t give him the right to kill anyone and everyone who crosses him.¡±


    ¡°Legally? No, but if it walks like duck and quacks like a duck¡­¡± Sarah Jay shrugged. ¡°The stranger who came into our home didn¡¯t make no threats, but he didn¡¯t make no effort to reassure us either. With me, Mama, and Mary Anne within reach, and little Jimmy sleepin¡¯ nearby, Daddy wasn¡¯t gonna take no risks givin¡¯ no warnings, and I think he was right not to, no matter what the Accords might say.¡± Eyes hardening as if daring him to say otherwise, Sarah Jay pushed on. ¡°Them scavs who robbed us today? They was ready and willin¡¯ to watch us walk into an Abby ambush and profit off our deaths. That¡¯s a crime right there, one of intent, even though it¡¯d be all but impossible to prove in a court of law. I ain¡¯t callin¡¯ for their heads, but I won¡¯t shed no tears if we pay ¡®em back in kind.¡± Still holding his hand tight, Sarah Jay brought his fingers to her cheek and said, ¡°You scared of Howie because you don¡¯t understand him. You see a dangerous killer, but the flip side of that coin is a stalwart protector. Captain Clay, Captain Jung, and all them Rangers are the same, and they got more blood on their hands than Howie, but you ain¡¯t afraid of them. Why¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°Because they¡¯re good people trying to do right by everyone,¡± Errol said, fighting the urge to look around to make sure Howie wasn¡¯t listening in. ¡°While Howie¡­ he works really hard at being good.¡±


    ¡°So?¡±


    ¡°Good people don¡¯t have to try to be good,¡± Errol said, growing frustrated from Sarah Jay¡¯s lack of understanding. ¡°They just are.¡±


    ¡°Oh Errol.¡± There it was, that pursed lip smile that thought he¡¯d said something funny or stupid again. ¡°Being good is the hardest thing a person can do, especially in trying times. Think about it. From what you¡¯ve told me, Father Nicolas is a good man, but how many others you know like him?¡±


    Errol opened his mouth to answer, then snapped it shut because the truth only proved her right. ¡°Captain Clay is a good man,¡± Errol said, ¡°And so¡¯s the Marshal. Captain Jung seems decent too.¡±


    Sarah Jay made a face, one that said she was holding back, so Errol stared in silent demand until she cracked. ¡°Those less inclined towards the Rangers call Captain Jung the Iron Maiden,¡± Sarah Jay said, ¡°On account of how she leaves bandits riddled with holes.¡± Made sense considering how she could sling four Bolts with a single Cast, but Sarah Jay wasn¡¯t done. ¡°As for Captain Clay, they call him the Judge. Most think it¡¯s ¡®cause his sidearm got the same name, but truth is it¡¯s short for Judge, Jury, and Executioner, on account of how he used to string bandits up without due process or last rites. That¡¯s why he moved all the way out to Meadowbrook actually, because he had a fallin¡¯ out with the Marshal over it.¡±


    Outwardly, Errol sat there and stared as if numb to all her words, while screaming inside. Skipping a trial was bad enough, but how could Captain Clay deny anyone their last rites, even a criminal? It was one thing to shoot a man dead in battle, but to take them prisoner and deny even their souls a chance for redemption? That was more monstrous than anything Errol could ever imagine, yet Sarah Jay acted like it was nothing big. ¡°That¡¯s Frontier Justice,¡± she said with a shrug. ¡°Was all we had back before there were judges and court-appointed attorneys, or even prisons and transports to move ¡®em around. Howie, the Rangers, and everyone else round these parts, they did what they had to do, same as what my daddy did, and same as what we might have to do, whether we stick with Howie or sign on with the Rangers. That¡¯s the world we live in Errol, and it is what it is.¡±


    It is what it is. A casual utterance of complete indifference, and a chilling outlook on life and morals in general. Errol¡¯s heart ached for her tattered and jaded soul, but he didn¡¯t know what to say, so he held her hand tight and prayed for guidance and forgiveness, because it was the only thing he knew.


    Maybe he should¡¯ve stayed home after all, found work at the ranch and helped out at the orphanage. Start fishing in the river maybe, or working with his hands making something that¡¯d last. A boring life to be sure, and a hard one too, but at least Errol wouldn¡¯t have to fear for his eternal soul, not like he did here on the wild Frontier.

 Chapter 32

    ¡°Sorry to bother you while you eat,¡± I say, grinning from ear to ear as I hold two papers and a pencil up in front of Marcus. ¡°Just need your mark on the dotted lines, and you can get back to your breakfast.¡±


    ¡°If you were really sorry, you wouldn¡¯t have done it.¡± Talking around a mouthful of dried bread and jerky, Marcus peers at the papers with a scowl, as he ain¡¯t ever been a morning person. ¡°What¡¯s this? A contract? Our verbal arrangement not good enough for you anymore?¡±


    ¡°Nah, that ain¡¯t it. Different thing.¡± Still grinning, I tap the paper on the dotted line. ¡°No need strain yourself readin¡¯, even if it is cute seein¡¯ you mouth the words as you go. Just sign and I¡¯ll get outta your hair.¡±


    Giving me a look that says he¡¯ll do no such thing, Marcus looks over the contract I scribbled down on a page from my notebook before going to sleep last night. One dictating the terms of a purchase agreement for one Mage Armour Spell Core at fair market value, the specifics of which will be decided later. There¡¯s a bit more to it, including a clause for open auction if we can¡¯t agree on a price, but it¡¯s standard boilerplate for selling valuable Spell Cores to the Rangers. ¡°Lucky you,¡± he says, checking to make sure both copies say the same thing before signing them both using my Spellbook as a clipboard. ¡°Earning big.¡±


    ¡°Yea,¡± I drawl, stretching the word out over a full two seconds as I collect my copy of the contract and tuck it into my Spellbook¡¯s sleeve. ¡°If only I was good enough to keep it for myself.¡±


    ¡°Lucky us then,¡± Marcus chimes without missing a beat, giving me a big old weatherworn grin before knuckling me on the shoulder. ¡°Don¡¯t worry Howie. You¡¯ll get there soon enough. Now hand it over.¡±


    Instead, I hand him a folded note which he scans right away. Nodding, he turns and bellows, ¡°Tink! Front and centre.¡±


    When Captain Clay calls, you best bet folks come running, and Conner arrives quick as a blink, his afro half flat from a good night¡¯s rest. ¡°Yea Cap?¡± Taking the proffered note, Conner looks it over and shakes his head, inferring Marcus¡¯ question as to whether he can whip up something to make use of the Mage Armour Spell Core better than I can. ¡°I could bootstrap something that works,¡± he says, scratching his chin stubble while he thinks. ¡°Need my books back in Meadowbrook to anything better than base though. Would probably be inefficient as hell too, as I¡¯ve never worked on something like this.¡± Shrugging at Marcus¡¯ sour look, Conner unapologetically says what he always says in situations like this. ¡°I¡¯m just a mechanic, man. I put parts together. I don¡¯t build ¡®em from scratch.¡± Gesturing at me, he adds, ¡°If Howie thinks he can do better, then let him try. Can¡¯t blow nothing up with what he¡¯s asking for. Worst he can do is burn his fingerprints off, and those¡¯ll grow back.¡±


    ¡°Thanks for the vote of confidence Conner,¡± I say with a smile, and I get a swift tap on the back of the head for my sass. We both grinning though, as I¡¯ve spent many an hour helping him tune up Ranger gear when he was stationed back in New Hope. I ain¡¯t nowhere near as good as Danny, but I know a little bit, enough to do this much at least. I know Conner can too, though I ain¡¯t sure if he telling the truth about needing his books, or if he just trying to help me get paid for work. Then again, maybe he plain don¡¯t want to do it and is happy to have me fill in.


    ¡°All right,¡± Marcus says, still addressing Conner. ¡°Talk to Wayne and get Howie what he needs.¡± Giving me a warning look, Marcus adds, ¡°Best we keep you two separate. For my sake, not yours.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough,¡± I say, since it is. Turning to Conner as he heads off, I add, ¡°Leave the stuff with Errol or Sarah Jay? I gotta head out soon.¡±


    ¡°Not today,¡± Marcus says through another mouthful of hardtack and jerky. ¡°You and your boot are riding with the wagons, so you can get started on that work right now.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t need me to scout?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t need you for anything, boot,¡± Marcus replies with a wink. ¡°I got plenty of Rangers with eyes that work just fine, but only one half-baked Artificer who can build me what I need.¡± His smile fades and is replaced by weather-worn worry as he glances at the boots, most of whom are still asleep. ¡°Besides, your boot deserves a chance to walk away, same as the rest.¡±


    Ah. Right. Not gonna lie, the thought of Kacey calling it quits never crossed my mind. Mostly because I been trying to keep her off my mind, lest my temper get the better of me. To that effect, I change the subject. ¡°Y¡¯all got a pool goin¡¯ on how many gonna get gone? I¡¯m guessing least five walk out, on top of the three wounded.¡±


    ¡°No bet,¡± Marcus says. Heaving a sigh, he looks the boots over once more with a conflicted expression. ¡°They¡¯re not ready for this. Not their fault. They got the makings of Rangers, but they¡¯re about ten years too early. A tour or three with the Army would set them right, thirty to fifty other grunts moving together with heavy weapons, armoured vehicles, and aerial support. Expecting them to do Ranger work so soon is too optimistic, and I¡¯m a fool for thinking otherwise.¡±


    Ain¡¯t like him to second guess himself, so I cheer the big guy on. ¡°Bah. You overthinkin¡¯ it. They a promisin¡¯ bunch. Sure, they got a ways to go before they¡¯re Ranger ready, but I reckon those that stick it out¡¯ll get there eventually.¡±


    ¡°Assuming they survive long enough.¡±


    Ah. I see the problem now. ¡°Gotta hammer the iron to forge the tip of the spear,¡± I say, even though Marcus knows as much. He worries is all, especially when it comes to the younger generation. ¡°They ready as they¡¯ll ever be, Marcus. Some¡¯ll make it, some won¡¯t, and end of the day, it¡¯s better to be lucky than good.¡±


    ¡°Truer words have never been spoken.¡±


    Glancing around to make sure there ain¡¯t anyone too close by to overhear, I stand next to Marcus and watch over the sleeping boots with him. ¡°Truth is, they ain¡¯t as terrible as I expected.¡± Most of them at least. Nate¡¯s a lost cause, and he ain¡¯t the only one. ¡°There¡¯s some real potential here. Not too much though, seeing how Tina¡¯s top boot.¡±


    That draws a little chuckle out of Marcus. ¡°Girl¡¯s a born gunfighter and Spellslinger if I ever seen one, and a hard worker too. Your daddy trained her same as you, so with you out of the running, I¡¯d be more surprised if she wasn¡¯t top boot.¡±


    ¡°She got talent, I¡¯ll give her that,¡± I say, glad he took the bait. ¡°Thing is, hardworking she may be, she also got a lot on her plate. How many other boots got chores after trainin¡¯? Not many I reckon. Captain Jung keeps ¡®em busy, but not so busy they don¡¯t got time for a few drinks at the saloon every afternoon. With how busy Tina is, it wouldn¡¯t be hard for another boot to overshadow her through sheer effort alone. A couple extra hours of practice a day adds up quick, hours Tina don¡¯t got to spare. Sarah Jay could¡¯ve taken the crown with a few more weeks in Basic, I¡¯ll say that much, and I bet there two or three more who could do it too.¡± Like Michael, Kacey, or Antoni. That last one came as a bit of a surprise, as I seen him around once or twice before, a real shrinking violet from across the pond in Riverrun. Almost didn¡¯t recognize him when I saw him yesterday with a gleam in his eyes and a grin on his face while gunning down Abby, a look folks often seen on me when I¡¯m doing the same.


    Most soldiers learn to endure the life we live; Antoni was born for it, hungers for it, and he¡¯ll go far if given the chance.


    That¡¯s neither here nor there though, as I¡¯m here to support Marcus the way he¡¯s supported me all these years. ¡°I¡¯ll tell you this much,¡± I say, clapping Marcus on the shoulder in a half-hug. ¡°Darren would¡¯ve given Tina a good run for her money.¡± Always risky mentioning his name around Marcus, and the big guy tenses up, but I power on through without missing a beat. ¡°You remember how he was, always making everything he did into a competition? Who get to the lake first, who climb the highest tree or jump farthest on the swing. He had a yearnin¡¯ for competition, always pushin¡¯ himself to the limit, and once he won, he¡¯d just move onto the next challenge. Might not¡¯ve been top boot from day one, but he¡¯d have gotten there right quick.¡±


    There¡¯s a short pause that lasts a lifetime while I wait for Marcus to respond, and I hold my breath until he does. ¡°Remember your candy eating competition?¡± he asks with a chuckle, throwing his big meaty arm around my shoulder without having to stand, and for once, I keep myself from flinching. ¡°Found you two lying in the grass with an empty jar of gummies and piles of vomit around the both of you.¡±


    ¡°Best dollar I ever spent.¡± We take a few minutes to reminisce about Darren before Marcus sends me off with a pat on the head. While he still got that melancholy look in his eye, you wouldn¡¯t know it was there unless you know him well. Like I said, ain¡¯t a man or woman alive on the Frontier who ain¡¯t lost someone, and for Marcus and Simone, that¡¯d be Darren, their own firstborn. Was a few months younger than Tina, but old enough to get in on this first boot camp if not for a twist of fate. Handful of tweakers thought they could stick up the bank in New Hope and get away clean. Idiots is what they was, waving guns around in a building full of Rangers and their Officers. Their kids too, or at least one kid, Darren who¡¯d come running to visit his dad at the office after class. Bolt wasn¡¯t even aimed at him; the bandit whodunnit was on the floor below, firing up into the ceiling to make his intentions known.


    Fact is, that was the only shot them bandits got off. All five of them got their clocks cleaned before they could finish saying, ¡®This is a robbery¡¯, but eleven-year-old Darren was already dead, clipped in the neck by the single Penetrating Bolt the bandits shot off. Poor kid had his whole life ahead of him, only to be robbed of it all by some worthless, two-bit bandit. Bad luck is what it was, and the loss tore Marcus up something fierce, so much so that he went on a rampage stringing up bandits, drug dealers, and their suppliers by the dozen for a good three or four years. He¡¯s calmed down since, but he¡¯s still hurting bad, and I don¡¯t blame him for it. He don¡¯t let the pain slow him down none though, at least not most of the time. Here and now, with so many young boots under his wing, I can understand why he¡¯s so worried and anxious, as he sees Darren in each and every one of their faces.


    Well, they ain¡¯t him though, no matter how much Marcus wishes otherwise, and if these boots want to be Rangers, then they¡¯re gonna have to face the risks. No way around it, as there ain¡¯t no surefire safety to be found here on the Frontier. Better to face it head on than bury your head in the sand is what I always say, but there always gonna be those who think different. They¡¯d be wrong, except they think they right because they¡¯ve survived this long, and don¡¯t realize they owe their lives to all the good men and women who¡¯ve died keeping them safe.


    There¡¯s more than an hour before we¡¯re schedule to get moving, so I head back to my ¡®bed¡¯ to study some Spell Structures while waiting on Conner for my materials. The downside of being a Scout you see, having to set out bright and early to get a head start, which is why I¡¯m up and about while everyone else gets to sleep in. Well, technically not everyone else, which is why Kacey rushes to get dressed after she wakes and sees the rising red sun cresting over the golden horizon. Course she got no reason to rush considering we ain¡¯t scouting today, but I keep that to myself until she notices I¡¯m still sitting down on the job and comes over to see what¡¯s what. Shoots a real mean glare too when I tell her we riding with the wagons today, like she blaming me for not letting her know sooner.


    What was I supposed to do? Wake her up to tell her she could sleep in?


    Rather than say as much though, she gives a little huff before she goes to leave with Inari bundled up in her arms. Feeling a little vindictive, I sit up and say, ¡°Hang on a tick.¡± Craning my neck to look up at her, I frown a bit and gesture for her to come closer. Earns me another huff and a darker glare, but she takes a knee and waits for me to speak, as I haven¡¯t exactly decided what to say just yet. Certainly ain¡¯t because I¡¯m distracted by how nice she look with her silky, light-brown hair worn loose and down, or the fact that she sleeps in loose shorts that really show off her long, slender, milky white legs. ¡°Relax,¡± I begin, doing my best to keep a level head and my eyes fixed on hers. ¡°I didn¡¯t call you here to talk about what went down between you and Tina.¡± Pieced it together well enough, and while I¡¯m angry, I ain¡¯t angry enough to do anything about it. Especially not with Tina getting all riled up about handling her own business, which is why I didn¡¯t say nothing to Errol neither. Man has some nerve looking at her like he did once he learned she could cast Madness, like she one bad day from murdering babes in their crib. Taking another deep breath to cool off, I say, ¡°That¡¯s for you and her to work out, or not. Either way, I ain¡¯t here to play peacemaker, warn ye off, or nothing.¡±


    Despite all my efforts to play nice and ease her worries, my long and lengthy preamble has got her hackles up. More interesting is how Inari follows suit, leading me to wonder if they got some kinda Spell Bond that lets them share emotions. ¡°Then what are you here for?¡± Kacey asks in clipped, precise tones, and the little fox bares her fangs to match.


    ¡°Well,¡± I begin, reminding myself to keep calm, ¡°I wanna apologize for leavin¡¯ you in the lurch like I did yesterday, after we was hit by that Fear Spell. You had it handled well, but I could¡¯ve and should¡¯ve done more to help you weather through it instead of runnin¡¯ off on my own.¡±


    ¡°I am fine.¡±


    ¡°Never said you weren¡¯t.¡± Resisting the urge to crack wise, glare back, or even speak harshly, I work real hard to sound calm and steady as I go over what Aunty Ray told me. ¡°Said you handled it well, but I figured we ought to have this talk all the same. A Fear Spell tends to have effects which linger long after the Spell fades, and sometimes it takes a little extra effort to bounce back. For all intents and purposes, the response you experienced from the Spell was psychologically and physiologically no different from a real scare. Problem is, once the Spell ends, your conscious mind understands what happened was due to magic, but your body and subconscious mind have a harder time setting things right. They tend to get hung up on that fear, because even though there was never anything real to be afraid of, they don¡¯t know that. All they know is that there was a threat, and since they couldn¡¯t perceive and identify it to begin with, they can take some convincing before they accept that everything¡¯s hunky dory again.¡±


    Which is probably why Kacey had trouble sleeping last night, hence the late start to her morning. Would¡¯ve had this talk yesterday if I¡¯d been calm enough to keep things civil. Still not entirely sure I am, to be honest. Was looking forward to chewing her out for being late for scouting duties, except I was robbed of the opportunity. What can I say? I¡¯m petty like that.


    Not so petty as to wait for her to ask for help when it¡¯s clear she needs it. That¡¯s why she¡¯s got them dark shadows under her eyes, and why she¡¯s still listening, so I press on. ¡°Best way I¡¯ve found is breathing exercises,¡± I say, crossing my legs and gesturing for her to do the same, and it takes effort not to stare. ¡°My daddy taught ¡®em to me after my first bout with the Fear Spell left me feeling like my chest was all tense and tight, even days after the fact.¡± Anxiety is what it was, fear of experiencing fear again, which is just all sorts of twisted if you ask me. Humans ain¡¯t built for this sort of life, which is why I go easy on those who choose to live with their head up in the clouds. Silly is what it is, but some folks can¡¯t function unless they pretend death ain¡¯t lurking in every shadow and around every corner.


    A few minutes is all it takes to run Kacey through some meditation practice, and I offer a couple other suggestions too. Exercise, focusing on other tasks, challenging her negative thoughts, idle conversation, there¡¯s lotta ways to go about it, and it¡¯s up to her to figure out what works best. ¡°Could even spend some time playing with your fox,¡± I say, reaching out to poke the little white furball on the nose and retracting my hand right quick when she snaps at my finger. ¡°Been out here for days and I ain¡¯t seen you play fetch even once. Downright criminal is what it is, neglect and abuse of the highest order.¡±


    ¡°Inari prefers tug of war.¡± Stroking the three-tailed beastie with the barest hint of a smile, Kacey clutches the little creature close before looking up to meet my eyes. ¡°Thank you for the advice,¡± she says, before pursing her lips like she don¡¯t like the taste of the words, and now that I know to look, I can see little Inari got a similar expression. ¡°It is most helpful.¡±


    Though it sounds like she¡¯s done talking, I can tell she got more to say, she just don¡¯t know how to say it. Well, casual conversation is one of the ways to relax after a big scare, and seeing how she¡¯s my boot, I suppose I ought to help her out. ¡°What¡¯s the deal with Inari anyway?¡± I ask, working hard not to get all tongue twisted over the strange name. ¡°Don¡¯t have to say nothing if it¡¯s some sorta secret, but she ain¡¯t what I was expecting from a Summoned beastie.¡±


    ¡°There is no secret,¡± Kacey says, stroking the scared little fox¡¯s head, and I gotta wonder how much of that fear is hers. ¡°Inari is my familiar.¡± Before I can crack wise about how I ain¡¯t familiar with the term, she continues her explanation in a rambling, roundabout manner. I don¡¯t rush her, just offer a few leading questions to help keep her mind off her fear and sate my curiosity at the same time. In broad strokes, a familiar is a conjured entity like any other, a creation of Aether, Ectoplasm, and Spirit/Soul/whatever you wanna call it. You take a totem, use the Bind Companion Cantrip to sacrifice some Spirit, and create a brand-new spiritual entity, which when summoned using the relevant Spell, gains a conjured body of ectoplasm in the general shape of the totem, and a brain to go with it that¡¯s typically about as smart as a toddler. There¡¯s a lot more to it of course, but Kacey don¡¯t get into the specifics as she assumes I already know them.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    What I do know is that one, most summons are bigger and more useful than little Inari, and two, they don¡¯t stick around 24/7. In fact, a full minute is the base standard for Summoning Spells, meaning you get a measly sixty seconds out of a First Order Spell when you starting out. Not all that useful all things considered, as a First Order summon is only about as big and dangerous as baby Cowie, without the smarts or Spellslinging to boot. I will say that Summoning Spells scale up well as you move up in Orders. Not only does your summoned creature get bigger, stronger and stick around longer, they get smarter too. At Sixth Order, you can summon something with near human intelligence and dexterity, meaning you can conjure up a Spellslinging, gunfighting friend whenever you need one.


    Albeit at the cost of a Sixth Order Spell, which would put you at the top 1% of humanity, if not higher. And your Concentration too, which is a hefty price to bear, as you gotta focus on the Spell lest it come apart. Like Saheed pointed out, you can only have one Concentration Spell going at a time, and all the best Spells require it. Bless, Aid, Mirror Image, hell, even the Shield Spell needs Concentration to work, and all them feel more useful than having a hunting dog or even a tuskwolf for a few minutes at a time. That, among other reasons, is why the only summoning Spell I know is Simple Servant, which conjures up my blobby little helper for a full hour without Concentration.


    Though now I¡¯m fixing to learn the Summon Familiar Spell, as it sounds mighty useful. According to Kacey, it¡¯s a Spell that actually predates Simple Servant, and modern Spellcasting in general, a fancy bit of magic which don¡¯t require concentration and doesn¡¯t have a time limit. Instead, Inari¡¯s physical form draws sustenance from Kacey¡¯s life force instead, along with daily meals and whatnot. Means the little three-tailed fox is still a conjured beastie made of Ecto, but one that could arguable be considered a fully-fledged biological entity. Got blood and organs and everything, which makes Inari something like Kacey¡¯s Spiritual offspring given physical form, though I know better than to ask what happens if the little fox dies. Still, having another furry friend to cuddle and love is cool enough to warrant looking into, but there are other benefits too. Chief among them being the ability to learn and link senses. Traditionally, it was so the Spellcaster could utilize their familiar¡¯s senses to better interpret Aetheric flows and whatnot back before they had mathematical formulas, but being able to smell with a fox¡¯s nose or remotely see with their eyes is a huge advantage here on the Frontier, and it¡¯s one reason which makes Kacey such a great prospect for a Scout.


    Eager as I am to learn the Spell for myself, now ain¡¯t the time or place. Instead, I note Kacey¡¯s relaxed posture as she waves a ribbon around for Inari to chase and pat myself on the back for a job well done. At the same time, she picks up on it too and offers me a quiet nod of thanks. Without so much as scowl this time, which really hammers home how pretty she is, and I gotta remind myself that I¡¯m cross with her. I¡¯m also supposed to show her the ropes, which applies to more than just scouting, so I figure it needs to be said. ¡°Word of advice?¡± I say, tentatively adding, ¡°As a tutor, not Tina¡¯s sorta-brother.¡± Kacey tenses up, but nods all the same, and I continue, ¡°You ought to apologize, loudly and publicly. Not because it¡¯s the ¡®right¡¯ or ¡®moral¡¯ thing to do, even if it is. I ain¡¯t here to preach inclusion or diversity or whatever. You ought to apologize because Tina ain¡¯t the only Innate in the Rangers.¡±


    Far from it in fact, as most folks see it as the fastest and easiest way to become a proficient Spellslinger. Course, it comes with all the baggage of possible physical mutations, mental afflictions, and emotional instability, not to mention all the discrimination, but power do come at a price.


    My warning sinks in as Kacey nods with a pout, one which I still find mighty fetching. ¡°And as a Scout, I will likely work alongside more Rangers than most,¡± she says, picking up on my meaning right quick. The second she gets her skills up to snuff, she¡¯ll be in high demand and get bounced around to whatever, Company, Squad, or Strike Team that needs her. Almost any Ranger can handle the mundane portion of scouting, but the job¡¯s about more than finding tracks and watching for ambushes. Thing is, if Kacey gets herself a rep for hating Innates, it won¡¯t just be Innates who come to distrust her. The teammates of those Innates won¡¯t trust her either, and when you working in a five-man Strike Team, having one person you can¡¯t trust can be a death-sentence for all of you.


    All it takes is one moment of hesitation, one iota of doubt, one inkling of apprehension for whatever info Kacey brings to taint the whole operation and spell the difference between victory and success on the battlefield. So, even though the words send a pang of rage and regret through me, I tell Kacey the same lie I once believed. ¡°Ain¡¯t no race, creed, or colour among Rangers,¡± I say, and to my surprise, I even sound like I mean it. ¡°Only thing that matters is you all wear the same star on your chest.¡±


    And you bleed American, but they usually leave that part out.


    After chewing on my words for a bit, Kacey looks me up and down like she seeing me for the first time. ¡°You are less¡­ quarrelsome than expected,¡± she says, in her matter-of-fact manner, and I ain¡¯t sure how to feel about it. ¡°Thank you again for the advice.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s why I get paid the big bucks.¡± It takes a lot of willpower not to ruin the rapport we got going with a warning or threat, as I tend to get overprotective when it comes to Tina and Chrissy. Thankfully, Cowie trots on over with a mouthful of half-chewed oats to indicate it¡¯s time for his morning brushing, so I leave Kacey sitting in the sand to do just that. By the time I¡¯m done, Conner brings me all the materials I need to settle down and work next to the wagon, freeing me from any more conversation, work obligations, or social niceties.


    Technically speaking, what I¡¯m doing here with the Mage Armour Spell Core is making an Artifact. That¡¯s what they used to call objects that worked off the principles of Spell Cores and Aetheric Energy, but these days, the ¡®proper¡¯ term would be Arcanic Technological Device. Reason is we started figuring out how to make things that run solely off of Aetheric Energy, like stoves, speakers, and my Spell-storing boots, all of which don¡¯t require a Spell Core to function, so Artifact wasn¡¯t suitable anymore. Rather than come up with a bunch of different names however, the brainy bunch decided a more comprehensive catch-all term was required. Hence, Arcanic Technological Device. Don¡¯t really roll of the tongue, so normal folks just call it all Arcana-tech, though ¡®Artifact¡¯ still works for anything built around a Spell Core. Aetherarms, Floating Disc sleds, my Shield bracer, all technically Artifacts, and building one is a fairly simple process.


    The basic principles are the same no matter what Spell Core you working with. You need the Spell Core, an actuator to activate it, and Aether to power the whole thing. That¡¯s all there is to it, though some Spell Cores take a little more work to get going right. Mage Armour ain¡¯t one of them, but I¡¯m looking to do a bit more than just make it work. If not, the company Artificer Connor ¡®Tinker¡¯ Bell could¡¯ve handled this himself, and same goes for at least half-a-dozen Rangers here. What I¡¯m looking to do is a little more complex though, namely utilize Metamagics and Aetheric dynamics to pump more power into the Spell Core and get a better, longer lasting Mage Armour outta it. At the added cost of extra Aether of course, but the difference between a four Grain Mage Armour and a forty Grain Mage Armour is well worth it to say the least. Ain¡¯t no way I could manage something that takes forty Grain though, not out here in the desert with only travel tools and miscellaneous materials, but any improvement is better than base.


    With that in mind, I take out the non-conductive baseboard and give it a good wipe. Technically, it¡¯s a repurposed ceramic plate, upon which I¡¯ll be doing all my Etchings and circuitry. In the same vein as ¡®measure twice and cut once¡¯, you wanna always have a plan before you start laying copper and Etching, so I get to work with my pencil and notebook mapping and math-ing things out. Ask any Artificer, and they¡¯ll tell you rectangles are the best shape to work with, as it keeps things nice and tidy as you work section by section. When it comes to tradition and aesthetics though, there¡¯s nothing more pleasing than a circle. Given the round ceramic plate I¡¯m using as my baseboard, a circle is what I¡¯m going with, so I plan things out with the Spell Core mounted dead centre because it¡¯ll look best that way. Danny, he wouldn¡¯t care one bit how it looks so long as it works and it fits, but me, I¡¯m a particular sort who likes his work to look nice and neat.


    So while the premise behind all this is simple enough, that ain¡¯t the same as saying it¡¯s easy. That¡¯s why I¡¯m still in the planning stages when it comes time to get underway almost an hour later. Unwilling to call it quits, I convince Tina to cast Floating Disc as practice for snowboarding down the line and hop on top for a smooth and steady ride. Earns me a few giggles from the peanut gallery and a joke about invisible magic carpet rides from Sarah Jay, but it¡¯s worth it since I can work on the move. Tough to draw while jostling around on a horse or wagon, and impossible to Etch, so I give as good as I get while floating in between Cowie and old Tux, with Tina sitting up top. Gives me a front row seat to Kacey¡¯s apology, which even sounds heartfelt and sincere, so I¡¯m of a mind to believe it. Don¡¯t like her excuses much, about how her mama used to scare her straight and tell her all bad kids get taken away by the Aberrant Death Squads. For many reasons really. Innates ain¡¯t Aberrations, for starters, and I resent the implications that come with the label. Sure, that¡¯s what the Qin Immortal Monarch called his genocidal military units, of which many members were powerful multi-Attuned Innates who committed all sorts of atrocities during the Second World War, but saying it don¡¯t make it true. Secondly, there always gonna be reasons to hate, and far as reasons go, a war that happened fifty years back on a whole other world ain¡¯t a great one. Could spend hours slinging mud about what the old world nations did during the last great war, and not a one of them would come out clean.


    Especially Nippon, who had two Aetheric bombs dropped on them before they were willing to call it quits and stop massacring Qinese civilians on the mainland. Yea, the Qinese and Nipponese got a long history of hatred between them, but what¡¯s that got to do with me, Tina, and Kacey? Nothing, that¡¯s what, same as how it¡¯s got nothing to do with anyone on the Frontier, since there ain¡¯t a man or woman out here that was alive in 1945.


    My own personal beefs aside, Tina graciously accepts the apology and sees it as an invitation to become close friends, a storm of bright cheer and curious questions which Kacey weathers better than I ever could. Buys me enough breathing room to work without having Tina mentioning my poor symmetry and ugly squiggles. Art ain¡¯t my strong suit, no matter the medium, so I settle for neat and orderly over conventionally pretty. Once the blueprint is drawn and done, I stick to the principle of getting the easy parts done first and start putting together the bits and bobs I¡¯ll need for the finished product. Ain¡¯t a whole lot of work involved there, as it¡¯s mostly an assortment of copper wire and spare parts. Every Artificer keeps a stash on hand for quick and easy fixes, because while it¡¯s possible to build resonators, infusers, and diodes from scratch, factory made parts are so much more convenient.


    Besides, I ain¡¯t footing the bill, so why cheap out on parts?


    The only thing I¡¯m forced to build from scratch is the arcacitor, which aside from the Spell Core and power source, is the most important part of the whole Artifact. The technical details make arcacitors sound more complicated than they really are, as it¡¯s just two metal discs no bigger than the communion wafers they hand out at Catholic mass fixed parallel to one another, with a thin gap of air in between. Brightsteel discs to be exact, which ain¡¯t the opposite of Darksteel, but it¡¯s close enough. While the latter is dark, heavy, and durable, Brightsteel is shiny, malleable, and a great conductor of Aetheric Energy, so much so that the gap between two discs don¡¯t stop the flow, only slows it for long enough to build up to a certain level on one disc before jumping over to the next, without any physical connection between them. By fiddling with the thickness of those discs and the gap between them, you can ensure you have enough energy to power the entire Artifact, Metamagics and circuitry included, before feeding it into the circuit all at once, a necessary precaution to ensure the Spell Core uses the same amount of Aether for each cast. Too much and the Core could crack, too little and you end up with an underpowered effect, neither of which is what you want.


    Making sure to leave room for adding or removing discs on the arcacitor to account for variables down the line, I put the finished piece aside and start work on Etching the actuator. With a Bolt Spell Core, the actuator is a mechanical device, and it comes in two parts. Most of it is stamped into the seal, which becomes the back end of the bullet casing once its packed and ready to go. The other part lies on the firing pin or the hammer, depending on how the gun is built. When the pin or hammer strikes the seal, it completes the circuit as it were and tells the Core to let loose, after which the circuit is broken because the Core got no more Aether to power it. Seemed like a real backwards way to go about it, stamping incomplete, single-use seals onto the back of your ammo, when it¡¯d be so much easier to put a complete actuator on the Aetherarm itself. Truth is, Aetherarms don¡¯t need to be all that complicated. I could make one out of a hollow twig to hold the Core, Aether, and primer, with a second, thinner twig to act as an actuator which activates the Core with a poke. Said as much to Mr. Kalthoff too, and he told me all those extra steps were safety features. By making it a two-part process with seal and firing pin, you lessens the chance of accidental activation. That don¡¯t make it zero, but when it comes to Aetherarms, you can bet your last dollar that every rule and safety feature is written in blood.


    Don¡¯t gotta worry about any of that with a Mage Armour Spell Core though, so all I gotta do is make sure the actuator fits on top of the Spell Core without causing a short circuit before moving on to prepping Core itself. To start, I wrap five loops of copper wire around the centre of the plum-sized Spell Core and cut the wire, so it looks like it wearing a little belt with a single band poking out at either end. Those¡¯ll be the input and output for the overall circuit, which will also be laid out in copper. It don¡¯t conduct Aetheric Energy nearly half as well as Brightsteel, but it¡¯s about a thousand times cheaper and won¡¯t allow that energy to make any jumps, so it¡¯ll do just fine. Leaving a little gap above and below the belt, I wrap three more loops on either side which¡¯ll serve as the coupling for the actual actuator itself. For that, Conner provided me with a thin piece of curved copper, which looks like it could¡¯ve come off the casing of a pocket watch or travel mirror. Sits nicely atop the exposed surface of the Spell Core with a minimal application of force, which is a nice added bonus, as now the Core got a little hat to go along with its belt.


    And whatever the two triple bands could be. Necklace and girder, I guess, but I feel like this is where the metaphor falls apart.


    Undeterred by my inability to dress the Spell Core, I smooth out the bumps in the curved copper piece before picking up my Etching wand. More of an Etching pen really, seeing how it got a pointed tip which you write with, but tradition and convention is a powerful thing. Popping the top off, I fill the little dynamo¡¯s tiny tank with several dozen Grain of crystallized Aether and liquid primer, which is a slow-acting primer that¡¯s cheaper and more efficient than the powder mix used in bullets. Add in the comparatively slow trickle of power you get from a dynamo, and the Etching Wand will take it¡¯s time converting a single Grain of crystallized Aether into Aetheric Energy, which is exactly what I want. There¡¯s no Spell Core in the wand, just a circuit that consists of a whole lot of resistors packed into the tip, which generates a bunch of heat when Aether Energy flows through it. That¡¯s why slow is all good and fine, as there¡¯s no need for quick and immediate power when it comes to Etching, so I review my notes while the wand heats up good and proper. From here, all the work has gotta be done freehand, as I got no stencil to follow and no patience to make one. Besides, there¡¯s more to Etching than leaving a mark. These days, it¡¯s a fairly common skill to learn, as we mostly got it down to a science, but there was a time when Etching was every bit as esoteric as Spellslinging, way back when folks were still blaming witches for curses and asking wizards for advice on systems of governance.


    Mystical Runes. Arcane Glyphs. Magical Sigils. Celestial Script. Occult Markings. Got all sorts of different names, too many to list, but no matter what you call them, an Etch is an Etch, and what it does is guide the Metaphysical flow of Aether in the physical world. Ain¡¯t just the patterns themselves, though that is a part of how it works, with plenty of rules and principles to follow when carving out your curvy, swoopy lines. End of the day though, they just markings that don¡¯t do much of anything at all unless you Etch them in. That¡¯s the term we use for injecting your Spirit or Soul or what have you into the mix. When I pick up my Etching Wand and press the tip into the metal, I¡¯m doing more than just carving out fancy patterns; I¡¯m ingraining the very essence of my metaphysical being into those lines so they can contain the raw power of the Immaterium.


    In laymen¡¯s terms, the physical patterns made while Etching is akin to digging lines in the dirt. Don¡¯t matter how much water you pour into those lines, most of it¡¯s gonna get soaked up by the soil and turn them lines to mud. If you want to dig a proper channel, you gotta do something to keep the water from draining away into the dirt, like lay down some pipe. That¡¯s where the magic comes in with Etching, and what my Spirit is for, forming a seal in the physical markings that¡¯ll contain metaphysical Aether and force it to flow in a certain manner within the material world. In this particular case with the actuator, these Etchings ain¡¯t meant to modify the Mage Armour Spell, but merely signal to the Spell Core itself that it should cast its Spell on whoever is in physical contact with the actuator. Don¡¯t take more than a thought and a focused effort of will, similar to how I signal the Aether-Suspension Matrices in my boots to cast the Spell on me, a process that happens in the blink of an eye.


    Note that all Etchings only apply to metaphysical Aether, as regular, physical Aether got no choice but to flow everywhere it can, through it¡¯ll move quickest through the path of least resistance. Don¡¯t matter if it¡¯s Brightsteel, copper, or even air, material Aether¡¯s gotta follow the rules of the material world, simple as that. Which is what makes Spell Cores so fascinating really. A Spellcaster is connected to the Immaterium in way we don¡¯t entirely understand, one which adds metaphysical ¡®weight¡¯ to their presence. That¡¯s why the Qin Republic sent all them kids through the Gate without a Spell to their name after all; because regular, non-casting humans were cheaper to transport than established Spellcasters. There¡¯s no physical difference between the two, no Core or matrix in a Spellcaster¡¯s body, but they definitely ain¡¯t the same as Joe Schmoe who can¡¯t cast a Cantrip to save his life. That difference lies in the metaphysical realm, with the prevailing theory being that the human consciousness exists in a quantum state or something, and we use that to bridge a connection between our memorized Spell Structures and the Immaterium in order to Aether to power our Spells. Hence the need for chants and finger waggles, so we don¡¯t accidentally sling Spells. It also explains why you need to Concentrate on certain Spells, because they require a constant flow of Aether which you can only maintain by focusing your conscious mind on the Spell.


    As for Spell Cores? They¡¯re a bit of a puzzle really. Put one inside a person or animal, and the Spell Core melts away to rewrite the host¡¯s DNA so they can connect to the Immaterium, the same way as any established Spellcaster. In Abby though? The Spell Core retains its physical form while acting as a connection to the Immaterium and allowing its host to sling Spells. We know this because one, we can harvest Cores off dead Abby, and two, they don¡¯t need crystallized or materialized Aether to power the Spell Cores inside them. Instead, those Cores draw Aetheric Energy direct from the Immaterium like any other Spell Caster, even when working through the Core. This means that Spell Cores, when placed within an Aberration body, act as a physical pipeline to a metaphysical realm that exists in both worlds at the same time, like some sort of four-dimensional object in three-dimensional space. Wild is what that is, and if we can replicate that connection, find out how to tap directly into the Immaterium itself through mechanical or bio-mineral means, then we¡¯ll have access to a source of near infinite energy, which could solve all of humanity¡¯s material needs. Fascinating stuff, or at least I think so. Course, arcanists and scientists have been working on this problem for some five-hundred years now, and we ain¡¯t no closer to success than when we started, but it¡¯s still incredible to think about every now and then.


    Once I¡¯m done Etching the actuator and ready to move on, I allow myself a few minutes to stretch and relax. ¡°How¡¯s your Floatin¡¯ Disc Spell holdin¡¯ up, Songbird?¡± I ask, and Tina shoots me a silent pout in reply. ¡°What are we? Three hours in and countin¡¯?¡± Not bad considering the base Spell only lasts an hour, meaning she¡¯s been Concentrating on maintaining it for the last two hours and change. Bet she thought it¡¯d be all fun and games seeing how long she could hold the Spell, right up until I hopped on with all my tools and started Etching away. Me, I¡¯d have dropped it in a heartbeat and laughed, but she¡¯s a responsible sort who felt obligated to hold out until now, and I¡¯m impressed. Concentrating on a Spell to maintain its effect starts off simple enough, but like counting prime numbers, it gets harder the longer you keep at it, so she done good for her first rodeo. Flashing my pearly whites in a big ol¡¯ grin, I gather up my things and step over onto the wagon before tipping my Stetson at Tina who lets go of the Spell with a sigh. ¡°Much obliged for the lift.¡±


    Gesturing for Sarah Jay to sit tight instead of making room for me to squeeze in on the bench, I work my way along the side of my wagon so I can pull a Floating Disc sled out from underneath. Halfway there, I stop and look around as my jimmies get to rustling just a bit. Nothing big like the preamble to yesterday¡¯s ambush, or even anything dangerous that make me wanna run. No, this more like an itch, a tingle in my belly that got me looking sharp. Don¡¯t take long to figure out what¡¯s what, as I notice more than half the Rangers missing from our little caravan. Even accounting for outriders looking out for illusions, we shouldn¡¯t be this short on hands, so I get off the wagon, untether Fifi from the back, and hop on bareback. The sweet filly is happy for the company and the chance to stretch her legs, so I let her work off a bit of energy as we trot out to ask Marcus what¡¯s what. Don¡¯t take more than a minute to find him, and he shoots me a grin from atop his big, burly stallion, one so thick they gotta give him two stalls worth of room just so he can turn around inside. Even then, my heart goes out to the poor horsie, who don¡¯t look like much more than a pony under Marcus¡¯ big burly mass.


    ¡°Bout time you noticed,¡± he says, unaware of my inner thoughts, else he¡¯d smack me upside the head with a scowl. ¡°You gotta stay sharp Howie, even when you¡¯re not scouting.¡±


    True enough, so I make no excuses and knuckle my head. ¡°Apologies oh Captain my Captain. Got distracted with my project. Won¡¯t happen again. Made good progress though. Things go well, then I should have it done by tonight, or tomorrow morning at the latest.¡± So far, all I done is dress it up, as the real work lays in the Metamagic circuit. Only confident of Etching two, maybe three Metamagics without further reference, and even then, they¡¯ll be rough. Won¡¯t be a problem, since I¡¯ll be running it off of a spare Aetheric Dynamo rather than crystallized Aether, which will provide a steady and interruptible supply of energy at the cost of extra Grainage and time to Prime and Exhaust.


    All of which Marcus expects, since I wrote as much in my note, so he simply nods and looks out at the horizon. ¡°Trouble¡¯s coming,¡± he says, calm and cool as if he talking about the weather.


    ¡°Where you need me?¡± I ask, inwardly grimacing at how I shifted in my seat as soon as I was alerted. Too eager and excited is what it is, so I ought to take a page from Marcus. Steady is the word, and I try to copy his poise, though I get the feeling I fall far short.


    ¡°You sit nice and tight with the boots,¡± Marcus says, turning to give me a smile. A big, smug one, because he knows I¡¯m itching to prove myself and none too happy about being treated like the rest. ¡°You got anything prepped for hiding?¡±


    I do in fact, as I¡¯ve been expecting to run into trouble while out and about with Kacey and figured a bit of stealth might be in order. ¡°Settle into Shadows,¡± I declare, earning me a look of approval from Marcus and a few whistles from the Rangers around us who¡¯re listening in. Though only a Second Order Abjuration Spell, it¡¯s a good one that¡¯ll affect anyone within a ten-meter radius around me, which in terms of target acquisition and area of effect alone make it a top tier Spell.


    ¡°All right then.¡± Gesturing for me to come closer, he leans in and lowers his voice. ¡°Here¡¯s the plan.¡±


    Despite my earlier resolve to appear calm and stoic as can be, my leg gets to twitching as Marcus lays it all out, and my smile grows all the bigger for it. Yea, I might be stuck with the boots, and I won¡¯t earn me a single cent, but that don¡¯t change the facts none. This gonna be fun, because even though he came down hard on me for my yee-haw cowboy bullshit, that¡¯s the sort of thing the Rangers do best.

 Chapter 33

    ¡°Believe it or not, I¡¯m walking on air¡­¡±


    Beaming bright beneath the blistering desert sun, Tina sang softly under her breath while accompanied by her little kiccaw. The round bird wasn¡¯t just adorable, he was also a quick study when it came to songs, bouncing from side to side on her saddle horn as he chirped out the notes in perfect harmony despite only having heard the chorus once before. The kiccaws on Howie¡¯s wagon were also chiming in, a bright and cheery orchestral accompaniment to liven up the trip which had her cheeks straining from smiling so hard. Chrissy would love these birds, no doubt about that, and Mama would too, even if they didn¡¯t do nothing but bounce and sing the day away. Was a hard life back on the homestead; safe and fulfilling to be sure, but hard all the same, with an endless list of things to do that only grew with each passing day. A bit of feathered companionship would do much to buoy everyone¡¯s spirits and break up the monotony of drudge work, so Tina was adamant on bringing these happy kiccaws home to roost.


    No matter what Howie might say. All he could focus on was what direct material benefit the kiccaws could bring. Hmph. Shows what he knew, travelling up and down these parts for years with only money on the brain. There was so much out here to see and learn, things Howie and Uncle Ming never mentioned once in all their years of travelling. One trip out and Tina had a whole laundry list of ideas to bring back to Mama, things they could do as a family to help the community and earn money doing it. Mini-mammoths from the Emerald Plains would make a great addition to the farms, as they ate a lot less than horses but could plough fields and haul short distances just fine. Tuskwulves were pack animals that¡¯d make great guardians for homesteads and herds of livestock, but it¡¯d take dedicated work to domesticate them, dedication Mama had in spades. As for kiccaws¡­ well, aside from singing and bouncing and looking mighty cute doing it, they wasn¡¯t good for much. Ate grubs and seeds, neither of which farmers would like, and they¡¯d have to be real careful about training them not to eat too many of Howie¡¯s bees. Their feathers were too short for fletching and too prickly for bedding, but maybe their eggs would be good eating. Mama was always going on about finding a proper bird to domesticate instead of having to steal glittergeese eggs down by the lake, as they had a mean bite for a bunch of filter feeders and a dark yearning to use it.


    Course Mama never worked too hard at domesticating livestock, as she was none too happy about how most were treated. Forcing birds to lay eggs every day or raising animals for the slaughter was bad enough, so they ought to at least get to live happy lives while they could, but most spent their days stuck in a pen, barn, or coop in less-than-ideal conditions. Wasn¡¯t all farmers who treated their livestock poorly, but weren¡¯t enough who treated animals half as good as they deserved.


    ¡­Hopefully Chrissy would spend more time playing with the wallies these next few weeks. They¡¯d be mighty sad with no one to throw frisbees or string up treats for them to jump at now that Tina was on the road.


    Now there was a sad thought to leave her feeling lower than bow-legged caterpillar, so she slowly and gently slipped a hand around her kiccaw and waited for permission to lift him. The little guy all but hopped into her palm, pressing his soft, round belly right into her with a chirp of delight. Holding the little guy close and nuzzling his head lifted her mood in half a tick, and her smile came back full force when he nuzzled her back with a vengeance. If Howie were here, he¡¯d make a sour face and pithy comment about how animals loved her and hated him, but that¡¯s only because he didn¡¯t know the right approach. Always coming by and poking or petting them outta nowhere, without even bothering to make sure they were comfortable with his presence. Had more scars on his fingers than anyone else she knew, almost all of which came from marty bites. No respect is what it was, and a lack of good sense when it came to smaller animals, but least he knew better than to play around with horses. All thanks to old Tux no doubt, who trained Howie well, giving him plenty of love bites to correct his behaviour during their years together.


    Patting the big, sturdy horse on the neck, Tina hummed a bar and slung a Bolstering Compliment Cantrip at old Tux, which got his hooves dancing in the sands as he plodded on. Ancient though he might be for a horse, he sure didn¡¯t act his age, not now and not once the whole trip up to here. Was hale and hearty as any other horse, even them fresh-bred Ranger Stormbreeze Sorrels from out west which supposedly had more speed and stamina than the Destriers Mama used to breed and train. Old Tux wasn¡¯t either of those, just a spotted, black and white wild horse Mama trained up for Uncle Ming, and the piebald became a part of the family over the years. Still had a whole lot of fight left in him too, a fire that put him a cut above the rest, as he still remembered his wild years and wouldn¡¯t take no guff from any horse or rider. Kept trying to chomp on Kacey¡¯s filly as they rode side by side, show the little lady he didn¡¯t appreciate her stepping into his lane.


    Wasn¡¯t the filly¡¯s fault, not really. Kacey wasn¡¯t all that great of a rider is all, sitting heavy on the right which made her horse lean left to compensate, but Tina wasn¡¯t sure if she should say anything. They¡¯d only just started to get along after the better part of three months together in Basic, and she didn¡¯t want to ruin it by overstepping. Pretty as a posey Kacey was, and prickly and prideful to boot, though not in a crabby or overbearing sort of way. Was just skittish and shy is all, which was why she was always on her best behaviour, plenty polite and awfully well-mannered. Made her seem cold and standoffish, but was just her natural defense mechanism is all, and Tina was happy to have a chance to slowly chip away at the other girl¡¯s armour. Sure, Kacey¡¯s little meltdown was awful hurtful, but it wasn¡¯t entirely her fault, as the Fear Spell had her all out of sorts. Besides, Tina was plenty used to people being afraid of her, even if she ain¡¯t ever done them any wrong, so it was all water under the bridge far as she was concerned.


    Least it gave her a good chance to make friends with Kacey, and she loved making new friends. The trick here was to keep asking her questions, because while she never volunteered to speak or make conversation, she¡¯d answer any and all questions because it was only polite. Nothing too hard or too personal, just little things like where she got her lovely cambric pants or the two-piece knee guards she wore over them. Had a pair of elbow guards to match, and bracers for her wrists too, all worn over her standard cr¨¨me-coloured button up which gave her a real rough and tumble look without going full-on butch. Add in all the throwing knives and the twin short swords on her waist, and it was easy to see that Kacey preferred to fight up close and personal despite the adorable little bow she kept slung over her shoulder.


    Which coincidentally was how Tina preferred to fight too, so they got to talking shop after making nice, and now they was chatting it up like two farmers at the feed store. Was nice having someone to talk to, not just for the company, but also to help her Concentrate on maintaining the Floating Disc Spell all morning long. Was a bit backwards, seeing how you¡¯d expect a Spellslinger to focus on the Spell they Concentrating on first and foremost, but Mama, Uncle Ming, Uncle Teddy, and all the best and brightest said different. You wanted the Spell in the back of your brain, not at the forefront, because if you kept it at the front, you¡¯d end up dropping it every time you got distracted by something new. Keeping it in the back of your head like a tune you humming while you work was the way to do it, allowing you to adjust to any and all surprises while still holding the Spell good and firm.


    Which is why Tina spent the whole morning jawing away with the other girl, who was a wonderful listener and smart as whip too. Probably why they paired her up alone with Howie for so many days, because wasn¡¯t no one else who could keep up, not even Tina. Staying focused and attentive for long hours wasn¡¯t something she excelled at, and the exact opposite in fact, as she was too easily distracted by all the new and wonderful things around them. The plants, the animals, the sights and sounds, it was all so interesting she could barely go two minutes without marvelling at this or that. Would have been nice to include Sarah Jay in the conversation too, but she was deep in a one-sided exchange with Errol as he sulked in the driver seat of Howie¡¯s wagon. A handsome enough fella he was, but too much of gloomy Gus for Tina¡¯s tastes. Wouldn¡¯t say boo to a ghost either, even one as vile and unpleasant as Richard, and the fact that he was being all racist and hateful in private only made it worse. Should¡¯ve give that smarmy little scumbag a good beatdown the first time he so much as uttered a single syllable of bigotry, but Errol, bless his heart, kept his head down and lips buttoned so no one was the wiser. No one besides Sarah Jay, who was the only person he confided in, but Tina didn¡¯t understand why Errol didn¡¯t just stand up for himself.


    She still felt terrible about the whole thing really. If she¡¯d known Richard and his goons were even half as bad as they were, she¡¯d have sorted them out herself right quick. A week of tasting nothing but soap would set anyone straight, and if that didn¡¯t do the trick, she wasn¡¯t above doling out a beatdown herself, or even tagging Howie in. Least most them troublemakers were gone now, and good riddance, except she couldn¡¯t help but wonder what might¡¯ve been if Howie had signed on for Basic. Probably would¡¯ve put Richard in his place day one, or beaten him bloody day two. Really depended on how he responded really, as Howie was one to pay folks back in kind. Which was really his biggest problem; he saw relationships as transactional, give and take, and for the most part, they were, but he kept numbers on everyone he met like he was fixing to open a bank and liable to come calling to collect on every last emotional chit and marker he¡¯d ever spent.


    He hadn¡¯t always been like that, especially not growing up, and Tina felt a pang of melancholy run through her as she spotted him making his way back to the wagon, his outline aglow in the soft, hazy light of his protective Spells and magically fortified gear. Her blues didn¡¯t last as he was acting the fool, sitting atop his chestnut Fifi who was dancing on the spot, shuffling her long brown legs and white socks forward and back like she walking without moving forward one bit. ¡°What are you doing?¡± Tina asked, doing her best not to smile and egg him on, but Howie was in one of his moods.


    ¡°Oh you know,¡± he replied, turning about with an impish smile. ¡°Just horsin¡¯ around.¡± Fixing a big, open-mouthed smile on his face, he pointed at Tina, then his prospects, and finally Kacey in hopes of getting a laugh, but all he got was an eyeroll and a scoff from Sarah Jay. ¡°Psh.¡± Faking a scowl, Howie turned to face forward and maneuvered Fifi in between Cowie and Old Tux, forcing Tina and Kacey to make room. ¡°Y¡¯all ain¡¯t got no sense of humour whatsoever.¡±


    ¡°Maybe it¡¯s cause you ain¡¯t half as funny as you think you are,¡± Tina retorted, happy to burst his bubble.


    ¡°Nah, that can¡¯t be it. I¡¯m hilarious.¡± Sucking his teeth, he shook his head and sighed. ¡°Y¡¯all just ain¡¯t got the learnin¡¯ to appreciate my level of intellectual sophistication is all. A lonely place it be, up here at the top.¡±


    ¡°Up on your high horse, more like.¡±


    ¡°That how it is?¡±


    ¡°You betch¡¯er bottom dollar it is.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡± Looking her up and down like he seeing her for the first time, Howie said, ¡°All right then, let¡¯s see how big them britches be. Pop quiz. Five. Four. Three¡­¡± While he counted down all too quick, Tina glanced around the caravan and committed everything she could to memory. This was a game they used to play with Uncle Ming, which was really an exercise for their brains. ¡°And one.¡± Closing her eyes and covering them for good measure, Tina sat upright and waited for Howie¡¯s question. ¡°How many wagons we got?¡±


    He was starting her off easy thinking she¡¯d blurt out a number, but she wasn¡¯t gonna rush and trip up. Wagons he said, which meant the Floating Disc sleds at the back of the caravan didn¡¯t count. ¡°Twelve.¡±


    A grunt of approval was all she got, and for a moment, it was almost like she was riding with Uncle Ming again. ¡°What direction we headed?¡±


    Another easy one. ¡°East-South-East.¡± Was snaking around a sand dune rather than up the side, which seemed a bit roundabout, but with Captain Clay leading the way, Tina wasn¡¯t bout to second guess.


    ¡°How many boots we short from yesterday?¡±


    ¡°Eleven. Three wounded, and eight bailers.¡± Which was more than she expected, especially if Howie had wised up yesterday and given them all a pep talk. Wasn¡¯t asking for nothing big, just a few words to soothe their nerves is all, but Howie played it cool and cryptic without saying much. As if that weren¡¯t enough, Gabe and Steve somehow convinced Shane and Ned to head back and sign on with Richard¡¯s daddy, some bigwig downriver. After finishing Basic of course, but all four of them made a big fuss about how they weren¡¯t scared of the fight or nothing, they just had ¡®issues with the leadership¡¯. Good riddance, and it was a pity Tina would have to see them again back in New Hope, but still¡­ four more boots had called it quits, including Sally who might well have stuck around if Howie had given her an ¡®attagirl¡¯. Last Tina saw, Gabe and Steve were really upselling Papa Aultman¡¯s job offer, and Sally seemed open to listening, which was a real shame.


    All of which could¡¯ve been avoided if Howie wasn¡¯t so thick in the head.


    ¡°How many Rangers in the crowd?¡±


    The question threw her for a loop, and not just because she was distracted. ¡°Um,¡± she began, before making a face, because Uncle Ming would¡¯ve told her to think before she spoke. A lesson Howie never seemed to learn, but that was neither here nor there. Quick maths. Four Rangers left with the wounded, on account of the bigger than expected crowd. Ten scouting, two on point and eight to encircle. That left eighteen riding with the caravan, but Howie wouldn¡¯t have asked this if more Rangers hadn¡¯t slipped away. Or would he? He was mighty tricksy at times, so maybe he was lobbing another easy pitch to make her overthink it. ¡°Eighteen,¡± she said, only to deflate as he sucked in a breath.


    ¡°Ooh, sorry,¡± he said, and she could hear the smile in his tone. ¡°Correct answer is eight. You can open your eyes now.¡± She did, making a quick count to double check, and sure enough, more than half the remaining Rangers had gone missing. ¡°Gotta stay sharp Songbird, even if you ain¡¯t scountin¡¯.¡±


    Says the man who had his head down all morning, Etching away at a clay plate. ¡°Fine,¡± she grumbled, unhappy but unable to argue the facts. ¡°When you right, you right. This was fun and all, but how ¡®bout I conjure up another Floating Disc so you can get back to Etching?¡± Truth be told, it wasn¡¯t just to shut him up. It was nice seeing Howie sit still for once, all calm and tranquil like. Been a long time since she seen him like that, instead of itching to get back out on the open road. In the two years since he started riding solo, she¡¯d only seen him a few days here and there during the year, maybe a week at most, then a couple months come winter. Even then, he rarely stuck around the house, always running off to do this or that while she was at school or home doing chores, so it felt like forever and a day since they¡¯d hung out together like this. A big change from being thick as thieves, and she was only half-joking about sending him back to work, an offer made only because she knew he¡¯d turn her down.


    ¡°Nah,¡± he said, proving her right. ¡°Bad enough wastin¡¯ one Spell while out on the road. Two would be unforgivable.¡± Never mind that he was the one who asked her to cast it, and he flashed his grin a beat too late to keep her from pursing her lips. Loved pushing her buttons he did, and she let him do it all too easily. Moving in close, he used a Mage Hand to pat old Tux on the nose and keep him from chomping on Fifi. Lowering his voice, Howie leaned in and said, ¡°Lost more boots than expected though. Figured we¡¯d be down five, maybe six. Eight ain¡¯t much more, and most of them were walkin¡¯ wounded, but it¡¯s still something.¡±


    The way he said it was so infuriating, like it was a spot of bad weather out of his control. ¡°Shame really,¡± she replied in an equally quiet whisper, shooting him a look to let him know he was a fool. ¡°If only someone had said something last night to boost their spirits, then maybe more of ¡®em would¡¯ve stuck around.¡±


    ¡°Yea, real shame no one said nothing.¡± Now Howie was giving her a look back, and Tina wasn¡¯t so sure why.


    Which only made her all the more frustrated. ¡°Yea, someone like the Firstborn,¡± she hissed. ¡°You always goin¡¯ on about how you ahead of the rest, and you showed it too, so why didn¡¯t you say nothing after I brung them all out to see you?¡±


    ¡°Three reasons really,¡± Howie replied, his lips pressed in a knowing smile which she hated, mostly because he was almost always right. ¡°First off, I figured if they needed a pep talk, it¡¯d be best coming from someone they know and respect.¡± The knowing look intensified, and Tina¡¯s cheeks heated up as she picked up on what he was putting down. ¡°Someone like the top boot in Basic,¡± Howie continued, not even giving her a moment to wallow in shame. ¡°Being the best around don¡¯t come with privileges. It¡¯s a burden, because everyone expects more from you. Any slack is yours to pick up, because the rest of them are struggling just to hold on, so it¡¯s high time you learned to step up.¡±


    A hefty responsibility, but Howie always was the responsible one. ¡°Still think it¡¯d been better comin¡¯ from you,¡± Tina said, pouting for all she was worth to tug on his heartstrings. ¡°Me, I¡¯m just a boot like them, so what do I know about leadin¡¯?¡±


    Didn¡¯t work, as Howie¡¯s heart had grown cold as ice these last two years. ¡°Then you best get learnin¡¯. Ain¡¯t no cure for stupid, but ignorance we can fix.¡± Easy for him to say. Growing up around Howie meant eating a lot of humble pie, as he picked things up real quick. Had a mind like a steel trap he did, except when it came to stuff he didn¡¯t care about, like names or social events. Could write out an obscure mathematical proof three pages long from memory, but couldn¡¯t tell you the names of Danny¡¯s little sisters without sweating a fair bit, and he was the closest thing Howie had to a best friend.


    ¡°Which brings me to my next point,¡± Howie continued, piling on without mercy. ¡°You can lean on me this time around, and if you call, I¡¯ll run day and night to come get you, but I won¡¯t always be around when you need me then and there. Say I help you rally their spirits. Less boots leave and things go well. What about next time? What if they get cold feet again? What then?¡± Looking straight ahead, Howie adjusted his hat, and Tina wondered just what sort of face he was making. ¡°You the Ranger prospect here, Songbird. Me, I¡¯m just a wanderer, so best you get used to standing on your own two feet.¡±


    There was more to it that he didn¡¯t say, but Tina could fill in the blanks just fine. While she knew his decision to stay independent from the Rangers wasn¡¯t personal, others wouldn¡¯t see things the same way. Wayne wasn¡¯t the only one holding a grudge against Howie, he was just the loudest. Lots of Rangers were none too happy about Howie¡¯s decision, because he wasn¡¯t just Uncle Ming¡¯s son. He was Uncle Teddy¡¯s student, the one and only apprentice to Marshal Theodore Ellis. A successor even, some might say, and they all thought the Firstborn would lead the first generation of Frontier Rangers. A future all but written in stone, until everything went to Hell in a handbasket after Uncle Ming¡¯s untimely death and Howie refused to sign on for Basic a few months back. That¡¯s what he meant about standing on her own two feet, not just as top boot, but as a Ranger. He didn¡¯t want his situation affecting her none, because for many Rangers, you were either friend or foe, no two ways about it.


    Which meant that some saw Howie¡¯s refusal to join the Rangers as taking a stand against them, even if it wasn¡¯t like that.


    Much as she wanted to reach out to hold Howie¡¯s hand, all he¡¯d do is make a face and wave her off. Mean is what it was, since he always let Chrissy hold his hand whenever she wanted, and even did her hair to boot, so Tina didn¡¯t understand why he wouldn¡¯t do the same for her. Still, she didn¡¯t want to upset him anymore than he already was, so she sat quiet and waited until he was ready to talk again. After a minute of heavy silence, he glanced over and smiled, one that didn¡¯t hide his sadness one bit. ¡°Anyways,¡± he said with a shrug. ¡°Third reason why I didn¡¯t say nothing to encourage no boots is simple really. Anyone who needed coddlin¡¯ after yesterday¡¯s cakewalk is better off headin¡¯ home.¡±


    See, this was why Howie didn¡¯t have many friends. He didn¡¯t see nothing wrong with what he was saying or how he said it. In his mind, he was just spitting facts, and anyone who didn¡¯t like what they was hearing was just too ashamed of the truth. He wasn¡¯t entirely wrong, but no one liked having their sore spots poked and prodded, much less when it¡¯s done in broad daylight. Least he wasn¡¯t being too loud about it, but Tina spotted Kacey slumping down in her saddle to cuddle Inari tight. Leaning over to pat the girl¡¯s shoulder, Tina got herself a small but grateful smile in thanks, which just went to show Kacey wasn¡¯t as cold as she appeared.


    Howie didn¡¯t notice of course, too busy tooting his own horn about how he wrangled all them Abby and served them up on a platter. ¡°Yea, it don¡¯t get much easier than yesterday,¡± he concluded, shaking his head with a renewed smile after stroking his ego a good bit. ¡°Besides, what¡¯s there to be scared of? We got twenty-eight Rangers ridin¡¯ shotgun on this here expedition, almost a Company and a half led by three Captains no less, which means we safer than most towns East of the Highway.¡±


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Which was a good point, one Tina wished she¡¯d thought of yesterday. The whole Eastern Front only had fifty companies total, or little less than a thousand Rangers to guard it, so having a full Company and change right here was pretty big. Twenty-eight guns might not mean much against hundreds of Abby, but twenty-eight Rangers was enough to kill thousands if given time enough to prepare, especially with three out of ten local Captains added into the mix. The Rangers were the best of the best, the only government outfit on the Frontier who dared to operate in standard Strike Teams of five, because any more was typically overkill for most situations out here.


    Didn¡¯t change the facts none, but Tina was feeling better about losing Sally, Shane, Ned, and the others. Howie was probably right like always, and it was kinda funny too. Thems that left had done so because they were scared of what lay ahead, but the three wounded and eight bailers only had four Rangers to guard them the whole way back, whereas if they¡¯d stuck around with the convoy, they¡¯d have seven-times that number of Rangers to watch their back. There was probably a word for that, or a saying that Howie could pull out of his pocket, but Tina couldn¡¯t think of one that fit.


    ¡°Alright everyone. Check your gear,¡± Howie said, after a few more minutes of riding. Wasn¡¯t quiet about it neither, raising his voice so the whole convoy could hear. ¡°Make sure you got what you need on you, not stowed away in your saddlebags.¡± Earned him a dirty look from Drill Sergeant Begaye, not because Howie was out of line, but because the surly, salt-and-pepper instructor believed it was best for boots to make mistakes and pay dearly for them, rather than ¡®coddle¡¯ them like Howie just did. Now there was a first, someone who thought Howie was soft, and Tina gave the Drill Sergent her best and brightest smile so as not to get on his bad side.


    Didn¡¯t do her any good, as his scowl only darkened when he saw she wasn¡¯t checking her kit, so Tina averted her eyes and got to work. Water, ammo, hatchet, knife, rations, and more, she double and triple checked her gear as best she could. Even had Danny¡¯s flashbangs stowed away in an easy access pouch, ready to be primed and thrown as needed. Howie was the same, though he didn¡¯t need to check nothing as he carried everything on him at all times despite rolling around with an armoured wagon. Was a good habit to keep, because you never knew when you might get separated from your mount or have to ditch your wagon, and Howie was nothing if not a stickler for good habits.


    Not big on explanations though, as he kept mum as to why he made his suggestions, one that sounded more like an order than anything else. Yea, Howie would¡¯ve fit right in here in Basic, and Tina¡¯s heart warmed to see it, while at the same time was also saddened by the fact that he¡¯d be leaving again after Pleasant Dunes. That¡¯s what most folks didn¡¯t understand. Howie loved the Rangers, wanted to be one more than anyone else, but he couldn¡¯t bring himself to join the organization that disavowed his daddy. They disrespected his daddy, so joining would be doing the same, and there was nothing Howie could do about it. Truth was, Tina wasn¡¯t so sure about joining up either, but Mama and Howie both convinced her that there was nothing wrong about it, and that Howie was just being stubborn and extra is all.


    Wasn¡¯t right what the Rangers did to Uncle Ming, taking away his badge and trampling over all his years of good work. Called him an ¡®auxiliary¡¯, a mercenary by a different name, so Howie figured on becoming just that. He still planned on working with the Rangers, just refused to do it for base Ranger pay, so they¡¯d feel the pinch every time they employed him. Like how Wayne did, seeing Howie cooking up his own batch of Abby and pocketing the profits for himself. Proved Howie¡¯s point too, because Uncle Ming worked for fourteen years and never took a dime more than base Ranger pay, meaning if he was an auxiliary, then the Rangers shorted him big.


    Wouldn¡¯t change nothing, not in the long run, but Howie was determined to see it through. That¡¯s just how he was, stubborn and intractable as a marty once he sunk his teeth into something.


    A few minutes later, Drill Sergeant Begaye gave the order to dismount and hitch their horses and wagons at the base of a dune. Only one other Ranger stopped with them, a fella from Meadowbrook Tina didn¡¯t recognize, while Captain Jung led the rest away. As for the boots, they were broken up into three groups led by the Drill Sergeant, the Ranger, and Howie. Tina was with him, and so were Errol and Sarah Jay, with Kacey, Ike, Antoni, and Saheed rounding out their number to eight. Smaller than the other two groups, but enough to show that the Rangers trusted Howie enough to not only look after himself, but seven others. That right there was the difference between the Firstborn and the rest of the boots, one Tina was both proud and envious of.


    ¡°All right boots,¡± Howie began, keeping his voice low and quiet. ¡°Stealth is the name of the game, so mum¡¯s the word and Bob¡¯s your uncle. Y¡¯all got your camo blankets?¡± Saheed didn¡¯t, so Howie sent him back for it with a shake of his head. Nate probably would¡¯ve forgotten his too, and the reminder of his absence was a real downer, which was compounded when Howie met her eyes and said, ¡°No wonder you top boot.¡± Made her bristle to hear it, especially when he followed up with, ¡°Don¡¯t let that make you complacent. It don¡¯t matter how you measure up against other boots. You looking to join the Rangers, so measure yourself against them instead. It¡¯s a long road ahead, but ain¡¯t nothing to do but take it one step at a time.¡± Said it for the whole group to hear, and gave Errol and Sarah Jay a look to remind them of what they discussed last night. Work hard at working harder, those were words Howie lived by, and he expected the same of everyone else.


    Wrapped in their camo blankets, Howie rattled off a bunch of instructions before leading them up the sand dune, walking halfway then dropping to his belly to crawl with his rifle in hand. Tina and the others followed suit, inching their way up slowly until they was almost as the peak when Howie signalled for them to stop and come in close. Prone in the sand beside him, she was close enough to hear him butcher the Latin chant for a Spell she wasn¡¯t all too familiar with, so she watched with rapt attention.


    It was always a treat watching someone work new magic, but Tina never could quite describe it. It was just¡­ nice is all, a treat for the senses, like a cool breeze on a hot summer day, or the smell of fresh baked cookies wafting through the house, only more. She couldn¡¯t so much see or feel the magic as sense it, a cozy shift in the world around them no different from feeling the breeze move through your hair. Aether was always flowing, but most people couldn¡¯t perceive it, so how was she supposed to explain how it felt? Wasn¡¯t no tingle or bright lights, no stream of warmth or cold, no smells, sounds or tastes to describe, just a low and gentle energy that was ever present. It mingled with the wind, interlaced itself in light and shadow, harmonized with sounds and blended into every smell and taste. It wasn¡¯t any one of the five senses, but part and parcel of them and more all at the same time, wholly indistinguishable from her everyday life. For Tina, things had always been this way, so she didn¡¯t know what it was like for anyone who couldn¡¯t sense the Aether and hoped she¡¯d never have to find out.


    There was a calm cadence and measured flow to Howie¡¯s chanting, one that was quite soothing if you ignored what he was saying. Drawn to his movements, streams of Aether surged towards his left hand as he slowly waved it back and forth, like a snake slithering through the sands. The Spell took shape in a series of pulses over the next half minute, emanating out from Howie and settling around him like a light blanket thrown over his head, a leisurely and lethargic process that seemed natural as breathing. There on the sand dunes, they became one with their surroundings ¨C no, one with the shadows, shadows cast by their camo blankets which clung tight to their frames and obscured them from sight.


    A wonderful Spell it was, not an Illusion like what she would¡¯ve used to hide them, but an obstacle, solidifying the shadows and smoothing them out for them to hide within in way that probably didn¡¯t look out of place at all. Glancing around, she couldn¡¯t see nothing different with her naked eye, likely because she was inside the Spell¡¯s effect, and she wondered if the other boots even knew Howie was hiding them in plain sight. Probably not, and once again, Tina was reminded of the upsides to being Innate, upsides she did her very best to focus on so as not to be brought low by all the drawbacks.


    Like the look in Errol¡¯s eye when he found out she could cast Madness. One she¡¯d seen plenty of times before, but that didn¡¯t make it hurt any less.


    Lost in the wonder of Howie¡¯s Spell and her innermost thoughts, Tina was a beat late following Howie up over the crest of the hill. Got sand in every nook and cranny doing it, crawling on her belly like she did, including ones she didn¡¯t even know she had, but it was a short jaunt up to the peak where they stopped and settled in to rest. Was a big stretch of flat desert in front of them, one walled in by a series of wide, sloping dunes, each one big enough to make her legs ache at the thought of cresting them. A pretty enough place, with more vegetation than she expected, but the Coral Desert wasn¡¯t technically a desert, according to Saheed at least. Was more of a shrub steppe, whatever that meant, with enough rainfall to sustain the odd patch of green brush and purple shrubbery. Still plenty of sand to go around, but a coarse, stone sand, more like pale-pink pebbles than fine grains, which made things all the more uncomfortable when it settled in under her clothes.


    No one said nothing, even though Howie had yet to explain just what it was they were here for, nor did it seem like he was going to. Instead, he stretched out his left arm to gently turn Errol¡¯s rifle so the barrel was pointed forward instead of diagonally, while silently signaling for Antoni to do the same for Ike on the other side. Unlike Ike however, Errol took the correction personal, scowling something fierce at the back of Howie¡¯s head. His scowl grew even darker when Sarah Jay patted his hand, and Tina could smell something bad brewing there. Seemed like Howie wasn¡¯t the only one getting tired of his prospects, as Errol wasn¡¯t handling Howie¡¯s abrasive personality any better. Meeting Sarah Jay¡¯s eyes, Tina gave her a look of sympathy laced with just a touch of pity, and the dark-eyed brunette wrinkled her nose just a touch. Boys will be boys, was what she was saying, and Tina had to agree. Unfathomable creatures is what they were, butting heads one moment and cracking jokes the next, and you never knew what you were gonna get.


    The thundering crack of a gunshot rang out in the distance, and Tina almost bolted upright. She wasn¡¯t the only one either, and while most managed to stay low, Saheed pretty much jumped to his feet and earned himself a hard stare from Howie as he laid back down. ¡°Easy,¡± he whispered, once Saheed was back in place, and Tina was captivated by how the shadows sank back down around the middle-eastern prince. ¡°We spectators today, so safeties on and weapons down.¡± Errol, Ike, and Kacey were the offenders, and they all deflated in place, but Howie paid them no mind as he pointed towards their ten o¡¯clock at a sand dune about two klicks away. ¡°They¡¯ll likely come out there, between those two dunes, and the opening is where the action¡¯ll be. Watch close, and if you can, focus on the Spellslingers, because they¡¯ll be doing most the heavy lifting.¡±


    As Howie reached up to adjust his hat, Tina felt the strum of his medallion firing up, indicating he meant to record the fight. Would be nice if they could watch it right back, but she had yet to learn Mama¡¯s trick of watching videos right off the crystal, much less playing them back for others to see. Howie¡¯s wagon didn¡¯t have a way to play back the videos either, so unless Pleasant Dunes had a Major Illusion Spell Core setup or a television set, then they¡¯d have to wait until they were back in Meadowbrook to watch the recording. Made it all the more vital that she not miss a thing, so she hunkered down and kept her eyes peeled on the corridor Howie pointed out while shots continued to ring out. Not the rat-tat-tat of sustained fire, but potshots pinging off every couple seconds, which meant the Rangers weren¡¯t fighting so much as herding.


    Despite Howie¡¯s assurance, Tina felt her shoulders tense up as the minutes rolled by, and she knew she wouldn¡¯t be the only one. Howie didn¡¯t feel the pressure none though, he was cool as a cucumber as he lay beside her, his face completely hidden under his camo blanket and body relaxed as can be. She couldn¡¯t help but lean into him for a bit of comfort, and for once, he didn¡¯t shy away, briefly pressing his shoulder against hers to say everything would be all right.


    Then five Rangers came galloping out from the opening Howie had pointed out, followed by a dark green tide of Abby.


    Gobbos, orcs, and bugbears surged out onto the flats in droves, their individual forms difficult to make out but the disparity in their sizes unmistakable. While impossible to nail down a number any closer than ¡®hundreds¡¯, it was clear the single Strike Team was vastly outnumbered as a long trail of Abby chased after the plucky five. There were more Rangers about, she knew this much, but she didn¡¯t know where or why they had yet to act. Three seconds passed, then five, and ten, and twenty, but still the five Rangers fought alone, firing away from the back of their galloping horses in a not-so-merry game of hot pursuit. They weren¡¯t even running in a straight line away from Abby, but zig-zagging left and right until their trail of Abby was more like a sinuous snake, a line that lasted all of a heartbeat as more Abby poured in hot on their heels. The snake became a giant blob, with short tendrils extending out towards the various Rangers who¡¯d split up completely, each one galloping off in a different direction and spreading the Abby horde out. Was like painting the valleys in ugly green, except using Abby instead of brush and ink, and Tina watched the professionals ply their trade with wide eyes and bated breath.


    Even from so far away, she sensed it before it happened, a full second in advance. Formless Aether pooled in to the targeted areas across the battlefield, so much so that you didn¡¯t need to be an innate to feel it, and she sucked in a breath of air in dread and anticipation. Her skin prickled despite not being the target, and she fought the urge to run, hide or flinch. A second of warning might seem like a long time, but she¡¯d wasted half the time just deciding what to do, meaning if she were point blank in the area of effect a full second might as well be no warning at all. Was still considering all the angles when the Spell completed and the sands lit up in blaze of flame, heat, and smoke. Six incandescent hemi-spheres of scorching conflagration materialized before her very eyes, which went wide with awe to see it. An instant of fire and light, that¡¯s all the Spell delivered, so short you could blink and miss it, only to open them again and see sheets of glassed sand under piles of smoking Abby.


    ¡°Fireball,¡± Tina whispered, and she heard several boots gasp in response, but how could they have mistaken it for anything else? Sure the name was a touch misleading, as most pictured the Spell as a literal ball of fire thrown by the caster. That was Fire Orb, and the real Fireball was much more impressive. A Spell synonymous with battle, and one iconic in deliver. It started with a raised, open palm to the skies. Like grabbing sunlight the motion was, closing your hand pulling it down and out of the air while pumping a fist, before letting your arm spring back out with two extended fingers pointed at the target you wanted to hit. Add in a chant of ¡°Incendo ¨C Magna ¨C Invoko¡±, or ¡®I invoke the Great Fire¡¯, and that¡¯s all it took for an accomplished Third Order Magus to unleash a single moment of fiery destruction upon the area in question, a blossoming inferno that superheated an area for a single, red-hot moment.


    A six-metre radius sphere, that was Fireball¡¯s base area of effect, and far as she could tell, every last one of those Fireballs had been Metamagicked to double in size. Small chance of getting away from the Spell even with fair warning, not unless you started running the moment you spotted a caster raise their open palm to the skies. Most usually did, as the movements and the chant had been popularized by some old world war movie, though you could really use any words or motions you wanted. Either way, the effect was devastating as can be, and the Rangers¡¯ alpha strike broke apart the thick horde of Abby into a sea of smoking corpses and a smattering of burned bugbear survivors, with maybe a lucky scorched orc or five thrown into the mix. Happened sometimes, as the heat wasn¡¯t exactly uniform across the Spell¡¯s area of effect, and if you were real lucky or real good, you could avoid the brunt of the damage just by standing in the right place. Could also take cover under obstacles or wrap yourself in Augmented protective clothing like Howie¡¯s duster. Jumping also helped, since the heat started from the skies and came down like a hammer, but that was more of an option of last resort than actual advice.


    No, the best way to survive a Fireball was to not get hit by it, which was easier said than done. Had to be real quick to cross six or twelve metres in a single second to reach safety, assuming you were standing at ground zero, and Tina wasn¡¯t even sure if it was possible.


    A human army would¡¯ve turned tail and run after taking so many casualties, but the Abby horde pressed on undeterred. The tide of goblins, orcs, and bugbears continued pouring into the flats, trampling over the corpses of their fallen and shards of superheated glass underneath. Thanks to the vast swathes of death unleashed by their hidden allies, the initial Strike team had plenty of breathing room and stopped running to plink away at Abby while standing firm against the horde. They started maybe half a klick apart, but it didn¡¯t take long for the gap to close, and Tina wondered how many more Fireballs it¡¯d take to clean up the job. Wouldn¡¯t be no answers though. Instead, the Rangers switched to a more efficient manner of defense as the remaining members of the Company and teaching staff emerged from hiding all around the bowl to drop Entangling Growths, Moon Beams, Fire Clouds, and other sustained Spells. Some of the Rangers had been fully Invisible, like Tim laid out prone high on a dune and gunning down at the horde from afar, but most had simply been covered by camo blankets just like she was, which left them indistinguishable to her naked eyes and magical senses both. Couldn¡¯t even sense the Aether working through them, and the only thing that gave those Rangers away was the muzzle flash from their rifles, most of which were semi-auto, but there were a few stand-out weapons like the two rapid-fire machineguns. Those made quick work of the Abby in front of them, hammering noticeable dents into the blob from either end with quick bursts of staccato fire. For a few seconds at least, before running out of ammo, and the horde continued to surge out towards the Rangers in a slowed but steady advance.


    The gunfire continued unabated, including the machine guns which reloaded right quick, but the horde pressed on without fear. In this opening minute, more Abby had died than what showed up for yesterday¡¯s battle, but there were still plenty more pouring in. Inch by inch they advanced through the Spells and gunfire, and for a second, Tina wondered if the Rangers had bitten off more than they could chew. When the horde was only fifty metres away from the firing line and looking to keep going, Marcus stepped out front and centre. Tina could tell it was him because his figure dwarfed the horse beside him, but that was all the time she had for idle thoughts. Aether surged from all directions to gather round as he lifted his foot and slammed it down, turning the whole area in front of him into a churning mass of quivering sand. Looked like boiling brown water from afar, but any Abby caught inside didn¡¯t sink beneath the depths. Instead, their bodies were crushed and torn apart by the roiling sands turned deathtrap within the field of Erupting Earth, one which stretched a good thirty metres from end to end no matter how you measured it. Now there was a Spell that wasn¡¯t just Metamagicked, but further stretched and elongated to more than four times its original area, which proved that even though Marcus Clay wasn¡¯t the best Spell Slinger this side of the Divide, he was easily in the top ten.


    That said, the field only churned for a moment and not a second more before freezing up in a jagged, nigh impassable area of hardened spiked sand. Wasn¡¯t enough to stop the oncoming horde from trying to push though, only slow them and send the bulk of the remaining Abby to circle around to the sides. Bunched them up nice and tight in a long, fat line as they approached alongside the difficult terrain, one which made them perfect targets for a beam Spell. As if on cue, two giant shafts of crackling lightning burst out from the Rangers fighting position to cut clean through the lines of approaching Abby. Lit them greenies up good and proper, electrifying them where they stood, and Tina was wholeheartedly impressed by how many bodies dropped when the lights went out. Those two Spells probably dropped half as many corpses as six Fireballs, so while Lightning Beam was undeniably a less popular and more situational Third Order Evocation Spell, when the setup paid off, it did so in spades.


    ¡°You see Captain Jung there?¡± Howie asked, speaking loud enough to be heard over the din of battle and no longer afraid of being found out. Was directed at Errol, but Tina glanced over at where he was pointing all the same, and let out a gasp as she watched a burst of Aether comparable to a Fireball emerge from the stocky, unyielding Ranger standing at the top of a dune.


    Then another gasp when it happened again five second later. And again, and again, just like clockwork.


    ¡°All she¡¯s doing is shooting her rifle,¡± Errol said, and Tina¡¯s eyes widened in disbelief, until she remembered he couldn¡¯t perceive Aether like she could.


    ¡°Watch her left shoulder. You see all that displaced air? Right there. Like a heat haze in the distance, only shootin¡¯ horizontal instead of floating upwards.¡± Howie waited a beat, no doubt for Errol to nod, before continuing, ¡°That Errol, is Captain Jung firing sixteen First Order Bolts in a burst.¡± Then he paused again, because Howie loved big reveals, before nonchalantly adding, ¡°Which she¡¯ll do every five seconds, over the course of a full minute. At the cost of a single Third Order Concentration Spell mind you. That¡¯s a hundred and ninety-two Bolts delivered in total, which I wager is faster than you can empty and reload that El-Minister six times, much less seven. All while she free to shoot or sling other Spells too. Not bad for a manually casted Bolt, huh?¡±


    ¡°How?¡± Tina asked, and Howie pulled his camo blanket down to reveal his grin. ¡°That don¡¯t make a lick of sense, not one bit.¡±


    ¡°Glad you asked.¡± Wiggling back so he could talk to them both at the same time, Howie explained, ¡°Y¡¯all seen how she can fire off four Bolts in a single cast, right? Well, the great thing about Bolt is that it¡¯s the foundation for a bunch of higher Order Evocation Spells. What Captain Jung is using here is a Second Order Spell called Burst Bolt, which fires off three First Order Bolts in a volley, bang-bang-bang. Because she so good, each one of them Bolts turns into four, so it¡¯s twelve Bolts per volley. Upcast at Third Order, and the Burst Bolt Spell gains an additional First Order Bolt, which is how she get sixteen total.¡± Rubbing his hands while watching the Captain with a hawk-eyed stare, Howie shook his head and continued, ¡°That ain¡¯t good enough for Captain Ava Jung though. No, she took things a step further and figured out how to maintain the Burst Bolt Spell and turn it into a repeating effect. This ain¡¯t just a qualitative change like what Captain Clay just did with his Erupting Earth, making the area of effect bigger. She took an Evocation Spell, a school of magic based around being quick and dirty, and turned it into a sustained effect that deals more damage than a Fireball. That¡¯s the gold standard of all Evocation Spells, and she did more than surpass it. She crushed it. That right there is a feat several orders of magnitude more difficult than anything I ever seen from anyone besides the Marshal, and is why she¡¯s regarded as one of the most powerful Evokers on the Frontier, if not the most powerful bar none.¡±


    Transformative. That was the word for Captain Jung¡¯s accomplishment, a Transformative Spell. One which had been pushed so far beyond it¡¯s base limits it was essentially a different Spell altogether. If Captain Jung could nail down the Formula for a fixed Spell Structure applicable to her modified Burst Bolt, then anyone with formula could cast a sustained Burst Bolt same as hers, without having to go through all the motions of tweaking it manually on the fly. A feat generally reserved for Immortal Monarchs mind you, alongside a few standouts like Sir Issac Newton or John Von Neuman, which only made Captain Jung¡¯s accomplishment all the more impressive. In comparison, Howie¡¯s ability to cast Mage Hand and split the one hand into two was nothing, a parlour trick at most, but he always said that he¡¯d transform them into real hands one day, hands with real substance behind them so they wouldn¡¯t come apart at the seams every time he used them to fire a gun. Was a long way off from that dream, but even if he accomplished it, making a Cantrip a slight sight more useful was nothing compared to creating a magical machine gun that averaged out to more than three Bolts a second.


    ¡°How¡¯s she aim it?¡± Tina asked, and she started when Howie¡¯s gaze snapped onto her. ¡°Them Bolts. She firin¡¯ off sixteen at a time, so how she have time to aim them and do anything else?¡±


    ¡°Beats me,¡± Howie replied, with a thoughtful look in his eye. ¡°Can¡¯t even sling multiple Bolts yet, so how am I supposed to know how she aim them?¡±


    ¡°So there are things you don¡¯t know,¡± Sarah Jay said, chiming in from the other side of Errol. ¡°Good. Was startin¡¯ to wonder.¡± Strange for a simple joke to put Errol in such a foul mood, one that came and went in half a breath, but one that was there all the same. Jealousy perhaps, though Tina couldn¡¯t see why that¡¯d be, as anyone with eyes knew that Sarah Jay was head over heels in love with Errol. Girl dropped out of Basic for him despite being on a fast-track for Sharpshooter and Officer, so if that wasn¡¯t enough, Tina didn¡¯t know what was.


    It was such a romantic tale, a beautiful heroine standing by her man no matter the cost. Errol just better appreciate it, because weren¡¯t many ladies as bold and brave as Sarah Jay.


    Inwardly shaking her head, Tina turned her attention back to the battle, which was slowly winding down. In the meantime, Howie lectured them on the different battle styles of various government outfits, starting with the Protectorate who loved their melee combatants covered in layers of fancy Ablative Armour. Chevaliers were a shoot and scoot sort, with a big emphasis on the scoot as they loved them their magical beasts. The Catholic Templars were all about volume of fire delivered by laymen bolstered with a generous sprinkling of wide-area support Spells, while the Pathfinders liked their arrows and mechanical traps and doodads. ¡°The Rangers though,¡± Howie said, finally getting to the meat and potates of things, ¡°They don¡¯t got a set style, because they can do it all. Usually not as well as the specialists, but their strength is in their versatility, being able to adapt to the situation as needed with whatever equipment is available. That¡¯s why they the tip of the spear, because they don¡¯t need to sit around and wait for gear, support, or specialists. They can get up and go in with nothin¡¯ but the guns on their hips and make a good go of it regardless of what they up against, a strength that really shines out here on the Frontier. Got no tanks, planes, satellites, golems, or powered armours, so the Spellslinger reigns supreme.¡± Standing up and brushing the sand off of his shirt, Howie looked them all over as they did the same. ¡°That¡¯s why y¡¯all need to set your sights higher,¡± he said, fixing on Tina, Errol, and Sarah Jay in particular. ¡°You wanna be Rangers, or Ranger equivalents? That means learning multiple specialties, enough to get by at least, so we all got a lot of work ahead of us.¡±


    Then, because he was Mama¡¯s best student, Howie grinned, smacked a couple hands and shoulders and said, ¡°But we¡¯ll make it there eventually, so long as we don¡¯t quit, and there ain¡¯t no quit in us. We a different breed we are, tougher than them old worlders. They all had to adapt to this life, while we don¡¯t know any other kind. We¡¯ve lived and breathed the good, the bad, and the ugly, so we know what¡¯s what. We Frontier born, one and all, and I¡¯d say that¡¯s something to take pride in.¡±


    It hit Tina like a cold shower on a hot day, and she couldn¡¯t help but exclaim, ¡°There it is!¡± Seeing Howie¡¯s look of confusion, she explained, ¡°The name for your crew. Frontier Born.¡±


    It took a second to get there, but the grin on Howie¡¯s face was as real as it gets, all big, bright, and toothy. ¡°There it is indeed, Songbird,¡± he said, throwing an arm around her shoulder for a quick but all too brief hug. ¡°The Firstborn¡¯s Frontier Born. Love it.¡±


    ¡°I hope this don¡¯t affect our Callsigns,¡± Sarah Jay said, as Howie led them back down the dune to their waiting horses. ¡°I for one would rather not have a ¡®born¡¯ theme to our names, as ¡®Igloo-born¡¯ don¡¯t got that nice ring to it. Neither does what, River-born? Church-born? Ship-born?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t give him any ideas,¡± Tina said, skipping along behind Howie and all too happy to have been a help. ¡°Though I suppose he can¡¯t do much worse all on his own.¡±


    Basic was so much more fun with Howie along. Was a real shame he wasn¡¯t gonna be a Ranger, especially since he probably wanted it more than anyone else. It is what it is, but like Howie said, there was still a long ways to go. Who knew what the future had in store? Maybe there¡¯d come a day when Tina joined the Frontier Born too, because come hell or high water, family always came first.

 Chapter 34

    Two orcs, one Bolt.


    ¡°Canto ¨C Fortia ¨C Asta!¡±


    A single, invisible projectile hurtles through the air and craters my target¡¯s skull, but the second orc¡¯s head remains undisturbed and intact beside it. Resisting the urge to heave a sigh, I give my finger gun a once over to make sure everything checks out. It¡¯s one finger and a thumb, so not much room for mechanical error, but you can never be sure. Technically, I could use any hand movement I like to trigger the Spell. I chose quick-drawing a finger gun because it¡¯s fun, and no one said otherwise, but I noticed Captain Jung uses a finger flick, which is just heaps faster and less obvious, so now I¡¯m thinking I should switch over to match. Would take a bit of practice and effort to change the somatic component to a Spell I already learned. Ain¡¯t no harm, though there ain¡¯t much of a benefit either. Even if the somatic component of the Spell completes faster, you still gotta time it to the verbal component and the flow of Aether through the Spell Structure. I seen casters point, wave a hand, snap, and do all sorts of different movements to sling a Bolt, but it don¡¯t change much when it comes to results.


    Least that¡¯s what I thought, but now I¡¯m not so sure. See, being a finger gun and all, I¡¯m starting to wonder if my choice of hand movement has got my thinking all messed up. I know a real Aetherarm can¡¯t shoot two Bolts at once, so might be the facts got my subconscious mind interfering with my ability to sling two Bolts with a single Cantrip using a finger gun. Maybe I ought to add an extra ¡®barrel¡¯ to my finger gun and see if that helps. It might, or might not, as it could be an issue of me squeezing the Spell Structure in all the wrong places, figuratively speaking.


    See, when Captain Jung slings four Bolts with a single Cantrip, she ain¡¯t using a different Spell Structure. It¡¯s the same as the one I got locked up in memory, except she uses it better. It¡¯s no different from the Minor Illusion Cantrip really, in that practice makes perfect, except there ain¡¯t no real technique to share. The reason being is Aetheric dynamics, and how they come together within a Spell Structure to produce a Spell. Even though the structure for a Cantrip requires only three dimensions to function, namely length, width, and height, it still exists in four-dimensional space. And fifth, sixth, and seventh mostly likely, though we ain¡¯t got proof positive to say for sure. As those lights move along their set pathways, forces beyond our ken interact in ways we cannot perceive to create magic, and it is those ineffable forces which we must manipulate into order to get more out of our Spells.


    And since ineffable literally means indescribable, it makes it real hard to explain how one goes about manipulating those imperceptible forces to get a discernible effect.


    Gets even more complicated considering how most Spells behave in completely different manners. There are some similarities, usually within defined Schools of Magic, but those are categories people gave to the Spells, rather than ones set in stone, so they don¡¯t always make sense. Take Ablative Armour for example, which conjures up a set of armour made out of Ectoplasm to protect the caster. Sounds like a Conjuration Spell to me, or maybe Abjuration, but it¡¯s neither. Instead, it¡¯s a Transmutation Spell, because the Spell works by altering the base physical structure of the caster¡¯s skin, flesh, or even clothing to add extra Ectoplasmic ¡®padding¡¯ to absorb damage. It differs from Mage Armour, an Abjuration Spell without any physical aspect to it, and Conjure Armour, a Conjuration Spell that creates armour of the purely physical, but magically Imbued variety. Complicated is what it is, and things don¡¯t always make sense at first glance, which means any tricks learned to modify a Spell are typically unique to that Spell and that Spell alone.


    Course there are exceptions to that rule, with Bolt being the most common. Unfortunately, as much as I love Evocation Spells, they don¡¯t love me back, which is why I liken modifying one to trying to ride a bucking bronco. Ain¡¯t no real control about any Evocation Spell, as it is a wild, barely contained energy hungry for a target or outlet. There¡¯s no slow build up and incremental development like there is with Conjuration, no reaching out and taking in like with Divination, not even a sense of general shape and solidity like with Abjuration. No, Evocation is all about a quick growth under pressure and a quicker release, like catching a hot potate and passing it on. Less control and more power, which makes it great for killing what¡¯s in front of you here and now, but not always the optimal choice for a sustained fight.


    Reason being is that the low ambient Aether concentration levels does more than limit Spellslingers to Third Order Spells. It also restricts how many Spells they can manually cast on any given day. The closest analogy would be like trying to run up high on a mountain, where the air is thinner, so every breath you take bring in less oxygen than it would down low. Exhausts you faster since you getting less air, or something to that effect. Most experienced Spellslingers keep things close to the vest and won¡¯t outright tell you all the Spells they can use or how many times they can cast it a day, because they know that knowledge is power. That being said, most Magi (being the traditional title for Third Order Spellslingers), typically max out at 6 or 7 Third Order Spells a day, with 13 to 14 on the extreme high end before reaching Grandmagus status after learning Sixth Order Spells. Not too bad, but not great either, especially considering how those same typical Magi could sling 10 or 11 Second Order Spells, or 20 plus First Order Spells instead.


    Has to do with how the costs of Spellslinging scales, quadratically, with cost being n squared, when n is Spell Order + 1. That¡¯s why Spell selection is so critical. A Second Order Spell costs more than twice as much Aether and effort as a First Order Spell, while a Third Order Spell is about four times as much. Means if you wanna use a Second Order Spell, it best be more than twice as effective as two First Order Spells, whereas a Third Order Spell needs to be at least four times more effective to make it worth the cost. So yea, Fireball might be the first Spell that comes to mind when you think about magical warfare, but it ain¡¯t the be-all-end-all Spell that most regular folks see it as. It¡¯s great as an opener, and looks great too. In terms of Spell selection however, there are more efficient ways to spend your Spells, with the gold standard being Entangling Growth, Web, Grease, or something else to hold your enemy in place while you shoot them dead. Ain¡¯t a Spellslinger alive that can match a modern Aetherarm in killing effectiveness, because all you need is a good eye, a steady hand, and enough ammunition to see you through the fight.


    Ain¡¯t technology grand?


    If we talking solely Spells however, then Evocation Spells are typically the worst in terms of bang for buck. Sure, a single Fireball can take out a good amount of Abby in one go, and same with Lightning Beam, Frost Nova, and all the other big-ticket items in the same school, but only under the right conditions. In contrast, a Second Order Flaming Cloud has a much smaller radius, only about 1.5 metres across compared to Fireball¡¯s 12m diameter, but it¡¯ll scorch anything it comes close to and set them magically aflame. That there is a death sentence even for the chonkiest of bugbears given enough time, though the Flaming Cloud itself only lasts a full minute at base duration. Course, extending that time comes with practice, but the Cloud itself can be repositioned by the caster at will, sweeping through the ranks and catching the enemy off-guard when they try to go around it. It¡¯s also highly versatile, as you can send it down a tunnel to clear the way, park it in a tight space to block it off, or any number of other things that a single, instantaneous Fireball can¡¯t do. When you boil it down to strict numbers, a properly utilized Flaming Cloud can rack up more kills than a Fireball in battlefield conditions, unless you only killing gobbos or the like, at which point Fireball is overkill anyways.


    Sure is satisfying to sling though, and efficiency ain¡¯t the only metric to measure by. Bang for buck is how you get the clap after all, so there is such a thing as going too far. I¡¯ve heard arguments for using more Cantrips in extended firefights, as they cost nothing to sling except time and focus. Both of which would be better spent on aiming, shooting, and reloading over slinging a single base value Bolt, even if you can sling four at a time. I¡¯ve also heard arguments from plenty of Brits on how we ought to go back to swords and spears, because when you work things out on paper, weapon enhancement Spells are more efficient than any blasting Spell could ever be, if you ignore the fact that it means you gotta get up close and personal before you start killing. Or use a bow and enhance your arrows instead, which the Pathfinders love, and I guess the Nipponese too considering Kacey¡¯s weapon of choice, but I always thought swords and bows were sorely lacking compared to a good old fashioned Aetherarm.


    So long story short, even though Evocation was the showiest magic in the fight we all just saw, there were probably plenty of other Spells doing some heavy lifting. Illusions to confuse and corral Abby, Enchantments to hinder their abilities or bolster the Rangers¡¯, Abjuration Spells to keep them safe and more. Course, there ain¡¯t no substitute for Evocation when you want your targets dead right quick, which¡¯ll save your life more often than not. The best defense is a good offense after all, as ain¡¯t nothing can threaten you after you put it down.


    Unless it¡¯s some sorta exploding Abby filled with poisonous or corrosive bodily fluids or something, which happens more often than I¡¯d like.


    All this comparison hingers on a base Evocation Spell however, as caster familiarity can allow you to tilt the scales heavily in Evocation¡¯s favour. Like what Captain Jung does with her Bolt Salvo Spell, as 196 Bolts over the course of a minute far outstrips the damage of a Fireball, Flaming Cloud, or any other Spell Third Order or lower. Especially considering how a Bolt Salvo can be Maximized, while the other two aforementioned Spells work better when Widened to increase the area of effect. Taking a hundred steps back, being able to fire off two Bolts with a single cast can effectively double your damage output, which is huge.


    That¡¯s the sort of edge I need moving forward, an advantage over your standard Joe Schmoe Spellslinger. It¡¯s what makes the Rangers so effective, their ability to squeeze more outta their Spells than what it says on the tin. It¡¯s been a minute since I seen them operate in strength out on the battlefield, and today was a rude reminder of how much further I still have yet to go.


    Blowing on my finger gun to lift my mood, I try the Bolt Cantrip again to the same effect before heading over to haul them corpses with a shake of my head. Five years I¡¯ve been using the Bolt Cantrip, yet I still ain¡¯t any closer to understanding its secrets than I was on the very first day. Was a time when I thought this¡¯d be easy, same as what I do with my Mage Hands really, but the years have proven me wrong. Ain¡¯t as simple as taking one Bolt and dividing it into two, because even though that¡¯d get me two Bolts, each one would only be half as effective as the original. That¡¯s how I get two Mage Hands after all, but when Captain Jung slings four Bolts at a time, they all hit just as hard as a standard Bolt, if not harder.


    In technical terms, the process of dividing the whole into the sum of its parts is called a Split Spell, while what I want to do is Fork or Echo the Spell. I need the sum of the parts to equal to more than the original whole, or essentially squeeze two instances of the Spell out of a Spell Structure designed only to spit out one at a time. The fact that this was even possible is why early gunsmiths risked ruining Bolt Cores to carve out two or more Bolt Cantrip Cores, so it¡¯s a skill as old as time, but ain¡¯t no textbook explaining how it¡¯s done. It¡¯s something each caster gotta learn on their own, because how do you explain the process of finagling something that can¡¯t be seen, touched, tasted, heard, or smelled?


    It¡¯s different from Divination Spells, where I ain¡¯t doing nothing extra when I cast the Spell. What makes me stand out as a Scout is my ability to analyze and interpret the information my Spells bring me. Studying Divination Cantrips ain¡¯t no different from learning animal tracks, or seeing curling slash marks on a tree and knowing you in Diamondclaw territory. As for Conjuration Spells, I ain¡¯t all that good at finagling those besides Mage Hand, and part of my success is due to my Mama¡¯s detailed notes on how to do it. She was real analytical and methodical about it, listening out everything she tried and all the ways she failed before finding success. Visualization, Sensory manipulation, mirrors, lights, and more, I¡¯ve applied some of the same methods to other Conjuration Spells, but nothing really took. Yea, if it¡¯s Talent we talking about, then my Mama had more in her pinky finger than I got in my whole body. That said, I ain¡¯t worked too hard at it when it comes to Conjuration. The best Spells in the school all require Concentration, so I couldn¡¯t pick one to focus on. The ones that don¡¯t need Concentration are typically niche Spells, like Air Bubble to let you breathe underwater, Misty Step to get you out of a pinch, or Conjure Weapon which lets you summon a simple, sturdy object made out of a single, contiguous material. So like a sword or spear made entirely out of steel, which ain¡¯t all that useful, so pass. I been told the Conjuration Spell selection gets better with Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Order Spells, but that¡¯s years away at the earliest. As for Evocation Spells, none of my Mama¡¯s tricks and tips apply, so I got no real direction to go on anymore, just trying the same things again and again without any real result.


    Leaves me feeling lost and adrift, without a paddle or direction to head in. Would love to pick Captain Jung¡¯s bring to learn how she does it, but my pride won¡¯t allow it. Can¡¯t run home to ask Uncle Teddy for advice for the same reason. Those days are long behind us, as I had to draw a clear line between me and the Rangers, and he understood well enough when I stopped showing up for lessons. Never asked me to come back, though I know he wishes circumstances were different. Me too, but it is what it is. The Rangers will always be his first priority, while I will never be theirs so long as I ain¡¯t American. That¡¯s all there is to it, so I gotta find my own way forward. Been a real rough road so far, with plenty of pitfalls I done stepped right into and more scars than I care to show for it. Visible and invisible, with Aunty Ray picking up on the latter right quick, and it¡¯s been so rough I¡¯ve thought about calling it quits more than once. That¡¯s why I accepted that postal worker trial gig after all, to see if it would fit, but then I bagged me the Stagecoach Killers to start the year off strong. Felt like a real turning point in my career, the start of my rise to success, or so I¡¯d hoped, but today showed me different.


    Still, my daddy always said a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, so I might as well get moving. Can¡¯t sit around my thumbs waiting for the Watershed before I progress, else I¡¯ll have squandered the head start my mama died to give me, as well as all the hours my daddy spent teaching me what¡¯s what.


    The loneliness hits hard in the moment, as it often does when I least expect it. Sure, I got lot of folks looking out for me, but sometimes it feels like I¡¯m fated to go at this life all alone. Course, it¡¯s mostly my decision to live how I do, but it does feels awful isolating standing on the outside looking in, and I ain¡¯t just talking about the Rangers. I¡¯m always gonna be the lone Qin, the one yellow fella in a place where most towns homogenous in any colour but. Thought I¡¯d made peace with that, but then I got to thinking I could run my own crew, and now I¡¯m feeling lonelier than ever because I¡¯m pretty sure those plans are gonna fall through. Or hoping they do, maybe. The more I think about Errol¡¯s track record, the less optimistic I get about our future. Ain¡¯t any one thing about him, but a whole host of issues that I got no idea how to fix. He¡¯s got skills and potential in spades, but he¡¯s stubborn, na?ve, and sorely lacking in drive. I ain¡¯t seen any hunger or motivation to learn and improve, as he all too happy to just get by. It ain¡¯t a terrible thing, as most folks just want to do the same, but you need more if you wanna delve deep under dark to take on an Abby burrow, or even make a long and successful career hunting Abby topside. There plenty of merc crews who hunt Abby, but I¡¯m aiming to put together a team to match a Ranger Strike Team, be the best damn independent operators there ever was, so I need prospects who want to be more than just ¡®good enough¡¯.


    Like Sarah Jay. She got that drive in spades, no two ways about it. Sharp as a tack too, as she keeps giving me glances as we work our way through charred Abby and glassed sand, but a look and a smile is all it takes to keep her lips buttoned up tight. Errol though? Even after our AAR last night, he still being all half-hearted about practicing his Living Whip Cantrip with the chain, using the Cantrip willy nilly to smack corpses without any real thought, purpose, or effort in it. With his right hand no less, which really steams me up. This is how he goes about most things he does, including signing on with the Rangers and my crew. He¡¯s floating through life, going about it as he please, because it¡¯s worked up until now and he don¡¯t see why he gotta do anything different. That¡¯s the problem with talent, as he¡¯s good enough to stand out in the here and now. I told him what his failings were, but he don¡¯t care to listen, as he¡¯s one to learn everything the hard way, and when he do, he¡¯ll have already fallen behind. Not an issue if he got the Rangers looking out for him, but sad truth is, I ain¡¯t nowhere near good enough to carry dead weight, not even with Sarah Jay to help me out. Since I can¡¯t ditch one without losing the other, then the best outcome for all of us is sending them back to Basic, but they haven¡¯t talked to Captain Jung about it, nor does it seem like they care to. Probably because I been treating them too well, so they see no point in breaking things off just yet, and truth is, neither do I. There still some breathing room since we riding with the Rangers, so I suppose I can wait until after we sort things out in Pleasant Dunes to make my final decision.


    It''s a shame things looking so bleak though, especially now that I got a name for my crew. Was nice having company while out on the road, not to mention someone to watch my back while I sleep, but I suppose I could look into summoning a Familiar instead. That¡¯d be nice, though Cowie might get jealous if he gotta compete for my affections.


    Bolt and haul, haul and Bolt, the pattern plays out over the course of the early afternoon as we clear the battlefield of corpses. Hard to keep my Spirits up, doing hard labour as it is, what with the heat and the stench and all, but doubly so when I know I ain¡¯t getting paid either. Or at least, not in anything worthwhile besides ¡®experience¡¯ and ¡®exposure¡¯, as well as training for two prospects who ain¡¯t looking half as bright and shiny as they did a few weeks back. Add in my lack of progress at multiplying one Bolt into two and soon enough, my smile slips away and I find myself heaving more sighs than corpses. Don¡¯t go unnoticed either, and by the worst possible candidate too, as I discover firsthand when he come over to bother me.


    ¡°What¡¯s the matter, Howie?¡± Wayne asks, wearing that slick, shit-eating grin of his that he thinks makes him look playful. ¡°You all sad and grumpy because you don¡¯t get a share of these corpses?¡±


    Now, Tina and Auntie Ray would tell me this here is a time to ignore him and walk away, but I ain¡¯t built for that. Instead, I make eye contact, holster my finger gun, and begin my chant like I¡¯m fixing to put one between his beady little rat eyes. ¡°Canto ¨C Fortia ¨C Asta!¡± I intone, and my finger gun comes up to deliver a Bolt into another orc skull just to the left of Wayne, one I hit without having to look away.


    Doesn¡¯t spook Wayne none though, as he still a Ranger, and he follows hot on my heels like stink on a bugbear as I swagger past him to grab the corpse. ¡°Yea, this a good haul for the Rangers,¡± he says, sauntering on ahead with his rifle up on one shoulder and a stick up his ass while I drag two-hundred pounds of Abby through the sand beneath the scorching sun. ¡°Real shame you couldn¡¯t cash in on this one, huh?¡±


    ¡°Yea,¡± I drawl, without looking back. ¡°Guess you¡¯ll be the one cashin¡¯ in today.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡± Even the hint of a smile is gone from his face now, and I can hear him glance around to make sure none of the Captains overheard me. ¡°You trying to say something?¡±


    ¡°Said what I said,¡± I reply, pausing to give him a grin as throw his words back at him in an obnoxious little tone. ¡°I hit a nerve? Didn¡¯t realize it was such a touchy subject.¡±


    ¡°Careful there, killer.¡± Doing his best to loom over me, Wayne looks mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, though he so crooked they¡¯d probably come out as corkscrews. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t want to say something you regret now.¡±


    ¡°Not in earshot of no Captain at least.¡± Shooing him away before I get back to hauling, I add, ¡°Run along now, Wayne. Find someone else to bother.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s Lieutenant Marlon to you, boot.¡± Funny how a man can say one word and make you hear another with little more than an inflection, but I shake my head with a chuckle and pay him no mind. He can kick and scream about my lack of respect all he like, but he got no hold over me. The last thing he wants is for this to escalate, as that¡¯d catch the attention of the Captains he¡¯d so very much like to avoid. I know it, and even though he late to the party, he catches on soon enough and tries a different tack. ¡°You think I¡¯m worried?¡± he asks, which only goes to show that he is. ¡°I¡¯m a Ranger Howie, and we look after our own. You though? They might see you as the golden child, but that¡¯ll wear thin fast once they find out what you really are. A murderer, a stone-cold killer without a conscience, because I know you killed that merchant. Probably his guards too, then buried them all somewhere in this desert so you could keep all that cargo for yourself. I¡¯m onto you Howie, and it don¡¯t matter if I can¡¯t prove it. Just you wait. You¡¯ll get your just desserts soon enough.¡±


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    See, I knew he don¡¯t give a shit about the dead merchant the first time he approached me, because he don¡¯t even know the man¡¯s name. Almost makes me mad enough to beat Wayne bloody for being a self-serving hypocrite, acting like he care about them murders when all he cares about is the cargo, but I take a deep breath before trusting myself to speak. ¡°Well,¡± I begin, dumping my orc in a pile for some other boots to lift onto a Floating Disc sled before shotting Wayne my slickest grin. ¡°I tell you what. I¡¯ll sleep easy knowing Sherrif Wayne¡¯s on the case.¡± He ain¡¯t got nothing on me, but the fact that he¡¯s so driven to find something makes a man mighty antsy, so I give him a little nudge to see how he likes being poked and prodded. Scoffing for added effect as I should past him, I mutter, ¡°Means, motive, and opportunity my ass. Just cause it works for finding men who fucked your wife don¡¯t mean ¨C ¡±


    It¡¯s never pleasant getting punched in the face, even when you expecting it. Mage Armour helps of course, but like I¡¯ve said before, mine ain¡¯t all that great. Instead of a sharp impact to the jaw, the Spell spreads the force out over my cheek and neck so it feels more like I just got slapped by a big, fleshy hand. Still wouldn¡¯t recommend, but add in how I roll with the punch and it keeps me from seeing stars. Rather than punch back though, I wipe the blood from my lip and chuckle before turning to meet Wayne¡¯s eyes, all full of hate and fury as Reggie and Conner hold him back. He ain¡¯t struggling much though, just leaning forward like he wants to take another swing, but is too chickenshit to actually break free and try, because Cowie¡¯s high-tailing it on over with murder in his storm-grey eyes. ¡°Didn¡¯t realize it was such a touchy subject, Lieu-tenant,¡± I say with a grin, not caring to lower my voice now that everyone is watching. ¡°Meant no disrespect to your wife. That¡¯s just what folks say. Ain¡¯t that right?¡± Cackling as I walk away, I calm Cowie down and get back to slinging Bolts and hauling Abby while ignoring all the concerned looks from Tina, Sarah Jay, and the like. Only one I acknowledge is Tim, who quietly asks if he should step in, and I give him a little shake of the head to tell him I can handle my own business.


    I ain¡¯t afraid of no rat-faced cuck. Only reason Wayne still got all his teeth is because I don¡¯t wanna give Marcus any reason to send me home, not when we less than a day¡¯s ride from Pleasant Dunes.


    Keeping an eye out as I work, I spot Marcus come down hard on Wayne for making a scene, and the big man hits me with a glower before deciding he don¡¯t want to talk. Would have to ask too many uncomfortable questions, and personal issues aside, Wayne¡¯s still a half-decent Ranger once you look past his sticky fingers. Works for me, because I ain¡¯t looking to jam him up, just trying to keep him off my back is all. Circumstantial evidence, that¡¯s the word for what he¡¯s got, which ain¡¯t worth shit in a court of law, but stories got a way of getting away from the truth, and a way of leading right back to it if it convinces smarter folks to take another look. Still, if Wayne knows what¡¯s good for him, he¡¯ll get the message and lay off, but he wouldn¡¯t be the first desperate man to do something stupid neither.


    Taking a beat to cool myself off with a Water Sphere, I get back to haulin¡¯ and spend the next few hours doing just that. Get a good long look at them pressure cookers too, and eventually figure I could probably piece one together myself. It ain¡¯t nothing more than a solid pot with an airtight lid, a quick release valve, and a heating element on the bottom, like what you find on any modern stovetop. Uses the same general principles as my Etching pen, just scaled up and twisted into a coil, so I don¡¯t see no reason why I can¡¯t rig a pressure cooker up with some spare parts. Sure, they expensive to run in terms of crystallized Aether, but it¡¯s well worth it seeing how it cook a batch of Abby in the time it takes to get a pot of water boiling over a campfire. Should still talk to Danny about it when I get back to New Hope before I get to tinkering. He a law-abiding citizen he is, refused to build me one himself, but if I let on what I mean to do and how I mean to do it, he¡¯ll chime in if I¡¯m missing out on something important. Can¡¯t help but feel like I am, because if pressure cookers really are that easy to make, then I don¡¯t see why they ain¡¯t used as weapons against Abby. Cost maybe? Who knows. Either way, no harm in double checking my work, especially when working with things that go boom.


    Once the corpses are all cooked and it finally comes time to get underway again, I bring out a Floating Disc sled and have it drift alongside Cowie and Tina while I ignore her silent questions and work on the Mage Armour Artifact. After double checking to make sure everything still kosher, I fix the actuator plate to the Spell Core and attach the connections before moving on to Etch out the Metamagic circuit. Here¡¯s where things get complicated though, so I slow things down a bit. With the actuator, it¡¯s a fairly simple process because all the Etch gotta do is respond to a caster¡¯s will. It¡¯s a big metaphysical button pretty much, designed to be pressed and nothing else. Makes it hard to mess up, as even if you get some of it wrong, the rest will work well enough regardless. A Metamagic Rune on the other hand is also an Etch, but one specifically designed to modify a Spell¡¯s effect in the process of being Primed without affecting the Spell¡¯s base Structure. Like putting a nozzle on the end of a hose, I¡¯ve been told, except it¡¯s a physical nozzle fit for a metaphysical hose spraying metaphysical water that¡¯ll turn physical once it comes out. Ain¡¯t just about the flow either, as physical Aether, like Aetheric Energy put out by the dynamo, is a little like water. It¡¯ll always take the path of least resistance, but it¡¯ll also strive to fill whatever container it¡¯s placed it, meaning that when a circuit is at full capacity, or full Primed, the shape of the Etch and flow of Aether through them leads to all sorts of interactions like Aetheric harmonics, oscillations, resonation, and other such things. All this falls under the general umbrella of Aetheric Dynamics, and messing around with those dynamics is how you modify as Spell, whether by familiarity or Metamagics. I don¡¯t understand the subject well enough to really explain it all. No one does really, as complicated is what it is, and if you mess things up with an Etch, you can get some real explosive results. Only if you make a big mess of the Rune though, and it usually takes a bit more than just a failed Etch. Like Conner said, the worst I can do with what I got is burn my fingerprints off by overloading the circuit.


    That being said, I¡¯m not in the mood to waste all this effort for nothing, so I settle in and look over my notes before I start Etching. The thing about Metamagic Runes is that while there¡¯s a baseline to adhere to for every specific effect, they don¡¯t come in one size fits all. Ain¡¯t no single pattern that works for every Spell Core or on every possible medium, only a general outline and guidelines to follow, so there a lot of variables to take into account when designing your Rune. I scrawled one out last night, but now that I know what I¡¯m working with, I spot a few changes which need to be made. Those changes then require more changes to be made, as they affect things later on down the line, and I spend a good hour revising my design until I got something I feel confident enough to work with.


    Was a time when I didn¡¯t understand Metamagic one bit, so I asked Mr. Kalthoff how he do it. How was it possible to look at a steel barrel and know what modifications to make in order to Etch a Distant and Extend Duration Metamagic Rune onto it, while leaving room for whatever else he cared to add? Man looked up from his work, stared me dead in the eyes, and said, ¡°Experience,¡± before going right back to it. Thought he just wanted me out of his hair, but now that I¡¯m older and wiser, I kinda get it. It ain¡¯t about the pattern itself, nor the flow of Aether through it, but rather how it all comes together. Each part of the circuit is like one piece of the puzzle, and as you add a new piece, it¡¯ll pull, push, or otherwise reshape the pieces around it. When you work with a Spell long enough, you understand how the flow is supposed to look like at the end, so you can work backwards from there. With Bolt, Extend Duration is about minimizing instability and volatility so the Bolt lasts longer before coming apart at the seams. With Mage Armour though, it¡¯s more about shoring up the foundation that¡¯s already been laid, since there¡¯s little to no instability or volatility to be found in the Spell itself. Could simply be the difference between Evocation and Abjuration, or it could be something specific to these two Spells, I can¡¯t really say, but what I do know is that I gotta approach this project a bit differently from how I¡¯d handle a rifle barrel. The ceramic plate ain¡¯t painted or glazed, which is ideal for my needs, as it leaves the underlying texture of the heated clay unhidden for all to see. There¡¯s a rough and bumpy pattern to it that¡¯ll interfere with my desire to shore up the Spell¡¯s foundation, so I ought to use thicker copper lines to make up for it. Could also weave in and around those bumps, or better yet, go along the grain of the fired clay underneath and smooth out the flows wherever I can. Some spots just stand out as perfect pivot points to move from one Rune to the next, while others demand I work around them, but it all comes together on the pages of my Spellbook as I plan out every stroke and touch of my wand.


    Not for just one Metamagic Rune, but three, and soon as I got my plan in place, I get to it without hesitation, carving channels into baked clay and melting copper wire to fill them to create long, swooping grooves which resemble leafy vines curled and coiled all about in a series of pleasing patterns. Takes some doing, and I make more than few mistakes which need fixing, but when I finally turn my Etching wand off and put it aside, I find myself looking down at a properly Etched Artifact that¡¯s ready to test. Rather than rush off to do it, I take a quick breather and lay down to rest, staring up at the honey-hued skies while letting my mind go free.


    Feels good to finish something I set out to do, though I¡¯d hate to do this day in and day out. Got a stitch in my hand, an ache in my back, and probably a sunburn on my neck from staring straight down all afternoon, but still¡­ It¡¯s nice getting something done right. Hopefully.


    Eventually, I sit back up and look over my work to make sure everything in place. There a whole process about it, from using the Appraisal Cantrip to see if there any broken connections or short-circuits to using a Detect Magic Ritual Spell to trace out the flows of Aether before pumping power into it. Soon as someone makes the call to set camp, I bring the Artifact over to Conner for the all clear, because he¡¯s the one with all the tools needed to be absolutely certain. Sitting on the back of his wagon, Conner looks like he been waiting on me as he greets me with a nod before poring over the Artifact with his Spells and tools. Only after a thorough investigation does he hook it up to an Aetheric dynamo for a test. Gesturing for me to do the honours, he steps back as I place my hand on the actuator and will the Spell Core to Prime. The dynamo hums as it powers up, and the seconds go by as I watch the copper patterns light up in a soft, gleaming purple as the Aether flows out from the dynamo, builds up at the arcacitor, then jumps over to flood through the rest of the Metamagic circuit until the whole thing emanates a warm, violet glow.


    This is the part where I could lose my fingerprints if I Etched something wrong, and I can¡¯t help but wince in anticipation. Thankfully, the Artifact simply goes dark as the Spell takes shape around me, encasing me in an invisible and intangible suit of armour that covers me from head to toe.


    Forty-two seconds start to finish, or close enough. A big difference when you consider most Aetherarms are crafted to fire once every five seconds at most, but thems the breaks when using an Aetheric dynamo to power a Spell Core. It¡¯s more accurate, efficient, and reliable power at the cost of taking longer for the Core to Prime and draw down, which is a must when working with rare, hard to replace Spell Cores. If a Bolt Spell Core cracks from poorly packed ammo or rapid cycling, then no big deal, but getting a Mage Armour Spell Core is more a matter of luck than anything else. Plus, it¡¯s cheaper too, because even though Danny said its an ¡®almost one-to-one ratio¡¯, it¡¯s more like four-to-five. Twenty percent more effective is twenty percent cheaper, and while it ain¡¯t much, every little bit counts in a pinch.


    Meeting Conner¡¯s eyes with a smile, I pull out my knife and test its edge against my thumb. Gently at first, then a little harder, then hard enough that it most certainly should break skin. Takes a bit of doing to carve into flesh, and even then the Mage Armour resists enough to keep me from getting much more than a paper cut. ¡°Not bad,¡± I say, holding up the droplet of blood for Conner to see, who rolls his eyes and knocks me on the head. Don¡¯t feel a thing and tell him as much, which earns me a surprised look.


    ¡°Really?¡± He asks, before activating the Spell Core himself to find out first hand. Again, the circuit lights up and darkens in less than a minute, and when all¡¯s said and done, he knocks his own head a couple times with varying force before nodding in approval. ¡°Damn fine work Howie,¡± he says, looking over my Runes a second time. ¡°Should be good for three, maybe four hours, and might even stop a Bolt to the head.¡± A manually casted one is what he means, and it¡¯d leave your face a bloody mess, but still better than dead. ¡°Extend Duration and Defensive Metamagics are standard, but what¡¯s this last one here?¡±


    ¡°Warding.¡± Seeing he ain¡¯t ever heard of it, I use the more common term, ¡°Aether resistance.¡± Which more or less means Spell resistance, unless the Spell shifts the ground out from under your feet or something. Won¡¯t do nothing to stop elemental damage like say from a Fireball, but it¡¯ll work wonders against a standard Force Bolt. Would¡¯ve kept Nate in the fight no doubt, but he better off heading home anyways.


    ¡°Oh damn.¡± Nodding along, Conner looks at the Artifact with renewed focus in hopes of unravelling the mystery to the Metamagic Rune, but it ain¡¯t like it¡¯s some big secret. Can find whole chapters devoted to it in most Metamagic textbooks, which are sold right off the shelves in New Hope. ¡°Yea, it¡¯ll definitely stop a Bolt to the head then. I¡¯ll bring this to Marcus later.¡±


    ¡°Sure thing.¡± Leaving it at that, I ignore the dark looks from two or three unfamiliar Rangers in Wayne¡¯s Company and turn to leave, but Conner reaches out to hold me back by the sleeve.


    ¡°Wait a sec, Howie,¡± he says. ¡°Take off the hat and hang around. Wanted to talk a bit.¡± Friendly as he might sound, I get the sense this ain¡¯t gonna be a friendly conversation. Can tell from the way too many Rangers gathered about, every last one of them from Wayne¡¯s company. He ain¡¯t around, as Marcus sent him off to gather water to replace what we done cooked, but his number two, Reggie is here, as well as a couple other notable faces. Not all that many names, as I ain¡¯t all that familiar with the Rangers of Meadowbrook, but I seen them around once or twice. ¡°Just talk,¡± Conner adds, seeing the look on my face as I turn back around. ¡°C¡¯mon man. You had to know we¡¯d ask.¡±


    ¡°About what?¡± Reach up to take my hat off, I toss it to Conner. ¡°How my medallion been actin¡¯ up? Think you could take a look-see?¡±


    ¡°Sure Howie.¡± Conner knows there ain¡¯t nothing wrong with my medallion, and he nods in unspoken thanks while removing the storage crystal, so everyone present knows we ain¡¯t being recorded. Course, I could be using the Spell manually, but those recordings ain¡¯t usable in a court of law. While it¡¯s possible to store manually recorded Video and Audio onto a crystal, it can also be tampered with without leaving any trace behind, unlike a recording made by a Spell Core. There¡¯s a lot of technical bru-ha-ha that goes into it, what with weaving illusions into the recording that are indistinguishable from fact, but that¡¯s more Aunty Ray¡¯s speed rather than mine. ¡°So what the fuck man?¡± Conner asks, keeping his tone cordial as he pretends to fiddle with my medallion. ¡°Riling up the L.T like that, threatening to talk to the Captain and bringing Tamara into this? Not cool.¡±


    Meaning Wayne¡¯s wife, who I ain¡¯t ever actually met. ¡°But draggin¡¯ my daddy¡¯s name through the mud all hunky dory?¡± I ask. Narrowing my eyes, I ignore the other Rangers and face Conner head on, because he call the shots here. ¡°Wayne wants to sling shit, then he best be ready to get dirty.¡±


    ¡°C¡¯mon man. You know the L.T got good reason.¡±


    ¡°And what¡¯s that got to do with me?¡± The other Rangers don¡¯t like that, so I fold my hands over my stomach to keep ¡®em still and away from my sidearms. Make it real clear I ain¡¯t about to sling or draw, because no sense tempting fate. Flashing a toothy grin that don¡¯t reach my eyes, I say, ¡°I ain¡¯t gonna cry no crocodile tears for him or his druggie whore of a wife.¡± That really pisses the crowd off, as they a close-knit bunch, but I¡¯m done playing nice. ¡°Boo-fucking-hoo. Tamara got a habit. Don¡¯t give Wayne cart blank to step all over me and my rep. Been close to a fucking year since it happened, and he still houndin¡¯ me about for no good reason.¡±


    Ain¡¯t like I got no sympathy for the man, but Wayne done burned through any and all goodwill he might ever have had. It¡¯s a sad story, one I don¡¯t got the full measure of and don¡¯t care to learn. All I know is Tamara picked up a nasty habit some years back, long before Meadowbrook was even a mark on the map. Now Wayne, he tried to get her clean and free, but addiction being what it is, she kept going back to score. Couldn¡¯t help herself, so rather than lose or abandon her to the drugs, Wayne figured he could control her habit and keep her from spiraling out of control. Had to start skimming from Ranger hunts to pay for it once prices started going up, but it worked for a time and everything was hunky dory. Then Marcus went on a tear after losing his son and eliminated all nearby producers and suppliers, which put Wayne and Tamara in real a tight spot. To keep her from going into withdrawal, they tried some other drugs, harder drugs, which is when things really went to shit. Story goes Wayne came back from a deployment to find Tamara had spent all of their money on a week-long bender before running off to score more. Tracked her down to a brothel in the sticks where he found her dancing on a pole, so drugged out of her gourd she didn¡¯t even recognize him when he tried to carry her off. Said he¡¯d to wait his turn he did, but it¡¯d be the best money he¡¯d ever spent.


    Or so the story goes at least. Granted, I didn¡¯t hear none of this from any Rangers, and only bits and bobs from less than reputable sources before piecing the rest together. Don¡¯t know how much of it is true besides the fact that Tamara got a drug problem which Wayne works hard to keep under control by skimming funds. That¡¯s the long and short of it, and I couldn¡¯t care less.


    ¡°Don¡¯t he though?¡± There¡¯s an edge to Conner¡¯s tone as he fiddles with my medallion. Don¡¯t like that much, but I suppose he¡¯s selling our cover story to anyone who might be watching. Like Tim, who no doubt got eyes on us from somewhere or the other, if not ears. Hell, he could be standing right next to me and none of us would know it. ¡°Have good reason to hound you?¡±


    ¡°You tellin¡¯ me you buy into his ¡®means, motive, and opportunity¡¯ bullshit?¡± With a scoff and a sigh, I shake my head and tell my story straight. ¡°You know how many times the Sheriff¡¯s questioned me?¡± I ask, once I¡¯ve laid all my cards on the table. ¡°Once. Sheriff Patel checked the facts and passed them on to Sheriff Glover, then didn¡¯t nobody from their offices darken my doorstep again. You know how many times I explained it to Wayne? Five fuckin¡¯ times now.¡± Getting all heated up in the moment, I spit into the sand and continue, ¡°Every time I stop by Meadowbrook¡¯s way, it¡¯s the same song and dance. He drop by to ask his questions and poke his nose in my business, and I let him cause I know he got his reasons, but he workin¡¯ my last nerve now. Comin¡¯ at me in front of my prospects and insinuatin¡¯ I done this or that, then bringin¡¯ up my daddy and callin¡¯ me killer in front of everyone and God? I tell you this much, after all he done, that Ranger star on his chest is the only reason he still drawin¡¯ breath.¡±


    ¡°Yea, no idea why Wayne thinks you¡¯re a killer Howie.¡± The sarcasm is thick as Conner shakes his head and talks over my casting. ¡°Look, I¡¯ll get him to back down, but you gotta ease off too, alright? He¡¯s stuck in it deep and don¡¯t see a way out.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t give a shit what his problems are, but a bullet and a Bolt¡¯ll see him clear of ¡®em all.¡± Meeting Conner¡¯s eyes with a toothy smile, I let it show, that savage readiness to do violence at the drop of a hat. Not to scare him, as he a Ranger and don¡¯t scare so easy. Nah, I let him see it so he knows I mean what I say and I say what I mean. ¡°Rope and a noose works fine too. If he too scared to do it, then you leave him be, and the two of us will sort it out soon enough.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t mean that.¡± First to look away, Conner goes back to staring at my medallion, wholly in denial because he looks at me and still sees that chubby cheeked boy he knew years back, long before my daddy passed and I started learning from the school of hard knocks. ¡°You¡¯re just saying it.¡±


    ¡°Wayne tell you what he said before he clocked me?¡± I ask. Conner shakes his head, so I supply the answer without smiling. ¡°That it don¡¯t matter if he can¡¯t prove I dunnit. He means to see me get my ¡®just desserts¡¯, one way or another.¡± Shaking my head, I continue, ¡°A man¡¯s word and reputation is all he¡¯s got out here. If Wayne wants to hang a murder round my neck, all he gotta do is speak and make it true. Won¡¯t land me in jail or bring me up in front of a judge, but most folks¡¯ll take a Ranger Lieutenant at his word, and ain¡¯t nothing I can do to fight it.¡± Leaning in close so only Conner can hear it, I whisper, ¡°So if folks gonna call me murderer, then I might as well take Wayne to task and earn that title good and proper.¡±


    Hell, I might even get away clean, depending on how the cards play out. A whole Company of Rangers and class full of boots just seen him sucker punch me in broad daylight, which¡¯ll make me claiming self-defence that much more believable. Especially once they learn what sort of shady business Wayne is into, though proving it will be tricky. Won¡¯t matter to whoever¡¯s got his small-hairs in a twist, but I do this right, and I might not get in any trouble with the law.


    Reading the truth in my eyes and hearing it in my tone, Conner¡¯s expression flits from one emotion to the next, first denial, then horror, and finally bitter acceptance. ¡°Damn Howie,¡± he says, his eyes hardening as he switches my label from friend to foe. ¡°What happened to you?¡±


    ¡°I grew up Conner.¡± Reaching out to take my hat and medallion back, I put it on and add, ¡°Had no choice but to.¡± Straightening up, I let the silence linger as I look around and meet the other Ranger¡¯s eyes, which gives me the opportunity to remember their faces too. ¡°I ain¡¯t no rat,¡± I say, after taking their measure, ¡°So y¡¯all rest easy on that count, but Wayne¡¯s the one you ought to watch. Man¡¯s so desperate he¡¯s drawin¡¯ all sorts of the wrong attention, and only reason Marcus ain¡¯t dug deeper is ¡®cause he feels partially responsible.¡± I can tell a couple Rangers agree, but theirs is a bond forged in battle, and it¡¯s gonna take more than a few words to shake it, much less break.


    Since there ain¡¯t nothing else to say, I turn to leave and say good riddance to burned bridges behind me. Won¡¯t be no more poker nights with Conner, Reggie, and the boys, but I¡¯ll live. Especially since I know Conner ain¡¯t exactly looking out for my best interests. He¡¯s a decent sort, but he¡¯s also a Ranger under Wayne¡¯s command, which means he got a vested interest in keeping things under wraps. Whole Company¡¯s probably in on the take, as that¡¯s the only way they could keep things quiet enough for Marcus to look the other way. Means if Wayne, their Lieutenant and commanding officer, goes down, the whole gravy train comes to a stop for Conner, Reggie, and the rest of them. That¡¯s a best-case scenario too, as Wayne could easily bring the rest of them down with him if he had a mind to. I get it, and I don¡¯t begrudge any one of them the extra dollars, not one bit. Lot of money in hunting Abby, most of which goes back to some paper pushing fat cats appointed by a President elected two decades ago on a whole other world. Ain¡¯t no elections for political office out here on the Frontier, and them ticks who¡¯ve grown fat off of Ranger blood and sweat would love to keep it that way. I see no reason why they should still be calling the shots or paid even half what they make, and I have no problem with any Rangers who supplements their own income. Ain¡¯t meagre by most standards, but it¡¯s far from substantial, and survivor benefits don¡¯t pay shit.


    Not that I get any. Just another grievance to go on the list of ways the Rangers snubbed my daddy.


    When I get back to my wagon, Cowie greets me with a bellowing moo and a headbutt. Then a second when he feels the first one wasn¡¯t hard enough now that I got a Metamagicked Mage Armour protecting me. ¡°Ow,¡± I exclaim, laughing along with his antics and feeling my anger all melt away, though it¡¯s still banked and ready to burn at a moment¡¯s notice. ¡°I¡¯m sorry okay? I know, I should¡¯ve fed and watered you first. Wasn¡¯t in my right mind.¡± Kissing the big fluffy fellow on the head, I set off to do just that while trying to shake the sour mood that come from getting clocked, burning bridges, and being forced to sell the Spell Core in the first place. Ain¡¯t nothing I can do about it except deal with whatever might come. Which I hate, because it got me feeling defensive, and I still got this mess with Pleasant Dunes and my prospects to deal with.


    Then again, who knows? Maybe things will all work out for the best. Maybe Errol shapes up and gets right to training once he¡¯s done tending the horses, and tomorrow, we¡¯ll roll up into Pleasant Dunes where Marcus will shoot Ron in the face for being a two-bit slavedriver. Then I¡¯ll bag me a Proggie and laugh at Wayne¡¯s funeral, after he gets got doing something stupid, the sole casualty in the whole op. After that, we¡¯ll all head home, where me, Errol, and Sarah Jay will mend fences and keep training and earning until it comes time for the next round of Basic. Might even meet two worthwhile prospects who¡¯re eager to sign on with the Frontier Born, and after graduation, the five of us will head out into the world to hone our skills and hunt Abby by the hundreds. Which we¡¯ll cook in pressure cookers I make myself so we can buy better guns and gear to hunt even more Abby down the line, until we become damn near legends of the Frontier.


    Yea, wouldn¡¯t that be nice? It could happen. Ain¡¯t likely, but still possible, and like my daddy used to say, you should always hope for the best. Followed it up with, ¡®And plan for the worst¡¯, but the first bit still applies. A pragmatic man he was, and I try to follow suit.


    Even if it feels like the Frontier ain¡¯t ever given me the anything but the latter. A harsh land it is, but I wouldn¡¯t trade it for any other.

 Chapter 35

    A tent.


    A big ol¡¯ canvas one, tall enough to stand in, wide enough for four people, and long enough to cover her from head to toe. That¡¯s the first purchase Sarah Jay would make, after getting Mama, Mary Anne, and little Jimmy out from under Oswald¡¯s roof and into a house of their own, a dream that didn¡¯t seem so far away after their big find yesterday. Originally, she only wanted to find a place to rent, or maybe even move into subsidized housing, since real estate inside New Hope didn¡¯t come cheap, but Daddy used to say if you shoot for the stars, then even if you miss, you got a chance of landing on the moons, so Sarah Jay figured she might as well dream big. A four-bedroom farmhouse, fairly simple and straightforward as things go. Nothing too fancy like Aunty Ray¡¯s ranch-style brick house, with its lovely porch, secure gun room, and sun room out back, but not bare bones like Howie¡¯s tiny brick bungalow, if it could even be called that. Her dream house would have three rooms up top and one on the main floor, and maybe even a spare office where Mama could do her embroidery if they could swing it, with a fully loaded kitchen and dining room to boot.


    Yea, that was the dream. An expensive one, and while ten percent of a Mage Armour Spell Core would make a nice dent, it wasn¡¯t nowhere near enough for the downpayment. Not for a house in New Hope that was already built, especially not if you wanted something more, like a lawn, barn, tool shed, or even a stable. None of that was necessary, at least not to start with, but they usual came part and parcel with the house. All she needed though was something roomy enough for five to live comfortably inside the walls of New Hope, even right on the outer edge if need be, which she figured would run her about six-grand in total, or a $1500 downpayment. Would be a lot easier to buy a homestead outside of New Hope, as there were plenty of wide, open lots within walking distance of town. Seen some that were only fifteen, twenty minutes to the gates by foot, most of which she could buy outright for a few hundred dollars, and build a home for a few hundred more if they did it themselves. Wasn¡¯t an option though, as convincing Mama to move back to New Hope was an uphill battle to begin with, and it¡¯d be impossible to get her to move anywhere without tall walls and trained guards standing ready 24/7 to protect them. No sense making things any harder, especially once you added Errol into the mix. Mama was liable to pitch a fit once she learned Sarah Jay had relations with a man out of wedlock, but she didn¡¯t need no vows or certificates to know she wanted to spend the rest of her life with Errol. Besides, words didn¡¯t mean nothing. Actions were what mattered, and he didn¡¯t blink twice at chipping in to help her buy a home for her family to live in, so she wasn¡¯t about to kick him to the curb or let him room with Howie for even a minute longer than necessary.


    For more reasons than one.


    The sharp and poignant thought popped her little bubble of lethargy, meaning there¡¯d be no more dreaming for today. Sighing as the last vestiges of sleepiness slipped away, Sarah Jay emerged from out under the covers and dislodged a small mountain of sand from her face before rubbing her eyes. Squashing all her gripes about the lack of creature comforts, she started on her hair and Makeup while pondering the pressing issue at hand, how to get Errol and Howie to mend fences. Wouldn¡¯t be easy, as they weren¡¯t exactly butting heads so much as coming to terms with how they had completely different perspectives and mindsets. To make matters worse, Howie wasn¡¯t the problem, not directly at least. He told them the standards he expected and left it up to them to match it, or at the very least, ask for advice on how to go about it. Errol on the other hand was mistaking Howie¡¯s ruthless detachment for cold-blooded cruelty because that¡¯s all he understood. Sure, Howie¡¯s temper and callous nature were a touch troubling, as was his conflict with Wayne, but a little apathy and friction with military types were part and parcel of the job description. Having to deal with scavs and bandits was unavoidable outside of town, and of course soldiers wouldn¡¯t like seeing mercenaries doing the same job and getting paid better for it. Errol was just making mountains out of molehills is all, while struggling to decide if he even wanted to ride with the Firstborn. Or the Rangers for that matter, because even they failed to measure up to his high, and frankly impossible standards, and he kept himself so busy doing laps in his own head he didn¡¯t have time to do anything else besides go through the motions. Man was in a funk is what it was, shook by what he¡¯d seen and learned these past few weeks and struggling to come to grips with it. Broke her heart it did, seeing Errol confront the ugly truth and lose that starry-eyed look in his eyes, the one that saw the best in everyone and everything.


    Even asleep, his brows were furrowed in conflict and lips pressed in a grimace, a far cry from the goofy smile she¡¯d engraved into memory the morning after their first night together. Couldn¡¯t have been easy, confiding in her about his fear of Howie like that, and she wished she could¡¯ve agreed. Fact was, part of why she fell in love with her man was for his guileless, forthright ways. Errol had a vision of how things ought to be, shaped by righteousness and morality like them stories from the old world, and he lived his life in accordance to that vision. When Richard and his ilk were bullying other boots, Errol stepped up and kept right on doing so because it never occurred to him to stop. Didn¡¯t matter how miserable or alone he felt, he persevered for no reason other than it was the right thing to do. A philosophy most would agree with in theory, but things weren¡¯t so cut and dry in practice. Over the years, Sarah Jay had seen plenty of folks look away from Mama¡¯s bruises and Oswald¡¯s dark moods to know you couldn¡¯t count on the kindness of strangers.


    Most folks looked after themselves first and avoided conflict. It was human nature, simple as that.


    Which was why it was so refreshing to see someone like Errol, raised on old world morals here on the Frontier. This was a man who saw the world in black and white, and now he was coming to grips with how everything came in shades of grey. He simply couldn¡¯t fathom why some people would behave in such horrible and despicable ways, or why good people would sometimes have to do bad things. Couldn¡¯t even understand why none of the other boots stood up to Richard with him, and wondered if it was because he himself was in the wrong. Stupid some might call it, and while she didn¡¯t entirely disagree, she also found it endearing and even somewhat inspiring, though she herself was a pragmatic sort. Errol was like a hero out of one of them shows the illusionists put together, those old world stories where the good guy always won against the bad and stayed squeaky clean doing it. Wasn¡¯t possible here on the Frontier. The good guys didn¡¯t always win, and in fact, they rarely ever did, because you couldn¡¯t win against black hearted bastards without getting a little dirty yourself. Not unless you were the Marshal of course, as everyone knew he was a good man, and Errol had the makings of one too.


    Except now he was having himself a crisis of faith, and she didn¡¯t know how to help him find it again. Sure, she went to church as a kid and had all them hours of bible study, but prayers didn¡¯t keep Daddy alive, nor did they stop Oswald from beating on Mama, Mary Ann, and little Jimmy, so Sarah Jay had long since given up on faith. Saying as much wouldn¡¯t be any help, and she didn¡¯t know who else to turn to, as all the men seemed ready to leave Errol to sink or swim on his lonesome. Granted, he didn¡¯t even try to reach out to anyone, just retreated inwards after they talked about their future with Howie or the Rangers, and nothing she said could shake him out of it. Time was what he needed, and plenty of it according to miss Simone, as well as plenty of love and support. Which Sarah Jay tried to provide as much as she could, only it didn¡¯t feel like she was doing enough to help. Putting aside his crisis of faith, Errol¡¯s other problem was that he¡¯d grown up as the big fish in a little pond, believing himself smart, talented, and capable. Which he was, except it wasn¡¯t worth as much as he thought, and combined with how his world views had just been overturned, he felt lost and insignificant.


    So rather than face facts and accept things as they were, it was easier to blame Howie for revealing the truth. A tale as old as time it was, shooting the messenger, and hopefully Errol wouldn¡¯t actually shoot him.


    Much as she¡¯d love to let her man sleep in a little more, it was coming time for the wake-up call and Drill Sergeant Begaye wouldn¡¯t be half as gentle. Reaching out to stroke Errol¡¯s cheek, she smiled as she watched him come awake, blinking the sleep out of his eyes and relaxing as he took her in with a gaze so full of love and adoration. Hopefully he saw the same in her eyes, and they spent a quiet moment lost in each other¡¯s love, a world apart from all their worldly woes where nothing mattered so long as they were together. ¡°Hey there,¡± she began, smiling as she added, ¡°You handsome hunk of man chocolate you.¡±


    That put a smile on Errol¡¯s face, but it only lasted a moment before reality kicked in as the camp came alive with the sound of the Drill Sergeants¡¯ admonishments and the boots scurried to get dressed and cram their morning chow down their gullets.


    Which was yet another benefit of riding with the Firstborn; they ate better than the poor boots. Army rations were so hard, there was a running joke on the most effective tactic with which to use them against Abby. Flinging them out with the Catapult Spell was the top contender, while force feeding them to Proggies was a close second, as most believed they¡¯d stay well away from human civilization if ever given a taste. Made it all the sweeter to see Howie trade his homemade rations for Tina¡¯s compact hard tack and eat it without so much as making a face, just another one of the many ways he looked out for his little sister. They was adorable together, as Howie was the only one who dared to tease Tina like he did, and the only one she couldn¡¯t wipe the floor with for doing so. During Basic, she¡¯d always been bright and cheery, yet cool, competent, and collected at the same time, a calm and confident beauty who never missed a beat. Howie brought out a different side of Tina though, a spoiled girl desperate to prove herself and coming up short, which was incredible to see. She¡¯d taken the title of top boot with little to no effort at all, and held onto the spot the same way, never showing up for extra practice after lessons or joining in on their weekend trips to the gun range, so there was a distance there that made her seem almost unattainable.


    Until Howie strode right on in and stomped her back down to the same level as everyone else without really even trying.


    Made Tina¡¯s accomplishments all the more impressive to those who knew her, and put Howie even further ahead. Thing was, Sarah Jay suspected the Firstborn¡¯s brash and cocky demeanour was more of an act than anything else. He put on a big show with all his swagger and bluster because it¡¯s what most come to expect, but he wasn¡¯t one to overstep. Captain Hayes even said as much, asking Tina if she¡¯d ever known Howie to bite off more than he could chew, and after a few weeks in the saddle at his side, Sarah Jay was starting to understand why. Howie made things look easy because he was always prepared for every eventuality, cultivating good habits and always thinking ahead. Burying the hob, walking them through the dunes instead of riding over them, keeping a versatile Spell list and all his gear on him at all times, these were only a few of the things that set him apart from the rest.


    All things Sarah Jay could stand to learn from, so she watched him close as he gathered Tina and Kacey up to have breakfast with them, even though there was a bit of tension between the men and women both. Well, less between the women, as Tina and Kacey seemed to have worked things out more or less, while Howie acted like there was nothing going on as he ate his army chow in silence.


    ¡°About an hour after we set out,¡± he began, after choking down the last of his breakfast and brushing the crumbs away for the kiccaws to fight over, ¡°We¡¯ll arrive at our destination, Pleasant Dunes. Fact is, you can see it once you get over yonder dune there.¡± Gesturing at the tallest dune ahead of them, Howie waited until they were all focused on him again before continuing. ¡°Ground rules for once we inside. Not a single one of you goes anywhere alone, and you let someone know where you going before you leave. By someone, I mean me or a Ranger, preferably one of the Captains or Sergeants. Don¡¯t care if they give you the run of the town; you move out in groups no less than three and check in before you go, even if it¡¯s just out to the latrines.¡±


    Sarah Jay could tell Howie was straining not to single Errol out, except all his efforts to not look at the man only made it all the more obvious. Course, Errol made it worse by speaking up. ¡°Why?¡± he asked, making no effort to mask his disbelief. ¡°We¡¯re not kids who need babysitting. We can look after ourselves.¡±


    ¡°Track record says different,¡± Howie replied, and Sarah Jay winced to hear it, while her man tensed up at her side. ¡°And this here is military SOP in any and all independent settlements, big or small. Standard Operatin¡¯ Procedure,¡± he clarified, explaining the acronym for Kacey and breaking eye contact with Errol. Not sure if it was because Howie didn¡¯t want to poke the bear or because he was fixing to keep a lid on his own explosive temper, but Sarah Jay appreciated his efforts nonetheless. Made it so she didn¡¯t have to rein Errol in, which would only get his hackles up because it seemed like she was always taking Howie¡¯s side these days.


    Only because he was right most the time. Didn¡¯t change the facts none though. A woman ought to stand by her man, only Errol was making it real difficult by being wrong more often than not.


    ¡°You should never fully trust locals outside of official settlements,¡± Howie explained, giving extra attention to Tina more than anyone else, which was more proof he was mentally done with Errol and Sarah Jay. ¡°Ain¡¯t sayin¡¯ they all out to getcha¡¯,¡± Howie continued, ¡°But you don¡¯t know their circumstances. They live out here, while you just visitin¡¯, so even though the Rangers represent law and order, they know you ain¡¯t gonna stick around forever. Come tomorrow, they gotta go back to dealin¡¯ with the devils they know, so if some outlaw comes callin¡¯ and tells ¡®em ¡®poison the Rangers¡¯ supplies or else¡¯, then they might well do it ¡®cause they don¡¯t see no other option.¡±


    From there, Howie rattled off a long list of don¡¯ts that seemed excessive, until he reminded them of what he went through last time he was here. ¡°Keep in mind,¡± he began, his eyes shooting off towards the town as if he could see it through the dunes, ¡°These folks ¡®elected¡¯ an outlaw wanted for rape and murder as their Sherriff and let him deputize his four accomplices, so don¡¯t be countin¡¯ on them townies havin¡¯ your back. Nor are you here to right all their wrongs. You here to fight Abby and that¡¯s that, clear?¡±


    There was a dangerous glint in Howie¡¯s eyes that ran contrary to what he said, but Sarah Jay figured he knew the rules well enough to break them as he liked. Errol on the other hand was still raring to challenge the Firstborn on anything and everything he said. ¡°So if I hear someone screaming for help, you expect me to just walk away?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Howie replied, without missing a beat, sounding more tired than angry. A bad sign that, because getting angry meant he still cared. ¡°I expect you not to go running off without thinking twice. You hear a call for help, then you echo it, so others can go running in with you. That way, there¡¯s more than one set of eyes to see what happens, which is important because sometimes, townies lie. Don¡¯t matter why or what they lie about, they do it for reasons too many to count. A second and third reliable witness to corroborate your side of the story can keep those lies from gettin¡¯ too out of hand.¡±


    And that¡¯s all he said, without going off on some story about why the extra precaution was necessary, which was another bad sign. Long-winded though his lessons might be, they contained valuable nuggets of wisdom all the same, so if he was done sharing, it meant his mind was made up. The burden was on Errol and Sarah Jay to change it now, and she wasn¡¯t so sure Errol cared to. It hurt more than a bit, truth be told, as she¡¯d given up so much to be with him, and now his actions meant she might have to give up even more. Working with Howie was a godsend, one that¡¯d fallen into their lap after the whole mess with Richard, and she saw a light at the end of the tunnel wherein she could get her family out from under Oswald¡¯s thumb before year¡¯s end. She¡¯d even laid it all out for Errol plain and clear, explained how there was no downside working with Howie for a few months more, and then they could go their separate ways after Basic if that¡¯s the way things went. Would be mighty ungrateful, which is why Sarah Jay would make sure to pay Howie back for his time and efforts, no two ways about it, except Errol couldn¡¯t be counted on to compromise a few months more.


    Wasn¡¯t fair to judge him at his worst, especially knowing how difficult this was for him. Didn¡¯t change how she felt though, as the facts were still the facts, and wasn¡¯t like all this came easy to her either.


    Putting aside her worries for the future, she sat and listened to the rest of Howie¡¯s instructions before setting off to saddle the horses. Was Winnie and Sunshine¡¯s turn to stretch their legs, and they were all too happy to accommodate while Howie planted himself in the wagon¡¯s driver seat to go about his weapons check. Man moved like a well-oiled machine as he went through the motions, so smooth and precise they could make a training video out of it. Checked the 3-Line first, which he handed over to her without a word once he was done, and she double checked the gun as expected and hoped Errol wouldn¡¯t need to be reminded. He didn¡¯t, which was all good and well, while Howie continued with his prep. He checked and loaded the El-Minister, his Ranger Repeater, Rattlesnake, and his snub-nosed Szass and Tam Model 10, which was cute as all heck and deadly as can be. Went through those five guns and finished before Sarah Jay was done checking her three, and as she racked the slide on her Model 45, she watched Howie go over the rest of his kit like a man possessed.


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    He had his own scars, of this she had no doubt. Not just from riding solo out on the Frontier, but from his training too, else he wouldn¡¯t be so compulsive about everything he do. It was one thing to talk about getting hit with the Fear Spell for training, and another altogether to go through with it. Having seen how the steadfast Kacey reacted at sixteen going on seventeen, Sarah Jay had to wonder what Howie reacted when he was first hit by the Spell, or how old he was when it happened. He was upfront about having gone through it, but never touched on any details, and neither did Tina when the subject came up. Then there was the way he went about his readiness check, going above and beyond even what the Drill Sergeants demanded as he went through everything in his Spell Component¡¯s pouch to make sure whatever he might need was easily accessible.


    Yea, Sarah Jay could see how his focus and intensity could scare a man, but where they saw a man getting all gung-ho about killing, she saw it as more proof of how preparation was Howie¡¯s greatest strength. Whether it was his weapons, his gear, or his Spell choices, the Firstborn always had a solution for any problem he might face. Man joked about keeping Featherfall on his boot for emergencies, and she¡¯d laughed along with him, except now she realized it wasn¡¯t really a joke. It was Howie spitting facts, because in all likelihood, that Featherfall Spell had saved his life at least once before, and the Longstrider Spell on his other boot most certainly saved his hide too. Then there was the fact that he didn¡¯t stop to memorize a new Spell Structure before the fight yesterday, the one he cast to help keep them all concealed while watching the Rangers fight. He already had that Spell locked in tight and ready to go when needed, alongside other utility Spells like Expeditious Retreat, Floating Disc, Detect Aberration, and who knows what else. She¡¯d long since lost count of how many Spell Structures he had prepared at any given time, though it was a given he was already into the double digits. That right there was a feat accomplished through hard work and nothing else, as everyone, big or small, rich or poor, young or old, started off with room for only two or three Structures in their heads. Mama said it was the same as working out your muscles, in that the more you use it, the stronger it gets, and Howie slung Spells as often as he could in his bid to get ahead, even Cantrips which barely made any difference at all. It made sense once you thought about it, because even if the lower levels of ambient Aether limited established Spell Casters like Captain Jung and Captain Clay to a certain number of Spells cast per day, it didn¡¯t affect the total number of Spell Structures they were able to store in memory, so Howie was pushing for every edge he could get.


    A point he hammered home as he cast a number of protective Spells on himself and Cowie. To match him, Sarah Jay threw up a Mage Armour over herself and Errol before conjuring up a Water Sphere to wet Sunshine¡¯s neck. Set her champagne-coloured coat to glistening, and as Sarah Jay wet the other side too to make it match, the sweet horse shivered in delight as the cool water ran down her shoulders and legs. In the interest of extra practice, she did the same for Winnie who neighed in delight, before locking eyes with Errol and seeing if he¡¯d gained anything. Rather than try, he simply shook his head and looked away, and it took all of Sarah Jay¡¯s self-control not to smack him upside the head. If something didn¡¯t come natural, he simply wrote it off as nigh impossible, when instead he ought to double down and work harder at it. A bad habit born from a lifetime of low expectations, one she was fixing to break him of right quick.


    You know, after he sorted things out in his head. No sense overwhelming him all at once.


    Wasn¡¯t easy, toeing that line, and she didn¡¯t have much time to work with as they set out for Pleasant Dunes. While they moved, the Drill Sergeants rode up and down the lines hollering questions at boots about protocol, most of which lined up with what Howie already said. Was a bit more in-depth with a lot more insults, yet she noticed Errol didn¡¯t seem to mind it as much when Drill Sergeant Begaye got all up in his face for forgetting to say ¡®sir¡¯ before and after his answer. Still got him riled up, but not half as much as a look from Howie would, and Sarah Jay just couldn¡¯t understand why.


    Boys. Bunch of stubborn, hard-headed fools is what they were, and nothing seemed to change even after they became men.


    As they crested the next dune, Sarah Jay got her first glimpse of Pleasant Dunes. Wasn¡¯t what she expected, but not because it was unfamiliar. The opposite in fact, as it was as solid and imposing a town as one ought to be. Wasn¡¯t nowhere near as large or impressive as New Hope, but the curved, serpentine walls seemed tall and serviceable enough to keep Abby out of their streets. Four massive towers gave them great sight lines out into the desert, and there was plenty of space up on the parapets for guns and gunners alike, as well as room enough to fit five-hundred people easy. No wonder Howie couldn¡¯t be bothered to elaborate on what the place was like. Aside from scale and aesthetics, it was pretty much the same as what you¡¯d find in New Hope, minus the trained and readied Rangers of course.


    When the convoy drew close, the gates opened up to let them in, meaning their arrival was expected. Only then did she spot the guards, a grizzled bunch of sun-burned smokers sitting behind cover while giving the convoy¡¯s gear a good once over. The guards themselves were a little lacking in discipline, but heavily armed with three guns a piece at a minimum, a rifle in hand and two pistols on their hips or shoulder harnesses. Didn¡¯t seem none too impressed by what they saw either, barely hiding their disdain as the boots and wagons filed on through. Right up until it came their turn to head on in, at which point one of the guards, a seasoned-looking fella with a pockmarked face, opened his eyes wide and hefted his rifle with a shout. ¡°Oh hell no! You ain¡¯t welcome here, Qink!¡±


    Howie already had his hands out and to the sides, as well as a big grin pasted across his face, and Sarah Jay noted it was because none them guards had their fingers on the trigger. ¡°Oh c¡¯mon now Carl,¡± he said, paying no mind to the many guns pointed in his direction, nor the Ranger guns that went up in response, all trained and readied on the guards. ¡°I thought we had a connection.¡± Waving at both sides to put their weapons down, Howie turned on his charms and asked, ¡°How ¡®bout we dial things back a bit? No need to be pointing no weapons at nobody, I ain¡¯t here to cause trouble.¡±


    ¡°Said that the last time you was here,¡± Carl retorted, looking askew at all the Ranger guns pointed at him, but he didn¡¯t back down one bit, and neither did the Rangers. ¡°Then you shot the Sherriff.¡±


    ¡°And his deputies.¡± Winking like it was some big joke, Howie waited a beat before laughing. ¡°Wasn¡¯t my fault the man had a bounty on his head. Big ¡®un too. Look, I get it. I ruffled some feathers last time around, but I saw my shot and I took it. Wasn¡¯t expecting to come in and gun down no lawman, and I promise I won¡¯t do it again.¡± Pausing again, Howie shrugged and added, ¡°Unless you elected another outlaw to fill the position. Then I¡¯m afraid my hands are tied. Either I get him or the Rangers do, and the Rangers can¡¯t collect no bounty.¡± Looking around without even a hint of concern for the weapons pointed in his general direction, Howie asked, ¡°How¡¯s Vicente by the way? Hated leaving him how I did, all shook like that. Hope he¡¯s doin¡¯ good.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s fine. Big man¡¯s tougher than nails and got over it quick.¡± There was a resigned note to Carl¡¯s voice as he lowered his rifle, though it probably had more to do with all the threat of retaliation rather than Howie¡¯s reassurances. ¡°Don¡¯t be causing no trouble this time.¡±


    ¡°Aw Carl, you¡¯re breaking my heart here. Like I said, wasn¡¯t like I set out to cause a scene last time around.¡± Far as Sarah Jay suspected, that¡¯s exactly what Howie did, because he didn¡¯t strike her as the type to count on luck when it came to bagging a bounty. Then, showing exactly how far he planned ahead, Howie bent down to grab something by his feet and slowly lifted it up for the guards to see. ¡°Still, I feel real bad about it all, so I brought a gift for the whole town. A set of speakers for the saloon, so y¡¯all can listen to music whenever you like.¡± Putting the speakers back down, Howie pointed at Carl with a knowing look and added, ¡°Got more of that fizzy starmelon mead too, and a bottle with your name on it once you done here.¡± Looking at the other guards, Howie grinned and whispered, ¡°Or one for each of you here and now, if y¡¯all so inclined? I won¡¯t tell if you don¡¯t.¡±


    Didn¡¯t take him more than a minute to charm them guards after pulling his wagon over to the side for a chat. Had a whole schtick ready too as he pulled out four bottles of mead and used a Freeze Cantrip to chill them before handing them over. Even lit up a Silent Image Spell Core to show off a bunch of formulas, Freeze included, saying he brainstormed up with a couple Cantrips that could help with desert living. This was the Firstborn putting on a show, the seasoned traveller who went from town to town to make a living. A cheery and exuberant young man with all of Howie¡¯s rough edges smoothed over, or at the very least covered up out of sight. Was amazing to see it in action, this seamless transition from grumpy and boring fuddy duddy to a caring and thoughtful young man who was eager and excited to be out in the world. Made Sarah Jay wonder how much of it was really an act, as she suspected this was who Howie was before reality wore away at his spirited self, leaving only a jaded pessimist who always expected the worst in everyone he met.


    That¡¯s what Errol didn¡¯t understand. Howie was a good man too, when you came right down to it. Only difference was his willingness to cross a few lines if they happened to need crossing, and Sarah Jay wasn¡¯t gonna judge him for doing what needed to be done. Like telling little white lies for example, ones that painted him in a better light. Had the guards eating out of the palm of his hand by the time he finished catching them up on what happened after he left, as Howie made it sound like he only had Pleasant Dunes¡¯ best interests in mind. ¡°So yea,¡± he concluded after finishing his tale. ¡°Only seemed right I come along to help out with yer Abby problem, seeing as I was the one who brung it up to the Rangers. Had to, ¡®cause I know good and well how some companies be. So long as it don¡¯t affect their bottom line, all deaths are acceptable deaths.¡±


    Interestingly enough, not a one of the guards agreed out loud, though they all took a swig at the same time. ¡°Been getting bad these days,¡± Carl said after a beat, pitching his voice so low Sarah Jay had to strain to hear it. ¡°Barely a day goes by without an attack. Ain¡¯t more than a trickle most times, but down in them tunnels, even a handful of orcs can make a real mess of things. Man can¡¯t make a living if the mines shut down every other day.¡±


    ¡°Well that¡¯s why we here,¡± Howie replied, clapping the older man on the shoulder. ¡°Clear out them tunnels and send Abby packing for a bit. Give y¡¯all some breathin¡¯ room to shore up the defenses and what not. Y¡¯all made great strides, more than any town I seen round these parts, but you know how it is. Proggies churn out Abby faster than factories churn out bullets, so we all gotta lean on one another a little bit. Ain¡¯t about being American or Independent or whatever else y¡¯all might¡¯ve been; just humans versus Abby, and I ain¡¯t bout to let no greenies get one over on us.¡±


    All four guards let out a little cheer in agreement, and the passing boots and Rangers chimed in. Was a sight to see for sure, especially knowing how this didn¡¯t come natural to Howie, yet he played the part like he was born to it. Were it Tina charming townies with a smile and a song, Sarah Jay wouldn¡¯t think twice since it was to be expected, but Howie made do with what he had and won people over all the same. She couldn¡¯t do that, not in a million years, as she had what some referred to as ¡®resting bitch face¡¯. The Ice Queen of boot camp, they called her, on account of her pretty features and frosty demeanour, because warm and cuddly didn¡¯t come easy like it did for Tina. Even friendly was a stretch, not that Sarah Jay minded, though she admitted it might do her good to learn a thing or two about talking up strangers.


    Howie left the guards smiling like they was old friends, even though two had to introduce themselves then and there. As he led them away to follow the tail end of the convoy into town, he explained, ¡°Never hurts to make nice with the guards. Might make them hesitate when ordered to shoot you dead, though I suspect Carl and his boys wouldn¡¯t hesitate for long. They a hard bunch, and while they ain¡¯t no company men, their livelihoods depend on the company to sustain them. Keep that in mind when you here. The Rangers play a pivotal role in the war against Abby, but they don¡¯t put food on these people¡¯s tables, and we all about three missed meals away from total anarchy.¡±


    Now that there was a fact, yet Sarah Jay could tell Errol couldn¡¯t believe it. Guess he never went too hungry back home, which didn¡¯t come as too much of a surprise. Between the fertile Emerald Plains and the Deadline waterways all full of fish, she suspected missed meals were never much of an issue for his nameless little village. Not so round these parts, as the pickings had been mighty slim for the first decade or so, what with the Proggie under Last Chance Lake raiding the surrounding farms and fisheries for biomass and the occasional inroads from Abby raiding parties coming out the badlands and the Divide beyond it. Nowadays, food was aplenty largely thanks to the discovery and widespread adoptions of breadroot farming. The whitish-purple tuber was hard and bitter no matter how you cooked it, but could be ground up into flour to make delicious, fluffy breads and chewy pasta noodles.


    Or unpalatable hardtack, which was a real kick in the teeth, in more ways than one.


    The interior of Pleasant Dunes wasn¡¯t as pleasant as the exterior, as it had the look of a haphazard shanty town than a village proper. There wasn¡¯t much in the way of proper structures aside from a strip of buildings in the centre, though there was plenty of shade to be found under the many patchwork canvas canopies dotted about. Seemed these townies lived hard lives, lacking even personal tents for themselves, and it made Sarah Jay feel mighty small for complaining as much as she did. Only spent a few weeks without a roof overhead, while these townies went years without, so if they could hack it, so could she. They were dressed shabby too, though surprisingly clean all things considered, and she saw more than one townie using the Water Sphere Cantrip to help others wash up.


    The formula for which Howie had shared the last time he was here, according to his conversation with the guards, so Sarah Jay could only imagine what it was like before that.


    Though most watched him with suspicion, more than one child waved as Howie passed, and he waved back with a big grin and told folks he had more candy to hand out once he was settled in. It was a strange thing to see, folks so guarded against him yet hopeful at the same time, like they wasn¡¯t sure if his return was a blessing or a curse. By the time they made it to where the Rangers made camp, Howie had answered the same questions more than a dozen times without batting an eye to soothe nerves and reassure townies, while making good on his promise of music by popping the speakers down outside the saloon and setting them up right quick. The townies loved that, and turned out in droves to listen, but lot of the younger kids wanted to watch the Rangers instead. Wasn¡¯t much to see, because after setting a perimeter, staking the horses, digging the latrines, and unloading their supplies, the Drill Sergeants brought the boots out to inspect the walls.


    Which led to more digging and more prep as they secured the town as best they could, but the people of Pleasant Dunes had done well enough. To hear Howie tell it, the Rangers would do their best to keep Abby confined to the tunnels, but chances were, them greenies would dig their own way out the mountain soon enough. Bugbears could burrow through solid rock using nothing but their bare hands, while orcs fared only a little worse, and goblins were probably smart enough to make tools for them all. It made for a complicated puzzle, setting defenses against Abby, one the Drill Sergeants made them piece together bit by bit while going over all sorts of different scenarios and how they played out in real life. Holding walls wasn¡¯t typical Ranger work after all. Rangers were the tip of the spear, which meant more often than not, they were deep in the thick of it behind enemy lines, far away from any and friendly forces and fortified defenses. Truth be told, bringing the boots all the way out to Pleasant Dunes didn¡¯t make much sense now that Sarah Jay thought about it. There was no way the Rangers would let them go down any mining tunnels, nor was it like there was a shortage of Abby attacks to defend against back home. Wait long enough around New Hope and there was bound to be one force of Abby or another emerging from the badlands over the next few months, so it wasn¡¯t like the boots couldn¡¯t get live-fire experience then.


    Which meant there had to be another reason why Captain Clay dragged them out all this way, and why Howie was so keen on coming back after kill the local lawmen outlaws.


    A question whose answer eluded Sarah Jay as she went about her day, digging, hauling, and otherwise labouring away beneath the hot desert sun. Say what you will about the Firstborn, but he was working right there alongside them, without so much as being asked. Worked faster than most too, using his Mould Earth Cantrip to great effect as he dug out trenches bare handed quicker than any two boots with tool. Was amazing how much utility he could eke out of that one Cantrip, as it wasn¡¯t all about raw power. It was mostly technique, as he¡¯d wave his hand back and forth over an area and set the sand to swirling until it was flowing like water. Then, with a quick flick of the wrist, he¡¯d send all that sand surging up and out into the mouth of an open canvas bag, leaving a six-inch deep pit the size of a serving platter behind. Took about five seconds start to finish, and soon as the sandbag was filled, his Mage Hands would set to sewing it shut so his Simple Servant could drag it away for some other boots to haul. Didn¡¯t take Howie long to dig out a whole section of trench and fill more sandbags than any three of them combined, all without breaking a sweat. Looked fresh as a daisy while the rest of them lost litres of sweat moving sand the good old-fashioned way. Those who tried to copy him got the hammer brought down on them by the Sergeants in charge, including Sergeant Begaye who challenged them by saying, ¡°If you can Spell half as good as Howie, you can do the same, but those who fail will be digging until nightfall.¡±


    Sarah Jay wasn¡¯t fool enough to try, but a few boots gave it a go, and a couple more even asked Howie for tips after the others failed. ¡°Ain¡¯t no trick, just familiarity,¡± he replied, grinning from ear to ear as he added, ¡°Few weeks digging foundations will get you close. Or laying cobble for streets. Fair few stretches in New Hope done by yours truly, which was enough construction work to last me a lifetime.¡±


    It was all delivered in a light-hearted mood, but it put Sarah Jay in mind of those scars again, the ones no one could see. Was all good and well to know Howie had dabbled in a number of different careers before, but it made her wonder what sort of childhood he lived. Digging foundations, laying cobblestone, resisting Fear Spells, hunting Abby, Etching, shooting, skinning, Spellslinging, and who knows what else, all of which didn¡¯t leave much room for just being a kid. Tough as she might¡¯ve had it growing up, all she was expected to learn was her numbers and letters, and she always had Mary Anne and later little Jimmy to play with, even if she was keeping them out of trouble half the time. Keeping that in mind, it was no wonder Howie was ahead of the pack; he must¡¯ve spent the last ten years training for this life, whereas the rest of them just started learning the ropes a few months back. It was one thing to hear it, and another to see it in action, and Sarah Jay wasn¡¯t sure if she should be more impressed or sympathetic.


    While they continued to dig, a handful of heavy guns were rolled out and the boots brought over to learn how to operate them in teams of five. They covered belt-fed machine guns in Basic, and the Drill Sergeants put them through the motions again to make sure they remembered how to load and unload them, but there were plenty of new weapons too. Mortars for lobbing Third Order Bombards, Secord Order Arc-rifles for chain-electrocuting Abby, recoilless Lance rifles to bring down heavily armoured targets, and more, they spent the afternoon learning the ins and outs of the big guns which was like a dream come true for Sarah Jay. Howie was even worse, acting like a kid in a candy store while rattling off specs about the different guns and the history behind them. Errol even cracked a smile as he hefted the big, tubular recoilless Lance rifle over his shoulder, and outright laughed when Howie asked if he could touch it, showing just how tasteless the both of them were.


    Still, it was something, and Sarah Jay hoped her boys would sort things out sooner rather than later. For all their sakes really, because if they couldn¡¯t figure out a way to get along, then she was gonna have to make them, and she didn¡¯t have the foggiest clue where to begin. Who knows though? She wasn¡¯t ready to call it quits, and they might could forge a bond in the fires of battle over the next few days, one that would see the three of them through to the Watershed and beyond.


    Now that was a dream, one Sarah Jay wasn¡¯t so sure would ever come true, but so long as she was dreaming big, she might as well go whole hog.

 Chapter 36

    A good man obtaineth favour of the Lord: but a man of wicked devices will he condemn.


    Proverbs 12:2, a verse Errol had been dwelling on for the past couple of days. It wasn¡¯t complicated. In fact, it was as simple as could be. A good man was rewarded, and a bad man condemned, but what makes a man good or bad? A good Christian followed the commandments, but not everyone followed the same faith, so it wasn¡¯t like everyone who wasn¡¯t Christian was automatically a bad person, nor were all believers automatically good. Father Nicolas was a good man, apparently the only man Errol knew who deserved such high praise, and while the other priests and nuns were most certainly good people, they fell far short of Father Nicolas¡¯ example.


    What about the law? A good man most certainly followed the law, but what if the law was wrong? There was a time when slavery was legal, but that didn¡¯t make it moral, nor did it exempt slavers from being bad men. Back in those days, Abolitionists and members of the Underground Railroad would help slaves escape to freedom, and they were heroes for it. In the eyes of the law however, they were technically criminals, so if a police officer were to arrest them, would that make him a good or a bad man?


    Then there was Sarah Jay¡¯s father, who murdered what sounded like a starving man for the crime of demanding food. On the one hand, Errol understood why someone might act in such a way, but killing someone who¡¯d offered only a vague suggestion of a threat didn¡¯t sit well with his conscience. A bone hatchet was a weapon to be sure, but also a tool, so there was a possibility the man might¡¯ve just forgotten how to behave in polite society and had no intentions of hurting anybody. Errol had seen it happen before, feral and broken settlers who¡¯d spent years alone and afraid on the wild, untamed Frontier and had to be brought in by the Pathfinders or Chevaliers to be rehabilitated by the clergy. One of the ranch hands back home had been just such a person, Sammy Russel who was brought in when Errol was little older than eight. The man been all out of sorts at first, and had to be wrapped tightly in linens and locked in a padded room to keep him from hurting himself or other people, but Father Nicolas and the other priests and nuns worked around the clock to keep him alive, and Sammy eventually found his way back to the light.


    It wasn¡¯t a miracle of God that did it. It was the work of a good man, of good people, who gave Sammy a second chance instead of gunning him down like the wild animal he first resembled.


    So did that make Sarah Jay¡¯s father a bad man for killing that traveller unprovoked? Taken as is, Errol¡¯s gut was leaning towards maybe, but it was difficult to condemn a man for erring on the side of caution when protecting his family. Easy to turn the other cheek when the blows were aimed at you. Was an entirely different experience when your loved ones were in the line of fire, as he himself learned firsthand. That¡¯s how he got himself in this mess in the first place after all, because he couldn¡¯t walk away after Richard started spewing his hate towards Sarah Jay. Logically, Errol understood the need to cross certain lines in desperate times, but there were some things he couldn¡¯t forgive.


    Like denying a man their last rites. Any man, criminal or otherwise, deserved a chance to repent before the Lord Almighty, and if they so desired to, then who was Captain Marcus Clay to deny them? A monster, that¡¯s what, and it made Errol sick to the stomach to even think about.


    Judge not, lest ye be judged, and let he who is without sin cast the first stone, but he could never look at the congenial giant of a Captain the same way ever again.


    What about Howie then? Now there was a headscratcher, and the crux of Errol¡¯s current issues. He couldn¡¯t ride with a morally corrupt man, but the Firstborn¡¯s mind was a puzzle wrapped inside an enigma housed inside a cranium. That¡¯s what Father Nicolas had said about Sammy when he first arrived at their church, and the label fit Howie to a tee. Most of the time, he was a bright and cheery fellow, one prone to long lectures and anti-social tendencies at the end of the day. Errol never really noticed it before, not until he looked back on their time spent together, as he¡¯d always given Sarah Jay his full focus the moment they set camp. It was obvious in retrospect though, how Howie would just shut down after a long day of lessons and lectures to sit and brood by his lonesome at the end of the day. He¡¯d be right there eating his meal alongside them while his mind was a million miles away, which made Errol suspect all of Howie¡¯s friendly tendencies were just an act. Though always quick with a joke and a smile, he didn¡¯t actually like being around people much, which was why he spent weeks out on the road alone, never ate with the boots, or engaged anyone in idle conversation besides Tina, and only because he couldn¡¯t get rid of her.


    It was even more obvious once they arrived in Pleasant Dunes and Howie turned things up to eleven, joking and laughing with those hard-bitten guards only to turn around and explain how it ¡®never hurts to make nice¡¯. That sort of cold logic tainted all his subsequent actions too, whether it be supplying the town with a free set of speakers and music to listen to, displaying Cantrip Formulas to copy and learn, or leaving a big jar of hard candies out front for everyone to share. Wasn¡¯t the spirit of generosity which made Howie do what he did. No, in his eyes, it was more like a bribe, paying for goodwill in advance so he could trample all over it later on.


    As if the poor people of Pleasant Dunes didn¡¯t have it hard enough. They lived hard lives out here. You could see it in their faces, their slumped shoulders and hunched backs to go with their long stares and weather-worn expressions. There was some brief bit of cheer to go around, especially when the music first started playing, but as the day wore on, their mood fell back down to dour and dismal amidst a general air of uneasy angst.


    Didn¡¯t affect Howie none though, as he grinned like a kid in a candy store while looking over the Recoilless Rifle nested atop Errol¡¯s shoulder. A big tube of a weapon that was longer than he was tall and about as thick as his leg, the Recoilless Rifle weighed a good 20 kilos easy, while the ammunition cannisters added another two or three on top. Numbers Howie rattled off from memory as he told them all about it, even though no one, not even Drill Sergeant Begaye, had asked. ¡°Yes sir,¡± Howie declared, working a latch behind Errol¡¯s head as he held the launcher in place. ¡°Slam this baby in here, latch it tight, and flick that switch there.¡± The last was directed at Errol, who only just stopped himself from pressing it, though from the sound of things, Howie hadn¡¯t actually loaded the weapon. ¡°Then it¡¯s a waitin¡¯ game,¡± Howie continued, and Errol could hear his barely contained glee at the prospect of firing one off. ¡°How long you wait depends on how much time you have. Two and a half seconds to Prime, just like any Core, and then you can shoot any time after, but you don¡¯t want that. Would be a waste really, throwin¡¯ out a Lance shot that do maybe two, three times the damage of a similarly Metamagicked First Order Bolt.¡±


    ¡°Two or three times?¡± Tina asked, playing right into Howie¡¯s bit, and Errol couldn¡¯t tell if she was humouring him or actually surprised. ¡°That¡¯s it?¡±


    ¡°I know right? Be a huge waste of this 90mm, 630 Grain shell.¡± Smacking the back of the tube again, Howie said, ¡°Thing is, you can probably tell from all this extra heft that the Second Order Lance Spell Core ain¡¯t as easy breezy as its baby brother, the tried-and-true Bolt. Most of this hardware is to handle the massive recoil of the Spell Core, which true to the rifle¡¯s name, won¡¯t feel like more than a love tap to whoever holding the gun. Deal out a whole lot worse though, as the rest of these doodads are to bring out the full potential of the Lance Spell, which ain¡¯t as cut and dry as you think. We allowed to fire off a couple test rounds?¡±


    The last was directed at the Drill Sergeant, who shook his head with a scowl, but Howie shrugged and went right on explaining. ¡°Shame. Long and short of it is the Lance Spell got a quirk to it, in that you can pour more Aether into the Core than the Spell needs. Base only requires 90 Grain to Prime like all other Second Order Spells, while the extra 540 Grain is used to Charge the Spell, as it were. This ain¡¯t no upcasting, as the end result still Second Order in scope, but it¡¯ll take that extra Aether and pack it into the projectile to make it hit that much harder. Takes time to do so, and the longer you let it Charge, the harder it¡¯ll hit, up to a maximum of thirty seconds.¡± Pointing at a gem on the side of the tube close to the trigger, Howie asked, ¡°See that there? When that lights up, it means the Core is Primed and fully Charged, with all the Aether in the shell used up. If you got a target, then shoot and watch it and anything standing between you or behind it die right quick. If you don¡¯t got a target, then hit that button there, and it¡¯ll put the weapon in standby mode. Means it¡¯ll be safe to leave fully charged for a bit, but will take two to three seconds to Prime again when re-activated. Give you time to make sure it¡¯s pointed down range and there¡¯s no one standing behind you before you hit the trigger. Which is important, because if you don¡¯t, you gonna learn firsthand how friendly fire ain¡¯t all that friendly.¡±


    Now, Errol knew Howie wasn¡¯t saying it just for his benefit, nor was he trying to be mean about it, but it still rankled to have his failings poked at again and again. Howie didn¡¯t notice as he went on to talk about how a fully charged Recoilless Rifle could put a Lance shot straight through a tank and take out a second tank behind it, so all Errol could do was swallow his ire and listen as best he could. Sarah Jay didn¡¯t say at thing, but she saw right through him and gave him a look, one that was equal parts pity and commiseration. Didn¡¯t want her pity, but he couldn¡¯t think about that just yet, as Howie was walking them through the dryfire drill. ¡°So loader pops the shell in, closes it up, secures the latch, then checks if it¡¯s clear to shoot. Then, and only then, do you tap your gunner on the head.¡± Howie did just that, not too hard, but not exactly lightly either. ¡°Two taps, no more, no less. Got it? From there, it¡¯s all on the gunner, who calls ¡®Clear¡¯.¡±


    Hearing his cue, Errol did just that, and everyone responded, ¡°Clear!¡± The other groups had been none too quiet about it, so everyone more or less knew what to do, but Howie was determined to walk them through the whole thing regardless. Not that he was wrong to, as there was a lot of important information to go over, like the reason why everyone had to respond. It was to ensure they all had their mouths open when the Recoilless Rifle was fired, so that the resulting soundwave from the Lance wouldn¡¯t rupture your eardrums. A necessity even with the Hearing Protection Cantrip, which Errol didn¡¯t have and now desperately wished he did.


    If only he¡¯d spent his time learning that Cantrip instead of failing at the useless Bolt¡­


    They all took their turns as gunner and loader, though Errol was pretty sure they wouldn¡¯t be allowed to shoot it anytime soon. Didn¡¯t say as much though, as it made sense to at least know how it worked in case the worst should come to pass, and Drill Sergeant Begaye didn¡¯t say anything to dissuade them. Barely said a word the whole time in fact, which was uncharacteristic of the man as he watched their actions like the proverbial hawk. Mortars were a lot easier, as all you had to do was drop the shell in and get out of the way, though aiming was tricky, while Arc-rifles were functionally no different from Bolt Aetherarms, and they¡¯d already covered heavy machine guns in Basic, but Howie made them go through it all regardless.


    Again, not a terrible thing, but Errol wished Howie would be quicker about it. If Drill Sergeant Begaye was running the show, he¡¯d stick to the essentials and nothing else to cover things in half the time, whereas Howie seemed compelled to explain every facet and detail that came to mind, whether it mattered or not.


    Thankfully, there were only so many new weapons to go over, and then the Drill Sergeant took over once more, bellowing out orders while half the boots laboured underneath the hot desert sun, and the other half ran drills around town. Was barely noon and Errol¡¯s shirt was already soaked through with sweat, but he put everything he had into his work and felt better for it. Was nice to focus on the short term for a bit, put everything out of his head and just do as he was told without having to wonder if he was doing the right thing. Was even better seeing Howie fall short at the silliest things, like marching and standing in formation. Apparently, his famous daddy never covered those in class, so he stuck out like a sore thumb when it came time for drills and patrols. Seemed like every other insult dispensed by Drill Sergeant Begaye was directed at the Firstborn, telling him to stand up straight, square his shoulders, face forward, or whatnot, and Errol had no idea how the stern Navajo Ranger kept a straight face when Howie started marching. Wasn¡¯t so much a march as it was a prance as the Firstborn skipped in place with every step as he lifted his knees to chest high. Swung his arms too far too, and aligned with the wrong leg, as it was arm forward, leg back on the same side.


    ¡°Sir,¡± Howie retorted, after the Drill Sergeant¡¯s umpteenth tirade singling him out for poor performance. ¡°What exactly does marchin¡¯ pretty have to do with fightin¡¯ anyways? Sir.¡±


    Errol grinned, because he¡¯d asked the same question and knew exactly what was coming next. ¡°I just like to see you dance, boot!¡± Getting right up in Howie¡¯s face, the Drill Sergeant¡¯s neck veins throbbed as he yelled, ¡°So dance for me! Dance until you get it right!¡±


    Was good to see the Firstborn taken down a peg or two, and Errol wasn¡¯t the only one doubled over laughing, but once their amusement died down, they all learned Howie was a vindictive sort. Shooting them a grin as he marched in place, Howie said, ¡°Sir, I¡¯ll learn faster marchin¡¯ in formation, so what say we all go another lap?¡±


    The boots collectively groaned, which Errol knew was a mistake after the fact, because the Drill Sergeant might not have humoured Howie if they didn¡¯t. ¡°Can¡¯t learn anything from one lap,¡± Sergeant Begaye said with a scowl. ¡°Need at least three.¡±


    ¡°Sir, yes Sir.¡± Despite the blowback, Howie was still smiling as he set the pace of their march, and for the rest of the afternoon, no one laughed at his many mistakes. Or if they did, they laughed quietly, which was good enough for Howie. As for Errol, he kept his head down and lip shut as the day wore on, focused on his work and committing every protocol and response plan to memory. There were so many things to keep track of, it was a wonder he remembered any of it at all. What to do if they were attacked by burrowing Abby, flying Abby, artillery Abby, or siege Abby. Where to go in case of a breach, which buildings were secure and which would be sacrificed to slow Abby movement, where the triage stations were set up and the various routes out of the town, this was only scratching the surface of what the Drill Sergeants crammed into their heads, and there was still so much more to go.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry too much about gettin¡¯ overwhelmed,¡± Howie said, speaking to about half the boots in Pleasant Dunes as they all headed back to camp together for dinner. ¡°Just stick with your battle buddies at all times, and when the shootin¡¯ starts, find yourself a Sergeant to follow. That¡¯s what they here for, so all you gotta worry about is puttin¡¯ Bolts downrange.¡±


    ¡°Looks to me like the locals got that covered well enough,¡± Michael said, falling in line beside Howie like they were best friends as they led the boots down main street. If you could call it that, as it was all sand just like everything else, except this sand sat between the only two rows of buildings in town. ¡°Like you said, they¡¯ve got tall towers, thick walls, decent layout, and plenty of guns too. Don¡¯t see why we¡¯re needed.¡±


    Now that Michael pointed it out, Errol saw it too. Half a year ago, he would have been awestruck by the sheer scale of the walls, all six metres tall and made of thick stone blocks, with multiple bunkers spaced out along each side. That¡¯s twice as tall as the wood palisade walls they had back home, which were more than enough to keep Ferals at bay, while Pleasant Dunes only fell short when compared to the likes of Meadowbrook and New Hope. Not half bad for Independents, especially considering how the locals all looked like they knew how to handle themselves. Weren¡¯t any flighty ladies peddling soaps or puffed-up businessmen holding perfumed kerchiefs wandering about like back in New Hope. No, the people of Pleasant Dunes were a hardy and formidable bunch, all heavily armed, battle-scarred, and not half as hospitable as he expected. Didn¡¯t act like people in desperate need of saving, and didn¡¯t seem all too pleased about the Rangers¡¯ presence here in their town. Most stared from afar while going about their day, which as far as he could tell, consisted of sitting or standing around doing nothing. Some were busy baking bread and smoking meat at the communal ovens, or hauling sand bags and boxes of ammunition up the tall towers on the edge of town, but most sat idle in whatever shade they could find while staring at the boots as they passed, and Errol found it all a little unnerving.


    Were plenty of people living here in Pleasant Dunes, but not much ¡®life¡¯ to be found. No painted murals or touches of personality to the big stone buildings, no personal additions around the sleeping areas or neat embroidery in their clothing, not a single thing that stood out as whimsical much less extravagant. They were too busy keeping themselves safe and fed to spare for anything else, so they resigned themselves to the current state of affairs and didn¡¯t care much to improve them. That¡¯s why they sat idle instead of doing something productive, that and maybe because they lacked the tools and materials to do anything with. Weren¡¯t any loomshrubs or fields of grass to weave into cloth, no trees to chop for wood and build shelter with, not even water and clay to turn into bricks. All they had was sand, stone, and ore, and they had to fight Abby tooth and nail to get their hands on the last two.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Meaning they had plenty of time to just sit and stare, and weren¡¯t all that shy about doing it. Howie wasn¡¯t phased by all the attention though, smiling and waving at the crowd despite no one smiling or waving back. ¡°Tip of the spear goes wherever it¡¯s pointed,¡± he said, in answer to Michael¡¯s non-question. ¡°No need to wonder why we¡¯re here. All you gotta do is follow orders and do your part. If these townies can handle it without us, then that makes our job that much easier.¡±


    As they approached the saloon, Tina got to humming as she often did, only this time she was accompanied by the guitar music playing out over Howie¡¯s donated speakers. Bright and cheery as ever, she asked, ¡°You think anyone would mind if I sang a song or two for the town? We already got the accompaniment with Chrissy¡¯s guitar recordings, and it might lift the mood a bit if we had ourselves a little concert.¡±


    ¡°You a Ranger, Tina. Not a showgirl.¡± There was an edge to Howie¡¯s tone that took the wind right out of Tina¡¯s sails. ¡°Can¡¯t be puttin¡¯ on no concerts when you on the job, especially while you away from home. Keep in mind, these folks are Independents, meaning some of them might see the Rangers, who work for the Federal Government, as the enemy.¡±


    Tina deflated with a pout, which was a sight to behold, but she rallied almost immediately as she spotted the kiccaws dancing and chirping along to the music. They were everywhere, perched on Howie¡¯s wagon, the saloon porch railings, and even up top on the awning, though how they got there was a mystery. Seemed like they were a big hit with the locals too, though Errol noticed Howie taking a headcount to make sure all the birds were present and accounted for. Cowie was also hanging around, all small and cute while playing on the porch with a group of scandalously dressed women idling about, and Errol had to make sure he didn¡¯t look too hard. The other boots weren¡¯t half as circumspect, and none too subtle either, even though the women were more than twice their age. Glancing at Sarah Jay, he caught the tail end of an eye roll which wasn¡¯t directed at anyone in particular, which she followed up by hitting him with a smokey glare that said, ¡°Yea, you better not stare.¡±


    Cold as ice on the outside, but she burned hot as can be, and no scantily clad old worlder could ever measure up to Errol¡¯s girl.


    They all had words for Howie though, with plenty of wolf-whistles and cat-calls to greet him, and he weathered it like a champ. Grinned from ear to ear while taking in the sights as bold as could be, which had Tina and Kacey wearing matching glowers, but he paid them no mind. ¡°Ladies,¡± he said, by way of greeting. ¡°How y¡¯all doin¡¯ this fine evening?¡± Spent a few minutes trading pleasantries until a burly, bald, and battle-scarred thug of a man emerged from the saloon door. ¡°Vicente!¡± Howie exclaimed, like he¡¯d run into an old friend. ¡°Good to see you! How you holdin¡¯ up?¡±


    ¡°Chinga la Madre¡­¡±


    ¡°Ooh, I done about run out of Spanish.¡± Grinning from ear to ear, Howie squared up against the hulking, scowling Latin man and said, ¡°From context, I¡¯m guessin¡¯ it means ¡®Great, how about you¡¯?¡±


    ¡°El Loco Qino,¡± the bald giant retorted, shaking his head as he came down the stairs to loom over Howie. Locked eyes for a good long second, and Errol¡¯s hand started inching towards his holster when he saw the man¡¯s giant machete strapped to his waist. The stalemate didn¡¯t last long though, as the man¡¯s mangled features twisted into a ferocious smile as he slapped hands with Howie. ¡°Thought for sure you¡¯d be gone into Santa Muerte¡¯s embrace, eh?¡±


    ¡°Well, you know what they say,¡± Howie replied. ¡°One good turn deserves another.¡±


    As if on cue, baby Cowie pranced on over to sidle up against Vicente¡¯s leg, who exclaimed something in Spanish before cradling the tiny bull in his arms like a child. More of Howie¡¯s manufactured charm, making the size-changing, horn-growing, fire-breathing bull seem harmless and cuddly, and Errol wasn¡¯t sure how to feel. It wasn¡¯t exactly dishonest, but it felt deceptive, Howie pretending like he was this cheery, happy, friendly fellow even though he¡¯d kill you in a heartbeat if he thought it justified. It worked too, which was crazy considering he killed the Sheriff and four deputies the last time he was here in town. Outlaws posing as lawmen, granted, but Errol figured there¡¯d be at least a little bad blood between Howie and the locals.


    ¡°So where¡¯s Mr. Jackson at?¡± Howie asked, and the bad blood showed itself as the locals all froze up. Only for a moment, but it was there, then they all shook it off and acted like nothing happened while quietly trading glances. ¡°Been here all day and ain¡¯t seen him yet. Was hoping to pay my respects and smooth things out after how we left things.¡±


    ¡°Better for you if you keep quiet, hey?¡± Waving a big, meaty hand to clear the air, Vicente added, ¡°Se?or Jackson is out of town. Busy, how you say, gathering the troops?¡±


    ¡°Ah, that¡¯s a shame.¡± Unperturbed, Howie continued nattering on while most of the boots stood and waited, following him like he was their unofficial leader and chief of command. He was, pretty much, which irked Errol for no real reason than to see how effortlessly he stepped into the role. Sidling up next to Sarah Jay with a stifled sigh, Errol only just managed to keep himself from slipping his arm around her waist. Felt as natural as breathing, having her there at his side, and he still thought Howie was being utterly ridiculous about riding with a woman. The people of Pleasant Dunes were a rough sort to be sure, but considering how the ladies were dressed while standing out on the porch, it was clear they felt safe enough baring so much skin to the world, so how dangerous could it be?


    A question asked and answered as a tall, lanky, unkempt local swaggered on up to the saloon and stopped to leer at Tina and Kacey, standing side by side behind Howie. Flashed a sleezy smile to reveal a dead tooth as he ran his eyes up and down the girls and slowly licked his lips. ¡°Ohh, lookie here,¡± he said, his pitchy voice striking a chord which sent a shudder down Errol¡¯s spine. ¡°New talent in house tonight. Show daddy what¡¯cha got, girls. Give us a little spin.¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡± Beaming as bright as always, Tina¡¯s shiny silver gun appeared in her hand before Errol could even blink, twirling once around her finger for effect. ¡°I got me a Ranger 1911.¡± Though she kept her finger off the trigger and the barrel pointed at the sky, the sleezy geezer was pretty much staring the pistol dead on while cheery Tina presented the weapon and rattled off its specs at lightning speed. ¡°A semi-automatic single-action pistol with a fully stainless-steel frame and checkered wood grip, lookin¡¯ all sleek and clean like it do. See these serrations on the slide there?¡± Tina pulled the slide back lightning quick after pointing them out, chambering a bullet with a clack-clack that made the man visibly flinch and realize he¡¯d picked the wrong girl to catcall. ¡°Makes it real easy to rack in a pinch, just like that. Chambers 45-15 rounds and comes standard with Prime, Efficient, and Quicken Metamagics that let you empty an eight-round magazine in bout two seconds flat. Short recoil makes it easy to control too, and the front post, rear notch iron sights are reliable as can be.¡± Blink and you¡¯d miss it, but Tina pointed her gun right at the man¡¯s face before turning it away. Supposedly to show off said iron sights, though everyone present knew different. ¡°Ain¡¯t just a sidearm,¡± she concluded, putting the gun away as quickly and smoothly as she drew it, and without breaking eye contact with the man, ¡°It¡¯s a piece of American history.¡±


    Everyone thought she was done then, and the lanky man heaved a visible sigh of relief, only to cut it short as the dark twin to her 1911 appeared in her left hand. ¡°This here pistol though,¡± she said, beaming all the while. ¡°This a more modern update of the same framework, the Szass and Tam Mo ¨C ¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s enough.¡± Standing still as a statue with his duster pulled back and hand on his pistol, Howie eyes bored out into the watching crowd like his head was on a swivel, watching, nay, daring someone to make a move. ¡°Put it away.¡± Looking like a scolded child, Tina did just that, even stepped back with Kacey to stand next to Howie, who gave the crowd one last pass before turning to address Vicente. ¡°Sorry about that,¡± he said, giving the big man a nod. ¡°They young and excitable. Time we got out of your hair and got ourselves a bite to eat though. You take care now.¡±


    Gone was the big, bald man¡¯s fearsome smile as he loomed over the Firstborn and glared down at the offending pervert. ¡°Vaya con dios, ese,¡± Vincent replied, which Errol recognized as ¡®Go with God¡¯. Made him see Vicente in a different light, as the thug said the words with the familiar intonations of Faith, that cadence and confidence he often heard from the Father Nicolas and the other clergymen. Though he had the look of a murderous desperado, he was also a believer, yet Errol had judged him by appearance and nothing more. Didn¡¯t mean he was a good man, but there was more to him than you might think. The world wasn¡¯t as cut and dry as it once seemed when Errol stared out at it from the church steeple back home, and he missed those simpler times.


    ¡°Ah right.¡± Climbing into the back of his wagon, Howie pressed down on a panel and opened up yet another hidden compartment, one that sat below the surface and above the container he stored Abby corpses in. Lifting out a box of 1L glass bottles, he carried them over to Vicente with a smile. ¡°Brought these all the way from New Hope to sell,¡± he said, shaking his head as he passed it over, ¡°Only to realize I can¡¯t, not while ridin¡¯ with the Rangers like I am. So here¡¯s a gift, my way of apologizing for how things ended last time.¡±


    ¡°Muchas gracias!¡± The big man¡¯s eyes lit up as he accepted the box with one arm and wrapped Howie around the shoulders with the other. ¡°Es perfecto. Mi Bonita, she much like this drink, but only try the once.¡±


    ¡°Yea, I¡¯d need more too if I had to lay my pretty head next to yours.¡±


    Vicente had a boisterous laugh, a loud, open-mouthed ¡°Ha!¡± that made him look only half as scary as he clapped Howie on the arm. ¡°Get out of here, Cabez¨®n.¡±


    ¡°See you round.¡± As he turned to face the lanky stranger whose leers started this whole mess, Howie¡¯s feigned cheer melted away to reveal the furious Firstborn simmering just underneath. Didn¡¯t say a word, just glared up at the man with his jaw set and eyes hard, and it scared the lanky man enough to send his long, trembling fingers reaching for the pistol hanging on his hip. ¡°That gun come even a quarter-inch out that holster,¡± Howie began, and the man froze up at the sound of it, ¡°And I¡¯ll kill you dead.¡± The man¡¯s eyes went wide and his hands shot up, shaking his head in silent denial. Howie didn¡¯t scowl, didn¡¯t shake his head or spit. All he did was stand there for a second more with his eyes radiating the promise of death, before pushing past the man to leave with Cowie and his wagon in tow.


    The boots shuffled off after him, and again, Errol found it annoying how quickly they¡¯d all gotten caught up in Howie¡¯s pace, but there was good reason for it. He knew what he was doing, while the rest of them were still learning the ropes, even Tina who looked proper contrite the whole way back. Once they arrived in camp, Howie turned on his heel to glare at the top boot in Basic, and kept glaring until she glanced up to meet his eyes. ¡°You ought to know better,¡± he began, his tone starting out calm and ratcheting up into boiling hot by the end of the short statement. ¡°What in the hell was that?¡±


    ¡°He was bein¡¯ all creepy and gross,¡± Tina replied, sounding petulant despite her hang-dog expression. ¡°Tellin¡¯ me to ¡®show him what I got¡¯.¡±


    ¡°So you drew on him?¡± Howie asked, his tone dripping with disbelief. ¡°In front of a whole mess of armed strangers? Pop quiz Tina. How many guns was they carryin¡¯ in that crowd?¡± He waited half a beat before shouting, ¡°Too many!¡± Turning away to take a breath, he whipped back around and jabbed his finger at her face, getting close but never close enough to touch. ¡°Day you got those guns, what my daddy tell you?¡±


    ¡°¡­That they ain¡¯t toys.¡±


    ¡°So why you wavin¡¯ and twirlin¡¯ them around like they are!?¡± In an effort to rein in his mounting anger and frustration, Howie set to pacing while the entire camp watched, Rangers and boots alike. ¡°You damn lucky Vicente was there to control that crowd, else we would¡¯ve had ourselves an armed standoff, or worse.¡± Errol traded looks with the other boots, most of whom were as shocked as he was, because none of them thought it¡¯d be that serious. Except Sarah Jay, who nodded ever so slightly, no doubt having clocked everything that went down. ¡°Soon as your gun came out, any one of those fools could¡¯ve drawn and shot,¡± Howie said, his face twisted in derision as he lambasted poor Tina. ¡°And you¡¯d¡¯ve still been spinning your gun when you went down. We¡¯d have made them pay for it, but you¡¯d already be dead. That¡¯s a fool¡¯s game you was playin¡¯, and not everyone you meet is gonna play along. Ranger star on your chest will buy you plenty of leeway, but you can¡¯t be temptin¡¯ fate like that. If you need your big iron to put some leering drunk in his place, then you in the wrong line of work, missy.¡±


    Seemed like he had more to say, but Howie stopped and looked at Tina for a long little while before heaving a sigh. ¡°Never draw your gun without intent to shoot it,¡± he said, his tone lacking any fire and passion as he handed her a clean kerchief, which she used to wipe her hidden tears as she stared at the sand. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t be half as steamed if you actually meant to threaten him. Not sayin¡¯ that¡¯s the right move, but if you did, it¡¯d¡¯ve kept most fools from blowing a hole in the back of your head right away. Not if they meant to save their boy back there, because shootin¡¯ you would¡¯ve signed his death warrant once you got a round in the chamber. Understand the difference?¡± Tina nodded, and Howie patted her hat before look around at his audience. ¡°Same goes for the rest of you. One of you pulls a gun, don¡¯t be standin¡¯ there watchin¡¯ with your mouths open like fish outta water. Right or wrong, you back that play, because the Rangers stand together. Now quit gawking and git gone.¡±


    The crowd dispersed, leaving Howie and Tina to hug it out, but Errol had his mind on other things. Mulling over the day¡¯s events while he ate with Sarah Jay, he thought about what he¡¯d seen and heard while trying to make sense of it all. The locals were a tough bunch, well-armed and well-fortified in with the look of folk who knew what they were about. They even had their own heavy weapons and long-range rifles, big, multi-barrel weapons and long-barrelled Aetherarms that looked formidable indeed. Like Michael noted, it didn¡¯t seem like the Rangers were needed to help guard against a normal Abby attack, especially since it sounded like the town¡¯s leader was gathering more shooters to help out. As things stood, there were hundreds of able-bodied, armed men ready and waiting to defend the town, so why did they need thirty-some-odd rangers and around the same number of boots to help out?


    They didn¡¯t, and most didn¡¯t seem all that pleased about the Ranger presence either. Howie claimed it was because this was a company town, whatever that meant, and the company put food on their tables, but what did that have to do with the Rangers showing up to help? Back home, people came out with big smiles and warm hospitality for the Pathfinders and Chevaliers, even if they were just passing through, but Pleasant Dunes didn¡¯t offer them so much as a hot meal. Instead, the Drill Sergeants set a few boots to task cooking up dinner, while others stood watch against the very townsfolk they were here to defend. As for Wayne¡¯s Company of Rangers, they¡¯d disappeared the moment the convoy arrived in town along with Captain Clay and Captain Hayes, supposedly to scout out the mountains up in the mines, which hardly seemed like standard operating procedure. If they were here to defend the town, then why was all the work left to the boots? There were a few pieces out of place here in Pleasant Dunes, and Errol couldn¡¯t quite put his finger on why it bothered him so.


    Looking around to make sure they were alone, Errol leaned in close to Sarah Jay and said, ¡°Something¡¯s off about all this.¡±


    ¡°Sure is.¡± Her reply came without hesitation as she leaned in to bump his shoulder with her dazzling half-smile. ¡°Whole Op stinks to high heaven. These folks don¡¯t want help and don¡¯t think they need it either. Havin¡¯ seen what they packin¡¯, I¡¯m of a mind to agree, but now we hear their bossman is out rallyin¡¯ more troops to the cause? Not to mention how quickly the Rangers had us high-tail it over here.¡± Shrugging, Sarah Jay gave a proud smirk and said, ¡°I did the math. If Captain Clay sent someone to confirm Howie¡¯s findings in Pleasant Dunes the day he arrived in Meadowbrook, then Tina and the other boots would¡¯ve left New Hope the very same day word got back. No wiggle room whatsoever, meaning their bossman and the Rangers know something we don¡¯t, else they wouldn¡¯t have moved so fast.¡± Eyes shining as she pitched her voice low, she said, ¡°Could be anything really. Pack of armoured trolls maybe? Hear they¡¯re real tough to bring down, and you gotta burn them with fire or Acid to fully take them out the fight. Could be a couple Feral behemoths too, as I hear gobbos sometimes capture and ¡®tame¡¯ other Abby. Badlands are right there just south of us, and I¡¯ve seen big ol¡¯ beetle lookin¡¯ Abby come outta there that¡¯re bigger than Howie¡¯s wagon. A dozen Behemoths or trolls would make short work of these walls, no doubt about it, and would explain the need for Rangers and more shooters.¡±


    Sarah Jay rattled off a few more theories, like how the Hobgoblin Illusionist might be a Synapse Aberration, one under direct control of its Progenitor and capable of commanding nearby Abby like puppets, or the emergence of a monstrous Deviant, an Aberration that consumed its Progenitor to become something worse than either one on its own. Lord help her, she was actually excited about all this, while Errol couldn¡¯t muster up anything besides stomach-churning dread.


    Because what if it wasn¡¯t about Abby? What if it was something else at the heart of all this? See, the one thing that¡¯d been bothering Errol all this time was Wayne¡¯s accusations against Howie. While the Firstborn claimed the Ranger was crooked, no one else seemed to look at Wayne sideways, not Captain Marcus, Captain Jung, or any of the Rangers under Wayne¡¯s command. They all seemed to like the man well enough, as he was quick to joke and laugh about this or that, a bright and cheery officer who was admired and respected by the soldiers under his command. While his constant needling and outbursts of anger towards Howie were unbecoming of a Ranger, who was to say Wayne¡¯s anger wasn¡¯t justified? A virtuous man angry over a criminal evading justice wouldn¡¯t act all that different from a crooked Ranger upset over the loss of merchandise, and Errol only pegged Wayne as the latter because Howie implied it was the case. What if it wasn¡¯t though? What if Howie actually helped murder that merchant, or at the very least covered their tracks for a share of the profits? Wayne said the crime scene had been wiped clean, professionally like something Howie¡¯s father could have done, and he taught Howie everything. What¡¯s more, the Firstborn had killed at least ten men this year alone, so would he really balk at covering up a murder for the right price? There were an awful lot of coincidences to explain, and Howie¡¯s alibi was admittedly flimsy. Granted, an impromptu trip out into the desert in the dead of night did seem like something he¡¯d do, but the timing was awfully suspicious, to say the least.


    So what if Wayne was right, and Howie had aided and abetted a group of murders last summer? Could be he led them right into the desert to this very town here, and a year later, those fugitive guards tipped him off to the fact that the town had an outlaw with a big bounty posing as the Sheriff. Hell, maybe Vicente was one of those fugitives, as they seemed awful chummy for two people who¡¯d only met once before. Would explain how Howie knew to get a job as a postal courier before coming all this way to hunt those outlaws, but that begged the question: how did he get out after the fact? Claimed that all he had to do was show the warrants, and Errol believed it right up until he met the locals. If they were the sort to open fire on a crowd of Ranger recruits right there in the middle town, would they really have let some stranger waltz in, kill their Sheriff and four deputies, then leave untouched? Probably not, unless he cut a deal or something. Maybe a deal to bring in all these Rangers and recruits for some nefarious purpose.


    Even if all that was wrong and things went down exactly like he said, why would Howie be so eager to come back?


    None of it made any sense whatsoever, which is why Errol didn¡¯t dare share his suspicions with Sarah Jay. She¡¯d just defend Howie and say Errol was overthinking things, and truth was, he thought so too. It was probably some flavour of dangerous Abby, and nothing else. Despite Howie¡¯s refusal to join the Rangers, he clearly idolized them still, and he loved Tina like family. Even in the worst-case scenario, Errol couldn¡¯t imagine a world in which Howie would betray either one of them, not when giving Tina a stern talking to left him battered and defeated. The problem with uncertainty though is that it eats away at you, and try as he might, Errol couldn¡¯t shake his wild thoughts, no matter how nonsensical they might be. Even long after Sarah Jay finished sharing her wild theories and moved off to study her Spells and practicing her Cantrips, he was still struggling to come to grips with his doubts. Sitting there across from her, he idly flipped through his own notes and took in her beautiful features while the icy cold grip of fear and anxiety closed in around his chest. Life hadn¡¯t been treating him all that well lately, and he didn¡¯t know what he¡¯d do if something happened to her. The thought of it alone was enough to unnerve him, and he didn¡¯t know what else to do besides pray.


    And when he closed his eyes to do just that, he felt a Spell Structure light up in his mind and went along with it to cast Heroism on himself. The warm fires of courage and determination flowed through him to wash away his doubts, and all of a sudden, he was no longer concerned about whatever might come or the path to take moving forward. Though he had no answers to the myriads of questions plaguing him with doubts, he was reminded of Proverbs 3:5-6, which made everything clear. Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways, submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.


    There was no need for Errol to base his actions on what others did to survive, nor should he care if they thought him na?ve or foolhardy. He only needed to remain true to his conscience, and so long as he kept his faith and acted in accordance with his beliefs, then the Lord Almighty would sort out the rest. What¡¯s more, in doing so, he could act as a beacon of light for others, the same way Father Nicolas had illuminated the path for him, and in doing so, show Sarah Jay and his peers how a good man conducted himself here on the Frontier, without having to compromise his morals or virtues. It was one thing to learn how to survive from the Firstborn and the Judge, but Errol would not follow their footsteps down the path towards damnation.


    Was it silly to be so concerned about morals when dealing with people of ill-repute? Some might think so, believe it was necessary to sink to their level in order to fight them, but Errol thought different, as did the good book. Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good. Romans 12:21. The desire of the righteous ends only in good, but the hope of the wicked only in wrath. Proverbs 11:23. Better the little that the righteous have than the wealth of many wicked. Psalm 37:16. Howie was the Firstborn who stood at the forefront of his peers, but that didn¡¯t mean his way was the only way. Errol would prove him wrong, or he would die trying, but if that was the case, then at least his soul would remain untarnished.


    Go in the grace of the Lord, Walk in the way of his Word, Stand in the strength of his promises, And believe in your heart they are true. Words Errol would live by, for better or for worse.

 Chapter 37

    Simple is as simple does.


    A favourite phrase of mine, but one that gets me a lotta loaded looks. Folks don¡¯t like it when you say something¡¯s simple if they don¡¯t find it as such. Thing is, most of the time, it¡¯s cause they hear ¡®simple¡¯ and think ¡®easy¡¯, when that ain¡¯t always the case. You can take most anything and make it simple, break it down to its core elements and nothing else. Math is simple, because all you¡¯re doing is putting numbers into an equation, and solving it. You put the right numbers in the right places and solve in the right order, and you¡¯ll get the correct answer a hundred percent of the time. Simple. Not necessarily easy, as getting all those things right in the first place is the hard part, but that don¡¯t make the math itself any more complex. The numbers never lie, so if you need to know how much weight an axle can hold, where to aim to hit a target over two kilometres away, or how many materials you need to build a house, then math can get you all the answers you need. Conversely, if you find yourself coming up with the wrong answers, then it¡¯s almost always a result of user error rather than anything else.


    Yea, math is simple. Social nuances now, that¡¯s complex, and ain¡¯t no one ever gonna convince me otherwise. Ain¡¯t no formula to follow, no process to approach a specific problem, no ironclad rules to abide by. There are general guidelines, sure, but those got more exceptions than most nets have holes, and it never fails to trip me up. Don¡¯t make no sense, because social interaction ain¡¯t based on logic, and that¡¯s a fact. I had every reason to come down hard on Tina for what she did, twirling her guns around like toys in front of an armed crowd of nervous Independents. Girl¡¯s lucky no one got shot, yet somehow, I¡¯m in the wrong. I know it, the boots know it, hell, even Cowie knows it, which is why he¡¯s all cuddled up in her lap instead of mine. I can already hear Aunty Ray explaining it to me, that it ain¡¯t that I said anything wrong, but I was wrong to say it how I did. Which makes about as much sense as a soup sandwich mind you, because if I¡¯m right, then how can it be wrong just because of how it¡¯s said? Two times three makes six. Don¡¯t matter how you slice it, and the tone you give the answer in won¡¯t change it one bit. Don¡¯t stop Tina from sulking something fierce as we eat our dinner in silence, or the other boots from keeping their distance for fear of catching strays as if I wasn¡¯t right to chew her out like I did. Worst of all, even I feel like I done wronged her. Can¡¯t say why besides her hangdog expression, and the lack of an explanation only makes me wanna double down and stick to my guns instead of eating humble pie.


    Besides, any apology coming outta my mouth is gonna sound insincere. I still can¡¯t accept that I done wrong. Didn¡¯t speak nothing but truth, so why should I have to apologize? She¡¯s the one who done messed up. Almost lost my gourd when her 1911 came out and I spotted five townies in the crowd reach for their sidearms. Was this close to opening fire, and almost did in spite of Vicente¡¯s silent call to stand down. Didn¡¯t figure these townies would listen and wasn¡¯t willing to risk Tina¡¯s life on it, but by then, I realized that if they meant to kill her, they¡¯d have done it already and I¡¯d have been too slow to react.


    They got some quick hands here in Pleasant Dunes. Learned that last time I passed through town, even if they ain¡¯t got the best shots. Tina, she¡¯s even faster, as she¡¯s got the quickest hands in New Hope. Shows in her actions today and the multiple records she holds in the speed shooting competitions run by Rudy and the boys back at the gun range. Used to steam me up good, losing to her year after year, but wasn¡¯t like I was a close second. I ain¡¯t ever been known for fast hands, only an extra set of them, so I never even made it into the top ten. My daddy never put much weight in being fast though. Wasn¡¯t big on showdowns, because as far as he was concerned, any fair fight is a bad fight best avoided. Have your gun already in hand before your target thinks to draw, that¡¯s how you stay winning out here on the Frontier, and his gut never steered him wrong until the very end. Problem is, today I learned that sometimes you gotta be quick too, because the cards don¡¯t always come out the way you think they should.


    So once dinner is done, I leave all my complex social issues aside to work on something I can understand: being quicker on the draw. While Cowie keeps Tina and the kiccaws company, I head over to the back of camp which faces the north wall and set up to practice. Safety first, so I empty the rounds out of my Rattlesnake before I start. Then it comes down to a matter of visualizing the process, so I know what to look for and pay attention to. To start, I sweep my duster back, then grip the pistol, lift it out the holster, aim it forward, and pull the trigger. Five step process, simple as can be from start to finish, and I go through it a few times while considering how I can improve. Saw the townies dip their hips, which shortens the distance you gotta lift your pistol out the holster before raising to aim, a minor movement that buys you precious tenths of a second. Also saw one lean back a fair bit, on account of how their holster was shorter than normal. Get the barrel over the lip faster, but can¡¯t say I¡¯m a fan, as it means the gun won¡¯t sit as snug as it need to be. For safety reasons and practical ones too, because you don¡¯t want it slipping out when you go tumbling off into the sands.


    Wouldn¡¯t that have been a kick in the teeth, if I¡¯d given Kacey a wink and rolled off of Ivory just for her to turn back and see me scrounging round the sands for my fumbled Rattlesnake?


    Adding a little hip dip between grip and lift sounds real simple in theory, but ain¡¯t all that easy in practice. Especially keeping in mind how I don¡¯t want to telegraph the draw. It¡¯s same as throwing a punch really. Don¡¯t matter how hard or fast your punch is if your opponent sees it coming from a mile away. Subtle, relaxed, and fast, those are the things to focus on, and it takes a few tries to get it right. Even then I¡¯m still fumbling every second or third try. Gotta dip the right distance. Too short a dip and the barrel gets caught on the lip of my holster. Too far and it messes up my aim. Same if I go too fast, as I¡¯ll pull too hard and have to over-correct to get the barrel pointed in the right direction. No point being quick on the draw if you miss your shot, so I slow things down and get it smooth before speeding up again. Slow is smooth and smooth is fast, a lesson I been taught many a time, and one that still pays dividends to this day, so I shut out the world and any errant thoughts tumbling around my mind to focus on the task before me.


    This here is the big ¡®secret¡¯ behind my quick growth and progress, which ain¡¯t really a secret. Deliberate decisions leads to speed and efficiency. That¡¯s what the mantra means. In training and in combat, you need to slow things down, examine your options, pick the best one, and execute correctly. Pick the right target. Pick the right response. Then, whether you choose to shoot your shot, sling your Spell, or any number of options, you do it slow and do it proper, because doing it wrong will waste even more time. Don¡¯t matter how many Bolts you put downrange if none of them hit, same way it don¡¯t matter how many times you practice drawing your gun if you do it inefficiently. Practice don¡¯t make perfect. Practice allows you make mistakes and live to correct them, so that you don¡¯t make those mistakes when it counts. Deliberate practice leads to improvement, but not perfection, because there is no such thing as perfect.


    That¡¯s how my daddy taught me, the big ¡®secret¡¯ to my skills everyone always asks about. There¡¯s nothing else to it, a process so simple anyone can use it, but most don¡¯t because it¡¯s boring. Me, I can handle boring, because it helps me survive the exciting bits. Sweep. Grip. Dip. Lift. Aim. Shoot. Repeat. That¡¯s life for the next little bit, and amidst the dull and monotonous exercise, I examine every aspect of the movements with willful purpose and adjust as needed. When everything feels just right, I keep right on practicing, ingraining the details in body and mind both until it feels smooth and second nature. That¡¯s all there is to it, start slow and get it smooth enough so I don¡¯t have to go so slow anymore.


    Like I said though, simple ain¡¯t the same as easy. If it was, Errol would be right here next to me doing dry fire and mag reload drills. Hell, most them boots could use the practice putting clips into their Strelkies, but ain¡¯t none of them here neither. Seems like the hard-learned lessons during their trial by fire didn¡¯t stick, so I suppose they¡¯ll just have to learn things the hard way, going through the wringer again and again until they wise up or wash out.


    Or worse.


    When I get bored, I mix things up and practice with the Model 10 too. Being a smaller weapon with a shorter barrel, I find it even snappier to draw, especially since I can use my left hand to sweep my duster aside while going for the grip with the right. End result ain¡¯t necessarily faster, as my right hand gotta stretch farther to get to the gun if I got my arms at my side. If I got my hands over my belly though, as I often do to show I don¡¯t mean no harm, the Model 10 is actually closer than the Rattlesnake, so I change up my starting posture every few draws in order to cultivate good habits so I don¡¯t ever have to think about which gun to go for. Arms at side, Rattlesnake. Arms over belly, Model 10.


    As night falls and the moons rise, my progress slows, but I cast a soft Dancing Light to illuminate my surroundings and keep at it, because any progress is good progress. Sure, drawing my sidearm a few hundredths of a second faster might not seem like much in the grand scheme of things. Not with Spellslingers like Ava who fires off 192 Bolts over the course of a minute. Or Marcus walking around who can churn up a field the size of two basketball courts and leave it nigh impassable. Or Uncle Teddy, who¡¯s got so much control over the Flamethrower Spell, he can spew a ten-metre-long wall of fire out in front of him in a constant stream of incinerating flame, turning him into a one-man wrecking crew who can hold off an entire hordes of Abby for as long as he can sling. It¡¯s something though, and more importantly, it¡¯s something I can do in the here and now, which is better than doing nothing.


    ¡°You fit that holster yourself?¡±


    There must be some sorta Ranger lesson on walking soft which I missed out on, because I keep getting snuck up on by a bunch of soft-footed stalkers. First Marcus, and now Sergeant Begaye, who appears next to me with a fancy pipe in hand and matchcloak wrapped around him to ward off the night¡¯s chill. It¡¯s an interesting looking pipe, with a long, straight, wooden stem wrapped in leather connected to a carved antler ¡®bowl¡¯. Makes for a long and narrow receptacle to pack a lotta leaves into, and his looks filled to the brim from how he puffing away at it. The sweet, fragrant smoke has an enticing scent to it, with earthy, flowery notes similar to Marcus¡¯ cigars, rather than the harsh, acrid cigarettes favoured by the local townies, or the stinky, pungent wacky tobacky making the rounds and causing all sorts of discourse over its legalities. Whatever it is he¡¯s got in there, it¡¯s got the Sergeant looking and sounding more mellow than I ever seen him, though to be fair, I only known him for less than a week.


    Taking a puff from his pipe, the Sergeant gesture at my Model 10 and says, ¡°Never seen anyone carry their secondary like that.¡±


    Only then do I remember he asked a question, so I snap off a salute and say, ¡°Sir, yes sir.¡±


    ¡°At ease.¡± Waving off the formalities, the Sergeant wiggles his fancy pipe and says, ¡°See this? Means its my happy time, so none of that now.¡± He got a way of speaking that¡¯s real soothing when he ain¡¯t screaming ¡®til he¡¯s red in the face. A slow and steady cadence that hits every syllable without over stressing them like Kacey, which combined with his deep voice and measured stare really grabs your attention. Taking another small puff from his pipe, he blows out a small ring of white smoke that almost glows in the light of my magicked illumination before gesturing at my holster again. ¡°Why carry it like that? Almost horizontally like it is.¡±


    Looking down, I don¡¯t see anything wrong with how it is, though the Sergeant is right. Plenty of folks keep their holster at the 11 o¡¯clock position where I got it, but always vertically, whereas I keep mine angled more horizontally like the dubsies on my back, at about a fifty-five-degree angle. ¡°For a faster draw and better fit, I suppose,¡± I say, having never given it much thought. ¡°Only ever shoot with my right, and tilting it on a diagonal lets me bend over without the butt of the gun poking me in the belly.¡±


    ¡°So comfort then?¡± The Sergeant ain¡¯t in any rush to conversate, as he takes another long, slow puff from the pipe. ¡°That¡¯s why you wear it like that instead of how everyone else does it?¡±


    ¡°I suppose so.¡±


    ¡°Hmm.¡± The Sergeant studies me for a good long second, as if looking at me for the first time, so I square up and respond in kind. Wouldn¡¯t no one accuse the man of being handsome, what with his big, wide nose, high, pointed cheekbones, strong, square jaw, and prominent brow, but it all come together in an agreeable package when taken in as a whole. Especially once he lets his long, salt and pepper hair down, which he usually keeps tucked under his brown, feathered Montana, while his thin wispy moustache and foundation of a goatee adds to his dignity. It¡¯s the eyes that really does it though, soft yet penetrating, like he looking past me at something only he can see while puffing away at his pipe in long, slow breaths.


    ¡°Didn¡¯t think you the sort concerned with comfort,¡± he finally says, speaking around his pipe without letting it affect his speech. ¡°No padding on the wagon seat. No awning to block the sun and rain. No bedroll to sleep in, no tent for privacy. No complaining about the food, or care for any drink. No vice to speak of aside from your bravado and derring-do.¡± Tilting his head ever so slightly, he adds, ¡°But you wear your holster like a fool because you find it more comfortable that way. Odd.¡±


    Them¡¯s fighting words if delivered by another man in another way, but Sergeant Begaye got a real matter-of-fact manner about him, one so similar to how my daddy used to speak that it¡¯s got my ears burning with shame. Looking down at my holster to hide my embarrassment, I ask, ¡°What¡¯s wrong with how I got it?¡±


    ¡°Aside from looking silly and precariously placed? Risks getting caught on your belt buckle every time you draw.¡± My first instinct is to argue, but I hold my tongue, which is good because the Sergeant ain¡¯t done talking. ¡°Not so bad, unless it catches on the hammer and half-cocks it.¡±


    Which could lead to an accidental discharge while the barrel¡¯s right next to my dangly bits. Suppose the man¡¯s got a point then.


    Nodding as I unhitch the knots holding the holster in place, I do my darndest to avoid meeting his eyes. ¡°Thanks Sarge. I¡¯ll fix it right quick.¡± And I do that, while he stands there and watches, because apparently our conversation ain¡¯t over just yet. Doesn¡¯t say nothing though, not even when I¡¯m done adjusting the holster and find it in me to look him face to face. I already hate how the gun feels sitting where it is, but I¡¯ll get used to it soon enough. ¡°Any other nuggets of wisdom to share, Sarge?¡± I ask. ¡°Would be right thankful to hear whatever you got?¡±


    ¡°Nothing yet. Still thinking.¡± Gesturing at the northern wall with his free hand, he says, ¡°As you were. Don¡¯t mind me.¡±


    Guess he gonna watch me practice then, which is all sorts of weird, but I ain¡¯t ever been one to balk at the limelight. Putting him out of mind, I get to quick drawing my Model 10 in its new position, and immediately realize that if I¡¯m drawing vertically, it might as well be on my 1 o¡¯clock instead of my 11. Don¡¯t take long to fix, and I continue practicing from there. The new position makes it so that the Model 10 is the best option no matter where my hands are at, unless one¡¯s already resting on the Rattlesnake, so I readjust my mindset and get right back into it. Doesn¡¯t take long to see I draw much faster now, a snappy quarter-second gained seeing how I don¡¯t have to sweep my duster as far or dip and lift as much to get at the compact, snub-nosed Model 10 out and ready.


    Might even beat out them townies if there ever comes a second time, though I¡¯m hoping there won¡¯t be.


    I keep at it for another half hour or so until I feel it¡¯s time to call it quits and hit the hay, only to realize Sergeant Begaye is still watching, sitting cross-legged in the sand with his pipe in hand. ¡°You done for the night?¡± he asks, and when I nod in the affirmative, he motions for me to take a seat across from him. Once I¡¯m settled in and annoyed good and proper by the new position of my holster, he nods and says, ¡°Thought I had the measure of you, Firstborn. A cocky, reckless hotshot who stands apart from the pack and likes it that way.¡± Shaking his head with the barest hint of a grimace, he continues, ¡°Today, I saw a different man, so I wanted to study you further.¡±


    ¡°That so?¡± Sergeant Begaye is a hard man to read, and I¡¯m not really sure how to move forward with the conversation, so I go with my gut and ask, ¡°You liked my dancin¡¯ that much, huh?¡±


    That earns me a chortle, which tells me I made the right move. ¡°Dancing. No better word for it.¡± Shaking his head, he puffs out another ring of smoke and says, ¡°Can¡¯t say I¡¯ve ever seen or heard of a boot who screwed up on purpose to fit in. Made it much too obvious, marching like you did, but you got the job done. Won your peers over by showing your flaws and made yourself one of them. Fake or not, it was clever, and you are a clever one.¡± Well, one things for sure. Sergeant Begaye has got me read like a book, and I don¡¯t really know how to respond. Thankfully, our lack of rapport don¡¯t bother him none as we sit without speaking under the soft lighting until he¡¯s good and ready to talk. ¡°What¡¯s more interesting,¡± he says, after blowing out three rings of white smoke that linger for long seconds in the air, ¡°Is the fact that you did it. Didn¡¯t think you cared to fit in.¡± Cutting me off before I can speak with little more than a knowing look, Drill Sergeant Begaye lets the silence hang for a long second before concluding, ¡°But you do.¡±


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Much as I¡¯d love to deny it, the man ain¡¯t wrong. ¡°Who doesn¡¯t want to fit in?¡± I ask, shrugging like it ain¡¯t no big deal.


    ¡°I never much cared to.¡± Bobbing his head from side to side to convey his uncertainty, he adds, ¡°Figure your father was the same way, though I can¡¯t say for sure. Only knew him by reputation, as he never came out west.¡± Which I suppose is where Sergeant Begaye came from, to help Captain Jung teach boots. ¡°You, on the other hand?¡± he asks, looking me up and down again. ¡°You stand apart because your father did. It¡¯s the same reason why you deny yourself all those minor comforts, because that¡¯s how he lived. When given the choice however, you chose comfort over utility, and integration over separation, all without much thought. That tells me that you do things the way your father did, but you are not him.¡±


    ¡°Yea, already got this speech once before, so don¡¯t need to hear it again.¡± Leaning back so the holster sit more comfortably to help me through this uncomfortable conversation, I sigh and say, ¡°I get it. I ain¡¯t the soldier he was and got a long ways to go to catch up. Still better than the boots you got though, and it ain¡¯t even close.¡±


    He don¡¯t get upset or engage with my claims, just addresses them and moves on. ¡°I am not talking about your skills. I speak of who you are as a person. Cocky and arrogant yes, but loner?¡± He shrugs. ¡°Not by choice, only circumstance. Which is why, when given the chance, you did not hesitate to join the pack.¡± Taking a deep, long draw of the pipe, he blows out a big, white ring and gestures at it as it hangs in the air. Then he blows out a second ring, which collides with the first to combine and rapidly expand into a larger, wispier ring. ¡°This is good. Working together, the pack becomes greater than the whole,¡± he says, gesturing at the larger ring, then the boots in camp, and finally at me. ¡°They benefit from your wisdom and experience, and you are constrained by their limits. You lead them to right decisions, and take less risks doing so.¡±


    ¡°Glad to be of service.¡±


    ¡°The problem arises,¡± he continues, speaking right over my flippant response, ¡°When you set yourself apart from the pack again.¡± Waving a hand at the expanded ring of smoke, he disperses most of it, leaving only a smattering of scattered white tufts behind. ¡°The bond of trust is then broken, and not so easily brought back together. They opened themselves up to accept you, and are left scattered to the winds by your retreat.¡±


    ¡°This about me signing on with the Rangers?¡± Shaking my head, I tell him point blank, ¡°I ain¡¯t gonna. No hard feelings. Matter of principle is all.¡±


    ¡°You hear me speak, but do not listen.¡± Tapping his pipe before giving it another puff, the Sergeant looks at me to make sure I¡¯m paying attention before continuing, ¡°This is not about your father or your career, the past or the future. I speak of you and the present, the here and the now.¡± Pointing at himself with his pipe, he explains, ¡°When I yell at the boots, I do so with the intent to break them down and later build them back up again. I aim to become the enemy. The threat. The danger to the pack, and in doing so, I unite them together against me. By improving and succeeding, they thwart and defeat me, leaving me no weapons with which to attack. When they see this, it boosts their morale and drives them to work even harder. That is how our dynamic has worked these last three months, and how it will continue to work after you are gone.¡± All delivered in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, without any heat or blame to be heard. Pointing at me, he continues, ¡°When you yell at the boots, it is not the same. You are not only their peer, comrade, and ally, but also a leader and role model to the rest. When you cut them down from within, that is a betrayal of your role. This does more harm than good. You break their confidence when they need it most, and leave them no recourse to reclaim it, so if I am to teach and mould them into warriors, then your continued disruption cannot be tolerated.¡±


    Feeling a tad slow for taking so long to catch on, I scratch my head and mull over what he said. Was only thinking about how Tina screwed up, and lambasted her for it, but that wasn¡¯t how my daddy taught me. Didn¡¯t harp on my mistakes and tell me what to fix; he sat me down, asked me questions, and explained it  all until it was clear as day. Sorta like Sergeant Begaye doing right now. Ain¡¯t just about Tina neither. I been doing the same to Errol, Sarah Jay, and Kacey too, talking at them and pointing them in the right direction, but that don¡¯t amount to teaching. Guess I got a lot to learn about educating my peers, so I look Sergeant Begaye in the eye and ask, ¡°So what you need me to do?¡±


    ¡°Make a decision on how we move forward.¡± Shrugging, he gives me a look that seems so uncharacteristically unbothered, it¡¯s got me wanting to try what¡¯s in that pipe of his. Could use a hit of something to help me unwind and relax, and Aunty Ray could too, though I would never outright suggest as much to her face. ¡°Either become a part of the pack,¡± Sergeant Begaye says, ¡°And remain a part of the pack for the duration of this operation, or stand on the outside looking in so as not to set my boots back. I¡¯ll put you to work scouting the surroundings and hunting for provisions, or anything to keep you busy and out of sight.¡± In case we end up in an extended siege I guess, but he don¡¯t seem none too concerned about it. ¡°The choice is yours, but decide soon.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll stick with the boots,¡± I say, not needing to think about it. ¡°I would appreciate a chance to learn, Sir.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± Nodding in approval, he reaches into his hip pouch and pulls something out before tossing it over. ¡°Give those to Errol. Tough love can only get him so far before it becomes permanent damage.¡± A quick inspection in the dim Dancing Light shows a set of simple earplugs made of cloth dipped in melted wax, rolled into cylinders, and flattened at one end so they can¡¯t get pushed in too deep. There¡¯s a piece of twine connecting them too, so Errol can hang them around his neck when not in use, and it brings a flush to my cheeks to think I didn¡¯t come up with something like this myself. ¡°And make nice with Tina come morning,¡± Sergeant Begaye adds. ¡°She¡¯s my best boot, so you best get her back to me in working order.¡±


    ¡°Was your best boot you mean,¡± I reply, grinning as the Sergeant gets up to leave. ¡°Not anymore, now that I¡¯m here. Officially speaking.¡±


    Hitting me with a look that is both tired and unamused, Sergeant Begaye snorts and says, ¡°Best boot my ass. You¡¯ll be lucky I don¡¯t remember you as the worst, making me come here during my happy time to sort you out.¡± As he turns to leave, he stops and looks me over one last time, and in the dim illumination of my Dancing Light, his expression is almost unreadable. ¡°Using only Spell Structures and components currently available to you,¡± he begins, falling back into the stern and stony cadence of the Drill Sergeant, ¡°What Loadout would you consider optimal for exploring the mines and tunnels beyond?¡±


    ¡°As a Scout?¡± I ask, just to clarify and buy me time to think. ¡°Detect Aberration, Detect Magic, Hunter¡¯s Mark, and Find Magical Traps rounds out the Divination Spells. Grease and Entangle for utility, Misty Step for a quick getaway, and from there, it¡¯s all flex depending on my secondary role in the team.¡± Which is entirely true, but I also don¡¯t want to outright admit how many more Spell Structures I can hold. Seven is already plenty compared to my peers, most of whom are sitting at three or four, so I don¡¯t need to advertise any more.


    Wearing a ghost of a smile, Sergeant Begaye asks, ¡°And you prefer to go heavy?¡± Meaning Evocation, so I nod in acknowledgement. ¡°Then prepare that loadout starting tomorrow, boot,¡± he says, adding, ¡°No explosions. Mineshafts and tunnels are unstable enough as is without tempting fate.¡± Which limits my options a bit, but not by as much as you¡¯d think. Cocking his head, he frowns and asks, ¡°How¡¯s your Spiritual Weapon?¡±


    Between my mounting excitement regarding the implication behind these orders, it takes me a beat to realize he¡¯s talking about the Second Order Conjuration Spell. ¡°Uhh, base?¡± I reply, not really sure why he¡¯s asking. ¡°That¡¯s the one that summons a floaty sword or whatever, right? I don¡¯t even got the Formula.¡±


    My answer really throws the man for a loop, though I don¡¯t know why, and he spends a good minute looking me over before asking, ¡°I thought you were the Marshal¡¯s pupil?¡±


    ¡°I was.¡± Shrugging, I explain, ¡°Up until my daddy passed and the Rangers disavowed him. They drew a line in the sand, and I wasn¡¯t about to ask the Marshal choose sides.¡± Not that he¡¯d have chosen mine. I get it. The Rangers are his life, and even if he did pick me, I¡¯d have felt awful about it.


    ¡°You mean to tell me,¡± Sergeant Begaye begins, studying me with fresh eyes once again, ¡°That you¡¯ve been studying magic without a teacher for three years now?¡±


    ¡°And I¡¯m still ahead of the pack.¡± None too shy about it neither, as I grin for all I¡¯m worth. ¡°How my ranking look now?¡±


    ¡°Worse, because now you¡¯ve given me even more work.¡± Sighing, he takes a puff of his pipe and says, ¡°Come find me in the morning for the Spell Formula.¡± Giving me a dirty look, he cautiously asks, ¡°You have Conjure Weapon, right?¡±


    ¡°Yes Sir.¡± Never used it though, because all it does is make one simple weapon of a single material. Any added details like leather wrappings for the hilt come extra, meaning you gotta get real good and familiar with the Spell to get them. I don¡¯t say as much, because Sergeant Begaye seems to think it¡¯s a worthwhile Spell, and considering he¡¯s supposed to be some sorta big-name Conjuror, I should probably reconsider my stance on the matter. Can¡¯t bring myself to think nice things about the Spell though, because I still think its stupid to go toe-to-toe with Abby.


    Why poke them with a sword when you can shoot them from a hundred metres away? Don¡¯t make no sense is all.


    By the time I get back to my sleeping spot, it¡¯s already too late to reclaim Cowie, who¡¯s fast asleep and snoring inside Tina¡¯s bedroll. She¡¯s asleep too, hugging Cowie tight while the kiccaws burrow in close around her, so I lay my head down nearby and follow suit. Ain¡¯t easy, since it sounds like Sergeant Begaye is getting me ready to go delving into the mines, if not down into Abby tunnels themselves. The long day of hard labour eventually catches up to me though, and the next thing I know, the sun¡¯s peeking out from over the horizon to herald the start of a brand-new day. After getting Cowie his feed and water, it doesn¡¯t take me long to get my Spell Loadout ready, as I already had half in place. Was only missing Find Magical Traps, Hunter¡¯s Mark, and Grease from the list I shared, so I drop Eagle Eye, Floating Disc, and Spiked Growth to fit them in. Expeditious Retreat is good to keep, but I ought to switch out Mage Armour, Settle in Shadows, and my Big Spell for more appropriate options when fighting under dark.


    Eleven Spell Structures ain¡¯t none too shabby if I do say so myself, but it still ain¡¯t enough to cover all my bases. That¡¯s why I keep Featherfall on one boot and Longstrider on the other after all, because they useful in a pinch, but not useful enough to keep ready for each and every day. Don¡¯t much like dropping Mage Armour though, as the Artifact I worked up can only buy me three hours of protection, but hopefully that¡¯ll be enough. As for Eagle Eye, I won¡¯t need it down in a mineshaft, and while hiding in shadows might sound nice, Abby can see, smell, and sense things better under dark than any human can hope to match.


    Without magic or tech at least.


    As a last-second decision, I leave an empty space in my loadout for Spiritual Weapon, which I collect from Sergeant Begaye as soon as I see him up and about. Always nice to learn something new, even if it ain¡¯t a Spell on my most wanted list. The Drill Sergeant don¡¯t sit me down to teach me personal though, just hands over a piece of folded paper and sends me on my way. Doesn¡¯t want any Spell in trade either, probably because he doesn¡¯t think I have anything he couldn¡¯t get himself. Which is likely true, so I make a note of his generosity and promise myself I¡¯ll pay it back someday.


    There ain¡¯t no time to study it just yet, as there¡¯s still one thing left on my checklist, which is to make nice with Tina. With little time to spare, I cook her up a hot breakfast of beans, bread, and bacon and get it to her just as she wakes. Also got a pot of hot chicory coffee to go along with it, sweetened with four squares of hard honey I keep for occasions just like this. ¡°Mornin¡¯ sleepyhead,¡± I begin, greeting her with a sheepish smile. ¡°Peace offering?¡±


    ¡°Give it here.¡± Sitting up in her bedroll, she waves off the hungry kiccaws with a smile while I settle in beside her. We don¡¯t say much as we enjoy our meals, and I tune out the other boots looking on in envy. Cooked extra for Errol and Sarah Jay, but I only had so much bacon and I wasn¡¯t gonna give it up for them. They¡¯re fine though, as they got some canned corned beef which is almost as good, though I suppose I could¡¯ve made even more so Kacey could eat too. Then again, if I did, then I¡¯d feel compelled to cook for a couple others too, so when does it ever end?


    Realizing I¡¯m only delaying the inevitable, I face the music head on as soon as Tina mops up the last of the beans and grease with her bread. ¡°Sorry for goin¡¯ off on you like that yesterday.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s alright,¡± she replies, unable to meet my eyes. ¡°Wasn¡¯t like I didn¡¯t deserve it.¡±


    Seems so obvious after Sergeant Begaye pointed it out, how my dressing down did more harm than good, and it pains me to see Tina so down in the dumps. Doubly so because I put her there, so I lean in close and throw an arm around her shoulder with a sigh. ¡°Nah you didn¡¯t. I done made far worse mistakes, but my daddy never cut me down to size like that.¡±


    ¡°Like what?¡±


    Was never a matter of earning Tina¡¯s forgiveness, as she ain¡¯t never held it against me in the first place. Shows in how she snuggled up against me, all too happy for a rare moment of physical affection. Knowing this makes me feel even worse, so I dig up an old story to share. ¡°Remember when I first got my Bashere Black Eagle?¡±


    ¡°Sure do.¡± Beaming bright as can be, Tina bumps me in feigned jealousy. ¡°Bought it for you after you made that mess with the harpies. A tube-fed, pump-action, pistol grip beaut of an Blastgun. Could hardly believe it. You ran out into the streets to sling Spells at Abby, then ran back into Anita¡¯s store when them harpies came looking for payback. Wrecked the place something awful before she put them down hard, and what¡¯s your daddy do? He buys you a new gun.¡±


    Not my proudest moment, especially since I learned it might¡¯ve cost Sarah Jay¡¯s daddy his life. ¡°Well yea. He figured it was high time I started going around town strapped, so I¡¯d have more than harsh language to throw at Abby if it happened again. Already had my Squire, but wasn¡¯t allowed to carry it loaded or hold loose ammo before then, and he got me the Black Eagle for a bit of extra coverage.¡±


    ¡°Mama wouldn¡¯t let me have one.¡± Giving a petulant little huff, she pouts and adds, ¡°Even though I was the better shooter back then.¡±


    ¡°Because she knew he¡¯d already paid for a matched pair of 1911¡¯s,¡± I reply, which she¡¯s apparently finding out for the first time today. ¡°Gave them to you on your birthday a few weeks later, didn¡¯t he?¡±


    ¡°¡­Really?¡± Tina¡¯s expression runs through the gamut of emotions as she¡¯s reminded of the past, and she eventually settles on a warm smile. ¡°Never thought about it before, but yea. It would¡¯ve taken Mr. Kalthoff at least three months to make a pair of ¡®em back then.¡±


    Takes more than blood to make a family, but whatever it is, we got it. After a moment of silence, I continue with my story. ¡°Well, after buying me the Bleagle, he brought me out to the range for a test. Bein¡¯ excited as I was for the first shot, I loaded the tube full of shells, then got the bright idea to do a one-handed pump to chamber the very first round. Make it special, you know?¡±


    ¡°Oh no.¡±


    ¡°Yea, it¡¯s worse than you think.¡± Rubbing my chin and idly wondering if I¡¯ll ever find hair there, I avoid looking at Tina or thinking about how nice she smells and say, ¡°That first try didn¡¯t go so well. It¡¯s a heavy gun, and I was a small kid, so I put a lot of heft into it and lost my grip. Dropped it butt first right at my feet and watched my life flash before my eyes. Then watched it happen a second time when I realized I survived and my daddy had yet to say a single word.¡±


    ¡°Is that why he had you help pave the main thoroughfare?¡±


    ¡°Yup.¡± Flattening dirt and laying down cobble is hard work, and my daddy set me to task whenever we were in town for the next year. ¡°To this day, I¡¯m still too scared to rack a pump-action one-handed. Why you think I had the Doorknockers custom made instead of buying an Ashaman or a Fireforge 870?¡±


    We chat a little more as we got the time to spare, until Tina sits up and nods. ¡°Alright then,¡± she says, hitting me with a sly smile that gets my stomach to fluttering in a way that got nothing to do with beans. ¡°Breakfast was a start, but if you want back in my good books, then I¡¯m gonna need more.¡± Giving a fake huff of displeasure, she adds, ¡°You said H ¨C E ¨C double hockey sticks, and it hurt my soft, feminine sensibilities.¡±


    ¡°Whatever it takes.¡± Not just because I mean it, but also because Aunty Ray has a zero-tolerance policy on swearing, and there ain¡¯t no way I care to test it.


    ¡°I want you to brush and style my hair for a year.¡±


    ¡°Anythin¡¯ but that.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because.¡± Lowering my voice to whisper, I lean in and say, ¡°It¡¯s embarrassing, a man doing a woman¡¯s hair.¡±


    Tina¡¯s eyes go wide with resentment as she hits me with the mother of all glowers. ¡°You been doin¡¯ Chrissy¡¯s hair for goin¡¯ on three years now. Even went and asked a bunch of other girls to help teach you, when you could¡¯ve just asked me.¡±


    It started out as mock pique, but she ain¡¯t faking no more, so I feel compelled to defend my actions and decisions. ¡°That was a spur of the moment decision. Me and Chrissy were in the park and we saw a bunch of girls sitting around braidin¡¯ each others hair. She kept lookin¡¯ at ¡®em, so I asked if she wanted to join in, but she said no. Then I asked if she wanted her hair braided, and she said yes. I didn¡¯t know how to braid no hair, so I sat down and asked them girlies to teach me. What else was I supposed to do?¡±


    ¡°Oh, that makes perfect sense. Chrissy wants her hair braided once, so of course you gotta do her hair every day for the rest of her life. Need to buy her pretty ribbons and clips all the time too. Got no choice but to.¡±


    ¡°That ain¡¯t it.¡± Motioning for Tina to calm down and lower her voice, I glare at the grinning looky-loos until they ain¡¯t lookin¡¯ no more. Only then do I explain, ¡°After my daddy passed, the only way I could help with Chrissy was keepin¡¯ her company, so I figured doin¡¯ her hair was one less thing you and Aunty Ray had to worry about.¡±


    ¡°Oh Howie.¡± Giving me the look she usually reserves for wally joeys who done been rejected by their mamas, Tina shakes her head and sighs. ¡°Chrissy is perfectly capable of doin¡¯ her own hair. Has been since we was ten.¡± Seeing my confusion, she rolls her eyes. ¡°You don¡¯t give her enough credit. She ain¡¯t half as helpless as you think. Mama¡¯s even got her goin¡¯ out for groceries all on her own, though it¡¯s more like porter work. Hands Anita the money and a list, who puts everything in the basket for Chrissy to bring home.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± Frowning at this unpleasant news, I ask, ¡°Isn¡¯t that dangerous? We got all sorts in town these days.¡±


    ¡°And Chrissy can take care of herself.¡± Rummaging around in her pouch and pulling out a brush, Tina holds it out and gives it a wiggle when I refuse to take it. ¡°C¡¯mon mister. You best get brushin¡¯, else I might just start jugglin¡¯ my pistols in the streets.¡±


    Taking the brush with a sigh, I get to work and try to talk her down from a year of brushing. ¡°I¡¯ll do this just once. Today and today only.¡±


    ¡°Six months.¡±


    ¡°Twice.¡±


    ¡°Every day until the day after we get home, so Chrissy can see you brush my hair.¡± Holding up a finger, Tina adds, ¡°Final offer. You argue anymore, and we¡¯ll take this to a judge.¡± Meaning airing this out in front of other people, likely her friends, who¡¯d love nothing more than to consign me to years of hard labour.


    ¡°Fine.¡± Parting the back of her hair into two portions, I hold them up and out to the sides. ¡°So what¡¯ll it be? Twin tails? Side tails? Pig tails?¡± Meeting her side eye with a shrug, I say, ¡°I got a limited repertoire as is, and your hair much too short for most of what I know.¡±


    ¡°Do something nice,¡± she says, which is supremely unhelpful, but I suppose it¡¯s just desserts for losing my temper last night. ¡°Leave the back down if you can, as it keeps my neck from gettin¡¯ burnt, and I¡¯d like something elegant, but practical, you know?¡±


    I hate that I actually do, so I keep mum and brush her hair a little more before using my pinkies to collect her side bangs and bring them all the way back to tie off into a short, high pony tail. Leaves her back hair down to keep that feminine look, while keeping the front outta her face so she ain¡¯t blowing them aside ever few minutes. Holding up her makeup mirror so she can get a good look, I ask, ¡°How¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°I love it.¡± Her big, bright smile makes all the embarrassment worth it, and the warm hug is extra gravy on the potates, but I ain¡¯t ever gonna admit it. ¡°Thank you, Howie.¡±


    In order to get away from the crowd of amused onlookers, I get permission from Captain Jung to park my wagon out front of the saloon again with Cowie and the kiccaws to watch over it. Still ain¡¯t so sure about leaving them birdies to roam free, because I know how delicious they are and doubt these townies got good restraint. Hate to have to kill a man for shooting a bird, but they¡¯re Tina¡¯s birds, so there¡¯s no way around it. Course, I got other reasons for bringing my wagon out here besides handing out candy and Cantrips. After setting out a jar of candies and putting the Spell Formulas up on display, I climb into the back and open up the hidden floor compartment where I got all my mead stored away. Quickly making sure there ain¡¯t no Rangers around, I carry two cases out and into the saloon to deposit on the bar. Miss Laura ain¡¯t around, which is a real shame, but the bartender don¡¯t need me to say nothing before he starts counting out cash. ¡°If any boots or Rangers ask, you bought these the last time I was in town,¡± I say, and the bartender nods without batting an eye. I still got most of another case in the wagon, so if need be, I can say I only brought the two, and gave one to Vicente to smooth things over.


    Sure it¡¯s illegal, but bootlegging¡¯s a victimless crime. As for trading while riding with the Rangers, that¡¯s fine too. I ain¡¯t no Ranger, and auxiliaries ain¡¯t bound by the same rules and regulations. Man¡¯s gotta earn after all, and a hundred and twenty dollars is a hundred and twenty dollars.


    Smiling as I put away a fat stack of fives, I pat the bar to say goodbye and head on out. As I pass by the stairs, I hear a set of footsteps coming down and glance up in hopes of catching a glimpse of a pretty face. What I see stops me in my tracks and steals my breath away as my heart gets to pounding and cheeks flush with heat. My jaw clenches, and my hand goes straight to the butt of my Model 10 before I can think better of it. The fruits of last night¡¯s labour, the action already second nature, but there¡¯s no joy to be had just yet. Taking a deep breath to calm myself before I spook the lovely lady away, I force a smile on my face and say, ¡°Hey there.¡±


    To which the hazel-eyed, caramel skinned girlie stops and smiles back, looking much happier than the last time I saw her, coming out the Sherrif¡¯s office just before I went in and shot the place up. A right pretty girl she is, with her dark, lustrous hair combed to one side so that it cascades over her left shoulder, while her oversized shirt hanging loosely over her coltish frame. Leaves her long, lithe legs bared as she slinks down them steps, hiding her tight daisy dukes just well enough that it¡¯s almost like they ain¡¯t even there. Don¡¯t look a day over fifteen and lovely as a summer breeze despite all the ugliness around her, though I still think she¡¯d look better without so much heavy makeup. Using the front post on the staircase to keep her and the bartender both from seeing my hand on my pistol, I ask, ¡°You work here?¡±


    And God help everyone in this shit-hole of a town if she says yes.

 Chapter 38

    ¡°Sorry handsome.¡±


    Delivered with all the right notes of disappointment and sincerity, the girl reaches out to gently caress my chin as she passes, and I let her so as not to reveal my barely restrained rage. Batting her lovely eyes with a coy gaze that does wonders to hide her weariness, she glides on past with a little sigh. ¡°Much as I¡¯d love to keep you company, a girl needs her beauty sleep. Come back tonight and I¡¯ll take good care of you. Promise.¡±


    Welp. That settles it. All I gotta do now is figure out who to shoot. ¡°You just finish with a john?¡±


    The question stops her in her tracks, and her sultry expressions flickers to shocked and dismayed. Only for an instant before she composes herself again, an instant that feels like an eternity once I realize what I asked and how it sounded. The embarrassment is so overwhelming it knocks me off the angry scale and over into awkward humiliation as she smiles and says, ¡°If that¡¯s what you¡¯re into, we can work something out. Later though okay? It¡¯ll be worth the wait.¡± Shooting me a wink, she speeds up and rounds the stairs, taking a wider circle than necessary to get around me.


    Reaching out to bar her path without laying a hand on her, I ask, ¡°Which room?¡± Something in my tone or my expression scares her something fierce, and she recoils away from my touch. Makes no move to run or defend herself, just freezes in place, with shoulders tense and arms locked at her sides. Turns her eyes away and lowers her head too, which tells two important things. One, she¡¯s no stranger to violence, and two, experience has taught her that trying to run, fight, or even defend herself will only make things worse. That brings the anger back in spades, so I leave the poor girl be and say, ¡°Sorry. Never mind. Don¡¯t matter much anyways.¡± I¡¯ll just kill every man upstairs. Would¡¯ve probably had to anyways, once the shooting started. Might be that the pedophile is already gone, but the way I see it, better safe than sorry, so I might as well send everyone upstairs off and let God sort ¡®em out. Shame I don¡¯t got any rope to string their bodies out the windows and show everyone what happens to pedophiles and their enablers. ¡°You should leave,¡± I add, throwing it out there as I head up the stairs and switch over to holding the Rattlesnake in hand, as it¡¯s quieter than the Model 10 and might buy me some extra time before reinforcements come pouring in.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± Uttered in little more than hiss, the girl recovers right quick. I don¡¯t stop to answer, because it sounds like she¡¯s already figured it out. Tough as nails and sharp as a tack she is, or maybe not as sharp as I thought since she chases me up the stairs. ¡°Stop,¡± she whispers, her eyes darting left and right as she slips her arms around my waist. Doesn¡¯t cling tight or try to hold me in place, just sort of melts into my personal space without pressing right up against me. Still closer than I¡¯d like, but I resist the urge to shove her away and stop to let her explain her actions, while keeping an eye out for anyone looking at me sideways. She¡¯s a tiny thing, maybe five-foot-five and ninety pounds soaking wet, so it wouldn¡¯t take much to break away if I need to start Blasting. ¡°Put it away?¡± she asks, faking a smile for the sake of the bartender and a few others idling about. ¡°Please?¡± Resting her head against my cheek, she pitches her voice low and seductive as she runs her fingers lightly up my stomach and chest to really sell the show. Knows her limits, or reads mine and keeps the soft contact to a brief minimum. ¡°Let¡¯s talk this out, okay?¡±


    She nods to encourage me to do the same, and she¡¯s got me so mixed up I¡¯m back to thinking straight. While I¡¯d be doing a service to the Frontier shooting this here establish up, I admit it¡¯d be a terrible idea for my continued longevity. Only got my sidearms on me, as I left my carbine in the wagon locker along with the Whumper. Also don¡¯t know the exact layout of the second story, though I can guess well enough. Too many doors, too many rooms, too many possible targets and innocents all mixed up together, all of which is a recipe for disaster. Besides, killing a couple johns won¡¯t fix nothing besides easing my temper, and any goons who come running won¡¯t matter much either. Gotta cut off the head of the snake, as all this can be laid at the feet of one man and one man only. Ronald Fucking Jackson. He the one who enables all this, so he the one who¡¯s gonna pay for it.


    Reason prevails, so I blow out a long breath and tuck the Rattlesnake away just in time for a jane and her john to come round the corner and make their way down the stairs. Planting a light kiss on my cheek for show, the girlie giggles like I done said something funny before leading me up the stairs as natural as can be. The jane gives her a little questioning look, like she knows the girlie¡¯s shift is over and done and is wondering what¡¯s what, but the john don¡¯t think nothing of it and avoids eye contact as we pass each other on the stairs, though I give him a good once over to make sure I remember his face.


    In breach of brothel etiquette, I¡¯m guessing, one of them unspoken rules like passing slower traffic on the left, but just because this is all Ron¡¯s fault don¡¯t mean the folks of Pleasant Dunes get off scot-free.


    As we arrive at the top of the stairs, I see just how dumb an idea it would¡¯ve been to go in guns blazing. Right around the corner sits a solid double door guarded by a pair of bouncers, strapped heavy and loaded for bear. With the girlie on my arm, they don¡¯t blink twice before my angry glare and open the doors to let us through, revealing a long hall with rooms on either side and two more bouncers at the other end. The girlie brings me over to an open room and shuts the flimsy door behind her, and I note there ain¡¯t no lock or chain to hold it shut. ¡°Are you fucking crazy?¡± she asks, her eyes wide and arms wrapped around her slender frame as she leans heavily against the door frame. Trembling from head to toe, she waits for an answer until it¡¯s clear she won¡¯t get one, at which point she move around the foot of the bed over to the open window and pulls a cigarette out from somewhere. Patting the pockets of her short shorts, which don¡¯t cover up much of anything, she asks, ¡°You got a light?¡±


    Waiting a beat rather than answer, I give it a second before feeling safe enough to let go of my gun and reach into my component¡¯s pouch. A word and a snap brings forth a flame on my thumb, but I don¡¯t move away from the door. Can¡¯t be sure she didn¡¯t signal anyone on our way up, so I stand by the door instead of going over to the window and keep an ear out for noises while she comes over to light her cigarette. Taking a long, deep drag to calm her nerves, she finds a bit of courage from the familiar habit, but not enough to stop hugging her torso with her one free arm. The harsh, acrid smoke fills the air and I can¡¯t help but scowl and wave it away. Puts me in mind of being downwind of an Abby cook fueled by sulphur and phosphorous. Bad eggs and pungent putrefaction, that¡¯s what it smells like, a world of difference from whatever was in Sergeant Begaye¡¯s pipe, which leads me to suspect it ain¡¯t just tobacco leaves rolled into her cigarette.


    ¡°So you just gonna stand there and scowl, or you gonna answer the question?¡± She got a bit of smoky gravel in her voice, now that I know to listen for it. Mixed with her husky timbre and soothing intonations, it adds an extra layer of pleasant to her voice even when she all fired up and afraid. ¡°You crazy? What were you thinking? That you¡¯d come up here and shoot all the big, bad men and ¡®save¡¯ the poor little lady from her horrible fate?¡±


    She hit most the right notes, so there ain¡¯t nothing for me to say. Plan didn¡¯t get any further than that, but no sense admitting as much. Reckless, irrational, and foolhardy as usual, that there is the Howie House Special.


    Something in my expression gives her pause, and her anger mellows out a fair as she puffs on her cigarette, only to be replaced by uncertainty before flaring back in full force. ¡°The fuck do you know?¡± she asks, rambling now that the fear and adrenaline is draining away. ¡°Big man with your big gun, thinking you can solve all the world¡¯s problems with bullets and Bolts.¡±


    ¡°Works most the time,¡± I say, giving her a little smile and a shrug as I turn on the folksy charms for lack of a better approach. ¡°And if it don¡¯t, it¡¯s usually ¡®cause I¡¯m short on one or the other.¡±


    Hitting me with a sweet smile and doe-eyed expression that don¡¯t look sarcastic, but most certainly is, she says, ¡°Oh wow, how incredible. Please, tell me more about your violent, caveman tendencies and how many people you¡¯ve murdered. Nothing like a high body count to get a gal all hot and bothered.¡±


    She¡¯s got grit. Suppose she¡¯d have to, girl in her circumstances. I like her. ¡°Name¡¯s Howie Zhu,¡± I say with a smile, holding my hand out for a shake.


    ¡°I know who you are, Firstborn.¡± Shooting daggers with her smoky eyes, she doesn¡¯t shake my hand, but offers her name all the same. ¡°Noora Amari.¡±


    ¡°Nice to meet you Noora.¡± Letting my hand drop with a smile, I look around the tiny room which ain¡¯t got nothing but a bed and a blanket in it, neither of which I¡¯d care to use. ¡°Wish it were under better circumstances, but it is what it is.¡±


    ¡°And I wish you¡¯d take your big shiny metal gun and go fuck yourself.¡± The words slip out before she can think better of it, and I can see the fear take hold in her eyes, but she don¡¯t back down and stands ready to take her lumps. So I laugh to set her at ease and bob my head in begrudging agreement, seeing how I deserve a talking to for getting all heated and angry.


    ¡°Thanks for talking me down.¡± Gesturing out towards the guards, who ain¡¯t made a peep since they closed the door behind us, I shrug and say, ¡°Would¡¯ve gotten ugly sooner than I¡¯d¡¯ve liked.¡± Pausing a beat to consider if I should move forward with the slaughter now that I¡¯m here, I heave a sigh and figure there are probably better ways to go about it. Like with the Rangers at my back, if I can get them on board, but Marcus has Wayne¡¯s entire Company camped up in the mountains. Tim¡¯s with them too, meaning the only Rangers here in town are the six Drill Sergeants working with Ava, and I doubt that¡¯s enough bodies to take on all of Pleasant Dunes seeing how the boots don¡¯t amount to much.


    Taking a seat on the bed, Noora relaxes just enough to post her free hand up behind her for a nice, casual lean, but her restless right leg gives her nerves away. ¡°Won¡¯t happen a second time,¡± she says, studying me as I do my damnedest to maintain eye contact instead of taking a good, long look at her legs now that her shirt ain¡¯t covering her upper thighs no more. ¡°Don¡¯t know what came over me, chasing after you with that look in your eyes. This what you do then? Walk into town and shoot anyone who pisses you off?¡±


    ¡°Not always.¡± Got a crick in my neck from straining so hard to keep my chin up and eyes forward, but I resist the urge to crack it because I don¡¯t trust myself much at the moment. When emotions are high, it¡¯s all too easy to jump from one to the other without so much as blinking an eye, and I¡¯ve made enough mistakes already to last the rest of the day. ¡°Not even most times, but Pleasant Dunes do seem to bring out the worst in me.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not so bad,¡± Noora says, and I silently disagree. Don¡¯t say as much, and she don¡¯t elaborate, so we fall into a comfortable silence while she studies me and I resist the urge to do the same to her. Having caught on to my internal struggle, she smiles and lifts her left leg up onto the bed so she¡¯s sitting in a figure four, leaving me to suspect her daisy dukes ain¡¯t hiding much of anything anymore. ¡°Well,¡± she drawls, stretching the word out long and slow, ¡°Since we¡¯re here anyways, how about I take care of you like I promised?¡±


    ¡°Nah, I¡¯m good.¡±


    The wrong answer it seems, as she bolts upright and hits me with a glare that¡¯s a mix between hateful and hurt. ¡°Why not? Girl like me not good enough for the Firstborn?¡±


    Hell hath no fury indeed. ¡°That ain¡¯t it,¡± I reply, shaking my head. ¡°You all sorts of lovely Noora. Another time and another place, and things might go different, but here and now, it ain¡¯t gonna happen.¡± Especially not for money, and doubly so while I¡¯m still listening for movement and worried about a goon squad setting up to shoot me on sight.


    My words don¡¯t do nothing to appease her anger though, and she brings both legs up onto the bed so she can hug her knees. ¡°Oh right, of course. Can¡¯t go fucking a whore in a whorehouse. You gotta do your hero thing and save the damsel in distress first. You gonna make me repent from my sinful ways too? Turn me into a good and proper church-going, God-fearing, sex-hating lady of repute?¡±


    ¡°What? No.¡± Confused as to how we even got onto this topic of discussion, I take a beat to reset before trying again. ¡°Ain¡¯t got no problem with workin¡¯ gals,¡± I say, ignoring Noora¡¯s skeptical scowl and pushing on to continue, ¡°We all gotta eat, and we all sellin¡¯ ourselves out here. Sex, labour, danger, or violence, we puttin¡¯ our bodies on the line, one way or the other. What I¡¯m concerned about ain¡¯t the what, but the why. If the reason is because you ain¡¯t got no other choice, then you ain¡¯t sellin¡¯. They¡¯s takin¡¯, and that, I got a problem with.¡±


    ¡°Sherrif Gil and his deputies, they took.¡± Meeting my gaze with a fire to match my own, she studies my expression in search of something, but what, I can¡¯t say. Don¡¯t know if she finds what she¡¯s looking for either, as she just looks away after a second and says, ¡°Here, I get paid and I got the bouncers outside if any johns get rough. I don¡¯t need saving. Not anymore.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t sound like you got much of a choice either.¡± Against my better judgement, I get in closer and take a knee so we can talk eye to eye if she cares to look my way, but I don¡¯t pressure her to do so. ¡°Only difference I see between now and before is that it¡¯s the threat of violence that¡¯s got you here, rather than the act itself. Ain¡¯t much of a difference, especially for a girl young as you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sixteen,¡± she says, her tone full of heat and ire while still avoiding my gaze. ¡°That¡¯s old enough for the Accords.¡±


    No sense pointing out her obvious lie, as that¡¯ll just get her on the defensive, so I address the second part. ¡°Ain¡¯t just about legalities. It¡¯s about options. From where I stand, don¡¯t look like you had any when you settled on this life. You got them now though. If you don¡¯t feel safe in town, then I¡¯ll talk to the Rangers about letting you stay in camp until it¡¯s time to go. Then we¡¯ll bring you out of the desert and over to Meadowbrook, and from there, to anywhere you wanna go this side of the Divide. Won¡¯t just dump you anywhere either. Rangers will see to it you¡¯ll have food to eat, a roof overhead, and even a different way to earn a livin¡¯ if that¡¯s what you want. Or not.¡±


    To me, it¡¯s an easy decision, but I can tell it won¡¯t be so easy for Noora. Don¡¯t know the details, but I know enough to say she¡¯s had it hard out here, harder than most even. After I put down the Stagecoach Killers, it seems she¡¯s found some small semblance of safety here in the saloon, and that gave her hope. Maybe more hope than she¡¯s had in a while, which means she¡¯s scared to risk it for anything, even the promise of a better life. Here and now, she¡¯s ¡®safe¡¯, sheltered, and fed, so like Uncle Teddy said, she¡¯s living small and too afraid to hope for more.


    Which is why it breaks my heart when she whispers, ¡°What if I don¡¯t want to leave?¡±


    Ain¡¯t the same as wanting to stay, but no sense pointing it out. ¡°Then that¡¯s your decision,¡± I reply, suppressing the rage and frustration as I see which way the wind blowing. I¡¯d love nothing more than to catch her with a john and hang him out the window as a warning to the rest of town, but that wouldn¡¯t help her any. All it¡¯d do is ease my anger a bit, and once I leave, everything will go back to the way it is. ¡°Think on it,¡± I say, not wanting to push her for an answer since I know she¡¯s of a mind to say no. ¡°Anytime you decide you want out of this place, you come find me or any one of the boots or Rangers. That¡¯s what we here for. To protect the people of the Frontier, and not just from Abby.¡±


    Taking one last pull from her cig, she puts it out against the bedpost and flicks the butt onto the floor, where it joins countless others just like it. ¡°Okay. I¡¯ll think about it,¡± she says, hitting me with a challenging stare like she expects me to start strongarming her now that things didn¡¯t go my way. ¡°That all you got to say?¡± I nod. ¡°You planning on gunning anyone down on the way out?¡± Not unless I have to, but rather than get into the nitty gritty, I just shake my head. ¡°Alright.¡± Holding her hand out, Noora says, ¡°Twenty bucks. For the room.¡±


    Doubt it really costs that much considering Carl acted like charging a dollar for a big bottle of mead was highway robbery, but I ain¡¯t about to haggle. Reaching for my inner duster pocket, I pull out the cash I was just paid and count out six five-dollar bills before handing it over. ¡°Extra¡¯s for talkin¡¯ me down,¡± I say, so she don¡¯t think she being pitied. Just in time too, as her eyes go hard for a moment before snatching the cash right up.


    ¡°Firstborn¡¯s life only worth ten bucks?¡± she asks, and I can¡¯t help but admire her gumption as she stuffs the little wad of cash into her teeny tiny pants pockets. ¡°Figured it¡¯d least be twenty.¡±


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    ¡°You presumin¡¯ a bit much there. You really think four bouncers and a couple johns is enough to put me down?¡± Been in worse spots, though I admit the long game wasn¡¯t lookin¡¯ good.


    Rolling her eyes, Noora doesn¡¯t argue the facts, just sits there and studies me a bit longer. After a beat, her face lights up and hops up onto her feet, setting her hair thick, dark hair to bouncing. ¡°Can¡¯t have you leaving all neat and tidy though,¡± she says, advancing on me with an impish gleam in her eyes. ¡°Not if we wanna sell our story.¡± Moving in close to unbutton my collar, she crinkles the starched fabric to make it look less neat and tidy, and I can¡¯t help but notice how her shirt slips off her shoulder to reveal she ain¡¯t wearing anything else underneath. ¡°And people might talk about you being a quick shot if you leave right away,¡± she says, her devilish smile speaking volumes as her hands wander down to untuck the left tail on my shirt while leaving the right one in. Least her pretty hazel eyes make it easy to focus on them, instead of anything else. ¡°Can¡¯t have that, now can we? So how are we gonna pass the time, alone together in this room?¡±


    While she reaches around back to mess up more of my clothes, I struggle to come up with an answer. Must be all the smoke in the room making it hard to breathe and think, so I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. ¡°You know how to play cat¡¯s cradle?¡± The question catches her off-guard, and her look says it all, but I¡¯m committed to the bit now and pull out a piece of knotted string. ¡°It¡¯s real easy.¡±


    Though more amused than intrigued, she plays along as I use the Mage Hands to show her how it goes. That¡¯s how we fritter the time away until enough has passed to assuage my pride. Stupid to even care about what the bouncers think, but part of it is because I hope Noora changes her mind in the next few minutes before I gotta go back to the boots. No such luck though, so when it comes time to head out, I do so with a heavy heart. And an abundance of caution, using a Mage Hand to hold up a pocket mirror as I crack the door open, so I can make sure the big door out front is still shut and the goons aren¡¯t ready and waiting with guns. Could still be shooters standing ready on the other side, or lined up on the stairs ready to take me out, but there¡¯s only so much a man can do.


    Ain¡¯t no kill squad waitin¡¯ for me inside the saloon proper, so I carry on down while chatting about this or that with Noora. As we reach the bottom third of the stairs, my words freeze in my throat and I stop in place as I spot Tina, Kacey, Errol, and Sarah Jay on their way in. No doubt wondering why I haven¡¯t come back from dropping the wagon off, only to find me coming down from upstairs looking all scruffy with a half-dressed girlie at my side. For a moment, we all stand and stare at each other without saying a word, their eyes all going from me, then to Noora, then back to me, even though we ain¡¯t doin¡¯ nothing besides walking.


    Or we weren¡¯t, right up until Noora decides this is the perfect moment for a hug and a peck on the cheek goodbye. ¡°You take care now, Firstborn,¡± she says, speaking softly like we sharing secrets right in the open. Her voice gets all warm and throaty as she runs her hand over my chest and bicep, and I can¡¯t say I hate it, even though I find the circumstances distressing and mortifying at the same time. ¡°Come visit again soon, okay?¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± I ask, knowing her game and having no way to defend myself. ¡°Why would you do this?¡±


    ¡°So you don¡¯t forget about me. Bye.¡± Beaming bright as the midday sun, she saunters off without a second glance, and I let my eyes linger a moment too long. I know this because when I turn back to face forward, I¡¯m hit with an assortment of angry glares and judgy scowls, so I do my best not to look guilty. Or feel guilty, because I¡¯ve done nothing untoward and got a clean conscience. Thems there¡¯s the facts.


    Granted, it makes me sound awful guilty when the first words outta my mouth are, ¡°This ain¡¯t what it looks like.¡± Especially when said while tucking my shirt back in. Why¡¯d I get caught up in Noora¡¯s pace and just go along with her game? Ain¡¯t no point in looking like I done something. Folks would have assumed as much anyways, even if I walked out looking neat and tidy.


    ¡°That so?¡± Doin¡¯ that thing where she pretends she ain¡¯t angry even though she really is, Tina bats her eyes and bares her teeth in the semblance of a smile, while Kacey and Sarah Jay bare their teeth and Errol looks all offended and repulsed. ¡°Well?¡± Tina asks. ¡°Let¡¯s hear it then.¡±


    ¡°We was just talkin¡¯. Played some cat¡¯s cradle too.¡± The more I say, the dumber I sound, and there ain¡¯t no cure for stupid. ¡°Honest.¡± Yea, that¡¯ll convince them. Since none of them are saying anything, I decide to head on out and move past this while straightening my collar, but not a single one gives way when I reach the door.


    ¡°And I suppose that¡¯s how you got your clothes all ruffled? Cat¡¯s cradle, full contact edition?¡± Tina asks, and I flinch to hear it. Giving a little sniff, she asks, ¡°She a smoker? Can smell her all over you.¡±


    ¡°What are you, some kinda bloodhound?¡± Not that¡¯d it¡¯d take much to smell smoke on me, as Noora¡¯s cigarettes stink something fierce. ¡°Yea, she smokes. Had a cig while we conversated.¡±


    On my left, Inari pokes her head out from Kacey¡¯s arms and gives me an honest to goodness nosing, sniffing me up and down for several seconds. After a moment¡¯s pause, little fox looks up at her summoner and gives a tiny gruff bark, but that don¡¯t change nothing for the better of the worse. Even Sarah Jay ain¡¯t on my side this time, as when I look to her for support, she gets this sour look on her icy expression while standing there with arms crossed beneath her substantial chest. ¡°You forget all about S.O.P?¡± she asks, all dark and fiery like she is. ¡°You ain¡¯t supposed to go nowhere alone. We was worried you¡¯d gotten yourself into trouble and were ready come in guns blazin¡¯.¡±


    Almost did, so it¡¯s good to know they was on their toes. ¡°Rules fer thee, not for me,¡± I quip, which don¡¯t earn me any smiles. ¡°Oh c¡¯mon. I been rollin¡¯ round the Frontier by my lonesome for two years now. I can handle my own business.¡± For the most part. And I got Cowie backing me up, but I don¡¯t like to remind folks of that little fact. Most don¡¯t register big fluffy bull as a threat, and I cannot for the life of me understand why.


    ¡°You sure about that?¡±


    Turning around at the sound of a familiar saucy voice, I force myself to smile and say, ¡°Ah Miss Laura. Good to see you. Was lookin¡¯ for you earlier.¡± Standing there with one hip on her hand, she got all the sass and vinegar I remember. Circumstances have changed though, because last time I was here, I saw a poor gal caught in troubled times. Now, I ain¡¯t feeling so sympathetic, because far as I can tell, she run this here saloon and thus gave the okay for Noora to take on johns, meaning it takes an effort of will to keep my hand from going for my gun. ¡°You aware you got a minor working on the premises?¡±


    Miss Laura sees the anger in my gaze and gives as good as she gets. ¡°Noora¡¯s sixteen. Got papers to prove it, and I¡¯ll be happy to show the Sheriff if he comes askin¡¯.¡± A pointed look follows, as if she blamin¡¯ me for the towns lack of law enforcement, when those same officials were tormenting the very girl we talking about. ¡°Ridin¡¯ in heavy with the Rangers at your back don¡¯t make you the law.¡± The heat in her tone makes me blink a bit, until I remember she don¡¯t know nothing about the Proggie and its Abby army about to descend on this here town. ¡°Goin¡¯ up into our hills and shuttin¡¯ down our mines like they own the place,¡± miss Laura continues, gettin¡¯ all riled up over what she perceives as a strong-armed threat. ¡°We left the old world long behind us, built all this ourselves, and we don¡¯t want nothin¡¯ to do with no Feds.¡±


    A couple early morning patrons let out a cheer, and it¡¯s hard to hold my tongue and not explain away all her misconceptions. Or pick someone at random and beat them half to death. Can¡¯t be doing that, or talking about no Proggie yet, not before it shows itself, because all it¡¯ll do is cause a panic here in town and bring in mercs and scavs lookin¡¯ to fish in muddy waters. Bad enough having to fight while watching Ron at our backs; would be that much harder with multiple independent outfits looking to capitalize too.


    So I ignore all her rhetoric and circle round back to Noora. ¡°You think its fine for a girl her age to be workin¡¯ here?¡±


    ¡°You certainly seem to think so,¡± miss Laura retorts, eyeing my dishevelled shirt which still ain¡¯t fully tucked in. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t be the first girl her age to turn tricks to survive either.¡± Like that makes it okay, and even though she falters a bit, I¡¯ve already written her off. ¡°We all gotta do what we gotta do,¡± miss Laura continues, more for her own benefit than mine. ¡°Least here, she¡¯s looked after.¡±


    As opposed to outside these doors, in this town she loves so much. Sad really. Woman ain¡¯t worth killin¡¯, but ain¡¯t no savin¡¯ her neither. That¡¯s what I hate most about Ronald Jackson. How he paint himself a saviour when he the source of all their woes. Ain¡¯t no way to convince miss Laura otherwise, as she done and twisted up all the facts to suit her truths. Sure, Noora¡¯s protected here, but she wouldn¡¯t need protecting if it wasn¡¯t for Ron employing men like the Stagecoach Killers. Could point that out for miss Laura to see, but she don¡¯t wanna open her eyes to the truth, and there ain¡¯t nothing I care to do about it.


    Besides kill Ronald Jackson. Won¡¯t solve all the problems plaguing Pleasant Dunes, but I¡¯ll sleep better knowing he dead and sorted. As for the rest? Well, I ain¡¯t ever claimed to be no hero or saviour. I¡¯m just a man with a gun and a yearning to use it.


    ¡°We¡¯ll just have to agree to disagree then,¡± I reply, curtly nodding as I turn away and glare until Tina, Kacey, Errol, and Sarah Jay all get out the way, and having caught the brunt of my rage, they do.


    ¡°You forgettin¡¯ something?¡± Flipping her hand to show what she holding, miss Laura waves a wad of bills in front of me, and I almost say I done already been paid for the mead when the truth hits me like a lightning bolt out of the sky. Reaching into my inner duster pocket, I find my papers all sitting pretty, but none of the cash I was carrying. That¡¯s because it¡¯s all sitting pretty in miss Laura¡¯s hand, picked right out of my damn pockets by Noora at some point during our exchange. ¡°Thank you kindly, miss Laura,¡± I say, taking the cash and hoping she don¡¯t say anything more.


    And she doesn¡¯t, so after I count my money and write off the extra ten Noora pocketed for herself, I head on out onto the porch before remembering why I wanted to see miss Laura in the first place. ¡°Oh, hang on a tick.¡± Heading over to my wagon, I open up the hidden compartment again and pull out a second set of speakers, twin to the ones I already set up on the porch. Carrying them back inside, I hand them over to miss Laura and say, ¡°These are for Mr. Jackson. For his personal use, as an apology for how things shook out last time I was around.¡± Faced with miss Laura¡¯s suspicion, I put on my biggest and brightest smile and say, ¡°Had it made already, so might as well before he takes the ones set up on the porch outside. Even got a crystal there with songs I picked out for him special.¡± Mostly from the Padre, who loves himself his campfire songs. Not church hymns or nothing, but church adjacent music meant to brainwash kids into lovin¡¯ God or whatnot. Well, not really, except sorta yea, which makes it hard to tell the difference between a religion and a cult sometimes.


    Then again, ain¡¯t no Christians feeding the Proggie hiding under Last Chance Lake. You know, besides the Christians them cultists fitted for stone shoes and tossed into the lake to literally feed the Proggie. Still, lot more blurred lines than most care to admit, and folks get real testy when I point ¡®em out.


    Having successfully delivered the speakers, I grab my guns out of the weapons chest, say goodbye to Cowie, and head on back to camp while wracking my brains on what to do next. Got no good solutions besides bringing my concerns to Captain Jung, but she gives me a look and tells me to mind my own business. ¡°Even if the town was under Federal jurisdiction,¡± she begins, her tone hard as steel and cold as ice, ¡°The Rangers cannot act on this in any legal capacity without an official request for assistance from law enforcement.¡± Her expression softens just a tad, as I can tell she don¡¯t like Noora¡¯s circumstances any better than I do. ¡°You did what you could, offered the girl an out, and there¡¯s nothing else to be done for now. Stay on task. Once we¡¯re mission complete, then we can see about setting the locals straight, and not a moment before. We can¡¯t hold the walls without them, so we can¡¯t risk a falling out before the threat becomes clear. Understood?¡±


    ¡°Sir yes sir,¡± I reply, snapping off a salute while sharing a look with the Captain. It¡¯s both respect and a promise, one I¡¯ll hold her to, because if she doesn¡¯t, I¡¯ll take matters into my own hands the second we part ways. Way I see it, Ronald Jackson¡¯s a dead man walking, he just don¡¯t know it yet.


    The day kicks off same as yesterday, with the boots getting put to task digging ditches and setting defenses. Only difference is I spot a Strike Team from Wayne¡¯s Company coming back down the mountains to help pitch in, throwing down explosive Spell Glyphs and mechanical mines along the most probable avenues of attack. Now there¡¯s a Third Order Abjuration Spell I¡¯d love to study, because it¡¯s one of the most interesting Spells around. Takes a long time to cast, as you gotta draw the Glyph out in full, which really makes it an Etch by another name. Will turn invisible once it¡¯s done, and costs a fair bit in materials to make, but you can¡¯t argue against results. Especially when they last as long as Spell Glyph does, a lifetime measured in decades, if not centuries. Apparently, the old world still got a whole mess of them around from the Second World War, as Spell Glyph is a man-made Spell designed to last until the caster willfully dispelled them or they explode, whichever comes first. That¡¯s why it¡¯s a Spell in the Abjuration School of magic, as most of complexity ain¡¯t in the explosion, but the shell holding it all together instead, one that can outlive even its own caster.


    Hence why the Rangers put down signs aplenty to warn people off, but Abby will plough right past them even if they could read. The hob might be smart enough to send in gobbos to clear it, but it¡¯d have to do so using what little language they got, and not all gobbos will be willing to run in and die. World of difference from a Synapse, whose mere presence alone will dominate all nearby Abby and allow the Proggie to directly control them like puppets with little more than a thought. Makes any and all Synapses a priority target, but thankfully, it takes a whole lot of effort to birth one, even more than making new Proggies. Anytime one appears though, you can bet there¡¯ll be a bloodbath. It¡¯s one thing to fight against a wild and barely cohesive mob of Abby, but another thing all together to take on a united and disciplined army.


    Good news is Synapses were rare even in the old world, and we ain¡¯t had a confirmed sighting on the Frontier just yet. Could change soon though. Even as we speak, Madigan Harper is following up on rumours of a Synapse in the Deadlands, and if confirmed, it¡¯ll be a double-whammy of bad news for us all. Orcs and goblins make for pleasant company next to the Soulless Aberrations they got going up there, bunch of parasitical poltergeists hijacking corpses or Proggie-spawned lookalikes that done come out of a nightmare. Like I said before, shooting Abby is easy, but shooting people a whole other kettle of fish, so things get mighty complicated when Abby come around looking like people.


    When it comes time for lunch, I head back to see Cowie and get him some water, while Tina, Kacey, Errol, and Sarah Jay follow me out. Seems the four of them have formed a Strike Team around me without anyone asking, but I ain¡¯t complaining. Makes my job easier, except when it doesn¡¯t, like now as Tina hits me disapproving glower as the girls on the porch hit me with their customary catcalls. ¡°Don¡¯t see why you gotta set your wagon up here,¡± she grumbles. ¡°Would work just fine on the other side of the street, or even down the road by the Sherrif¡¯s office.¡±


    ¡°And leave Cowie without company for the whole entire day?¡± Patting my partner on the flank as he slurps up his water, I smile as he looks up from the bucket to give me a big ol¡¯ grin. He¡¯s gotten real friendly with the gals out on the porch, as evidenced by all the reddish lip marks dotting his face, and he don¡¯t seem too torn up about it. Guess all the gals don¡¯t know the Makeup Cantrip like I thought they did, which makes me think I should¡¯ve added it to the list, but Deodorant alone ought to buy me more goodwill than anything Ronald Jackson¡¯s ever done. That¡¯s how it¡¯d go in a fair and just world at least. Fat chance of that though. ¡°Besides,¡± I say, gesturing at the speakers playing more of Chrissy¡¯s instrumentals, ¡°This where the music is, and you know how much Cowie loves them tunes.¡±


    ¡°Yea, and I¡¯m sure it¡¯s got nothin¡¯ to do with how it gives you good reason to visit.¡± Hitting me with the dirtiest of glares I done ever did see, Tina gives me a withering look that¡¯s got me feeling all sorts of wrong. ¡°Honestly Howie, I expected better from you. Thought you was out here earnin¡¯ a livin¡¯, when instead you goin¡¯ all around like a randy goat. Noora was bad enough, but that miss Laura? She as old as Mama, if not older. For shame!¡±


    It feels like one big joke, but ain¡¯t no one laughing, so I lean in close to Tina and hiss, ¡°You workin¡¯ on a lot of misconceptions missy, so you best get your facts straight before slingin¡¯ all that mud.¡±


    ¡°Alright. So what was all that about earlier, hmm?¡± Affecting mannerism that ain¡¯t at all my own, Tina stands with legs spread, knees bent, shoulders relaxed, and head held high. ¡°Oh, miss Laura,¡± she says, sounding nothing like me at all while throwing in a jar of honey to coat her words. ¡°Good to see you. Was lookin¡¯ for you earlier.¡±


    Got the emphasis on all the wrong syllables she does, casting all sorts of aspersions over my good nature. ¡°To hand over the speakers.¡± Rolling my eyes, I huff in indignation that ain¡¯t at all faked. ¡°I ain¡¯t never had no relations with anyone in this town. Not today, not ever.¡± Just hope she don¡¯t ask about other towns, because I ain¡¯t ready for that conversation.


    Tina don¡¯t believe me, but she don¡¯t say as much, just flares her nostrils and glares extra hard. Looking to the others for support, Errol and Sarah Jay fail me yet again as the former is busy judging while the latter is working hard to hide her laughter, though I¡¯m pretty sure she don¡¯t believe me either. With no other option, I look to Kacey for support, who purses her lips and sighs. ¡°I believe you,¡± she says, to everyone¡¯s surprise including my own. Turning to Tina, she adds, ¡°At the very least, he did not do anything too unseemly today.¡±


    Much as I appreciate the vote of confidence, I gotta wonder why she sounds so sure, until I remember Inari giving me a sniff and how she can share thoughts and senses with Kacey. That¡¯s is just a gross violation of my privacy, not to mention just gross, so while I appreciate the assist, I ain¡¯t sure how to feel about her fox-nosed antics. Catching my perturbed expression, Kacey has the good graces to blush and look away, though she got that set to her jaw that all women get when they feel like they¡¯ve been wronged. Probably thinks she wouldn¡¯t have had to invade my privacy if I didn¡¯t act so suspicious, which somehow means all the blame lies solely at my feet.


    Ain¡¯t no point arguing with women, because even if you in the right, they leave you feeling like you done wronged them for bringing it up.


    A low whir sounds out and sharply rises in pitch as the hand-cranked siren gets up to speed, letting loose with that terrifying, pitchy wail that done haunted many a nightmare. Almost grateful for the interruption, I lead my little Strike Team back to camp where Captain Jung promptly leads us top the northern wall which our camp sits next to. The curvy walls take some navigating to get around on, but we file out into position and take a knee with guns ready and eyes open. Regretting my decision to drop Eagle Eye, Mage Armour, and a few other Spells, I fumble around my pouches in search of the 2.5x optic that goes atop Errol¡¯s El-Minister. Didn¡¯t bother letting him keep it as he has trouble enough hitting things up close, so didn¡¯t see any point in encouraging him to try shooting distant targets. It don¡¯t fit on my Ranger Repeater though, on account of how the carbine got no top rail, since I ain¡¯t never needed one before today.


    Stuff to fix another day, so I¡¯ll just add it to the never-ending list.


    When I finally get the sight in hand, I use it to spot what¡¯s got the guards in the towers all spooked. An approaching Abby horde, bigger than the one lying in wait with the hob, but smaller than the ones the Rangers wrangled the day after. Five, maybe six hundred heads judging by the size of the sand clouds rising in their wake, all chasing after maybe four or five dozen riders making a beeline for the town. Always takes some adjusting to remember not everyone is as capable as the Rangers, which is why them riders are running instead of fighting. When it comes to gobbos hordes, ten-to-one ain¡¯t bad odds all things considered, especially if you got semi-automatics, though again, I might be setting my standards too high when it comes to the locals here in the Coral Desert.


    With nothing to do but wait, I look around at the boots to make sure no one¡¯s making any big mistakes. We got a good section all to ourselves, with two forward positions and three rear, on account of how the walls curve and twist. Me, Tina, Errol, Kacey, and Sarah Jay occupy one forward position, while Michael¡¯s Strike Team takes the other. Only one I recognize is Gabrielle, the only other female boot around who is a wispy breeze of a girlie, but they seem like a solid and dependable bunch. As for the boots behind us, I can only pray they keep their guns pointed forward, because friendly fire ain¡¯t all that friendly.


    Let¡¯s see. Tina got her Strelky up and ready, while Kacey got her bow in hand. Both got the feel of a readied Spell. Guessing Bless and Hail of Projectiles respectively, though I don¡¯t know enough about Kacey¡¯s repertoire to really guess anything else. Sarah Jay¡¯s setting up socks filled with sand to brace her 3-Line against, while Errol is busy fiddling with his new ear plugs. Me, I got my carbine in hand, the Whumper leaning against the battlements in front of me, and my Mage Hands ready to help with reloads. Looks like everyone¡¯s ready as they¡¯ll ever be. ¡°Tall walls and open sands,¡± I say, raising my voice to be heard by all of the boots. ¡°Be like a day at the range.¡± I get a few laughs for my efforts, and I leave it be. It wasn¡¯t my best joke, but nerves¡¯ll make anything sound funny, so I offer them one last piece of advice before the shooting starts. ¡°Slow is smooth and smooth is fast,¡± I say, trying my damnedest not to look directly at Errol as I do. ¡°Pick your shots like you got all the time in the world, because we got plenty to spare.¡±


    Them riders out on the sand, not so much, but if they ridin¡¯ over on Ron¡¯s say so, then can¡¯t say I¡¯m too enthused to save ¡®em.


    The sharpshooters up in the towers start rattlin¡¯ off shots, and I see Sarah Jay is eager to chime in, but I shake my head and wait on Ava to make the call. The townies were too eager, and now Abby are going all out to catch the riders before they get within range of the walls. The Bolts fly out from the Aberration ranks, the displacement of air only barely visible from this distance, but still significant enough to represent a good number of Spellslinging hostiles. Granted, Bolt is one of the easier Spells for Abby to learn, but that don¡¯t mean it¡¯s the only one they got.


    My concerns prove justified soon enough as the riders break off into two groups. Both headed in the same direction mind you, just at different speeds, as a good back third of the riders start moving like they swimming through molasses. Don¡¯t take more than two seconds for Abby to catch up, and the poor bastards can¡¯t even turn and fight, caught in the throes of the Slow Spell like they are. A couple boots throw up on the spot, but I don¡¯t pay them any mind, allowing them what little privacy I can while we all stare death in the face. Even though I look down on their skills, we might well have shared the same fate as those riders down there if we¡¯d walked into an ambush ourselves, which is what I can only assume happened here. Difficult as it is to stand and watch as ten to twenty men and their horses are torn apart, there ain¡¯t nothing we can do to help, so I set myself to searching the crowd for the hobgoblin I know is lurking within the horde.


    Don¡¯t spot it just yet, but its days are numbered too, it and Ronald Jackson both. Might not be today, might not be tomorrow, but soon enough, I reckon. Soon enough.

 Chapter 39

    Back in Meadowbrook, I told my prospects there ain¡¯t much to learn fighting from a static position, but I gotta admit¡­ I might¡¯ve missed the mark on that one.


    It¡¯s those high expectations of mine, even though I don¡¯t think I¡¯m asking for all that much. Some things seem obvious is all, like waiting for your target to get into effective range of your gun before pulling the trigger. No sense shooting when you hardly got any chance to hit right? A waste of ammo is what that is, except somehow, them townies manning the gatlings have yet to learn that particular lesson. The heavy, multi-barrelled weapons open fire while the horde is still about a kilometre away, and though the sharp, acrid smell of burnt sulphur and metallic tang of spent Aether is always a welcome scent, it hurts to watch the big guns take action and deliver such horrendous results.


    Makes for a right frightful symphony of rapid-fire munitions as the air thickens from a whole mess of Bolts, all shooting out from the bunkers beneath us and across the desert flats to miss ninety nine percent of their shots. Hardly surprising given the range, as Sarah Jay would find it challenging to hit every shot from so far away, and that¡¯s with a hand-crafted 3-Line produced by Armand Kalthoff. Them gatlings fall short in every metric besides rate of fire, or so I thought, until I cotton onto the irregular rhythm of their shots. A steady flow of rat-tat-tats which ought to be music to my ears, the symphony is spoiled by far too many missing note. Every so often, the cycling barrels skip a shot or two, meaning the gunners are cranking the weapon faster than the multiple Cores can dissipate and Prime. Ten barrels means ten Cores, so even without Metamagics, you could shoot twice a second without interruption, putting it on par with the 3-Line.


    So if they¡¯re cycling faster than the Cores can handle, that tells me them gatlings are Etched with Prime and Efficient Metamagics, but not Quicken. Interesting to note, but nothing too out of the ordinary, as Quicken Metamagic Etchings are a military secret, one you ain¡¯t allowed to learn or teach without repercussion. Even without Quicken, those Bolt Cores are capable of firing once per second, giving the gatlings a base rate of ten Bolts a second which ain¡¯t nothing to sneeze at, but even then, the barrels are turning too fast for the Core to keep up. That¡¯s the important takeaway, the fact that them gunners ain¡¯t paying no mind to how fast they turn them cranks. They should, because if a Core cycles too quickly and tries to fire a Bolt Core before it¡¯s Primed, then it¡¯ll hold onto its Aether charge without firing. Then the barrel turns, the spent casing ejects, and a new cartridge is put in place to prime the Core, which then gets overcharged with twice as much Aether as it needs. Puts stress on the Core and risks cracking it, but even if it don¡¯t explode, that excess energy is vented as heat, which is doubly bad considering how them gatlings already got problems keeping cool. The fix is easy too, a steady hand at the gun, or better yet, a simple mechanical friction brake that engages when you turn too quick, like what you¡¯d put on a railway cart which I gotta assume they have up in them mines.


    Sad really. If you gonna go to all that effort to put together a working gatling, you¡¯d think you¡¯d want to spend a little more effort optimizing it as best you can. Then again, gatlings are pretty much obsolete tech these days, and they look a whole lot less impressive when you realize all the materials and resources used in their production were likely gathered and paid for by slave labour, or the next best thing to it.


    The more I watch the gatlings at work, the more issues I find in their craftsmanship. Long range ain¡¯t the only reason them weapons are missing their marks. Poor tolerances in the fittings has barrels rattling about as they shoot, while unoptimized harmonics result in oscillation of the Bolt as it comes out the barrel, so the Bolts got a spray pattern similar to a Blast Spell while only firing one projectile at a time. Stamped Etchings also contribute to the sub-optimal craftsmanship, though to be fair, there¡¯s no way around it when you move up into mass production. Even the best craftsman around can only Etch so many barrels in a day, and considering how each gatling has ten barrels, you can hardly expect one man to Etch them all without turning simple.


    That¡¯s another reason why I could never Etch full time. Too scared of the consequences of pushing too hard. I¡¯d rather be buried six feet under than rendered into a simpleton who needs help wiping my own ass, and you can take that to the bank.


    Still can¡¯t believe how poorly trained the gunners are, just cranking away without a care in the world for ammo, heat, or accuracy. It¡¯s like the only thing they know about shooting is getting the gun pointed in the right general direction, and even there they fail the mark as they pivot them gatlings from side to side, like they were taught wrong as a joke and no one clued them in. Even with five gatlings sounding off, they¡¯re doing jack all besides wasting a fortune in brass and Aether, while the shooters in the towers are only doing slightly better. Given the volume of fire being laid down, you¡¯d think the Abby horde would be cut down in a matter of seconds, but they still coming on strong and proving a threat to the riders out on the sand. Fact is, I¡¯m more surprised no one¡¯s been hit by friendly fire just yet, because far as I can tell, the gatling gunners got about an equal chance of hitting human or Abby at this range.


    They got good distance, I¡¯ll give ¡®em that, and when the Bolts do connect, they leave a mark. Not enough of one though, because as the horde draws closer, I note that it¡¯s mostly gobbo corpses being left in their wake, while the orcs and bugbears press forward through the hail of Bolts without slowing. So no Maximize for sure, but that¡¯s another military secret, except now I¡¯m thinking them gatlings ain¡¯t even Empowered. Don¡¯t get me wrong, the Bolts they spit out are still breaking bones and pulping flesh, but it takes a whole lot more to put Abby down and out for the count, as Errol learned firsthand after our gobbo dust-up in the desert. Abby don¡¯t feel pain the way we do, as it¡¯s more of a suggestion than a debilitating effect, which is why they can still push on even after taking grievous bodily injury. Can recover right quick too; I seen one orc with all its limbs chopped off and body nailed to the side of a tree, and it was as lively as the ones out there sprinting across the sands. Heard it later ripped itself off the tree and crawled around on four stumps to kill a man who¡¯d gotten drunk and fallen asleep nearby. Bit right through his throat it did, and ate a good third of the corpse before someone stumbled across that nightmare and put it down for good.


    My daddy said that wouldn¡¯t end well the second he clocked it, but didn¡¯t no one listen. That¡¯s why he always said ignorance can be fixed, but there ain¡¯t no cure for stupid. Wouldn¡¯t be a problem if stupid weeded themselves out, but I¡¯ve found the stupid also tend to be lucky, and usually it¡¯s the smart people around them paying the price for their idiocy. Like the poor sap who got ate up by that armless, legless orc. He wasn¡¯t the one who nailed it to the tree, but he paid for it all the same. My daddy had another saying for that too; fear not God-like enemies, but pig-like teammates. We seeing that in action right here, because if them shooters in the towers hadn¡¯t opened up so early, then the hobgoblin hiding amidst the horde might not have gotten desperate enough to waste a Third Order Slow so soon.


    ¡°I got range!¡± Shouting to be heard over the gatling fire, Sarah Jay stares down into her scope at the approaching Abby horde, zeroed in for five-hundred metres and ready to rock. Eager for the kill she is, but can¡¯t have her picking up bad habits from the townies, so I keep mum until she looks over to see what¡¯s what. Rather than shout or Spell to be heard over the din, I simply shake my head and gesture for her to wait. Aside from the shooters up in the towers, she¡¯s likely the only one of the boots with range. Not saying the rest of us would miss, but with the Strelky, asking for good shots past three-hundred metres is sure to disappoint, and you really don¡¯t want to try for anything past two. Even though Sarah Jay can hit her targets, we want to maximize our opening salvo to put as many Abby down as we can all at once. That¡¯s the alpha strike, because if a couple of us open up and kill four or five targets a piece, then the rest of the horde might think to spread out, take cover, or even break and run before coming into range of the rest.


    Could also do any number of other things, as gobbos can be mighty tricksy. All Abby got that animal cunning, but this particular strain of greenies are downright crafty.


    ¡°Ready Weapons!¡±


    At the sound of Captain Jung¡¯s booming order, I make a note to explain all of this after the fight. Taking a beat to get my brain into gear, I raise my carbine to my shoulder and pick my target out in the crowd. Aim small, miss small, so I get the iron sight pointed right between a bugbear¡¯s eyes. My new Spell loadout leaves much to be desired, as it¡¯s tailored for Scouting and delving, not massed fights, and the lack of Eagle Eye irks me something fierce, but ain¡¯t nothing I can do about it in the here and now. Don¡¯t slow me down none when Captain Jung gives the order to go weapons free neither, as my first shot blows my target¡¯s head clean off and drops the bugbear dead. Head, heart, and spine, those are the sweet spots to shoot, but my trusty Ranger Repeater don¡¯t got enough kick to guarantee a one-shot kill on those last two. Not against orcs at least, and certainly not bugbears, as I discover to my chagrin when my next target eats a Bolt to the chin and keeps right on running sans mouth. The thunderous clamour of the Strelkies makes a big dent in the Abby numbers though, as the gun hits slightly harder than mine and shoots faster too. Less accurate, but at closer ranges with no lack of targets to pick, the difference ain¡¯t all that big, especially when the combination of Intensify, Maximize, and Penetrate Metamagics enables their Bolts to blow clean through a bugbear¡¯s thick chest cavity and break hearts and spines alike.


    Five rounds in the tube and one in the chamber go right quick, so I stop to reload my repeater and assess our situation. The gatlings are still rat-tat-tatting away at full force, and doing a much better job now that Abby is close, but the guns won¡¯t last long under all this stress. A quick peek over the side shows a multi-barreled nose poking out from its firing port, one that¡¯s glowing red hot from sustained, uninterrupted use. Even if they don¡¯t gotta stop to cool soon, the front of their firing ports are covered in a haze of thick, black smoke, showing to the poor quality of their primer. Makes it right hard to see your targets it does, which don¡¯t dampen their enthusiasm none, only lessens their effectiveness as they fire blind out into the sands. The townies on the wall lend their efforts to the fray too, plinking away with their rifles while hooting and hollering in a variety of languages, and only then do I notice that not all of ¡®em are carrying Snapdragons like I clocked on Carl and his boys. Rather than the semi-decent bolt-action offering, most townies got themselves a genuine rolling block rifle from the looks of things. A single-shot, rear-loaded Aetherarm where you gotta manually remove your spent casing and reload after every shot, it¡¯s a strong, simple, and reliable weapon that shoots with a nice, satisfying pop.


    That there is a piece of Frontier history, tech that went obsolete within a year or two after the Advent. Only slightly ahead of the breech loaded rifle my mama made, the one I got hanging on my wall back home, but still impressive all the same. A properly made and maintained rolling block rifle can cycle thousands of shots and last a lifetime, which is why I¡¯m tempted to buy one just to add to my collection. Might not be the best anti-Abby weapons around, but it¡¯ll do for hunting, as they tend to be accurate as all heck. Not a lot of moving parts is why, so less chance of messing up, which helps paint a better picture of Pleasant Dune¡¯s mysterious and prolific gunsmith.


    After another six shots and a reload, I grab a blade of grass from my component¡¯s pouch and toss out an Entangle to slow the horde¡¯s approach, catching a good chunk of them in the spiralling white growth while the rest run on by. Lacking a Metamagic tool of her own, Sarah Jay¡¯s Entangle comes a little later once Abby get in her range. No one else throws one out through, and only then do I notice the lack of Spells coming from the handful of Rangers we got with us, but I can only assume Captain Jung has got good reason for doing so. The townies got a few Spells of their own, but nothing game changing. A couple Elemental Orbs, Catapulted stones, homing Magic Missiles, and the like, though I suppose there could be Spells I can¡¯t see, like Bane, Bless, Fear, and what not.


    Then the Abby horde passes the clear and visible signs and the first explosive Spell Glyph goes off with a boom, making all that ditch-digging well worthwhile.


    A cheer goes up amongst the townies, and a couple boots chime in, but it takes more than a few explosions to take the fight out of Abby. Sand and gore spray out as the mines go off, but the horde presses onwards without any care for their casualties. Doesn¡¯t help that the Rangers haven¡¯t put down all that many Spell Glyphs, making this less of a minefield and more of a hopscotch


    Whatever the case, our guns and Spells ain¡¯t enough to keep Abby from knocking at the gates, or they would be if there were a gate on this side of the town. Instead, they tear into the solid stone walls and leave gouges behind with their bare claws. Seeing this target rich environment, I switch over to the Model 10 for some live target practice, and love how the compact weapon comes alive in my hand. Got a lot of kick for a gun so small, and the big, metallic bangs put a genuine smile on my face as the recoil courses up my arm and deep into my chest. Eager to shoot at the Abby directly below us, Errol grabs his Whumper and stands up to lean over the battlements, but I was half expecting Tina to try the same, so I pull him back right quick and shake my head while gesturing for him to keep low and in cover. Leaning out might give him a good angle on Abby under us, but it¡¯d also make him a prime target for the others still streaming in, and he catches on to his mistake mere moments after I stop him from making it.


    Don¡¯t earn me any gratitude though, just a scowl and a sigh. Directed inwards at himself, but still. A nod, a smile, even a fake grimace is enough to show a bit of appreciation, and I gotta say his attitude is starting to wear mighty thin. Like I told Tina, it ain¡¯t like I want him grovelling or nothing, but a straightforward ¡®thanks¡¯ every now and then would go a long way seeing how I¡¯m out here busting my hump to keep him breathing.


    Must be an American thing, one I¡¯ve only just noticed these last few years. The M¨¦tis, now there¡¯s a polite bunch, though they say sorry a fair bit more than I¡¯m used to¡­


    Passing off the spent Model 10 to a Mage Hand for reloading, I accept the Rattlesnake from the other Mage Hand while wishing they were stronger and more durable. Then I could send them out with my Doorknockers to shoot straight down at Abby, just like Errol wanted to do, except I¡¯d be doing it safely. Problem is, the recoil from those pint-sized Blastguns is powerful enough to make my Mage Hands come apart at the seams. The ectoplasm holding the hands together is too flimsy and insubstantial to sustain a shock like that, which results in my Doorknockers clattering to ground after every shot. That¡¯s why I gotta use both barrels whenever I use the Mage Hands to fire, because I¡¯d rather not risk a slam fire when the dubsie hits the ground. Here and now, dropping a weapon in the sand would only lead to every goblin, orc, and bugbear stomping all over it, and I ain¡¯t ready to replace my pretty dubsies just yet.


    It''s a shame really. I¡¯ve made great strides with the Mage Hand Cantrip since I first learned it at the tender age of eleven. Barely even have to think about them as I reload anymore, and don¡¯t have to look, as I got real good at reloading by ¡®feel¡¯, so I suppose I shouldn¡¯t complain. Let¡¯s me shoot and swap to deliver a constant stream of Bolts at Abby down below, while their return fire is sparse, sporadic, and largely ineffective. Given our elevated position and abundance of cover, the chances of getting tagged by Abby Bolts are slim to none so long as you keep your head down and move around every now and then. Simple is as simple does, but I spot a couple townies getting shot down from the walls, most while standing straight up or leaning out of cover to shoot down at Abby like I stopped Errol from doing earlier.


    Dumb way to die, but there are thousands of those, and the more I see of the Frontier, the more I wonder what¡¯s the point of school if they don¡¯t teach you how to survive? A little critical thinking goes a long way, like ¡®If I do this, what are the chances I get got?¡¯. If the answer is ¡®pretty good¡¯, then maybe don¡¯t do it, yea? Amazing how most folks can¡¯t even manage that much considering they an educated bunch, which has me thinking common sense ain¡¯t all that common. No point laying blame at anyone¡¯s feet though, so I avert my eyes from the most egregious cases of stupidity and put a hand to my chest. Invoking the bible stuffed in my armoured plate carrier, I offer a quiet prayer to those poor, dumb souls and hope that they find safety and solace in the Kingdom of Heaven.


    Hard to truly believe in an all-knowing and all-powerful God when presented with his flawed creations, but a good gambler always hedges his bets.


    Two minutes of fighting. That¡¯s how long this little scuffle has lasted so far, and already the gatlings have fallen silent. Not just one or two, but every last one of them, and the silence is almost as deafening as the din. Could be they all ran out of ammo and need reloading, or could be their barrels all overheated. My guess is that Abby got in too close and now them gunners have switched to their sidearms, plinking away with the TEC-LS¡¯s so many of them got. The sound reminds me all too well of my scuffle in the Sherrif¡¯s office, but it¡¯s a series of booming, rapid fire thwip-thwip-thwips that got me all heated and shook. The distinctive call of the Mao He Pao, one that got me ready to turn on the townies, but I squash the fires of rage down flat before they can take hold. Ain¡¯t no Qin Vanguard around, else I¡¯d have clocked them the last time I was in town, but my mind gets to racing about the possibilities. A semi-automatic pistol chambered for 9mm and the easiest semi-automatic Aetherarm to craft, the sidearm is a Qin favourite on the Frontier because it fits the Republic¡¯s mindset to a tee. Quantity over quality, as the Mao He Pao, or the Mao Box Cannon, is a square framed, broom-handled, misshapen miscreation of an Aetherarm, one that don¡¯t do nothing good, only fast and furious. Comes standard with a 10-round magazine which it can empty in three second flat, but even with Precise and Stable Metamagics to help with accuracy and recoil, you¡¯d have trouble hitting the broad side of a barn from twenty metres away. Even if you do connect, you won¡¯t do much damage, because the gun don¡¯t hit any harder than base, making it a real peashooter of a pistol that¡¯s most consider a waste of steel, brass, and Aether.


    But it¡¯s cheap and easy to make, and it¡¯ll put a lot of Bolts downrange right quick. Accuracy ain¡¯t as much of an issue when you point blank, and even a base Bolt Cantrip can kill an orc if you hit it enough times centre mass.


    More to the point is how the presence of the weapon adds to my working theory about Pleasant Dune¡¯s gunsmith, which got me real curious to meet him. Never made sense before, why Ron was so eager to source something more ¡®robust¡¯ in terms of Aetherarms, because he clearly had a competent source. Now though, now I ain¡¯t so sure, because even if every weapon in Pleasant Dunes short of the Mao He Pao has got Penetrate Metamagics to help punch through armour, the guns all hit like wet noodles compared to proper Aetherarm like my Model 10. It¡¯s not just the lack of the Maximize Metamagic, but also the fact that Ron¡¯s gunsmith clearly doesn¡¯t know how to Etch Intensify and Empower onto the same weapon. Thems the bread and butter of Metamagics for hitting harder, except it ain¡¯t a simple matter of knowing the Etches. Those two Metamagics won¡¯t work together unless you Etch them special. Has to do with Aetheric dynamics and how those two Metamagics function. They improve the Spell by ¡®elevating¡¯ it, like taking a single step up a stair case, but when Etched in sequence, all they do is make the Spell take the same step up twice, which tends to result in things getting hot and explosive. Instead, you gotta Etch them so they work in tandem and take two steps up in one go, which is a tricky bit of work that ain¡¯t so obvious at a glance.


    None of which is all that important, except it all comes together to tell me one very important fact. Ron¡¯s gunsmith don¡¯t got a proper education. Might well have learned after coming to the Frontier, or maybe they was self-taught, but either way, that makes this gunsmith a diamond in the rough. Said it before, but with enough time and effort, anyone can follow a blueprint to build an Aetherarm, as all the materials, dimensions, and Etches are laid out for you. No thinking required, and you can even use a stencil to help with the Etch. Ain¡¯t optimal, but it¡¯s possible, and massed manufacturing relies on it. Thing is, Mr. Kalthoff is the number one Gunsmith this side of the Divide because he understands the Etches and materials enough to make his own working blueprints, and judging by the state of Aetherarms available to Pleasant Dunes, I suspect their mysterious Gunsmith is capable of the same. The rolling block rifles, the Snapdragons, the TEC-LS¡¯s, the Mao He Pao, those are all staple blueprints that are quick and easy to make with fairly basic tools. Ain¡¯t nothing too interesting about them guns individually, but put ¡®em together and you got all the bits and bobs needed to put together a junky, third-rate gatling like what they got downstairs.


    And if that junk was put together using a custom-made schematic developed by a Gunsmith who ain¡¯t never been to school? Genius don¡¯t even begin to cover the type of intellect needed to accomplish that. A hot commodity is what he or she is, one too good for the likes of Ronald Jackson, so I start putting together a plan to steal whoever it is away with help from the Rangers.


    So distracted by my nefarious schemes, I¡¯m slow to pick up on latest development in the battle we fighting. Thankfully, orcs and bugbears are cunning, but not all that bright as the first one to pop his head over the lip of the wall lets loose with a bellowing roar, one I cut short with a Bolt to the dome. Six metres of flat, solid, vertical wall and Abby still climbs it right quick, so I step to clean-up and the battlements Abby free. Take a few potshots at the Abby climbing up the sides of Michael¡¯s fighting position, but he¡¯s a calm and collected soldier who sorts his people out quick. Over on my side, I ain¡¯t sure Tina, Errol, and Sarah Jay have even noticed, as they all tunnel visioned in on the fight in front, but Kacey makes up for it and then some. Makes for a right impressive sight, her loosing an arrow out into the sands before whipping one of her swords out to slash a climbing bugbear in the face. That ain¡¯t enough to kill or stop it, only annoy it some, but I sense the energies enveloping the bugbear as it pulls itself the rest of the way up. A roaring boom echoes out as the energies erupt in a condensed implosion, one focused sole on the bugbear and nothing else. The thick, muscled Aberration compresses beneath the weight of the Booming Blade Cantrip, its skull pulping into a mash where the energies were strongest and sending its headless corpse hurtling back into the sands, while I watch in awe and reconsider my stance on melee combat.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    That was an impressive kill, no two ways about it, and you always get extra points for style.


    Thoroughly enjoying myself now that there¡¯s something new and interesting to study, I let out a whoop and a cheer as I get back to killing Abby. Don¡¯t take much longer before they lose their stomach for the fight, and unlike with people, there¡¯s nothing in the Accords or Geneva Conventions that says you can¡¯t shoot fleeing Abby in the back. Once the sands are clear of moving Abby, I pat a few backs and shoot a few smiles to congratulate everyone on a wall well defended, even if it don¡¯t get simpler than that. Then it¡¯s time to clean up, so I follow Captain Jung and the other Rangers down to grab our gear and gather round for a chat before we head out.


    The Captain hits the usual notes, commending boots who done well and pointing out a few errors we could all learn from. Even covers the bits about keeping your head low and the alpha strike that I was gonna go over with Errol and Sarah Jay, and it irks me to see the former give the Captain a nod of acknowledgement when I know he¡¯d have gotten all pouty lipped with me. No sense hashing it out though, so I sit quiet and listen as Captain Jung looks us over and asks, ¡°Now who knows our standard R.O.E when it comes to civilians, independent or otherwise?¡±


    Military loves them their three letter abbreviations, or T.L.A¡¯s as they¡¯re jokingly known. R.O.E being Rules of Engagement, but I keep mum until the Captain looks at me in tacit permission to speak. ¡°Do not engage unless engaged upon,¡± I say, which sums it all up nicely. There¡¯s more to it, but that¡¯s a whole lecture in and of itself, so Captain Jung nods and goes over a few finer points, like mirror actions and whatnot. Means among other things, anything they do first, we can follow suit. If them townies got guns readied, we should too. If they take aim, we follow suit. If they take a swing, we get to punch back, but no more, no less.


    Soldiers got it rough. As a civilian, I¡¯m allowed to start Blasting the moment someone points an Aetherarm in my general direction, which is so much better. Not entirely sure why Captain Jung is going over all this right now though, or why she giving me the stink eye to make sure I¡¯m paying attention, but it soon becomes clear as we head over to the front gates where the beleaguered riders are still filtering into town.


    ¡°What the fuck is this?¡±


    Stomping over like he on the warpath, a scruffy, sun-baked giant of a man brings his whole posse over to stand in our way, and I christen him Sasquatch on account of all his body hair. Got a cotton plaid shirt with the arms ripped off, same as Jumbo and Vicente, and a bonded-leather vest with more patches sewn into it than the decorative cushions on Aunty Ray¡¯s couch. Most prominent is the stylized V.G for Vanguard National that most them riders got, with the V being made of two lightning bolts and the G all covered in flames. A bit much if you ask me, especially since they have a bunch of other patches that got ¡®Vanguard National¡¯ all spelled out, as if worried we won¡¯t put two and two together to figure out whose leg they clinging to.


    Sasquatch ain¡¯t none too bright neither, as he gets right into Captain Jung¡¯s face while cracking his big, hairy knuckles. The rest of us bristle to see it, and she holds a hand out to keep us from stepping up. Pleases me to see the boots go weapons ready, as it¡¯s only fair seeing how the rest of the posse here got their weapons in hand. As for me, I got my Model 10 in hand quick as a blink as I quietly ready a Spell behind my back. Wish I still had my Big Spell, because it¡¯d take care of this problem right quick, but I suppose I¡¯ll settle for second best.


    Looming over her stocky, five-foot-six frame, Sasquatch looks down at Captain Jung with her manly bob-cut hair under a Ranger-issue army cap and don¡¯t seem much impressed. ¡°Typical fucking Feds,¡± he growls, spitting a wad of phlegm into the sand much too close to the Captain¡¯s feet. ¡°Slow to fight and quick to profit off the blood and sweat of the working man.¡±


    Typically, this is where I¡¯d say something like how not a one of them looked like they ever worked an honest day in their lives, or how I¡¯ll be sure to shoot faster the next time around. This ain¡¯t my dog and pony show though. This stage is for Captain Ava Jung to shine, which she does in her icy, matter-of-fact way. ¡°Move,¡± she says, her tone commanding without spilling over into overbearing. ¡°Or be moved. Your choice, Sasquatch.¡±


    Ha. Damn me if I don¡¯t regret getting to know her sooner. No explanations, no bargaining, no reassurances or condolences. Just straight to the point, no fuss, no muss.


    Getting all red in his leathery face, Sasquatch goes all bug-eyed as he points out the gate, even though the battle was fought behind where I stand. ¡°It¡¯s Vanguard National blood out on those sands,¡± he bellows, ¡°So those Aberration corpses are Vanguard National¡¯s to collect. Fuck off back to your camp with your snot-nosed brats and stay there before I put you in your place, bitch.¡±


    Captain Jung don¡¯t say nothing, don¡¯t make no threats or brandish no weapons. Don¡¯t even make a show of it neither as she explodes into action and drives her forehead into Sasquatches face and sends a jolt of Electric energy coursing through him. Ain¡¯t never seen someone deliver a Shocking Grasp Cantrip with a headbutt, and for the third time in two days, I¡¯m rethinking my stance on melee scuffles. The man¡¯s blooded face flings back as his body convulse in place before dropping to the sand like a sack of potates, and you can hear a pin drop in the silent aftermath. The posse who done rode up are too shocked to even raise their weapons, which is good because I might well have opened up and called it nerves just to spit in Ron¡¯s eye. All them ¡®biker¡¯ outlaws can do is watch while Captain Jung slowly and deliberately draws her sidearm, a big and shiny Sturm and Kitiara Longsword that glitters in the midday sun, the bigger, badder, double-action cousin to the piddly Squires issued to the boots. Tapping out a slow and steady rhythm against her leg, she gives the crowd a good long once over as a half-dozen fist-sized flaming mini-meteors materialize in orbit around her head, the Iron Maiden¡¯s fiery crown just waiting on her word to deal death to her foes.


    ¡°Move, or be moved,¡± she says, with the same slow and steady delivery as before, and I almost hope they¡¯re dumb enough to try her. Still, the supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting, or so my daddy used to say, so I support the good Captain by having my Mage Hands bring the Doorknockers out from behind my back. Still pointed at the ground, but two double-barrelled Blastguns floating front and centre makes for a mighty impressive sight. It¡¯s one thing to see a man with a gun, as most understand what they can and can¡¯t do, or at least, they think they understand. Spectral blue Mage Hands though? They don¡¯t know how fast they can fly or how quick they can shoot, and like Uncle Teddy said, most fear the unknown.


    Give ¡®em a big, toothy smile while I¡¯m at it too, because for some reason, folks find that unsettling when tensions are high. Don¡¯t even have to fake it either, as my spirits are bright and mood upbeat after a good, clean fight.


    Bereft of their Sasquatch leader, the rest of Vanguard National mulls about long enough for Vicente to arrive and shoo them away, saying how Se?or Jackson worked out a deal to split the proceeds and don¡¯t want no one making trouble. Interesting to note that even though Vicente seem to run things round town when Ron ain¡¯t around, them Vanguard National ¡®bikers¡¯ don¡¯t seem none too pleased about taking orders from him. Makes me think Ron likes to keep his town and his motor club separate. Suppose it wouldn¡¯t do to have his cronies getting fat and lazy around town while the miners work twelve hour shifts down in the shaft, only to come home and sleep on the sand beneath the open skies. Maybe them ¡®bikers¡¯ got a hideout nearby, one comfier than the spartan furnishings they got here in Pleasant Dunes, or maybe there¡¯s another town under Ron¡¯s thumb, one that needs his heavies there to keep the peace. Who knows. Either way, the posse parts ways and leave us free and clear to head out and collect our spoils, which has got the townies feeling sour as can be. That¡¯s the price of Ranger protection though, so even though them townies and ¡®bikers¡¯ ain¡¯t none to pleased to have us here, they¡¯ll be singing a whole different tune once the Proggie¡¯s army arrives to lay siege to Pleasant Dunes.


    Over the course of the afternoon, we collect and cook the Abby horde without interruption, and I avoid identifying at any Spell Cores fished out of their pressure pots. No sense tormenting myself by wondering what if, so I keep my head down and haul for all I¡¯m worth. During the downtime, I find a moment to share my thoughts on the gunmaker with Captain Jung, who gets a gleam in her eye after I¡¯ve laid out all the facts. Competent gunsmiths are a rare breed out here on the Frontier, and Mr. Kalthoff is always complaining about lack of talented assistance, so with a little luck, the Rangers might well profit more than expected from this trip out to the desert. Unfortunately, the folks sent in to look at the gatlings are clearly techs rather than full blown Artificers, as in they can do the work needed to replace barrels and maintain the weapons, but don¡¯t seem competent enough to have built and Etched the guns from scratch, much less design them.


    Guess Ron knows how valuable his gunsmith really is and keeps them hidden, though that shouldn¡¯t come as a surprise. Said he was scary smart and he¡¯s proven it time and time again, which is why I¡¯m feeling mighty concerned about how I still haven¡¯t figured out his game. He wanted me to bring word of the Proggie back to the Rangers, then cut a deal for protection, but Marcus never did say what the terms of the deal was, and I ain¡¯t so sure Ron intends to pay up. Given a choice, I¡¯d sooner put Pleasant Dunes in my six and head home with Tina, alongside anyone else who care to join us, but it don¡¯t feel right leaving the Rangers and boots in the lurch after coming all this way. The townies could use the help too, but I can¡¯t bring myself to care too much about them, since they all willing to turn a blind eye to Noora¡¯s circumstances alongside the exploitation of other children in town.


    Shows in how quick my candies disappear, as the jar is empty by the time dinner rolls around and I check in on Cowie once again. While he slurps down his water, I turn off the Silent Image Spell Core and decide there ain¡¯t no point showing it off for a third day. Instead, I take a good long look at the townies hanging about and note the plethora of younger faces I missed seeing the last time I was in town. While the Accords say 16 is old enough to work, fight, and fuck, ain¡¯t a single one of these kids looking even remotely close to sixteen, but they was down in them mines all the same. In the faces and bodies at least, as they a scrawny bunch, all gangly and awkward cause they ain¡¯t used to their size just yet, but lacking the energy, vitality, and curiosity so common in youths. Instead, they all sitting or standing around like they got nothing better to do, without a single smile to share amongst the lot of them. They got that dour, cheerless look, their cheeks slack and eyes distant as they idle their time away, unsure of what else to do because they¡¯ve forgotten how to play.


    Yea, any sympathy I had for the townies of Pleasant Dunes went the way of the dodo the second I spotted Noora coming down those stairs, and the faces of these cheerless kids just seals the deal. Don¡¯t matter if them older folks were pressured into it, or if they were too scared to speak out against Ron. Ain¡¯t no excuse for it, not anymore. Anyone content with the way things are is complicit in his crimes, and that there is a fact. While that ain¡¯t enough to earn everyone a trip to the gallows, I sure as shooting ain¡¯t gonna risk my neck to save a bunch of lily-livered company patsies who think there ain¡¯t nothing wrong with sending kids working in mines and brothels both. That right there is a betrayal of the most basic social contract there is. The old look after the young. That¡¯s how it should be, so it burns me up to see these kids betrayed and exploited by the very people who were supposed to protect them.


    Which is why I bite the bullet and risk incurring Tina¡¯s ire to ask Captain Jung if I can snag a meal in the saloon. ¡°They make a mean plate of steak and potates,¡± I say, ignoring my sorta-sister¡¯s suspicious glower. ¡°And I could settle in and make nice with the locals too. You know, park myself somewhere visible and familiarize myself with the crowd.¡±


    Giving me a look that says she knows exactly what I¡¯m up to, Captain Jung takes a beat to mull things over. ¡°Okay,¡± she says, checking her sidearm out of habit before waving one of her Rangers over. ¡°Wait two and we¡¯ll head out together.¡±


    The answer throws me for a loop, and leaves me scrambling for an excuse. While I might harbour a newfangled admiration for the woman, the thought of having a meal alone with Captain Ava Jung scares me something fierce. To that end, I quickly invite Tina, Kacey, Errol, and Sarah Jay along for the ride, and might well have called for more if I thought it would help. ¡°You drink?¡± I ask, after climbing into the back of my wagon to access the hidden compartment again. When Captain Jung replies in the affirmative, I grab four bottles of mead and hand one over to her before leading the way back to the saloon. The first floor is sparse and grimy as usual, but there¡¯re enough sad sacks working away at their drinks to make finding three square tables and six chairs a challenge. Luckily, I came prepared, so I swagger on over to the left side of the saloon and tap a bottle of mead on a table while addressing the solitary fella sitting there. ¡°Trade you for the table?¡± I ask, and his eyes don¡¯t exactly light up, but he¡¯s quick to stand and accept. Get two more volunteers without even having to ask, so I dole out the bottles and set Errol and Sarah Jay to pushing our tables and chairs up against the side of the wall.


    With our seating secured, I take a seat in the centre with the table to my left and the wall to my back, so I can look out at the crowd. Captain Jung takes the seat across from me in much the same fashion with her bottle of mead in hand, while Errol and Sarah Jay take the table to her left. Tina sits beside me in a mirror of my posture, but mostly so we can chat, while Kacey reads the room and moves her chair so she won¡¯t have her back to the middle of the floor. ¡°So what¡¯s this about?¡± Tina asks, whispering real quiet since most of the townies are looking our way. ¡°You here to see that girl again?¡±


    ¡°Yes, but not for the reasons you thinkin¡¯,¡± I say, keeping my voice low to match. ¡°More like see who follow her up.¡± So I can hang him from the windowsill later on down the line. Or maybe right quick if Captain Jung allows it. The night is young, so who knows? ¡°If things start gettin¡¯ ugly, be ready to hunker down.¡± Eying the table, I dismiss the flimsy, wobbly wood as any sort of protection and slip my Shield Bracer over to her instead. ¡°Make sure Kacey gets the same message. Y¡¯all got Aegis, right?¡± Also commonly known as the ¡°Oh Shit Spell¡±, as most folks use the phrase as their trigger since it flows so naturally when most needed. The First Order Spell will throw up a personal barrier of force all around you, one even Cowie might have trouble punching through, but it¡¯ll only last for about five seconds flat and won¡¯t move along with you. Great for taking cover in a pinch, but not much else.


    ¡°Yea. Rangers make us keep it standard,¡± Tina replies. Waste of a Spell slot in my opinion, and judging by her tone, Tina agrees, but for once, I¡¯m happy someone else got it instead of me. She don¡¯t take the bracer though, not until I give her my patented Big Brother glare, one that says in no uncertain terms that she ain¡¯t gonna win this fight. Taking it with a scowl, she straps it onto her wrist and leans over to Kacey to pass on the advice. Girlie don¡¯t look nervous, though her arms do look empty without Inari, who stayed outside with Cowie out of respect for the establishment. Without a fox to stroke and cuddle, Kacey¡¯s hands fondle her many knives instead, and having seen firsthand what she can do with her sword, I¡¯d hate to be on the receiving end despite being strangely drawn to her dour and violent ways¡­


    Says something about me which I don¡¯t much like, though she awful adorable for a blood-crazed, dagger-throwing, sword-swinging girlie. Crazy, by my kind of crazy, so I really hope she gets along with Tina.


    They couldn¡¯t be more different, Tina and Kacey, but it seems like they¡¯re getting along well, even after the whole kerfuffle with the Fear Spell and ingrained Anti-Innate sentiment making it out to the surface. Not sure if their friendship is a genuine one, or if Kacey¡¯s just playing nice according to my advice, but I hope it¡¯s the former. Sure, Innates can be scary sometimes, but they still people underneath it all, which means there are some who are good and some who are bad, and you can¡¯t know which is which until you know. Leaving them to gab and gossip, I turn to Captain Jung as she surveys the crowd, and feel compelled to make conversation. ¡°So¡­ Mini Meteor.¡±


    ¡°My-noot,¡± she retorts, without pausing her scan. ¡°The proper name is Minute Meteor.¡±


    ¡°Same difference. Interestin¡¯ Spell though.¡± She don¡¯t engage, as she ain¡¯t one for small talk, but me, I always love talking all things tech and arcana. ¡°A Third Order Evocation Spell which creates six fist-sized meteors orbiting the caster¡¯s position. Can send two out at a time with little more than a thought, and even control their flight path with a bit of practice and effort. Explodes on impact with more pressure than a First Order Elemental Orb. Heard it was tested rigorously in the old world and they concluded that at base, one cast of Minute Meteor is equivalent to between ten and twelve Elemental Orbs.¡±


    ¡°You are correct.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t got the coverage of Fireball though,¡± I continue, carrying the conversation by my lonesome. ¡°Plus, you can only send two of them projectiles out a time, meaning it ain¡¯t as impactful neither.¡±


    ¡°So why use it over Fireball.¡± Delivered as a statement, a dry and boring one at that, as it would appear Captain Jung has fielded the same question many times before. ¡°Different tools for different situations,¡± she says, giving a drunk townie a good hard look as he approaches and convincing him to turn away. Wish I could do that, but folks don¡¯t take me serious most of the time. ¡°I could have readied a Fireball to take out the whole crowd at once,¡± she says, her tone bored and matter-of-fact as can be. ¡°But they wouldn¡¯t have known I was holding it. Minute Meteor on the other hand is much flashier, and sometimes flashy is what you need. Shock and Awe without the casualties, a win-win situation for both sides.¡±


    Same reason as to why I pulled out my dubsies pretty much, so I nod in thanks for the advice and consider what Spells I know and can use to the same effect. Lance maybe, as it looks real intimidating when you stand there charging it up, all glowy and surging with Aetheric power. Could also do the same with Elemental Orb and maybe trick some fools into thinking it¡¯s Fireball. Would be better with Elemental Bomb, the Second Order variant of the same Spell, but I don¡¯t have it on account of it being restricted to military use only. Otherwise, all I got left is either an illusion to trick people, or False Brawn/Bull¡¯s Strength to look a little bigger. Problem is, a little bigger still puts me on the low end of average, so won¡¯t change much at all. I suppose I could copy Cowie and cast a Dragon¡¯s Breath to snort out smoke, but the Spell always leaves me with a sore throat and dry cough.


    Hang on. Minute Meteor is an Evocation Spell that has a lasting effect, which is an oddity in the school of quick and dirty magic. Could be where she got the idea for her sustained Bolt Burst, or the inspiration at least, since firing off 192 Bolts over the course of a minute is similar to launching two mini meteors every five seconds. If I¡¯m right, then it means she took her familiarity with Minute Meteor and applied it to Burst Bolt, or something of the sort, which is interesting since the two Spells don¡¯t seem linked in any which way. Then again, Minute Meteor itself is a man-made Spell, one derived from the Ninth Order Spell Meteor Swarm. Was done by the Byzantine Immortal Monarch himself, who did it so his descendants could go forth and retake the fallen Roman Empire, but the Ottomans put an end to that. Sent the Byzantine Immortal Monarch into hiding they did, as they had two Immortal Monarchs of their own, though all three of them died in the Second World War. The Byzantine Immortal Monarch¡¯s Spellbooks survived though, which is how we got Minute Meteor, but that¡¯s neither here nor there. The important thing to take from all this is the fact that Spells can have more in common than it would appear at first glance. I would¡¯ve never thought Minute Meteor could be used to improve Burst Bolt, but Captain Jung did, and more importantly, it worked.


    So maybe I could use this same principle to improve my Mage Hands. Up until now, I¡¯ve only been improving my familiarity with the Cantrip by using it as much as I can. It¡¯s what my mama did and she improved right quick, to the point where she could sew two socks at the same time, one with her regular hands and another with the Mage Hands. That¡¯s why I use my Mage Hands for so many minor tasks, and play cat¡¯s cradle with them when I got nothing better to do. Not just to familiarize myself with the Spell like any other, but because of a phenomenon called Neuroplasticity.


    In laymen¡¯s terms, Neuroplasticity is the brain¡¯s ability to form new neural pathways in response to life experiences. Habit forming, pretty much, and by using Mage Hand so often, I¡¯m essentially rewiring my brain to treat the Spell like a new part of my body, or at least that¡¯s what my mama¡¯s notes say. When I first learned the Cantrip, I had trouble lifting a cup without spilling liquid inside, because I wasn¡¯t used to controlling it. Nowadays, I¡¯ve gotten to the point where the Mage Hands are almost indistinguishable from my real hands in terms of dexterity and fine control, with the only real limit being their lack of strength and durability. What¡¯s more, while I don¡¯t get any physical sensation from them, the feedback is close enough that the lines get blurred when I¡¯m working with all four at the same time. It¡¯s a little like using the Appraisal Cantrip, as I don¡¯t so much feel the texture, temperature, weight, or whatnot of whatever my Mage Hands are touching. Don¡¯t even feel if the object is moving, but I get a sense of it, and can glean things about its material composition, like whether it¡¯s metal or wood, hard or firm, heavy or light. Not in so many words, but a vague sort of inkling, one that you learn to read through repetition and familiarity. The more you use a Divination Cantrip, the better you get at reading what information it feeds you, and the tactile feedback from Mage Hand works the same way.


    Problem is, I¡¯ve pretty much reached the limits of the base Cantrip, and figured I had no other recourse for improvement. The reason being is that Mage Hand was derived from a Spell called Eldritch Palm. Conjures up a big, spectral hand same as the cantrip, only one strong, durable, and hefty enough to flatten ogres, pummel giants, block projectiles, and more. A spell I¡¯m really looking forward to learning, except it¡¯s a Fifth Order Spell. Means my mama didn¡¯t have the Spell Formula and I ain¡¯t found anyone who remembers it, since everyone on the Frontier is limited to Third Order Spells, and not many higher Order Casters went through the Gate. Even if I did have the Formula, I wouldn¡¯t be able to memorize the Spell Structure, because the ambient Aether levels on the Frontier can¡¯t support a Fifth-Order Spell Structure. Long story short, I thought the only way to improve Mage Hands was to improve upon the base structure itself and create a First Order Spell, one with a working Formula anyone could use to conjure up a better, stronger Mage Hand than the Cantrip allows.


    Which ain¡¯t as simple as it sounds. Taking a Cantrip and turning it into a First Order Spell isn¡¯t as easy as adding more Aether. This is the sort of stuff Immortal Monarchs are known for, as Captain Jung ain¡¯t even accomplished as much. She¡¯s the only one who can utilize her sustained Burst-Bolt, as it ain¡¯t a new Spell. It¡¯s the same old Spell Structure with a few custom, on the fly tweaks. Anyone can learn a song on the guitar, and a really good player can even add their own little twist to it, but it takes a true master to use the baseline of that song and compose a brand-new masterpiece from it. Captain Jung fits in that second category with her sustained Burst Bolt Spell, whereas if I want to improve the Spell Structure of the Mage Hand Cantrip, I¡¯d have to be in the third, but the difference between the two ain¡¯t no small potates. Besides, I ain¡¯t ever claimed to be any genius Spellslinger, just someone who¡¯s good at math, so I can¡¯t count on a stroke of brilliance to see me through to the answer.


    All this and more meant I thought I was stuck in terms of progress with Mage Hand, but now I¡¯m thinking there¡¯s another way. If Captain Jung can apply what she learned from Minute Meteor to Burst Bolt, two seemingly unrelated Evocation Spells, then maybe there are other Conjuration Spells I could study to improve my Mage Hands. Lower Order Spells I got access to already even. Which ones though? Ain¡¯t no other Hand Spells that I really know of, not in the Conjuration School at least, but I gotta think outside the box. I want a Mage Hand that is stronger, more durable, and capable of shooting an Aetherarm without coming apart at the seams, and even better if it can act quasi-independently from myself. Is there a Spell that fits the bill?


    ¡­


    Something tells me there most certainly is, but I can¡¯t put my finger on which one just yet. Times like this makes me wish I could go to Uncle Teddy for advice, but those days are behind us now. Maybe Kacey¡¯s Summon Familiar? Only I summon a Hand familiar instead of a three-tailed fox? No, I can already hear the jokes and won¡¯t stand for it.


    Spotting a familiar face in the crowd, I suck my teeth and clench my jaw before giving Tina a soft elbow. ¡°Be ready,¡± I say, before turning to Captain Jung to get the okay. She hesitates for a moment, but no longer, and she gives me a solid nod that says she¡¯ll back my play, followed by a look telling me in no uncertain terms that I¡¯m to adhere to rules of engagement and keep bloodshed to a minimum. I nod, touch my bull¡¯s head medallion to start recording, then shrug, because when it comes right down to it, the decision of how much blood to shed ain¡¯t up to me.


    ¡°You know,¡± I say, speaking loudly while striving to sound conversational, which ain¡¯t easy as it sounds. ¡°I once tossed a man much like yourself out a sah-loon window.¡± Across the room, Noora freezes on the staircase and turns to see me sitting there with a smile, but I ain¡¯t talking to her. No, I got my stare fixed on the john beside her, a husky, greasy, shit-stain of a fat fuck covered in Vanguard National logos and can¡¯t keep his hands to himself. ¡°Threw a noose round his neck and strung him up right then and there.¡±


    Meeting his confused gaze that soon turns to anger, I feel my smile grow in anticipation. Yea, he looks like he got a mean streak a mile long and hair-trigger of a temper, so I¡¯m thinking I got the perfect messenger to let the good people of Pleasant Dunes know that the Firstborn stands for all the Frontier born, and he will not suffer a pedophile to live. If my luck holds, then maybe his friends even try to avenge him, giving me cause to cut Ron¡¯s legs out from under him before he gets back. Can imagine it now, the look on his face when he come home to find his little ¡®motor club¡¯ all strung up out the windows and over the walls of his fair town.


    Yea, that would be a sight for sore eyes, now wouldn¡¯t it?

 Chapter 40

    ¡°The fuck you trying to say?¡±


    Always throws me for a loop when people ask that. Usually it¡¯s for lack of anything else to say, but it makes me wonder if my English ain¡¯t clear. To that end, I speak slowly and clearly while leaning harder into my accent because why not. ¡°What I¡¯m sayin¡¯ is, ye look a lot like a fella, I tossed out a win-dah, and hung by the neck ¡®til he dead.¡± Pausing to make sure he got the message, I make a show of narrowing my eyes to study his face. ¡°Uncanny is what it is, a resemblance so strikin¡¯ you might well be twins. You lose a brother round this time last year?¡±


    Course, I never hung no one that looked like him, but the truth never stopped me from spinning a yarn. ¡°Now don¡¯t get me wrong,¡± I say, carrying on the conversation myself since he don¡¯t quite get the meaning yet. ¡°I don¡¯t go stringin¡¯ greasy fellas up outta sah-loon windows fer no good reason. Wouldn¡¯t even bother if I didn¡¯t hafta, but believe you me, he was a real piece of work.¡± Spitting for effect, I inwardly wince when I remember Tina sittin¡¯ right there beside me and pray she don¡¯t tell her mama about none of my bad habits. Be nice if she kept quiet about this whole trip in fact, as there¡¯re things I¡¯d rather Aunty Ray not know so she can sleep better while I¡¯m away. With nothing else for it, I push on and keep talking, because this ain¡¯t an open dialogue we havin¡¯. This is me reading him the riot act, and letting him know what¡¯s what.


    ¡°See,¡± I begin, leaning back in my seat with my left elbow resting on the table and my right hand on my thigh, close to my sidearm but not on it. ¡°The man I strung up had it comin¡¯. Was visitin¡¯ a little town unlike this one, all out of the way and Independent. Hardy folk, but hard pressed, if you know the type, livin¡¯ hand to mouth and always lookin¡¯ for ways to improve their lot in life. So there I was, sittin¡¯ and waitin¡¯ for a meal I ordered. Not unlike today,¡± I add, just in case anyone still has yet to figure out I¡¯m talking about the here and now.


    You gotta be subtle when threatening a man on video. Subtle enough so you can¡¯t be charged with a crime, but not so subtle your target misses the message. Surprising how often it happens really, or maybe I¡¯m just not as clever as I think. Either way, I still ain¡¯t sure if the husky Vanguard National thug next to Noora is getting the message, so I make it real plain and simple. ¡°So while I was sittin¡¯ there,¡± I say, tapping the table to again emphasize I ain¡¯t telling a tale, ¡°This hefty son-of-a-gun with a face even a mother couldn¡¯t love comes in, much like yourself. No offense.¡± Holding up a hand and dipping my head like I¡¯m all apologetic, I continue, ¡°Anywho, he gets to hollerin¡¯ about wantin¡¯ company, and picks someone out, then heads up the stairs to do his business. Me, I¡¯m one to mind my own, so I pay it no mind, until I spot the company he picked.¡± My smile disappears as my gaze flicks over to Noora, then back to the greasy shit-stain beside her.


    Now Greaseball¡¯s picking up on what I¡¯m putting down, and it¡¯s got him right proper steamed. Not because he¡¯s ashamed of what he¡¯s doing, or annoyed at being called out. No, what¡¯s got his britches in a bunch is the fact that someone dares challenge his authority in public, and that he will not abide. Before the Rangers rode into town, Vanguard National were the big dogs in charge. Didn¡¯t no one fight them, or if they did, they got beat down quick. That¡¯s the life he knows, one where the strong rule and the weak obey, except now he ain¡¯t the strong one no more. Captain Jung already showed them all that once today, and now I¡¯m fixing to teach him the same lesson again, only I ain¡¯t as gentle.


    My daddy always said mercy towards your enemies is cruelty to yourself, and that always resonated with me more than anything written in the Good book. Hell, Star Trek got more insight even, whatever that is.


    Angry as he is, Greaseball ain¡¯t ready to draw just yet. Them Vanguard Nationals are a disciplined bunch, or at least more disciplined than the sort of thugs I¡¯m used to dealing with. Doesn¡¯t engage, doesn¡¯t argue, doesn¡¯t reach for his sidearm or start waggling his fingers. He just stands there and stares, trying to warn me off, but I don¡¯t scare easy. I don¡¯t back down neither, so I give as good as I get and let silence speak volumes. The townies have long since sensed which way the wind was blowing, and most have gotten out of harms way, leaving the saloon floor empty and clear save for me, my group, and the bartender getting ready to take cover should the shooting start.


    Best keep an eye on him though, as Vanguard National signs his paycheck too.


    The heavy thump of the kitchen double doors shatters the silence as miss Laura once again has the unfortunate timing to pop out with my food, but Greaseball ain¡¯t as jumpy as Jumbo and Hobb. Man doesn¡¯t flinch or reach, and his eyes don¡¯t even dart over to see what¡¯s what, relyin¡¯ on his peripherals to do the work for him. Odd that, because if I was Ron, I¡¯d much rather have this guy as my right- or left-hand man, instead of big, dark, and dumb Franky or tall, sweaty, and twitchy Jacob. Hell, from what I seen, this one is even better than the Sasquatch Captain Jung put down this afternoon, because round and oily though he might be, Greaseball stands calm, cool, and collected as miss Laura walks out onto the emptied saloon floor with two plates of sizzling steak and looks us both sideways. ¡°What¡¯s this now?¡± she asks, directing the question not at me, but at the Vanguard National thug.


    He answers right quick, which got me feeling even more suspect about miss Laura¡¯s role in all this. ¡°Yappy little Qink thinks he can lay down the law just because he¡¯s got his gook gash of a mommy sitting next to him.¡± Man¡¯s got a voice like gravel and talks like he been running hard, characteristics of a lifelong smoker who ain¡¯t keeping up with Minor Regeneration. Got this unflappable, impassive delivery too, but I¡¯m more impressed by his racially accurate slurs. Most can¡¯t tell the difference between Qin, Goreyeon, Nipponese, and the like, or they don¡¯t bother to learn. Truth is, it¡¯s a mighty subtle distinction, and I have troubles myself sometimes. Knowing this, I suspect Greaseball might¡¯ve been military once upon a time, just like Ron, and maybe served over on the Goreyeon peninsula, though I hear that the conflict there is more of a stalemate than open warfare. Least it was back in 1989 before all the settlers passed through the Gate, so who knows what¡¯s happened since.


    Ain¡¯t important, but details matter, because while ignorance is bliss, what you don¡¯t know can most certainly hurt you. If Greaseball is former military, then he probably got a couple Spells under his prodigious belt, because even your basic grunt learns enough to make them a force to be reckoned with here on the Frontier.


    ¡°This again?¡± Turning on me with an amount of sass I might¡¯ve once found distracting, miss Laura narrows her eyes and says, ¡°Already told you. Noora¡¯s sixteen and legal.¡±


    ¡°Y¡¯all readin¡¯ too much into things,¡± I say, before she can get all huffy about how I shot the Sherrif again. Don¡¯t take my eyes off the greasy vet neither, so he don¡¯t get no ideas. ¡°I¡¯m just tellin¡¯ tales of the Frontier is all. Bit of conversation, you know? Believe you me, you¡¯d be surprised too if you saw the man I done strung up out that saloon window. Much like this establishment here in fact. Scary coincidence, that is.¡± My smile returns all natural as I let the Devil loose and show this shit-stain I mean business, and it surprises him to see it. Guess Ron done already warned his boys about me, else there¡¯s no way Greaseball would¡¯ve reacted the way he did, all calm and careful like. Nah, he¡¯s used to getting his way around here, ruling through fear and conflating that with respect, and it burns him to be disrespected like this. Don¡¯t make no sense why he¡¯d stand there and take it, not unless he was told to step light around the Qink, but some men need to see to believe, and I¡¯m more than happy to show and tell.


    ¡°Was the first man I ever hung,¡± I say, mixing a bit of truth in with the story to sell it better. ¡°Made a real mess of things. Noosed him up and tossed him out the window before I even secured the other end of the rope. Had to grab and hold tight to keep him from hittin¡¯ the ground.¡± Shaking my head, I hold his gaze without blinking and continue, ¡°Rope burn. Worse for him though, because he didn¡¯t get no quick stop and break his neck. Bad way to go that, hanging from a window with a noose around your neck. Can¡¯t breathe, but that don¡¯t kill you right away. Leaves you kickin¡¯ and fightin¡¯ for air something fierce. Didn¡¯t tie his feet or hands neither, so that gave him a real fightin¡¯ chance. Must¡¯ve taken me a good ten, maybe fifteen seconds to secure the rope and get myself downstairs and outside, and he was still strugglin¡¯ fer dear life. All red-faced and pants covered in shit and piss as he desperate to pull himself up by the rope, hopin¡¯ against all hope to live another second, another minute, or more. Made a good effort too. Eventually got both boots up against the wall and was braced up, standin¡¯ sideways with that rope in both hands while gaspin¡¯ for breath.¡±


    In reality, the man I hung was a skinny, ragged, wretch of a thing all hopped up on Onslaught. Came into my rented room looking to kill and rob me, likely to fund his habit. Fired off a shot as he came in and missed if you can believe it, hit the pillow right next to where I laid my head. Luck and happenstance, though I suspect the drugs had something to do with it, as users tend to get the shakes with Slaught when it floods your body with too much adrenaline too fast. Makes you real jumpy too, which is why smooth is slow and slow is fast. If he¡¯d taken a half-second to line up his shot in the dark, he¡¯d have sent me off to meet my mama and see my daddy again. Instead, I beat him bloody, slipped a noose around his neck, and tossed him out the window in a fit of rage and fear. Rest of the story is true too, and I remember it like yesterday, even though it happened almost two years ago. The look on his face as he stood sideways on the wall, his drug fuelled strength giving him just enough Aether to hold on fast, but not enough to get him back up to the window.


    The sweat and desperation as the poor patsy begged me for dear life, apologizing for what he¡¯d done and swearing he¡¯d never do it again, before calling for his mama and crying to the Lord above. The sideways glace at his cronies watching in the dark, unwilling to expose themselves to save him and just watching us both from the shadows, waiting to see what would come next. If I showed strength, they¡¯d melt away into the night and disappear, chalking events up to a bad break, but if I dared showed weakness, then they¡¯d spring forth like wulves on a lame elk.


    ¡°So I shot him in the leg,¡± I say, concluding the story without exaggeration or embellishment, because sometimes, the truth is all you need, ¡°And watched him die slow and hard.¡±


    The greasy vet wasn¡¯t a believer when he walked in, but he sure believes now, and he¡¯s got his brain turning over whatever it is Ron might¡¯ve warned him about. Don¡¯t got him scared, only shook, since he don¡¯t expect to see that savage air of violence he grown so accustomed to seeing in a man as young as me. Helps that I look younger than my seventeen years, so that¡¯s got him rethinking his next move. His unflappable presence turned all flappable now, as his heart gets to racing and hand gets to hovering over his big iron. Me, I don¡¯t stiffen up or reach for my own, I simply sit and watch while leaning back in my seat, ready for whatever may come and eager to get this party started.


    ¡°Noora,¡± miss Laura says, stopping Greaseball just as he about to find his courage to draw. ¡°Kitchen duty. No more clients.¡± Not while the Rangers are in town at least, but that last bit is implied. Under her stern gaze, Noora does as she¡¯s told and scurries on back into the kitchen, much to Greaseball¡¯s relief. Can tell by the way he relaxes and moves his hand away from his gun, but he gotta put on a show all the same.


    ¡°That how it is?¡± he asks, earning himself miss Laura¡¯s ire in the process. ¡°This little punk Qink says jump, and you ask how high?¡±


    ¡°President Jackson,¡± miss Laura begins, wielding Ron¡¯s name and title like a weapon, ¡°Don¡¯t want no one making trouble. Pick another girl. On the house.¡±


    ¡°This is bullshit.¡± Grumbling beneath his breath, the big burly thug waddles back down the stairs and stomps out the saloon, no longer in any mood to get his rocks off now that he been spooked good and proper.


    ¡°You take care now,¡± I say, waving him off as he goes, and he shoots a dark look back as he halfway out the door. Only when he¡¯s gone do I give miss Laura my attention again, gesturing for her to serve Tina and Kacey first. She gives me a look and plonks both plates down on my table instead, more to be contrary than anything else. ¡°Thank you kindly,¡± I say, because it¡¯s only polite, but rather than leave, miss Laura pops out a hip and crosses her arms like she¡¯d like nothing more than to rip me a new one.


    ¡°This how it gonna be then?¡± Waving me up and down, she hits me with her best glare and getting nothing for it. ¡°Gonna go around threatenin¡¯ to lynch folks who don¡¯t agree with how you run things? Got a word for men like that.¡±


    ¡°Got one for scum like him too.¡± Meeting her eyes without a hint of regret, I let her see the Devil too, and that gets her rattled a fair bit. ¡°Last time I was here, you told me Ron makes sure his girls don¡¯t get hurt. Also told me not to count on no lawman to keep me safe. Didn¡¯t catch it then, but I see it now. You done already knew what was goin¡¯ on here in your little slice of paradise.¡± Curling my lip in a snarl to show what I think of her and the town she care so much for, I look her up and down like I¡¯m seeing her for the first time and not much liking what I see. ¡°There also a word for types like you. Complicit. Just because you don¡¯t got blood on your hands, don¡¯t make them clean.¡±


    She got the good graces to look ashamed before anger takes over, and I write her off for good as she stomps on back to the kitchen. Taking a beat to rein in my anger, I give myself an extra ten seconds to calm down before turning to Tina with a sheepish smile. ¡°You want this plate?¡± I ask, shrugging ever so slightly in apology. ¡°Not sure if I¡¯d trust whatever come out the kitchen after all that.¡±


    She doesn¡¯t answer, just gives me a concerned look, one I don¡¯t look too hard at for fear of what I might see. Horror. Dread. Doubt. Unease. Any one of those would destroy me, because Tina¡¯s family and I¡¯d never hurt her, so the thought that she might not know that scares me something fierce. Thankfully, the doors open up right quick as Noora comes out with a big tray carrying four more plates, meaning there probably wasn¡¯t enough time for miss Laura to spit in or otherwise taint them. Unless she already did, but ignorance, bliss, and all that. Just to be sure, I gesture for everyone to hold off on eating while I pull out a silver needle from my component¡¯s pouch and settle in for a little Ritual Magic.


    There¡¯s more than one way to sling a Spell. Muttering chants and waggling fingers is known as Spellcasting. Big surprise, I know, but it¡¯s the same whether you learned by math and memorization, Intuited a Spell Structure you resonated with, or naturally derived one thanks to your bloodline. Another way is to use a Spell Core via an Artifact, which is the most convenient method since anyone can do it, even those without a scrap of magic to themselves. Granted, they require a mechanical trigger to activate the Artifact, like the trigger of an Aetherarm as opposed to the Actuator I built on the Mage Armour Artifact. Not a big deal really, but mechanical arcana-tech is mostly outside my wheelhouse, so I can¡¯t speak much on it.


    From my point of view, neither of those Spellslinging methods are particularly difficult or out of reach, but for many, it¡¯s beyond their capabilities. Whether it be for a lack of wealth, education, wealth, drive, or ability, some folks are simply unable to use Spells in the two aforementioned ways. Ritual Magic however, is accessible to pretty much anyone, because all you gotta do is have faith. Not in God, Allah, Brahma, or any higher power necessarily, but faith in the Ritual itself, which I always found odd. All I gotta do is believe as I take this needle, run it through a flame provide by my Ignite Cantrip, and use the heated tip to trace a Sigil through the air, an Etch by yet another name. When it¡¯s done, the First Order Divination Spell Detect Poison will take effect, and this method can be used by anyone, even a child young as five if they got the disposition for learning it. Maybe thirty seconds to a minute tops, that¡¯s all it takes for a practised hand like myself, though beginners might take a good bit longer. At no cost to myself I might add, aside from the time spent and the necessary components, in this case a needle made of pure silver. Even if I was all slung outta Spells, I could still use this nifty little ritual to turn the needle into a poison detecting device just thrumming with arcane energy.


    Yet without faith, the Ritual would fail, as I myself experienced time and time again when I first learned the ritual. Wasn¡¯t nothing wrong with my movements or the Sigil I traced out; even if you get parts of it wrong, the Ritual still works if you¡¯re close enough, but only if you have faith. Luckily, faith is rewarded with a discernable result here, else I doubt I¡¯d ever wholly believe. The long and short of it is, for the next ten minutes, the silver needle will turn dark and black if it comes in contact with any toxins, venoms, and even harmful bacteria present in large enough quantities. Real useful little Ritual, and I learn them wherever I can, with the only downsides being the long casting time, the inability to use Metamagics, and the fact that not every Spell got a Ritual to go with it.


    Wouldn¡¯t that be nice, if Fireball had a Ritual, or better yet, Bombard. Imagine that, bringing out a bus-load of people to deliver death from above over a hundred meters away¡­


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Touching the needle to Tina¡¯s steak, I check it and see it remains untarnished save for a sheen of oil, then randomly stab a couple roasted potates to be sure. I do the same for the rest of our plates while Noora watches with arms crossed and lips pursed, acting all upset but too interested to keep up the act. So of course I ignore her and cut up my muscari steak, slicing it into thin strips while Captain Jung keeps an eye on the door. Then I turn in my seat to take up the watch while she cuts up her food too, and only when she¡¯s done do I allow myself to meet Noora¡¯s irritable gaze. ¡°As if the shit you pulled this morning wasn¡¯t bad enough,¡± she begins, and I stifle a wince because the phrasing is a touch ambiguous. Then again, whatever Tina and the gang are imagining can¡¯t be much worse than the truth, and might well even be better. I¡¯d much rather they suspect I got some weird kink than know I was ready to shoot this saloon up and burn it to the ground in a fit of red-hot rage. ¡°How am I supposed to eat if I can¡¯t earn?¡±


    Rather than point out she took thirty dollars from me just this morning, I gesture at my plate in offer and slide it over when her lovely hazel eyes light up. ¡°Could we get another plate?¡± I ask, directing my request to the bartender since miss Laura went and made herself scarce. ¡°Thank ye kindly.¡± Hope she¡¯s not the cook, because the Detect Poison Spell won¡¯t warn you about spit or other bodily fluids. No regrets though, because when Noora pulls up a chair and digs in, she takes her first dainty bite and lets out a sound that¡¯ll prime anyone¡¯s Cores, and I suspect she knows it too. To keep myself from goin¡¯ slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, I focus on the bartender and ask, ¡°You got anything non-alcoholic back there?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the matter?¡± Noora asks, her tone teasing and playful now that I¡¯m treating her to a meal. ¡°Firstborn can¡¯t handle his drink?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t much like the taste,¡± I reply, which is true. ¡°Besides, I got enough problems keeping a cool head as is.¡±


    Which only goes to show how angry I still am, as that ain¡¯t proper dinner conversation. Noora pauses her meal with fork half-raised, while Captain Jung lets out a little snort, and everyone else politely ignores the statement instead of outright agreeing. Thankfully, the bartender comes by with bottles of cider for everyone except Captain Jung, which I also test for poison even though I watched him pop the corks right in front of me. Wasn¡¯t no wax seal to break, so better safe than sorry, a lesson I¡¯ve learned and re-learned far too many times these past two years. ¡°You ever need food, you come find me,¡± I say, addressing Noora¡¯s earlier concerns. ¡°Same goes for protection.¡± Seeing her doubt, I smile and add, ¡°Don¡¯t worry. Brought a lot of bullets to Pleasant Dunes.¡±


    Meaning I can solve a whole lot of problems. She gets it, and spooked as she is, she goes back to eating with the same relish as before, albeit without the added sound effects. Me, I continue to sit there all calm and casual, but I got an eye and an ear out looking and listening for trouble, so I ain¡¯t much for conversation. Neither are the rest, as the boots take a cue from Captain Jung and eat as quick as they can, no doubt sensing the impending storm that is to come. See, Ronald Jackson might not want trouble, but I¡¯m thinking he ain¡¯t here in town. Meaning calm and disciplined though that big, gravelly, shit-stain might¡¯ve been, Greaseball don¡¯t look the type to take a challenge lying down. Sent him off running scared, because he come in here alone, or alone enough to not feel safe taking me and Captain Jung on. Okay, it was probably mostly Captain Jung, but I contributed too, so I ain¡¯t gonna shortchange myself.


    ¡°So what¡¯s your deal?¡± Noora asks, pointing at me and Tina with her fork. ¡°Not together, but closer than friends.¡±


    ¡°What, you don¡¯t see the family resemblance?¡± On cue, Me and Tina both tilt our heads and flash our pearly whites in synch, which is a gag we used to do when we was younger. Practiced it until our expressions were damn near mirrored, so even though our features couldn¡¯t be more different, the similarities are undeniable. ¡°This is my sorta-sister,¡± I say, and Tina giggles beside me at Noora¡¯s bewildered expression, because no one ever expects it. ¡°The sort that ain¡¯t related in any which way. That over there?¡± I continue, pointing at Kacey, ¡°Is my coulda-cousin, in that she could¡¯ve been my cousin, if our parents were related.¡±


    ¡°This some sort of Alabama thing?¡± Noora asks, pausing to take a bite of her steak. ¡°Like spicing things up by pretending you¡¯re related?¡±


    That gets a chuckle outta me. ¡°Nah, but that¡¯s a good one.¡± Shaking my head with a smile, I pan my gaze across the room and out the window to maintain vigilance. ¡°Though you raise an interesting point. Old worlders always crack wise about southerners and their incestuous ways, but whenever they mention a specific place, it¡¯s always Alabama. Not Arkansas, Kentucky, Texas or Tennessee. Always Alabama. Really makes you wonder what they get up to down there.¡±


    Stopping myself before I crack wise about my non-relation to Captain Jung, I sit up a little straighter at the sound of a clop, clop, moo. Nothing too loud or out of the ordinary, but a warning all the same, one Cowie delivers with an innocuous lack of haste. Kacey¡¯s head shoots up too, no doubt warned by Inari keeping watch from outside, so I warn the Captain and take a moment to decide what Spell to ready. If I still had my Big Spell, then it¡¯d be a no brainer, but sadly I must make do without. Not for long, because soon as this is done I¡¯mma drop something less vital like Grease so I can prep it again. Don¡¯t feel right not having it in my wheelhouse, so I put my grievances aside and come up with a plan before turning to meet Captain Jung¡¯s eyes. ¡°I¡¯ll guard my side,¡± I say, because I ain¡¯t confident enough to protect all six of us, nor am I willing to place that heavy burden on her. The thing about Spellslinging and fighting in general is that it¡¯s a lot easier to kill than it is to stay alive, and the Captain nods to indicate she¡¯ll follow my call, and maybe convey a hint of thanks in the process.


    ¡°Ready Aegis. No Penetrating Aetherarms,¡± she says. More for the benefit of the other boots, but I can¡¯t say I didn¡¯t need the reminder. Been so focused on the quickdraw I forgot there¡¯s good reason Ranger-issue weapons don¡¯t come standard with Penetrate Metamagics. Makes them too dangerous to use around civilians, as any missed shots could punch clean through wood, stone, and even metal to kill someone hiding on the other side. That¡¯s why I love my Doorknockers though. Takes care of the door and anyone behind it at the same time.


    ¡°Take your plate back into the kitchen,¡± I say, directing the statement to Noora. Gets the message immediately and darts away quick as a bunny, without forgetting her plate or cider. Sharp one she is, a survivor to the core, and again, I¡¯m reminded of how she got that way. Using that anger to drive my focus, I reach into my components pouch again and pull out a pinch of powdered gemstone I keep in a paper packet. It¡¯s only Sodalite, a cheap and abundant gemstone that can be picked up off the ground in the right places, but still annoying to source since it¡¯s in such low demand that no one really sells it. Merchants would much rather folks powder more expensive gemstones to make their effort worthwhile, but that¡¯s neither here nor there. Instead of my money-grubbing gripes, I focus on the Spell I only prepared just this morning on Sergeant Begaye¡¯s say so, one I expected would come in handy down under dark. The Structure comes to life in a pattern of shifting trails of light as I palm the powder and chant, ¡°Levate ¨C Fortia ¨C Murus.¡± Rather than loose the Spell, I push it through the Widen Metamagic bead on my bracelet before clenching it tight in hand, a movement made more for my state of mind rather than any actual physical need. Mentally holding fast to the Spell, I slowly let out a breath and unclench my hand while visualizing where the Spell will go.


    Wish I could warn Tina and everyone else off too, send them out back through the kitchen along with Noora. Would send the wrong message and all but guarantee violence though, because bullies can sense weakness from a mile away and hone in on that like hawks.


    Cowie¡¯s warning bought me just enough time to finish my prep and look all relaxed and casual as Sasquatch marches through the door, with Greaseball and seven more thugs filing in behind him, all looking mean and mad as can be. Sasquatch looks particularly deranged, what with his nose all Splinted and bandaged up like it is. Got a pair of panda eyes as Aunty Ray would call it, all black and bruised from the impact of Captain Jung¡¯s headbutt earlier today. Guess he¡¯s ready for round two now, and credit where its due, him and his cronies all keep their hands away from their sidearms as far as I can see. They get in nice and close too, not so close they can loom over us, but lining up about two arms length away, so if we both reach out we could touch hands like we about to play ball.


    Probably think they can throw hands and keep things from getting too bloody, but as Captain Jung demonstrated once already, Rules of Engagement are for keeping grunts like me in line until Officers like her decide it¡¯s time to go guns free.


    ¡°Hear you got a real mouth on you, Qink.¡± Sasquatch starts off strong, getting all heated and red in the face. Ain¡¯t so imposing when he sound all stuffy and nasal, or when he winces every time he opens his mouth too wide. ¡°But talk is all you got. Bet you wouldn¡¯t last a minute without this gash watching over you.¡±


    ¡°You ought to be more careful,¡± I reply, my grin wide and genuine as can be. ¡°Because this lady you keep insultin¡¯ is a Captain in the Rangers.¡±


    Spitting at my feet, Sasquatch scowls in regret as pain lances through his face, only to rally with a sneer. ¡°So what?¡±


    ¡°Means she¡¯s sworn to uphold the Accords.¡± Leaning in with a smile, I let Sasquatch see who he¡¯s dealing with, because much like Greaseball, he needs to see it to believe it. ¡°She ain¡¯t here to protect me,¡± I whisper, winking at the big guy like this is all some big joke. ¡°She¡¯s here to protect you.¡±


    Because if I had things my way, I¡¯d have killed the whole lot of them this afternoon instead of letting Sasquatch off light with a love-tap. Should¡¯ve done it anyways, as there ain¡¯t no way to fight a battle against Abby while also watching our backs against Vanguard National. The other thugs don¡¯t get it, but Sasquatch and Greaseball understand. They trade a look, and to his credit, Greaseball gives a little ¡®I told you so¡¯ shrug to his boss, who¡¯s looking mighty green around the gills. That¡¯s the way it is with your bandits, outlaws, and scavs. They big on killing, but not so big on getting killed, so soon as they sense even a hint of a fair fight, they start looking for outs. Sasquatch came in to goad me into a fist fight, but I ain¡¯t much of a boxer, nor am I a fool. No, I¡¯m a killer, plain and simple, and he seen enough to get the distinction. He can sense my eager excitement, sees the look in my eyes and knows I¡¯m out for blood. If we play, then we play for keeps, and he ain¡¯t ready for that fight just yet.


    But he can¡¯t back down. Not after Captain Jung already put him in his place. His boys are already doubting his strength and capabilities, so they¡¯re almost certain to turn on him if he backs down before me, a young kid most don¡¯t got the measure of just yet. Takes a certain level of understanding to see it, that aura of bloodshed men of our nature got, and most of Sasquatch¡¯s cronies don¡¯t got it. They¡¯re outlaws sure, but they ain¡¯t been deep in the thick of it, ain¡¯t looked into the abyss and come out laughing, and no words or explanations will ever bridge that gap of understanding. If you know, you know, and most these fools don¡¯t.


    So Sasquatch makes his second mistake of the day, one done in the heat of the moment because he ain¡¯t thinking straight. He puts his ego over his safety and goes for his gun, so I unleash my Spell and Captain Jung does the same beside me. Twin translucent barriers of blue-tinged Force spring up into existence between us and the thugs, covering our sitting group of six from head to knees just as Sasquatch draws his TEC-LS and fires. Aims centre mass like he¡¯s been trained to, holding down the trigger on his single-action gun while working the hammer with his other hand. Doesn¡¯t matter how quick he works it though, because the gun won¡¯t shoot more than once a second, as that¡¯s how long it takes for the Core to cycle and Prime in between shots. Gives me plenty of time to eat the impact on my armoured vest, draw my Rattlesnake, and shoot Sasquatch in the shin. The impact combined with the Toppling Metamagic sends his leg back and his body crashing to the ground, where he slams face first against the floor and starts howling in pain.


    But not before his gun goes off a second time, and Sarah Jay lets out a muted groan of pain.


    While all this is taking place, I¡¯m busy hopping up onto my seat and huddling down in a crouch. That way, any Bolts coming for me gotta pass through my Barrier first, unless them thugs care to draw and raise their guns up to eye level to shoot over and down. Hearing my prospect take a hit sends a red-hot blaze of rage through me, and I draw a bead on Sasquatch¡¯s head, ready to put out down and out. ¡°Hold fire!¡± Captain Jung barks, and I do so outta respect more than instinct, as I ain¡¯t in the habit of giving out passes to folks who done taken a shot a me and mine. I keep my smoking gun trained on him all the same and leave my finger on the trigger as I growl in frustration and glare at the thugs through the translucent blue sheen, daring them to make a move, any move, and promising hell to pay in return.


    Easy to see they all cut from the same cloth, a disorderly and discordant bunch to whom discipline don¡¯t come natural. Even so, it¡¯s been drilled into their bones by someone who done knew what they were doing, and them thugs respond to Captain Jung¡¯s tone the same way Hobb and Jumbo responded to Ron¡¯s. Hate to admit it, but these Vanguard National types will be difficult to take out if I go at them head on, which only makes it all the more vital to take them out while their leader ain¡¯t around. Resisting the urge to put one through the back of Sasquatch¡¯s head, I call out, ¡°Jay. You bleedin¡¯?¡±


    ¡°She got shot,¡± Errol unhelpfully supplies, and I spot him out the corner of my eye with his back turned to the bandits while checking Sarah Jay¡¯s leg.


    At the same time, she calls out, ¡°I¡¯m fine. Got tagged in the shin, but had my Aegis up.¡±


    Would still hurt a fair bit, as I myself experienced not once, but twice. The Penetrating capabilities of the TEC-LS has gotten one over on me again, but thankfully it hits like a wet noodle. No Intensify and no Maximize, so it only hits about fifty-percent harder than your standard Bolt Cantrip. Still, even after punching through my Second Order Abjuration Spell Force Barrier and hitting my plate carrier, it still hurts something fierce, as it¡¯s humanity and Abby¡¯s go to Spell for good reasons. Despite Errol¡¯s disdain, the base Cantrip is plenty good enough to kill, and he only thinks otherwise because folks don¡¯t talk about the ones that died, only the few who survived.


    With Aegis added into the mix, and the fact that Captain Jung¡¯s Force Barrier was bigger and probably stronger than mine, Sarah Jay will likely walk away with little more than bruise. A handy Spell, Aegis is, the inverse of Mage Armour in fact, in that it¡¯ll grant you a whole lot of protection for only a short period of time. Force Barrier¡¯s good too, but that¡¯s assuming you stick to the standard 1x1m square. Even with the Widen Metamagic to double that area, I had to stretch it to cover me, Tina, and Kacey, as well as a table in between them, so it ain¡¯t as hardy as it ought to be, but it did the job well enough. Still feels like someone tried to pound the flat end of a nail into my chest, and that¡¯s with a Force Barrier, Bible, and an armoured plate between me and the Bolt. Bet Errol would change his tune up right quick if he got hit by the Cantrip himself.


    Don¡¯t let none of those thoughts show as I stare down Greaseball and the rest of his goons while Sasquatch howls about his leg, and I resist the urge to crack wise about how much worse it could get. I can see them thinking it through, wondering if they can shoot our feet or raise their guns over the barriers before I shoot them, except we all got our guns out and theirs are all still on their hips. Probably because Sasquatch stressed not to draw and shoot, only to go and ignore his own advice. Say what you will about him, but Ron knows how to instill discipline into a man, even ones who are typically opposed to the practice.


    Not so great at teaching them how to think on their feet though, as they all paralyzed by indecision while their boss groans on the ground. Deciding a little nudge is in order, I ask, ¡°So y¡¯all leavin¡¯, or y¡¯all dyin¡¯? I¡¯m fine either way, but let¡¯s get this sorted so I can eat.¡±


    Greaseball is the first to move, bending over to help Sasquatch up off the ground, but Captain Jung says, ¡°Leave him.¡± The thugs don¡¯t like that much, but Captain Jung gives them a steely glare while pointing her shiny, steel, Sturm and Kitiara Longsword at their kneecaps. ¡°This man fired upon and injured two Ranger conscripts serving in an Aberration hot-spot. He is hereby to be remanded into Federal custody, where his injuries will be treated before he is brought to stand trial for his crimes before a Federal judge.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s bullshit,¡± Greaseball counters, which to be fair, is a valid point. ¡°This town ain¡¯t under Federal jurisdiction.¡±


    ¡°It is not,¡± Captain Jung concedes, but the steel in her gaze and her tone don¡¯t waver one bit. ¡°However, he fired upon two Federal soldiers on deployment during a Peacekeeping mission. As such, he has been deemed an unlawful combatant and enemy of the United Federation of American States. Without an officially recognized local government entity to subject him to prosecution, the U.F.A reserves the right to prosecute him under Federal Law.¡± Breaking character to offer a smile, one that¡¯s all teeth and no sunshine, Captain Jung lays it out plain and simple. ¡°You have two options here. Either I handle this under Federal Law,¡± she says, then gestures at me and continues, ¡°Or he handles it under Frontier Justice. The choice is yours.¡±


    Ha. Like I said. She ain¡¯t here to protect me.


    Never one to miss a cue, I grin, cock the hammer on my Rattlesnake, and bring the Doorknockers out from behind me, their hammers cocked and Mage Hands ready with the trigger. That sends them thugs scurrying out right quick, even Greaseball who holds both hands up as he backs away to show he don¡¯t want nothing to do with Sasquatch no more. Once the last one is out the door, I give it a good count of five before spotting Cowie¡¯s full-sized head giving me a look through the window, bobbing up and down to give the all clear. Only then do I take my finger off the trigger and ease back the hammer on my sidearm. Ain¡¯t no point doing it manual, as pulling the trigger cocks it for me, but that sound always sends a shiver down my spine, so I can only imagine what it does for someone staring down the business end.


    ¡°Errol,¡± Captain Jung begins, still holding her Longsword at the ready. ¡°It¡¯s a bruise. She¡¯ll live. Keep our prisoner from bleeding out instead.¡±


    Barely holding back a smirk, I eye Sasquatch¡¯s injury and shake my head. It ain¡¯t pretty, all blood and broken bone, but it ain¡¯t life threatening neither. Least, not on its own, but there a damn good chance it gets infected and he loses everything under the knee. Especially if we gotta transport him out of Pleasant Dunes and back to Meadowbrook to stand trial. Terrible thing that, amputation, but infection is a real killer out here on the Frontier. Looking around to make sure everyone else if fine, I see Sarah Jay¡¯s war wound and wince, as she been hit just under the knee. Might swell up bad come morning, but could be a lot worse since no skin was broke. ¡°First war wound,¡± I say, and she gives me a brief smile, a trooper to the core. ¡°I¡¯ll patch up your pants if you need it,¡± I add, offering a shrug by way of apology. Bad luck of the draw is what it is, getting hit like that, as Sasquatch wasn¡¯t even aiming at the time, but it is what it is. Little steamed over getting shot, Sarah Jay just nods and doesn¡¯t say anything else, no doubt enduring the pain as best she can.


    Never one to leave a loaded gun unattended, I hop off my chair and pick up the TEC-LS, empty the stupidly oversized 9mm rounds from the chamber, and tuck it into my belt.


    ¡°You can¡¯t keep that,¡± Captain Jung says, shooting me a dirty glance. ¡°It¡¯s evidence.¡±


    Tch. The TEC-LS is a garbage gun, but I¡¯d still like to add one to my collection. Handing it over with a pout, I turn as the double doors open once more and stop going for my gun once I see miss Laura come out all fire and brimstone in her eyes. She hits me with a look, then looks down at the blood on her floor, then back at me. She don¡¯t say nothing, just stands there and glares, and I can¡¯t stop myself from cracking wise. ¡°So,¡± I drawl, letting the word hang for a good, long second. ¡°Not to rush you or anything, but how much longer on that last plate of steak and potates?¡±


    ¡°¡­Get out.¡±


    Knowing better than to laugh, I pull out another thirty to pay for our food and drinks. Could¡¯ve probably gotten away with less, but considering the circumstances, I say its money well spent. As we head outside with Sasquatch on a Floating Disc, I keep my smile bright and cheery while locking eyes with every looky-loo one at a time. None of them can hold my gaze, and while the sight don¡¯t fill me with pride or joy, it¡¯s better than the alternative. Odd as it might sound, I ain¡¯t got nothing against ruling through fear, because truth is, fear is all people will respond to. Whether it be fear of punishment for breaking the law, fear of eternal damnation for a living a life of sin, or fear of the unknown keeping us all huddled together in the night, living creatures all operate based on fear. Life is all about managing those fears, whether it be by facing them head on, laughing them off, or hiding your head in the sand and pretending they don¡¯t exist.


    Everyone rules by fear, and for the most part, I¡¯m content to leave them be so long as certain lines ain¡¯t crossed. When that happens, well that¡¯s when you gotta take things into your own hands, because right and legal ain¡¯t always the same. That¡¯s just how it is out here on the Frontier. Ain¡¯t nothing we can do about it. I know it, Captain Jung knows it, and them thugs from Vanguard National know it too. We did what we had to do, and balls in their court now. Question is, are Greaseball and the rest of them scared enough to swallow their grievances, or are they getting ready to hit back the second we look away? That¡¯s why I asked Captain Jung about her earlier Spell choice. Not because I was concerned about her picking Minute Meteor, but because I wanted to know why she didn¡¯t just kill them all outright.


    Don¡¯t make no sense leaving a bunch of armed and disgruntled thugs at our backs. Not like we need them to help defend the town, as 20 Rangers are more than enough to clean up a baby Proggie and its borrowed army, even without the townies helping out. Might lose the town and plenty of townies in the process, but ain¡¯t no skin off my back. Guess whatever deal they worked out with Ron includes keeping the walls intact, and I suppose Captain Jung is confident she can keep them thugs in check, but me, I¡¯m not so sure. Don¡¯t get me wrong, Captain Jung¡¯s one of the best of the best, the most dangerous Spellslingers around even, but like Tina said, one Bolt in the right place is all it takes. That¡¯s why sometimes, the best way to move forward is to burn everything to the ground before walking softly over the ashes.


    After all, the expression goes ¡®walk soft and carry a big stick¡¯. Don¡¯t say nothing about not using it first.

 Chapter 41

    Jaw clenched and heart pounding, Errol kept his head on a swivel while helping his girl limp back to camp.


    With the sun still setting in the south, it provided light enough to cast the quiet town of Pleasant dunes in shifting shadows, ones which played cruel tricks on Errol¡¯s hyperactive imagination. Any moment now, he expected droves of armed thugs and angry town folk to come streaming out into the streets in demand of Howie¡¯s head, and Heaven help him, Errol couldn¡¯t blame them one bit. It was such a stupid and avoidable fight, one that somehow turned to shooting because the Firstborn wanted it that way, and Sarah Jay had gotten clipped in the process. The Heroism Spell he cast in the aftermath of the scuffle left him with a rising tide of anger which washed away all other emotions, and as he prepared for the worst, he directed it all at Howie. Man couldn¡¯t even sit down for a meal without picking a stupid fight. Jealousy is what it was, seeing that working girl Noora with another client, that¡¯s what drove Howie to spout off that appalling story about hanging a man outside a saloon window in hopes of starting a fight.


    There was no doubt in Errol¡¯s mind that Howie had really done everything he said, or at least something close to that effect. Might not have been a man twin to the fat, greasy man on the stairs, but the Firstborn most certainly hung a man out a window without due process or legal authorization, then shot him in the leg just to watch him die. Probably got away with it clean too, using those connections Wayne mentioned before, skirting justice on some technicality or the other. That¡¯s who the Firstborn really was, a scheming and manipulative killer who wandered the Frontier by his lonesome to satisfy his own dark urges to commit murder by goading others into an attack, and tonight, he almost got Sarah Jay killed for it. Wasn¡¯t fear which had Errol so twisted up inside, but the sheer indignation and exasperation to have been dragged in alongside Howie¡¯s sadistic games, and the resentment ate away at him from the inside.


    What only made it all the more frustrating was how no one else seemed to feel the same way, not even Sarah Jay. Soon as she got back to camp and looked over by the medics, she got to going on and on about how incredible the Firstborn was while sharing the story with the other boots. ¡°You shoulda seen it,¡± she said, her bright brown eyes all aglow as she narrated the tale for her captive audience. ¡°Happened in the blink of an eye. Sasquatch back there draws quick as a blink, and I kid you not, Howie¡¯s Force Barrier pops up as the Bolt is hurtling towards him. Next thing I know, Sasquatch is on the ground, and I got a sharp, stinging pain in my leg and no earthly idea how it got there.¡± Rolling up her jeans to display the deep red bruise the size of a quarter on her shin for all to see. ¡°That¡¯s through an Aegis too, and I could barely keep my head upright, but Howie? He took one to the chest through his Barrier and is perched up on his chair, all couched and ready with finger on the trigger and a bead on Sasquatch¡¯s head as Captain Jung takes charge. Settles them thugs with nothin¡¯ more than steel gaze and a stern word she does, calm and cool as can be. Lays down the law and tells ¡®em we¡¯re takin¡¯ Sasquatch in, and if they don¡¯t like the sound of Federal Justice, then she¡¯ll unleash the Firstborn to exact Frontier Justice instead.¡±


    Slapping her leg with a fetching grin, Sarah Jay waited for her words to sink in as the crowd murmured amongst themselves, every one of them grinning and shaking their heads in silent admiration. Then she continued, ¡°Sent a chill down my spine it did, seeing Howie grin and pull out his twin dubsies again, except he ain¡¯t so polite this time around. Got his Mage Hands pointin¡¯ them Blastguns right at them thugs like he fixin¡¯ to kneecap them, and they all scurry out the saloon in two shakes of a lamb¡¯s tail. Then, get this, Howie holsters up, pats his hands, and turns to the waitress to ask how much longer on his steak and potates, like it wasn¡¯t nothin¡¯ but a schoolyard scuffle.¡± That got the crowd to laughing, and many looked over to the medic¡¯s tent, where they could see Howie sitting shirtless getting poked and prodded by the trainees while Tina looked on, with a big, red bruise same as Sarah Jay¡¯s, except his was right over his heart.


    Burned Errol to see them admiring a remorseless killer like Howie. If not for Captain Jung, he¡¯d have killed all nine of those men tonight, gunned them down where they stood and probably finished his meal with the bodies still there. It was unconscionable at the very least, unethical and immoral to be sure, even if it might not have been illegal. Sure, the big, hairy man fired first, but only after Howie pushed him to it, threatening to hang the fat, greasy man out the window then insinuating that the only reason they were still breathing was the presence of the Rangers themselves. Howie outright admitted that he cared nothing for the Accords, and his actions proved that he¡¯d intended to incite the other group to violence, else how¡¯d he have his Second Order Force Barrier ready to go right away? The worst part was, Captain Jung had allowed it, played along like Howie was some big hero and the people riding to the defense of Pleasant Dunes were all killers and criminals.


    Sure they looked like a rough bunch, and they¡¯d gotten up in Captain Jung¡¯s face this afternoon, but they¡¯d only just narrowly escaped death and lost more than a dozen comrades in the process. Errol could hardly blame them for getting heated, but they hadn¡¯t actually crossed any lines. Howie was the one pushing them, egging them on with his stories and asking outright why Captain Jung hadn¡¯t slaughtered them all out of hand with a Fireball instead of warning them off with a Minute Meteor. That¡¯s how his thought process worked; no mercy, no goodwill, no grace or tolerance to be had. The moment someone crossed him, Howie¡¯s brain got to working on how to kill them, simple as that.


    Monstrous was being generous. A Devil is what Howie was, and he straight up admitted it, but no one besides Errol seemed to have a problem with it.


    Well, Wayne knew the Firstborn for what he was, but he wasn¡¯t here in camp. Captain Clay had stationed Wayne and the rest of the Rangers up in the mountains. Supposedly to guard the mineshafts, but having seen how Captain Jung enabled Howie¡¯s murderous inclinations, it wouldn¡¯t surprise Errol to learn Captain Clay was the same way. Maybe this was more of his extrajudicial ways, that Frontier Justice they all seemed to love so much, an excuse to ignore due process and accountability when enforcing the law and satisfy their own murderous urges.


    All of which had Errol in a foul mood when Captain Jung came by to break up the crowd and check in on Sarah Jay. After a few sparse words of praise for his girl, the Captain turned to Errol with a glower. ¡°You¡¯ve picked up a lot of bad habits in a few short weeks young man,¡± she began, eyeing him up and down as he stood at attention, and it was all he could do to keep himself from glaring back. ¡°Turning your back on enemy combatants before the fight is done? Even a combat medic in full insignia shouldn¡¯t be so lax with their own defense, because the Geneva Conventions won¡¯t bring you back from the dead.¡±


    ¡°...Sir yes sir.¡± Wasn¡¯t any point lashing out at the Captain, so Errol simply accepted the criticism and let it wash over him, because better to save a life than to take one in anger. Captain Jung sensed his silent opposition all the same and eyed him for a long moment, but he stood firm and didn¡¯t waver in his conviction. Theirs was a silent argument, because he didn¡¯t trust himself to speak, lest he say something he regretted to a woman he respected and admired. He was still grateful for everything she¡¯d done, reaching out after he was washed out to see about getting him back on his feet, though it rankled to now know she had the power to keep it from happening in the first place. She simply chose not to use that power, because she thought he wasn¡¯t worth the effort at the time, and now she did for some reason or another. Probably because of Sarah Jay. No one expected her to drop out at the time, not even Errol, and she¡¯d done it out of sheer love and nothing else.


    ¡°¡­Do you know why I let Howie do what he did?¡± The question came seemingly out of nowhere, a curveball Errol wasn¡¯t expecting from the taciturn, no-nonsense Captain Jung. ¡°Goad those Vanguard National thugs into starting a fight?¡±


    Errol had a good idea why, though he didn¡¯t see any point in saying it out loud, or asking what made them thugs besides belonging to a group who didn¡¯t recognized Federal authority. So instead, he answered, ¡°Sir, to protect the girl, Noora, who claims she is sixteen but is unlikely to be of age, sir.¡±


    ¡°At ease, boot.¡± Nodding, Captain Jung sighed. ¡°That is part of it yes, though not the whole answer. I did it because the people of this town have forgotten what it¡¯s like to live under the rule of law, rather than beholden to the whims of their employer.¡± Seeing the confusion in his eyes, Captain Jung took a beat to go back and explain from the start. ¡°Your hometown started as a field hospital established by the M¨¦tis Nationale, whereas New Hope was a settlement founded by Federal Rangers led by Marshal Ellis. Areas like those are what¡¯s known as governed territories, and within those territories, the rule of law is upheld by their government authorities. Every settlement you saw or visited along the way falls under that category, lands within which some semblance of law and order prevails. The Sherrif¡¯s uphold the law according to the Accords and their government¡¯s interpretation of it, while judges hold court to preside over legal proceedings and carry out sentencing. As for the Rangers, our task is merely to provide manpower whenever asked, no more no less. Even within Federal territory, we lack the authority to make arrests or charge individuals with civilian crimes without a Sherrif¡¯s warrant. This division of responsibility is to prevent our soldiers from being used as a weapon against the very people we are supposed to protect, except in the case wherein their duly elected officials make a request. The system isn¡¯t perfect, but it¡¯s what we got, and it works well enough most of the time. With me so far?¡±


    Errol nodded without thinking, because it all seemed so cut and dry that he couldn¡¯t see what the Captain was getting at. She simply nodded back before turning away to look out at the town. ¡°So even if Pleasant Dunes were a Federal settlement, which it isn¡¯t, there is nothing we could do regarding the violations we see here, not directly. All we can do is pass the information along to a Sherrif, who may then request our assistance in an official capacity.¡± Pausing, Captain Jung added, ¡°Or they may choose not to, which will likely be the case here in Pleasant Dunes. Putting aside the fact that they had five known murderers and rapists serving as their Sherrif and deputies, this town is neither a governed territory nor is it a settlement in the sense of the word you¡¯re familiar with. It¡¯s a company town, meaning everything you see here is company property. The company staked a claim on these lands and paid labourers a wage to gather materials and build these walls, a business going by the name of Vanguard National. This means that the people who live here in town own no part of it, because it was all bought and paid for by the company. Aside from the company owner, Ronald Jackson, and his business partners, everyone else you see in town is merely an employee, including those thugs proudly sporting the company name and logo.¡±


    ¡°So Ronald Jackson is like the town mayor or something?¡± Errol wasn¡¯t quite sure why it mattered, because even if no one owned the land, they were still living and working here all the same.


    ¡°Sure, if your town mayor was a morally corrupt despot with an army of well-armed and well-trained thugs to do his bidding.¡± There was no heat in Captain Jung¡¯s voice, like she was just stating the facts, but there was a fire in her eyes that gave her anger away. ¡°On the surface, there¡¯s nothing inherently wrong with anything I just said. It¡¯s all very legal and very normal, until you look at the bigger picture. The Coral Desert is considered an Aberration hotspot, meaning civilian travel is considered highly dangerous and ill-advised. This means that once they started working here, the people of this town had only the company to depend on. They cannot choose to pick up and leave whenever they want because of the Aberration threat, and the company is under no compulsion to offer them safe passage out. Add in the fact that the corporation is the only source of food, water, and anything else they might need to survive, and you see that their very lives are dependant on the company in more ways than one. Refuse to work, and the company either fires them and kicks them out of town, stops providing necessary services, or simply pulls out with all the guns and ammo, leaving the townsfolk unable to defend themselves against Aberration attacks.¡±


    Every sentence was like a punch to the gut as Errol took it all in and saw things in a new light. If that was true, then the people here were little better than slaves, but he didn¡¯t understand what that had to do with Howie¡¯s behaviour. ¡°If you know all this,¡± Errol began, speaking before he thought it through, ¡°Then why doesn¡¯t someone arrest the owner of the company?¡±


    ¡°For what crime?¡± Lips pressed together in a snarl, the Captain heaved a sigh and said, ¡°There¡¯s nothing in the Accords to charge Vanguard National¡¯s president Ronald Jackson with, not even if you had the proper authority to do so. He employs these people, who are technically free to come and go as they please. The only thing stopping them from leaving is Aberration attacks, which he cannot be held accountable for, nor is the company required to provide protection to travellers or even sell weapons and transportation. There¡¯s nothing in the Accords that says he must provide his workers with anything besides food, water, ¡®fair¡¯ compensation and ¡®adequate¡¯ protection from Aberrations and the elements alike. The town walls and towers more than satisfy that last requirement, and on paper, I¡¯d bet most of these miners are paid a decent wage, only to have most of that money go back to the company in return for things like clothes, toiletries, bedrolls, and other ¡®luxuries¡¯ not covered by the Accords.¡±


    ¡°What about Noora then?¡± Errol asked. ¡°Employing a minor in brothel is most certainly a crime.¡±


    ¡°One that doesn¡¯t fall under military jurisdiction.¡± Giving him a look that was both patient and resigned, Captain Jung said, ¡°It¡¯s a civil crime, meaning it falls under the purview of the local Sherrif¡¯s office, but considering their last Sheriff was a convicted murderer and rapist with a sizable cash bounty on his head, it¡¯s safe to assume that the next Sherrif will likely also be in Vanguard National¡¯s pocket and utterly uninterested in biting the hand that feeds them.¡±


    If the Accords were really so useless and easily thwarted, it¡¯s no wonder so many people were fans of Frontier Justice, but Captain Jung wasn¡¯t done just yet. ¡°You know what the worst part is?¡± she asked, her tone filled with fury and indignation as she swept her gaze across town. ¡°The fact that they¡¯ve been at this life for so long, they¡¯ve forgotten what decent human society looks like. What we¡¯ve seen so far is what they deemed good enough to show a Company of American Rangers and their recruits. This is their sanitized version of Pleasant Dunes, meaning they all thought no one would blink twice at seeing a girl as young as Noora working in a brothel, or people sleeping in the sands with nothing besides a cloth awning overhead, or children sitting around all day with nothing to do, because they¡¯d normally be working down in the mines. They see us as a disruption to their ¡®normal¡¯ way of a life, a lot they¡¯ve accepted and cling onto because it¡¯s better than how things used to be, and that¡¯s good enough for them. In their eyes, we¡¯re the enemy, a necessary nuisance here to help them against Abby, and they¡¯re all counting down the days until we leave so they can get back to life as usual.¡±


    The Captain stood stock still and stared out across town, and Errol used this time to try and make sense of it all. On the surface, Pleasant Dunes looked like a well defended, albeit incomplete little mining town at the base of the Snake Fang Mountain Range, and he assumed things like houses, schools, and whatnot would be coming soon enough. The people were a bit surly and cheerless, but they were fed and clothed, so he didn¡¯t think twice about their ¡®temporary¡¯ housing. Was curious how the town had so many powerful, fast-firing gatling guns, but he figured defense was a top priority out here in the Abby infested Coral Desert, where Howie could ride out for a day and come across a horde of two-hundred plus orcs and goblins just scurrying about. Now though? If what Captain Jung said was true, then this mysterious Ronald Jackson who Errol thought was the towns mayor was a monster beyond compare. Except¡­ what did any of that have to do with setting Howie loose on those Vanguard National thugs and arresting their leader?


    A question Errol asked in more polite terms, but the general meaning didn¡¯t escape Captain Jung. Or Sarah Jay, who he sensed tensing up at his side and imagined was frowning quite a bit, but he couldn¡¯t deal with her hero worship just yet. Instead, he stood firm before Captain Jungs inquiring gaze, no doubt gleaning something of Errol¡¯s newfangled distaste for the Firstborn. Rather than ask about it though, she simply shrugged and said, ¡°Baby steps. Howie understands men like them, has watched his father deal with them all his life and done well enough on his own these last two years. He¡¯s something the thugs of Vanguard National and the people of Pleasant Dunes recognize and understand, a survivor in this dog-eat-dog world who won¡¯t be pushed around. So I set him loose, and hoped I could rein him in to remind the people of this god-forsaken town how life is supposed to be, as opposed what they¡¯ve come to accept. Had I wiped out all those thugs this afternoon like Howie wanted, then that would have put the Rangers in firm opposition of Vanguard National, and the townsfolk would have likely sided against us. Too much of their lives and identities are intertwined with the company, because for years, their survival has been dependant on it, and so any threat to the company becomes a threat to them.¡± Shaking her head, Captain Jung concluded, ¡°I¡¯m trying to show them otherwise. Tarnish the image of Vanguard National bit by bit and make these people see that the company isn¡¯t as all-powerful and all-authoritative as they once thought, so that maybe some of them will be convinced them to pick up and leave alongside us once the Aberration threat is brought back under control.¡±


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    ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± Errol asked, so surprised by the Captain¡¯s explanation he couldn¡¯t help but blurt out, ¡°We¡¯re just gonna pick up and go, leaving the company to continue it¡¯s abuse and exploitation?¡±


    ¡°Within the bounds of Federal law and the Accords, that is all we can do,¡± Captain Jung replied, her eyes showing that she didn¡¯t like it anymore than he did, but was helpless to act. ¡°There¡¯s more to it than jurisdictional nonsense and bureaucratic red tape. There are political angles to consider, because Pleasant Dunes sits in Independent territory, which is an officially recognized status under the Accords. One made necessary by the fact that there was no guarantee an individual settler¡¯s land claim would fall within the governed territory of their home nation, and to prevent the annexation of an unwilling settler¡¯s efforts by a foreign government. Since our arrival on the Frontier, many criminals have utilized this extra-judicial status to avoid government law enforcement, but there are plenty of legitimate Independent factions in the surrounding area, as well as more scattered throughout the Frontier. If the Rangers overstep our government mandate by arresting or executing Ronald Jackson without a clear and gross violation of the Accords that falls within our limited purview, then we¡¯ll incur the ire of all Independents and the old world governing bodies who recognize their authority.¡± Seeing Errol was still not convinced, Captain Jung frowned and added, ¡°Though laws and the Accords restrict what we can do, that sort of oversight is necessary so that men like Ronald Jackson can¡¯t take control of the Rangers the way he controls his Vanguard National thugs. That adherence to the Accords and the American Constitution is all that separates us from him. A lesson Howie has yet to learn, and one you would do well not to forget, Mr. Dillard.¡±


    With that, Captain Jung ended their talk with a nod of her head before marching away, leaving Errol to wallow in a mire of confusion, disappointment, and anger. It was like getting washed out all over again, a bunch of factors that came together to say ¡®this isn¡¯t fair, but is what it is¡¯, and that wasn¡¯t good enough anymore. He could stomach it well enough when it was his own suffering, but now they were saying he had to leave others to suffer their fate and do nothing about it? That he could not abide.


    Thankfully, Sarah Jay didn¡¯t say anything, just took his hand and squeezed to let him know she was there, but he didn¡¯t want to talk it through just yet. He knew she¡¯d come down on Howie¡¯s side, and he didn¡¯t want to get into that here and now. Instead, he gave her a grateful smile and helped her back to their sleeping area, one laid out close to the wagon and next to where Howie was munching on cold travel rations with Tina seated right next to him, and the two were in the midst of a heated discussion. ¡°¡­.so you hang onto that Shield bracer from here on out,¡± Tina was saying, her tone harsh despite her hushed volume. ¡°Don¡¯t be pushin¡¯ it onto me when you the one gettin¡¯ shot at every other day.¡±


    ¡°Week,¡± Howie corrected, and it was clear he wasn¡¯t taking any of this seriously. It was all a big joke to him, and that was fine so long as he was risking his own neck. Tonight though, he put Sarah Jay and the rest of them at risk too, and Errol wasn¡¯t about that. ¡°Ain¡¯t getting shot at that often now.¡± Turning to smile at them as they passed, Howie asked, ¡°How¡¯s the leg, Jay? Can it bear your weight?¡±


    ¡°Medics said best not to in case there¡¯s a hairline fracture,¡± Sarah Jay replied, only to grunt as Errol helped her sit down in the sand. ¡°Too tender right now to really tell just yet. Mind usin¡¯ your Mould Earth Cantrip to build me something to rest my leg on while I sleep?¡±


    ¡°Sure thing.¡± Howie was there in a heartbeat, muttering something under his breath to set the sands to gathering under his hand. It was like watching the wind blow away at a small mound of sand, only in reverse as he shaped the sand beneath his hand the way a potter would shape wet clay. Didn¡¯t take him more than two minutes to put together a raised bed of firm sand big enough for two with an elevated perch to support Sarah Jay¡¯s leg from knee to foot. Even carved out a recessed area next to it so she could keep her legs close together, and thoughtful as it was, Errol couldn¡¯t help but be annoyed it¡¯d taken getting shot at to get Howie to help them sleep more comfortably through the night. It was a small, minor thing, one so trivial it wasn¡¯t worth even caring about, but it was still there all the same. ¡°They hit you with a Minor Regeneration?¡± Howie asked, gesturing at Errol to help Sarah Jay over to the bed of sand. ¡°I got one from a boot, and was told a bruise ain¡¯t worth the Material component cost of a Ritual Prayer of Healing.¡±


    Neither of which would do much in the short term, as both Spells merely encouraged the body¡¯s natural recovery abilities. Minor cuts and scrapes might clear up within a day with a single application of the First Order Minor Regeneration, but bruises would require multiple castings over the course of a week to clear them up any quicker. As Father Nicolas explained it, the Spell would accomplish in 30 seconds what the body usually needed hours to heal, but repeated castings in quick succession would have inversely exponential results. Had to do with the limits of the human body and how certain processes could only be hurried along so much before risking defects and malformations like painful scar tissue, mis-aligned bones, embedded foreign debris, cancerous growths, or even Corrupted flesh from overexposure to Aetheric Energies. No chance of any of that with a possible hairline fracture and bruise, but it was still something to be concerned about in general.


    ¡°Yea, I got one too,¡± Sarah Jay replied, settling her leg on the perch and laying back to rest. ¡°Glad I finished my plate though. Already feelin¡¯ peckish, so I can only imagine how it is for you.¡±


    ¡°Ah, ain¡¯t so bad,¡± Howie replied. ¡°You want some jerky? So soft there¡¯s barely a chance you¡¯ll chip a tooth.¡±


    Sarah Jay laughed. ¡°Nah hoss, you keep that for yourself. Could do with a hot breakfast come morning though. Got the feeling I¡¯ll be mighty peckish.¡±


    ¡°You and me both. We done been 86ed from the saloon, and I¡¯m fresh outta bacon and biscuits, but I¡¯ll scrounge somethin¡¯ up.¡± Howie stuck around to banter a bit more and make sure Sarah Jay was okay, but never got around to apologizing for getting her shot over a senseless argument he had no cause to start in the first place. That soured Errol quite a bit, but again, he didn¡¯t say anything, because he knew Sarah Jay wouldn¡¯t agree with his point of view. Was really starting to weigh on him, this inability to express how he felt about Howie without Sarah Jay leaping to the Firstborn¡¯s defense.


    No doubt she¡¯d go on about how Howie was trying to save young Noora from her wretched fate, but Errol didn¡¯t buy it. No, if the Firstborn was so concerned about an underaged sex worker, why¡¯d he go and pay for her services to begin with? Man couldn¡¯t even bother to come up with a proper excuse, just said they played cat¡¯s cradle despite coming down those stairs half-dressed. Disgusting is what it was, and it showed Howie¡¯s true colours. He didn¡¯t care about Noora. Not like that. No, he was probably just sweet on her and couldn¡¯t stand seeing her with another client, even though he knew what she was going in. Far as Errol was concerned, Howie wasn¡¯t much better than the thugs themselves, with the only difference being he liked to pretend he was one of the good guys and made sure to have proper justification for all his crimes.


    The only problem now was convincing Sarah Jay of the truth, a question Errol pondered while lying next to his girl. Howie¡¯s daddy might¡¯ve been a good man who saved her life, but Howie was actively endangering it, dragging her into these dangerous situations engineered to paint him as a victim so he could justify lethal self defense.


    ¡°Hey, got a visitor, Firstborn.¡± The voice belonged to a boot named Edmundo, though everyone called him big Ed. Next to the stocky, South-American was Noora herself, who looked awfully shook as she stood there hugging herself with one arm. ¡°Captain says you offered to help her, so she¡¯s your responsibility.¡± Giving Howie a wink, big Ed added, ¡°Lucky you. When¡¯s it my turn to save the damsel in distress?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll come across one soon enough,¡± Howie replied, standing up with notebook in hand while Errol did the same, mostly to make sure the Firstborn would actually look after the girl. ¡°Thanks Edmundo!¡± Howie added a bit of Spanish flair to the name, which got the other boot laughing as he headed back to his post. ¡°Hey Noora,¡± Howie said. ¡°How you holdin¡¯ up?¡±


    ¡°F-fine,¡± Noora stuttered, moving closer to Howie who took a step away rather than hug the poor girl, shivering girl who seemed woefully underdressed and ready to burst into tears. Probably overcompensating because he wanted Tina to believe he didn¡¯t pay to have sex with Noora, when he clearly did. ¡°T-there was a lot of arguing, some y-yelling and s-screaming. Heard my name a few times, and didn¡¯t think it¡¯d be s-safe to stay.¡± Falling back on her charms, Noora shared a sad and lovely smile, her doe eyes fixed on the Firstborn because she bought into his lies too. ¡°You said to come find you if I needed food and protection, so here I am. Not gonna send me away, are you?¡±


    Heartbreaking is what it was, and though Howie said all the right things and behaved like the perfect, sympathetic gentlemen, Errol knew it was likely because Tina was watching. After a couple questions and answers, Howie set Noora up with a bunk inside his wagon, as well as some clothes borrowed from Kacey, since there was no way Noora would fit in Tina or Sarah Jay¡¯s clothes. Soon after, Howie behaved himself and settled in to sleep on his bed of raised sand with baby Cowie nestled in his arms, and Errol fell asleep while trying to make sense of this senseless world. Felt like he only just closed his eyes when Sarah Jay shook him awake and handed him a steaming plate of beans, canned luncheon meat, and something that looked an awful lot like the prickly cacti plants dotting the dunes outside, only grilled and cut up into bite sized pieces.


    Errol had eaten far worse though, so he sat up and dug in, only to realize a few seconds later that Noora was sitting across from him with her own plate balanced on her lap. ¡°Oh hi Noora,¡± he said, still not wholly awake. ¡°I¡¯m Errol.¡±


    ¡°Oh I know,¡± Noora replied, with a smile that was a bit too playful and mischievous for Errol¡¯s comfort. At least she was wearing a button up shirt and long pants this time, instead of baring her shoulder and legs for all to see. ¡°You¡¯re Jay¡¯s hunk of handsome man chocolate.¡± Licking her lips as she eyed him in a most unladylike way, she added, ¡°Well, if the shoe fits¡­¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t it though?¡± Handing him a cup of chicory coffee, Jay snuggled up against him with a smile that warmed him up inside, even though she usually got jealous when other girls looked at him like that. ¡°Noora and Tina helped me over to the medics already,¡± she said, taking a sip of her coffee before spearing a slice of meat to go with it. ¡°Got me a clean bill of health too. Still hurts to walk, but I can eke out a hobble if I hafta, and they hit me with another Minor Regeneration to speed things along.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s great to hear.¡±


    ¡°Even better news is I got me a pass on trench diggin¡¯ duty, on account of needin¡¯ to convalesce right here in camp.¡± Beaming prettily as she sat there all pleased as can be, Sarah Jay took a few bites of her breakfast before continuing, ¡°So you¡¯ll be all on your lonesome today. Think you can manage without me?¡±


    Hopefully, but Errol simply nodded and said, ¡°I¡¯ll be counting the seconds.¡±


    ¡°Good answer.¡±


    Giving him a look meant to ask if he was doing alright, Sarah Jay waited for his answer, but Errol wasn¡¯t as well-versed in nonverbal communication as she was. How do you say, ¡®struggling a bit, but I can¡¯t talk about it because you wouldn¡¯t get it¡¯ without saying a word or giving offense? Instead, he shrugged and smiled as best he could, knowing he wasn¡¯t fooling her one bit. To keep things from getting awkward, he turned to their audience and asked, ¡°So how¡¯d you sleep?¡±


    ¡°Better than I have in a long time,¡± Noora replied, so frank and forthright it surprised even her. ¡°That¡¯s one cozy armoured wagon the Firstborn¡¯s got there, and those blankets? Never felt anything half as soft.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯d be the wally wool,¡± Sarah Jay supplied, and then the two girls were off, chatting about this and that while leaving Errol to eat his breakfast in peace. The topic of discussion went from New Hope, Ranger training, then their trip to Pleasant Dunes, where Sarah Jay proudly showed off her Ablative Armour Spell Core to a fascinated Noora. ¡°Ain¡¯t much to look at or worth much of anything at all,¡± she said, holding the boxy purple crystalline structure up to the light, ¡°But it¡¯s the first Spell Core I ever earned, and I¡¯m hoping the first of many to come.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s incredible,¡± Noora replied, but despite her enthusiasm and sincerity, her shoulders slumped in an all too familiar, self-pitying way as she gestured around them. ¡°I¡¯ve never even seen a Spell Core before, even though I know there¡¯s one in every gun. You guys aren¡¯t even that much older than me, and you rode all this way through the desert fighting off Aberrations along the way. Can¡¯t even imagine doing that myself.¡± Looking down at her plate and playing around with her fork, Noora took a long moment to gather her words, and Errol knew better than to interrupt. ¡°Yesterday morning,¡± she began, and Errol perked up to hear it, ¡°Howie told me the Rangers could bring me safely out of town if I wanted to leave with them. I was too scared to even consider going, but now it looks like I got no choice but to.¡± Poking at her food some more, she looked up and asked, ¡°Is it true? The Rangers will let me tag along for free?¡±


    ¡°One hundred percent.¡± Though the question was directed at Sarah Jay, Errol felt compelled to speak up, and he met Noora¡¯s scared gaze with all the sincerity he could muster. Maybe she was used to her clients lying to her, but he wanted her to know not all men were the same. ¡°If you want to get away from Pleasant Dunes, then the Rangers will bring you away safe and sound.¡±


    ¡°Sure as shootin¡¯,¡± Sarah Jay chimed in. ¡°Don¡¯t matter who stands in our way, the Rangers¡¯ll stomp ¡®em flat before they know what hit ¡®em. Lemme tell you about the scuffle we had with Abby on the way in. It¡¯s early afternoon and we on patrol when I spot Kacey over there come ridin¡¯ in on Ivory, Howie¡¯s horse¡­¡±


    That¡¯s how Errol left them, with Sarah Jay regaling Noora with tales of how the Firstborn came hurtling in atop his Floating Disc with an army of Abby behind him. Rather than stick to Howie¡¯s side with Kacey and Tina, Errol found himself a spot in between Ike and Antoni as they dug trenches in the sand. Even though Ike had been part of Richard¡¯s crew, he¡¯d earned himself a second chance in Errol¡¯s book, and showed he deserved it by keeping his head down and chatter to a minimum as they worked side by side all day. Antoni was much the same, so aside from a few shared complaints about working all day beneath the scorching red sun, they kept their conversation light and breezy. It was perfect, so the next day, Errol joined them again and was welcomed with a nods from both men. Their topics of discussion expanded to include what sorts of foods they wished they could eat instead of the terrible army chow they were fed, with a bit of good-natured ribbing about Errol¡¯s superior meals thanks to Howie. The third day they met up to dig ditches, Antoni welcomed him with a light punch on the shoulder, and they fell in like old friends telling jokes and passing the time with stupid ¡®would you rather¡¯ questions.


    ¡°Would you rather march around town in full parade dress for three full hours,¡± Antoni began, pausing to hurl a shovel full of sand over his shoulder. ¡°Or wash all the Sergeant¡¯s smallclothes by hand?¡±


    ¡°Damn that¡¯s a tough one,¡± Ike replied, and Errol had to agree.


    ¡°Am I marching alone, or is everyone marching with me?¡± Errol asked.


    ¡°What¡¯s it matter?¡± Stopping to wipe his sweat, Ike raised an eyebrow and said, ¡°Marching is marching.¡±


    ¡°If I¡¯m alone, then I¡¯d rather do the smallclothes.¡± Shaking his head with a smile, Errol added, ¡°There¡¯s no way I¡¯m high-stepping around town all by myself for three long hours in this heat. Least I can wash in the shade.¡±


    ¡°Misery loves company,¡± Antoni supplied, and they all laughed together, even though it wasn¡¯t really all that funny.


    The low, haunting whir of the siren spinning up put an end to their flat banter as they all went on high alert, standing up straight to peer over the lip of the trench and glance in all directions. A second later, their training kicked in as they all climbed out and beat a hasty retreat back into town. Were only a handful of ladders for the boots to use to get back up on the wall, as Pleasant Dunes only had two gates, one on the east side leading up into the mountains, and one on the west for visitors coming into town. They were digging on the south side, opposite where they fought off the horde chasing down the Vanguard National thugs only a few days past, but far as Errol could tell, the Abby attack wasn¡¯t coming from this direction. Even then, he didn¡¯t waste any time getting up the ladder, nor would the Sergeants have allowed it, barking orders and hurrying boots along if they so much as hesitated on the way up. They were the last up, save for Howie who waited until one ladder was completely clear before running up the rungs without using his hands. Wasn¡¯t even looking forward while he did it, but had his head turned west and eyes narrowed as if he could see something the rest of them didn¡¯t. Was a good chance he did, knowing the Eagle Eye Spell like he did, but he didn¡¯t say nothing when he reached the top of the wall. Just looked back down at the sand to make sure no stragglers had been left behind before pulling the ladder up behind him.


    There was something about his attitude that made Errol uneasy, a frustrated air about him steely expression that spoke volumes to his foul mood. It wasn¡¯t anger, but concern which had him all tense and apprehensive, which was out of character for the cocky Firstborn who acted like there was no problem too big for him to solve. Weren¡¯t any smiles out of him this time around, no cheeky grin or brazen statements about killing Abby or whatnot, just a grim but determined set to his jaw as he glanced at Tina, then back at camp where Noora and Sarah Jay were still hanging about.


    Curious that, but then Sergeant Begaye began bellowing orders and Errol gave Ike and Antoni a nod farewell followed by a fist bump for good luck. It was time to join the Firstborn again, who was already with Tina and Kacey, the other members of their little Strike Team. ¡°Where¡¯s your Whumper?¡± Were the first words Howie mouth, eyeing Errol¡¯s lack of secondary while double checking his own. Rather than wait for an answer, Howie sighed and handed his revolver Blastgun over. ¡°You got shells?¡± Errol didn¡¯t, because he figured he wouldn¡¯t need them since he wasn¡¯t carrying the Blastgun around to dig ditches. Difficult enough to keep the El-Minister in place while working all day, but that wasn¡¯t a problem for the Firstborn. No, his strap for his Ranger Repeater was perfectly fitted, and he even had a leather sling for the Whumper which he brought everywhere he went, complete with two pouches of shells which he pressed into Errol¡¯s hands. ¡°Slow is smooth and smooth is fast,¡± he said, in the same tone and cadence he always did. ¡°Pick your shots and aim for the big ones with the compressor. If they get in close, we¡¯ll cover you while you fall back a step to remove it. It¡¯ll be hot, so have a glove ready.¡±


    ¡°Got it,¡± Errol said, unsure why Howie was being so specific with his orders this time around, when he usually stopped after ¡®pick your shots¡¯. A question asked and answered as they took their position on the western wall and spotted a massive horde of orcs, goblins, and bugbears spreading out across the coral sands. Thousands might well be an understatement, as there were more Abby than Errol had ever seen gathered in one place, more than he¡¯d ever seen in total throughout his lifetime before today. Their mottled green figures dotted the landscape, not quite stretching out over the horizon, but only because there were too many sand dunes in the way. They didn¡¯t approach the town in neat and orderly ranks, but as a single, congealed mass that ebbed and flowed around the city limits, a seemingly random, rippling tide of green moving with subtle cohesion as they surrounded the walls on three sides. North, West, and South, wherever Errol turned, there were Aberrations to be found, still too far away even for one of Sarah Jay¡¯s best shots, but far too close for comfort and only moving closer with each passing breath.


    It was a sight which shook him to the core, one that would stick with him to the rest of his days, those coral sands covered by a nigh endless horde of Aberration attackers hellbent on steamrolling Pleasant Dunes into the ground.


    ¡°If the worst comes to worst,¡± Howie began, speaking quietly in a calm and measured tone despite his ominous start, ¡°Get to the wagon. That¡¯s our fallback point, one Cowie will be guarding. I¡¯ll do what I can to get you out, but if you ain¡¯t at the wagon when I get there, then you are on your own. Got it?¡±


    Errol swallowed hard and nodded, though Howie couldn¡¯t see it, as his eyes were focused on the oncoming Abby horde. Taking a deep breath, the Firstborn cracked his neck to the left, then the right, before stretching his arms out to either side like getting ready for bed. ¡°Welp,¡± Howie began, regaining some of his cocky, confident demeanour as he raised his voice for the others to hear and smiled in spite of the odds arrayed against them. ¡°Things haven¡¯t worked out quite as expected, and I¡¯ll be the first to admit this ain¡¯t ideal, but I¡¯ll say this much; still beats diggin¡¯ ditches.¡±


    Errol laughed. He couldn¡¯t help it, as it was a mixture of nerves, relief, and mind-numbing terror, but it was enough to snap him out of his funk. Much as he disliked the Firstborn on a personal level, Howie was a good man to have beside you in a fight. Muttering a prayer beneath his breath, Errol threw a Heroism Spell on himself once more and readied to face the horde. Forget legalities and politics, jurisdiction and purviews, Independents or Federation. This here was something he understood, a role he¡¯d dreamed of playing for as long as he could remember, and today, for better or for worse, he was living the dream.


    Errol Dillard. Not an American Ranger, M¨¦tis Pathfinder, or even Catholic Templar like he¡¯d imagined as a child growing up. Just a prospect for a crew he wasn¡¯t sure he wanted to stay on, but the label wasn¡¯t important. Today, he was here to fulfill his dreams and fight the good fight, show Abby that a divided humanity could stand united against them, that they would not go quietly into the night or lay down arms without a fight. Not for thrills or profit like Howie, but for the sake of saving lives, no more, and no less, for this was his purpose, his calling, the good work bestowed upon him by the Lord, to save this town or die trying.


    From Aberrations first, then Vanguard National once the dust settled, by convincing everyone he could to leave alongside the Rangers. Though Errol was just a man, he was a man burning with purpose, and for better or for worse, he would see this through to the end.

 Chapter 42

    For years, harpies featured front and centre in Sarah Jay¡¯s nightmares, but orcs were looking ripe to replace them after today.


    Was strange really. Most folks treated gobbos as your standard Abby fare, while Ferals were some evolved, genetically engineered killer beasts and the Soulless these unkillable spooks wielding powerful magics. Made gobbos seem almost inconsequential by comparison, and it showed in their appearance, as they were these ugly, green children, and orcs only a little better. A bunch of muscular bantam baldies standing about five foot nothing, though they were thick in the shoulders, at least two feet wide across if not more. Short and squat, that was an orc in a nutshell, and they only got sillier from there. Ugly didn¡¯t begin to cover it, with these big, broad faces to go with their oversized heads, and noses so flat their nostrils looked like the coin slots for them gumball machines outside Miss Dawson¡¯s confectionery and ice cream parlour. Add in their too-wide mouths, too-flat lips, and all manner of protruding teeth and tusks, and what you ended up with was a whole mess of ugly and unimpressive.


    Yet somehow, they were scarier than any other Abby around. Giant bugs, flying harpies, and undying spirits seemed much more terrifying in theory, yet orcs struck a chord in a way she never thought possible. They didn¡¯t look human, but they looked human enough to trick her brain into seeing them as something more than just Abby. Was a problem unique to orcs, or at least she felt that way. Lot of folks thought gobbos looked like children, but their proportions were all wrong in Sarah Jay¡¯s eyes. Too lean and muscular, with heads too long and faces too mature to fool her even for a second. Bugbears had issues in the other direction, because even though they were about as tall as she was, their proportions were too overblown because of how damn thick they were grown. It made sense for them to have those overhanging shoulders and tree trunk arms to go along with them thick, chunky waists and pillar-sized thighs, all rippled and muscled in ways a person could never match. Orcs though? They were too extreme to pass for human, but not so extreme that the comparison couldn¡¯t be made, enough to fool Sarah Jay into reading more from their guttural grunts and savage expressions than there was to glean.


    They wasn¡¯t talking, not the way humans did. Abby didn¡¯t have no language, not exactly at least. According to Mama, Abby were known to convey information using tone, pitch, and volume of their vocalizations, much like a man might use different grunts to show what he was thinking, but they had their own way of actually talking via Aetheric signals. Their vocalizations were just a side effect of their need to breathe, nothing more than noises made when they were feeling in a particular way, like how someone might yawn when tired or groan when injured. A harpy shrieked when it sighted prey because it was eager to eat, whereas goblins chittered and bugbears bellowed. None of those noises were remotely even close to what Sarah Jay would call human, even though they were all made by vaguely human-like faces, so she never paid none of it no mind before.


    Orcs though? Orcs made sounds that were just human enough to keep her wondering what they was saying. ¡®Kar-Rhul¡¯ was a ¡®phrase¡¯ she heard more than once after the battle got underway, bellowed by the squat greenies as they charged across the sands, and it sounded so close to ¡®cruel¡¯ that it made her blink twice. ¡®Gah-Roh¡¯ was another one, usually made as they ran, jumped or swung their weapons like they was putting a bit of extra oomph into the action. Kept thinking they was screaming ¡®garrote¡¯, like they was fixing to slit her throat from ear to ear and leave her to bleed out. There were more of them she picked up along the way, sounds and noises that had no real meaning to them, but ones so close to human language that she kept substituting words in for them. Murder-kill, crump-dem-all, slagga-goons, none of it really made sense, and in the grand scheme of things shouldn¡¯t have changed anything at all, and yet somehow was enough to make them orcs seem larger than life, like a threat beyond their meagre means.


    Because she wasn¡¯t just gunning down mindless, murderous Abby no more. These were orcs, and while they wasn¡¯t human, they was just human enough to scare her something fierce, because humans were the most dangerous threat around. Abby just wanted to kill you, but people wanted to make it hurt, and these orcs represented the worst of both worlds.


    Didn¡¯t help that she was shooting them up close and personal using Errol¡¯s Whumper and getting a good, close look at their mean mugs and fierce features. Some were even thicker and uglier than the others, armoured variants with hard plates nestled underneath their dark green skin that made them look even more warped and grotesque than ever. Subcutaneous chitin plating is what it was called, which was smart considering how Bolts expended the vast majority of their force on the first thing they hit, but Proggies weren¡¯t smart enough to think things through. They ¡®grew¡¯ Abby armour that way on account of how green Abby skin had to stay exposed to the sunlight so they could photosynthesize, and the practical applications were simply a bonus.


    Least that¡¯s what Mama said, and she was a right educated lady she was. Belonged in an old world school teaching university classes or something, not serving food and drinks in a third-rate bar here on the Frontier.


    Which was why Sarah Jay had to survive and make it home alive, to help her mama, sister, and brother live better lives than the ones they were barrelling towards. Was difficult considering how tough Abby were to start with, and how the armoured ones mixed in with the unarmored variants to catch her by surprise. From the neck up, they looked more or less the same, but their shoulders, chests, arms, and everything else gave them away. Their home-grown bio-armour smoothed out the ridges of their knotted muscles and gave them a flatter, sleeker sorta look, right up until you got to the end of the plate and them Abby muscles bulged out like weeds growing out from sidewalk cracks. Aesthetics aside, the armour made them right hard to kill it did, even with her 3-Line packing 44-40 ammunition to deliver an Intensified and Maximized First Order Bolt each time she pulled the trigger. Blew a nice wide hole in their flesh all the same, but wasn¡¯t much more than a surface wound to reveal the dull, matte black Aberrtin-infused bone plates underneath. Far as she could tell, they were about as hard as iron and least half an inch thick, meaning it was headshots or bust with the 3-Line and the 22-10 Squire she kept on her hip.


    Which was why Sarah Jay was using the Whumper Errol left behind in the wagon¡¯s weapon locker, a right compact beast of an Aetheram with a real big kick. One that went both ways, as even with the stock braced good and well and one hand firm around the foregrip, every pull of the trigger made the barrel jump and her shoulder ache. Left her good and sore after only a few shots, but sure was satisfying to shoot, spitting out clouds of white smoke and hails of invisible kinetic shards with a deep rumbly ¡®Whump¡¯. Its comparably shorter range of about forty metres didn¡¯t matter much once Abby got up close and personal, and the wide spray of armour Penetrating projectiles shredded their home-grown bio-bone plates like wet paper. Passed right through their spongey, greyish flesh to pulp whatever was behind them too, leaving trails of dead Abby in their wake.


    There were always more Abby to fill in them gaps though, goblins, orcs, and bugbears too. She tried to focus on the big boys as best she could, because once they got in good and close, their massive clawed hands took chunks out of the metre-thick stone walls like they was made of rotten wood. A right fearsome existence, the hulking bugbear, all six feet tall so wide you couldn¡¯t squeeze more than a handful into Howie¡¯s wagon without chopping them up first. Could hardly even fathom how Abby could get any bigger or stronger, but sure as shooting, they did. Word was a seven-foot ogre was considered a runt, and while trolls were supposedly leaner and rangier in comparison, they was still all thick with regenerating flesh that could regrow entire lost limbs if given a day or two of food and rest. Took two shots of her Whumper to bring down a bugbear on average, and she shuddered to think how many shots it¡¯s take to bring down an ogre, especially if they was supposed to be thicker than thick.


    Granted, she had yet to see the Whumper do work with the compressor attached, which would turn the spray of projectiles into a single, solid shot, but she was having way too much fun Blasting waves of smaller Abby away without even having to aim. A good thing Howie bought two of the pricey Blastguns before heading out, and all those other Penetrating sidearms too, now that she thought about it, meaning he knew good and well what they were walking into, but didn¡¯t bother sharing that little tidbit with the rest of them.


    No, that wasn¡¯t fair. He straight up told them Abby would be attack the town before they left, and hadn¡¯t even wanted to bring them along to begin with. Captain Clay convinced him to, and while Sarah Jay had been grateful for the assist, in the here and now with her stuck in a bunker shooting a seemingly endless horde of Abby as quickly as she could reload? She wasn¡¯t so grateful anymore.


    Her Whumper clicked empty, so she passed it back to Noora without looking and the tenacious Aegyptian beauty got to reloading the weapon while Sarah Jay stood ready with her Szass and Tam 45. They¡¯d gotten into this rhythm soon after the battle started, and gone about it this way for the last twenty minutes at least, if not thirty. A quick study Noora was, sharp as a tack and eager to boot, which showed in her drive and dedication these last few days. Only had three Cantrips to her name before walking into camp, as shaky as a day-old foal after that minor dust-up in the saloon, namely Makeup, Contraception, and Water Sphere. Broke Sarah Jay¡¯s heart to guess at why Noora only knew them first two before this, but the tough little filly didn¡¯t so much as bat an eye, undaunted by her difficult past and ready to move past it. Two nights of lessons with Howie and Sarah Jay, that¡¯s all it took for Noora to learn Freeze, an Evocation Cantrip used to cool water and eventually turn it into ice if left long enough, and she was right eager to learn more.


    Put Errol to shame it did, but not because he was dumb. He had the smarts to learn a Cantrip if he¡¯d just buckle down and do it, but he was too easily discouraged by the lack of instant success. Couldn¡¯t try more than once without getting frustrated, and oftentimes he¡¯d just sit there and stew instead of doing any real studying. In contrast, Noora was already working on Prestidigitation, supposedly because she fancied the versatile Cantrip quite a bit, though Sarah Jay suspected Noora chose it because it wasn¡¯t on the list of Cantrips Howie had already shared with all of Pleasant Dunes. Girl was ambitious and determined to make herself useful in any which way, whether it be by washing clothes and dishes or cooling wet cloths for Sarah Jay to press against her bruised shin and hopefully reduce to swelling.


    Noora had a bad life behind her, that much was clear. Wasn¡¯t doing this to be nice, but valued, because despite what they told her, she was worried she¡¯d be left behind if she didn¡¯t prove her worth. Most the boys couldn¡¯t see past her fetching features and suggestive smiles, ones she gave out on reflex so as not to give offense. Wasn¡¯t because she liked the attention. No, she was afraid of it, but she¡¯d learned to hide her fear for good reason, the same reason why Mama would happily smile and simper for Oswald when he lashed out in anger, because he¡¯d only beat her harder if she cried.


    Blinking back into reality as Noora patted her shoulder and passed the Whumper back, Sarah Jay shook off her rambling thoughts and holstered her sidearm before accepting the loaded Blastgun. Wincing as she raised it into ready position, she paused to mutter, ¡°Suffero. Suffero. Suffero.¡± Only really had to say it once before the Cantrip activated and washed over her in a wave of cool energy, but the familiar cadence of the repeated phrase put her in mind of her daddy. He¡¯d often sit down and massage his temples while saying it just like she did after a long day¡¯s work, and then he¡¯d look up and smile all bright and happy. Endure, only in Latin, hence the name ¡®Power Word: Endure¡¯, which sent a cascade of soothing sensations to wash over her mind and body. Didn¡¯t do nothing to clear her head or perk her up none, just gave her a little extra grit to help her grin and bear it, and she needed every little boost she could get. ¡®Whump. Whump. Whump,¡¯ went her Blastgun, and she winced every time it did, suspecting that come tomorrow she¡¯d have a bruise on her shoulder to match the one on her knee.


    Well, maybe not so bad, because while she could walk just fine, she couldn¡¯t do it for long without having to stop, and running was out of the question. The bruise was just below her knee and hurt something fierce every time she stood, but it¡¯d gone from an ugly red to a darkish yellow though, so another day or two and she¡¯d be back to full strength, so long as the medics had the energy to spare for a First Order Minor Regenerate after this battle here today. Wasn¡¯t likely, and she¡¯d refuse if offered because there were others who¡¯d need the Spell more, but one could hope all the same.


    The Whumper clicked, but didn¡¯t ¡®whump¡¯, and it took Sarah Jay a moment to figure out why, a long moment she spent staring down at the gun and pulling the trigger in vain. She was out of ammo again, and still the Abby horde came on, so she passed it back and picked her shots nice and slow with the Szass and Tam 45. The sturdy, L-Shaped Aetherarm was a real beauty of a weapon with its sleek lines and clean angles, a sidearm that looked so out of place next to the Squire. Seemed like a weapon out of a different era almost, even though the blueprints were first designed by the same gunmaker responsible for Howie¡¯s lever-action carbine and the Marshal¡¯s famous single-action six-shooter, the Arbiter. All the way back in the 1890¡¯s, if you can believe it, only to move on to design the semi-automatic, magazine fed, 1911 which saw action in two world wars after his death. The Szass and Tam Model 45 was based on the 1911, with all the same mechanical features pretty much, with the only differences being in that of material and Metamagics to support the extra Penetrating power. A gentle squeeze of the trigger sent a Bolt hurtling towards her target, while the gasses produced by the projectile drove the weapon¡¯s slide straight back, ejecting the spent brass and making room for a fresh bullet from the magazine to pop into the chamber. A compressed spring brought the slide back forward and into place, during which the Core had enough time to exhaust and Prime thanks to the Prime, Efficiency, and Quicken Metamagics Etched into the gun¡¯s blue-steel frame.


    The Model 45 had a real mean bark to match its bite, and snappy bang followed by the click of well-oiled metal parts sliding back into place. The muzzle flash left her seeing spots, but she stared past them at her targets as she picked off the biggest and baddest Abby of the bunch. Three orcs followed by a bugbear, each one got two in the chest before she moved on, because any more was simply overkill. Took them a moment to realize it after the fact, but most Abby died in the first hit, while the second was to make sure, and Sarah Jay relished the thrill that came from squeezing that trigger again and again and again.


    Even the reloads were sweet as can be. A press of the button saw the magazine slide out the bottom of the grip, which she caught on the way in to slam a fresh magazine home which gave her another eight shots to work with. Trading the empty magazine for the Blastgun once more, Sarah Jay held fire and took a breather as the gatling erupted to life beside her to spit Bolts out into the crowd. Non-Penetrating Bolts at that, using 22 calibre ammunition, meaning it took a good five to ten shots to put an Armoured orc down and even more for a bugbear. The big, multi-barreled weapon made up for its lack of punch by sheer volume of fire, and that was volume in both quantity and commotion. Rattled off with a deafening ¡®rat-tat-tat¡¯ it did, a din that was off-beat and dissatisfying for reasons besides rhythm. Sounded like the Cores weren¡¯t cycling properly as the gunner mindlessly worked the crank, feeding a belt of bullets into the weapon without a worry in the world despite the fact that he was likely pumping oodles of Aether into a cracked Core that couldn¡¯t loose Bolts to discharge the energy building up inside it.


    Meant it was only a matter of time before that cracked Core exploded according to Howie, which was why Sarah Jay had stationed herself as far away from the gun as possible within the confines of the enclosed embrasure. Wasn¡¯t far at all, considering the gatling gun was bolted dead centre in the middle of the room, but whether by dumb luck or ingenious design, the room had two pillars on either side of the gatling that were just big enough to hunker down beside. Kept her shielded from the gatling without blocking her view of the front and the massed hordes of Abby pushing ever onwards in hopes of tearing Pleasant Dunes to the ground.


    Sparing a moment to glance behind her, Sarah Jay saw Noora kneeling in place with her head down and a magazine braced upright. Fed the fat .45 shells into the spring-loaded magazine one by one, not quite as quick as an old pro would, but fast enough to show she¡¯d had plenty of practice these last few days. Went ahead and tucked the magazine into Sarah Jay¡¯s belt pouch when she was done too, and though it was clear Noora was scared out of her gourd, she didn¡¯t let her fear slow her down none. Amazing considering the girl had never seen a live Abby before today, and now she was kneeling in an embrasure with only a meter or two of stone to protect her while hard at work keeping Sarah Jay¡¯s ammo supplies topped up. Had two bags of shells and cartridges slung over her shoulders, and a third bag sitting on the floor for whatever spent brass she picked up. All that and nothing but an army knife to protect herself with should Abby break through. Brave didn¡¯t even begin to cover it, and Sarah Jay couldn¡¯t help but admire Noora for her pluck and gumption.


    Yea, she was a survivor for sure. Maybe not one who¡¯d been born to thrive like Howie, but she¡¯d learned to endure the Frontier in her own unique way.


    The ¡®rat-tat-tat¡¯ of the gatling came to an abrupt end and the absence was almost deafening. Took Sarah Jay¡¯s ears a good split-second to adjust before she heard the clank-clank-clank of the crank turning the now silent barrels, followed by a loud and emphatic, ¡°Fuck!¡± The townie gunner wasn¡¯t the sharpest tool in the shed, turning to her in a panic as if expecting her to somehow magically fix the complex weapon, one whose barrels were glowing red-hot from the heat yet emitting a purple light out of both ends, a light that was quickly growing in intensity.


    ¡°Take cover,¡± Sarah Jay shouted, before turning to wrap her arms around Noora and press the girl up against the stone pillar. Only then did she activate her Aegis with an utterance of, ¡°Virgo intacta!¡± The Spell Structure lit up in her minds eye and unfolded out into the world, sheathing Sarah Jay in an envelope of protective energies as soon as she was done speaking. A faint and almost imperceptible glow arose from her skin, a dim suggestion of deep azure that was both delicate and uncompromising as it held her fixed in place, the immutable and inflexible barrier standing ready to shunt any and all forces back into the Immaterium to protect her and her alone. Hopefully, the pillar would be enough to protect Noora sandwiched between them, and Sarah Jay couldn¡¯t even shake her head when she saw the gunner leg it over to the opposite pillar while his loader¡¯s legs showed he was still bent over the gun and trying to figure out what the problem might be instead of running for his life.


    Didn¡¯t have to think for long before the gatling exploded in his face, a sight Sarah Jay was mercifully spared from having to watch. Even with Hearing Protection, the echoing boom hit her like a punch to the gut, and she could hardly imagine how Noora might feel with only wool and beeswax to muffle the sound. Made her see stars with nothing but noise, and Sarah Jay couldn¡¯t even shake her head to clear it until the Aegis Spell was done, a full five seconds of decent protection so long as it wasn¡¯t a gun. Reeling in place as the protective energies faded away, she staggered back a step and tried to find her bearings only to spot what remained of the loader and upchuck her breakfast all over the ground. Couldn¡¯t take her sweet time to recover either, as them orcs and bugbears were all pressed against the embrasure and tearing chunks out of the stone, screaming ¡®Gah Roh¡¯ and ¡°Muh-Dur-Kheel¡¯ while widening the hole bit by bit in their murderous frenzy to get at the people inside.


    Whump went the Blastgun, and she almost lost her grip as it shot straight back and smacked her hip. Shaking her head as she took her stance, Sarah Jay scowled at yet another reminder of how far behind Howie she was, as he shot the Blastgun the same way he used most his weapons, firing off from the hip without breaking a sweat. Was a lot of corded muscle packed into his scrawny frame, and she could only imagine how strong he¡¯d be once he settled down and filled out a bit.


    Blast after Blast delivered death to the Abby horde, but without the gatling gun, there was no way she could hold the room with only one townie to help. Not that he was doing much of anything, just leaning against the pillar and looking at his dead friend instead of using either one of the revolvers holstered on his hips. When her Whumper clicked empty, Sarah Jay tossed it to Noora and said, ¡°Get gone!¡± Girl didn¡¯t miss a beat, and Sarah Jay was happy to see it as she reached for her component¡¯s pouch and pulled out a finger-length strand of grass. Took her a moment to centre herself and focus on the Spell Structure she needed, recognizing it by the tell-tale spirals left by the trails of ever-moving lights. ¡°Retineo ¨C Aestus!¡± Intoned in a steady, monosyllabic cadence, the two words came out in seven parts over the course of four seconds as she traced a loop-de-loop pattern through the air and pointed at her target, a spot on the ground just about four and a half metres on the other side of the wall.


    Plenty of room for improvement really, and she wasted a good twenty percent of the Spell¡¯s area targeting where she did since the wall would obstruct the Spell and keep its effect from passing through inside. Could have aimed further out to catch more Abby, but it was a necessary trade-off to catch every last one pressed up against the walls. The Spell didn¡¯t disappoint either as the grasping strands of pale white grass emerged from the sands to tangle the legs of Abby standing outside, who them turned their attentions to struggling free instead of tearing the bunker apart. Was only a matter of time now, and every second counted if she wanted to have any hopes of keeping this bunker intact. Wincing as she set herself in motion, she clenched her teeth and reloaded her Blastgun while limping her way out the door.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡°Move!¡± She bellowed, spooking the shocked townie something fierce, but he didn¡¯t seem to understand. On the other side of the embrasure, them orcish expressions grew furious to behold as they bellowed and grunted in renewed fury, enraged by the sight of their prey slipping away and redoubling their efforts to fight free. Rather than shoot the Blastgun and help them dig their way through the way, she let it hang from its shoulder strap and took up her Model 45, firing off shots with care and precision and yelled out over her shoulder, ¡°Got a situation here!¡±


    ¡°Make way!¡± Hollering for all he was worth despite standing mere inches away, Drill Sergeant Begaye appeared seemingly out of nowhere and peered into the abandoned bunker with his customary scowl, looking no more out of sorts than any other day when the boots were failing to meet his exacting standards. ¡°Third-rate junk,¡± he muttered as he looked over the scrap heap that was once a gatling and the bloodied mass of meat that was its gunner. Didn¡¯t slow him none as he sauntered into the room like he owned the place. Sarah Jay followed close behind to provide fire support, but he waved her back without turning to look, because he was already halfway through his chant. Raising a fist like he was fixing to lay a smackdown on the horde bare-handed, he set out to do just that, swinging for the fences with a real vengeance despite standing a good three metres away from the embrasure opening, and another half-metre of stone away from Abby. Except halfway through the swing, Sarah Jay realized the Sergeant¡¯s hands weren¡¯t empty, or rather were no longer empty as he completed his Spell.


    A glint of steel and flash of light. That¡¯s all she saw at first glance, but then she watched an orc¡¯s head fly off and she paid a bit more attention. Steel gleamed in the sunlight once again, and again, an orc lost its head, the stump spraying its greenish-black life¡¯s blood out over the sands, but still Sarah Jay couldn¡¯t tell what caused it. Took a few more tries before she spotted the Spell at work, and at first, she wasn¡¯t all that sure she was seeing things right. When she was certain her eyes wasn¡¯t playing tricks, it still took her a few seconds to piece everything together, and try as she might, she couldn¡¯t understand what sort of Spell the Navajo Conjuror had come up with or why it was so damned effective.


    When Sarah Jay thought of Conjurors, her first image was of a Spellslinger surrounded by summoned minions. A pack of wolves, flock of eagles, or maybe even a herd of buffalo, that¡¯s how she imagined Drill Sergeant Begaye would fight. It was either that or something of a slow but heavy hitter, calling up storms of Lightning, throwing down Flaming Clouds, or hurling Surging Tides to electrify, burn, and wash away everything standing in his way. Those were pretty much the only two archetypes of Conjurors she knew about, because the other Conjuration Spells were mostly support. Web, Entangling Growth, Fog Cloud, Grease, that sort of stuff, none of which would do anything besides delay the inevitable Abby breakthrough.


    Except Sarah Jay was wrong, and there was a third option no one ever told her about. Or rather they did, but she never paid it much mind, because it didn¡¯t sound all that useful. Conjurors could also make simple melee weapons and metal armour out of Ecto, which might¡¯ve been nice back in the days when good steel was in short supply and good craftsmen even rarer, but even here on the Frontier, armour was easy enough to make, and any Conjured weapon or would¡¯ve been made obsolete by within a year or two at most. Largely because you couldn¡¯t Conjure up so much as a working bow or crossbow, much less a gun, because the parameters of those items were too complex for the Spell to handle. Even chains were hard to make, though steel fibres were workable with practice. Had to do with the fact that the Spell was made for Abby, and they didn¡¯t use nothing besides hard plates and pointed sticks before stealing Aetherarms away from humanity.


    Which was why she and everyone else never gave the Conjure Weapon Spell much thought. All it could do was make you a sword, axe, spear, or whatever to hit something with, and if that was the case, then why not just carry a weapon around with you? The fact that real weapons could even be Imbued or Augmented made the Spell even worse, which was why most thought of it as a waste of a Spell, Sarah Jay included.


    Sergeant Begaye took all of a second to prove her wrong, and all the haters too, as his weapon came to life out of his hands. The shiny steel tomahawk floated in mid-air as it struck out again and again, without any need to wind up or draw back it would seem. It swung hard and fast to scythe through Abby flesh and armour like a hot knife through butter, and when its momentum played it, it stopped for a beat before lashing out at the same angle with the same speed again and again. Didn¡¯t take more than two shakes of a lamb¡¯s tail for the tomahawk to make its way from one end of the embrasure to the other, clearing out every Abby pressed up against the wall along the way. All the while, the Drill Sergeant just stood there in his feathered Montana and watched with his pistol in his left hand, a shiny steel Sturm and Kitiara Longsword that didn¡¯t look so impressive stacked up next to his head chopping, neck slicing, skull cracking tomahawk. Wasn¡¯t plain and simple like the wedge-tip lumber axes and hatchets she was used to seeing, no, this tomahawk was a weapon of war and wasn¡¯t shy about showing it. Had a wicked curve to its edge and a deadly spike at the back, with clean lines all about the smooth surface of its shiny head, and a solid steel octagonal haft to give it some extra heft. Wasn¡¯t no one picking this tomahawk up to chop firewood, though it¡¯d make short work of the job if they did, all without any need for hands as the Drill Sergeant directed his conjured weapon with the same effortless ease Howie directed his Mage Hands.


    Now there was a frightening thought. The Firstborn was already a fast talking, gunfighting, Spell slinging machine; how much scarier would he be with two vicious tomahawks or whatnot slashing at everything around him while he fought?


    ¡°Stand down, washout,¡± Sergeant Begaye barked, glancing away from his work to look her up and down. ¡°Part of being a soldier is knowing your limits. This was what, your fifth Spell of the day?¡±


    Four Entangling Growths and a Mage Armour, the man had been keeping count, except he missed out on the Aegis she just used and the Mage Armour she threw on Noora when the fighting started. ¡°Sir, Seventh, sir,¡± she corrected, only wincing after the fact, because it wasn¡¯t like he was asking for an exact number.


    That earned her a close look, followed by one of his rare, approving nods. ¡°Not bad,¡± he grunted, before waving her away and turning back to his work. The tomahawk was outside the walls now, still swinging away at Abby, using the same pattern and even arc as every other swing before it, which meant there were at least some limitations to what the Conjured weapon could do compared to the shiny, glowy staff he summoned to beat on boots during hand-to-hand combat training using the Second Order Spiritual Weapon Spell. ¡°Get some ice on that knee and lay down before you fall asleep on your feet,¡± the Drill Sergeant continued. ¡°That¡¯s an order.¡±


    ¡°Sir, yes sir.¡± Wasn¡¯t until Sarah Jay was out of the bunker before she realized that was the first time she¡¯d ever heard him speak instead of yell, and that he had a real soothing voice when he wasn¡¯t screaming in your ear. Took her another few steps before she remembered to look for Noora, who she found trailing a step behind her with all three of her bags in tow. Reaching out to take one, the girl shook her head and hung on tight, seemingly afraid she¡¯d be abandoned unless she proved her own worth. Sarah Jay wasn¡¯t even sure if Noora knew it, at least not on a conscious level, so she smiled reassuringly and let the girl be until they were back in camp again. Took longer than Sarah Jay would¡¯ve liked, as she had to pause to rest even though she barely had to go a full fifty metres one way, and saw plenty of injured townies pass her by on their way to the medics. Soon as she arrived, she Errol rushing out to find her, and seeing his handsome features light up in relief set a fire in her belly to be sure.


    ¡°Thank the Lord,¡± he said, lifting her up into a big bear hug in front of everyone before she could stop him. Glad she didn¡¯t, because she didn¡¯t realize how much she missed the feeling of his arms around her, even if they had two rifles and Blastgun getting in the way. ¡°Thought you up and disappeared.¡±


    ¡°Nah,¡± she replied, shamelessly taking in his scent while luxuriating in the feel of his cheek pressed against hers. ¡°Was out fightin¡¯ the good fight. Back now to rest. Sergeant¡¯s orders.¡±


    Then we best get to it,¡± he replied, and the way he whispered it made that fire in her belly move south just a bit.


    ¡°Behave,¡± she said, unable to stop herself from giving him a peck on the cheek and wondering when they¡¯d ever have time alone for themselves again. ¡°Now put me down and help me hobble back inside.¡±


    ¡°Yes ma¡¯am.¡± Errol earned himself an elbow to the ribs for his cheek, but Sarah Jay magnanimously forgave him on account of his smile as he supported her back to their sleeping spot, where Howie had sculpted out a leg rest for her to use while sleeping. Tired and drained though she might be, she didn¡¯t lay down to sleep right away, and instead set to conducting an ammo and equipment check in between gulps of water and bites of jerky and hardtack. The exploding gatling really did a number of her head, so she checked each and every Spell Core in her four issued Aetherarms for signs of damage. Didn¡¯t find any obvious cracks, chips, or fractures, so it was enough to soothe her nerves a bit, even though the continued gunfire and Abby shouts were wearing her thin. Most of the boots were doing the same, checking their gear and their ammo while winding down after the fight, even though the battle was still very much going on in the background. Weren¡¯t any more gatlings sounding off in the distance, but plenty of rifles, pistols, and Blastguns echoing out in the distance to keep the mood tense and stress high.


    At some point, Noora arrived with a cold compress in hand and helped Sarah Jay wrap it around her knee, even though she had to strip down to her sleeping shorts to do it. Was a time when she¡¯d have turned red as the sun hanging overhead in the sky at the mere thought of showing off her drawers in public, but this last week of travelling with the boots had done much to relieve her of her modesty. The other boys were none too shy about pissing wherever they pleased while they was on the road, and while someone had hung up some curtains for privacy while using the jakes, only one person could use them at time, and most boys didn¡¯t bother. Disgusted her at first, but it was incredible how quickly you could get used to certain things, like paying no mind to the man shitting not three metres away from where you sat.


    ¡°You a real peach Noora,¡± Sarah Jay said, and the gorgeous girl flashed her saucy little smile which made most of the boys find it hard to breath. Not Howie though, who seemed immune to most women¡¯s charms, especially after learning about Kacey¡¯s anti-Innate hissy fit after getting hit by the Fear Spell. He was still kind and cordial as could be with the lovely Nipponese beauty, but there was a polite distance he kept that wasn¡¯t there before, or at least he hadn¡¯t been too keen on maintaining. Now though, he treated Kacey like everyone else, with none of the quiet glances or shy inquiries he used to make when he wanted to know her better.


    Was the same way with Noora too, despite being spotted coming down those steps half-dressed alongside her. Made her think his story was true, especially since he kept right on insisting they played cat¡¯s cradle and did nothing untoward, and that Noora¡¯s knowing smiles were mostly so the other boys would leave her alone. If Howie was gonna lie, he¡¯d have come up with something better than that, and wouldn¡¯t have stuck with it for so long due to how ridiculous it sounded. Couldn¡¯t imagine any other boy their age stuck in a room alone with Noora who¡¯d be able to keep his cool besides Howie, especially considering how many signals she was throwing up to let him know she was interested in something more than just games.


    Glancing around camp while washing her hair with a Water Sphere, Sarah Jay finally noticed Howie wasn¡¯t back yet, and asked, ¡°Where¡¯s the Firstborn at?¡±


    ¡°Still fighting by the front gate,¡± Kacey replied, and next to her, Tina nodded and pouted something fierce. ¡°It was in danger of being overrun, so he left with the Captain to provide support.¡± Which was all sorts of interesting, but Sarah Jay couldn¡¯t help but notice how neither one looked like they¡¯d just been in a battle, while she was here scrubbing bits of what she hoped wasn¡¯t the gunner out of her hair. Between them and Noora, Sarah Jay was starting to feel mighty outmatched in terms of looks, and not just because she was sitting around in her drawers. Despite fighting for so long out under the scorching desert sun, the other girls didn¡¯t have a hair out of place. Kacey¡¯s tight braid was looped up and tucked under her army cap, showing off her lovely nape and looking tidy as can be, while Tina¡¯s new, neat hairstyle courtesy of Howie did wonders for her image. With her bangs no longer dangling about her face, Tina looked less like the belle of the ball and more like a beauty queen turned Ranger. Professional was the word, sharp and chic, with the hairstyle exposing the set of her jaw and full breadth of her ears to somehow make her look more beautiful and more dangerous at the same time.


    Then there was Noora, with her dark, lustrous hair, soft, caramel skin, and soulful, suggestive eyes. They was the three beauties in camp, kicking Sarah Jay down to take the place of horse-faced Sally. As for Gabrielle, the only other woman in camp, she didn¡¯t count, because she¡¯d shaved her hair down to match the same crewcut most of the boys had and didn¡¯t think nothing of it, a woman who was here to be a soldier first and foremost. Truth was, Sarah Jay envied Gabrielle¡¯s mindset, because try as she might, she couldn¡¯t even keep herself from throwing on some Makeup in the morning, much less entertain the thought of chopping off her long, brown locks.


    A brief spell of drowsiness saw her head dip down real low before she recovered, and Sarah Jay realized she was more tired than she thought. Slinging seven Spells in quick succession was the reason, as her limit was currently eight in a day and had only just gotten there. Wasn¡¯t half bad considering even the stand outs like Kacey and Tina were only at eleven and fourteen, but either way, Sarah Jay was all but tapped out. Much as she wanted to lay her head down and rest, she realized the other boots were talking about Howie¡¯s exploits so she just had to listen in. ¡°Anyone count how many Entangles he threw out?¡± Michael was asking, shaking his head in undisguised admiration. ¡°Had to at least be twelve. Whole area in front of him was constantly covered in grass for most of the fight, and I don¡¯t think he can hold the Spell for much more than base.¡±


    ¡°You see his aim?¡± Ike asked, shaking his head with eyes wide open. ¡°I knew he could shoot, but man can throw too. Wasn¡¯t just lobbing his molotovs at the closest targets, but picking out the densest groups and hitting them dead centre time after time. Should try his hand at playing quarterback sometime.¡±


    ¡°You should¡¯ve seen him Grease the wall,¡± Antoni exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear like a madman. ¡°Those orcs were hurtling towards us, ready to jump and climb as soon as they hit stone, but Howie timed his Spell to land just as the first wave was in the air. Was perfect timing, I shit you not, with those leaping orcs ready to dig into the stone and climb, only to slip and slam face first into the lubed-up wall.¡± Cackling as he slapped his leg, he added, ¡°The others kept trying and landing on the orcs under them, and Howie let them pile up for a good minute before lighting them all on fire with a Molotov. Never seen anyone kill that many greenies with a single First Order Spell, and probably got more than any of those Fireballs we saw out in the desert.¡±


    ¡°You can get a lot of mileage out of First Order Spells,¡± Howie chimed in, returning to camp with a big, genuine smile pasted across his face. Looked none the worse for wear after the fight and seemed energetic enough to go another ten rounds if need be. ¡°Cantrips too,¡± he continued, once everyone was finished welcoming him back with grins and high-fives, though Errol absence was telling. ¡°Once used Mould Earth to start a mudslide up by Mirador¡¯s way. Buried a band of Ferals beneath it, then sat around and waited to shoot them dead once they dug themselves out.¡±


    A distinctive high-pitch whistle sounded out in the distance to cut through the chatter, and every boot in camp turned towards it. Wasn¡¯t anything to see even in the mid-afternoon sun, so they sat and listened as the pitch dropped and whistle grew soft and quiet. Then the sound cut short, culminating in a low, rushing roar that grew at a rapid pace, and off in the distance, they saw a plume of sand rise up out of the ground as the rumbling explosion rocked the sands at least a kilometre away. A Bombard Spell, one Metamagicked up to the gills and delivered by a Mortar Tube in the hands of an experienced Ranger. Lobbed a shell is all the tube did, a shell which the Bombard Spell Core at the base of the tube had fixed onto as its target. After a set amount of time, the Spell Core would activate and deliver a devastating deluge of arcane force onto the target shell, destroying it and everything around it in a single, concentrated strike.


    The single Bombard Spell was merely the prelude to kick things off as the Rangers made their presence known. Fireballs erupted and glassed the sands clean, while Flaming Clouds and Moonbeams swept around the walls to pick off those Abby they¡¯d missed. The angry roar of machine gun fire sounded out in brief but emphatic bursts, ones that lasted just long enough to say ¡®die Aberration die¡¯. Then they¡¯d pause for a beat before kicking back up again, a practice taught in Basic that was meant to stretch the longevity of their Cores and barrels. There were no more orcish grunts of Gah Roh, Kar-Rhul, or any other such nonsense, only unholy shrieks and undignified squeals as the Rangers came down the mountain and sent the Aberration horde running for the dunes.


    ¡°Course, there gonna come a day when we won¡¯t need to rely on First Order so much,¡± Howie said, picking back up where he left off while staring off into the distance. ¡°But I ain¡¯t willing to wait for the tech to catch up. We Frontier born, every last one of us, and we won¡¯t need all them fancy gadgets. Once we¡¯re good and ready, we¡¯ll head out and tame these wild lands once and for all.¡±


    ¡°Hooyah!¡± Came the response, the standard Ranger battle cry since their maiden battle.


    Blink and you¡¯d miss it, but Sarah Jay was watching close, and she saw the dark cloud crossing over Howie¡¯s expression, a mood that came and went like a tumblevine in the breeze. Was a sad thing to see, him all twisted up about not being a Ranger, when really it was all he ever really wanted. Waving him over to cheer him up, Sarah Jay said, ¡°Big Spells are nice and all, but I gotta say, I find it more impressive to see someone use a First Order Spell effectively. Like your Mage Hands, or Sergeant Begaye¡¯s Conjured Weapon.¡± Was a direct line for Howie to yammer on about how the Spell worked and how good he was with it, but he didn¡¯t take the bait. Just stood there and cocked his head to ask her to go on, so she did and told him all about how the Drill Sergeant cut down a whole swathe of orcs with his First Order Spell.


    In what came as a complete surprise, Howie sat still and listened to her whole story without uttering a peep, then stopped to think for a good long minute. ¡°You sure it was Conjure Weapon?¡± he asked, sounding hesitant to even mention it. ¡°Could have been Spiritual Weapon, which is a Second Order Spell.¡±


    Shaking her head, Sarah Jay said, ¡°Nope. Seen him use that one in training, and that wasn¡¯t it. Spiritual Weapon conjures up a spectral weapon, one that¡¯s all glowy and floaty like your Mage Hands. That tomahawk the Sergeant Conjured up was pure polished steel. It even gleamed in the sunlight and got covered in Abby ichor.¡±


    ¡°Huh.¡± Looking more lost and dazed than ever, Howie turned to Tina and Kacey who were sitting and listening off to the side. ¡°Either of you ever hear of a Conjured Weapon attacking on its lonesome?¡± They both shook their heads, and Howie heaved a soft little sigh. His shoulders slumped down too, even as he tried to rally with a smile, one that barely touched his lips much less reach his eyes. ¡°Well, thanks for sharing,¡± he said, pounding the sand lightly with a fist. ¡°That¡¯s some food for thought then, something to look into when I got the time.¡±


    He didn¡¯t know. Sarah Jay didn¡¯t know why she found it so hard to believe, that there was something about Spellslinging he had yet to learn. Just seemed like he had all the answers really, a detailed, step by step plan for how to improve from now until he became an Archmagus standing at the pinnacle of arcane mastery. Wasn¡¯t like this was some common knowledge, seeing how Sarah Jay had only just learned it herself, so she didn¡¯t know why it was so surprising to learn Howie didn¡¯t know everything. The quirk with Conjure Weapon was probably something only experienced Spellslingers could pull off, rather than a basic facet of the Spell available to anyone who picked it up, and that sort of knowledge wasn¡¯t usually shared, so Howie not knowing wasn¡¯t the end all be all.


    Broke her heart to see it though, because even her tired mind was able to put the pieces together and figure it out. Howie was the Marshal¡¯s bonafide apprentice, which was partially why he was such a great Spellslinger, except they wasn¡¯t teacher and student no more, not after what happened with Mr. Ming. Everyone talked about it, believed Howie cut ties because he blamed the Marshal for not doing more, but while Sarah Jay believed it was Howie¡¯s decision, she couldn¡¯t believe it was out of anger. Despite his hair-trigger of a temper, Howie was a considerate and compassionate man, else he wouldn¡¯t have kept doing Tina¡¯s hair day after day even though the other boots made fun of him for it. No, Howie likely begged off their lessons so folks wouldn¡¯t criticize the Marshal, or ask why he was spending his time teaching a student who wasn¡¯t interested in joining the Rangers.


    Wasn¡¯t anyone¡¯s business besides Howie and the Marshal¡¯s, but folks do love to gossip.


    To think, Howie was this far ahead despite having no one to teach him these last three years, which made Sarah Jay want to work alongside him all the more. Hoping to change the mood, she leaned and interrupted Howie¡¯s silent musing to ask, ¡°So now that we stuck here in town with an Abby horde at the gates, you gonna tell us what¡¯s really goin¡¯ on here?¡±


    ¡°Who says there¡¯s anything to tell?¡± Howie asked, all sly smiles and mysterious winks as usual. ¡°You sharp as a tack Jay, but there are some things you don¡¯t ask.¡±


    ¡°Because if you could tell us, you would.¡± Shooting him a look that said in no uncertain terms she wasn¡¯t happy being left in the dark, she sighed and asked, ¡°Well, you think this is the last of it, or is there more to come?¡±


    ¡°Definitely more to come.¡± Howie made no effort to keep his voice down, and he looked around to make sure the boots were paying attention. ¡°This here was just an a-moose boosh. An appetizer if you will,¡± he added, and only then did it click that he was speaking French and saying ¡®amuse bouche¡¯. ¡°See, the thing about Abby and their Proggies is they ain¡¯t so great at communicating,¡± Howie continued, utterly ignorant of the irony in his statement. ¡°If a Proggie wants them to hit a certain place for a certain reason, all it can really do is point them where to go. It¡¯s up to the Abby to decide how its done, and most Abby in the here and now ain¡¯t too bright.¡± Shrugging, Howie gestured towards the walls and the horde beyond them. ¡°The ones that attacked today? You saw ¡®em for yourselves. Armoured. Aggressive. Full of vim and vigour sure, but if brains were leather, they wouldn¡¯t have enough between them all to stitch me a saddlebag.¡± Sucking his teeth while the boots chuckled, Howie adjusted his holsters and said, ¡°Them¡¯s were newborn Abby. Fresh as a mountain stream and greener than green, and I ain¡¯t talkin¡¯ about their skin.¡±


    The lack of weapons, clothing, and armour should have clued Sarah Jay in, but she was only realizing it now. ¡°So what?¡± she asked, still speaking before she could think, and she could only blame it on fatigue. ¡°They was the chaff?¡±


    ¡°In a sense,¡± Howie replied, shrugging for lack of a better answer. ¡°Don¡¯t get it twisted. Wasn¡¯t like the Proggie ordered them to their deaths to test our defenses. They ain¡¯t that coordinated or communicative, not without a Synapse around, and if they had one, they¡¯d have done better than today. They came at us in waves, eager ones jumping the gun and encouraging others to join in on the fun, because they so new they plum don¡¯t know better. The ones at the back, standing around and watchin¡¯? They the ones to worry about, because they won¡¯t come as us screaming in broad daylight. No, they¡¯ll wait for nightfall and try to take us in the dark, or lob Spells from afar before running away right quick. Could fall back and go after anyone who wanders out them gates in an effort to starve us out, or one of a thousand other tricks and traps they could try other than a head on attack.¡±


    Looking around at the boots and meeting their eyes one by one, Howie held his tongue for a long minute before breaking out into a smile. ¡°But they still just Abby in the end. We¡¯ll get one over on them, don¡¯t you doubt that. So check your guns, fill your ammo pouch, restock your Spell components, top off your waterskins, and grab some grub and some z¡¯s. We gonna win this fight, but like I told some of y¡¯all before, every time you square up and draw, there¡¯s always a chance you won¡¯t walk away. Best y¡¯all do everything you can to make sure you walk away from this one, because we here are the forefront of our generation, and it¡¯s our job to clear the way for the rest. Got a lot of work ahead of us, so can¡¯t be slippin¡¯ at the startin¡¯ line, now can we?¡±


    There it was, Howie¡¯s philosophy in a nutshell, why he took so much pride in being the Firstborn and demanded so much of himself. This was a man who¡¯d chosen to shoulder the burdens of an entire generation at the tender age of seventeen, and he did it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Didn¡¯t matter that his parents were gone, or that he didn¡¯t want to be a Ranger no more. He clung to this thankless burden like it was expected of him, except no one would thank him for his efforts or blink twice if he chose to step back. Turning to look at her man, Sarah Jay hoped Errol would see this side of Howie and come to understand him a little better, to understand that their goals were aligned even if they didn¡¯t see eye to eye on how to go about it. They were birds of a feather they were, good, virtuous, righteous men of the Frontier, and she hoped that together, they could join the Firstborn¡¯s crew and help bear that burden together.


    Then, as if to show that Howie was nothing if not a realist, he leaned in close and gestured for Noorah and Sarah Jay to do the same. ¡°If things look like they goin¡¯ south,¡± he said, giving them a look to make sure they were listening. ¡°Then fall back to the wagon. Me and Cowie will do what we can to get everyone out, but I won¡¯t go runnin¡¯ around lookin¡¯ for anyone in the middle of a crisis. Got it?¡±


    It is what it is, and Sarah Jay nodded in agreement. The fact that they were here trying to save Pleasant Dunes was already more than enough. If the walls couldn¡¯t hold, then the town was lost, and it¡¯d be every man and woman for themselves. Even the Rangers wouldn¡¯t stick around for an impossible fight, though they¡¯d likely retreat, regroup and hit the horde again after a good long rest. Hit and run, bombard and sweep, Spells blazing and gun¡¯s smoking, whatever sort of fight the Rangers decided to take, it would be one they could win, because there wasn¡¯t no winning here inside of Pleasant Dunes, not if Abby was already in.


    Granted, the Rangers¡¯ eventual victory would be too little too late for most of the townies, but there was nothing anyone could do about it. You win some, you lose some, and sometimes walking away is a win, whether it felt like it or not.

 Chapter 43

    I love the smell of Aether in the morning.


    Ain¡¯t nothing else like it really. Closest I¡¯ve found is blood, sharp and metallic, but less copper and more lead, sweet and tangy almost. It¡¯s a heady, overwhelming smell that lingers for a fair bit, and many find it a touch pungent and overwhelming. Me? I drink it in like sunshine on a summer day as I linger on the border between the dreamscape and reality, reminiscing about the days when my daddy had to warn me off from licking crystal Aether because it¡¯ll literally rot my tongue. Smiling as I return to the waking world, I open my eyes to find that it ain¡¯t morning at all, but rather closer to dusk. The deep red of the setting sun illuminates half of the evening skies in a warm golden yellow, while the other half is cast in a dark earthy brown, all of which is blanketed in twinkling white lights in a woven tapestry of stars that speaks to my subconscious mind.


    Now ordinarily, I¡¯d lie here on my back and watch the stars while Cowie snores away in the crook of my arm, letting him sleep a little longer while I search for patterns of a Spell Structure which probably isn¡¯t even there, but this ain¡¯t no ordinary awakening. Wasn¡¯t the smell which shook me from my slumber, nor was it the intermittent gunfire of townies taking shots at Abby when they ought to let sleeping beasts lie. Got no pressing need to bleed the lizard or pop a squat in the jakes, nor is my throat dry or belly rumbling enough to stir me out of my sleep. Nothing here woke up, no happenings inside or around me, and nothing urgent or life-threatening neither, so it takes a hot minute to parse through the haze and figure out what¡¯s keeping me from catching all my z¡¯s.


    It''s the voices in my head which done woke me, having what sounds like an important conversation.


    Which ain¡¯t as crazy as it sounds. The voices ain¡¯t mine see, which I suppose is what a crazy person would say, but my voices belong to other people. Real, flesh and blood people, who are having a real conversation amongst themselves, only not in my general vicinity as I¡¯m listening in on the sly. Rather than sit up and interrupt Cowie¡¯s beauty sleep, I take a beat to calm my thoughts and gather my focus before tuning into my Arcane Bug. Not the one on my Stetson which is sitting in the sand beside me. No, the Arcane Bug I wanna listen in on is the one I Spelled into the set of speakers I handed over to miss Laura. Had it all planned out I did, the bits and pieces coming together as soon as I decided to come back to Pleasant Dunes. Was clear I only walked away alive the first time because Ron had a plan, one that included me leaving in one piece. That plan is done and dusted, carried out to completion the moment I shared my information with the Rangers, so I had an inkling I¡¯d need a little insurance policy to make it out of town alive a second time. President and C.E.O Ronald Jackson don¡¯t strike me as the type to forgive and forget, but unlucky for him, neither am I.


    Which is why I asked Danny if he could make two sets of speakers. Could¡¯ve put the Arcane Bug on anything really, but I figured speakers were something Ron would keep round the office and use for a good, long time. It¡¯s also something I could hide the Bug in without being easily spotted. Ain¡¯t no visible mark to see, only a magical one, but the Aetheric Energy that powers the speakers hides the Bug well enough. The only real way to spot it is to open the speakers up and pull out the guts to find the Arcane Bug I inscribed inside the case. Was an easy enough job, as speakers ain¡¯t no complicated tech, but all them wires and magnets tend to make folks shy away from fiddling around for fear of mucking it up. Me, I tore up the first pair of speakers I got then asked Danny to show me how to put em back together after I spent a couple days trying to figure it out, but I guess that¡¯s just me.


    My plan to listen in on all of Ron¡¯s plans got thrown for a loop when I rolled into town and didn¡¯t see hide nor hair of him, which is why I had to resort to passing the speakers over to miss Laura. It seems my long shot paid off though, because Ron¡¯s home and having himself a pow-wow with all his top men. As I tune in to the Arcane Bug, I filter out the sounds of Chrissy strumming on the guitar and focus on the conversation at hand. A heated one it seems, as I catch someone hurling slurs and epithets my way. ¡° ¨C slant-eyed, slope-headed little shit shoots one of our own,¡± an unfamiliar voice begins, one full of rage and righteous indignation, ¡°And your old lady warns us off? Tells us that there¡¯s no blood to be spilled, even though they shot first? Says we¡¯re supposed to let some pint-sized Charlie walk all over us and do nothing about it, and the word comes from you?¡±


    See, this guy got it wrong. One, I didn¡¯t shoot first. I shot second, and held off from shooting third too, so they ought to be grateful. As for calling me Charlie, that¡¯s in reference to the Viet Cong, or Victor Charlie in phonetic alphabet, the armed movement who fought for Nanyue¡¯s independence from the Qin Republic. Or Vietnam I guess is what it¡¯s called now, which got a strange origin to the name. It¡¯s the reverse of how the locals say Nanyue, which is Nam Viet, so I guess it¡¯s supposed to be some reclamation of the name and state. Sad thing is after three decades of civil war, which was really a war by proxy between the Federation and the Soviets that the M¨¦tis and the Qin later piggybacked onto, Vietnam¡¯s commie government hopped right back into the Qin Republic¡¯s pocket the second they learned of the Frontier¡¯s existence. Forgot all about them thousands of years serving as a slave nation with barely even an identity of their own, because there were profits to be made and benefits to be had in siding with their former and now future oppressors.


    Either way, I didn¡¯t shoot first, I ain¡¯t no Charlie, and I am perfectly average in height, so far as I¡¯m concerned, whoever¡¯s talking has earned himself a Bolt thrice over.


    Lucky for him I don¡¯t know what he looks like, so I commit that edged, feral voice to memory as a more familiar one responds. ¡°I recall meeting with each and every one of you this last month,¡± Ronald Jackson begins, in his neat and crisp intonation while no doubt hitting them with his piercing blue peepers to let them know who¡¯s in charge. ¡°During those meetings,¡± he continues, all calm and unhurried like he is, ¡°I made sure to stress how you were to work with the Rangers, and cautioned you all against making trouble here in town.¡± Though he sounds like he casual and carefree, something said while leaning back with one arm over his chair maybe, what he¡¯s really doing is showing these toughs whose territory they in, and how he ain¡¯t afraid of them and theirs. ¡°My town,¡± Ron continues, injecting a mountain of steel into the words. ¡°My home. My breadbasket, and in turn yours. One which we all agreed to defend against the Aberration threat, with help from the Rangers, and so far our plan has gone smoothly without a single bump.¡± I can feel the shift in the room, as they all instinctively side with the king and turn to stare at the unfortunate sap who done raised his ire, someone sitting amongst the rest of them who has true and well fucked up. ¡°So why,¡± Ron asks, giving his target the full measure of his displeasure, ¡°Did your man Tank see fit to publicly confront the Rangers not once, but twice in direct contradiction to my instructions? Instructions laid out in service to a plan voted on and accepted by each and every man here, a plan Tank¡¯s actions might well have jeopardized, ruining everything we¡¯ve worked towards these last seventeen years. Over what? A piece of pussy?¡±


    The scorn and derision is all but dripping from the bossman¡¯s tone, and it has the desired effect. They came in here all hot and bothered about one of their own, but Ronald Jackson has turned the tide against Tank, or Sasquatch as I been calling him. Tank ain¡¯t one of their own no more; now he a traitor to the cause, one who put his own interests above the interests of Vanguard National, and that, these thugs cannot abide. Much like the Rangers, these men see the world in black and white, a necessity when living the sort of life in which they might be called upon to take a life at any time. You¡¯re either with them, or against them, and Tank¡¯s actions have shown him to be working against them. A neat little turnaround from Ron to avoid a falling out with the Rangers or his men, but I¡¯m too excited to be impressed by his charismatic ways, because I done hit the jackpot. Seems miss Laura went and set them speakers up in Vanguard National¡¯s clubhouse, and I¡¯ve fortuitously tuned into one of their board meetings or whatever, so I pull out a notebook and start scribbling down my thoughts, much to Cowie¡¯s displeasure.


    A kiss on the nose is enough to settle his grumbles, and I get to writing down everything I can. Not just what they saying, but what I¡¯m hearing, descriptions of voices, tones, and the general mood so I don¡¯t forget a thing. After a bit of muttering, Greaseball responds with his unmistakable voice, like gravel rubbed raw. ¡°Told him it wasn¡¯t worth the fight,¡± he grumbles, clearly unhappy to have been singled out. Nah, Greaseball got the skills to lead, but not the spine, as he happier following orders like a good little grunt. Ain¡¯t nothing wrong with that, as the burden of responsibility is a heavy one, but he done picked the wrong horse to back in this fight. ¡°But Tank got all fired up the second he heard that gook gash was there too. Hit him with a cheap shot in front of everyone that same afternoon, and he wanted to settle up.¡±


    Sounds like Greaseball is making excuses on Tank¡¯s behalf, but what he¡¯s really doing is backing Ron¡¯s statement. This wasn¡¯t about Noora or Vanguard National¡¯s profits or pride, it was about Tank¡¯s ego, nothing more, nothing less. Ain¡¯t no honour among thieves and no brotherhood amongst bandits, because if they possessed integrity enough to care about either of those things, then they wouldn¡¯t be thieves and bandits in the first place. Course, Ronald Jackson is a scary smart man and knows abandoning one of their own won¡¯t sit right with his people, so he swoops in to offer a helping hand, even though he the one who kicked the man off the cliff to begin with. ¡°Tank is still one of us,¡± he says, and I hear his chair slide back as he stands to deliver the rest in what I imagine is his predatory lean, a man looking over his subject with a mind to command them. ¡°So I won¡¯t leave him to stand trial in a kangaroo court. His matter will be handled and his debt settled, but not by us. That¡¯s the whole point of this whole dog and pony show after all, to make sure there¡¯s no bad blood between the Rangers and Vanguard National. That¡¯s why we brought in our friends from the Khaganate, to keep our hands clean. What do you think? Can you rescue our man and bring in the Ranger Captain alive on top of what we¡¯ve already agreed to?¡±


    ¡°Deee-fi-cult. Very difficult,¡± comes the instantaneous reply, which tells me this here is another smart man, because he don¡¯t sound afraid. Does sound Soviet though, as he speaks in that thick sort of way them Soviets do, hitting the emphasis on the wrong syllables as he talks from the chest. ¡°Kill all? Proshche parenoy repy. How you say? Ah¡­ Easier than steam turr-nipp. Take the Iron Maiden alive?¡± The Soviet laughs, a bright and jovial sound that doesn¡¯t fit the man I imagined or the topic of discussion. ¡°And that mal''chishka?¡± The man spits. ¡°A child, you say. No trouble to capture. But Gunin, I smart. I go. I look. I find Firstborn. Spawn of Yellow Devil Ming.¡± A litany of Slavic follows, which I don¡¯t understand, but if you read between the lines, you can tell he ain¡¯t happy. Me, I¡¯m pleased as punch. For two reasons really, the first being the fear and respect in old Gunin¡¯s tone when talking about me and my daddy. Much as I hate folks calling him the Yellow Devil, it¡¯s good to know folks still remember him with the appropriate amount of dread. Second reason is because I done pieced things together and think I¡¯ve found my scavs and debtors. The Khaganate, led by Gunin, a little tidbit I put aside for later as my Soviet fanboy finishes his tirade. ¡°Payment already too little to take Firstborn alive,¡± he concludes, and the crowd gets to murmuring in discontent. ¡°Now you want Iron Maiden and your man Tank too? With the Judge and that manyak Revenant at her side? You think Gunin a fool?¡±


    Sounds like all¡¯s not well in paradise as the Khaganate and Vanguard National butt heads, but credit where it¡¯s due, Gunin got a set of stones on him, coming out swinging in enemy territory. Course, if I were him, I¡¯d much rather take on Ron and his goons too, because Ava Jung, Marcus Clay, and Tim Hayes ain¡¯t folks to fuck around with. Forget the first two, Tim alone is enough to put the scare in most, as he ain¡¯t a man to come at you clean. Nah, he ain¡¯t no Angel of Death like the Iranian media dubbed him. His own people clapped back and said he¡¯s so much worse, a Revenant devoid of mercy or emotion capable of claiming damn near any life he pleased. If Gunin and his goons take their shot and miss out on killing Tim, he¡¯ll stalk them to the ends of the earth and send ¡®em all to meet their maker from well over a kilometre away. You¡¯d think the prospect of being strung up by the Judge or killed clean by the Iron Maiden would be worse, but ain¡¯t nothing scarier than the prospect of getting got without a chance to fight back.


    The crowd starts sounding ugly, but then, out of nowhere, order is restored without so much as a word. Ron¡¯s got his boys trained up good, and it worries me something fierce, because discipline is most of what separates the Rangers from the rest. There¡¯s more to it of course, but the difference between an unruly mob and a disciplined militia is a significant one, especially when they led by a scary smart man like Ron. ¡°I admit,¡± he begins, in the same calm and measured tones as always, ¡°The job is a lot harder than the one I envisioned. The Iron Maiden was to be expected, but we didn¡¯t think the Judge and Revenant would come along for the ride too. With a little luck, Abby will take care of them for us, but I¡¯m in talks with my man to handle them if need be. Should things go well, then you won¡¯t have anything to worry about, and can concentrate on the job like we said.¡±


    ¡°Talk. Is. Cheap.¡± Gunin ain¡¯t one to be won over by Ron¡¯s charms and promises, a Soviet after my own heart. ¡°Price go up two times. Half up front. If things go as you say, and Judge and Revenant no issue, then we do job. No capture, only kill. If not, we walk away. No refund.¡± With that, they get to haggling like fishwives at market, but what really grinds my gears is the lack of specifics. The plan is easy enough to guess. Rangers help Ron fight off Abby and bag themselves a Proggie, only to get hit by Gunin¡¯s Khaganate after the fact. Sounds like Ron¡¯s got other hired hitters to help too, someone who thinks they can take on Marcus and Tim, not to mention a source close to the Rangers who told him to expect boots and Captain Jung. Don¡¯t matter who it is or what hitters he got lined up, my money¡¯s on the Rangers all day every day, so I ain¡¯t none too concerned about them, but there¡¯s gotta be more to the plan. Even if everything works out perfect, how¡¯s Ron expect to murder twenty-eight Rangers, thirty-one boots, and the Firstborn on his doorstep and not incur the Marshal¡¯s wrath? Won¡¯t matter if it happens three days out or even five and he got a patsy to point at; if this little expedition is killed to the last man, the Federation Rangers are gonna have plenty of questions for Ronald Jackson and no remorse as to how they go about getting their answers.


    Were this a different man heading a different outfit, I¡¯d¡¯ve chalked it up to hubris and moved on, but Ron is much too clever to make such a stupid move. There¡¯s gotta be more to it, but ain¡¯t no one saying nothing about it. Soon as Gunin and Ron finish talking terms, they call an end to the meeting and get to drinking and partying like only outlaws know how to, so I tune the chatter out to think on my next move, until I hear Greaseball¡¯s distinctive, grating voice cut through all the noise.


    ¡°Fucking Tank is a real one,¡± he says, his voice so full of fake regret I almost shed a little crocodile tear for him. ¡°Told him it wasn¡¯t worth it, but that gook gash man. Tuned him up good, catching him by surprise like that. Bet that bitch would¡¯ve folded like a lawn chair in a proper fight.¡±


    I disagree, but Greaseball¡¯s buddies are all as delusional as he is, and they all chime in about how they¡¯d teach her a lesson with the only tools they know, sex and violence. Makes my stomach churn it does, and I only wish I could put faces to voices so I could sort them all out soon as I see them. Not because I think Captain Jung needs me to handle it. Nah, she can take care of herself, but these men don¡¯t deserve the mercy of a quick death, one she¡¯d no doubt afford them. Only proves my point when they get to talking about the reason Tank got jammed up in the first place, because Greaseball wanted to get his rocks off with Noora. ¡°Let me tell you,¡± he says, sounding like a kid in a candy store as he does, ¡°That girl is something else. Got a real can-do attitude if you know what I mean. Don¡¯t matter how much you slap or throw her around, she just smiles through the pain and works harder to please you. Best damn pussy this side of the Divide.¡±


    Unable to listen any longer, I gather my notes and mark Greaseball down for a slow and painful death. With his head laid out in my lap, Cowie don¡¯t look or sound none too pleased, grumbling up a storm as he reads my murderous mood and synchs up with it, but I pat his cheeks and tickle his ears to keep him from getting angry. ¡°You gotta watch your temper,¡± I whisper, smiling because it¡¯s like the pot calling the kettle black. ¡°Mine might get me tossed in the clink, but you, they¡¯ll kill outright if they decide you a danger to people around you.¡± Got real strict standards for Magical Beasts like Cowie, and so far we¡¯ve met them by making sure all his anger and aggression is pointed towards outlaws with death warrants on their heads, but all it takes is one mistake and they¡¯ll put him down hard and fast.


    So no sense tempting fate. That¡¯s why I was so reluctant to call Cowie in when I was pinned down in the Sheriff¡¯s Office. Good thing Vicente is a real one and didn¡¯t raise no complaints about Cowie, which is why I was more than happy to hand off a case of mead to the man. Looking around, I find the camp quiet and still, but not lifeless as there are boots up and about, the second shift standing guard against townies and Abby alike. Much as I¡¯d love to take this to information to Marcus and get all of Vanguard National brought up on charges, nothing I overheard is admissible in court, because I wasn¡¯t in the room right there with them. Hearsay is what they call it, and I¡¯d need recorded evidence to make it an open and shut case against Ron and his boys, because anything less will be seen as the Rangers overstepping their authority. I could¡¯ve used Transcribe Audio to record the conversation, but anything manually recorded without arcana-tech can¡¯t be authenticated, so again, inadmissible in court. Can¡¯t even pick out the speakers in a line up, as Arcane Bug got no video component attached and it¡¯s all too easy to fake a voice. A Third Order Clairvoyance Spell would¡¯ve given me audio and video, but it would¡¯ve also been too expensive and too powerful, making it stand out even while hidden inside the guts of a speaker.


    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    And again, inadmissible in court unless paired with Record Audio and Record Video Cores. Annoying is what it is, this heavy burden of proof, as them old worlders wrote the Accords like they expected everyone to have a recording device on them at all times.


    So what did I learn? Ron¡¯s in good with them scavs that done robbed me, and maybe the head honcho with the fancy gun is Gunin himself. Together, they hatching a plan to hit the Rangers after the kerfuffle with the Proggie, likely kill us all and split the spoils between them, but as things stand, that plan seems a bit too dumb for Ron. He also said something about the plan going smoothly, but considering Pleasant Dunes is still under siege, I gotta imagine the Rangers failed to bag the Proggie, else this horde would¡¯ve scattered to the winds already. If things are going according to plan, then Ron wants this fight to happen, but why? What benefit does he gain, having the Rangers and his people stuck in a holding pattern here in town while the Proggie makes its way towards us? Soon as it gets close, it¡¯ll drive every Abby around us into a murderous rage and send them at the walls en masse, and then it¡¯s bye-bye Pleasant Dunes, so what¡¯s his angle?


    That¡¯s the tricky thing about baby Proggies. They young and hungry, so they don¡¯t care how many Abby they waste taking their new home for themselves, because all they care about is biomass. A baby Proggie will be so hungry, it¡¯ll likely eat all its minions anyways, so what does it matter how many die taking the town? Older Proggies understand the value inherent in their minions, and the value in keeping them alive, because while a base goblin ain¡¯t worth shit, a hobgoblin is worth its weight in Aether. Won¡¯t get many hobs if you send all your gobs into the grinder day after day, which is why older Proggies take a hands-off approach to directing their minions, all too happy to sit back and relax so long as the biomass keeps coming in.


    That¡¯s the only reason Pleasant Dunes is still standing. Because them Abby out there? They got numbers enough to overrun the town in one concentrated push, only they ain¡¯t united or driven enough to make that push. They are an unruly mob, and the smarter, stronger Abby all want to survive. In the face of massed Aetherarm fire and Magus Spellslingers, they know their best chance of doing so is to avoid a fair fight wherever possible. That¡¯s why I told Sarah Jay and the rest to be prepared for the unexpected, because they desperate to kill us before their big boss gets here and lays down the law. Without a Synapse, a Proggie can¡¯t take direct control of its minions, but it can take away their ability to reason. Pump them full of Battlerage it will, send every Abby in a dozen klicks into a berserk frenzy that¡¯ll have them raring to tear down Pleasant Dune¡¯s walls without a care for their own continued survival, and ain¡¯t nothing anyone in town can do about it.


    Besides run of course, which is why I told my little impromptu strike team to stick close to the wagon. I¡¯ll take anyone I can on my way out, but you gotta help yourself before you can help anyone else.


    Unless the Rangers can get another Company or two to Pleasant Dunes within the week, I ain¡¯t feeling so hot about holding the walls. To hear Sarah Jay tell it, the chaff almost broke through on her end, and I¡¯d bet my last dollar that wasn¡¯t the only close shave either. If we give up on the town and everyone in it, we could clean things up easy over the course of a week or so, but our priority is the safety of the townies, as well as the thugs conspiring to murder and rob us. Annoying is what that is, but it feels like I¡¯m still missing something. Ron¡¯s sitting pretty right here in town, and a man like that don¡¯t stick around when the going gets tough. Then a question strikes me, one I ought to have asked earlier, except I didn¡¯t because I thought it best not to push my luck. Sergeant Begaye made it sound like there still a chance I get tapped to run point down into them Abby tunnels so I can take my shot at the Proggie, so I kept quiet and played nice, but I can¡¯t afford to sit on my hands any longer.


    Soothing Cowie¡¯s grumbling discontent with a cuddle and a kiss, I pat his flanks and slide him down next to Tina, and he looks at me like I done signed the papers to send him off to the butcher¡¯s block. Grinning at his adorable antics, I throw my hat on and set off to find Marcus, over in his command tent on the northeast corner of camp. Greeting me with a nod, I throw caution to the wind and get right to it. ¡°Your Scout,¡± I begin, earning me a look of displeasure because the Rangers operate on need to know, and Marcus thinks I don¡¯t got to know. ¡°He wouldn¡¯t happen to be one of Ron¡¯s men, would he?¡±


    Now Marcus is a big, muscular, black man, and for some reason, a lot of folks think that must mean he dumb. They would be wrong, as he catches onto my meaning right quick. ¡°You think they¡¯re sandbagging?¡± Which answers my question more or less, so I keep mum as Marcus sits there and glowers at the sand. ¡°Why though? What¡¯s to be gained?¡± He arrives at the logical answer, except he missing out on a few details, so I hand over the notes I scribbled down regarding what I heard over the Arcane Bug. Credit to the man, he don¡¯t ask how I know this, just trusts that the information is good, which saves me the trouble of having to explain, and his eyes go wide with alarm as he reaches the same conclusion I did.


    Ron doesn¡¯t want the Proggie dead. If he did, he¡¯d have no qualms about helping the Rangers score the kill, because the corpse would end up in his hands anyways. A real valuable catch it is, chock full or Aberrtin and all the materials you¡¯d need to craft yourself an Aetheric condenser, a little techno-doodad that¡¯ll draw formless Aether right out of the Immaterium and turn it into crystal. It¡¯s what them Proggies do while they alive anyways, and it¡¯s like a money printing machine almost, but it seems like Ron¡¯s got eyes bigger than his head. He ain¡¯t content with an endless source of crystallized Aether; he wants an infinite supply of Aberrtin, Spell Cores, and Aetheric materials too, rare, magic-infused resources that only appear in Proggie dens that have been around for a good, long time.


    Has something to do with the localization of Aetheric crystallization and the presence of the Proggie itself, because it creates those materials so it can infuse them into its own body or the body of its Synapse. Doesn¡¯t happen overnight, and a baby Proggie won¡¯t get working on that sort of stuff right away, so Ron¡¯s in this for the long haul. He wants the baby Proggie alive so he can feed it, farm it, and watch the cash come rolling in. Man¡¯s crazy as a soup sandwich if he thinks it can be done, because there ain¡¯t no way he can keep the baby Proggie from reaching out to its mama again. She might not want her spawn crowding up her stomping grounds, but it don¡¯t mean she¡¯ll turn a blind eye to its suffering neither. Ron¡¯s plan has been tried many a time, and every time it ends in disaster as endless waves of Abby descend down upon their would-be farm to free the captured Proggie, or put it out of its misery so it¡¯ll stop bothering everyone in ear shot.


    Or radio range, I suppose, since that¡¯s how Proggies communicate. Over the Aetherwaves just like us, only not in so many words.


    ¡°Son of a bitch,¡± Marcus growls, running a big meaty hand over his manicured moustache. Regulation length, no longer than the corners of his lips and not a whisker to be seen on his chin, though I gotta say I ain¡¯t a fan of the look. Then again, I also seen him fully shaved, so I can understand why he needs the mug rug. He takes a good long time to think about what to say, hand over mouth and eyes distant as can be, before turning to me with lips pursed and brow furrowed. ¡°Be straight with me,¡± he begins, leaning in loom over me despite sitting while I stand. ¡°You think you ready for this?¡±


    Meaning running point with a Strike Team to hit the Proggie in transit, I assume. ¡°Nope,¡± I reply, giving him a shrug, and it¡¯s God¡¯s honest truth. The thought of going delving scares me something fierce, as I ain¡¯t ever been down in no mining tunnels before, much less an Abby warren. ¡°Willing to try, but I¡¯d much rather break out my last few mollies.¡± As in Molotovs, to use right here in town. Would solve all our issues really, and make a right real mess of Ron¡¯s plans too, if I were to toss a flaming bottle of high-proof liquor through the window of the building he currently laid up in. Just down the street from here really, the other bookend of this row of buildings, on the same side as the saloon. Can feel my Arcane Bug transmitting from there, like a static pull leading me in that direction. The building¡¯s made out of stone, but the floors and supports are all wood, so I say we set it on fire and shoot everyone who comes out. Might end up killing some innocents, but the butcher¡¯s bill will look a whole lot worse if Ron¡¯s plan comes to fruition. So long as the Proggie is still squirming, them Abby nearby ain¡¯t gonna rest until they all dead to the last, or we are and the Proggie is freed. I wouldn¡¯t take that fight in New Hope, with walls twice as tall and ten times the guns as what we got here in Pleasant Dunes, so either Ron ain¡¯t as smart as I pegged him for, or he hiding an ace up sleeve he don¡¯t intend to use before the Rangers are good and bloodied.


    ¡°Move like that would turn the whole town against us,¡± Marcus says, looking at me with those sad, puppy dog eyes of his. Same eyes that Conner gave me when I told him I¡¯d sort Wayne out myself, all full of fear and denial because he looks at me and sees the old me, the young me, the Howie who had yet to lose his father and understand how dark the world really was. My daddy tried his best to show me the worst, but he forgot how bright he shone and how reassuring his presence could be. Made things in the dark look only half as bad as they really were, and now that he¡¯s gone, the world feels twice as dark and scary.


    So I gotta man up and embrace that darkness, because there ain¡¯t no way to survive clean. ¡°Might could,¡± I say, meeting Marcus¡¯ eyes dead on to show my complete and utter lack of concern. ¡°Yesterday, I¡¯d be worried, but today? Them townies ain¡¯t gonna do shit, not with that Abby army out there. The smart ones, at least.¡±


    ¡°And the not so smart?¡± Marcus asks, just to be certain.


    ¡°Bury them with the rest,¡± I say, and it hurts to see Marcus break inside. Not because he thinks I¡¯m wrong. Collateral damage is unavoidable when dealing with scum like Ronald Jackson, and ain¡¯t no one knows it better than Marcus Clay. No, he¡¯s hurting because he was hoping I¡¯d turn out different, better than him, but now he knows we birds of a feather, a fate he hoped to spare me from.


    ¡°Stow the mollies and get some rest,¡± he says, after a long and lengthy silence. ¡°We¡¯ll do things the hard way.¡± Giving me a look, he steels his gaze and adds, ¡°Because we¡¯re Rangers and that¡¯s what we¡¯re paid to do.¡±


    ¡°Hooyah,¡± I reply, sharing a sad little smile with the Captain before leaving to follow orders. My four-hour nap was nice and all, but I was running damn near empty and need more to get back to full Spellslinging capacity. Eight hours of R.E.M sleep is usually what it takes to fill up a full tank, regardless if you can sling two Spells a day or two dozen. No idea why, but there¡¯s a lot we don¡¯t know about magic, else we¡¯d have long since started calling it science instead. Frustrating is what that is, because there¡¯s so much about Spells and Spellslinging that I just don¡¯t know and ain¡¯t written down in any textbook. Like the fact that items created by the Conjure Weapon Spell can attack on their own volition. That ain¡¯t written on the tin, which is why I never paid it no mind, because spending a Spell to conjure up a hatchet didn¡¯t seem all that useful. Now I got Sarah Jay telling me how Sergeant Begaye set his tomahawk to harvesting heads like a farmer reaps grains, and I feel like an idiot for not knowing it sooner.


    Then again, how was I supposed to know? Ain¡¯t got no one teaching me anymore, which is why having a teacher is so important. I figured I¡¯d be fine, since at the end of the day, slinging Spells is a personal journal. Once you got the Spell Structure in place, whether it be through math, intuition, or bloodline, then it¡¯s all up to you. Ain¡¯t no telling someone how to squeeze a Spell Structure a certain way to get two Mage Hands instead of one, and believe you me, I¡¯ve tried. There¡¯s just a point in the pattern of the Spell Structure where it feels all too natural to split it apart, like a seam in the Spell that apparently only I can see and feel, and no matter how many models or diagrams I make to explain it, I ain¡¯t been able to get the point across even once.


    No one really knows why its like this, but Uncle Teddy, he tried his best to explain it. Told me there a working theory that Spell Structures actually exist, that the pattern of lights I embed into memory can be found somewhere out there in the universe or the Immaterium. That¡¯s why the timing is so important, because the Spell Structures in our minds must match the movements of the Spell Structure in reality, which is how we¡¯re able to draw on it to cast our Spells. Energy cannot be created or destroyed, so it stands to reason that when a Spellslinger throws out a Fireball, all that energy gotta come from somewhere, because it sure as shooting don¡¯t come from the caster. It comes from the Spell Structure, the real one we sync up to using our conscious minds. We borrow its power and use it like a stamp to make an impression upon reality, with each Spell Structure only ever giving one result.


    Unless you know how to squeeze it of course, which is easier said than done. There¡¯ve been Spellslingers for as long as humans have been around, and we¡¯ve been going at it as a society for nigh on five-hundred years now, but we¡¯re still barely scratching the surface of our understanding. What chance do I have of getting all the right answers by myself?


    Would be spitting on Uncle Teddy¡¯s reputation if I went and found myself a new teacher, but I got too much stubborn pride to go running back to him help. If I did, it¡¯d be all too easy to trick myself into thinking I owe him and the Rangers for training me up. Think about it. Most real Rangers from the old-world never made the cut until they were twenty-five or older. They were career soldiers, in it for the long haul and good enough to stand out, and that¡¯s the minimum criteria to be eligible for Ranger training. Even if I count myself ahead of the curve, getting Ranger qualified at twenty-two seems like a bit of a stretch. Assuming I signed on today and stayed on for a ten-year term of service until I turn twenty-seven, they¡¯d only really be getting three or four years of actual Ranger service out of me, which don¡¯t seem all that fair. That¡¯s why I gotta go at this on my own, because on-the-job experience ain¡¯t the same as dedicated training, so I won¡¯t owe them a thing if I figure things out up myself.


    These last few years haven¡¯t been easy, and I been tempted to give up more than once, but I persevered because I believed I could do it. I¡¯m the Firstborn, so if anyone can do it, it¡¯d be me, except now I ain¡¯t so sure it can be done. Conjure Weapon is a First Order Spell, meaning I missed out on a whole lot of practice and study which could¡¯ve helped me improve my Mage Hand Cantrip. Spiritual Weapon is an even more obvious choice I also missed, but being a Second Order Spell, I can only cast it six times a day assuming I don¡¯t cast anything else, so I haven¡¯t missed out on too much. For Conjure Weapon though? I can currently cast fourteen First Order Spells a day if need be, which over the course of three years is tens of thousands of missed opportunities even after accounting for days on the road and my personal growth.


    And that¡¯s one fuck up, caught relatively early on. Who knows how many more obvious connections I¡¯ve missed out on, fumbling around in the dark like I am? I¡¯ve been an idiot thinking I could do this on my own, a fool blinded by unfounded confidence and wilful ignorance. After all this is done and dusted, I ought to head home for a bit and spend some time thinking over my future, because far as I can tell, there ain¡¯t one in the path I¡¯ve chosen for myself in the here and now. I can eke out a living for a few years more, but between new tech, stronger Abby, and the Watershed, I¡¯ll soon find myself outgunned, outclassed, and outnumbered on all fronts.


    ¡°Penny for your thoughts?¡±


    Lost in my haze of disillusion and despair, I¡¯ve unknowingly made my way back to my bed of raised sand, and have been sitting here cuddling Cowie for comfort. Must make for a right sorry sight, a grown man hugging his baby bull for emotional support, so I straighten up and flash my best and brightest smile for Noora to see. ¡°Just tired is all,¡± I say, and it ain¡¯t even a lie. Gesturing at Cowie, I add, ¡°And this one snores, so it¡¯s hard to get a full eight with him curled up at my side.¡± Cowie don¡¯t mind the joke, as he too busy enjoying the head and neck scritches. Terrible thing, a life lived without scritches, and I imagine the only reason humanity is so good at domesticating animals is because we got the fingers to scritch them.


    Taking a seat beside me, Noora leans in close and whispers, ¡°Can¡¯t do much about his snoring, but I imagine you¡¯d be much more comfortable sleeping in your wagon.¡± Batting her eyes, she adds, ¡°I wouldn¡¯t mind the company either.¡± Tempting as the offer is, my mind goes back to what I heard Greaseball say, and I¡¯m overwhelmed by pity for poor Noora. Must show in my eyes, because she draws back as if struck, and her beautiful hazel eyes go all angry and hard.


    Remembering how she reacted when I turned her down earlier, I stretch an arm out behind her in open invitation for a hug, and I¡¯m met with seasoned suspicion. ¡°You make me an offer like that, but balk at an arm over your shoulder?¡± My joke does the trick, and she scoots in to sit hip to hip while I wrap my arm around her. ¡°Thank you, but I¡¯ll have to pass,¡± I say, still smiling as gently as I can. ¡°Told you I was tired, and you go and offer to exhaust me some more? No can do, little lady. Gotta keep my strength up for when them Abby find courage enough to come a knocking.¡±


    Despite her open and somewhat shameless approach, I can tell Noora is scared as a trapped marty, and it shows in her expression. Her eyes dart left, then right, not in constant motion, but one end then the other, looking for something in the shadows that only her imagination can see. Her lip quivers, her shoulder trembles, and her restless leg jangles as she sits there beside me, and I do my best to become the calm in the storm. Telling her to calm down won¡¯t do no good, so I embody the calm she needs, breathing deep and slow until she subconsciously matches my rhythm because that¡¯s how people work. It takes some doing, but soon enough she calms down enough to carry on a conversation, and I spend a bit of time reassuring her further. ¡°It¡¯s gonna be a hard fight,¡± I say, squeezing her shoulder ever so slightly, ¡°But the Rangers got this. Only gave Abby a small taste of the mortar, machineguns, and recoilless rifles. Plus we got plenty of other surprises in store too.¡± Like my Big Stick, which¡¯ll come in real clutch if we gotta cut and run, but here¡¯s hoping we won¡¯t. ¡°And if the worst should happen, well then I¡¯ll do what I can to get you out.¡± Or make sure you don¡¯t suffer for long.


    Ain¡¯t nothing a Proggie loves more than catching themselves live prey. Living, breathing, self-repairing Abby incubators don¡¯t come around every day after all¡­


    ¡°So this what you do on the regular then?¡± Noora asks, having recovered enough to crack a joke. ¡°Ride around playing the hero and saving damsels in distress?¡±


    ¡°Nah. Mostly I sell mead and wool.¡± Shrugging, I add, ¡°Started bounty hunting recently, and you know how that went. Ain¡¯t exactly sustainable work, but it¡¯s a nice bonus to get where I can.¡±


    ¡°Not easy either, is it?¡± Don¡¯t know if I tense up first or she does, but we both got our hackles raised as we sit side by side in silence. Stay that way too, until she finds courage enough to break it. ¡°That story you told,¡± she begins, gesturing at the saloon only a little ways way. ¡°About hanging a man out the window. Wasn¡¯t made up. Saw that much from the look in your eyes. Seen it a lot.¡± Don¡¯t much like what it says about me, Noora drawing comparisons between myself and the folks she regularly sees, but she pushes right on past to add, ¡°Also seen the way you recoil away from touch.¡± She turns to look at me now, her eyes showing that same pity and compassion mine must have earlier on, because like recognizes like. ¡°Recognize that look anywhere,¡± she whispers, pursing her lips before slowly and gently reaching out to stroke my cheek, and damn if it doesn¡¯t take everything I have not to move away. Nodding sagely upon seeing my reaction, she meets my eyes with an expression I can¡¯t quite place. Something sad, but hopeful, and not quite determined, but almost. ¡°Which is why you keep turning me down,¡± she whispers, and I almost smile to hear it.


    ¡°That what this about then?¡± I ask, a little sour over being analyzed so openly, but mostly joking. ¡°Your pride? Already said it. Another time, another place, and things might go different, but you gotta pick your moments better.¡±


    ¡°No. That¡¯s not it.¡± Shaking her head, she continues to stroke my cheek and say, ¡°See, I figured you for a do-gooder at first, but I was wrong. You walked up to me in the saloon, asked if I worked there, then headed right off to start a killing spree. That¡¯s not how heroes work.¡± Pursing her lips in the barest hint of a smile, Noora meets my gaze and all the anger contained within, and sees me for exactly what I am. ¡°Who would have thought it? The Firstborn is just as broken as I am.¡±


    Much as I want to fly into a rage and deny it, there¡¯s no arguing against facts. More to the point, Greaseball¡¯s statement is still eating away at my head, and seeing Noora sit there and smile makes it all the more real. Me? I hide behind anger and bloodshed, while she hides behind smiles and flirtatious advances. Two peas in a pod really, bound together by mutual trauma, except she owns her pain, while I hide mine from everyone because I¡¯m afraid they would think less of me if they knew the truth. ¡°I ain¡¯t broken,¡± I whisper, putting as much steel as I can into the statement without breaking. ¡°Neither are you.¡±


    Noora gives me a look, one that says ¡®agree to disagree¡¯, but she don¡¯t press the issue. Instead, she turns away, leans back into my chest, and pulls my arm to wrap lightly around her waist. ¡°You wanna talk about it?¡± she asks, and God help me, I do, but a secret ain¡¯t a secret if more than one person knows it.


    Rather than say that though, I shake my head. ¡°Nah. Ain¡¯t nothing compared to what you been through.¡±


    ¡°Not like it¡¯s a competition.¡± Snuggling into my arm with a sigh, she says, ¡°Up to you. Say the word and I¡¯ll go.¡±


    But I don¡¯t say squat, just sit there like a log, unable to even enjoy the sensation of a pretty girl in my arms because I¡¯m too twisted up inside. Price of admission to the school of hard knocks, or at least that¡¯s how I saw it, but now it seems like I¡¯ve been wasting my time chasing after a dream that was never actually within reach. So I sit there with one arm around Noora and the other hand busy scratching Cowie, ignoring all my dark thoughts and wondering what in the hell am I gonna do with my life.

 Chapter 44

    The Firstborn was nothing like what Noora expected.


    Didn¡¯t look like much, not with his big hat and bigger grin, both of which made him look younger than his years. Add in the shiny silver emblem on the front of his hat, and the pretty, expensive guns he kept on his belt, and she wrote him off as scav bait with little more than a glance. That was her impression of him from only a few weeks ago, when she spotted him handing out mail in front of the saloon, and it only got worse the more she heard. A Qin kid out of New Hope with papers marked by the Marshal, that was the story going round town, one who was giving out free candies and a Cantrip. Out of a giant armoured tank with a huge gun mounted up top, pulled by a Magical Beast no less, but that¡¯d only made him a more tempting target. Yea, if the company didn¡¯t rob him blind, the scavs would pick him clean as soon as he rode out the gates, then send him on his way with little more than the clothes on his back and a waterskin to see him clear of the sand.


    A regular postal worker with a horse and cart? The scavs and company would leave him alone, because fucking with the Feds wasn¡¯t worth the heat. The Firstborn though, him and his wagon represented a fortune to be earned by the first man who dared to rob him, and there weren¡¯t many fortunes to be found out there on the Coral sands. So she wrote him off as too stupid to know better, copied down his Cantrip, and helped herself to a handful of hard candies without giving him another thought. Could¡¯ve warned him off, but he was too deep in it to escape, and she wasn¡¯t about to stick her neck out to help him. Besides, chances were the scavs would let him live on account of the Postal Services, since even they weren¡¯t dumb enough to fuck with the Feds like that, not outright at least. No harm, no foul, and more importantly, no skin off her back, because it wasn¡¯t like she could help him even if she wanted to, right?


    A fact made all the more apparent when Tony grabbed her off the street and all but dragged her away into the Sherrif¡¯s office. She didn¡¯t fight him, because she knew there wasn¡¯t any point. Tried to smile and sweet talk the surly deputy so he¡¯d play nice, but it didn¡¯t take. Not with him or any of the others, and certainly not with Sherrif Gil. They were all worked up about their names being up on the mailing list, because there shouldn¡¯t have been anyone outside of town who knew they were here. Learning the Sherrif and his deputies all had bounties on their heads didn¡¯t come as any surprise, though now that Noora knew, she set her mind to scrimping, saving, and stealing every last penny she could get her hands on in order to get a letter out to alert the authorities.


    That afternoon¡¯s torment only cemented the idea in her head. Mark, Andre, Tony, Terry, and Sherrif Gil weren¡¯t the first men to ever lay hands on her, but they were easily the worst, and the fear of seeing their full names on public display brought out the worst in them. They didn¡¯t like feeling scared, so they hurt her so they could pretend to be big and strong again. Felt like forever before they let her go, and as she walked out the office, she had to work real hard not to glare at the Firstborn as he passed her by. Wasn¡¯t really his fault really, but wasn¡¯t Noora¡¯s either, and she couldn¡¯t well blame the Sherrif or the deputies now, could she? They¡¯d sense her resentment, and either make her pay for it, or enjoy it so much they¡¯d hurt her more for laughs.


    When the shooting started, she didn¡¯t turn around to look, or at least she didn¡¯t right off the bat. She put her head down and ran for cover to wait for it all to blow over. Then the shooting kept going, one thunder clap after another for long seconds when it should¡¯ve been over in one. When she finally found the courage to take a look, she was just in time to see the Firstborn¡¯s big white bull crash through the front door with a bellowing battle cry. Usually, this was her cue to get lost, because there was nothing to be gained from sticking around any longer, but she couldn¡¯t bring herself to just leave. That was a lot of Bolts, but none fired after the big white bull went in, so maybe, just maybe Sherrif Gil and his boys were all dead. Wouldn¡¯t that be something? So instead, she moved over into a nice, secluded alley, not directly across from the Sherrif¡¯s office but close enough for an unobstructed view, and settled in to watch the show.


    Wasn¡¯t much to see really. The street cleared up quick, followed by long minutes of silence before the guards arrived to cordon off the office. Town guards, not Vanguard National heavies, who couldn¡¯t be bothered standing watch or doing any real work around these parts. They looked real nervous, trading looks like didn¡¯t any one of them want to be there, but they didn¡¯t have any other choice. Then Mr. Jackson showed up, looking as fancy as ever with his silver cuff links and neat necktie as he strode across the sands, taking charge with little more than a few words. The guards, they all stood outside the Sherrif¡¯s office, well away from the door and sheltered behind cover, but Mr. Jackson marched right up to the door and knocked like he was paying a visit. Stepped inside soon after, and didn¡¯t stay there for long, coming out with the Firstborn hot on his heels looking none the worse for wear. Well, that wasn¡¯t entirely true. He had a hole in his jacket around the shoulder, and fresh, bloodied bandages showing underneath, but he was still sporting the same smile he¡¯d been wearing all afternoon, while his bull look freshly washed and all out of sorts as he glared at the crowd in warning.


    Then without so much as another word, the Firstborn hitched his bull to his wagon and high-tailed it out of town, leaving five dead bodies, a shaken-up Vicente, and Noora a free woman behind him.


    For a day or two after he left at least, and during that time, Noora dreamt of what might have been if she had courage enough to flag her hero down and ask for a ride out of town. She figured it would¡¯ve led to a quick and easy death out in the desert at best, since there was no way Mr. Jackson was gonna let some punk kid shoot up his Sherrif and get away clean. Still, if he could survive a shoot-out with Sherrif Gil and his deputies, then maybe the Firstborn could handle himself in a real fight. Might even have survived long enough to bring her out of the Coral Desert to the lush forests and grasslands beyond, places she¡¯d only ever heard of and never seen for herself. Fields of white vegetation as far as the eye could see, or tall, towering trees that stretched up until they were almost touching the sky before blossoming like gigantic flowers with hundreds or even thousands of petals each. Maybe she¡¯d even see an ocean, a pool of water so wide you could stand on one edge and see nothing but water out over the horizon, and so deep you¡¯d run out of air before your feet found the bottom. Had to build a ship to travel across it, not that you¡¯d ever find her on one, because as cool as it would be to have an endless supply of water, you couldn¡¯t pay her enough to go floating out over it on a hollowed-out piece of wood.


    Those dreams didn¡¯t last long of course, no more than any other dreams Noora had ever had. Reality wouldn¡¯t allow it, because three days after the Sheriff died, Tommy Benson got 86¡¯d from the saloon and figured Noora would make for a free and easy ride now that she didn¡¯t have a keeper. That¡¯s when she decided she might as well start working for herself, though miss Laura took some convincing. Wasn¡¯t a bad gig all things considered, as the work itself wasn¡¯t anything new, but it meant Noora got to sleep indoors for a few hours every night after the evening rush died down. On top of being paid too, though it wasn¡¯t much after the house¡¯s cut. She ate better too, as the girls had to look good after all, and they even got a cheaper price on cigarettes laced with something or the other to help them take the edge off. Not that she really needed it, as most her clients were a nicer sort, or at least nicer than Sherrif Gil. Not a high bar to be fair, but the clients who got too rough were tossed out on their asses. Some were even outright kind and gentle, holding her close and kissing her softly like they were real lovers. While she didn¡¯t enjoy it as much as they did, it was a whole lot better than what she was used to.


    Had plenty of free time too, which she put to good use learning the Water Sphere Cantrip the Firstborn left behind and watching Mr. Jackson set the town into high gear. Everyone was working extra shifts down in the mines, and there was plenty to be done on the home front putting up shade, tidying things up, and shoring up defenses. Members of Vanguard National started trickling in too, heavily armed thugs who ¡®kept the peace¡¯ in and around Pleasant Dunes, which meant more work for Noora and the rest of the working girls to keep up. No one knew what was going on, or those who did weren¡¯t saying shit, but everyone could tell something was going down, something big, and she didn¡¯t want any part of it. All the bustle reminded her of the early years here in town, when raiders, scavengers and Abby alike all saw Pleasant Dunes as an easy mark and everyone had to fight to survive.


    Or not, as it were. That¡¯s how Papa died after all, taking a Bolt through the chest in the opening minutes of one such attack. Body wasn¡¯t even in the ground yet when then the debtors came for Mama and Noora, saying Papa had put them both down as collateral for a loan he used to buy gear to work up in the mines. Said the family would have to pay one way or another, and they¡¯d be back the next day collect. Mama buried Papa, crying the whole while, then mixed something into her waterskin and told Noora everything would be fine so long as she drank good and deep. She did, even though it was bitter as all hell, then Mama drank the rest. A few minutes later, Noora threw up, but Mama didn¡¯t and died, leaving Noora saddled with the entire debt.


    That was four years ago, and she¡¯d been traded several times since, and she imagined the original debt had long since been paid off. Never knew how much Papa had borrowed, but it wasn¡¯t like it¡¯d change anything. Telling a man like Sherrif Gil you wanted to leave would only make him hurt you more, because he liked it when you put up a fight. So she stopped fighting for the most part, and they didn¡¯t hurt her as much, but they didn¡¯t let her go either. Other than that, things weren¡¯t so bad by then, as the walls had gone up and the big gatling guns put in place. Made it so Abby didn¡¯t want to come take them on, not more than once a year at least, and Mr. Jackson even worked things out with the local scav boss, meaning Pleasant Dunes was safer than ever. Course miners still died down in the tunnels from cave ins and Abby attacks, and they had the odd barroom brawl every now and then, ones that usually weren¡¯t too bad until Sherrif Gil and his pack of sadists showed up to ¡®keep the peace¡¯.


    Least if they spilled blood out in the streets, they were less likely to hurt her bad the same night. Thankfully, they were all dead now thanks to the Firstborn and that life was behind her, but she couldn¡¯t count on him to save her again from what looked like was going to be yet another Abby attack on Pleasant Dunes, even though the last one was only four- or five-months ago. It never stops, not here on the Frontier, and Noora had long since come to terms with that fact. She also accepted the fact that there was nothing she could do about it, as there wasn¡¯t anyone in town who¡¯d give her a gun or teach her how to use it. All she could do was keep her head down and deal with things one day at a time. If the walls held, then great. If not, then she¡¯d have to figure something out for herself, or die trying.


    Then again, maybe she could count on her hero, who came riding into town as bold as can be a few weeks later, with twenty-eight American Rangers at his back no less. Had thirty-one Patches too, young blood looking to earn their colours, and they looked a lot more impressive than the Vanguard National equivalents. Had their matching beige uniforms all starched and fully buttoned up, with shirttails tucked into their matching jeans and dark black boots polished so bright they all but sparkled in the sunlight. Was a bit much if you asked her, but it made them look more dashing and competent she supposed. Their first day here, they dug out a good section of wide trench around the city walls working from noon to dusk, and only took breaks to practice with their fancy big guns that looked a lot more impressive than the gats. Noora didn¡¯t see much of them, other than a couple glimpses out the second story window, but nothing much of anything changed at all. Night fell and the day shift trundled back in, meaning it was time to get back to work again. Wasn¡¯t nothing else she could do, because regardless of what fate awaited the people Pleasant Dunes, she¡¯d live or die on the whims of others just like always.


    With the Rangers¡¯ arrival, the mood in town was one of nervous energy, as they weren¡¯t sure whether to be happy for the help or worried it was even needed. Mr. Jackson only called in half as many members of Vanguard National to help defend against the last Abby attack, and now he was calling on the Feds too? Meant a big storm was coming, a skin-scouring sirocco that¡¯d rip all those new cloth awnings they¡¯d only just put in place, which in turn meant a lot of clients coming in to work off their nerves. Noora didn¡¯t get her few hours of sleep that night, working from sundown to sunup as she did, and she could barely keep her head upright as she traipsed down the stairs for a quick bite.


    Only to freeze in her tracks when she spotted her hero taking in the sights.


    The Firstborn looked exactly how she remembered him, right down to his big hat and duster, though he was armoured up this time around and wore a strained smile on his face. Asked if she worked here, and her heart skipped a beat, because much as she love the chance to thank him for what he¡¯d done, she was in no state to service a man like him. She wanted to be clean for him, or clean as could be, not sweaty and disgusting after a full night¡¯s work. Tried her best to let him down gentle and keep him interested, but he flinched when she reached out to stroke his cheek, which told her she¡¯d read him all wrong. Wasn¡¯t here for company then, and his next question cemented that theory, because who comes into a whorehouse asking after the clientele? Course, miss Laura drilled it into Noora¡¯s head early on that the girls were never to talk about their johns in public, so she made like she misunderstood the question and made a quick getaway, because that¡¯s what she always did when trouble came around, and the Firstborn was most certainly trouble. Not quick enough though, as he stopped her to ask which room, and there was something in his tone which chilled her down to the core. Such an innocent question, but the way he said it was no different from how Sherrif Gil used to ask which one of his ¡®tools¡¯ she¡¯d like him to hurt her with. Took Noora right out of the moment and threw her back into the past, and by the time she clawed her way back to the present, the Firstborn was on his way up the stairs with murder in his eyes.


    Yea, he wasn¡¯t here to save anyone in Pleasant Dunes. Was her mistake, not his, because he never claimed to be a hero, nor did his actions ever paint him as one. No, he was a killer through and through, the same as most men she knew, with the only difference being his age.


    But she owed him one for ridding her of Sherrif Gil and his sadists, so she couldn¡¯t just stand there and watch him march to his death. Especially since Kevin the bartender saw their little talk, meaning the blame would fall on her after all was said and done. That¡¯s why she talked the Firstborn down from shooting the saloon up and got him into a room to avoid suspicion, but once they were there, he had no interest in doing anything besides looming at the door like shadow of death. He was a man with a gun looking for an excuse to use it, and she couldn¡¯t have that. Not while she was in the room with him at least, so she tried to give him an outlet for all his rage. Pushed his buttons on purpose knowing good and well it¡¯d get her hurt, but to her surprise, he didn¡¯t rise to the bait. Didn¡¯t accept her open invitation neither, and she thought it was because he was one of them prudish types. Would explain why he flinched away from her touch and held himself so stiff while she was pressed up against him, like he wanted to push her back but thought it¡¯d be impolite to do so. Didn¡¯t matter what he said, because men were all liars anyways. No, it was about what he did, and his actions said he didn¡¯t want nothing to do with Noora, not in the way she hoped.


    A real puzzle is what he was, a picture so similar to what she knew and yet so different at the same time. Like most men, he was a whirlwind of rage and violence just simmering beneath the surface, a killer through and through, and yet there were aspects of him that didn¡¯t fit the mould in ways she couldn¡¯t understand. He wasn¡¯t bad looking either, not exactly the handsome prince of anyone¡¯s dreams with his squinty eyes and strained smile, but far from ugly, especially when he flashed his wry little half-smile that didn¡¯t show any of his teeth. Downright adorable when he blushed too, and she couldn¡¯t help but tease him more than she usually would. Wanted to see that look of lust in his eyes, but he kept his gaze fixed on her eyes, one so soft yet piercing at the same time. Was a look she¡¯d never seen before, one that made her want him for her own, and not just to pay him back, though in her books, they were even now.


    In the end, nothing happened as they played cat¡¯s cradle while she dreamed of what could be, but nice as dreams are, they never worked out like you¡¯d hope, because life always found a way to bring you back down to reality.


    So instead of putting any stock into what he said, she resolved to find out who he really was through action, which meant she had to make sure he came back for another visit. That¡¯s why she staked her claim on him in front of the trio of gorgeous Ranger girls who came looking for him, and when she saw he was more amused than angry, she stole his wad of cash too. The only thing men wanted more than what they couldn¡¯t have was something they¡¯d already paid for. Problem was, she panicked when she saw how much cash the Firstborn kept on him. She¡¯d figured the wad for mostly ones, which would still be a lot of money, but they were all fives and a sum well worth killing for. So she kept an extra ten and asked miss Laura to give the rest back to the Firstborn, making some excuse about how he left it on the bedside table that neither of them bought. Noora figured it was no big deal, as stealing from the clients happened more often than not, but she knew she¡¯d made a big mistake when miss Laura came back all heated and gave her a glare in passing, one that promised hell to pay if she messed up again.


    Couldn¡¯t lose this job, even if she had options now, because a lot could happen between now and tomorrow. This was the safest she¡¯d been in years, safer than even before her parents died and left her saddled with debt, so she wasn¡¯t willing to risk getting tossed out into the streets, where any man could take her and there was nothing she could do about it. Miss Laura could make it happen with a snap of her fingers, so Noora couldn¡¯t risk slacking off like she¡¯d planned. Wanted to stay fresh and clean for the Firstborn until he showed up again, but no chance of that happening now. Instead, she ate and slept as little as she could before jumping right back into work to show miss Laura she could be a good earner just like she promised.


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    Which ended up getting her 86ed from the saloon anyways after she lost track of time and failed to spot the Firstborn sitting pretty on the barroom floor. Had a client with her already, which sparked off a whole powder keg of violence which didn¡¯t explode like she¡¯d expected. Instead, it put her on a new and unwelcome path she wasn¡¯t ready for. Wasn¡¯t fair as none of this was her fault, but it was how things panned out, and to her surprise, camping out with the Rangers wasn¡¯t half as bad as she expected. The Firstborn set her up inside his wagon, which had all sorts of hidden compartments that were all locked up tight. Not with any key, but with magical locks it seemed, because the Firstborn could open them all with a touch, but Noora couldn¡¯t even find a seam to wedge her nails into. Still, the wagon was airy, comfortable, and sheltered, which was more than she was used to, and more than that, it was all hers for the night. During the day, she stuck close to Sarah Jay and did odd jobs around camp like laundry and packing magazines, but no one came looking for favours or expecting payback for meals, clothes, or rent. Come evening, she¡¯d sit and chat with the Firstborn¡¯s crew, and then she¡¯d go back to her little space in the wagon and sleep the night away.


    Then Abby came crawling out of the desert and mountains, and Cowie trundled off with the wagon leaving Noora nowhere to hide. Had no choice but to stick close to Sarah Jay, who refused to sit tight and hobbled off to the walls with rifle in hand in spite of her bum knee. Now there was a woman with more spunk than sense, a defect Noora thought only afflicted men, but there was no stopping the ice queen from the task at hand. The tall, dark brunette had come all the way from New Hope to kill Abby, and that¡¯s what she meant to do, so Noora followed along and hoped it wouldn¡¯t get her killed. Almost did, but credit where it¡¯s due, Sarah Jay did her best to protect Noora, and it opened up a whole new set of delusions to dream about. Far as she could tell, the Rangers were taking on anyone who turned sixteen this year, meaning she could sign on for Basic too. Now wouldn¡¯t that be a sight, Noora Amari, American Ranger, kicking ass and taking names on behalf of the United Federation of American States. Neither of her parents were American, which could be a problem, but no sense sweating about details until they became relevant. The important thing was that she had options like the Firstborn said, opportunities where before there was only one.


    Except much like a promise, an opportunity was nothing more than words lost to the breeze. Didn¡¯t matter what anyone said; what she had was all that mattered, and until she was in New Hope in a fresh Ranger uniform, Basic was just another idle fantasy, one that would likely never come true. Even if the Firstborn meant every word he said, the chances of the Ranger convoy making it out of the Coral Desert alive were slim to none. Their guns alone would elevate Vanguard National into the strongest gang around, not to mention the treasure trove of Aberrtin and Spell Cores they¡¯d collect along the way. If Mr. Jackson didn¡¯t kill them for it, then the local scavs would, and if they didn¡¯t get the job done, then someone else would come and finish the job.


    Stupid is what it was, coming to help Pleasant Dunes like this, but what was even stupider? Despite knowing how the odds were stacked against them, Noora still wanted to leave with the Firstborn and the Rangers in the hopes that they¡¯d make it out of the desert alive and bring her to a new and wonderful life.


    But dreams were one thing, and reality another, so she would cling to the first while doing everything to survive in the second. You did what you had to, so when she finally saw a chance to talk to the Firstborn alone, she jumped on it like a girl who¡¯d been out of work for ages. It was so strange seeing him so down in the dumps, when only a few hours ago, he¡¯d been the man of the hour in camp, with all the other boots just gushing with praise about how he¡¯d done this or that during the big fight. Even stranger was seeing him cuddling his giant white bull, who¡¯d shrunk down to a calf and was curled up in the Firstborn¡¯s arm like a big, furry baby. They both looked so innocent and adorable, which only went to show how appearances could be deceiving, as she knew firsthand that they were both hardened killers well accustomed to a life of violence and bloodshed.


    And she also knew how to best approach them. That is to say don¡¯t. Let them make the approach, because half the fun was in the thrill of the hunt. So she said her piece about recognizing his pain like she was supposed to, and to her surprise, she even meant it. The Firstborn was an angry and violent killer, but he wasn¡¯t born that way. Was shaped to this life, the way Noora had been shaped to hers, so maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for her to become a little less like her, and a lot more like him. Took everything she had not to press him for more, to turn her back to him and cling loosely to the arm he left draped around her.


    Was a novel sensation, being hugged like this. Didn¡¯t pull her in too close or hold her too tight, just wrapped her in his arm and left it there like a loose blanket. Kept his hand on her shoulder and didn¡¯t try to cop a feel, but he did hold onto her hand, clinging ever so softly to her fingers with his as if worried he might hurt her. Didn¡¯t say much either, but he stopped leaning away enough to let her snuggle up against him, and even pressed his cheek into her hair like he was nuzzling her head. Was sweet really, and something entirely new, to be so close to a man who wanted nothing from her besides her company. Not to talk, or to kiss, or to fumble around under sheets, but just to have and to hold and find comfort in her presence, because just like her, he felt lost and alone in the big, scary world.


    It was¡­ nice. Warm. Comforting even, and much as she wanted to enjoy the moment while it lasted, it also reminded her that the Firstborn and the Rangers might as well be from a different world from her. They were strong, but this was the Coral Desert, and chances were, none of them were gonna make it out of here alive, so Noora had to do as she was told if she wanted to survive. ¡°Get him talking,¡± miss Laura had said, after that whole mess with the Firstborn, Big Al, and Tank. ¡°He broken just like you, so use that. Ask him ¡®bout where he been and what he done, and what sort of damage he got. Understand?¡±


    Noora didn¡¯t, but she nodded anyways, because she was getting tossed out of the saloon either way. Problem was, she hadn¡¯t had a chance to talk to the Firstborn alone until now, and he didn¡¯t seem like the sharing type. Remembering miss Laura¡¯s instructions, Noora took a deep breath, leaned harder against the Firstborn, and asked, ¡°If you ain¡¯t gonna share, you mind if I do?¡±


    ¡°If you wanna talk, I¡¯m here to listen.¡±


    A perfect reply, one given without pause, and to Noora¡¯s surprise, she did want to talk. She told him all about life before there was a town, before Papa got shot and Mama killed herself, and before Noora became nothing more than a prize. She didn¡¯t go into the details, but she told him how many ¡®daddies¡¯ she¡¯d gone through, and how Sherrif Gil was by far the worst of them all. Shared with him how happy she was to learn he was dead, and how she¡¯d wished she¡¯d thought to ask for a ride out of town when he left. How she hoped the Rangers would settle this attack soon and be on their way out of Pleasant Dunes, because she couldn¡¯t wait to get away from here and see what the world was like outside the Coral Desert.


    What she didn¡¯t say was how she never expected to make it that far, and how she hoped if that was the case, that she¡¯d die alongside the Firstborn and the Rangers. Was a strange thing. Noora endured all these years without even thinking about following in her mama¡¯s footsteps, because she wanted so desperately to live, but now that she finally saw a chance to be free, she would sooner die than come back to this.


    There wasn¡¯t much else left for her to say, so she sat there wrapped in the Firstborn¡¯s arm and held his hand for all she was worth. He held on tight too, because he knew she needed that from him and nothing else, just a hand to hold and a shoulder to lean on while she cried a lifetime¡¯s worth of tears in silence. Passed her a clean handkerchief too, and didn¡¯t so much as shift an inch until she was good and done. ¡°See?¡± she asked, leaning her head back to look up at the night¡¯s sky. ¡°Like I said, broken.¡±


    And he was too. She knew it, just like she knew the sand was pale-pink and the skies honey-red. ¡°You ain¡¯t broken,¡± he said, denying it once again. ¡°You¡¯re hurt. Battered. Bruised and bleeding, but not broken. Got no quit in you, strength enough to endure, and so long as you have that, then nothing can ever break you.¡± Which was another way of looking at it, but words didn¡¯t change the facts. As if to prove her point, the Firstborn hesitated, then asked, ¡°You and me, we the same in that regard, just like you said, and truth of the matter is, you even stronger than I am.¡± She laughed, and he didn¡¯t, just waited for her to stop and kept going. ¡°I mean it. You own your pain. Wear it like a badge of honour to show how you¡¯re stronger for it. Walk the walk too. Heard you was down in the bunker with Jay right there in the thick of it. That takes real courage, to face the danger head on instead of hiding away, which puts you head and shoulders above most folks round these parts.¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t do much except reload her Blastguns and magazines,¡± Noora said, warmed by the compliment even if it wasn¡¯t deserved.


    ¡°Still more than what most were doin¡¯,¡± came the Firstborn¡¯s reply. ¡°We could all use a loader to help speed things along, but you see anyone else volunteer? Nah, they all stood around with their thumbs up their asses, just hoping we¡¯d win and prepared to die if we lost.¡± Which was exactly how Noora had lived her life up until now. Sensing the argument before she could make it, the Firstborn continued, ¡°Don¡¯t matter how it¡¯s been before we got here. What matters is you saw a chance to help and jumped at it. That right there is strength, more than what most have, and don¡¯t let anyone tell you different.¡±


    Wasn¡¯t any arguing against him, and Noora didn¡¯t know what else to say, so she quieted down until she thought to ask, ¡°So how come you don¡¯t do the same? Own your pain,¡± she clarified. ¡°Show the world how you¡¯re stronger for it.¡±


    The Firstborn didn¡¯t say anything, and Noora worried she¡¯d pushed too far too fast. Men did love to talk, but they didn¡¯t like answering to anyone, which made making conversation really complicated at times. Then, when she thought all was lost, he said, ¡°Because it¡¯s different. You were hurt because you didn¡¯t have the ability to protect yourself. Me, I was hurt because I was stupid. Ain¡¯t got no one to blame by myself.¡±


    Which made things a whole lot clearer. Noora had seen it in plenty of other girls who¡¯d been hurt like her. They¡¯d say dumb things just like this, that it was their fault they were beaten or raped. If only they hadn¡¯t done this, or gone there, or made this mistake and done something different, then surely they wouldn¡¯t have been hurt, but the sad truth was that it was always gonna happen. Pretty girls were like fat sheep in a world full of wolves, wolves who didn¡¯t need a reason to hurt them, because that¡¯s what wolves do. It was plain as day, and Noora was shocked to see the Firstborn fall into so obvious a pit, but she knew telling him he was wrong wouldn¡¯t do much of anything at all. Would only get his hackles up and put him on the defensive, because so long as he believed he knew why it¡¯d happened, he thought he could keep it from happening again.


    So she held her tongue and squeezed his hand, which was all she needed to do to keep him talking. ¡°Happened while I was out on the road,¡± he began, whispering so softly she had to strain to hear him despite leaning right up against him. ¡°Just me and Cowie. Wanted a hot meal, so I stopped early to make camp for the night. Never a good idea, as it makes you a target of opportunity. Somethin¡¯ my daddy once told me, but I didn¡¯t listen well enough. They showed up just as I was about to eat, asked if they could strike camp next to me. Wanted to say no, but didn¡¯t want to fight over the spot, not with my food hot and ready. Saw it was only four of ¡®em and figured I could take ¡®em easy enough if I had to, or just leave after I ate if I was feelin¡¯ leery.¡±


    Was easy enough to guess the rest, but Noora didn¡¯t say anything, just let the Firstborn get things off his chest. Not because she wanted to pass this information along to miss Laura. No, that catty old bitch didn¡¯t matter anymore, not her, not the saloon, not anything or anyone here in Pleasant Dunes. For better or for worse, Noora was committed to leaving with the Rangers now, because the Firstborn had convinced her to leave with them. Didn¡¯t know how he did it, didn¡¯t even know she¡¯d made the decision until this very moment, but she knew it in her bones and would never regret her choice. She wanted to hear what the Firstborn ¨C no, what Howie wanted to say. Not so she could pass the information along like she¡¯d been asked to, but because he¡¯d been good enough to sit and listen to her. That¡¯s all there was to it, and if miss Laura or one of Mr. Jacksons thugs came asking, Noora would tell them the Firstborn was a closed book who didn¡¯t say a thing worth repeating.


    ¡°So their leader, he comes over all careful like, with hands up and all to ask if he can buy half my meal,¡± Howie continued, and Noora hung close to every whispered word. ¡°Says he¡¯s got a hunger for some good eats and is willing to pay a premium. I figure him for a fool once he names his price, so why not? Man pays and takes half my bird, then sits down to eat it right at my fire. Wanted to send him back to his side of the clearing, but he paid upfront and I didn¡¯t think it¡¯d be polite. Then he calls to his buddy and asks him to break out a bottle, before turning to me and tellin¡¯ me how this is the good stuff, real premium hooch to pair with this fine meal. Pours two cups and tells his buddy to try a bite, then they get to drinkin¡¯ and jawin¡¯ about how delicious the meat is and how it perfectly pairs with the drink, so a third guy comes over to ask me how I done cooked it.¡±


    Howie snorted, a mean and ugly sound full of contempt for his past self. ¡°Sounds so stupid when I lay it all out like this. See all the warning signs I missed out on in the moment, but that¡¯s how it is when you do something dumb. Instead of gettin¡¯ my guard up, all the compliments and conversation got me relaxin¡¯ around them, and we all get to talkin¡¯ like we the best of friends. Soon enough, they offer me a drink, and I figure ¡®why the hell not?¡¯, you know? They all been takin¡¯ swigs from the same bottle, so ain¡¯t got nothin¡¯ to worry about there, but problem ain¡¯t in the liquor. It¡¯s in the cup they pour the liquor into and hand over to me. I ain¡¯t much of a drinker, but I take a little sip anyways, and whatever¡¯s laced inside hits me hard and fast.¡±


    Howie fell silent, and Noora could feel the steely rage flowing through him as he sat there all tense and broody, ready to stomp and scream as if that would change things for the better. Cowie sensed it too, waking up from his nap to nose at Howie and grumble in discontent, or maybe the bull was just upset because he wasn¡¯t being pet anymore. Took a good long while to settle the bull, which Noora figured was Howie¡¯s way of putting things off, but he didn¡¯t need any prompting to bring him back on track.


    ¡°Should¡¯ve sent them on their way,¡± he whispered, the fire still there, but banked and set aside for the moment. ¡°Told them to get gone right quick, or at least made them stay on their side. Sharing my food is fine, but I should never have accepted the drink, all lessons my daddy taught me good and well before he passed, but I figured I could get away with it because they seemed friendly enough. How fucking stupid is that? If I¡¯d taken a bigger swig, then that could¡¯ve been the end of the Firstborn, buried by the wayside by a bunch of roofie rapists. Bad end that, but it¡¯s better to be lucky than good.¡±


    He didn¡¯t share any details about what happened, nor would she press him, but seeing how he was alive and well, he clearly survived the encounter, which likely meant the other men didn¡¯t. Was clear it left damage though, and he had a belly full of rage about it, but unless he was willing to talk more about it, she figured it was best to leave things for now. One step at a time after all, so she turned in her seat until they were sitting side by side again, and leaned back until she could look him in the eyes. They were a dark, rich brown, but they had a warm tone when the light hit them just right, a warmth that did nothing to soften his callous and tired gaze, one which awaited her reaction with only a little bit of dread and apprehension.


    ¡°It¡¯s not your fault Howie,¡± Noora said, and he winced to hear her say it. ¡°They were looking for a victim, and you just happened to be there. Even if you¡¯d done everything right, chances are they would¡¯ve still gone after you all the same. That¡¯s what people like them do. They find victims to hurt.¡±


    ¡°Yea, but least then I¡¯d¡¯ve put up a better fight,¡± Howie fired back, but there wasn¡¯t any heat in it. Was just a statement, like he¡¯d had this argument countless times before and was just going through the motions. ¡°Can¡¯t do nothing about what other folks do. All I can do is be accountable for my own actions, and I should¡¯ve known better than to get myself drugged and trapped in a tent with some fat fuck¡¯s meaty fingers wrapped around my neck.¡±


    And the floodgates were open as he kept talking, reliving the memories before her eyes. ¡°Took his time he did,¡± Howie whispered, his arm squeezing her ever so tightly without even noticing. ¡°Slowly choked me out until I saw stars before letting me breathe, all while goin¡¯ on about the things he¡¯d do to me if I passed out or died.¡± Now that was a sick bastard if there ever was one, but Howie wasn¡¯t paying attention to her expression. Was sitting up tall and proud, as if faking it would make him feel better about this all as he stared up at the night¡¯s sky. ¡°Wanted to watch me break, make me beg and plead for my life, but I didn¡¯t give him the satisfaction. Just glared and swore and told him I¡¯d kill him for this. Made him angry and sloppy it did, so the next time he chokes me, he gets in good and close, and I hold onto one thought the whole time through. Soon as he lets go of my neck, he throws his hands out wide like he always does, a big flourish to all the theatrics, but I don¡¯t go limp. No, I lunge at him instead, and sink my teeth into his neck.¡±


    Howie wasn¡¯t sharing no more. He was venting, still in a quiet whisper but the words were flooding out, because he¡¯d held onto this secret for so long it must¡¯ve been a relief to get it off his chest. ¡°There¡¯s a Cantrip I learned so I could try and teach Cowie,¡± he said, switching tracks all of a sudden and leaving Noora with whiplash. ¡°It¡¯s called Primal Savagery, on account of how it¡¯s mostly used by shapeshifters or Innates who got horns, fangs, claws or whatnot. What it does is take those bone-like protrusions and transmutes the keratin, which is that shiny coating on the surface, into Acid. Since he can grow horns and whatnot, I figured Cowie could add an extra bit of whomp with the Cantrip, but could never get his numbers straight.¡± While the statement sounded like a joke, Howie¡¯s tone was too matter-of-fact to sell it, but Noora kept quiet and listened. ¡°Thing is, people got keratin too. On our nails and teeth mostly, and some in your hair, but I ain¡¯t so sure if the Spell work with that last bit. Definitely works with the first two though.¡± Sucking his teeth, Howie¡¯s lips quirked in a smile that wasn¡¯t really a smile as he said, ¡°Yea. I bit right down on his meaty neck and delivered a nice big dose of Acid right into his bloodstream to make good on my promise. Didn¡¯t scream as he went down, on account of how it melted half his throat, but he died hard, that¡¯s to be sure.¡±


    Now there was a thought to turn her stomach, but it seemed to reassure Howie some. Patting the bull, he pressed his forehead up against Cowie¡¯s, and the two of them held that pose while looking peaceful and content as can be. ¡°Would¡¯ve been the end of me then and there if it wasn¡¯t for Cowie, as I was too weak to even shout, much less fight off three men. He smelt the blood and Acid though, knew something was up. Trampled and gored the other three right outside the tent and killed them before they even thought to draw, showing how he don¡¯t need no Acid to clean house. I figure they wanted to capture and sell him, since they saw how he went from baby to big, and didn¡¯t think a placid, wagon pulling bull could ever be a real threat.¡±


    Turning to look her in the eyes, Howie concluded, ¡°See the difference? You, you didn¡¯t do nothing wrong. You played the cards life dealt you, and you made it this far, which is something to be proud of. Me, I took a stupid gamble I ought to have known better than to even try, and luck is the only reason I¡¯m still drawing breath here and now. Well, luck and Cowie, but I can¡¯t always count on luck, now can I?¡± Heaving a long and heavy sigh, he gave her a half-hearted smile, and she gave him one in turn, even though she didn¡¯t agree with his conclusion. Howie was too hard on himself, because while he might¡¯ve made a mistake in trusting strangers, it was only human nature to want to trust. She¡¯d long lost count of how many times she¡¯d made the same mistake, and truth was, she might well be making it again here and now by trusting him and the Rangers. That¡¯s life though. No matter how bad life got, you had to trust someone at some point, because there was no way to make it out here all by yourself.


    But instead of arguing, she pulled his arm tight around her shoulders, snuggled into his chest with a sigh, and said, ¡°Thanks for sharing.¡±


    That earned her a genuine smile from him, that half-quirked wry smile she found so fetching on him. ¡°Thanks for convincing me to. Don¡¯t tell no one.¡± Squeezing her close in a hug that was nowhere near enough, he broke it off and said, ¡°Now get gone. I need sleep, and can¡¯t well get any with you right beside me.¡±


    ¡°You could,¡± she replied, only to instantly regret it. He didn¡¯t like forward women, else he¡¯d have accepted by now.


    ¡°Time and place, Noora,¡± he said with that same smile, but he didn¡¯t promise anything else. ¡°Gotta pick your time and place.¡±


    After all this, when they were away from Pleasant Dunes and somewhere safe again. That much she promised herself as she walked away, and when she glanced back, she was happy to see him watching her leave. Made her cheeks flush of all things, especially when he winked and kept watching instead of looking away, which was promising to say the least. As she crawled into the wagon and laid down atop the soft wool blankets, she tried her damnedest to remind herself that dreams were nothing more than idle fantasies, not plans or goals to aspire to, but for the first time in years, she found herself wishing with all her hearts that reality could just this once rise up and match expectations.


    Sure, the Firstborn was a little rough around the edges, and he was the same sort of murderous killer as the men who¡¯d hurt her so many times before, but maybe, just maybe, things would work out different, and Noora would find some measure of happiness in his embrace.

 Chapter 45

    Talk about your feelings they say. Get it off your chest. You¡¯ll feel better. A burden shared is a burden halved. Bible even says, ¡°Bear one another¡¯s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.¡± Galatians, 6:2.


    What a load of bullshit.


    Catharsis ain¡¯t got jack on anxiety, angst, and apprehension, as dredging up bad memories keeps me from the restful sleep I was supposed to get. Got me tossing and turning so much Cowie lets out a little moo in protest before I finally settle in for the night, but my dreams pick up where my conscious brain let off. It ain¡¯t the killing which got me bothered, nor is it the memory of those cold, clammy, hands wrapped around my neck while the sour stench of his breath washed over me. Ain¡¯t the Bolt bruise on my chest reminding me of the weight of his knee on my sternum neither, nor the wild, hungry look in his eyes, watching and waiting from mere inches away while eagerly awaiting the moment I broke. I didn¡¯t break, and I killed him good and well, watched him kick and twist as he laid on the ground with a half-melted throat and blistered fingers from trying to stem the blood and Acid. Nah, he don¡¯t haunt my nightmares, because I came out on top, but the problems he brung me have followed me since.


    Ain¡¯t ever told anyone about this particular close call. Not Tina, not Aunty Ray, and certainly not any Sherrif or Ranger. Wasn¡¯t embarrassment keeping my lips sealed, but fear of repercussion, and not for myself. My part in things was all aboveboard. I was drugged and assaulted, so I defended myself with lethal force. Neat and tidy as can be, until you factor in Cowie¡¯s part in all this. Rules are different for Magical Beasts, as the circumstances of the encounter become irrelevant. There was no ¡®clear and present¡¯ threat to my life or Cowie¡¯s when he gored and trampled them three accomplices. No guns going off, no screams, no threats or anything, and that¡¯s all that matters. The fact that they was accomplices to a crime don¡¯t factor in for Cowie, because he¡¯s an animal and can¡¯t be expected to understand such nuances. Got the whole encounter on video, so can¡¯t deny it, and if I came forward to report the crime and claimed I didn¡¯t have a recording, then it would¡¯ve raised flags with folks who knew me.


    Meaning if the wrong Judge were to take the case, then he could rule that Cowie¡¯s attack was unprompted or unjustified and label him as a dangerous beast.


    Stupid is what it is. In the eyes of the law, a ¡®dangerous beast¡¯ is any animal that has caused significant injury or exhibited dangerous behaviour without a direct order. That¡¯s a description so broad you could park a Titan in it, with no wiggle room for the animal¡¯s intent or circumstance. The long and short of it is that if Cowie attacks someone on my say so, then he¡¯s a tool and I bear the responsibility for his actions. If he attacks someone because he thinks they¡¯re dangerous, then the circumstances no longer matter, because the law ain¡¯t written to protect animals like him, but to protect people from them. That¡¯s why I don¡¯t like bringing him into fights when there are people involved, because all it takes is for one overzealous or overprotective judge to see Cowie¡¯s actions in a different light to put him in the hot seat. If my partner gets saddled with the label of ¡®dangerous beast¡¯, he would at best be placed under strict restrictions when in town, and at worst, be ordered ¡®destroyed¡¯ for the safety of the people.


    So even though Cowie killed those men to save me, the waters were muddy with regards to his justification. With Vicente, Cowie had a clear reason to attack, in defense of me after I got kneed in the face. In the shootout against the deputies, I gave him the order before he joined in. With them guards though, I was in the tent, so all Cowie had to go on was screaming, and he killed three men just like that. Wasn¡¯t confident Cowie¡¯s actions would hold up under investigation, so I figured the best way to keep him safe was to make sure there wasn¡¯t one to begin with.


    Which is why I covered it all up. Soon as I could stand, I loaded them corpses up in my wagon, cleaned up the campsite, physically and magically wiped all traces of our presence besides the bloodstains from the man I killed, and high-tailed it out into the Coral Desert and the badlands beyond. Once I as free and clear, I dumped the bodies and their wagon into the Divide and headed to the mesa to pay my respects to my parents and recover from the whole ordeal. Wouldn¡¯t have taken long for Abby to pick the crash site clean of all biomass, leaving little to nothing behind, and I made sure to get my story perfect before heading back home to New Hope. Didn¡¯t no one think twice about it neither, no one besides Wayne that is, and only because he was so desperate to find his lost cargo he started grasping at straws and somehow landed on the right target.


    Even a stopped clock is right twice a day. The worst part is I didn¡¯t even profit off his loss, because I didn¡¯t know there was anything worth taking. Manifest was filled with cheap goods sold in bulk and I didn¡¯t find anything worth keeping, so I didn¡¯t think twice before pushing it over the edge and into the Divide. Now I know better, and it burns me to wonder what I missed out on. Wasn¡¯t Aberrtin, because at 30 cents a gram, it would¡¯ve been hard to miss if the wagon was carrying enough to make Wayne sweat. Same with crystallized Aether, so I figure the wagon was smuggling something light and expensive like processed Brightsteel, precious gems, drugs, or expensive Spell Cores hidden in a lead-lined compartment somewhere. Mage Armour is a big find, but there are plenty of Third Order Spell Cores that are much more valuable. Greater Mage Armour would be the obvious one, Protection from Elements another. Warrior¡¯s Ward would be the biggest one, as it grants resistance to Force damage, which covers most of what you¡¯re likely to come across from axes and Bolts to talons and tusks. Fly, Haste, Slow, Arcane Sight, the list goes on, and three to five of those Spell Cores would be easy to hide and represent a fortune for Wayne and his entire company.


    One I just pissed away and handed right back to Abby. All I kept were the Bolt Cores from their Aetherarms, a fistful of dollars out their wallets, and a couple baggies of drugs they had in their pockets. Brought those to Uncle Art to see if they was anything useful, like the performance or productivity enhancing drugs soldiers used in the Second World War to make you stronger or smarter, but no such luck. Earned me a long string of lectures about how drugs are bad and I ought to stick to alcohol, tobacco, gambling, or women if I was gonna pick up a vice.


    Uncle Art don¡¯t got no kids of his own, and sometimes, it really shows.


    Either way, I been really feeling the squeeze of that particular lie lately, which makes my admission of guilt poorly timed and placed. Goes to show how terrible I am at taking my own advice about picking your moments, though in my defense, I was also following the advice I gave Kacey about talking things out. Plus, it seemed like Noora really needed to hear it to, know that she could come back from what she been through to become strong and capable like me. Should¡¯ve kept my mouth shut though, held my tongue until we parted ways with Wayne at least, because the last thing I need is to lose sleep wondering if she¡¯ll talk. Shouldn¡¯t matter much, as I was careful not to mention any real details, and I doubt she¡¯ll go running off to talk to anyone who¡¯ll listen, but that¡¯s the thing about illogical fears. Logic ain¡¯t enough to be rid of them, so my brain conjures up all sorts of nightmares in which my secret gets out and I lose Cowie, as well as all the respect and goodwill me and my daddy worked so hard to build up these last seventeen years.


    So it almost comes as a relief when the howling sirens pierce through my haze of fitful sleep, interspersed with arhythmic Aetherarm fire alerting me to yet another Abby attack in progress. Hopping to my feet with Cowie in my arms, I pat his flanks and hold him close until he¡¯s good and calm before setting him down. Big, strong, and magical though he may be, he¡¯s still a prey animal at heart, meaning he spooks easily and will usually choose flight over fight, as evidence by how he scampers over to the wagon and grows big to settle into his harness, all ready to cut and run at a moment¡¯s notice. Them laws were written for the big canines and felines the old world favoured, predators one and all. Cowie ain¡¯t like me, always spoiling for a good fight; he a big, cuddly sweetheart he is, so while you ought to respect the mass, muscle, and magic he packing, he¡¯d much rather make friends than spill blood if given the option.


    As for me? Riding with Errol and Sarah Jay for little more than a week was already stretching the limits of my tolerance, and things ain¡¯t improved now that I¡¯m riding with a bigger group. I just don¡¯t like being around people much is all, and I don¡¯t see why I gotta justify it. Nice as it would be to head the Firstborn¡¯s Frontier Born, I never really wanted a crew. Just thought things would go smoother if I had one, but reality has shown me different, and truth is, I ain¡¯t all that broken up about it. Don¡¯t get me wrong. Would¡¯ve been nice if things worked out, and I¡¯ll still take ¡®em on if they willing and Errol shapes up, but short of a miracle, I expect to go back to riding solo this time next year.


    With that thought in mind, I wave at Noora peeking out the wagon to show her there¡¯s nothing to be afraid of, then head out with Tina and about half the boots under Sergeant Begaye¡¯s orders. We got two more Drill Sergeants with us and a Strike Team of Rangers to escort us, but it¡¯s still the pipe-smoking, axe-wielding Native American¡¯s show. ¡°Hold fire until you have a clear target,¡± he says, after we get ourselves all lit up like a Christmas tree with Dancing Lights all around us. A waste of Concentration if you ask me, but it¡¯s a Cantrip most learn early on, and a better option than using the Light Cantrip to illuminate something directly on our bodies. Time was when I figured on casting it on my bull¡¯s head medallion, until my daddy pointed out I was broadcasting exactly where my head would be to anyone with eyes. With Dancing Lights, we can place them up to 40 metres out to light the way without directly exposing our position. Course, even Abby smart enough to infer our general position, enough so they can lob Spells in our general direction if need be, but between their short range, terrible aim, and general fondness for smacking things up close and personal, I¡¯m feeling fairly safe from Abby as we march out beneath the dark shroud of night.


    Not so safe from idiot townies though, who come rabbiting out of the gloom at full speed with no regards for target identification, situational awareness, or even trigger discipline as they move towards the only safety they can see. Stupid is what it is, and I lose years off of my lifespan getting spooked by fools who ought to know better than to go running around in the dark during an Abby attack. Even if Abby broke through the walls, and it don¡¯t sound like they have, running around in the dark is good way to get got. As if that ain¡¯t bad enough, they tag along behind us, meaning now I gotta worry about getting shot in the back. Accidentally or on purpose, the intent don¡¯t matter, because a Bolt through the back of the head will kill you either way. Not to mention how they all in the way and blocking our lanes of fire, meaning if Abby slip around us and come from behind, they got a good chance of getting stuck in close.


    After the eighth or ninth scare, I¡¯m starting to think some of these folks are too stupid to leave breathing, because they got no idea how close they just come to death. Not to mention how they ain¡¯t necessarily safer with us, considering our job is to take care of whatever got the sirens sounding off in the first place. Really makes you consider the basic foundation of democracy, because if these idiots were American, then their vote would hold the same weight as a vote from Marcus, Captain Jung, or Sergeant Begaye. That¡¯s how it works after all, as what the majority says, goes, but seeing how dumb the average person is and realizing half the is population probably dumber makes me reconsider democracy as a viable means of government. Ain¡¯t saying they ought to switch to something different, just saying I wouldn¡¯t trust the average idiot to pack a rucksack right, much less pack my ammo, so why would I care to consider their opinions on matters of state?


    Sometimes, it feels like people are too damned complicated for their own good. All this division between countries, creeds, cultures, classes, political ideologies, and more, I can barely keep track of who hates who much less why. Better if we all got together and hated Abby instead, but humanity can¡¯t even agree on that, what with the Proggie worshipping crazies who yearn to become a part of the ¡®hive mind¡¯ or whatever.


    After pushing through a whole mess of townies who no doubt fled their posts on the wall, we finally come across the source of all this hoopla. The Dancing Lights illuminate a small pack of orc and gobbo commandos who¡¯ve snuck in over the wall to kill townies with impunity. The stunty greenies scurry across the sand with crude weapons in hand, chasing after the scattered townies who were supposed to be keeping watch. They so mixed in, we can¡¯t go guns blazing without risk of friendly fire, a risk I¡¯d be willing to take, but Sergeant Begaye ain¡¯t me. ¡°Ready stuns,¡± he says, reminding me of the nifty new grenades I bought off of Danny, and I grab one off my belt and Prime it. Tina readies up right beside me, while I catch Errol and Sarah Jay still fumbling for theirs inside their pouches when Sergeant Begaye shouts, ¡°Stuns out.¡±


    The flashbangs fly out into the crowd, and I watch them arc through the air with a grin. The greyish orbs deform in the air and crack when they land, emitting a blinding flash and a thunderous clap that¡¯s got my head spinning, eyes blinking, and ears ringing. Making a mental note to close my eyes and look away the next time I throw a flashbang, I do my best to shake off the daze and blindness and come back strong. Seems obvious in retrospect, but it¡¯s the first time I ever used them and wanted to know how effective they¡¯d be. Very is the answer to that, because even from a good thirty, forty metres away, it takes a good three seconds to get my vision back, but the Rangers and smarter boots got me covered. While the townies and Abby are all reeling from the effect, our forces cut the greenies down to size with a smattering of controlled fire from their Aetherarms. Soon as the threats are all down and out, the Sergeant leads us forward to execute any greenies still squirming around and rescue the disoriented townies. Ain¡¯t none too pleased about getting stunned, and I wouldn¡¯t be neither, but it beats getting carved up by Abby knives and talons, so there¡¯s that.


    From there, it¡¯s a textbook clean-up as we shoot anything green and clear the area, which is a harder fight than expected. Between their natural armoured plating and single-minded dedication to spilling human blood, they¡¯re hard to put down with my Ranger Repeater, and I gotta quick-draw my Model 10 more than once, all the while making sure I don¡¯t hit any townies with a through and through. A cunning bunch, Abby are, hiding in shadows and around corners in hopes of catching us off-guard, and I keep the boots around me from making too many poor decisions while clearing every nook and cranny we pass. When we get to the first bunker, we find the door torn off its hinges and a tableau of carnage and destruction waiting within.


    A military report would say the gunners were slain and the weapons rendered into scrap, but it fails to do justice the sheer madness found within. After opening the first door, it takes me a good second or two to realize what I¡¯m looking at, as them gunners been torn apart and mashed underfoot like Abby was fixing to turn them into wine. The destruction of the gatlings is even more complete, which goes to show them greenies ain¡¯t as dumb as you¡¯d think. These orcs and gobbos stationed in here were likely ordered to target the big guns specifically, because even though they ain¡¯t the hardest hitting weapons we got, volume of fire ain¡¯t nothing to sneeze at.


    Luckily, the Ranger heavy weapons are all back in camp, guarded by the other half of the boots and twenty plus Rangers, but Abby was smart enough to give us a wide berth. Rather than risk heading inside to clear the bunkers, I ready my Model 10 and send in a Dancing Light, which is all it takes to tempt an orc out of hiding. The muscular greenie takes a swing at the floating, glowing light, thinking there¡¯s someone behind it, as their vision ain¡¯t the greatest when it¡¯s bright. Earns it a Bolt to the head and chest delivered by me and Tina standing side by side at the door, and it slumps down dead. Holding a hand out to keep Tina from heading in, I whisper, ¡°Minor Illusion.¡±


    Her big blues go wide with delight as she thumbs the ring on her left index finger, touching the clear crystal gem embedded within. Muttering a chant beneath her breath, she utilizes the Cantrip to create an image of a bald, featureless man leaning in through the door to look at the orc we just dropped, and is rewarded with a chittering screech as a crafty little goblin tries to run the Illusion through with its dagger. Can¡¯t tell if it¡¯s my Bolt or Tina¡¯s that brings it down, but it dies mid-scream and twitching, at which point I activate my Shield bracer and head in to clear the bunker with my sorta-sister on my heels.


    Ain¡¯t a pleasant sight, and the smell is enough to make a man want to hurl, but there ain¡¯t no more greenies hiding within. Circumstances aside, I can¡¯t lie and say I ain¡¯t having fun working with Tina, because this is the sort of work we always dreamed of doing while we were growing up. Don¡¯t say as much, as she looking a bit green around the gills herself, so we head back out for fresh air and move onto the next bunker. Which the other boots were smart enough to leave to the Rangers, which I suppose is fair. Sergeant Begaye don¡¯t come down on me for it though, just nods in approval as we pass. It¡¯s a hectic, no holds barred moment for the Rangers and boots alike, meaning the Sergeant got his hands full as is, and I¡¯ve got a healthy smattering of sympathy for him. Hard enough for me to wrangle Errol and Sarah Jay, so I can¡¯t imagine having three people solely responsible for fifteen. The Ranger Strike team is long gone, off to take the fight to Abby, and judging by the short bursts of controlled gunfire sounding out in the distance, doing a good job of it.


    As Tina and I approach the next bunker, Alfred steps up and says, ¡°Mind if I take this one?¡± My first thought is to wave him away, but Kacey pops in to volunteer with a glare, like she daring me to say no.


    Glancing over to see Sergeant Begaye busy watching Ike and Antoni clear a bunker, I figure why not and gesture for Alfred and Kacey to take point. The shorter, smaller, fiercer girl takes charge and uses hand signals to lay out their plan of attack, to which Alfred replies with a nod before muttering a chant and making a motion that¡¯s probably familiar to everyone watching. ¡°Aut cum scuto, aut in scuto,¡± he intones, while bringing his forearm up in front of him. Latin translation of a Greek phrase which means, ¡°Return with your shield or upon it.¡± Do or die, pretty much, because coming back alive without your shield typically means you fled from battle. Hardcore is what it is, and Alfred embodies it as a glowing blue spectral tower Shield manifests on his arm, one tall and wide enough to cover his hulking figure from shoulder to foot. A damn sight more coverage than the round, two-foot diametre Shield my bracer offers me, but in my Mama¡¯s defense, it was one of her earlier works on par with the single-shot, breech-loaded rifle and pistol I got mounted on my wall back home.


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    Been meaning to upgrade and improve my Shield bracer for some time now, but couldn¡¯t bring myself to do it. It ain¡¯t just a piece of equipment, its one of the only things my mama made which I can still use other than the Metamagic bead bracelet I got on my wrist.


    Sentimentality takes a backseat as Kacey goes zooming in, going criss-cross applesauce with Alfred on her heels. Not the way I would¡¯ve done it, and a lot riskier too, but a few seconds followed by a thump and a bang later, the big guy gives the all clear and I let him know we¡¯re coming in for a look-see. Aside from the same human gore and gatling debris, I also find four gobbos lying on the floor, two on each side, with Kacey wiping blood from her blade while big Al scrapes greenie guts off his boot. Yea, I figured him for trouble, which was why I wasted a First Order Absorb Force Spell to put him down hard and fast during our first encounter. The big guy literally stomped one of the little bastards to death, and somehow, Kacey is still the scarier one, so I flash a smile and nod while reminding myself never to get on the girlie¡¯s bad side.


    No matter how fun it might be to rile her up and see her fetching pout.


    Unfortunately for Sarah Jay, whose Cores are Primed and competitive spirit burning, there ain¡¯t no more bunkers for her to clear as Sergeant Begaye looks for volunteers to man the corpse-riddled bunkers. Ordinarily, I wouldn¡¯t blink twice about stepping forward, but I tell myself I¡¯m giving the others a chance to toughen up while avoiding the unpleasant truth. Bad dreams and worse memories got me feeling skittish of tight spaces, so I¡¯d much rather stand up top and get shot at than hunker down in a roomful of gore. Thankfully, the Sergeant gets more than enough willing boots, including Sarah Jay who drags Errol along with her, while me and Tina head up the stairs to stare down the Abby horde waiting under the dark skies on the coral sands ahead.


    Say what you will about their stupidity, but Abby got more discipline than these townies at least. They all gathered up right out of rifle range, or at least far enough I wouldn¡¯t chance a shot without Eagle Eyes. Can see them bold as can be even without lights to illuminate or Darkvision to pick them out, a bunch of shifting shadows spreading out across the dunes. Despite all the movement, there¡¯s a very clear line that none of them cross, no matter how eager or bloodthirsty they might be. Been told the greenies from the Snake Fang Mountain Range are a cut above the rest, but this the first time I¡¯m seeing the truth with my own two eyes. These ain¡¯t the bloodthirsty, battle-crazed gobbos I¡¯m used to dealing with. These a smarter, slicker bunch, led by a brutal and cunning leader that¡¯s been plaguing these lands for a year now.


    Gobbos in general are a tribal bunch, who typically follow the biggest and baddest greenie into battle, but these ones have learned that muscle ain¡¯t the only thing you need to lead and kill. I can almost smell the hob lurking out there, wrangling its little army and keeping them on a short leash while it watches and waits for an opening. One it won¡¯t get it seems, as the minutes roll by and the gunfire in town dies down to a trickle, but still the horde stands ready and waiting so we stay up top to match. Me, I¡¯ve long since hunkered down behind a crenelation to hurry up and wait, but Tina and the other boots up on the wall with me are all too nervous, excited, and or afraid to relax and unwind.


    Can¡¯t really blame them, as contrary to appearances, I ain¡¯t all that relaxed myself. Even if them Abby commandos failed to open the gates, they¡¯ve tilted the odds back in their favour when it comes to an all-out push. Holding a wall is really a do or die situation, and Abby had numbers enough to overwhelm us before taking so many gatlings out of operation. Now all the hob has to do is send in waves of unarmoured gobbos to soak up our fire, then hit the walls with armoured orcs and bugbears. Without rapid-firing gatlings to clear out the chaff, the townies mostly got single-shot Rolling Block rifles and single action TEC-LS¡¯s, meaning they don¡¯t got the volume of fire to hold back a push. Then it comes down to a matter of time, as the orcs and bugbears either climb the walls or tear through them unimpeded, because the defenders will be too busy shooting at gobbos who ain¡¯t none too shabby at climbing themselves.


    No wonder Tim was expecting the walls to go down. I¡¯m too used to seeing Ranger-trained town guards equipped with cutting-edge Aetherarms, advantages the townies of Pleasant Dunes don¡¯t got. Bet someone was sleeping on watch duty, or worse, not at their post, which is how them greenies snuck in in the first place. Ain¡¯t all that difficult when the walls are only illuminated by fixtures which require a manually cast Light Cantrip. Only gives a decent amount of light out to about six metres, and dim, murky light another six metres beyond that. For Abby, crossing twelve metres horizontally and six metres vertically takes maybe two to four seconds total if they ain¡¯t bogged down by blood and bodies. Wouldn¡¯t even need an Illusion to sneak in, so maybe I¡¯m not giving the townies enough credit. Can¡¯t make a meal without ingredients, and can¡¯t defend against Abby without the right tools, and I ain¡¯t just talking about better guns or expensive Darkvision goggles for each of them. Something as simple as better lighting would work wonders, like spotlights powered by Aetheric dynamos, or a perimeter Alarm set to alert the guards if Abby come within a hundred metres. Cheap, easy, and highly effective, these two changes would work wonders to keep the people of Pleasant Dunes safe.


    Minutes turn into hours without anything of note taking place, and Sergeant Begaye sends half the boots back, mostly the ones who volunteered to hunker down in the bloody bunkers. Can¡¯t blame him for it, and I ain¡¯t complaining either, as having an enemy to focus on does wonders for my mental health. Says a lot about me when I¡¯m more comfortable waiting to fight off an army of Abby than being left alone with my innermost thoughts, but my misgivings will fade soon enough. Noora won¡¯t talk, not about this, and I¡¯ll tough it out and come out stronger for it. Wayne ain¡¯t got no proof to pin the crime on me, and if he starts sharing his suspicions as fact, then I¡¯ll deal with it depending on how Marcus and everyone else reacts. All I gotta do is stick to my story, which again makes me regret sharing my troubles with Noora, because regardless of how I think she might act, a secret shared is no longer a secret.


    What can I say? I¡¯m a sucker for a pretty face and a damsel in distress.


    And maybe, just maybe, I had a dire need to talk to someone who didn¡¯t know me, someone who wouldn¡¯t judge me for my mistakes.


    While looking for patterns in the shadowy movements of the horde, I catch wind of heated discussion underneath me, and a second of listening tells me I want to hear more. Signalling to Sergeant Begaye for permission to approach, I head over and explain my reasoning, and he gives me the all clear, but makes it clear in no uncertain terms that I am not to make any promises on behalf of the Rangers. Giving him a proper salute so as not to rock the boat, I resist the urge to burn the Featherfall Spell in my boot to make a flashy entrance and head for the stairs instead. Makes for a long and roundabout route, but I make it in time before the discussion I picked up on earlier has gotten all that far. ¡°I keep telling you to follow the diagram,¡± the squeaky voice says, sounding tired and annoyed as can be. ¡°It¡¯s circle, square, triangle, circle, square, circle, square, triangle, circle, square.¡±


    Poking my head into the room, I find a scruffy, skinny teen wearing a scruffy Vanguard National vest bent over a new and shiny half-assembled gatling. The bodies have been cleared out for the most part, and I don¡¯t envy the people who got that job, but there are two older, vest-wearing members standing around with tools in their hands and exasperated looks on their faces. Disappears when they see me though, and one nudges the oblivious teen who¡¯s busy slotting barrels into the weapon¡¯s frame according to their markings.


    ¡°Interesting workaround you got there,¡± I say, and the kid looks up to reveal a pimply, big nosed face that only a mother could love. ¡°Setting your barrels up in antipodal symmetry with no two barrels in sequence being the same. Keeps the Neuman Forces between matching barrels moving towards the empty centre for the most part, rather than along the rotary circuit. Prevents it from throwing off the dynamics along each individual barrel for the most part, though it¡¯d be better if you came up with five sets of pairs, rather than three.¡±


    ¡°Oh two more configurations,¡± the kid scoffs, his lip curled in derision. ¡°Why didn¡¯t I think of that? It¡¯s so easy making three different configurations of the same Metamagic Etchings work in close proximity without resonant forces fucking things up, why don¡¯t I just add two more? You ever heard of string theory? I gotta account for all those extra dimensional spaces and how the various Metamagic forces interact there too, not just in three-dimensional space, idiot.¡±


    Ha. Hello Mr. Gunsmith, who ain¡¯t a mister at all, but a snot-nosed brat in desperate need of an attitude adjustment. ¡°It gets a lot easier if you calculate each pair as existing within its own manifold.¡± Seeing his confusion, I grin and say, ¡°Yea, the resonant forces will interact and throw things off, but with a Bolt Cantrip Core, the effect it has is fairly negligible, so you can just rule them out. Aside from the Neuman Forces of course, but you got that part figured out.¡±


    The kid meets my eyes with an unblinking gaze, because he sort of understands what I¡¯m getting at, but doesn¡¯t get why. Book learning ain¡¯t the same as being taught, and this one ain¡¯t ever had no teacher. Or if he did, his teacher failed him, because while it¡¯s nice to get things perfect on paper, it¡¯s always better to focus on what really matters. The disruption from those resonant forces will make the resulting Bolts ¡®wobble¡¯, for lack of a better word, get it all shaky and cost it range, power, and accuracy, but not as much as the loose fittings he¡¯s got on his barrels. For ease of replacement, since they do tend to overheat and melt pretty often, but he¡¯s already sacrificing a lot by using stamped Etchings, so it ain¡¯t like a little bit of metaphysical instability is gonna ruin the end product.


    To really hammer the point home, I add, ¡°Could also mix things up and have two barrels reserved for Elemental Bolts. They¡¯d act as tracer rounds, let your gunners get a better idea of where their Bolts are going, and the different Metamagic loadout would act as a dividing line between the barrels on either side, dampening the resonant forces between them because you won¡¯t be using all the same Metamagics. Best I can tell, your gatlings are using Distant, Extend, Stabilize, Empower, Prime, and Efficient, but you switch Empower and Stabilize for Precise, Elemental, and Lingering, and you¡¯ll be good to go.¡±


    Now the kid looking real thoughtful, because if he can swing it, it¡¯d solve like 60% of his problems with the gatlings. I¡¯m sure Marijke would have a lot more to say, and she¡¯d say it a lot harsher too, but if this kid is self-taught like I suspect he is, then with a little bit of schooling, he got the makings of greatness. Still a foul-mouthed little shit though, as he falls back on belligerence when he realizes he ain¡¯t got no way to refute what I said. ¡°Who the fuck you think you are telling me my business, Qink?¡± Looking me up and down with a scowl, he adds, ¡°Guess you¡¯re the Firstborn people been talking about.¡± He makes a big show of hawking a loogie into the sand, and I wince to hear it. ¡°Don¡¯t look like much to me.¡±


    Usually, that there is my cue to step in and rearrange his face, but considering how I¡¯m hoping to steal him away from Ron, I put on my least threatening smile and shrug. ¡°You know how it is,¡± I say. ¡°Stories got a way of getting away from the truth, but facts speak for themselves.¡± A little reminder of what I done here in town, but the kid don¡¯t seem all that impressed. I tried talking shop to interest him, and that didn¡¯t take, so I fall back on a tried-and-true method which Aunty Ray claims has never failed her. Flattery. ¡°And the facts say you got a fair bit of talent at this sort of thing.¡± Gesturing at the gatling, I shake my head in begrudging admiration and say, ¡°Federation got blueprints for an eight-barrel gatling, and it fires ridiculously fast, but they retired it on account of the lack of stopping power. You went for two extra barrels and dropped Quicken for extra stopping power, which is a decent trade off.¡±


    Or it would be if he knew how to get Empower and Intensify working together, instead of only using the former and tacking on Stabilize, which is a junk Metamagic. Makes sense he used it since he was having issues with resonance, but proper Etching and arrangement would take care of those issues for him. Ideally, I¡¯d want Maximize and Intensify in place of Quicken, but considering the rate of fire on the El-minister, a gatling don¡¯t make much sense anymore.


    Which is where I intended to go with this line conversation. You know, put him up on that pedestal then smack him down with the cold hard facts and show him how much he could learn, but then the kid opens his mouth and ruins it all. ¡°Fuck that,¡± he says, waving me off dismissively before grabbing his crotch. ¡°You ain¡¯t getting none of this dick, faggot, so find someone else to suck off.¡±


    I have never before wanted to punch someone as much as I want to punch this kid. He¡¯s probably older than Kacey¡¯s little brother, so like¡­ fifteen? Maybe sixteen even, or close to it, which is hardly that much younger than me. Keeping a lid on my explosive temper, I stare him down good and long before trusting myself to speak. ¡°What I¡¯m tryin¡¯ to say,¡± I begin, in as cordial a tone as I can manage, ¡°Is that you got skills, but need some teaching to really shine. You working with outdated tech, as we¡¯ve progressed a lot since the Advent, but once you catch up, there¡¯ll be plenty of work for someone with your skills. You¡¯d be a rich man before twenty, and that¡¯s working under contract, as you could stand to make a lot more by opening your own company.¡±


    Like Mr. Kalthoff, who ain¡¯t American neither, but was granted dual-citizenship after my daddy passed alongside a number of other important folks. Guess Ranger HQ realized just how many of their significant residents weren¡¯t actually U.F.A citizens and didn¡¯t want them worrying about what¡¯d happen if they got caught in a political struggle. Funny thing is, despite knowing everyone would end up randomly distributed across the Frontier, the old world governments thought the settlers would all rally together by nationality instead of working with whoever was close by. To be fair, the Qin did just that, which is partially why my parents were still living isolated and alone by the time I was born, because they were avoiding anyone who wasn¡¯t Qin.


    Just another way the old world let us down, expecting us to adhere to their political and national boundaries instead of encouraging folks to work together.


    ¡°Ha. Wait. Hang on.¡± The kid¡¯s looking so smug and smarmy it¡¯s a struggle not to slap the teeth out of his mouth. ¡°This some kind of sales pitch?¡± he asks, before glancing at his fellow club members and breaking out into laughter. ¡°Sent the wrong fucker to make it then,¡± he says, after a bit of a chuckle. ¡°Should¡¯ve sent that tasty blonde bitty you always with instead, though I doubt we¡¯d be doing much talking.¡± I don¡¯t rise to the bait, just give him a look, one that got his two older and wiser friends looking antsy. The kid don¡¯t see it though, just shakes his head and says, ¡°You know who my daddy is? Jacob Horner, that¡¯s who. Sergeant-at-arms of Vanguard National and the President¡¯s right hand man.¡±


    The name is somewhat familiar, and with that, the pieces all fall into place. Jacob is Hobb, the lanky, knife-twirling idiot who was hanging around the last time I was here. ¡°Ah, I see the family resemblance now,¡± I say, but the cheer drains out of my eyes as I toss out all plans of recruiting the kid and start thinking up alternative ways to deny Ron his gunmaker.


    The kid misses the subtle insult and takes my words as a compliment. ¡°Yea that¡¯s right, I¡¯m Jacob Horner Junior, so there¡¯s no way you ever gonna convince me to work for no stinking, thieving Feds. Who the fuck you think you are, coming in here dressed like their Qink mascot? Telling us how to go about our business and to come work for them, when the Feds have never done anything for me or mine.¡± Junior spits, and as much as I hate to admit it, I don¡¯t entirely disagree. Ain¡¯t the Federation I care about, but New Hope, the Blue Bulwark, and the people taking shelter behind it here on the Frontier. The Federation is just the figurehead, but it¡¯s not like the Bulwark will only protect Federal citizens.


    No point saying as much anymore, so I shrug and give him a tip of my hat in silent farewell. ¡°Hey wait up,¡± Junior says, and for some reason, I actually stop and look back. ¡°Run up and send blondie over anyways. Figure you owe us a bitch, seeing how you snatched up that Nubian gash all for yourself. Don¡¯t you worry, I¡¯ll treat blondie real nice, break her in hard and fast. Maybe I¡¯ll even keep her when I¡¯m done, as she wasted going round with you.¡±


    I take a step towards Junior, but the older members draw their TEC-LS. They don¡¯t point them at me, but they hold them at their sides, hammers cocked and ready to shoot at a moment¡¯s notice. ¡°Why so scared?¡± I ask, and I don¡¯t even got it in me to smile, because don¡¯t nobody talk about Tina like that and walk away in one piece. No one.


    ¡°Back the fuck off,¡± the bigger one says, and I name him Mullet for the sake of record keeping. Only logical to keep track of the people you hurt, because they the most likely to try and hurt you back. ¡°Or else.¡±


    I give the other one a look too, and christen him Nelly, because he sweating buckets already and I ain¡¯t even done anything yet. ¡°So what are you, his babysitters? Or you his big daddies, filling in when Jacob Senior ain¡¯t around to tap that ass?¡± Facing Junior head on, I ask, ¡°This how it is? You do the talking, they do the fighting, and you pay them back the only way a nancy-ass little bitch like you knows how?¡±


    Now, I got nothing against the gays, as what consenting folks do in the privacy of their own bedrooms ain¡¯t got nothing to do with me. Judging by where Junior¡¯s head went when I tried to talk him up however, I¡¯m guessing he got strong opinions on the matter, so this just the easiest way to rile him up. Unfortunately, the little shit ain¡¯t got no pride or shame and hits me with an ugly sneer, ¡°Aww, is the Firstborn scared? Don¡¯t got your gook gash of a mommy here with you now, do you, bitch?¡± Flipping me the double bird, he opens his eyes wide in what I¡¯m guessing is supposed to be an intimidating glare, but only comes off as goofy.


    Giving Mullet and Nelly another look, I ask, ¡°You sure this how you want to play it out? Things don¡¯t just end if I walk away. I¡¯ll give you a chance to reconsider. Put your guns away, and put up your dukes. I beat the both of you, give that asshole a much-needed attitude adjustment, and he learns his lesson. You don¡¯t, and well¡­ Things get ugly.¡±


    They don¡¯t answer, so I shrug and step out.


    ¡°Yea, run away, you little bitch,¡± Junior shouts, as I stop just outside the door, Prime a flashbang, and wait a full second before throwing it in. ¡°Faggot-ass, chicken-shit, slant-eyed chink. Don¡¯t you worry about blondie though, because I¡¯ll take real good care of her, me and all my ¨C ¡±


    The flashbang goes in, and goes off, while I stand next to the door with my back against the wall. Still loud, but I¡¯m spared the flash, and I wait half a beat to see if Mullet or Nelly fire off a shot. No dice, so I dart in and go for Mullet first, who I clocked as the more competent of the two. He¡¯s bent double from the flashbang, but still got his TEC-LS in hand and finger on the trigger, so I grab the gun by the frame while the barrel¡¯s pointed downward and twist it sideways. Breaks his finger with a clean, crisp snap, and to my surprise, the gun doesn¡¯t go off. So I make it go off, just to sell my story, before taking the gun out of his hands and emptying the cylinder right quick. A flick of the wrist and press of the rod, that¡¯s all it takes to render the pistol harmless, and I do the same with his other sidearm before tossing both aside and moving on to Nelly. Who doesn¡¯t have his finger on the trigger, so I sock him in jaw and put him down hard, before again firing off a shot at nothing to make it seem like more of a fight.


    All in all, maybe four, five seconds at most, giving me a good, long time to spend with Junior. I start with his kidneys, because if you ever been punched there, you know it ain¡¯t pleasant. Sends a sharp jolt right through your body, and most go down after a single hit. Blind and disoriented though he may be, Junior don¡¯t go down and throws out a wild swing, which I duck under mostly to keep him guessing where I am. A kick to the back of his calf brings him down to one knee, and I grab him by the hair to hold him upright as I deliver a right hook to his ribs, then stomach. Throwing his head forward into the sand, I stomp him on the side that ain¡¯t been punched yet. Not enough to break bone, not even enough to fracture probably, but he gonna have trouble breathing for a bit.


    Which strikes a chord in me as I flip him onto his back and drop my knee on his chest, driving the full weight of my body down on him. His arms flail feebly as his breath wheezes out, and when he tries to draw a breath in, I slam my hand into his throat and lean in close. ¡°Look at me,¡± I whisper, seeing the fear take form as he blinks away the blinding shadows to reveal me hovering over him. Pressing down even harder with knee and hand both, I let him squirm beneath me for a full second so he knows he can¡¯t escape. ¡°You ever talk about her like that again, look at her sideways, even think unsightly thoughts about her, and I¡¯ll come back for you, Junior.¡± Slapping his face to keep him from passing out, I hiss, ¡°Focus! You pass out, and you die boy, so listen close.¡± He blinks as his face turns red and expression turns pleading as the last shred of his courage breaks away, but there is no mercy in me here today. ¡°You cross me or mine in anyway, and I¡¯ll come back and kill you slow,¡± I whisper, and his bug eyes go even wider because he believes it. ¡°Chop you up and feed you to yourself, bit by foul bit. We clear?¡±


    He nods, so I ease back off his chest and neck long enough for him to draw a breath. ¡°Now clench your jaw,¡± I say, once he got air in his lungs again, but I can tell the oxygen ain¡¯t made its way to his brain yet, because he don¡¯t understand. That¡¯s fine though, as he don¡¯t need all his teeth anyways, and the first two come loose as I deliver a big right to his jaw. Then another. And another, and a left for good measure.


    Only then do I stand and brush myself off, before moving to stand next to the doorway just in time to greet Sergeant Begaye as he surveys the inside of the bunker from the doorway. Better him than one of the other sergeants, as it saves me the trouble of having to explain myself. Doesn¡¯t yell, doesn¡¯t smile, doesn¡¯t even look all that surprised. He just looks at the two men and Junior bleeding from the mouth all laid out on the floor, then looks at me, and I can see my ranking plummet even further to cement my place as worst boot he¡¯s ever had.


    Which is fine by me. I never responded well to authority anyways, so I suppose I was never destined to become a Ranger either way.

 Chapter 46

    ¡°Tell me, Howie. How is it you left to approach a potential gunsmith and potentially recruit him, but ended up beating said gunsmith half to death?¡±


    ¡°Kid had it comin¡¯.¡±


    My honest and unrepentant response earns me no points from Marcus, and his glower darken into scowls as I stand at full attention before him. It¡¯s the truth though, whether he likes hearing it or not, and I ain¡¯t about to back down. ¡°I¡¯m sure some of the nearby boots caught some snippets of our conversation,¡± I say by way of explanation. ¡°Junior wasn¡¯t being all that circumspect.¡±


    ¡°So you pulled out a flashbang and assaulted him?¡±


    ¡°No. Well, yes,¡± I correct myself, adding in a little shrug. ¡°But they drew on me first. The two older men removed their sidearms from their holsters and cocked their hammers, which constitutes an actionable threat of aggression. Bein¡¯ a settlement wherein I can be assured a reasonable expectation of safety, I was well within my rights to defend myself using lethal force.¡±


    Giving me a look, Marcus asks, ¡°So you¡¯re saying I should thank you for keeping things non-lethal?¡±


    ¡°No thanks necessary,¡± I quip, chancing a smile. Wrong move, because it sets the veins in Marcus¡¯ meaty, muscled neck to throbbing, and I quickly back peddle to serious mode. ¡°I figured killin¡¯ ¡®em would be a touch too far.¡±


    ¡°You broke one man¡¯s hand,¡± Marcus begins, all calm and steady like he does. ¡°Concussed another, and knocked four teeth out of that kid¡¯s mouth.¡± Nice. Only saw three fly out, so I suppose the fourth was still hanging in there. ¡°Don¡¯t smile,¡± Marcus snaps, all fierce and furious out of nowhere as he leans in and gives my chest a good hard poke. Right on the bruise too, but I stand firm with little more than a wince. He catches it and belatedly remembers I took a Bolt to the chest only a few days ago, so his anger melts away into guilt. He don¡¯t gotta though, as even I feel like I stepped over the line, and he reads it all from my expression before rallying back. ¡°We got an Aberration army knocking at our gates, and you think this is a good time to start shit with the locals? This how your daddy teach you to do things?¡±


    ¡°¡­No.¡± Can¡¯t help but look away. Not out of shame or contrition, no, it¡¯s anger and frustration which got me unable to meet Marcus¡¯ eyes, because I know I can¡¯t measure up. ¡°His way don¡¯t work for me though. He¡¯d ride into town with both hands on the reins all calm and casual as can be. No smiles, no glares, no scowls or frowns. Just neutral you know? Like he usually was, a blank expression that didn¡¯t say nothing to no one. Them townies would look at him, and he¡¯d look at them right back, and they¡¯d all just know they was outmatched. That if they wanted to start somethin¡¯, then he was gonna end it, and that there was a fact.¡±


    I tried that to start, and got attacked far more often than I liked. If it wasn¡¯t people trying to shoot me in my sleep, it was some Tom, Dick, or Harry who thought they could pull the wool over my eyes and get one over on me. No idea what it is about me that makes folks think I¡¯m an easy mark, as I ride around in an armoured wagon with a Big Fucking Stick up top. My age I suppose, as most folks ain¡¯t used to seein¡¯ kids who can handle themselves, so I¡¯ve had to get aggressive more often than most. Less since I switched over to using Aunty Ray¡¯s method, though I still get warning shots when I approach towns with my arms out and to the sides plus a big ol¡¯ grin pasted on my face.


    Frustrating is what it is. More of me failing to meet standards and another reminder of how I still got a ways to go. Hate not measuring up, and hate falling short of Marcus¡¯ expectations, but I ain¡¯t entirely at fault. Gesturing back towards the bunker where I laid the three Vanguard Nationals¡¯ out, I explain, ¡°Tried to be civil with them. Even gave them an out after talks broke down. Told them thugs in no uncertain terms I was just gonna slap the kid around for havin¡¯ a mouth, but they didn¡¯t budge, so they had to pay a premium for makin¡¯ me work harder.¡± Looking up to meet Marcus¡¯ steely gaze, I tell him what he already knows. ¡°They bullies, Marcus. They sense weakness, and they¡¯ll pounce on it. I walk away, and that cements the image their bossman wants them to see, that we the hired help and soon to be victims once all the dust settles. They see us as patsies, here to help fight the Abby horde before layin¡¯ all our guns and gear at their feet. Got everythin¡¯ earmarked and ready to distribute once we¡¯ve served our purpose, and now that little shit thinks he can lay a claim on Tina too?¡± Curling my lip and clenching my fists, I steel my resolve and show Marcus what I¡¯ve become, a man ready and willing to unleash violence for the right reasons, a man no different from him. ¡°After all that, Junior¡¯s lucky he still drawin¡¯ breath. So yea. He had it comin¡¯.¡±


    Unlike Conner, Marcus meets my gaze without flinching, because this ain¡¯t the first he seeing it. Truth is, he knows better than most how much blood I got on my hands, as Meadowbrook is right there on the edge of No Man¡¯s Land, and he¡¯s never failed to check in on me every time I¡¯m there. He also knows that the Accords ain¡¯t enough, that Federal Laws ain¡¯t enough, because if they were, there wouldn¡¯t be any outlaws to begin with. Sometimes, we gotta step over the line to deal with folks who live their lives on the other side, because violence and death is the only response they understand and respect.


    Marcus gets it. He¡¯s just upset because he hoped I didn¡¯t, and truth be told, my timing could¡¯ve been better. ¡°So how do we handle this?¡± he asks. Not because he doesn¡¯t know. He just wants to see if I do.


    ¡°What¡¯s there to handle?¡± I shrug, not at all concerned about the legalities. ¡°I¡¯m covered under the Accords.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re here representing the Rangers, and therefore you¡¯re expected to adhere to the military code of conduct. Rules of engagement state do not engage unless engaged upon, and you were clearly the aggressor.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t remember signin¡¯ no contract,¡± I say, and before he can interject, I add, ¡°Nor have I received any official written notice of conscription.¡±


    ¡°What about our prisoner?¡± Marcus asks, accepting my argument for now since it¡¯ll hold up against townies. ¡°Captain Jung classified you as a Federal soldier on deployment to justify his incarceration.¡±


    ¡°While at the same time suggesting my actions could also be covered under the Accords,¡± I reply, grinning to remember it. ¡°Meaning my status as a Federal soldier is murky at best. Sasquatch shot Jay too, so you still got proper justification to hold him. If you gotta disavow me, do it. Legally, there ain¡¯t nothin¡¯ Vanguard National can do about it, except lie and put a warrant out for my arrest. If that happens, I let them know I got it all on recording and demand a joint trial in a Federal court, as is my right as a tax-paying freeholder of New Hope subject to Federal Law, a right the Rangers would be duty bound to see upheld.¡±


    I don¡¯t have it on recording, but even if they do have a video player, there are formalities to go through when authenticating a memory crystal for legal proceedings, and Independent Sherrif¡¯s and Ranger Captains ain¡¯t on the short list of acceptable parties. Means Independents really get the short end of the stick when it comes to legal proceedings with old world government factions, which is why they so gung-ho about Frontier Justice. Wouldn¡¯t be an issue if they actually cared about proving crimes before they punished people for them, but it varies on the specific town and Sherrif.


    ¡°And if they press the issue?¡± Marcus asks, mostly to cover all the bases.


    ¡°Then we blow a hole in the wall and make like a tree.¡± Glancing around at our fortified perimeter, with sandbags and ditches aplenty, I add, ¡°Or you know. Don¡¯t. I still got them Molotovs, and Vanguard National all stay in the same building.¡± One with an expansive basement it seems, as there no way a hundred odd toughs and their gals can all fit inside the one singular building. No need to take a look though, as we¡¯ll find out real quick if they got a second exit once we set the main one on fire.


    ¡°Good plan,¡± he says, before shaking his head. ¡°Too bad though. I¡¯m writing you up on charges for conduct unbecoming of a soldier. Your actions are covered under the Accords, but in clear violation of military regulation. Upon return, you will face disciplinary action under the Federal Uniform Code of Military Justice, and your punishment will not be light.¡±


    ¡­Tch.


    Reading the disgruntlement right off my face, Marcus makes no apologies for leaving me high and dry. ¡°You leave me no choice, Howie. We¡¯ve got the first class of Ranger boots here, and I won¡¯t have them learning from your bad habits. And they are bad habits Howie, behaviour your daddy would never have accepted. I understand doing what you have to do, but your actions could¡¯ve jeopardized the safety of the entire town. Lives are at stake here, not just the lives of Vanguard National, but regular, hard-working people who are just trying to survive and your fellow boots too. Lives which will be lost if we¡¯re forced to fight our way out, lives you came here to protect.¡±


    I didn¡¯t. I came here to protect Tina and Tina only, but saying so won¡¯t earn me any points. Whole town can burn for all I care, and if I¡¯d known then what I know now, I might well have kept my mouth shut and left Pleasant Dunes in the lurch. Ron wants to play stupid games, he ought to win stupid prizes, and having to deal with a teething Proggie all by his lonesome is what I¡¯d call just desserts. Problem is, he¡¯d have likely just cut and run, leaving the townies to fend for themselves, and I¡¯d have felt terrible for it. That¡¯s the problem with having a conscience. Makes you do stupid things, like leaving Junior still breathing when he deserves a Bolt to the head. Could¡¯ve made it look like an accident from one of them thugs, and would¡¯ve been better off forcing Ron¡¯s here and now on our terms rather than his, because we can take Vanguard National in a head on fight. Don¡¯t matter if we outnumbered; a few Fireballs will send thugs and townies alike scurrying for cover, and our guns can handle the rest. Out there in the open desert, where they get to pick the time and place to attack? Depends on a lot of things. The weather for one. How dialed in our outriders are for two. Most importantly, how good them Khaganate are at sneaking around, and I¡¯d peg them as damn good considering I didn¡¯t see hide nor hair of them on the way in until they robbed me of my catch.


    All in all? Fifty-fifty odds at best if they attack us out there, which ain¡¯t odds I¡¯d willingly take. Any fair fight is a bad fight, as my daddy used to say. Here in town? Wouldn¡¯t even need the whole Company of Rangers or any of the boots. Me and the three Captains could bring Vanguard National down to its knees in a half hour flat. Kill Ron and his top men, and the rest will crumble like a tower of cards. Same goes for Gunin and his Khaganate, since I doubt his people will have the balls to ambush us on the way out. We¡¯d still have to fight off the Abby horde to save the townies. Wouldn¡¯t have to hold the town though, especially if we get them all corralled up somewhere safe and take the fight to the streets. Rangers ain¡¯t great at holding walls, because there¡¯s too much area to cover. Funnel Abby into narrow kill-zones and a Strike Team could hold for hours, and clean house with twenty more shooters.


    But Marcus ain¡¯t wrong. I let my temper get the better of me. I should¡¯ve walked away and looked for another opportunity to get even. Couldn¡¯t though, not knowing Tina was right on top of the bunker and listening to every hateful word Junior was spouting. And I suppose I wasn¡¯t in the most forgiving mood when I made the approach either, which is why I didn¡¯t actually record anything. Didn¡¯t want no one seeing how close to the edge I was, how close I came to squeezing the literal life out of Junior just to watch him suffer.


    So I take my lumps as Marcus details our new arrangement, one which has me on a short leash while I¡¯m here in town, and attached to the hip of a Ranger at all times. Will probably get a mark on my record which would make it difficult to become a Ranger later on down the line, but that¡¯s no skin off my back. Some community service hours too, anywhere from 40 to 320 would be my guess. Maybe even 480 to make a full season if Marcus is feeling particularly ungenerous, but it won¡¯t be too bad. Would mostly see me ferrying Federal goods at cost, meaning a pittance to cover food and maintenance, and maybe hard labour in one of the new forts going up south of Redeemer¡¯s Keep. It¡¯s what I deserve for riding to the aid of Pleasant Dunes, as no good deed goes unpunished after all.


    Could be worse. Marcus had every reason to have me arrested and imprisoned next to Sasquatch. I refuse to call him Tank, because there¡¯s no way that¡¯s his real name, so Sasquatch fits just as well.


    Seeing how I done knocked out their gunsmith, Marcus sets me to task assembling their gatlings with Conner to babysit, so it¡¯s a good thing I was listening when Junior was going off about them. Would¡¯ve figured it out eventually, but saves me, Conner, and Saheed a lot of time as we piece the weapons together right quick. Ain¡¯t much conversation as we work, and I can see that Saheed is feeling mighty put off by the mood, and plenty grateful when Conner sends him away once we done. ¡°We need to talk,¡± Conner says, wiping his hands on a rag while stopping me from following Saheed out the bunker.


    ¡°What ¡®bout?¡± I ask, resisting the urge to reach for my medallion and wishing I had a way to activate it hands free. Chrissy could probably do it, meaning it¡¯s technically possible, though I got no idea how.


    Checking to make sure we aren¡¯t overheard, Conner leans in and whispers, ¡°I talked Wayne into a meeting. You, him, and me, the three of us sit down and hammer things out. Like men.¡± Stopping my pithy comment before I have time to voice it, Conner looks me dead in the eyes as serious as the grave. ¡°I mean it Howie. Talk to him. For your own good. No one wants to see anyone get jammed up. All he wants is to settle things nice and quiet, then put it all behind us. No muss, no fuss. Alright?¡±


    Seems Conner¡¯s a believer now, which is unfortunate to say the least. Not just because he¡¯s right, but because if two Rangers are saying it, then more will believe it, even if there ain¡¯t a lick of proof. Doubt Noora talked in the last few hours, especially considering she went to sleep in her wagon right after our talk and was still there when I woke up. Even if she did talk, why would she talk to Wayne? Either way, I ain¡¯t none too pleased about having to go through this again, and am in no mood to entertain Conner. ¡°Got nothing to talk about,¡± I say, sticking to my guns and doubling down on innocent. ¡°And nothing to settle up for.¡±


    ¡°Howie,¡± Conner begins, then grimace and switches tack. ¡°This is your last chance,¡± he warns, showing his true colours. ¡°I mean it man. You walk away from this, and you leave Wayne no choice but to make this ugly. Leave us no choice. I don¡¯t want to see it happen, so own up to your mistakes, and we¡¯ll settle things in house.¡±


    Or they go and ruin my name on a hunch. Doesn¡¯t matter if their hunch is right, or that nothing will come of it, legally speaking. Innocent until proven guilty don¡¯t count for shit in the court of public opinion. If he¡¯d come at me with this last week, I might¡¯ve even considered it, but honestly, I¡¯m beyond caring at this point. Might even make things easier if people start thinking of me as the second coming of the Yellow Devil. Heard firsthand how frightened that Ruskie Gunin was, so maybe that¡¯s what I¡¯m missing out on. A reputation, one to put the fear of God in outlaws and townies alike, enough so that maybe, just maybe, I won¡¯t have to keep pretending to be the friendly, harmless Firstborn anymore.


    ¡°Tell Wayne to do what he gotta do,¡± I say, meeting Conner¡¯s gaze without flinching. ¡°I¡¯ll do the same.¡±


    The frustration bubbles over into outright resentment, and Conner struggles to find the words to give voice to his exasperation. ¡°This won¡¯t end well, Howie,¡± he says, and for the life of me, I can¡¯t figure out why he sounds so afraid. He really worried I¡¯ll get jammed up on Wayne¡¯s say so? ¡°I¡¯m begging you. Stop being stubborn and come clean so I can help you.¡±


    ¡°Help me with what?¡± I ask, mostly to buy time to parse through everything I know in a different light. ¡°You think Wayne and them other Rangers are ready to go Frontier Justice on my ass?¡± That¡¯s the only reasonable explanation I can think of, because Conner¡¯s talking like he¡¯s fearing for my life. Or there¡¯s more to this than just skimmed Cores, because he doesn¡¯t blink. ¡°No, that¡¯s not it. It¡¯s something worse.¡± The telltale blink gives him away, as Conner never was any good at keeping a straight face, which is why I never turn down the chance to play poker with him. Well, that and my rustling jimmies sometimes help me avoid a bad read, but I don¡¯t tell anyone that, but they¡¯re quiet as a mouse right now. ¡°What¡¯s he got you mixed up in Conner?¡± Tilting my head and furrowing my brow, I add, ¡°Maybe I ain¡¯t the one who needs to come clean.¡±


    All this time, I¡¯ve been thinking this is was about off-loading goods Wayne skimmed from Company missions. Cores, Aberrtin, rare materials, that sort of thing, but now that I think about it, that wouldn¡¯t be enough to make him reek of desperation. Sure, Wayne needs the money, but I can¡¯t believe a single missed windfall would set him back far enough to act the way he has been, especially since none of the other Rangers from his Company have given me any grief over it. No one besides Conner at least, while the rest were just supporting their Lieutenant the way they supposed to. Even Reggie ain¡¯t come at me yet, and he¡¯s Wayne¡¯s Number Two, meaning this is more about Wayne than the entire Company. Suppose that¡¯s good news for me, except I feel like I¡¯m missing something here, a single, pivotal piece to tie everything together and paint me a picture of what¡¯s happening, but try as I might, I can¡¯t figure out what¡¯s got Conner all twisted up inside.


    Stolen story; please report.


    So against my better judgement, I agree to go along with Conner¡¯s meeting and follow back to camp, where Wayne stands ready and waiting on the outskirts, far away from prying eyes and ears. Contrary to Conner¡¯s assurances though, Wayne don¡¯t look like he wants to talk much, not with a face as sour as his. ¡°Twenty grand,¡± is his opening statement, without so much as a how you do. ¡°That¡¯s what it¡¯ll take to smooth this over, and not one dollar less.¡±


    ¡°If you say so,¡± I reply. ¡°You accept payment in solid gold? It¡¯ll take a few days for me to shit that much, and I¡¯ll need your help sifting through the latrines, but it¡¯ll be worth it, I swear.¡±


    ¡°You still think this is one big joke, don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Well obviously, because I don¡¯t actually shit solid gold.¡± Giving Conner a look, I ask, ¡°This what you mean by settling up? Bringing me here to be blackmailed? Besides, you think I got that kinda money just lying around? That¡¯s seven years of Ranger pay.¡± And unless I get obscenely lucky, like three years or four years with my nose to the grindstone. That¡¯s without accounting for food, ammo, and other expenses mind you. Ain¡¯t every day you pick up a high value Spell Core after all, and most low value ones don¡¯t sell for more than ten dollars a pop. Even a Third Order Barrage Core ain¡¯t all that valuable, because the amount of technological know-how needed to get it working is absurd. Junior would blow himself to kingdom come just tinkering around, and I know better than to even try, because there ain¡¯t nothing simple or intuitive about how them mortars work.


    ¡°It¡¯s what you cost me, Howie,¡± Wayne says, looking me in the eyes with an uncharacteristic amount of confidence. ¡°But I¡¯m a gracious man. You can pay in installments, starting with the six grand bounty you picked up before all this and the cash you¡¯ll get from that Mage Armour Spell Core. Should be another seven grand easy, maybe even as much as nine if the Marshal goes to bat for you. Call it twelve total for now, and I¡¯ll give you until the end of the year to get me the rest, interest free.¡±


    Even though I knew how much money I¡¯ve made lately, it still fills me with pride to hear it. Twelve to fifteen grand in a month, or round about that. Will be a long time before I do that again, considering high-value bounties and Spell Cores don¡¯t come around every year. ¡°How generous of you,¡± I reply, cramming as much sarcasm into the words as I can, while also proud of how much money I¡¯ve made these last few weeks. ¡°A whole nine months to earn fourteen grand, and it¡¯ll be fourteen because I done already spent the first six on guns, armour, ammo, and horses, and only got ninety percent of the Mage Core coming my way.¡± To be honest, I also got three grand I left with Aunty Ray, but I ain¡¯t gonna ask for it back. ¡°Refresh my memory though, because I don¡¯t recall you saying. How exactly did I come to cost you twenty grand?¡±


    ¡°You know how, Howie. Time for games is done and over with.¡± Again, Wayne¡¯s got more confidence this time around, with none of his sly smiles, indirect suggestions, and probing questions that he usually come at me with. ¡°I know it was you. You know it was you. We don¡¯t need proof or evidence, because that¡¯s for the courts. You make me whole, and it ends there. You don¡¯t?¡± Wayne¡¯s eyes go wide in a goofy, exaggerated expression as he shrugs in resignation. ¡°Then I have no choice but to share what I know.¡±


    Which would be aggravating, but nothing I can¡¯t recover from, and he knows it, so it doesn¡¯t make sense why he¡¯d be so serious about it. Seeing Conner¡¯s apprehension though, I get the feeling Wayne ain¡¯t talking about going to the authorities. ¡°And your baseless accusations concern me how? You got nothing on me Wayne.¡±


    ¡°And you think that¡¯s enough to keep you safe?¡± Leaning in close, Wayne narrows his beady rat eyes and says, ¡°I¡¯ve been playing nice so far, but the kid¡¯s gloves are coming off. This is your last fucking chance here, one you¡¯re only getting because of who you are. That money isn¡¯t for me, Howie. That¡¯s what I owe, and the people I owe it to won¡¯t care about the courts or the Accords when I tell them you¡¯re to blame. They¡¯ll come for you Howie, and it won¡¯t be pretty. They¡¯ll carve you up and part you out, sell your organs to the highest bidder, some rich fuck who¡¯s ruined their body with drugs, alcohol, or Aetheric Exposure and needs a new replacement.¡±


    Well that settles it then. This ain¡¯t about skimmed Cores and Aberrtin then, because if the twenty grand was supposed to go to the Company, that¡¯s only one grand a piece. Hardly enough to make such a big fuss about, especially in front of three Captains. If it¡¯s twenty grand that Wayne owes though, then things are different, because that¡¯s a lot of cash for one man to scrape up, and doubly so when his wife¡¯s got an expensive habit. Expensive enough to put him twenty grand in the hole? Guess so.


    Hardly seems worth it really. Then again, I¡¯d gladly saddle that debt and more for Chrissy, Tina, or Aunty Ray, so what do I know?


    ¡°Two things,¡± I say, shaking my head to show I ain¡¯t buying it, but also to clear out any sympathy I might have for Wayne. ¡°One, even if you do lay the blame at my feet, I doubt your debtors will care enough to come after me. Them rougher types don¡¯t care about why you can¡¯t pay, only that you haven¡¯t, so I would worry more about your organs than mine.¡± My words ring true and I see it in Wayne¡¯s apprehensive gaze, so I follow it up with, ¡°And two, if you do lay the blame at my feet, then there¡¯s nothing stopping me from bringing this to Marcus. He¡¯s given you a free pass this far because he feels like he owes it to you and Tamara, but there ain¡¯t no way he¡¯ll stand by while you dump your troubles on me.¡±


    Don¡¯t know what it is that¡¯s got me feeling the way I do, but seeing how I am at least partially responsible for Wayne¡¯s current dilemma, I feel obligated to throw him a bone. ¡°I don¡¯t get it though Wayne,¡± I say, trying to sound as genuine as I can while considering my words carefully. ¡°If someone¡¯s got your small hairs in a twist and is threatening to bring the hammer down on you hard, then why don¡¯t you just¡­ take care of it? You a Lieutenant in the Rangers, so I gotta assume you know your business, and I know your boys will back you if you ask.¡± Shrugging, I add, ¡°Hell, I¡¯ll even help if you need it. Hire you on for a hunt and ¡®accidentally¡¯ stumble across a group of ne¡¯er-do-wells, who we¡¯d be obligated to gun down where they stand. Simple is as simple does, and wouldn¡¯t no one think twice.¡±


    Because who gives a shit about a bunch of drug dealing, organ stealing outlaws? Frontier would be better off without them anyways.


    Wayne doesn¡¯t reply right away, just hits me with what I can only describe as a petulant pout. ¡°If only it were that simple Howie,¡± he says, and I can tell he¡¯s thought about it too. For all his faults, the man is still a Ranger, and Rangers don¡¯t got any quit in them. This though? This a battle he don¡¯t see how he can win, and it¡¯s eating away at him from within. Got plenty of questions eating away at me too, because now I ain¡¯t so sure I reached the right conclusion, but don¡¯t see what else it could be. He¡¯s in it deep with a bunch of criminals, but is too afraid to come clean or take them out on the down low, that¡¯s my read, but what am I missing?


    Nothing that¡¯ll make me take on a twenty-thousand-dollar debt though, no sir-ree, especially if I don¡¯t even know what it¡¯s for.


    So on the off-chance he actually answers me, I ask, ¡°What are you mixed up in, Wayne?¡± No such luck though, as he just gives me a look, telling me he ain¡¯t about to give me more ammunition to run to Marcus with, but that ain¡¯t why I¡¯m asking. Partially, it¡¯s guilt, but also because I wanna know what I missed in that wagon, since curiosity is a bitch. Nothing I can do if he ain¡¯t willing to share though, and I done enough to try and set things right, so I offer a shrug and say, ¡°Then I guess you gotta do what you gotta do. I ain¡¯t payin¡¯ no twenty grand for nothin¡¯. Wouldn¡¯t even pay you a dollar, because your troubles ain¡¯t got nothing to do with me.¡±


    Which ain¡¯t entirely true, but I didn¡¯t forced Wayne to take on whatever debt he owes, or work with criminals and lowlives. That¡¯s on him. Me, I killed a pedophile rapist who drugged me, and they can¡¯t even prove that, so I¡¯ll deal with whatever may come. Doubt anything will come of it anyways, though I think I¡¯ll avoid Meadowbrook until this all blows over. Shouldn¡¯t be too difficult. Aside from whatever punishment Marcus got waiting for me, I got Basic coming up, and there¡¯ll be plenty of work going down south this next year or two, what with three new fortresses slated to start construction in a month or two.


    All thoughts which run through my head as I head back into camp, but I can¡¯t get rid of the one intrusive thought that keeps coming back. Why was Wayne so confident this time around? Last time we talked, he was still trying to needle me in hopes of getting something out of me. Turned that back around on him and got punched in the face for it, but that doesn¡¯t change the facts none. He wasn¡¯t sure then, wanted to push my buttons and see how I reacted, and was like that these last two weeks, but today¡­ Today he was sure. Maybe he done convinced himself, or maybe I ticked him off enough so he don¡¯t care if he wrong. Could be he¡¯s just so desperate to escape responsibility the facts don¡¯t matter anymore. Thing is, no matter how I try to logic it, I can¡¯t help but wonder if the reason Wayne¡¯s so sure is because Noora talked, and I find myself making excuses to go check up on her at the wagon. I don¡¯t, because I got nothing more than an inkling, and it¡¯s not like she¡¯d honestly answer even if I asked. Terrible timing is all it is, me getting that weight off my chest only to have Wayne show up like he did after the fact. That¡¯s all it is, an unfortunate coincidence and nothing more, because Noora wouldn¡¯t turn on me like that, and wouldn¡¯t know enough to go running to Wayne even if she did.


    The night is only just beginning as I settle back in once again, but it¡¯s a long and eventful one. Two more Abby attacks take place under the cover of darkness, and both times they¡¯re driven back with no small number of casualties. None from the Rangers or boots just yet, though they got a smattering of minor injuries. It¡¯s the townies who take the brunt of the damage, dying in small groups here and there that¡¯ll add up right quick. Got nothing to do with me though, as Marcus leaves me benched all night, and I suspect Captain Jung and Sergeant Begaye didn¡¯t argue too much against it. Tina, Jay, Errol, and the other boots all take part in the defense at one point or another, but I¡¯m stuck in camp tossing and turning all night between studying Spiritual Weapon¡¯s Spell Structure and bouts of restless sleep plagued by doubts and uncertainties.


    So much so that when Sergeant Begaye kicks me awake in the early hours of the wee morning, I have no idea what it is he wants until he says, ¡°Gear up.¡± That gets my Cores Primed right quick as I hop to my feet, much to Cowie¡¯s displeasure. Kissing his nose to quiet his grumbles, I lay him down next to Tina and smile as he pushes his way through the flock of sleeping kiccaws to snuggle up against her. The birds don¡¯t seem to mind, just hopping up onto his flank to sit pretty and snooze, while Tina doesn¡¯t even stir inside her bedroll. Bad habit that, sleeping so deeply on the battlefield, but she¡¯s been going hard in the paint with the shooting and Spellslinging all night, while I¡¯ve fully recovered from this afternoon¡¯s slugfest and then some.


    For good reason it seems, because I¡¯m moving up to the big leagues.


    Doesn¡¯t take long for me to finish preparations, as I got most of everything I need. Or so I thought, as Sergeant Begaye insists on going through my kit to make sure I ain¡¯t missing anything. ¡°Leave your hat,¡± he says, which I gently throw to land neatly next to Cowie¡¯s head as the Sergeant hands me a metal bucket of a soldier¡¯s helmet. One that don¡¯t fit, which gets him real sour. ¡°Never seen a kid with a head as big as yours,¡± he grumbles as he leads me over to grab a new one, and for once, them words got nothing to do with my ego. I don¡¯t see it though, as my head is perfectly normal sized. It¡¯s my slim and compact build that¡¯s undersized, and soon as I bulk up a bit, everything will be perfectly proportional.


    Except my ears I guess. Those are kinda big, but what can you do?


    ¡°Where¡¯s your bayonet?¡± The Sergeant asks, after I got my new helmet fitted in place.


    ¡°Back in the trenches of World War Two,¡± I quip, but he don¡¯t laugh. ¡°Who carries a bayonet these days?¡±


    ¡°Delvers,¡± comes the reply, and as much as I want to laugh about it, it actually makes sense once I stop and think about it. Dark tunnels and tight spaces means a quick poke with sharp steel ain¡¯t all that absurd, but I don¡¯t got no bayonet. Got a knife, but no attachment for my carbine, and Sergeant Begaye don¡¯t wait for no explanations. Just hands me a Strelky with a fold out bayonet already attached, as well as a bunch of ammo clips and a second bayonet with a ring I can clip onto my Whumper. Shows he¡¯s a man who prepares for every eventuality, much like my daddy and how I try to be, but Lord knows I¡¯ve had to scramble and improvise more than once. ¡°Darkvision goggles?¡±


    ¡°Fully charged with Aether to spare,¡± I say, tapping the goggles around my neck. We go through a few more things, but ain¡¯t nothing else I¡¯m missing. Finally satisfied, he gives me a nod of begrudging approval before bringing me to another Drill Sergent lurking in the shadows at the edge of camp, one by the name of Dixon. A short and stocky fella who don¡¯t seem to think much of me, but he doesn¡¯t say anything about it. Just looks me over, then glances at Sergeant Begaye before launching into the subtle motions and muttered chant of a Spell cast on the sly. Still audible to me and anyone within arms length, but you¡¯d think he was just flexing his wrist and stretching his arm if you weren¡¯t looking too closely.


    The Spell takes form around me, and though I can¡¯t perceive it the way Tina would, I can still feel it work, sense how it circles around me and settles gently over my shoulders. There¡¯s an impression of darkness about the Aether, one that doesn¡¯t affect the physical world in any way, yet renders the early morning gloom to grow thicker around us. Different from how my Settle In Shadows Spell would do it, as the Aether doesn¡¯t take the shape or form of shadow, but rather suggests that it does to anyone looking.


    An illusion Spell, aptly named Cloak of Darkness, a First Order Spell I could never get the hang of. It¡¯s only supposed to conceal the Caster though, which means stout Sergeant Dixon ain¡¯t half bad if he can extend the effects to two other people. More of that familiarity that I ain¡¯t so familiar with, because the feature don¡¯t come standard, which means it¡¯s beyond of the reach of most folks who learn it. No idea why, as every Spellslinger resonates with different Spells, and there ain¡¯t no explanation for it. Even Chrissy and Tina got different Spells they familiar with, though that might be on account of how Chrissy favours what she calls ¡®fun¡¯ magic. Like Infestation, which I don¡¯t get, as I been on the receiving end of that Cantrip before, and one time was more than enough.


    Or Command, to really get her point across on those rare occasions she has a need to. She don¡¯t mean nothing by it. It just happens is all.


    As for me? Only familiarity I got worth bragging about is Mage Hand. Which to be fair is pretty standard, as most are only familiar with one to three Spells at most. Knowing how to use Divination Spells ain¡¯t nothing to write home about either, because that¡¯s just making use of the Spells as is. I¡¯m just better at reading them than most, which don¡¯t feel all that impressive really, as it¡¯s no different from being able to do math. I understand Divination Spells the same way I came to understand the numbers, by going through them again and again under different conditions until the understanding became second nature. Should be possible for anyone really, or at least that¡¯s how I feel, which is why I don¡¯t take much pride in those abilities.


    Under the Sergeant Dixon¡¯s Cloak of Shadows, we slink our way over to the east side of town and up onto the wall, all without attracting any attention. Fact that there ain¡¯t as many guards helps a fair bit, as most of the Ranger Spell mines are concentrated on this side, which means plenty of advance warning if Abby should come hurtling down the mountains. Which was what we expected, but got a whole horde streaming out into the desert to cut us off instead. Bodes poorly for any expected reinforcements, as I suspect Marcus didn¡¯t build a staging camp just to babysit boots for a single night. Course, he never came right out and called it a staging camp, but I¡¯m pretty sure that¡¯s what it was, a place to gather up wagons and Rangers before setting out as a group to help reinforce Pleasant Dunes.


    All that is neither here nor there however, as I¡¯m thrown for a loop when Sergeant Begaye starts tying off a length of rope around a crenelation. Throws the rest down and is over the side without making so much as a peep, which is real impressive considering that¡¯s six metres down without scraping any of his metallic gear even once. Me, I try to follow suit, but the strap to my borrowed Strelky ain¡¯t as well fitted as the one on my carbine, and I do a bit of clicking and clacking on my way down. Enough to earn me a scowl from the Sergeant, who mutters, ¡°Hope you can move quieter than that under dark. Sound travels in those tunnels.¡±


    Too sheepish to say anything in my defense, I get to fiddling with my gun strap, while following Sergeant Begaye out towards the main path. Sergeant Dixon don¡¯t follow us down and pulls the rope up behind us, but I can still feel his Spell settled loosely around me as we head up the winding path into the mountains. Not two minutes away sits a pair of saddled horses, and we hop on to hurry along off to our destination. Gives me time to wonder how they got the horses out without anyone noticing, but not enough to drum up the courage to ask during our fifteen-minute ride to the entrance to a mineshaft that looks like it¡¯s been sealed up with Shatter Spells or Charges.


    Waiting there to greet us are none other than the three Captains themselves, all geared to the gills and looking ready to kick ass. Marcus got himself his twin Judges, two bulky, pistol-sized, six-shooter Blastguns that¡¯ll clear tunnels with a single shot, as well as a big and heavy Blackstaff Assault Rifle with a forty-round magazine. Tim¡¯s replaced his M4 Gromph with a Strelky same as mine, as well as two 1911s on his hip and two Szass and Tam Model 45¡¯s in a new shoulder harness I ain¡¯t ever seen before. As for Captain Jung, she¡¯s dressed to the nines with a Penetrating Merlin 45, the lever-action rifle I was thinking of getting for Sarah Jay, with the addition of a wicked nasty looking bayonet blade which measures a good foot and a half long at least. She¡¯s also got a compact Burst Bolt submachine gun on her hip, as well as her Sturm and Kitiara Longsword, but the thing that really completes her outfit is the pair of bulky combat gloves she got on. They a nice pale shade of leather and slim enough not to get in the way of shooting or slinging, but sport a set of nasty looking spikes along the knuckles so she can show Abby what¡¯s what.


    Still think melee combat with an orc is a terrible idea, but for those rare occasions when you got no other choice, then Captain Jung got the right proper solution.


    ¡°Fancy meetin¡¯ y¡¯all out here,¡± I say, mostly to work off a bit of nervous energy, and Marcus gives me a smile out of consideration.


    ¡°Spells?¡± He asks, getting right down to business without any preamble, so I follow suit and put my game face on.


    ¡°Full capacity, and all prepped.¡± My answer isn¡¯t enough it seems, as he waits for specifics, so I list them out one by one. ¡°Detect Aberration, Detect Magic, Hunter¡¯s Mark, Entangle, Grease, Expeditious Retreat, Misty Step, Find Magical Traps, Force Barrier, and Spiritual Weapon.¡± Ten Spells, with number eleven being no good under dark, so no sense bringing it up.


    Marcus trades a glance with Sergeant Begaye, who frowns and asks, ¡°I thought you said you prefer to go heavy?¡± The question ain¡¯t an official one, which I can tell by his congenial tone. Ain¡¯t nothing wrong with my loadout, they were just expecting different.


    ¡°I do, but uh¡­¡± Gesturing back at the town, I say, ¡°Well, we had our talk a few days ago, but nothin¡¯ came of it, so I started feelin¡¯ antsy up here without any big booms in my back pocket.¡± Life is different when you know you only need two and a half seconds at most to clear out a room, as that¡¯ll boost your confidence like nothing else.


    Again, Marcus trades a look with Sergeant Begaye, who hits me with a dirty scowl while reaching into his pocket. Pulls out a bill and smacks it into Marcus¡¯ waiting hand, who hits me with a grin and says, ¡°Had ourselves a bet on how many Spell Structures you could hold. I said eleven, he said nine, and those other two didn¡¯t even bet.¡±


    ¡°Knew it¡¯d be high,¡± Tim says, shaking his head. ¡°Didn¡¯t think Marcus would win though. I need to step up before you catch up.¡±


    Captain Jung gives me an appraising look and says, ¡°Most with your skills only have seven, while people your age with four Spell Structures can be considered talented. I figured you for nine at most too.¡±


    ¡°Yea well,¡± I reply, feeling a hint of heat on my cheeks as I take in the attention. ¡°I always did love learning new Spells, but it got real frustrating havin¡¯ to switch them up every time I needed to actually do anything, so I been pushing for as many Spell Structures as I can for awhile now.¡±


    ¡°Enough compliments,¡± Marcus says, interrupting my moment of glory. ¡°Kid¡¯s got a big enough head as it is.¡± Giving my steel helmet a good firm knock, he adds, ¡°I bet we even got the same size hat.¡±


    No. That¡¯s not possible, and I look to Sergeant Begaye for support, but he looks away and pretends he doesn¡¯t notice while pulling out his pipe for a hit. Seems a bit irresponsible, smoking just before we go under dark, where the smell could easily give us away, but no one else says anything, so I keep quiet out of good manners. Catching my curious looks, Marcus throws his arm around my shoulder and says, ¡°We about to go down and get right into the thick of things. Can¡¯t blame a man if he needs a smoke to settle his nerves. You need a hit?¡± Waving at the Sergeant to pass the pipe, Marcus accepts it and holds it up to my lips. ¡°Go ahead,¡± he says with a smile, urging me to try it out without outright forcing it on me. I ain¡¯t much of a smoker, but I suppose if I¡¯m about to get got, I might as well give it a try, so I put my lips to the pipe and take a big ol¡¯ puff.


    Of nothing but cold air.


    ¡°C¡¯mon Howie.¡± Knocking me atop the head, Marcus¡¯ fierce features bear down on me in heated disapproval. ¡°You should know better. You about to head deep under dark, where the smell could easily give you away. Can¡¯t believe you gave in to peer pressure so easily. Didn¡¯t your daddy ever teach you to say no to drugs?¡±


    ¡°Wasn¡¯t like he was wholly against tobacco,¡± I mutter, annoyed and confused over being tricked.


    ¡°Yea, yea.¡± Handing the pipe back to Sergeant Begaye, Marcus slides a cigar into my breast pocket with a big, boyish grin. ¡°Take good care of that then. You and me will light them up in celebration after we get back topside.¡±


    ¡°Sounds good,¡± I say, distracted by the sight of Sergeant Begaye puffing on his empty pipe and blowing out rings of smoke all the same. A Conjuror¡¯s trick, I suppose, though I didn¡¯t know you could make smells with it too. Tricksy folk, Conjuror¡¯s are, same as Illusionists, Enchanters, and Transmuters.


    As for Abjurers and Evokers? They¡¯re just plain scary, making Divination the only honest School of Magic there is.


    ¡°Serious talk though,¡± Marcus continues, and I shift to meet his gaze, one which is serious as the grave and got me all sorts of concerned. ¡°You don¡¯t feel confident, then say the word and we walk away. Don¡¯t feel pressured to do down under just because we¡¯re asking. I¡¯m confident we can hold the town no matter what may come. This just gets us the win that much faster, but it isn¡¯t necessary for this operation to succeed. Understood?¡±


    ¡°Sir yes sir,¡± I reply, snapping off a salute. ¡°Still willing to give it a try though, and figure there¡¯s no better team to do it with.¡± Glancing at Tim, I wink and add, ¡°Well, I¡¯d trade Tim for the Marshal, but otherwise, we set.¡±


    Mostly a joke because Tim might well be the most pivotal member here. Man¡¯s a top tier Illusionist who¡¯ll be keeping us hidden from Abby until we¡¯re ready for them to know we¡¯re here. Wasn¡¯t joking about this being a top tier team, as Marcus is a Transmuter who can turn himself into a one-man wrecking crew, while Captain Jung is a living weapon and one of the deadliest around. Don¡¯t know much about Sergeant Begaye, but Sarah Jay¡¯s description of his shenanigans has got me all sorts of worked up. They got a good mix of schools, and it¡¯s not like they can¡¯t use other Spells too, as it¡¯s Ranger S.O.P to have every member capable of covering for three roles at the very least.


    Then there¡¯s me, who¡¯s here as a Scout and nothing more. Got one job and one job only; lead the team to the Proggie and stand back while they take it out, a job I ain¡¯t even sure I can do, much less do it well, so here¡¯s hoping my skills are up to snuff.


    So¡­ if you really up there in Heaven daddy, then I¡¯d appreciate a helping hand round about now.

 Chapter 47

    ¡°The plan is simple.¡±


    Words said as I stare down at a map of the decidedly complex tunnel system before us, one that I can barely make heads or tails of. Pointing at a long, straight corridor which I assume is the ¡®official¡¯ mining tunnel, Marcus says, ¡°We go in, pinpoint where the Proggie settled down to rest, then fight our way in, take it down, and kill our way out.¡±


    ¡°Simple is as simple does,¡± I say, even though the devil is in the details. While the main mining tunnel is fairly straightforward, it branches off into dozens of winding passages. Some end abruptly, others got markings indication they split and weren¡¯t explored, while still more are connected in the strangest of ways. To make matters worse, it¡¯s a 2-D map of a 3-D system, and it takes a bit to familiarize myself with the military notation and visualize the tunnels in my head.


    ¡°One thing to note,¡± Marcus adds, pointing at the deepest portion of the system, which judging by the scale is about three- or four-kilometres long. ¡°Chances are, big Momma is resting in uncharted territory. She¡¯s either not as close as we thought she¡¯d be, or moving under dark through tunnels Abby dug for themselves.¡±


    ¡°We know where they came from?¡± I ask, gesturing back towards town. An Abby horde that size wouldn¡¯t have gone unnoticed if they was camped out on the desert, so they gotta have a place up in the mountains. Would be the obvious place for the Proggie to exit, and give me a rough idea of which direction to look in.


    ¡°Afraid not,¡± Marcus replies, shaking his head with a grimace. ¡°The locals might have an inkling, but the townie miners don¡¯t get around much, while Vanguard National isn¡¯t big on sharing.¡± Giving me a glower, he adds, ¡°No idea why.¡± Looking over at the setting moons over to the south, before turning to check the rising sun coming up in the north, Marcus says, ¡°We got ten, maybe twelve hours to search while the Proggie sleeps for the day, but we¡¯ll need to move carefully. If we go loud before you¡¯ve got a lock on its location, then we¡¯ll be flooded by Abby and forced to fall back.¡±


    ¡°Where we moving in from?¡± Looking at the map, I don¡¯t see another way into the tunnels, not nearby at least. Only way in is the caved-in entrance right in front of us, else we¡¯d have to move a klick or two north to reach what looks like a haphazard tunnel some amateurs dug out without any real planning. Just followed the vein and reinforced the ceiling as they went, leading to a zig-zag patten that is just rife for trapping.


    And likely is, judging by all the Ranger notations on the map, though I can¡¯t make heads nor tails of it. My daddy taught me how to read topographical maps, but military maps are a whole other beast.


    ¡°Right here,¡± Marcus says, and on-cue, Tim waves a hand and the illusion of the cave-in disappears to reveal a very much in-tact tunnel. Explains his absence in town these last five days, keeping this illusion around and making sure no Abby found their way through, though I honestly thought he¡¯d parked himself up in a tower somewhere to familiarize himself with the town. I ain¡¯t talking about taking in the sight¡¯s neither, as he¡¯ll spend hours staring down the barrel of his loaded rifle and calculating theoretical shots he might take at anyone who catches his eye. Pretty sure he could shoot the wings off a bee from anywhere in New Hope without batting an eye, because he got all the angles and trajectories already worked out in his head.


    As for me, I ain¡¯t that obsessive, but my daddy taught me to always be assessing, so I take a good long look at the entrance for myself. It¡¯s a wide one, not some shabby doorway into darkness, but a right proper cavern carved out of the mountainside itself. There are three sets of rail tracks on either side of the cavern, and room enough in between for four wagons abreast, meaning its wider than the main thoroughfare back home. On each track sits a line of eight carts apiece, attached to a series of pulleys and winches meant to pull them back up. Guess Ron was too cheap to shell out for even coal-fired engines to work his carts, and I ain¡¯t seen any beasts of burden in town neither, nor have I seen any power-tools or Shatter Cores lying about.


    Which really hammers home how hard them miners have it here in Pleasant Dunes. The entrance alone is impressive enough, but when I look down at the complex system of tunnels mapped out on the paper before me, I take a moment to wonder how it was even possible to dig all that out by hand. How fast can a man with a pickaxe work? Might carve through a cubic metre of stone a day at most, unless they got Augmented pickaxes or a good number of Shatter Cores on hand to help blast through stone. Unlikely considering even one of those would cost more than a simple steam engine, though I suppose a lack of water might be the issue there. Could also have dedicated explosive experts on the payroll to help speed things along. Ain¡¯t no one like working with mundane explosives, since any random Aetheric fluctuations could set them off, and Abby seem to have a sixth sense when it comes to targeting them. As for Spellslingers with the Shatter Spell in their pocket, I doubt he could find enough to make a difference. Most folks never make it past First Order Spells, as Second Order Spells are much more difficult to learn in comparison. Even if Ron pushed his people to learn, they wouldn¡¯t be able to cast it enough times a day to matter. I can only cast six Second Order Spells a day, assuming I use nothing else but cantrips, and carve out three to six metres of rock with each cast.


    A drop in the bucket compared to the several tens of kilometres of underground tunnels I see on the map before me. Even if every miner in town could sling the Spell, they couldn¡¯t get this mining complex dug out in less than two years. Meaning they¡¯ve been at it for even longer, though I didn¡¯t think the town been around for any more than that, though I suppose folks could¡¯ve started digging before the walls went up. Doubt Ron would sleep easy knowing his indentured miners could blast him with little more than a waggle and a chant, not with how he treats them. Besides, anyone capable of casting a Second Order Spell could probably take care of themselves out in the Coral Desert, even without an Aetherarm to rely on. Then again, that could be my bias showing, since not everyone knows how to find water, food, and shelter out there on their lonesome, much less know which way to go and what areas to avoid. You¡¯d think seventeen years here on the Frontier would convince every settler to pick up a few survival skills of their own, but I reckon the vast majority stick together and never travel more than a week away from home.


    Which is why Scouts are such a rare breed, and why I can stand shoulder to shoulder with the best. Not because I¡¯m as good as the likes of Drex Durden, Madigan Harper, or Ekun, but because the competition is so sparse my name¡¯s closer to the top than it otherwise would be.


    Confidence is a funny thing like that. Don¡¯t matter how much you got, it still tends to abandon you in times of crisis. Here and now, mine is at an all time low, and not just because I been called on to perform. This whole last month or so has been one rude awakening after another, leading me to wonder if I ain¡¯t as ready for this life as I thought. Least I¡¯m working with some of the best, though truth is, I would much rather have Uncle Teddy here with us too. Maybe Uncle Art too, though he¡¯d probably need a dedicated Floating Disc to carry him around on, because I don¡¯t see him trekking through these tunnels with those bad knees of his. Would be best if my daddy were here too, to show me the ropes, and maybe even Uncle Raleigh to lift the mood.


    Or you know¡­ a full Company of reliable Rangers nearby lead by someone other than Wayne, or at least a second strike team to back us up. Can¡¯t believe we about to delve down into what are likely Abby infested tunnels with only four Rangers and the Firstborn to lead the way.


    Clapping me on the shoulder, Marcus gives me a look that says he can read me like a book, followed by an easy smile to let me know whatever will be will be. We¡¯ll either find and kill the Proggie, or we won¡¯t, and either way, he thinks we got this handled, so I ain¡¯t got nothing to worry about. He rattles off a few more things to keep in mind as we go, then indicates for me to settle into my Ritual casting so we can set off.


    There are a good number of Ritual Divination Spells, more than any other School of Magic as far as I know. A right useful tool, a Ritual is, as it lets you cast the Spell without needing the Spell Structure prepared so long as you¡¯re familiar enough with the Ritual, which is why I¡¯ve familiarized myself with more than few. Let¡¯s me do my work as a Scout and Diviner even with the limited Structures I can hold, but you still want to keep a few Divination Spells ready to cast because Abby ain¡¯t always gonna sit around and give you the five minutes you¡¯ll need to cast Detect Aberration through a Ritual. Got the time now though, so I hunker down and lay out the components for the Spell and Ritual.


    One copper vessel, or more accurately the round lid to my candy tin which I always carry around.


    A silver bar that was once a full five grams, which I scrape with a metal file to procure a pinch of powdered shavings that goes into the vessel.


    A clean, white silk handkerchief with a golden circle embroidered onto it, laid atop a second kerchief so the silk don¡¯t touch the ground.


    Four nubby candles, which I set at the cardinal directions on the corners of the silk kerchief, using the Compass Cantrip to be doubly sure I got the locations right.


    A teaspoon of wood ashes, a thimble full of distilled water, a single grain of crushed quartz, and a stick of silverleaf beech incense to round out the random ingredients, with my ritual wand being all that¡¯s left. Carefully taking out of its lead-lined, leather sheath, I look upon the little copper wrapped wand fondly. Was a time when every Spellslinger needed to carry a wand or some other sort of Arcane Focus to help direct the raw and wild Aetheric Energy of the Immaterium, but modern Spellslingers have progressed beyond the need of such elementary tools. Still helps for Ritual Magic though, which is why my daddy had me make one years ago.


    I remember it like yesterday, scouring through the forest for a twig that was just the right size, about six inches long and straight as an arrow. Needed one that was naturally shed, rather than forcefully broken off, and I spent hours looking for the perfect base. Knew it was the one the second I saw it, though that might¡¯ve just been my childish mind playing tricks on me, a singular twig standing upright where it fell, embedded in the soft soil of the earth by a quirk of fate. Might well have taken root if given enough time and sunshine, but I was drawn to it like no other twig before or after, so I plucked it out and looked it over before bringing it back to my daddy. Both ends were smooth and rounded, without any signs of a break, and I took that as a sign that it was made and shed just for me.


    Wasn¡¯t from any special tree, just a regular pinewood branch you can find anywhere along the Wayfarer river which runs all the way to the West coast. Stripped the bark to reveal what I¡¯d say is the standard colour of wood, a sorta yellow-white wood that ain¡¯t the prettiest or the ugliest around. Wrapped it in copper wire too, drawing whatever Runes that came to mind without any rhyme or reason, just a simple climbing vine pattern with a few thicker leaves around the base and all infused with slivers of my soul to make it a part of me in a way beyond the physical. That¡¯s all there is to it, as the wand ain¡¯t treated with resin or preserved in any way, but it don¡¯t look any different from the day I finished it some three years ago. Was the last real project I worked on with my Daddy, as we set out for the badlands soon as it was done where he met his ultimate fate, so it¡¯s a bittersweet memory to be sure, but that¡¯s how they all are these days.


    Though it¡¯s nothing but wood and copper, I can feel the Aether coursing through the wand now that¡¯s its free of its lead-lined container, a necessity to keep it from randomly affecting Aetherarms or aether-tech in its vicinity. The others know well enough not to use anything of the like while my Arcane Focus is out and exposed, so I put the complications out of mind and lay it down on the silk kerchief, just under the copper vessel holding all my loose ingredients and directly above the western facing candle. Once all the pieces are in place, I settle down on both knees and close my eyes to mentally run through the Ritual once and settle my frayed nerves before I begin.


    Slow is smooth and smooth is fast, because if I mess this up, it¡¯ll waste more time than doing it right the first time.


    Soon as I¡¯m feeling ready, I take a deep breath and launch into the steady cadence of the Ritual Chant, one which got no real language to back it. At least, none we¡¯ve managed to decipher, the same way we¡¯re unable to really cement down a ¡®language¡¯ for the arcane, though Etches come close. While I chant, I touch the tip to the wand to the candles and light them one by one, starting in the east and moving clockwise around the kerchief. Ain¡¯t no Cantrip being cast, as them candles lighting up is part of the Ritual, and I hold back the urge to smile at the wonder of it all. Once all four candles are lit, I wave my wand over the copper vessel and tap it in rhythm to my chant. It¡¯s the lightest of touches, so as not to upend the vessel and spill everything out, but each touch sends a ringing chime that sounds out not in my ears, but in my soul as I call upon the Immaterium and bend it to my Will.


    One by one, the ingredients go into the vessel to mix with the silver, starting with the ashes and ending with the incense, which I scrape off the stick with my wand and add into the mix. The distilled water turns murky as everything comes together, swirling without any need for stirring and pulsing with an Aetheric signature I feel more than see. As my long chant comes to a climax, the candles blaze for a moment of glory before being drawn into the mixture as well, leaving four unlit candles behind and a trail of smoke leading from their wicks right into the vessel.


    Maybe three minutes from start to finish, though I¡¯d call it closer to five or six if you include the prep time. What¡¯s left is a dark grey mixture that is more magical than chemical, one that will read as nothing more than the base ingredients to even the most advance tech around, but when spread under my eyes, over my nose, behind my ears, on the underside of my chin, and across the back of my hands, it opens up a whole new set of sensations that blend in with the five I know and understand. This set of senses enable me to sense the presence of Aberrations around me, up to about 350 metres away, though I can get a faint inkling up to five-hundred metres even if I really buckle down and focus. The effect becomes even more pronounced after I bring out my Aberrtin tuning fork, which sits still as can be yet hums with an eager note that I wouldn¡¯t be able to hear without the Spell in place.


    Still amazes me every time when it works, how I can do magic with nothing more than few words, tools, and movements like that. Ain¡¯t no Spell Structure in my head, no Spell Core to pass crystallized Aether through, just a bunch of wand waggling gobbledegook that makes a paste to smear all over my hands and face. Funny thing is, the paste won¡¯t do nothing for anyone else, even if there were enough for a second person. It only works on the caster, which makes me wonder if the effects are more psychosomatic than anything else.


    After cleaning the vessel and stowing all my materials away, I stand up with tuning fork in my left hand while cradling my Strelky with the right. After a moment¡¯s thought, I unfold the bayonet to match Tim¡¯s readiness and look around to see if I sense any Abby about. Got nothing so far, but that don¡¯t make it fool proof, as there ways around it. Lead is the most common anti-detection method, as it¡¯ll stop Aetheric waves cold and even cancel out some instances of Aetheric dynamics. Thick materials will dull your senses too, so while we travelling through the tunnels, I¡¯ll have a hard time sensing any Abby that ain¡¯t got a direct route to us. Might be able to feel them out on the other side of a wall, but anything more than three metres thick is usually a no go. Even the dense trees in a forest can do wonky things to detection Spells, as them Aetheric waves bounce around and get all jostled up, making it hard to get a direct read. Not impossible though, and the difference lies in the Diviner¡¯s ability to read the information the getting, the same way a book¡¯s message might change depending on who reading it. Lots of people find faith and inspiration from the Bible for example, but I find that there¡¯s too much silliness mixed in with the real lessons to take the whole book seriously.


    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    I mean c¡¯mon. Suffer not a witch to live? Might¡¯ve made sense back in the dark ages when Spellslinging wasn¡¯t so refined, but if we started killing Spellslingers today, we¡¯d lose a good ninety plus percent of the population before we was done. Almost everyone picks up a couple Cantrips at least, and here on the Frontier, you best bet you incentivised to do more, though I find that most don¡¯t bother with more than two or three First Order Spells before calling it quits.


    Crazy is what that is. Me, I¡¯d say being a Magus slinging Third Order Spells ought to be the bare minimum you should aim for, but apparently that¡¯s ¡®unrealistic¡¯ since most folks don¡¯t got the talent for it. Talent my ass. Spellslinging¡¯s no different from learning Math, painting, or music really. Talent helps you out at the start, but you won¡¯t get anywhere without help and hard work, and that there is a fact.


    Once I¡¯m ready, the four veteran Rangers jump into high gear and start Slinging Spells before we get underway. There are plenty I don¡¯t catch, but it¡¯s hard to miss Marcus casting Longstrider on all of us at once, while Sergeant Begaye Conjures up a suit of armour that covers him from head to toe. Or at least I assume it¡¯s armour, though it looks more like a weird bird costume. Don¡¯t got no beak or mask, but he got a feathered headdress up top instead of the stupid metal bucket helmet he gave me. Also has a stole of feathers that covers his shoulders and chest, and a skirt to protect his stomach and upper legs. Got no talons on his boots, which are also covered in feather-shaped scales, and no hatchet to be seen like the one Sarah Jay described, but for all I know, it¡¯s hidden somewhere inside the feather stole. Takes a moment to notice the deep-red warpaint the Spell comes along with, and I can feel the power emanating form the lines painted across his face, ones that really makes his pointed cheekbones pop and give him and otherworldly look.


    Like a spectre of death he is, one ready to reap the lives of the invading settlers who dared covet their lands. An extremely well armed spectre carrying a Strelky and two big boy, 44-40 versions of my Model 10, which I believe is called the Model 29. Really wish Szass and Tam put a little more thought into their gun names, because Model 29 don¡¯t convey how impressive them revolvers be. The Model 10 is a blued-steel, short-barrel, snub-nosed affair that looks like my Rattlesnake¡¯s black baby. The Model 29 looks like it could make my Rattlesnake its prison bitch, with the same blued-steel frame, but an eight-inch-long barrel that¡¯s thick enough to stick my finger inside with plenty of room to spare.


    Mighty impressive weapons those are, and I can only imagine the holes they leave behind. Got a Sturm and Kitiara Longsword too, though that sits on his cross draw as a weapon of last resort, and leaves me wondering if I should rethink my stance on using 22-10 all the time. I mean, my carbine can¡¯t even reliably one-tap bugbears in the head anymore, and it¡¯s only gonna get worse from here. Could do me some good, upgrading all my gear, and if I ain¡¯t keeping Errol and Sarah Jay on, then the money from the Mage Armour Spell Core will go a long ways to getting me the Aetherpower I need out on the Frontier. Would really put a dent in my profits though, seeing how ammo will be at least four times more expensive without factoring in the cost of brass, not to mention the costs of buying replacement parts to have on hand should my weapons break down outside of town.


    The expenses never stop coming, which is why I¡¯m always hustling, but feels like I¡¯m earning small potates compared to the twenty-grand Wayne now owes to his mysterious partners in crime. If dealing drugs and contraband pays that well, then I can see why so many are tempted to join in on the profession, though I can¡¯t imagine every job pays that well. Really makes me wonder what Wayne is into, but there ain¡¯t no room for errant thoughts as I descend into the belly of the beast.


    And descend we do, after using the Mage Armour Artifact to give ourselves a little bit of extra survivability. Being the scout, I don my Darkvision goggles and lead the way with Sergeant Begaye following on my close left as we head down the fairly steep slope and into the heart of the mountain. Captain Jung stays a good five metres back and to my right, while Tim and Marcus hold up the rear on either side. As we move down the wide, open corridor in loose formation, I spot multiple tunnel entrances that look much more cramped than this spacious underpass we got here. Keeping track of them as I pass allows me to better visualize where we are with referring back to the map, and I randomly stop at one every now and then to get a feel for any nearby Abby. With the Longstrider Spell buoying us along, we make good time through the main corridor and reach the end without incident in about thirty-five minutes flat. A Ranger under Longstrider should set a pace close to seven and a half klicks per hour, so we¡¯ve gone about 4.375 kilometres in total, maybe a little less to account for the stops along the way.


    A distance that ain¡¯t too long, but will feel a whole lot longer running uphill with Abby nipping at our heels. If I want to avoid that worst case scenario, then I gotta do my job and earn my keep, else we might not make it out of here alive. To make matters worse, the Detect Aberration Spell only lasts 10 minutes at base, so I¡¯ve been Concentrating to keep it going, which is easier said than done. Tina was able to keep her Floating Disc going for three hours and change, but the base duration of the Spell is an hour, so she had time to gradually adjust to the strain as things got harder and harder. Me, I¡¯ve experienced that same scaling increase in difficulty over half an hour, so I¡¯m already feeling the burning of keeping it going. The trick is to pay attention to something else rather than the Spell itself. My daddy didn¡¯t raise no quitter though, so I buckle in and bear down as I consider which of the dozen or so branching paths to bring our group down.


    Logically speaking, the chances of the Proggie coming from the south are slim, because them Proggies are engaged in a territorial conflict with the Proggies in the Divide. Wouldn¡¯t go so far as to call it an all-out war, but they do vie for resources, with the greenies fighting to keep the bugs from crossing over and poaching in their lands. Means those gobbo Proggies are less likely to have the time and energy to spare giving birth to new Proggies, since bugs¡¯ll happily snatch up orcs and goblins to bring home for rations and those lost minions gotta be replaced. Still, an assumption makes an ass out of you and me, so I can¡¯t take those facts for granted. Unfortunately, none of the tunnels got the stench of Abby wafting out of it, meaning I gotta lean on my non-magical skills a bit. ¡°They keep track of Abby attacks?¡± I ask, keeping my voice low as I can while still being heard.


    ¡°Yea. Pattern suggests they¡¯re moving north of here,¡± Marcus replies, keeping his head on a swivel as we stand with our backs to the wall. ¡°Could be a feint though. Hobgoblin Illusionist would be smart enough to pull one off.¡±


    Yea it would. Shit. With no other information left to work with, I got no choice but to gather some on my own. ¡°Need to take a look around before I can commit on a path.¡±


    Which I hate to admit, but gets Marcus grinning. He ain¡¯t wearing no goggles, which means he¡¯s got a Darkvision Spell going since we got no illumination to speak of. ¡°Good man,¡± he whispers. ¡°If you¡¯d have picked a route without saying as much, I would¡¯ve turned us right back around.¡± Gesturing at me to take the lead, he adds, ¡°You know what to look for, so get looking. Closest recent breakthrough is a half klick down the second last northern tunnel, but there¡¯s another about seven hundred metres down this one here.¡±


    Meaning the final tunnel, while the rest are even further. Rather than check those though, I feel compelled to move south instead, which I convey with little more than a glance in that direction. Ain¡¯t my jimmies rustling to prod me along, just a plain old hunch I need to get sorted before I¡¯m ready to move on.


    Why? Because the hobgoblin illusionist came out of nowhere last year, when it was already a fully-fledged hob. Usually, you see the signs long before it happens, as a taller, gangly goblin is hard to miss. Ain¡¯t sure where the definitive line between hob and gob sits, but there¡¯s a transition period to be sure, and it¡¯s ugly to see firsthand. Either it killed everyone who ever saw it while it was in its growth phase, or it grew up somewhere else. Cutting its teeth in greenie versus bug warfare would¡¯ve done it, and Ferals like them bugs are notoriously susceptible to Illusions, because they dumber than a bag of rocks. Rich on Aberrtin and Spell Cores too, so munching down on a few bug behemoths would help it progress quick, and the fact that there haven¡¯t been many attacks in the southern tunnels is too orderly to ignore. Abby have been infesting the Snake Fang¡¯s Mountain Range since the day of the Advent, when my daddy found my mama maybe three day¡¯s northwest of Pleasant Dunes.


    Now there¡¯s a tale I love to tell, of one man and one woman armed with grass slings and bark shields taking on a newborn Proggie coming out the mountains. Was maybe eighteen hours into the Advent when they spotted it, scurrying across the night¡¯s sand in search of verdant lands to settle into, a fresh born monster making machine that couldn¡¯t be more than a day old with only a dozen or so goblin guardians to defend it. My mama saw it as an opportunity, one too rich to pass up, and used her Colonel rank to bully my Corporal of a daddy into helping her kill it, a difference of about ten ranks and a commission. Credit where it¡¯s due, my mama took on the riskier job and left my daddy to play bait, lobbing stones at gobbo guardians until they chased him into the tall grasses, giving her a window to run up and throw bundles of lit grass and twigs into the Progenitor¡¯s maw.


    It¡¯s incredible really. Sixteen years young and not even a Cantrip to their name, yet my parents managed to take down a Proggie on their first day here. Didn¡¯t go easy, to hear my daddy tell it, as the Proggie wasn¡¯t exactly defenseless, just large and uncoordinated. Called back its minions to help put out the fires each and every time too, meaning my parents had to kill all the gobbos before finally focusing on taking the Proggie itself down. Set it aflame and watched it burn they did, then beat it death with sticks. Course, in those early days, the ambient Aether levels were even lower than they are now, meaning gobbos were about the most powerful Abby them Proggies could make, but them Guardians yielded no less than three Spell Cores which really jumpstarted my parent¡¯s progress. Two Bolt Cores, which sit in the primitive Aetherarms I got hanging on the wall back home, and the Shield Core I wear on my wrist today.


    In contrast? I got all these guns and gear, but I still need four experienced Rangers to babysit me, including three Captains no less. Really goes to show the difference between me and my parents, because I can¡¯t imagine going after a gobbo without an Aetherarm in hand, nor would I ever care to.


    Getting back on topic though, the fact that Abby been here for so long means they¡¯ve likely got tunnels running all across these mountains, as they liable to dig willy nilly without care about things like supports or structural stability. They got a general sense of it, enough to keep from caving themselves in every other week, but a collapse ain¡¯t out of pocket every now and then, and I would think they got more than one way out in a pinch. What¡¯s more, while their Proggie can tell them to head for a specific destination, they can¡¯t really control how their minions go about it. Nor are greenies the most patient or obliging types, so expecting them to move out in orderly lines is asking for a bit much. Most greenies are followers, and they¡¯ll go along with the crowd, but every now and then one of the bigger, louder, and braver greenies gets it in their head to try another route, even if they gotta dig a brand new one with their own bare hands.


    All this is to say that the fact that there is a pattern of attacks to begin with is suspicious to say the least, but only because the chances of all their random tunnels only coming out on the north end is slim to none. Add in my suspicions of where the hobgoblin came from and all of a sudden I¡¯m real interested in seeing what¡¯s going on down south, all of which I share with the group as quickly and quietly as I can. ¡°If they ain¡¯t attacking from the south,¡± I conclude with a shrug, ¡°Then chances are there¡¯s something they don¡¯t want us to find. The planned route the Proggie is taking maybe?¡±


    ¡°Maybe,¡± Marcus replies, speaking for the group as the Commanding Officer of this here operation. ¡°Could also be fear of cavern collapse, or there¡¯s an underground waterway blocking their access.¡±


    Damn. Didn¡¯t think of that. Seeing my consternation, Marcus adds, ¡°You the Scout Howie. You point the way. If you want to look south, then you bring us south. If you head north, then we follow suit. End of story, but you gotta pick one.¡±


    Knowing Proggies like to burrow deep as they can out of fear of getting got, I ask, ¡°Which one of these dozen tunnels goes the deepest?¡±


    Rather than answer, Marcus looks to Tim, who pulls out the map again and gives it a quick glance. ¡°Fourth southern tunnel from the end, and it¡¯s not even close. None of the other shafts reach even half as deep.¡±


    Shaft. Fuck. I hate heights, which is partially why I keep Featherfall on my boot at all times. I ain¡¯t scared of them. I just don¡¯t like them is all, the same way I don¡¯t like eating mushrooms, but will choke them down if I have to. Them¡¯s Abby feed is what mushrooms are, and ain¡¯t no one ever gonna convince me otherwise. Plus, there¡¯s the whole theory about all Abby being more like sentient fungal growths as opposed to any other sort of fauna we¡¯re aware of. They ain¡¯t animals, they¡¯re high functioning fruits or spores dispatched by their main ¡®plant¡¯ body, which just so happens to be a highly intelligent and wholly alien lifeform unlike anything else found on this world or the old. Either way, you won¡¯t ever catch me eating mushrooms by choice, the same way I avoid high spaces. Because they suck.


    Unfortunately, all signs point towards the deep, dark, southern shaft, which no doubt means this delve is going deep under dark, even more so than we already are. I don¡¯t think there¡¯s a specific depth that¡¯s considered under dark, but anything more than a klick and a half beneath sea level generally fits the description. Leading the way as expected, I descend down into the darkness which appears as a fuzzy grey through my Darkvision goggles. There are thermal vision goggles too, but those are way techier and more expensive, whereas my goggles are simply an artifact running off a Darkvision Core powered by a tiny Aetheric dynamo embedded in the top rail. Gives me eight hours of usage every time it powers up, and don¡¯t cost more than eight grain, but I do have to top it off after it runs out.


    Here''s hoping I won¡¯t have to, not tonight at least. Marcus said we got ten to twelve hours, but I doubt he¡¯ll keep us out searching the whole time. Too risky to be caught tired and out of breath by an errant Abby patrol, and if I gotta keep Detect Aberration up for twelve hours, it¡¯ll use up more than three quarters of my Spellslinging abilities for the day. Assuming I can hold on for an entire hour and will only have to cast it 11 times, that¡¯s 44 out of a possible 56 Aether used, or about 78.5% of my daily maximum. Leaves me 12 Aether to work with, which is enough for 1 Second Order Spell and nothing else, or 3 First Order Spells before I¡¯m completely Spent.


    Course, those numbers aren¡¯t exactly hard and firm, as there are a lot of variables to consider like physical exertion and state of mind. There are also plenty of exceptions that muddy the math a bit. For example, With 12 points, I could cast 2 Second Order Divination Spells, since I get something of a discount when I do, but only for Divination magics, and not enough to matter for anything First Order. It¡¯s more like it takes me less effort to use them, on account of how familiar I am with Divination and the patterns of the world around me, so much so that they speak to me even without the Spells. They do so by letting me know when somethings hinky by rustling my jimmies, giving me what feels like a glimpse into the future, or a Portent, but not really. It only looks like that to the uneducated, similar to how a boxer can dodge punches from an amateur all day because their opponent is telegraphing the attack.


    Magic is strange. Divination is the only school that¡¯s got this sort of perk, though they all got their own benefits. Accomplished Evokers can intuitively avoid hitting friendly targets with their Spells, Evocation or otherwise, creating pockets of safety inside their Fireballs, Frost Novas, and even Silences without any need for Selective Metamagic. Their Spells tend to hit harder too, though no one¡¯s sure if that¡¯s a perk you get from focusing on the School, or just general familiarity boosting their damage. As for Illusionists, they get more out of their illusion Spells, most notably the ability to shape and mould them on the fly. Chrissy and Tina can use the Minor Illusion Cantrip to make a lifelike wally that hops around, but even if I could nail down the lifelike part, there¡¯s no way I can make it hop. Spell¡¯s only supposed to create a static image or a sound, so I¡¯ve no idea how they get it to move.


    Something about animation and drawing every frame of the movement out in the illusion, which sounds more magical than magic.


    There¡¯s other benefits to be had, like how Sergeant Begaye can conjure up puffs of smoke out of nothing, and probably small tools too, or how a dedicated Abjuror can feed excess Aether from their Spells into a personal ward to protect themselves and others. Plenty more I don¡¯t know about too, because even after five-hundred years of wide-spread use and study, we still barely scratching the surface of our understanding, which is why I love magic so much. It¡¯s still magical, unknowable, ineffable, whereas the tech is all¡­ boring math and physics and what not. I¡¯m good at math, but I don¡¯t love it, as I see it as an ends to a means to pursue my true passion of Spellslinging.


    Because the best place for a Spellslinger is out on the battlefield, where their Spells can truly make a difference.


    All this goes through my head as we rappel down the mineshaft without even looking at the shoddy-looking, hand-cranked elevator platform. Mostly because it¡¯d make too much noise and there¡¯s no way for all of us to board at the same time, since it¡¯d take at least two to work the crank. Or Marcus, but he¡¯s in charge of this op and won¡¯t send us ahead where he can¡¯t watch our backs. As such, we¡¯re stuck spelunking the good old-fashioned way, namely using ropes and spikes to bring us down the near vertical shaft. Sergeant Begaye takes the lead this time around, hammering in each metal spike with a small rubber headed mallet that glows with a spectral blue light, a tool he conjures up out of thin air, and I try not to look down and shit myself.


    Handy little skill that, Conjuring simple objects outta Ecto, one my mama wanted for herself according to her notes, but I never picked up the knack no matter how hard I tried. Not because I didn¡¯t work hard enough, as this right here is where talent actually comes into play. Me, my talent is Divination, same as my daddy, though it¡¯s hard to say what School of magic my mama would¡¯ve resonated with if she survived for more than eight or nine months.


    I do my best to keep myself distracted as I climb down the ropes after Sergeant Begaye, but it isn¡¯t until I reach the bottom that I realize I¡¯d lost my Concentration somewhere along the way. Taking a couple seconds to recast Detect Aberration manually, I take a beat and feel the excess Aether drain out of me while planning to conjure up a Water Sphere to wash my face and hands, but I freeze in my tracks and hold up a fist to signal the Rangers to attention.


    Because there¡¯s a prickle on the back of my neck, a lingering smell in the air, a little tickle in my throat and a buzzing in my ear, all of which doesn¡¯t meaning nothing at all, until I parse it all together. ¡°Contact,¡± I whisper, as quietly as I can, though I¡¯ve no definitive sense of Aberrations just yet. They¡¯re around though, of this, I am sure, and I pull out a tiny brass ear horn from my components pouch to double check. Dropping the Ear Protection Cantrip, I intone, ¡°Auditus ¨C Fidelis,¡± as quietly as I can while holding the horn up to my ear. The Discern Cantrip takes effect and all the sounds of the dark come alive in my ears. Everyone¡¯s deep and steady breathing, their slow and cadenced heartbeats, the scuff of wood against fabric as they endeavour to stand stock still but make a bit of noise anyways. The slow trickle of air sounds like a windstorm to my enhanced hearing, and the scrabbling, unseen insects moving through the stony cracks and dirt walls are like the pitter-patter of children running upstairs, and I¡¯m reminded once more of why I hate this Cantrip so much.


    It does one thing and one thing only, sharpens your hearing to supernatural levels, but the human ear wasn¡¯t meant to hear so well. If any one of these Rangers were to clap, it¡¯d be like a gunshot going off right beside my ear, while an actual, unsilenced gunshot might well rupture my eardrums and cause lasting damage. It¡¯s a dangerous Spell to use, the number one cause of tinnitus and hearing loss in Diviners across the land, but an invaluable tool we cannot do without.


    Because while Detect Aberration is blocked by the thick stone walls, sound travels very well through solid objects, so well that putting my hand to the wall is enough to hear what¡¯s going on several dozen metres on the other side as a cacophonous clamour of stomping feet and guttural grunts threatens to deafen me twice over. Withdrawing my hand from the wall like I been burn, I remove the horn from my ear and slowly mouth, ¡°Abby. Close Contact. Numbers Unknown.¡±


    Despite the tense atmosphere, I can¡¯t help but swell with pride as the Rangers silently pass the message along and decide what to do. Not a bad start for my first delve under dark, so I touch the punctured Bible in my armoured vest and look up at the rock roof and imagine the open skies beyond. Ain¡¯t much of a praying sort, but there are times when I can¡¯t argue against faith, because I asked for my daddy¡¯s help, and he might well have guided me along the way. Or maybe it¡¯s just his training bearing fruit, as he taught me everything I know about tracking Abby, but who knows. Either way, I¡¯m well on my way to becoming a real Scout, and hopefully one day will live up to the towering legacy that my daddy left behind.


    Yea, it¡¯s been a tough few years ever since I lost him, and I missed a few steps along the way, but at least now I know I¡¯m still on the right track.

 Chapter 48

    ¡°How do you want to do this?¡±


    A phrase I heard all too often once I started going out into the field with my daddy. He¡¯d ask, I¡¯d answer, and then he¡¯d walk me through the process to show what I got wrong, assuming we had the time. Maybe he learned it from Marcus, or maybe it¡¯s S.O.P for Rangers to open up the floor for discussion, which makes sense considering these are consummate professionals who know what their business is about.


    ¡°No indication of parallel tunnels,¡± Tim whispers, spreading the map out before him and waggling his fingers to bring up a 3-D illusion of the area to better visualize our location. ¡°Area¡¯s been sitting empty for months though, so might be they don¡¯t know how close they were to the main corridor.¡±


    ¡°You sense anything up ahead?¡± Captain Jung asks, and I shake my head until I realize she ain¡¯t looking.


    ¡°Negative. We clear up to five-hundred metres.¡± Then, because I ain¡¯t entirely confident, I add, ¡°If there is a connecting tunnel though, chances are I won¡¯t be able to sense anything through it until we move closer, around 100m.¡± Might only need 200m, but better to undersell and over deliver.


    ¡°Then I say we scout for an opening and move through if we find one,¡± Captain Jung declares, offering her two cents. ¡°If not, we go back to the base of the shaft and make one. We have Shatter Tubes and can Ritual cast Silence to keep things quiet.¡±


    You can? That¡¯s news to me. Ought to learn me that Ritual then, though it¡¯s a shame you can¡¯t Metamagic a Ritual Spell.


    ¡°That necessary?¡± Sergeant Begaye asks, speaking over my internal monologue. ¡°All we know is Abby are passing close by. Doesn¡¯t mean the Progenitor will come this way. Might be better off using an existing accessway, rather than making one for ourselves.¡±


    ¡°Necessary, no, but it¡¯s our best bet,¡± Marcus says. ¡°Miners collapsed almost every tunnel Abby came out of, and they didn¡¯t do things by halves. Add in the kid¡¯s theory on the hob being a forward scout for the incoming Proggie, and chances are good their main tunnels are close by, which gets us closer to jackpot.¡±


    ¡°Silence won¡¯t stop anything with Tremorsense from finding us.¡± Offering a little shrug, Tim adds, ¡°If these greenies are fresh from fighting bugs in the badlands, then a couple subjugated Ankhegs or Burrow Hulks aren¡¯t out of the realm of possibilities. They cotton on to us blastin¡¯ our way through and this mission goes tits up.¡± Pointing at another mining tunnel on the north side of the main corridor about a klick back, Tim offers an alternative, which is how it ought to be. No naysaying in the Rangers unless you got a better idea on offer. ¡°Abby broke through here the day before our arrival. Depth is close enough to potentially link up to the tunnel beside us, and they only collapsed the entry point, not the entire tunnel. Could take a look and see if Abby dug through since then, and if not, then they might have abandoned the route entirely, making it safer for us to make entry there.¡±


    They hash out a few more ideas before settling on a plan, which pretty much amounts to find out more and decide then. Still helps to know all our options though, and despite standing deep under dark with a literal mountain of rock sitting overhead, it¡¯s a breath of fresh air seeing how things get done in the big leagues, as opposed to my experience with Errol and Sarah Jay. Ain¡¯t no one sweating the minor details or explaining every last thing because we all know our business and trust the others to handle themselves. Rather they trust each other, and I¡¯ll do my best to stay out of their way and let them do their jobs.


    With that in mind, I get back to doing mine and cast Discern once again, this time pressing the ear horn right up against the rock wall and finding nothing¡¯s changed since the start of our little pow wow. We¡¯ve moved away from the base of the shaft where we were too close to Abby for comfort and stopped at a nice, quiet spot further away from the adjacent tunnel. Means we¡¯re not exactly parallel to their tunnel, which makes sense considering Abby tend to dig willy nilly rather than in nice, straight lines, while miners follow the ore veins which ain¡¯t always so neat and orderly either. Just knowing the enemy is close has got me on edge, but the Rangers around me are calm and cool as can be. Ain¡¯t no one tense or fidgeting about while I throw Hearing Protection back on, with Marcus, Tim, and Captain Jung falling in line while Sergeant Begaye takes a moment to stretch after coming up out of his squat.


    Yea, Rangers are most certainly built different from the rest. Ain¡¯t just training that makes them what they are, but the ability to move forward no matter the odds stacked against them, then do it again the next day. I walked into this operation with both eyes open, knew I¡¯d be going down under dark to navigate through undiscovered tunnels infested with Abby to find a well-guarded Proggie moving towards town, but it¡¯s one thing to know a fact and another to face it head on without blinking.


    Won¡¯t say I regret my decision, not yet. Might not be so eager to volunteer for the next delve though, not without a few more years under my belt.


    With the unflappable Sergeant Begaye close on my heels, I lead us further down into the mines while all too aware of how the barest scrape of my boots raises an echo that reverberates in my ears. The gentle slope brings us even deeper under dark, though you wouldn¡¯t know it at first glance, and the rough, uneven rock walls close in around us as the twisty tunnel grows narrow and cramped in height and width. Ain¡¯t no mining carts making it all the way down here; this is where them miners were working by hand, hammering away at the walls with their picks and carrying ore deposits back one bucket at a time. Too risky blowing through rock with Spells here, because all it takes is one poorly placed Shatter to bring the whole roof down on top of them. Soon as the thought appears, I have to fight the urge to turn and run, to stand beneath the towering mine shaft where I can¡¯t reach up and touch the roof overhead.


    It''s an unnerving feeling, going deep under dark for the first time ever, and I gotta give props to the miners who come here day after day after day. Despite knowing there are four people behind me and another tunnel close to my left, I can¡¯t shake the feeling that there are thousands upon thousands of metres of stone all around me in all directions as I stare out at this grayscale world, one isolating me from the Frontier and intent on entombing me here in the dark depths so that I will never see my loved ones again. I gotta leave, gotta get out, gotta go see the starry skies and vast expanse of land stretching out over the horizon. Can¡¯t stay here, can¡¯t move forward, can¡¯t keep going on like this, because all that awaits me is darkness and death.


    The heady rush of terror threatens to overwhelm me I as I force myself to put one foot in front of the other and lead the Rangers onward. Thankfully, I have no need to Concentrate on the Detect Aberration Spell just yet, as its natural duration has yet to run out, leaving me free to focus on handling my fear. Fear of failure is a self-fulfilling prophecy, so put I gotta put it aside and put my mind back on task. Breathe in. Breathe out. Forget the fear and focus on your surroundings like you¡¯re supposed to instead. The sharp tang of rust in the air tells me this here was an iron mine, not the most profitable metal, but an essential one, and I can¡¯t help but touch every wooden support pillar I pass just to know there¡¯s more than just stone here in the heart of the mountain. The rock walls I avoid like the plague, turning and twisting my body and limbs to avoid even brushing up against them for fear of alerting Abby in adjacent tunnels of our presence. That¡¯s all it¡¯d take really, the sound of movement on the other side of the rocks, and them Abby would come pouring in to investigate. Orcs and bugbears tearing clean through stone with their bare hands to come right out of the walls on top of us, leaving us no option but to fight our way free and run all the way back to town with a horde hot on our heels.


    Through the fear and idle thoughts comes an inkling of a notion, one that brushes past my mind and alerts me to something hinky. Apprehension is one thing, but the prospect of a good fight and a hard run usually gets my blood pumping, and yet here I am getting ready to rabbit before firing a single shot. That ain¡¯t normal, and once I notice the issue, the cause becomes clear. Holding a fist up to alert the others, we all freeze in complete silence that echoes out into the greyscale darkness. Closing my eyes to shut out the world around me, I take in what the Detect Aberration Spell is giving me and parse through it, breaking down the unfamiliar sensations into something I can understand.


    Most folks hear the name ¡®Detect Aberration¡¯ and immediately think the Spell is hit or miss, like you ask, ¡°Hey, are there Aberrations around?¡±, and some higher being answers yes or no. Ain¡¯t that simple unfortunately, and the same goes for the rest of the Detection Spells, as they all work in their own unique way. What Detect Aberration does is enable the caster to make use of a set of senses we humans don¡¯t possess, senses that come stock standard on each and every Abby. The long and short of it is that Abby produce or emit a sort of signal, one which ain¡¯t a sound, smell, taste, texture, or colour, but something Aetheric in nature. It¡¯s like leaving footprints in the sand, except the sand is the Immaterium, and humans can¡¯t really sense it without magical assistance.


    Those signals are there though. No denying it, they¡¯re as real as radio waves and infrared lights, and we got the tech to prove it. More to the point, Abby use these signals as a form of identification and communication. They each got a unique signature, one that identifies them as an individual and what Proggie they spawned from, and they can leave messages within those signals the same way ants might leave a scent to let other ants know the way to food or how to get back home. Detect Aberration enables the caster to perceive those messages, but it takes practice and familiarity to read into the meanings behind them, as it ain¡¯t written in English or really any words at all.


    That¡¯s what separates a generic caster from a practiced Scout, the ability to interpret what the Spell gives you beyond the bare bones. Told Kacey as much while we was riding through the desert, but didn¡¯t rightly know how to explain it any better, because we each perceive the information given to us in different ways. Our bodies are physically incapable of receiving those signals, so the Spell bridges the gap in our perception to allow our minds to define the ineffable. Some see colours, others smell scents, while still more get a mix of visual and auditory stimulations. Me, I get something less concrete, a general sense of things that¡¯s hard to put into words, yet is clear and definable so long as I stop to think about it first.


    There¡¯s a message there, one that¡¯s plain as day. I just gotta take some time to decipher it is all. Can¡¯t really describe how I understand it, as it ain¡¯t like reading words from a book. With practice and familiarity though, you start picking up on certain patterns, like how far they cast their signals and how long they stuck around after the fact. Were the signals left behind intentionally or unintentionally? Is every Abby sending the same signal, or are some marching to a different tune? What sort of emotions are embedded in the signal? Fear? Excitement? Boredom? All this and more is made clear by the Spell, information available to everyone who uses it, and the best can read into it and come out with all sorts of facts. While I wouldn¡¯t go so far as to say I¡¯m the best there is, I was trained by one of the best, and made for a damn good student if I do say so myself, meaning I pick up on more than most.


    Usually, I can get a gist of how strong a particular group of Abby might be, how long they lingered in the area, and sometimes I can even tell if they intend to come back. Right now though? I¡¯m getting a read on something that¡¯s saying I ain¡¯t welcome here. A message not in so many words, but emotions, emotions fed into me through a Spell of my own casting. Rage and warning, with a hint of glee. Turn back or suffer the consequences, the signals are saying. A firm and unyielding demand filled with the promise of pain and oblivion to those who disobey, thoughts and emotions elicited by the Spell which had me shaking in my boots before I even noticed what was happening. Almost mistook them for my own and let them get the better of me, but now that I do know, it¡¯s much easier to shut it out, so I let out a long, slow breath and indicate to the others that I¡¯m ready to move forward again. The Aetheric signal continues to hammer away at my mind and fill me with fear and trepidation as I march forward through the cramped tunnels, a metaphysical ¡®Do Not Approach¡¯ sign laced with threat enough to rival a genuine Fear Spell, but the sheer relief of knowing I ain¡¯t a coward is more than enough to see me through.


    With renewed courage and purpose, I lead the team right up to where the signal is strongest, a patch of rock that don¡¯t look any different from the rest. While explaining what happened to the rest of the team, I place my Aberrtin tuning fork close to the wall without touching it and wait. The hum is barely perceptible to begin with, but as the signal resonates and amplifies like making waves in the bathtub, the tines of my tuning fork get to singing in a flat, off-key, piercing note that almost hurts to hear, and not because of its volume. Clamping down on the tuning fork before the note gets too loud, I finish my explanation with, ¡°So yea. Pretty sure Abby haven¡¯t broken into this mining tunnel because they¡¯ve been warned not to.¡± As to why? Who knows. Abby do all sorts of strange things for the silliest reasons really, so it could be anything.


    ¡°Good catch,¡± Marcus whispers, giving me a big grin and a gentle pat on the shoulder while Captain Jung and Sergeant Begaye nod in approval. Tim don¡¯t do anything, as he¡¯s busy watching for threats like he always does, but I don¡¯t take it personal because that¡¯s just how he is. While the Rangers discuss what to do with this information, I take a moment to go over what I¡¯ve learned so far, as this trip has been a real treasure trove of experience.


    There¡¯s a Qinese proverb my daddy used to pull out every now and then that roughly means, ¡°To read ten thousand books and travel ten thousand miles.¡± What he meant was that studying is good, but you need to balance that out by broadening your horizons, because seeing is believing. That¡¯s the argument he used to convince Aunty Ray to let him bring me out into the Frontier when I was eight, something he¡¯d been pushing for since I was six. That sort of experience is what puts me at the forefront of my peers, and now I¡¯m catapulting even further ahead. None of what I¡¯ve been through today is new, not exactly. I¡¯ve known about cramped mining tunnels and Aberration Aetheric Signals for years now, have heard stories and read articles in the newspaper about both, but only now do I appreciate what it¡¯s really like, and that sort of experience can¡¯t be taught.


    Only earned, and while I might not jump at the next chance I get to go delving back under dark, I¡¯ll be better prepared for it all the same.


    ¡°All right then,¡± Marcus concludes, and only then do I realize I haven¡¯t been paying attention to the discussion. ¡°Let¡¯s do this.¡± That¡¯s all the hype and fanfare he¡¯s willing to share before backing off to prepare a ritual, while Captain Jung moves right up to where the Aetheric Signal is anchored and settles in for a ritual of her own. Rather than pay close attention, I do my best not to look, because a large part of Rituals lies in the symbolism behind the objects used and the movements they convey. Without knowing the meaning behind it, I risk forming my own preconceived notions, which might well make it more difficult to learn the Ritual proper. With Detect Aberration, it¡¯s taking things that are natural to this world, fire, wood, metal, water, wind, and earth, then combining them as a base to compare and contrast against the decidedly unnatural dissidence of Aberrations. There¡¯s more to it than that, but the long and short of it is that first impressions matter a lot, and seeing how Rituals are all about faith, I¡¯d rather not risk my sinful perspective tainting my thought process of the whole thing.


    I¡¯ll make light of religion any time and any place, but Magic is some serious business.


    Captain Marcus finishes his Ritual first, which as far as I could tell involved building an alter out of smooth rocks and finding one that best matches the surroundings. Holding that particular rock in hand, he brings it over to the wall and presses up against it while muttering a chant. At the culmination of his incantation, he steps forward and moves right into the solid stone wall, and I watch with mouth open as his massive, muscled self melts right into the stone, weapons and all. Meld into Stone most like, letting him slip inside the solid rock and move through it with ease, allowing him to poke his head out and see what¡¯s waiting on the other side. Not much use in a fight, but it¡¯s a Third Order Spell all the same, making the Ritual that much more valuable to anyone who can use it.


    Captain Ava¡¯s Ritual is far less impressive in comparison, as it involves drawing chalk circles and hitting a soundless bell with a tiny instrumental mallet wrapped in yarn. There¡¯s more to it, including some hand waving and mouth chanting that I ain¡¯t paying too much attention to, and she keeps it up until Marcus steps right back out and gives her a thumbs up. Soon as he does, the area around the invisible signal of fear is enveloped in a stifling Silence, one that mutes even the sound of my breath and the heart beating in my chest. An unsettling sensation to be sure, one that makes the constricting tunnels and endless darkness that much more uncomfortable, so I step away and out just to feel a little better about myself. End up scraping my boot against the stony floor, or at least I think I do because Tim¡¯s eyes lock onto me with a frown as I exit the sphere of Silence, and I wince to see it happen.


    Man¡¯s got a glare that hits harder than the quasi-psychic Abby manifestation screaming at me to get gone, and I don¡¯t much like knowing I deserved it. He don¡¯t come down too hard on me though, just gives me a look telling me not to fuck up again before resuming his vigil, and I resolve not to disappoint him a second time.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    While all this is taking place, Marcus is busy working with a tube-like Artifact that¡¯s about as long and thick as my forearm. It¡¯s got two steel prongs coming out of either end, each attached to their own spool of copper wire which I assume connects back to the Spell Core and Metamagic Etchings in the center. A real haphazard hack job of an Artifact it is, using all that unshielded and ungrounded copper, so I¡¯m guessing it¡¯s of local make. My hunch is proven correct as Marcus carefully hammers in the prongs into the wall, with two up top about a meter and a half apart, and two down bottom in the same orientation with about two metres in height between both sets. Makes for a tall and wide rectangle it does, and I take another step back once I¡¯ve figured out what it¡¯s all for, as that there is a bare bones Shatter Tube with almost no thought given to safety or reliability.


    All that wire really ought to be framed and shielded, as it can easily create dangerous harmonics and cause a whole mess of complications if you set it up wrong. Hopefully all our Aetherarms are properly shielded, and knowing Mr. Kalthoff, they are, else an errant Aetheric flux could very well set the Shatter Core off. As if that wasn¡¯t bad enough, four thin wires are hardly enough to ensure the Spell goes off where it¡¯s directed to, namely within the framework of those four prongs. Atmospheric conditions could very well prove to be more conductive than the wires, or close enough for the Spell to stop short and fire off wherever it pleases, which I would say is probably a terrible idea when working in the tight confines of a mining tunnel where an errant Shatter could very well bring a thousand tonnes of mountain down on our heads.


    That right there is what natural, homegrown fear feels like, and I gotta say, I don¡¯t like it much.


    While Marcus unspools copper and backs away with the Shatter Tube in hand, I retreat around another bend with Captain Jung and Sergeant Begaye at my side. Would probably be better if we were all behind Marcus, but I ain¡¯t about to risk walking past those wires, especially not with Sergeant Begaye all kitted out in Conjured Armour. Despite being the second most stable School of Spells behind Abjuration, it¡¯s all too easy for the Aetheric dynamics within the Conjured Armour to react with unshielded copper like that, which ain¡¯t a big deal unless said copper is attached to a Shatter Spell Core while down in a mining tunnel. Thankfully, my fears don¡¯t come to pass as Marcus Primes the Core and actuates it with a press of a button, and the Spell pulverizes the wall and Abby signal alongside it in complete and utter Silence. The ineffable sense of dread melts away as waves of Aether tear it apart in a spray of stone and power, leaving me feeling much more relaxed as the fear and tension drains out of my shoulders.


    A massage. That¡¯s what I need, Cowie in his baby form marching up and down my spine to really pound out the knots in my back.


    Job ain¡¯t done yet though, so we stand with weapons ready while waiting for the dust to settle, but the minutes tick by and no greenies come by to poke their heads through the door we just made. Shame really, because the Shatter Tube is still set up and ready, the prongs stuck in the stone about a full inch away from the blast area. Fancy bit of work there, directing the blast area like that without any direct contact. Danny probably knows how its done, but I don¡¯t understand it, as it¡¯s more tech than magic. This is the sort of finicky nonsense that keeps a lot of Spell Cores from being all that valuable, because while a caster can dictate the target area with their mind, the Spell Core needs precise instructions every time or else it casts the Spell centred around the Core itself. This setup works fine for using Shatter on stone walls, but ain¡¯t all that great for hitting a target on the move, meaning area of effect Spell Cores like Ice Knife, Web, or even Fireball don¡¯t make for great Artifacts, despite being amazing Spells in their own right.


    Soon as we¡¯re sure our antics didn¡¯t alert any Abby, Sergeant Begaye gives me a sign to approach and lead the way. One thing about Detection Spells in general is that they don¡¯t do corners well, meaning that even though I¡¯m fairly close to the tunnel entrance, I can¡¯t really sense much beyond the mouth of the opening due to how them Aetheric signals travel. As I draw closer and closer, I get a better read on what¡¯s happening on the other side, with trails of Abby lingering thick as the dust in the air. My kerchief don¡¯t help filter none of the former, so I grit my teeth and bear it as manually sort through the signals left behind. Most are weeks old, and those go to the back of my mind, while some are recent and belong to them Abby which I sensed moving back by the mine shaft.


    Wasn¡¯t just one group of Abby moving this way either, heading north along this little side passage in a right hurry to get away from the ¡®Do Not Enter¡¯ sign we just wiped away. Gobbos, orcs, and bugbears aplenty, in numbers too high to count, but nothing that stands out at first glance. The tunnel itself is large enough for three men standing shoulder to shoulder, but short enough that I feel compelled to slouch a bit. Means Marcus won¡¯t be comfortable here, and Captain Jung will need a bit of extra room so her sword of a bayonet doesn¡¯t scrape against the roof. The path north gets narrower and tighter, but the path south looks good until it turns sharply, so I pad over for a better look.


    There¡¯s a few twists and turns as we go, but within a minute, the Detect Aberration Spell alerts me to something before my eyes make sense of what I¡¯m seeing. Rather than another tunnel, I come out onto a narrow ledge overlooking a wide and expansive cavern. No longer constrained by metres upon metres of thick rock in most directions, my Detect Aberration Spell spreads out into the darkness and returns with enough information to make my head spin, and it takes me a moment to filter through it all. The area runs from north to south and is teeming with Abby signals both new and old, and some are so fresh I can track their movement in real time as they scurry about the base of the cavern without any real rhyme or reason. Rather than lean over the edge for a peek, I step back and make use of the Spell to determine that it¡¯s mostly gobbos down there. A lot of gobbos, as in hundreds upon hundreds of them, but not marching northwards like the group before. No, these gobbos have been here for awhile it seems, a fact revealed to me as I recognize their signatures and sort them out in my head, while those Abby passing through stick to the upper levels. Like the one we¡¯re on, so in the interest of remaining undetected, I motion for everyone to fall back to the hole in the wall where we can put up a fight and lay out everything I just saw.


    ¡°Birthing cavern maybe?¡± Marcus asks, before shaking his head. ¡°No, if there was a Proggie this close to Pleasant Dunes, we¡¯d know about it already.¡±


    ¡°Could be where it intends to settle in,¡± Sergeant Begaye says, and everyone nods along in agreement. ¡°Goblins at the bottom there might be clearing out space for Aether crystallization.¡±


    ¡°Can we rig the cavern up to cave in?¡± Captain Jung asks, always eager for those big booms, but I gotta shake my head and disappoint her.


    ¡°Not my area of expertise,¡± I say, letting her down gentle, ¡°But the cavern looked pretty big and expansive. Certainly possible, but I don¡¯t see the five of us getting it done unnoticed with what little we got on us.¡± I know they¡¯re all carrying Shatter charges, which ain¡¯t an Artifact like the Shatter Tube, but rather an Aether suspension Matrix etched into brass disc with the Shatter Spell Imbued within. Makes for a one time use device that¡¯ll cast the Shatter Spell point blank around the disc once it¡¯s Primed and set off.


    ¡°Better off using our charges to seal this route,¡± Tim says. ¡°Once we take out the Proggie, this is our exit, and we need something to keep Abby from chasing us all the way back to town. If we fail, the main tunnel¡¯s rigged to explode too, which¡¯ll buy us time to run while Abby dig their way out.¡±


    And run we will, because once the Proggie gets this close to town, it¡¯ll send its Abby army into a Berserker Rage to destroy any and all possible threats. There¡¯s no holding the walls once that happens, as they¡¯ll keep coming until their bodies stack high enough to run right over the ramparts and into town. They won¡¯t break, not until every last one of us is dead or they are, and while I¡¯m confident the Rangers would come out on top, I¡¯m also sure the juice ain¡¯t worth the squeeze. Most of the townies will die in the fighting, and the boots too most like, so I ain¡¯t about to risk Tina¡¯s hide or mine to save the likes of Ronald Jackson and his ilk.


    Still don¡¯t get what his angle is here. If this is the scenario he envisions happening, then how¡¯s he expect to survive the fighting, much less emerge as the ultimate winner after all¡¯s said and done? There¡¯s gotta be more to his plan, since he don¡¯t got enough men to protect Pleasant Dunes much less capture a Proggie alive, but I don¡¯t see it, so the best way to keep things from going his way is to take out the Proggie before it arrives.


    The plan takes shape organically with each Ranger adding in their own two cents, and soon enough, we got the tunnel¡¯s mouth rigged to explode and an Illusion in place to keep wandering Abby from stumbling across or blocking our exit. Before we set out into the cavern, Marcus takes me by the shoulder and looks me in the eye. ¡°Remember your role Howie,¡± he says, serious as the grave. ¡°You¡¯re here to Scout, while we do the heavy lifting. No matter how dire the situation, you are not to engage unless we go loud, and even then, your first priority is to retreat. Understood?¡±


    ¡°Yes Captain my Captain,¡± I say, firing off a salute, before adding, ¡°Don¡¯t be doin¡¯ none of that yee-haw cowboy bullshit either.¡± My way of telling him to be careful, and we share a little smile before I turn around and set off.


    With the staunch and painted Sergeant Begaye at my side no less, whose silent presence is mighty reassuring as I head back out into the Abby infested cavern. Though ready for the flood of information this time around, it¡¯s still enough to make my head spin a bit, but I bear down on the Spell and subconsciously filter out everything unimportant while focusing on the movement of various unseen groups scuttling about in the darkness.


    Sixty metres. That¡¯s the general range we got to keep away from any Abby, because that¡¯s about how close we gotta be for them to identify us as enemies with their Darkvision. Their ability to sense the signals they give off does nothing to help them identify us, since they themselves are capable of hiding their signals so it¡¯s nothing special to see a group of Abby walking around all stealthy like. I¡¯m more worried about our smell, as the last time any of us showered was the better part of two weeks ago, so we¡¯re probably smelling real ripe. That¡¯s why we brought Tim though, because while the Deodorant Cantrip doesn¡¯t so much eliminate scents so much as cover them up, Pass Without Trace is a Second Order Abjuration Spell which does what it says, eliminating tracks and traces of our presence in real time. For him and anyone within 10m of him, which is a right nice bonus. Can¡¯t do nothing if I start marking the stone with my bayonet, but it¡¯ll hide footprints in mud, trails in grass, and bloodstains pretty decently. Course, results may vary, and Tim¡¯s an Illusionist first and foremost, but as a Sniper who spent a lot of time shooting high-profile targets, he got plenty of practice making sure his presence went unnoticed even after the fact.


    In contrast? I¡¯m pretty much an amateur with the Spell, as I was only supposed to learn it to familiarize myself with the effects and figure out how to counteract them, but it¡¯s come in handy once or twice out on the Frontier. Most recently with Wayne¡¯s ¡®missing¡¯ merchant, though I admit I might¡¯ve been a bit too thorough with them, wiping away all tracks with a heavy hand instead of taking the extra effort to hide only mine and make it look less pristine, which is a clue in and of itself. Helps to know I got a pro covering me this time around though, so I lead us south along the western edge of the cavern while steering clear of any and all Abby patrols. Every single hole in the wall is a blind corner to check, and I keep imagining a group of orcs just sitting there taking a load off and blowing our cover. It doesn¡¯t happen, not like I¡¯m expecting at least, but it means I¡¯m ready when I sense a group of ten to fifteen orcs and gobbos coming towards us out of an ancillary tunnel.


    Information I pass along behind me in complete silence before stepping back to watch the pros handle their business. Captain Jung and Sergeant Begaye move a good ten metres into the tunnel while Marcus pulls out a collapsible tripod and extends the legs so it stands at about chest height. My chest, not his, and with a touch of the actuator, he sets a sphere of Silence around the entrance of the tunnel so none of the sound leaks out into the cavern below. Rather than go loud, Captain Jung and Sergeant Begaye form up to stand side by side and wait for the Abby patrol to wander into sight, at which point they start whooping and hollering as they rush the stalwart duo with weapons raised. No Spell slinging from them, and to my surprise, the Rangers don¡¯t throw any Bolts, Orbs, or Lightning bolts neither, and both sides meet in a crash of steel and muscle. The eighteen-inch-long bayonet on the end of Captain Jung¡¯s Merlin 45 hisses as it takes an orc through the chest, piercing deep into its chitinous plating like a hot knife through butter.


    No, not a hot knife. An Acidic one, and she doesn¡¯t so much as retract her blade as carve clean through the orc¡¯s torso to cleave a goblin trying to slip around.


    That¡¯s nothing compared to Sergeant Begaye though, who uses the high ceiling of this particular tunnel to his advantage by raising the Conjured tomahawk Sarah Jay talked up so much over his head before bringing it crashing straight down into an orc¡¯s forehead. Cleaves it from crown to belly he does, and there ain¡¯t no Acid at work there, just sharp Aether mimicking steel and doing it better than the real thing ever could. The tomahawk shoots back up along the same path, but its no longer in the Sergeant¡¯s hands as he draws a wicked looking knife and sets to hacking at the diminutive goblins dead set on sinking their claws and fangs into his thighs. Ignores the approaching orc who steps over the bisected corpse of his friend with both arms outstretched, but the tomahawk takes care of the second orc the same way it handled the first. Weapon goes up, and weapon swings down, catching this second orc in the back of its head as it came in for a tackle, and even though I can¡¯t hear any sounds from this fight, I can all too easily imagine the sickening squelch as the tomahawk rises back up into the air for yet another strike.


    So it¡¯s not moving about freely, like my Mage Hands or a Second Order Spiritual Weapon would. No, Sergeant Begaye has some modicum of control over his Conjured Weapon, but it¡¯s more like making it Echo his movements rather than move freely of its own volition. Shows in how the tomahawk traces out the same arc every time, though as far as I can tell, the Sergeant can control the timing without too much fuss and even reposition the weapon if he can spare the time to think about it in the heat of battle.


    As for Captain Jung? She don¡¯t do nothing as fancy, just stabs and slices her way through the Abby crowd while advancing step after step and throwing out Cantrips left and right. Doesn¡¯t need any armour, because them greenies don¡¯t even come close to landing a hit, and the whirlwind of violence ends as abruptly as it began when the last gobbo tries to eat her bayonet with about as much success as you¡¯d expect.


    Okay. Fine. I admit it. I was wrong to think it was completely stupid to go toe to toe with Abby. It¡¯s pretty cool, and I suppose sometimes even necessary if you want to keep things quiet under dark, so I guess I should pick up a weapon sometime and familiarize myself with its use. Not a sword, because those are just stupid. Not a bayonet either, because far as I can tell, Captain Jung¡¯s Merlin 45 is made special so it links up to the bayonet on the end, else she¡¯d have to touch the blade directly to cast Spells through it. Fact that she only used Cantrips that whole time puts her a step above Sergeant Begaye, who sure looked impressive and impregnable with his Conjured Tomahawk and Armour, but he¡¯s using two First Order Spells while the Captain still has most of her Spells free and ready for use. Not a big deal since First Order Spells ain¡¯t exactly taxing, but every little bit counts when your backs against the wall, and we might soon find ourselves in just that position.


    Not yet though, as Captain Jung and Sergeant Begaye stand vigilant a minute longer before waving me over to check for incoming Abby. None that I can sense, though them tunnels get real twisty before long, so we wait a little longer before feeling safe enough to move out. Marcus takes down the Silence Artifact and I lead the way once more with a newfangled respect for melee combat and no real desire to test my skills in hand-to-hand combat with an orc or Ranger. Luckily, I don¡¯t have to, as we come across two more errant patrols on our way down south, both of which are taken care of by Captain Jung and Sergeant Begaye. The third fight has me appreciating his armour even more after a goblin latches onto his ankle early on in the fight, and he¡¯s unable to fight free of it until taking care of the orcs in front of him. Must¡¯ve had a good thirty seconds to gnaw on his shin, but them feathered boots must be tougher than steel because the Sergeant walks away without so much as a limp after stomping it dead, and I can¡¯t help but wonder how his armour would hold up against a Bolt.


    From a gun of course. How would you even test something like that? Can he Conjure it and take it off? So many questions, but so few answers, and no time at all to pick his brain. Or inclination, because even if he is amenable to sharing the wisdom of his years, asking him for advice would be like spitting in Uncle Teddy¡¯s eye. I stopped going to him for lessons because I knew he¡¯d been training me up to be a Ranger, so I can¡¯t well go to another Ranger for help, now can I? Frustrating is what that is. Was a time when I¡¯d ask anyone who crossed my path for answers about magic, and most were happy to share, but I ain¡¯t as cute as I used to be, and don¡¯t got as much goodwill banked as when my daddy was still around.


    It is what it is, and I can¡¯t afford the distraction in the here and now, so I stifle my magical curiosity and continue heading south in search of the Proggie. It takes a good three hours of marching to reach the end of the cavern, and while it wasn¡¯t a straight shot by any means, it¡¯s still a good amount of distance to traverse deep under dark. The fact that we¡¯ve only run into three patrols so far is something of a miracle, but with the cavern coming to an end, there¡¯s no obvious route to follow anymore, meaning any one of the honeycombed tunnels coming out of the cavern¡¯s southern border could lead us to the Proggie, and I¡¯ve no earthly idea which one to take.


    Forces me to call an audible it does as we retreat into a side tunnel to talk. Tim keeps watch on the outside, while I watch the inside and share my concerns, but they don¡¯t got any answers for me. I¡¯m the Scout, so it¡¯s my job to point the way, and I hunker down to think it through while we still got time to spare. All in all, we¡¯ve been down here for almost five hours, meaning if I don¡¯t latch onto the Proggie¡¯s signature in the next hour or so, then we gotta turn around and head back before we¡¯re overrun by Abby. It''s daytime, meaning most are fast asleep, as their bodies tend to naturally sync up to be more active at night even if there ain¡¯t no sun to concern themselves with. Has to do with their fungal-adjacent nature, as all that green in their skin means they can produce energy from the sun the same way plants do, so long as they ain¡¯t spending too much effort moving around.


    Doesn¡¯t mean they can¡¯t move under the sun, just that they prefer not to even if they¡¯re several hundred metres beneath the surface.


    Hang on. If that¡¯s the case, then why have those gobbos at the bottom of the cavern been moving around all this time? Hasn¡¯t just been a small group, like the patrols moving around the tunnels to make sure there aren¡¯t any invaders. There¡¯ve been hundreds upon hundreds of gobbos scurrying back and forth down there this whole time, but I¡¯ve mostly been ignoring them because I figured they weren¡¯t important. I wasn¡¯t gonna go down there to deal with them, and they seemed wholly content with whatever was keeping them busy, so I figured live and let live.


    ¡°Ask Tim if he can see what them gobbos been doing down on the cavern floor,¡± I whisper, and the message comes back to me right quick. Turns out, they¡¯re clearing out space like we thought, but also picking fungus off the walls and carrying biomass down south. To the Proggie most likely, a detail Tim probably thought I¡¯d caught early on, which is why he didn¡¯t say nothing until now. A second query reveals the tunnels they using, and the answer narrows our options down from sixteen to five, only one of which is wide enough to fit a Proggie. Even the babies are about the size of my wagon minus the wheels, a big old slab of meat and mouths that look like it done crawled out of a nightmare. And crawl is the operative word, as they typically drag themselves forward using their mass of meaty tentacle that they use to dig tunnels in stone and burrow into holes. Heard tales of some moving about on dozens of Floating Discs cast by Abby drones birthed for that very purpose, while Proggies in the old world have advanced enough to cast Levitate and Fly on their babies to get them gone even quicker, but here on the Frontier, they¡¯re limited to muscle power and nothing more, because any Abby dumb enough to give a Proggie a hand is liable to lose it one of its many, many mouths.


    So our choice is clear. We set up camp here and catch the Proggie as it emerges, or we head down into those tunnels itself and move fast enough to avoid any gobbos behind us while simultaneously hoping we don¡¯t run into any forward patrols set to keep the Proggie safe. The decision ain¡¯t mine, but it¡¯s an easy one to make, and I find us a nice, recessed nook where we can rest easy and keep an eye on the tunnel entrance. Excitement courses through me at the prospect of doing what I set out to do, protect Tina and bag me a Proggie, but the reality hammers home soon after. We¡¯re a good five hours away from making it back topside, meaning that once we take out the Proggie, we gotta secure its corpse and lug it a good long way, while nearby Abby lose their minds and try to kill us the whole way back. Not just for vengeance; no the temptation of a Proggie corpse is no less alluring for Abby as it is for people. While we desire its body for its ability to crystallize Aether, Abby want that corpse in their bellies, because it represents a wealth of nutrients and magics enough to propel them straight up the evolutionary chain and turn them into something powerful beyond their meagre imaginations.


    Forget hobgoblins, or orc lords, or even trolls, ogres, and giants. That¡¯s standard fare, your basic greenie progression, but an Abby that sinks its teeth into Progenitor flesh gains unlimited potential and can grow into intelligent, Spellslinging monsters which defy categorization. Deviants is what they¡¯re known as, because they don¡¯t fit in any other box, and ain¡¯t no Deviant the same as any other. Could turn into massive sacs of meat oozing Contagion to infect the lands they settle upon, some big beastie out of myth like a dragon or kraken, or even something that passes for human so long as you don¡¯t look too close, and anything in between. To make matters worse, while Deviants can¡¯t produce Abby, they can reproduce, creating more Deviants like itself to spread and propagate even further. Given time and biomass enough, a Deviant has the potential to become even more of a threat than a baby Proggie looking to settle in, and I ain¡¯t about to be the one responsible for the Frontier¡¯s first confirmed Deviant.


    Not me, no sir-ree. Would fit the theme of the Frontier¡¯s Firstborn, if I had a hand in the birth of the first Deviant. Poetic even, though that¡¯s an honour I¡¯ll gladly decline, since I¡¯d rather not have my name live on forever in infamy.

 Chapter 49

    Always be prepared.


    A lesson my daddy drilled into my head by letting me make all the mistakes. He¡¯d tell me to prep for a trip, then leave me to live with the consequences of my decisions. Didn¡¯t pack enough clothes? Then I¡¯d have to wash them on the road, because a clean stranger was more trustworthy than a dirty one. My tent, bedroll, and food was too heavy to carry? Well too bad, because ain¡¯t nothing free, so can¡¯t be ditching nothing bought with hard-earned money. Run out of food or water because I didn¡¯t pack enough? Then I best get scrounging, because he didn¡¯t pack extra for me. Tell you this; you only forget to pack an extra waterskin once, because riding with a parched throat or a bellyful of river water ain¡¯t pleasant in the least.


    Course, he never let me get in any real danger, and those ¡®close¡¯ calls provided opportunities for teaching moments. Like how to find water on the go, which is what Tim has me doing as we backtrack along the path we took to get here while he lays down his own prep work for the coming fight. Ain¡¯t much of an ask, because while Locate Water is a Second Order Spell, it¡¯s also a Ritual I know all too well, and one that don¡¯t take much effort to go through. The copper lid of my candy tin comes out once more and I fill it with a vial of Holy Water, into which I place a lodestone, a pinch of powdered pearl, a salt crystal the size of my pinky fingernail, and a fishbone I picked up from the shores of Last Chance Lake. As usual, there¡¯s a whole bunch of mumbling and wand waving that goes along with it as I add the ingredients one by one, but it only takes a minute or two to get it going, making it much more convenient than most Rituals.


    Expensive too, considering Holy Water and powdered pearl don¡¯t come cheap. Even without the Ritual, you still need the ingredients when casting it manually, so I can only imagine the hurt I put on my daddy¡¯s wallet back when I was still learning the ins and outs of the Spell. A few weeks shy of thirteen and already slinging Second Order Spells, a point to take pride in for sure, though Chrissy and Tina kept my ego in check by keeping up without much practice at all. Fact is, Chrissy was the first out of us three to throw out a Second Order Spell, namely Calm Emotions to stop a feral stallion who¡¯d gotten loose and was running along the main thoroughfare. Called the horsie right over to eat a bapple out of her hand, and it went right along with it like a trained beast of ten years rather than a wild creature spooked out of its gourd. Always envied her way with animals, though I remember Aunty Ray had to take credit for calming the beast, because she didn¡¯t want no one knowing Chrissy¡¯s Spellslinging abilities were already so far advanced when she wasn¡¯t even thirteen.


    Mostly because it wasn¡¯t any secret that the Bradshaw bloodline was well known for their mastery of the Madness Spell, one which Aunty Ray¡¯s war-hero of a daddy used to great effect turning Viet Cong against one another during the Nanyue War. Or the Vietnam War I guess it¡¯s called now, but most don¡¯t like to talk about it at all. Apparently a lotta bad things went down during that war, but I figure that¡¯s par for the course. Folks like to think of humans as a civilized species, but it don¡¯t take much to bring us back to our savage and barbaric roots. Three missed meals from total anarchy, that¡¯s how the saying goes, and from what I¡¯ve seen in my short time here on the Frontier, it¡¯s being overly generous.


    Forget the food in your pack. There are folks who¡¯ll kill you for the boots off your feet. Some because they desperate, but not all, as there are those who¡¯d kill you just because they can, and both are more dangerous than Abby could ever be.


    While I remember past lessons to keep my cool and hold Concentration on my Detect Aberration Spell, Tim brings me out and about through the cavern as if he¡¯s lived a lifetime under dark. Doesn¡¯t stick to the path we took to get here, and finds us a safe route over to the other side. Has us descend down to the base level without any tools or rope, then weave around stalagmites to avoid detection from scurrying gobbos moving about, before climbing a wall maybe two arm-lengths away from a group of sleeping orcs. Tim does it all without blinking an eye and trusts me to follow suit, but never asks me to anything beyond my abilities neither. Moves like he got a Detect Aberration Spell going too, as he doesn¡¯t need me to warn him even once of oncoming Abby patrols or nearby gobbos who might hear us moving overhead, and when he presses himself up against the stones to hide in the irregular rock face, I lose sight of him in the jumbled mix of varying shades of grey. Every now and then, he stops to carry out a Ritual of his own while I watch his back, a role which ages me a year for every minute spent in strained and stressful vigilance.


    Explains why he buys so much honeycomb though, and not because he likes the taste. Even with my sweet tooth, I could never get over the waxy, chewy texture, so after squeezing out as much honey as I could, I¡¯d typically render the leftovers into wax and sell it to miss Elise who puts it in her soaps and candles. Always left a good square metre or so of raw honeycomb for Tim though, and never really knew why since it was an arrangement he had with my daddy. Turns out, it¡¯s needed for a Ritual Spell, one which involves slapping a single, unbroken hex of honeycomb onto a rock surface and drawing something around it with a feather, before whispering something into it all secret like. Can¡¯t hear what Tim says or see what it is he draws, as the lines don¡¯t show up under Darkvision, nor am I familiar with the Spell he¡¯s using. Not all that surprising really, as Illusion ain¡¯t really my thing, though I got practice enough using Minor Illusion to make realistic sounds.


    As for images? Well¡­ we can¡¯t all be good at everything, now can we?


    Dodging Abby and leaving Ritual Spells ain¡¯t all Tim does, as every now and then he pulls out a Shatter charge and affixes it somewhere clever, like deep in a nook with a ledge over head, or onto a stalactite overhead that¡¯ll fall and block access to a tunnel. Twelve charges by my count, plus another four to blow our exit route behind us, which goes to show that my daddy wasn¡¯t the only one who liked to be prepared. Then again, he probably learned the ropes right next to Tim, who was only twenty and change when he passed through the gates, four years older than my daddy and same age as Aunty Ray. Chances are, Tim came to the Frontier without ever having delved under dark, though he¡¯d served as a sniper in Iran and earned himself the callsign Revenant when he was only a year or so older than I am now.


    Yet another rude reminder of far behind the curve I really am, but in my defense, ain¡¯t no wars for me to cut my teeth on in this here slice of the Frontier.


    The plethora of less destructive but equally nefarious schemes Tim sets into motion only hammer home my lacking abilities as we weave our way through the cavern undetected. Ain¡¯t Invisibility keeping us hidden, because if it was, I wouldn¡¯t be able to see him or myself, so it¡¯s plain old stealth and trickery which sees us through, a master lesson I strive to learn from while wishing my bull¡¯s head medallion could record things in the dark. He rigs up a loose formation of rocks to fall apart the moment something big and heavy trundles by, unleashing a pile of marbles that¡¯ll roll out to make Abby slip and fall. An upended metal flask filled with odourless oil is poured out over a natural stairway, one that provides the quickest way down from one strata of the cavern to the next. Crevices that make for good hand or footholds along walls most likely to be climbed get vials of Alchemical Acid poured inside to melt Abby fingies and toesies at a touch. Snares, tripwires, ankle breakers, minor rockfalls, Tim even adds a few Ritual Alarms and manual noisemaking traps to even out the repertoire, no doubt seeking to sow as much confusion in the chaos as he can the moment we go loud.


    Me, I¡¯m more worried that Abby will set these traps off before the Proggie gets here and alerts everyone to our presence, but Tim is the pro here, so I ain¡¯t about to second guess him. Then again, maybe getting their attention is the point, since these traps and distractions are all set up on the eastern side of the cavern, while our exit route sits on the west side. They¡¯re also focused around tunnels that might well lead to water, as I point out the flows I sense along the way. Abby and mushrooms alike still need water to survive, so cutting off access to the cavern from those tunnels will likely stop a whole bunch of Abby from making it in. He¡¯s gearing up to get Abby looking left while we prep to strike from the right, sending them on a wild goose chase looking for threats somewhere they don¡¯t actually exist and leaving the cavern less guarded for it. Either way, it¡¯s an eye-opening experience, and I get to working on ideas I could rig up with help from my Mage Hands, giving me new exercises to practice once we¡¯re back topside. A single operation with the Rangers has taught me so much, it¡¯s a bittersweet experience to be sure, because chances of me getting another opportunity like this are slim to none.


    Despite what Uncle Teddy told me about finishing Basic to prove I¡¯m worth training up, I can¡¯t imagine Ranger High Command will be all too thrilled to see Federation resources going towards teaching a freelance freeholder who ain¡¯t even an American citizen. There¡¯s also the fact that I can¡¯t exactly copy what Tim¡¯s doing here, mostly because I can¡¯t afford to. Even assuming Shatter charges were available for civilian purchase, I doubt they come cheap. It¡¯s probably the same tech as what¡¯s in Danny¡¯s flashbang, but the suspended alchemical amalgam contained within those only needs to store Daze and Light. Both of which are Cantrips, whereas Shatter is a Secord Order Spell, which I¡¯m told is exponentially more difficult compared to storing First Order Spells. Higher Order Spell means higher energy effect, and it takes more effort to store energy than it does to release it.


    Granted, Trevor was talking about a reusable Aether suspension matrix to put in my boot, whereas Shatter charges only need to work the once, but the math behind the mechanics of Spell storage don¡¯t change much either way.


    Taking a dozen steps back, my wallet hurts watching Tim waste all those vials of Alchemical Acid that go for $12.50 a pop. Started with a whole saddlebag full of vials, so there¡¯s gotta be over $500 dollars in Acid just haphazardly scattered about the cavern, most of which won¡¯t do more than inconvenience a single Abby. Me, I got eight of vials in my pouch and I haven¡¯t had the heart to use them yet, but Tim don¡¯t even bat an eye while wasting a veritable fortune. Granted, a Proggie corpse would more than make up for the expenditure and then some, but it¡¯ll still take time for the resulting Aetheric condenser to produce enough crystallized Aether to cover your losses. Said Proggies don¡¯t do nothing fast besides spawning Abby, and that applies here, which is why I ain¡¯t all that twisted up about getting paid a flat fee upfront for my part in this here op.


    Course I¡¯d be lying if I said I never dreamed about bagging a Proggie on my own, or with my own team at least, and keeping the condenser for ourselves. One won¡¯t make us rich, not by a long shot, but passive income is passive income, and who says we gotta stop at one? A good team with a proper Scout could become bonafide Aether Barons with a little luck and happenstance, selling crystallized Aether to the highest bidder and even producing liquid or gaseous Aether later on when conditions allow it. That¡¯s the dream they sold American settlers on, one beyond most of their capabilities, but I think I got a good chance of success so long as I get a good team behind me.


    ¡­Is what I would¡¯ve said a week ago, but now I ain¡¯t so sure. Between the extreme stealth, exorbitant spending, and exceptional skillset required to even consider tackling an operation like this, I¡¯m wondering if I¡¯ll be ready before I¡¯m thirty. And that¡¯s assuming Abby don¡¯t get any stronger, which is a fool¡¯s dream. Once the Watershed rolls around, Proggies will have more Aether to work with and be less restrained by the laws of physics. They¡¯ll still make gobbos, orcs, and bugbears, but they¡¯ll do it in big batches and them greenies will come out with the know-how already ingrained into their brains to do stuff like grow mushrooms, sling Bolts, and put together simple contraptions. Trolls and ogres will become commonplace too, and they¡¯ll evolve into jotuns, oni, and giants capable of threatening whole towns all by their lonesome. The Ferals will grow bigger, stronger, and smarter too, though with more of a focus on the first two rather than the latter, while the Soulless will be even less constrained by their non-corporeal bodies, freeing their ghoulish, parasitic minions to move beyond the deadlands which their fiendish Proggies have already terraformed to suit their needs.


    Costs big money to stay ahead of the curve, and while I¡¯ve known this all along, I¡¯m only now seeing how much money we¡¯re really talking about. My idle dream of forming a crew to take on Proggies looks so silly in retrospect, because there¡¯s a world of difference between hunting Abby above ground and delving under dark. My daddy trained me up pretty good, but Aunty Ray was right. I ain¡¯t even close to ready for this, and the only reason I haven¡¯t gotten got just yet is because I¡¯m down here with the best of the best. No need to talk up the three Captains, but Sergeant Begaye has some serious skills going toe to toe with Abby like he did, because even with the fearsome Iron Maiden standing beside him, he was the one taking lead. Not just because of his armour neither; the man fights like Tim shoots, with calm confidence and cold capability, like he done already come out on top, but Abby don¡¯t know it just yet.


    Whereas me? All I¡¯ve done is point the way and follow Tim around in the dark, and it feels like I¡¯ve aged a hundred years. I don¡¯t see any way out of this without dying in the process, because a couple tricks and traps ain¡¯t gonna be enough to cover us on the way out, and my hopes of finding a convenient source of running water above us comes up short. Unlike Detect Aberration, the Locate Water Spell doesn¡¯t require direct, unobstructed path to the target. Wouldn¡¯t be much use if it did, because usually, when you¡¯re looking for water, you¡¯re trying to find an underground source so you can dig a well and tap into it. As such, this handy dandy man-made Divination Spell was built from the ground up, not to directly seek out water itself, but to take my copper ¡®bowl¡¯ of water, fishbones, salt, and powdered pearl and make it resonate with the lodestone so it¡¯ll resonate in the presence of another body of water.


    Same result, but obtained in a different manner, which I find interesting as all heck, as it highlights the ingenuity of the human mind. The Detect Aberration sends out waves of Aether in search of a particular target, then returns with a result when that target is found. It does things like that because it¡¯s meant for Abby to identify other Abby so they don¡¯t go killing each other in the dark, and doesn¡¯t work well for targets on the other side of the wall because there¡¯s no need to go that far. Locate Water however is different, and it harnesses the innate attraction water exerts on other water when in close proximity to find more water by amplifying that effect about a thousand times over.


    And I find a lot of water, but all of it underneath our feet. Unfortunately, what I want is a fast-flowing underground river above us, one I could possibly divert into the cavern with a few Shatter charges or other explosive effects to wash away Abby after killing the Proggie. Greenies are a dense and hefty bunch who don¡¯t swim all that good, and I would¡¯ve felt a whole lot better knowing I¡¯d contributed to whatever our escape plan might be, but no dice.


    After two hours of stealthing about, Tim brings us back to our temporary base camp which has transformed in our time away. The roomy little crevice has an entrance which overlooks the cavern, and now it¡¯s been fortified into a decent fighting position. A single Flame Cloud is all it¡¯ll take to hold the entire horde at bay, while any Abby who do slip through will be surrounded on three sides. Course, the whole chokepoint idea only works until Abby digs their way through the walls to get at us trapped inside, and then it¡¯s all she wrote.


    An unsettling image, that is, one which lingers as I find a seat close to the entrance where my Detect Aberration Spell ain¡¯t as constrained. Even as the thought strikes me, my Concentration slips when I try to recall how long I¡¯ve been holding it for, though I give up soon enough. Pretty sure we¡¯ve been down here for about seven hours and change, but I know I¡¯ve manually cast Detect Aberration twelve times. Best case scenario, I¡¯ve got two First Order Spells left in me, or maybe a single Second Order Divination Spell. Of which the only one I got is Find Magical Traps, but I have yet to have any reason to cast it, nor have I been asked to. For good reason though; usually only established Proggies will invest in magical traps, and even if they cared to lay any down, they wouldn¡¯t do it in a high traffic area like this cavern. Liable to kill more Abby than anything and waste the effort, though I suppose they could¡¯ve laid a trap on the other side of the warning we came across in the mining tunnel.


    ¡­Which is why they sent me through first.


    Because I¡¯m the guy who¡¯s supposed to check for traps.


    Better lucky than good, and I¡¯m glad my luck held out.


    Stifling a groan at my belated realization, I take a moment to cradle my head in my hands and resist the urge to tear my hair out. I should¡¯ve known better, and even if I didn¡¯t want to waste a Second Order Spell, I could¡¯ve just sent in my Mage Hands to feel around and see if they¡¯d trigger any magical or mechanical traps. Not like I haven¡¯t done it before; my daddy used to set snares around camp after I fell asleep, and I could never find them just by looking. I took it for a game, a joke he liked to play to keep me on my toes, but little did I know he was training me for delves even then. Ain¡¯t his fault I¡¯m not ready just yet, because I¡¯ve been slacking ever since he passed. Holding a ten-minute Detect Aberration Spell for an hour ain¡¯t terrible, and I thought I was set, but that¡¯s under perfect conditions, so I got a lot of room for improvement. Not to mention how I ought to hold myself to higher standards, considering I¡¯m aiming to be a Specialist Scout. Can¡¯t settle for good enough now can I? Not when my job is to keep the rest of my team from walking into an ambush, and the last two hours have proven that Tim could¡¯ve done it just as well, if not better, despite being a Sharpshooter, Stealth Specialist, and Battlefield Controller.


    Every Ranger wears three hats, that¡¯s how the saying goes. Means they¡¯re capable of filling in for at least three vital roles, allowing a team of five to have plenty of overlap in case one or two go down. Captain Jung is a Striker, Controller, and I¡¯m guessing Frontliner, while Sergeant Begaye is most definitely the latter two, while probably also a support Specialist. As for Marcus? He¡¯s a Striker, Controller, and Supporter, meaning this team is heavy on damage and control, but light on everything else. Mostly because of me. I¡¯m barely qualified to fulfil one role and one role only, leaving me useless for anything else. Ideally, I¡¯d fill in for Stealth and Sharpshooting, but I ain¡¯t good enough to even begin to cover either of those roles, not all by my lonesome. Ranger ready? Not by a long shot, something I knew coming in, but that don¡¯t make it any less unpleasant for me to sit here and face facts.


    To think, I was feeling all high and mighty when I told Kacey I don¡¯t need no Divination Spell besides Eagle Eye out on the Coral Desert. Truth is, I haven¡¯t been practicing my Detection Spells ever since my daddy passed, because I always thought they were a bit extra. You can usually see, hear, or even smell Abby before the Spell registers them, even if they lying hidden in wait, because it takes more than Divination Spells to make a good Scout. That still holds true, but I was an idiot to discard a tool just because I thought it wasn¡¯t all that useful. It¡¯d be like getting rid of a hammer because you can pound nails in and pull them out just fine with your knife, which is true right up until it¡¯s not.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    So practicing Detection Spells goes onto the ever-growing list of things I need to work on as I take a breath and begin chanting to cast Detect Aberration once again. Only to stop short as Tim gives my shoulder a sharp tap and gestures for me to move deeper into the crevice. ¡°Know your limits,¡± he whispers, somehow putting an edge to the words despite delivering them in the same slow and lazy drawl as always. ¡°Push too hard and you go from asset to liability, so fuel and rest up while you can.¡±


    ¡°Ten-Four,¡± I reply, slipping into radio lingo before correcting myself. ¡°Will do.¡± Slumping up against the wall, I dig through a hip pouch to grab some jerky and sigh. Ain¡¯t much of an asset, but the least I can do is move on my own two feet. They¡¯re already figuratively carrying me through this operation, so I can¡¯t have them literally carrying me too.


    ¡°You¡¯re doing good Howie,¡± Tim adds, and I can¡¯t help but blink in surprise. If he¡¯s being encouraging, I must look even worse than I feel, a sentiment he reads in my expression. Earns me a shrug and a wry smile, admitting he ain¡¯t used this either, but he pushes onwards all the same. ¡°Look at the facts,¡± he says, taking off his military helmet to run a hand through his thick chestnut curls. ¡°You did your work, then got out of the way, and not a single one of us have had to reel you in this entire time. Don¡¯t be so hard on yourself. Said it before, didn¡¯t I? You know the life better than I did when I was your age, and you handle yourself well.¡±


    ¡°Just well? Not great?¡± I ask, just to be cheeky, and Tim rolls his eyes.


    ¡°Great would be if you took a little more care when jumping headfirst into the unknown,¡± he whispers, showing I wasn¡¯t the only one to catch my little mistake. ¡°Or oiled your new holster so it won¡¯t creak so much and switched out the adjustable strap on your vial pouch for one that don¡¯t clink.¡± He¡¯s got more to share, but he stops himself short when he remembers how this all started, with him trying to cheer me up rather than stomp me down flat. Gives me a little shrug to say it is what it is, and I smile and nod back in thanks. Empathy don¡¯t come easy to Tim, nor does teaching as I saw early on in our trip, so the fact that he said this much shows he cares.


    Removing my own helmet, I set it down gently beside me before lifting my goggles off to blindly add more crystallized Aether into the dynamo so it don¡¯t run out of power mid fight. When that¡¯s done, I put them back on to rest on my forehead and pull my kerchief down from over my mouth, tasting the stale air for the first time and not finding much to like. Only then do I gingerly lean back to relax, doing what I can to ignoring the stifling, constricting darkness and take Tim¡¯s advice to rest while I can. Easier said than done, as I can¡¯t help worrying about how Tina¡¯s doing in Pleasant Dunes. The hobgoblin is a crafty one, smart enough to send commandos over the wall in the dead of night to spike the gatlings and try for the gate, then follow it up by attacking in shifts to keep the defenders on their toes and short on sleep. Started last night and I doubt it eased off the gas today, because it probably knows what¡¯s coming. If the Proggie gets in close and sends all nearby Abby into a berserk rage, the hobgoblin will be caught up in it too, meaning its chances of surviving the all-out attack are no better than any random orc, if not slightly worse. Can¡¯t sling Spells while you berserk, and most of the hob¡¯s strength comes from its intelligence rather than its physique, meaning it really wants to take the town before the baby Proggie gets grumpy.


    And it most certainly will if we take our shot and miss, because that widescale berserk rage is their weapon of last resort. Turns all Abby homicidal while boosting their strength, endurance, and willpower, but once the rage wears off, it leaves them weak and fatigued. Too weak to contest against the Proggie, who will devour them to replenish its spent reserves, since all that magical encouragement don¡¯t come without cost. No one really knows how Abby learn these things, but the general consensus is that gobbos in particular tend to get real desperate when a Proggie arrival is imminent. I¡¯m guessing Tina and the boots are having a rough time holding the walls, and the townies of Pleasant Dunes are finally seeing what they¡¯re up against. Wayne and his Company are likely running themselves ragged patching up holes in the defenses, but with four fronts to cover between twenty Rangers, they¡¯re liable to be running on fumes just like I am now.


    So here¡¯s hoping Ron¡¯s got a card or four hidden up his sleeve, and I gotta think that he does. Said this town was his breadbasket, and he¡¯s hardly the sort of man who¡¯d rely on the kindness of strangers or the Federal Government to cover his ass. Just wish I knew what his ace in the hole was. An army of adamantine golems? A fleet of armoured vehicles or aerial support? An artillery battery of Echoing Bombard cannons sitting high up in the mountains and fixed on target to clear out the horde in a single coordinated volley? The first two aren¡¯t possible, while the third isn¡¯t even remotely plausible, because I know good and well Mr. Kalthoff spent years trying to finagle a Bombard Spell Core to upcast beyond Third Order and could never get it to work, even though the old world used that trick to great effect in the Second World War.


    Thing is, I can¡¯t really think of anything else that could stop a berserk army of gobbos, orcs, and bugbears, not unless Vanguard National has got twenty to thirty Ranger-quality members. I¡¯m talking Third Order Spellslingers with access to the real big booms, like Fireball, Flamethrower, or Erupting Earth, but if Ron had access to that sort of talent, then he wouldn¡¯t¡¯ve needed the Rangers in the first place. Or them scavs for that matter, as Gunin and the Khaganate don¡¯t strike me as an elite unit of battlemagi working under the Soviet government. Nah, they vultures and opportunists, else they¡¯d have come at me head on instead of scrambling to steal what they could while I was otherwise occupied.


    So whatever Ron¡¯s plan is, it¡¯ll probably fall far short of effective once the Proggie rear¡¯s its ugly head and lets loose its berserker wail, because then it becomes a matter of last one standing, and there are a whole lot more Abby than people around Pleasant Dunes.


    Despite all my worries, the long hard day of stress and Scouting has me all but dead on my feet. Don¡¯t rightly remember falling asleep, but the next thing I know, someone is shaking me awake. Judging by the amount of cotton still stuffed in between my ears, I didn¡¯t sleep for long, less than four hours to be sure, though how much less is hard to tell. Ain¡¯t much more to think about though as Marcus whispers, ¡°Time to work.¡± Only then do I think to put my goggles on and activate them so I can see, and I find all four Rangers ready and alert as can be. ¡°Movement down below,¡± Marcus continues, and I hurriedly sit up and get my helmet strapped onto my head. ¡°Take a look and report back.¡±


    ¡°Sir yes sir,¡± I reply, and the words barely make it out of my throat as I don¡¯t trust myself to speak just yet. Allowing myself time for one mouthful of water, I gather my gear, put my kerchief back over my mouth, and head out into the tunnels while casting Detect Aberration with Sergeant Begaye at my side. As soon as the Spell takes effect, I get to parsing through the signals and sense a bevy of activity happening down below, mostly gobbos running to and fro. Moving out of our crevice, I make sure there¡¯s no activity on our level I can sense, and I¡¯ll be able to pick out any Abby headed towards us long before they see us, so I venture out onto the ledge and peer down in the cavern to let my Spell wash over the entire interior and reveal to me what¡¯s happening within.


    Far as I can tell? Them gobbos are laying out a mushroom buffet, while bugbears stand guard and hold off a throng of hungry orcs eager to dig in. There are plenty of wordless threats bandied about, signals sent out by Abby for Abby warning them to back away or move aside, and I almost wish Tina were right here with me, as she could set them to fighting right quick. Would love nothing more than to watch them tear each other apart, but I wouldn¡¯t trust just anyone to give it a go. One of the major downsides of the school of Enchantment is that the target can always tell who Spelled them once the effects fade, because intruding upon another living creature¡¯s psyche is not something done without leaving a part of yourself behind. That¡¯s how I knew to look for the hob when it hit me with a Fear Spell, because even though it¡¯s an Illusion Spell rather than Enchantment, the general principles behind the delivery are similar enough.


    Not that it matters. None of the Rangers here are Enchanters, and even if we succeeded in stirring up violence, Abby infighting tends to burn hot and fast. They¡¯ll smack each other around and kill a few, then the survivors will make nice and eat the dead together. And if the ensorcelled target remains alive at the end of it? It will know someone Spelled it, and that someone wasn¡¯t human to begin with, and they¡¯ll come looking for us right quick.


    Rather than make any guesses as to what¡¯s happening down below, I head back inside and report the facts as they are. Marcus nods and gets to talking shop with the others, while I take stock of my Spellslinging abilities now that I got time. Difficult to say how many more of them I have left after my short period of rest, because it ain¡¯t a matter of feeling full. While it¡¯s possible to calculate how many Spells you can sling on any given day, that¡¯s a misleading metric when it comes to working under sub-optimal conditions. I don¡¯t go to sleep and gather Aether, then spend it slinging Spells all day. For all the talk of Magi wielding vast powers of the universe, the truth is that we ain¡¯t the source of the magic; we¡¯re the catalyst. My brain acts as the pipeline between the Aether in the Immaterium and the Spell Structure I embedded in memory, and in doing so manifest a Spell¡¯s effect in the physical world around me. During that process, something gets left behind, impurities which hinder my ability to act as said pipeline by clogging it up until no Aether can pass through anymore. Then I go to sleep and my brain clears out the pipeline, allowing me to sling Spells until the pipeline is all clogged up again.


    It''s a minor difference really, a distinction that doesn¡¯t do much more than obscure the actual limits of my abilities, but there¡¯s a lot we don¡¯t know yet about the human brain and the Immaterium both, so I suppose I can¡¯t blame anyone for not having it all figured out.


    At the very least, I got 4, maybe 5 First Order Spells left in me even after this one I just cast. Puts me at about thirty percent capacity, which is more than I expected, so here¡¯s hoping the Rangers all got enough sleep to be back to full strength. Tim aside, I don¡¯t think the others expended much in terms of Spells, though it¡¯s hard to tell with the more subtle Spells like Mage Armour or Heroism. They look well-rested enough though, which is good because I feel like ten miles of bad road with another thirty to go.


    Doesn¡¯t take more than a minute for Marcus to lay it all out while the rest of us take turns refreshing our Mage Armour with the artifact. Plan sounds simple as can be, with all four Rangers hitting the Proggie as soon it comes far enough out of the tunnels for us to get a clean shot. Then me and Tim sit tight and provide cover fire while Marcus, Captain Jung, and Sergeant Begaye jump down into the cavern to retrieve the corpse before bringing it back up to our position, at which point we all leave and head back topside for a smoke and a celebration. Sounds great in theory, but a lot can go wrong, a fact Marcus acknowledges by looking me dead in the eyes and saying, ¡°Howie.¡± Puts a whole lot of meaning into uttering my name, using a tone that is loving, understanding, and unyielding all at once. ¡°Whatever happens,¡± Marcus intones, speaking low and slow to make sure I¡¯m paying attention, ¡°You stick close to Tim and follow his lead. He tells you to rabbit, then you hop to quick as can be, no matter the situation down below. Clear?¡±


    Much as I want to argue and claim I can do more, that¡¯d be more ego than anything else. ¡°¡­Sir, yes sir.¡± This time, the words are more than a rasp of a whisper, even though it¡¯s a struggle to speak past the lump in my throat. If my daddy were here, he¡¯d be of much more help, as he knew how to dance with Abby better than most. Don¡¯t know what he would¡¯ve done, but it would¡¯ve been better than anything I can manage in the here and now, because even if you took away all his guns and Spells, he¡¯d have found some way to make Abby pay.


    Thoughts I push out of mind as I resume my vigil out on the ledge, watching and waiting for the Proggie¡¯s approach. The minutes tick by and Abby grow impatient, but aside from a few shoving matches and the like, no one steps too far out of line. And I mean line, as Abby start to gather along the outer edges of the cavern, leaving plenty of room in the centre for five, six wagons at the very least. Seems like they¡¯re here to show their respects and make sure their new boss is well fed, and it amuses me to think Abby have less issues with authority than I do. Then again, I¡¯d probably sit pretty and toe the line too if my superiors were liable to eat me when cranky, so I can¡¯t really blame them.


    Sure enough, I hear Tim¡¯s traps and Alarms go off. Only the harmless stuff to make noise and inconvenience Abby, so it doesn¡¯t cause much of a fuss down below. Mostly because there ain¡¯t no shooting or Spelling going on, nothing too overt at least. Marbles and tripwires are hardly cause for concern, and clever as greenies are, most don¡¯t think too hard about things. They simply run off on a tear looking for whodunnit, except they searching in all the wrong places like we wanted them too. Shows the difference in going up against people versus going against Abby, as people would¡¯ve alerted each other of such suspicious activity, while them greenies are simply cheesed at having gotten tripped and slipped up.


    That¡¯s life for the next hour or two, just a silent vigil while keeping track of the comings and goings. I stay focused though, which is simple enough, but not something anyone can do for reasons I¡¯ll never understand. Because of my focus, I hear it approach long before I see or sense it, as the reverberating echo of a wet squelch sounds out from the tunnel¡¯s mouth, a sickening, drawn-out noise that puts me in mind of those nasty fart noises kids make with their mouths, only a thousand times worse as it lingers long after any child would¡¯ve run out of breath. When it finally falls silent again, the noise picks up again with a sharp, grotesque slurp, like a horse getting pulled out of sinking mud followed by the same sickening squelch as before. It¡¯s a gut churning sound, one made all the worse by repetition, and I resist the urge to turn away or lean further out for a look. As the sound grows louder and louder, a veritable symphony of disgusting, organic noises and wet, meaty squelches make itself known to my ears, an accompaniment to the main melody that elevates it to a whole new level of nauseating.


    One that falls short of the mark when compared to its appearance, a vile and repugnant appearance which words cannot do justice. A meaty sac of mouths pulled along by thick, fleshy tendrils, that¡¯s the description I been told and the one I passed along to others, but the truth is so much worse. Ain¡¯t no rhyme or reason to the abomination, for that is what it is, a mishmash of fleshy protrusions tacked together in ways that make no sense. It¡¯s all one creature to be sure, a lumpy, asymmetrical thing with no divisions to speak off from one end to the other, just a mound of meat that pulses and ripples as it drags itself along the stony cavern floor. Its tentacles aren¡¯t arranged in any sort of area, but rather poke out from the base flesh at every angle you can imagine, while writhing about in nonsynchronous rhythm that makes my head spin to look at. You¡¯d think with so many tentacles you¡¯d find at least some pattern within, but those tendrils convulse all about in every direction, as if its not entirely decided upon which way to move.


    And move it does, ever forward into the cavern, but try as I might, I can¡¯t see which tendril is pulling it along.


    Slurp and squelch, sharp and long, it moves closer and closer until I can see it¡¯s many mouths, none of which I would¡¯ve identified as such if I didn¡¯t already know what they were. There are no lips to frame them, no rows of teeth or fangs within, only vast, gaping holes that open and close as it slithers along and squirt out all manner of vile fluids as it does. The mouths are responsible for the symphony of sickening sounds accompanying the Proggie¡¯s movements, as they seal shut and smack open with a disturbingly moist sound. They wheeze when open, gasp when moving, hisses while shutting, and smack when opening, all of which comes together in the most unsettling array of noises that I ever done heard, and has me yearning for a nice hot bath so I can scrub away a few layers of skin that came into contact with the same air as this disgusting horror show of spongey flesh.


    So when the Rangers take action, my heart rises in my throat and I resist the urge to cheer along, because I don¡¯t want to give the game away just yet. The Proggie senses something¡¯s off right quick, as it stops in its tracks to wave its tendrils about, but I pay it no mind and watch with bated breath as all four Rangers move in synch like horses running neck in neck. Their left hands begins outstretched towards their target, and they slowly draw it back towards them like they readying to throw a spear, cocking and locking it in place as they wait and watch their target like hawks. Aether surges around them as they finish their chant in tandem, one that goes, ¡°Non ¨C Timetis ¨C Mesore.¡±


    Which translates loosely to, ¡°Be not afraid of death.¡±


    A chant that cuts both ways, as all four of them hold their Spells and become beacons of shining light to anyone who can sense the Aether flowing around them. Spellslingers get a sense of it, but Abby are born with it, and the Proggie is downright terrified to sense it happen. Thirty seconds don¡¯t sound like much, but it¡¯s a good long moment when an entire Abby horde of gobbos, orcs, and bugbears all turn in your general direction and bellow out in challenge, one that goes unanswered as I stand with my Strelky at the ready, but without a bullet in the chamber ready to fire.


    Because the glowing Etches would give our position away, and while the flows of lets them know what¡¯s happening, it¡¯ll still take some time for Abby to zero in on our position.


    Time enough for the Rangers to finish charging their Spell, the most powerful single target Spell available to anyone on the Frontier, even if it¡¯s only a Second Order Spell. As one, they unleash the supersized Bolt they¡¯ve been holding, because that¡¯s all a Lance really is, a bigger, badder, charged up Bolt that hits about twelve times harder than a Bolt Cantrip, with built-in Penetrating to pierce through armour and multiple targets to boot. Three of the Lances hit dead on, and the through and through is wasted on the stone ground, but one dips sharply and makes an impossible curve to strike the Proggie dead on. In through the front and straight out the back, Captain Jung¡¯s controlled precision strike rips a hole through the fleshy abomination from one end to another almost big enough for me to squeeze through, though I wouldn¡¯t do it even for a million dollars.


    Ick factor aside, Proggies can eat and digest anything, meaning their bodily fluids might well be more caustic than Alchemical Acid, which is really saying something.


    Marcus, Captain Jung, and Sergeant Begaye don¡¯t move as soon as their Lances strike. Instead, they sit tight while me and Tim open up on Abby down below, but not with our guns. Instead, we toss out three flashbangs each to really disorient the crowd, all of which were provided by him. Then and only then do the others jump off the ledge, and they leave their Featherfall Spell to the very last moment so there¡¯s barely any lag time between the slow down and their boots hitting the ground. Captain Jung immediately unleashes a Spell that covers her in cascade of green, glowing energy, one visible even through my Darkvision and extending out to about six metres around her. The effect is less immediate than a Fireball into the crowd, but Abby all recoil and wince as she passes them by, their skin melting and bodies injured even though she didn¡¯t so much as spare them a single glance.


    As for Sergeant Begaye, his Spell is even more showy and effective as he does a little Native American Dance while he moves and conjures up three glowing, feather-armored, tomahawk wielding Braves just like him. Rather than spread out in a line, the larger-than-life Spiritual Guardians circle around him like creatures of light, their feet never touching the ground as they strike at any and all nearby Abby and kill them outright. Then there¡¯s Marcus¡¯ Spell choice, which might well be the least effective, but it¡¯s one near and dear to my heart, and I can¡¯t help but grin as he draws in a deep breath and blows out a wave of Acidic vapour. The chorus of Abby screams gets my feet to tapping as Marcus runs a few more steps and unleashes another Acidic Breath in the other direction. It¡¯s the same Spell as Cowie uses, the Second Order Dragon¡¯s Breath, a versatile Transmutation Spell that can dole out damage from any one of the four Elements, but Cowie only understands Fire.


    Which is good, because his breath smells bad enough as is. Don¡¯t need to go adding Acid breath into the mix.


    While the assault team makes a bee-line for the Proggie, I take things slow and smooth and fast as I pick out the bugbears and put them down hard. Beside me, Tim does the same, but in the target rich environment, we got plenty of shots to choose from. Once the ground team is far enough away, we toss out another pair of flashbangs further back in the crowd, then Tim starts shooting his Strelky with one-hand while using the other to throw vials down into the crowd. Whenever they land, they billow out into clouds of thick, obscuring smoke, and I¡¯m impressed to see someone figured out how to put Fog Cloud into a potion. Except they did one better, as them Abby caught up in the smoke get to choking, gasping, and hurling up everything they ate, leaving me slack-jawed and wide-eyed in wonder at the thought of getting my hands on some of that.


    That¡¯s Stinking Cloud in a bottle, a Third Order Conjuration Spell, one that stinks so bad it can literally kill a man if he gets more than a lungful. 100% against the Geneva Convention, but the way I see it, it¡¯s more of a Geneva Suggestion when you fighting Abby and outlaws on the Frontier.


    Feeling good and well about our chances, I stop to reload while the ground team reaches the Proggie, and I even let out a little whoop as Marcus reaches out to touch the corpse and Levitate it up into the air. The sound gets stuck halfway out my throat as a thick, meaty tendril snakes out to smack the big Captain in the chest, and I look on in abject horror as Marcus Clay, the towering Ranger Captain and the strongest man I¡¯ve ever known, hurtles several metres back through the air and lands heavily on the stone floor. ¡°Marcus!¡± I scream, ready to jump down and get him, but Tim pulls me back with a scowl.


    ¡°Cover Fire,¡± he barks, so I finish reloading and get to shooting to keep Abby from getting to Marcus, while wishing I could do more. Between shots, I glance at the big man and silently urge him to get up, to stand a start shooting his pistol-sized Blastguns to clear the crowds away with a grimace on his ferocious mug. He don¡¯t so much as twitch a muscle though, and my heart feels ready to explode in my chest, only for it to constrict even more as a boundless wave of Aether surges through the cavern and settles within the still living Proggie, one fending off Captain Jung and Sergeant Begaye with its tentacles while other tendrils move with the cadence flow of a Somatic Spell Casting component and its mouths gurgle out in a garbled, incomprehensible language. The two Rangers redouble their efforts to take the Proggie down, with Sergeant Begaye sending in his Spiritual Guardians to chop and cleave at its ponderous bulk while Captain Jung unloads into the thing with her submachine gun in rapid-fire triple shot bursts.


    A second passes. Then two, three, and five, but still the Proggie is casting. Captain Jung¡¯s weapon clicks empty while her Elemental Aura continues to melt away at the meaty mass, and Sergeant Begaye¡¯s Spiritual Guardians have chopped off enough tentacles to lighten the Proggie by a fourth, but still the inhuman abomination keeps casting. Its Spell is a long one, and as it reaches the high point, every Abby within earshot starts screeching in high holy hell, a deafening, keening wail I ain¡¯t ever heard before and could go a whole lifetime without hearing ever again.


    A solid wall of magic slams out and sends me staggering back, even though there was no physical component to the Spell at all. The sheer magnitude of Aether is enough to leave me reeling, and all I can do is watch in horror as the Abby horde¡¯s wailing cry turns into an aggressive and belligerent warcry. There are no words to be found in the incoherent howls, but the message is clear.


    Death to the enemy, no matter the cost, as every goblin, orc, and bugbear within a dozen klicks flies into a berserker rage and comes hurtling towards us en masse.


    Shows that simple don¡¯t mean foolproof neither, as man proposes, and God disposes, putting us in the hotseat for what I can only assume is for kicks. That¡¯s what I hate about religion. If there is a big guy upstairs making all of this happen, then He sounds like a sadistic son of a gun who ain¡¯t got nothing better to do than to watch us suffer.


    Can¡¯t count on religion to pull us out the mess, but I pray all the same and hope that at the very least, Tina makes it out of this alright.

 Chapter 50

    Twenty-four hours.


    Not a long stretch of time by most measures, and a week ago, Sarah Jay would¡¯ve said the same. Ask her today though, and she knew enough to say it was all a matter of perspective. A day to spend with her man before separating for week? Far too short a time, because the hours flew by whenever she looked into his eyes. A full day and night¡¯s ride to avoid camping outside of town? Wouldn¡¯t be pleasant, but bearable so long as she had a day or two to rest after the fact. A twenty-four-hour all-out Aberration attack?


    Might well be the next best thing to eternity.


    Started yesterday afternoon with them eager, untested Abby assaulting the walls, followed up a few hours later by a night-time raid which cost them five gatlings guns and Lord knows how many lives. Luckily the Ranger Strike Team got to the main gates in time to support the beleaguered defenders, because if those gobbo commandos had taken down the gates, then the horde might well have overrun Pleasant Dunes within the hour. That was a real close shave, closer than she¡¯d have liked, and it boggled the mind to think that it¡¯d happened less than a day ago. The scene itself was still fresh in memory, as was the image of the mangled gunners who¡¯d been posted inside when Abby came a knocking, and Sarah Jay suspected she couldn¡¯t forget it even if she tried. All she¡¯d caught was a brief glimpse from over Howie¡¯s shoulder, a small peek at the gore-riddled scene full of blood, guts, and scrap metal, that¡¯s all she got, and it was enough to fuel her nightmares for the next few years, nightmares of greenies which made the terrors of her past seem so trivial in comparison.


    Was a world apart from seeing a man killed by a blown up gat, because even though that¡¯d been horrific to see, Abby left just enough to recognize the remains of humans, but nowhere near enough to identify who they¡¯d been.


    Yea, perspective was a might powerful thing, one that made all her previous terrors almost seem tame in comparison. The wild, unkempt man her daddy killed at their table, the tense, strained discussions with strangers over the campfire, the quiet minutes spent hiding in shadows while waiting for some danger to pass, none of it seemed all that frightening anymore, not after the last twenty-four hours. The scuffle in the streets of New Hope with Howie had all but resolved her fears of harpies, so she felt like a woman without fear now, one who was more tired than terrified and wanted the greenie horde dead just so she could catch a few winks of sleep.


    To think, she¡¯d wasted all that energy being scared in the years after her daddy¡¯s death. Was a good stretch of time there when she¡¯d spend hours after school wandering around Riverrun with Mary Ann and little Jimmy in tow, a hard burden to bear as a girl of fourteen. Couldn¡¯t go home, because Oswald was there, and every little thing they did would send him into a rage. Didn¡¯t matter what they did, because he was just looking for excuses to give them the back of his hand and take out his frustrations on them. That¡¯s why Sarah Jay would bring her siblings around town, so they wouldn¡¯t be underfoot for the few hours Oswald was sober, since he¡¯d be drunk as a skunk by the time sun set and too sloshed to prove much of a threat.


    Threat.


    Ha.


    Looking back on it now, Sarah Jay couldn¡¯t understand why she¡¯d ever been scared of Oswald. Sure, he was quick to raise a hand in violence, and looked right frightful whenever he went red-faced and wild-eyed in drunken fury. Next to the toughs walking around Pleasant Dunes though? They were a hard bunch who made Oswalda almost look cute, and he was downright cuddly compared to the Vanguard National thugs. Like Tank, the big man who¡¯d shot her in the shin days before all this kicked off. He was cuffed to a cot and kept under guard, but he spent his days and night cussing them out and promising all sorts of pain and retribution once he was free and clear again. Was careful never to implicate Vanguard National in his threats, just said he had friends is all, spewed all sorts of vile filth about what he¡¯d do to them.


    Much like that foul-mouthed Jacob Junior, who earned himself a beatdown talking about Tina like that, and in front of Howie no less. Man went a bit overboard after the fact, but Sarah Jay understood why Howie did it, because some folks needed to learn that if you talked shit, then you was gonna get hit.


    The other members of Vanguard National were just as bad, cussing and laughing while setting townies to scraping up what Abby left of the gunners stationed inside them bunkers. Them thugs didn¡¯t show no care or respect for their fallen comrades after the fact, and they talked big like them poor, dead folks were at fault for getting got. Sarah Jay noticed none of the guards up on them walls had been wearing any patched leather vests, so for all their talk, Vanguard National didn¡¯t walk the walk. Left all the hard work to the townies while keeping all the best guns for themselves, and blaming the guards for being lacking or the boots and Rangers for showing up too late. From the way they talked, you¡¯d think this was a Federation town full of tax paying citizens who were owed their protection, instead of Independents who scorned a helping hand.


    And they needed the protection, because as the night wore on and the Aberration attacks continued, Sarah Jay was starting to piece together why Howie thought it necessary to alert the Rangers, and why Captain Clay had responded so quickly.


    Most Aberration attacks were little more than a raid, a lightning-quick strike to settle matters of victory and defeat. One and done, simple is as simple does, but when the first attack yesterday afternoon ended with a veritable army of Abby still watching from the dunes, Sarah Jay had sensed something amiss. That¡¯s why she asked Howie point blank if there was more to come. He¡¯d told them to count on it, and hinted that there was something here in Pleasant Dunes that¡¯d attracted a Proggie¡¯s attention, likely the inhabitants themselves. Still, she¡¯d never heard of Abby laying prolonged siege to a town, not like this. A series of attacks over the course of days or weeks she could understand, but they wasn¡¯t coming and going like you¡¯d expect. They was camped out on them dunes in broad daylight as bold as can be, and raring to get themselves over the walls and into the town proper.


    Made no sense, not for clever gobbos, orcs, and bugbears. Ferals were called as such because they were little better than animals, dumb, bestial brutes driven by instinct and little more. That¡¯s why harpies were so easily baited by a single shooter standing in the streets, because once their scented blood, even Abby blood, then their instincts to kill kicked in and wouldn¡¯t settle until they were gorged and sated. Much like the newborn greenies who¡¯d taken part in the very first attack, the ones that didn¡¯t know any better than Ferals. Them other greenies though, the more seasoned and cunning gobbos and their ilk? They were a cleverer sort, as shown by how they went for the big guns in the dead of night, instead of running rampant through the open town where so many people slept without shelter from the elements or Abby alike. That was more in line with what she expected from greenies, but their sheer persistence was staggering to say the least as they climbed over the bodies of the brethren in their repeated bids to take the town and claim whatever it was that their Proggie demanded of them.


    Them greenies attacked three times during the night, and that was only the beginning. The morning sun offered no respite to the exhausted defenders of Pleasant Dunes, as the Abby horde came at them in shifts like a factory running round the clock for crunch time. The Sergeants had the boots fighting and resting in four-hour shifts, then switched to two-hour shifts once morning came, while the Rangers fought harder and rested less as the horde kept coming and coming. The greenies were a determined lot who kept coming no matter the odds arrayed against them. Not in one continuous wave, no that would be too easy. Far as she could tell, Abby would win outright if they did, but they¡¯d pay dearly for it. The Ranger mortars and Recoilless Rifles had their measure now, and had taken a huge toll on the Abby numbers last night. Come morning, the greenies learned not to clump up together so much and attacked in loose lines instead, rendering the big guns less effective and leaving more work for the small arms like rifles and pistols.


    Which was largely why Sarah Jay switched out her 3-Line for a Strelky. Range and accuracy didn¡¯t matter as much when they were so close to walls, while the bigger magazine, higher rate of fire, and abundance of ready to use ammo clips made it the better option. Something Sergeant Dixon pointed out just this morning, round about eight hours ago when the sun had only just risen and Sarah Jay was busy loading clips and magazines for her 3-Line and Model 45 instead of catching some Z¡¯s. Was no helping it, as both weapons were nonstandard Aetherarms, so the Rangers hadn¡¯t seen fit to bring anything but loose ammo for them. ¡°Get as much rest as you can, boot,¡± the gruff, salt-and-peppered Sergeant had said, sounding far more tired than she¡¯d ever heard him as he held out a Strelky and pouch of ammo clips for her to take. ¡°Every extra Entangle you sling is dozens more Abby dead, so you better off getting fifteen extra minutes of sleep than fussing about with your fancy 3-Line.¡±


    Given her experiences in the countless skirmishes since, Sarah Jay was grateful for the advice. Wasn¡¯t no need to resort to reloading her rifle one bullet at a time once her clips ran out, because all she had to do was call for ammo and someone would get a bag of fresh clips to her. Like Noora, who worked just as hard as any boot despite not holding a gun, or maybe even harder considering all the running about she¡¯d done. Her courage and heroism counted for just as much as anyone else¡¯s, though Sarah Jay admitted that the boots were far flashier. Like when big Ed drop kicked a bugbear off of the battlements only moments after it climbed up, or Antoni¡¯s newfangled respect for the Grease Spell and Molotovs brought about by Howie¡¯s example. Then there was Michael¡¯s machine-like precision and target acquisition with the double barrelled Forzare he favoured in the fight. Only had two shots before he had to reload, but by God he made each one count, adjusting the spray pattern on the fly depending on if he was shooting at a gaggle of goblins or a handful of orcs and dropping bodies left and right.


    There were five boots who stood out above all others though, and Sarah Jay was dispirited to not count herself among them. Especially as she plinked away at the green tide of Abby down below and caught sight of their latest antics out of the corner of her eye. Hard to miss seeing Alfred whenever he went, a burly giant of a man who stood only a little taller than herself at six-foot one, but with a barrel of a chest that made him seem so much bigger. Add in his glowing blue tower Shield that covered him from the neck down and he made for a most formidable sight as he ran across the battlements to lend a group of townies a hand as they were overrun by climbing orcs and bugbears.


    A First Order Spell he could maintain for almost two hours a go, which was impressive considering the base Spell only lasted ten minutes and required Concentration to start with. That was a feat on par with Howie¡¯s mastery of Mage Hands, meaning Alfred had been practicing the Spell for far longer than anyone realized. Made Sarah Jay glad to see him shake off little Dick¡¯s influence and stick with the Rangers, unlike Gabe, Steve, and the rest of their ilk. The big, quiet giant had a new group of friends now, with Ike and Errol charging in right there alongside him, and Sarah Jay warmed to see her man in action. Errol didn¡¯t do much to start with besides shoot his pistol and lay in with his chain, while Ike stole the limelight as he thrust out his hand and delivered a Pressure Wave out into the clumped-up orcs intent on tearing apart the townie defenders. Was a longer, narrower Blast focused on crowd control rather than damage as it sent any targets hit flying away, and Ike was practised enough with the Evocation Spell to keep it from hitting any friendlies. Made for a right impressive sight, them townies left unscathed as the orcs surrounding them were sent staggering back over the battlements which they just climbed up onto. A good number still remained, but Alfred shouldered right through them shield first to tackle a bugbear, while Errol laid into the rest with his chain, bringing it about in wide circles to splatter orc brains and buy time for the townies to pick their shots.


    Was a neat bit of work that was, over in less than a minute once they had time and space to take out the bugbear. Sarah Jay¡¯s man was really coming into his own here in Pleasant Dunes, and her chest filled with pride and affection as she watched him unsling his Whumper to loose five, thumping Blasts into the crowd of Abby below. Once that was empty, he went back to his chain, utilizing the Living Whip cantrip to fling climbers off the wall and bash a bugbear¡¯s brains out as it clung stubbornly to the stone. Yea, he sure was a sight to behold, especially considering his work wasn¡¯t done once the area was clear. Went from killing Abby to tending wounds in the blink of an eye, paying no mind to the fight while Alfred and Ike stood guard over him with Strelkies in hand.


    Lord knows how many lives her man helped saved today, and her heart sang to see it, but even enamoured as she was of her heroic hunk of man chocolate, she had to admit he fell short compared to the last two standout boots.


    There they were, two battlements over engaging in a storm of steel and Bolts unlike anything Sarah Jay had ever seen. Kacey was like a warrior out of antiquity with her twin swords and bow, but wasn¡¯t no one laughing at her results. Didn¡¯t have no giant glowing shield to hide behind, but that didn¡¯t slow her none as she charged headlong into a thick pack of Abby who¡¯d just finished slaughtering a group of townies. The slim, Nipponese girl fought without uttering a word and let her swords do the talking as they flashed about her in a dazzling display of speed and skill, cutting down everything in her path like a farmer cut through grass while dancing about her opponents¡¯ clumsy attacks. A slash to the knee delivered a Booming Blade Cantrip, and a beat later, the orc¡¯s leg exploded as it tried to chase after her, but Kacey was already slicing up another orc. A few moments later, Sarah Jay watched those blades erupt in blinding lightning to deliver a Shocking Grasp, one which set an orc to convulsing as Kacey¡¯s follow through took another orc clean through the neck. The next two fared no better as her swords went criss cross and two greenie heads went flying, which was just enough time for the electrocuted orc to recover and watch those blades drive home into its chest.


    Was like clockwork it was, as if every move had been meticulously planned out in advance, a benefit of the Gift of Alacrity Spell Kacey kept going most of the time. The First Order Divination Spell didn¡¯t do nothing to speed up her movements or reflexes, only the rate at which she thought, which didn¡¯t sound like much until you saw her make use of it. The extra time let her slow down, analyze the situation, and pick out the best course of action before moving forward, which made it seem like she had everything under control while her opponents danced in the palm of her hand. Was incredible to see this small slip of a girl charge headlong at a bugbear without blinking, but Kacey came out on top every single time without so much as ruining her hair.


    Then there was Tina, who was even more impressive once you caught on to what she was doing. She didn¡¯t fight next to Kacey, or even from behind, but rather positioned herself almost perpendicular to her partner, off to the side and a good ways back. Didn¡¯t dive into the fight, but rather brought the fight back to her as Tina fired her dual 1911s and Model 45 into the pack and drew their attention away from Kacey. Was some magic at work there, one Sarah Jay couldn¡¯t identify by sight, but had asked about earlier when they had some time. Unlike Howie, Tina had been happy to share, though she¡¯d blushed a little when she admitted to using the Enhance Allure Cantrip to draw Abby aggression. Was a Cantrip meant for honey-trapping men by making them think you looked better than you did, one that didn¡¯t change how you looked so much as what others saw when looking at them, like an optical illusion that had nothing to do with light and everything to do with brain signals.


    And it worked wonders on Abby, but they wasn¡¯t looking to chat her up or buy her a drink. No, they were out for blood in a way that made Sarah Jay think of the Third Order Spell Challenging Shout, except these Abby weren¡¯t forced to attack her, only encouraged. Even now, it belied belief to watch how most of those greenies turned their backs to Kacey just to chase after Tina, who soon got herself stuck in a corner with her back to the battlements. Didn¡¯t slow her down none, or even diminish the big smile stretched across her fetching features as she stepped up onto the crenelations and skipped merrily away before descending back down to the battlements with a bit of fancy footwork that made Howie look like he had two left feet. There she was, running, dancing, and twirling about in the chaos of battle while putting Bolts into skulls at a rapid-fire pace, staying ahead of the pack chasing her round in circles while Kacey cut them down one or two at a time.


    The two girls couldn¡¯t be any more different, but they came together in a way that just worked. Kacey fought with swords and moved like it too, always direct and to the point in every engagement, but Tina¡¯s movements were something else. Like walking on clouds it was, floating on sunshine as she moved with a hop, a skip, and a step, all the while gunning her targets down point blank using her 1911¡¯s and Model 45. Wasn¡¯t using no Mirror Image to do it either, as she was using her Concentration to maintain a Bless Spell on Kacey, Alfred, and Ike, while Errol had his Heroism Spell going to keep him safe in the fight. As if that wasn¡¯t enough, Tina could reload both her pistols with one hand a piece faster than Sarah Jay could reload the one, largely due to how she had her magazines neatly arranged in two bandoliers sitting snug on her hips, ones that held twelve magazines each in two staggered rows for easy access.


    Yea, the five of them were the stars of the show, at least insofar as Sarah Jay was concerned, and she learned a lot about the type of Spellslinger she herself wanted to be. The other shift didn¡¯t have as many stand out talents, while she herself was pretty much just another shooter in this here fight. Had to pick and choose her moments to use Entangling Growth, as she suspected she could only squeeze out another two or three at most. Lack of uninterrupted sleep was doing her a disservice, as she wasn¡¯t used to sleeping with Aetherarms cracking off only a few dozen metres away. Made it hard to get good, meaningful rest, which you needed to recover from Spellslinging, and was likely why the Abby horde was coming at them in waves instead one concentrated attack. Wanted them tired and spent they did, a relentless and remorseless foe who was dead set on running them ragged before coming in for the kill.


    And as the day wore on, the successive waves got tougher and smarter to boot. No longer did all the greenies come at them naked as the day they were born, with a good number carrying weapons and armour that made them look that much more fearsome for being made of hardened bone. Bird skull helmets were a big favourite, likely taken from the same animals she¡¯d seen pulling them scav wagons out in the desert, with the beaks still intact to act as a hard visor to headbutt with. Sharpened bone knives were another common sight, only not with a hilt like something a person would use. Instead, them greenies would flatten the bases, then wrap cloth or ropes around it to tie the weapon to their fists. Ribcage chest plates, thighbone clubs, jawbone masts, and more, the sheer grotesque creativity was a sight to behold, and their savage cunning at work even worse.


    Was one thing to say, ¡°Aim for the armoured ones.¡± Was another altogether to put it into practice when they showed up while you was already busy fending off their naked brethren. They¡¯d run up as bold as can be and lob Bolts, Blasts, Elemental Orbs, and other Spells without any regards for friendly fire. Even more dangerous were the mundane projectiles they hurled, sharpened stakes and bones honed to an edge or just plain old rocks, which sounded laughable until you saw someone take a hit. Took a toll on the townies it did, none of whom were wearing Vanguard National patches even now, and there were eight boots out of commission already. At least two owed their lives to Errol, who showed up in time to staunch their bleeding wounds and carry them back to the medical tents, and it was a miracle none of them had died just yet.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    Or maybe not a miracle, since the Sergeants were keeping close watch over them all and expending precious Spells whenever it looked like things were getting rough. Like when Saheed and Antoni¡¯s squad had gotten hit by a Colour Spray, an Illusion Spell that blinds and dazzles the targets caught in its cone of effect. Sergeant Dixon came up clutch then and there, leaping over ten metres across from the battlement beside them to land amidst the Abby crowd, whom he sent packing by laying in with his bayonet. The Jump Spell at work there, and probably Elemental Strike too, as he single-handedly cleared the battlements and held it clear long enough for the blinded boots to recover. Was cool as a cucumber the whole time, bellowing orders to keep Saheed from running off or Antoni from fighting blind and hitting one of his teammates while giving Abby the boot both figuratively and literally.


    All the while, the actual Rangers were running about patching holes up in the defenses. The boots didn¡¯t see them much because they were capable of holding the northern wall for the most part, but every time Sarah Jay found a chance to look to the West or South, she found a sorry sight waiting for her indeed. The townies weren¡¯t trained for this, nor did they have the equipment needed to hold out against a prolonged attack. The gatlings had long since gone quiet all across town, their barrels melted into slag with no replacements to get the guns working again. The fact that the town had enough to replace the barrels five or six times a piece was already more than anyone could¡¯ve expected, because at twenty guns and ten barrels a piece, that was over a thousand barrels in total and no small expense for an Independent outfit like Pleasant Dunes.


    Sadly, this meant the townies were left with single-shot rolling block rifles, six-shooter single Core revolvers, and harsh language to hold back the Abby tides, and they paid dearly for it. The Rangers couldn¡¯t be everywhere at once, and Lieutenant Wayne had them working in two shifts same as the boots, meaning there were only ten Rangers up and about at any given time. Split between the western and southern walls for the most part, and running ragged for it, so it was a damn good thing the boots and sergeants were able to hold the northern wall by themselves. Course, it helped knowing the other ten remaining Rangers were resting only a few dozen metres away and ready to kick it into high gear should the boots ever falter.


    With a few notable absences that made Sarah Jay¡¯s heart heavy to dwell upon, but she tried not to let it affect her too much. As the latest Abby attack died down and the call went out to switch shifts, she hobbled on back to camp with Nora¡¯s help and tried not to be too obvious as she looked around for any sign of Howie, only to come up short once more. He¡¯d been here all night, though forced to sit out of the fights, and she assumed it was a sort of punishment for assaulting a civilian. Wouldn¡¯t be much of a punishment for anyone else, but Sarah Jay had seen the look in his eyes every time Tina set out without him, and knew it was killing him inside to not be there beside her. What a sight that would¡¯ve been, Howie working with the others to take on the Abby horde, and while Tina did her best to keep the mood bright and spirits cheery, her brand of wholesome encouragement just wasn¡¯t the same as Howie¡¯s special brand of bleak humour and heartfelt encouragement.


    Of which he gave plenty, alongside actual support since he wasn¡¯t out shooting or slinging, right up until he disappeared sometime this morning alongside Sergeant Begaye and all three Ranger Captains. Doing whatever it was that brought them all here to Pleasant Dunes in the first place, Sarah Jay assumed, and she wished them well. Burned with jealousy to know she was here struggling in the middle of the pack while the Firstborn was off with three Captains and a Sergeant doing Lord knows what. Something dangerous no doubt, because one Ranger Captain was a walking weapon with enough Third Order Spells to singlehandedly devastate your average town. Short of taking on a Proggie nest, she couldn¡¯t think of anything that needed that much magical muscle to take down, not even ¨C


    ¡­


    Fuck! That was the answer, it had to be. Howie tried to be coy about it, just mentioned it in passing the last time they sat down and talked. She thought he meant Abby was here collecting biomass for their Proggie, and while that still remained true, there were easier ways to feed their Proggie without full-on assaulting a fortified town. The goal wasn¡¯t just the food and people, those Abby out there wanted the town itself, a nice, secure nest out on the desert proper and away from other established Proggies, somewhere it could really stretch its tendrils and direct bands of armoured greenies right into the Emerald Plains or Wayfarer Forest without letting them get distracted along the way.


    This wasn¡¯t a raid. It was a conquest, a land grab for expansion, one that would see the first Proggie out of the mountains and into the desert proper. If they allowed it to happen, then the next Proggie would come soon after, hopscotching their way west along the desert and closer to the Bulwark defending the rest of this here stretch of Frontier. Might not seem like much at first glance, but it would elevate the gobbos from a mountain nuisance to a full-blown threat to the Emerald Plains and Wayfarer Forest, same as the Feral bugs of the Divide, and greenies were a whole lot more cunning and coordinated than Ferals could ever be.


    No wonder Howie wasn¡¯t willing to risk saying it outright. Everyone thought this was an Abby raid, herself included, albeit one more persistent than most. So long as they held out and put up a fight, they¡¯d send them greenies running for the hills, because Abby were violent, not suicidal. Now that she knew a Proggie was involved, that changed the stakes entirely. It wasn¡¯t a matter of holding out for victory anymore, because the only victory to be had was total and complete annihilation of the Aberration threat. This was do-or-die now, victory or death for everyone here in Pleasant Dunes, because the horde out on them dunes had a job to do, and their Proggie boss would sooner lose them all than accept failure as a result.


    Made things clear as day it did, the staging grounds a day out of Meadowbrook and Howie¡¯s insistence on making their fallback point his wagon, rather than the camp itself. Because he knew what was coming, and what it would look like once the Proggie got close enough to order an all-out assault, an order issued with no small amount of compulsion to drive the Abby army into a mindless, Berserk rage. Once that happened, then all bets were off, and their best chance of survival was to run faster than the people beside them and hope their deaths would slow Abby long enough to get gone.


    ¡°What¡¯s the matter?¡± Errol asked, slipping his arm over her shoulder as Sarah Jay sat frozen in thought, her speed loader out and bullets ready to pack into her magazines, but hands yet to move.


    ¡°Nothin¡¯,¡± she replied, all too quickly and sharply, which meant he knew something was up for sure. She didn¡¯t trust herself to say as much though, didn¡¯t want to send anyone into a panic if she was wrong, so she put her head down and got to packing her mags right quick. Didn¡¯t take more than a handful of minutes, and bless his heart, Errol sat with her the whole time, his eyes so full of love and concern but his head smart enough to leave her be.


    ¡°It''s fine,¡± she said, more for her own benefit than his, and he raised an eyebrow in question. Too smart is what he was, could read her like an open book, which was part of why she loved him so much. After tucking all her magazines back into her pouch and putting a bandolier like Tina¡¯s up at the top of her shopping list, Sarah Jay threw her arms around her man and sank into his embrace. ¡°Everything¡¯s fine,¡± she said again, and this time she believed it. Howie and the Rangers had things under control, because if three Captains, a Sergeant, and the Firstborn couldn¡¯t handle it, then what chance did the rest of them have?


    Despite the blistering heat of the desert, the evenings in Pleasant Dunes were surprisingly chilly, so when she shivered in her man¡¯s embrace, she figured that¡¯s all it was. Then the hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she let out a gasp before she even understood why. Unwilling to loosen her grip around Errol¡¯s waist, she turned to look around camp and saw everyone else was up and about too, even the few who¡¯d collapsed into their bedrolls as soon as they got back. Aside from turning their heads this way or that, there wasn¡¯t anyone moving about, and the eerie silence of camp was compounded by the hush that fell over Pleasant Dunes as townies and greenies alike stopped in their tracks.


    The wave of Aether hit her like a whiff of smelling salts, a sharp and intense sting that ripped away any sense of comfort or security. She wasn¡¯t the only one who sucked in a gasp, and the camp came alive with movement as boots and Rangers alike winced and recoiled. Errol even let out a pained groan, and he wasn¡¯t the only one as Alfred staggered in place as if struck and Saheed fell to his knees with an empty look in his eyes. All across camp and the town, Sarah Jay imagined similar scenes playing out, and though none of them knew what was happening just yet, they all felt it in their bones, knew what awaited them even if they couldn¡¯t put it into words. ¡°The wagon,¡± Sarah Jay whispered, turning to look Errol in the eyes and praying they¡¯d both make it out of this alive. ¡°Remember, stick close to the wagon.¡±


    Still dazed and recovering from whatever it was that hit them, Errol meet her eyes with a furrowed brow, confused as to why she¡¯d bring it up. Before he could give voice to his questions though, Cowie let loose with a terrifying bellow, a bone shaking roar of defiance if there ever was one. There was no magic to it, but the ferocity of the big, friendly bull¡¯s contempt for Abby lit a fire in Sarah Jay¡¯s chest, one that burned hot even as the Abby horde let loose with a chorus of guttural, incoherent howls in response and all but confirming her fears.


    The Proggie was here, and the crazed horde would soon descend upon Pleasant Dunes in full force. Howie and the Ranger Captains had failed then, their attempt to take it out before it arrived unsuccessful and their fate unknown, leaving Sarah Jay here with the love of her life, and no earthly idea what to do next.


    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


    Kill.


    Slaughter.


    Consume.


    Demands made of Tina by the wave of Compulsion, and she had her 1911¡¯s in hand before she even realized it. A lifetime of good habits paid off then and there though, because even amidst this wave of magical coercion, she managed to keep her fingers off the trigger and the safeties engaged. Had her thumb right up against them and ready to disengage, but she didn¡¯t do it even though deep down she wanted to.


    Which was almost as bad as succumbing to a Progenitor¡¯s psychic cry, because Tina wasn¡¯t no Aberration. She was human through and through, and only affected by the Compulsion because of how Aether and magic were an integral part of her life. It wasn¡¯t about D.N.A or bloodlines, but her connection to the Immaterium, one that went beyond the Spell Structures embedded in her mind and defied any attempts to describe it. It was an intimacy with magic that went beyond knowing, an understanding inseparable from instinct, because Tina lived and breathed magic with every fibre of her being.


    And it was magic being made here, not some methodical, standardized Spell at work, but full-blown wild magic with power enough to warp the very world around her and make her sick to her stomach. Not because she was an Innate. There were others in camp who felt the same, though on differing levels. Out of all the boots, Saheed was the most sensitive, while Errol was a close second, though Howie was probably physically reeling from the aftereffects, because he was as close to the magic as anyone Tina had ever seen. Anyone besides Chrissy or Mr. Elten at least, but they were both too close, too invested in the magic to wholly separate themselves from it. Now wasn¡¯t the time to commiserate though. Now was the time for action, so Tina checked her newly reloaded magazines and ran over to the armoury tent to grab another satchel of loose ammo, because things were about to get messy.


    Sergeant Dixon got there before she did, the man in charge now that Captain Jung and Sergeant Begaye weren¡¯t around. ¡°Form up,¡± he shouted, and though the boots were tired and scared by what just took place, they all followed orders as bidden. ¡°Take as much ammo as you can carry and fight with,¡± he said, glancing back at the northern wall and the sound of pounding footsteps coming from behind it. ¡°Won¡¯t be making any supply runs after this.¡±


    ¡°Could load up Howie¡¯s wagon and bring it with us,¡± Tina said, inwardly wincing when she realized he would hardly approve. That was their getaway, and even Cowie couldn¡¯t run full speed with a full load, but it was too late for regrets. Wasn¡¯t like Howie was here either, so even though he warned her about what to expect, how was she supposed to count on him to get her out safe? No, that wasn¡¯t fair, because this wasn¡¯t on him. Tina had come out to learn how to be a Ranger, and this here would be the fire within which she¡¯d be forged. That put some pep back in her step as she joined the line ferrying crates of ammo into the metal wagon, while poor Noora was forced out into the driver¡¯s seat where all the kiccaws had gathered up to seek shelter. Smart little birds is what they were, knew good and well their best chance of survival was to stick close to Cowie, and they did it without so much as a squawk.


    Hopefully they wouldn¡¯t mind a bit of a bumpy ride. Poor things could use a Console Cantrip to help soothe their nerves, but there were just too many of them and not enough time to go through it all, so they¡¯d have to manage with a few pats and coos.


    To Tina¡¯s surprise, the second team of boots had been called back to camp, as were the rest of the Rangers, all fifty plus of them gathered here instead of defending the walls. The townies were giving up on the walls too, though it far less orderly a fashion as Abby were already hot on their heels here inside of town. They came pouring in over the battlements in such a rush that the first bunch jumped right off the walls and broke their legs in the sand, but even that wasn¡¯t enough to stop them as they set to crawling over. The next wave of Abby landing atop them put an end to their struggles though, and the howling survivors followed suit, only for more of their brethren to land atop them and kicking off a vicious cycle that was sickening to watch. There was barely any need to open fire just yet, as they was doing a good enough job of killing themselves aside from the few greenies who lucked out and found the stairs down instead.


    More Abby continued to come over the walls, while still others were clawing straight through them. They weren¡¯t a horde anymore, just a press of green flesh pushing forward to kill, slaughter, and consume, and if there weren¡¯t any people around, then they¡¯d just as soon turn on one another until their Berserk rage came to an end. Made them plenty stupid, but far tougher and scarier, and Tina watched as one such orc took a fistful of Bolts to the chest only to keep on coming until someone shot it clean through the head. That was their best bet moving forward, to aim for the brain and nothing else. The spine was a decent target too, but you¡¯d have to sever it clean, while exploding their hearts only put a half-minute time limit on their lifespans moving forward, and they could do a whole lot of damage in thirty seconds.


    And it showed, as them crazed Abby tore into a group of townies that¡¯d been too slow to retreat, ripping them limb from limb not fifty metres away. The boots and Rangers put shots into the crowd, but them orcs kept ripping and tearing even after all the townies were dead, only for a few to topple over dead after the fact. Others fell but kept coming, dragging themselves forward with their arm or crawling forward on severed stumps, not caring about the pain or their imminent death so long as they had something to kill.


    So Tina listened for orders and moved right quick alongside the Rangers and boots as they carried their portable defenses around the front of the saloon and down the middle of town. A formidable force of Spellslingers and Aetherarms to be sure, but nowhere near enough to take on so many greenies coming at them from all sides. That¡¯s why they had to make for the rear gates right quick, and they urged the fleeing townies to run with them and head up the hills when the terrain made the fight a winnable one. Some listened, while others fell in line for lack of any other option, but most ran for the shelter of the buildings as if brick and mortar was enough to hold back the horde. Broke her heart to see it happen, but there wasn¡¯t nothing she could do for them.


    ¡°Come with us!¡± Errol shouted, waving at the fleeing townies. ¡°We can hold them off together!¡±


    Weren¡¯t many takers on his offers, and Sarah Jay had to hold him back to keep him from running off to shepherd more townies along. The man¡¯s heart was in the right place, but his head was all sorts of mixed up, because the only way out was to pick up and go, and hope Abby stopped to pick through the stones long enough for them to get away. Howie said that anyone still in town would die defending it, and he wasn¡¯t one to exaggerate, so Tina said a little prayer for the poor souls of Pleasant Dunes and hoped they¡¯d bring enough out with them to make it matter.


    ¡°What are you doing? Why are we stopping?¡±


    There wasn¡¯t any fear in Sergeant Dixon¡¯s questions, only a forceful demand for answers, but Wayne wasn¡¯t having any of it as he directed his Company to dig in right there in the middle of town. ¡°Orders are to defend the town,¡± he drawled, and he even had the cheek to give the Sergeant a wink. ¡°So I figure that¡¯s what I¡¯m gonna do.¡±


    Never one to back down, Sergeant Dixon got right up into Wayne¡¯s face and growled. ¡°Operation contingency plan says to abandon the town and head up into the mountains should the horde turn Berserk.¡±


    ¡°And as highest-ranking Officer present, I have the authority to change those plans as circumstances develop.¡± Weren¡¯t no smiles from Wayne as he stared down the Sergeant, and they exchanged a quiet word while everyone looked on. Whatever they talked about, Sergeant Dixon came out on the losing end, which was a first. Looking around at the confused boots and terrified townies, Wayne¡¯s fake smile came back in full force, a sleepy and casual smile that was looking real strained under the circumstances, as they ought to be. ¡°Relax,¡± he said, gesturing at the buildings on either side of them, one of which was the Sherrif¡¯s office Howie shot up the last time he was in town. ¡°Got good reason for stopping here. These walls other either side? Reinforced with Darksteel. Any Abby going through them will be using doors and windows, making them easy targets.¡± Gesturing up towards the roof, he gave the Vanguard National thugs who were already up there a little casual wave and added, ¡°We got heavy support on the high ground too. We¡¯ll be fighting on two fronts instead of one, but we¡¯ll save more people doing it.¡±


    Tina wasn¡¯t sure if the explanation was for them, or if Wayne was trying to convince himself this was the right move. Wasn¡¯t anymore time for discussion though, so the Sergeants set them to digging in as best they could would corralling townies into the buildings on either side. Couldn¡¯t fit everyone into the reinforced ones, and Tina could only hope Abby would be too fixated on the Rangers in front of them to go tearing up the buildings.


    ¡°You know how to use that thing?¡± Sergeant Dixon asked, and it took a moment for Tina to realize what he was talking about.


    And when she did, she beamed bright as can be while throwing up a snappy salute. ¡°Sir yes sir,¡± she said, before hopping up into the driver¡¯s seat and giving a few kiccaws a pat. Gave Noora a smile too, but the girlie was tough as nails and ready to go down swinging with a knife in hand. Hopefully it wouldn¡¯t come to that, but it might, so Tina paused and asked, ¡°You know how to handle a pistol?¡±


    ¡°Only the one Sarah Jay has.¡± Shrugging, Noora replied, ¡°I know how to reload it and make sure the safety is set.¡±


    Handing over her new and pretty Model 10 on a whim, Tina unbuckled a bandolier full of mags and said, ¡°Good enough. Point it at Abby, push the safety forward, and squeeze the trigger.¡± In that order preferably, but now wasn¡¯t the time to be nitpicking. Leaving Noora to figure it out and hoping the girl would hit no friendlies, Tina¡¯s grin returned in full force as she pulled up the Big Stick and found the hinges all nicely cleaned and recently oiled. Howie¡¯s good habits coming in clutch there, as he was never one to shirk his chores, and obsessive enough to check in every few days to make sure there wasn¡¯t any rust.


    Truth was, Howie just loved his Big Stick something fierce, though it didn¡¯t look much like any other gun she¡¯d seen. Had a matte-black Darksteel barrel that was four feet long and thicker than her wrist, one bristling with all manner of tubes sticking out perpendicular to one another like X¡¯s along the main shaft. The business end was capped with a strange, opaque sorta glass-looking plug that reminded Tina of a baby¡¯s pacifier in shape. Was all white and cloud like it held a thick mist, but that was the magic that others couldn¡¯t see, the roiling Aether sitting pretty even when the Core wasn¡¯t Primed and ready to shoot, while the back end didn¡¯t have a stock or trigger, but rather two handles to grip and an actuator to activate, ensuring only a Spellslinger could use the weapon rather than any random townie.


    Was a right fearsome weapon it was, and Tina envied Howie for having it, because she¡¯d only seen it shoot the once and he¡¯d never let her use it. Now was her chance though, so once she had the big, bulky weapon pointed in the right direction, she loaded up the fist sized canister of Aether just in time to look up and spot the forerunners of the Abby horde came barrelling around the corner. Their flat, grotesque features were even uglier than normal, all twisted up in rage and unholy glee at the sight of so many Rangers, boots, and townies all dug in and ready to fight. They howled with glee to alert others of it, but they¡¯d be singing a much different tune soon enough. Unfazed by the oncoming threat, she bobbed her head from side to side while listening to the Core sing as it Primed. The coursing Aether moving through the Metamagic Etchings made for a right haunting melody, and her palms tingled to feel it happen even though there wasn¡¯t any actual physical sensation to feel.


    ¡°How much longer before you¡¯re ready?¡± Sergeant Dixon barked, speaking over the sporadic gunfire taking down the oncoming forerunners.


    ¡°Good to go anytime, but might as well wait for more of a crowd,¡± Tina replied, wishing the streets were just a little longer and wider as she adjusted the cone of effect. Rangers loved them their big alpha strikes, and this Big Stick mounted up top of Howie¡¯s Wagon was designed to deliver just that, but it deserved a real target for its opening shot. Especially since she only had a dozen shells total, because these big canisters didn¡¯t come cheap. ¡°Ring that dinner bell Sarge, and I¡¯ll serve ¡®em up a meal they won¡¯t soon forget,¡± she added, sparing a grin for the surly, salt-and-peppered Sergeant, and to her surprise, he grinned back.


    ¡°You heard the little lady,¡± he hollered, and the boots and Rangers both responded with a chorus of cries while unleashing hell at the Abby stragglers. They came sprinting round the corner and down the street in groups of five to ten, and Tina watched and waited as their numbers grew until a veritable flood of greenies were coming at them hard and fast.


    With a grin so wide it made her cheeks strain, Tina lined up her shot, willed the Actuator to activate, and opened her eyes nice and wide so as not to miss a single thing. The Big Stick let out a rumbling bellow to match Cowie¡¯s best roar, and the built-in shock dampeners absorbed a good ninety percent of the recoil, but it was still enough to shake the steel wagon beneath her with a clang that set her kiccaws to chirping in protest. Wasn¡¯t no complaints from the Rangers, boots, or townies though as the Big Stick unleashed a solid wave of force that billowed out the tip of the gun and rapidly spread to cover the full 12m width of the street once it was only a metre away. The wave hammered into the thick Abby lines sent them flying, every last one of them from here to the end of the street and beyond, a good 50m easily if not more. The Core in the Big Stick was the big brother to Ike¡¯s Pressure Wave, the aptly named Banishing Wave that didn¡¯t hit as hard as Fireball, but sure packed a punch all the same.


    Especially once it was Intensified, Empowered, and Maximized for full effect, with a Concussive effect thrown in to really ruin someone¡¯s day if they managed to survive the hit. None of the greenies on the street did though, which was a bit of a downer, because she was curious as to what an enraged and concussed Abby would look like. Nothing to do about it though, so she let out a little whoop and a cheer that got everyone cheering along too as she loaded up the next shell and took a few shots with her 1911 while waiting for enough Abby to gather up to make using the Big Stick worthwhile.


    A shame Howie wasn¡¯t here to see it, and Tina would be lying if she said she wasn¡¯t worried about him, but Mama always said worrying was like rocking a chair. Gave you something to do, but didn¡¯t get you nowhere, so Tina hoped for the best and focused on what happened, like surviving long enough to find out what happened.


    And she would. Survive that is, no matter the odds stacked against her, because she knew Howie would never forgive himself if he made it out Pleasant Dunes alive without her. Silly is what it was, because she wasn¡¯t no little girl in pigtails no more. She was Tina Walker Bradshaw, daughter of two Rangers and Granddaughter to a third, a first generation Innate of two powerful bloodlines that complimented one another like milk and honey.


    So if anyone could make it out it, it¡¯d be her, no two ways about it.

 Chapter 51

    The sharp scent of Aether and blood hung heavy in the evening air as Errol unloaded his Whumper into the horde, feeling more alive and spirited than ever before.


    A small voice in the back of his brain asked why, and for the life of him, he couldn¡¯t say. An unending stream of greenies ran headlong towards their position, with beady red eyes opened wide and razor-sharp fangs bared in feral hunger. Their clawed hands held all manner of brutal, makeshift weapons as their muscled legs propelled them across the sands at a breakneck pace in utter disdain of the wall of Aetherarm fire hurtling their way. Penetrating Bolts pierced through spongey green flesh and black chitin underneath while electrifying streams of lightning Arced from one greenie to another to shock and debilitate. Mortar shells crashing down into the street less than a hundred metres away, and twice now, Tina used the Big Stick up top of Howie¡¯s armoured wagon to clear the streets with a single reverberating blast of Force, but still the greenies kept coming.


    Was downright terrifying to behold, a nightmare unfolding before him as he shot and reloaded and shot again in a desperate bid to keep the crazed and murderous green horde from reaching their lines, one made all the worse by the fact that he knew they were coming at them from behind him too.


    There was no retreat and no surrender, for the enemy would not allow it, but Errol felt no fear or trepidation. With a fire in his chest and a hymn in his heart, he stood firm and carried out the Lord¡¯s work while marvelling at how things had worked out. The people of Pleasant Dunes had not welcomed them with open arms, but they were His people all the same, so they deserved better than being left to die at the hands of Aberrations. That was the Rangers¡¯ grand plan, to abandon the town and retreat into the mountains, but as they fell back, Errol saw that the townies weren¡¯t coming along, choosing to seek shelter inside the scant few buildings or over in the towers at the corners of town, and he knew the Rangers were leaving them behind to die.


    But not Wayne. The supposedly crooked Ranger chose to stand and fight, which might not have been the best decision tactically, but it was one Errol agreed with. Better to die in service to the Lord than to run and regret it for the rest of their lives, wondering what might have been if they¡¯d only tried. For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it. Mathew 16:25. A verse which filled him with boundless fortitude as he stood beside his girl and gunned down every orc, goblin, and bugbear that appeared before him. In between shots, he took in glimpses of her beautiful profile, all grim and gorgeous like the Angel of Death, and though his heart ached to know they might die here today, there was no fear in his heart, for should they fall, they would soon be reunited again in the Kingdom of Heaven.


    The Aberration horde pressed in close, and his Whumper unleashed hail after hail of kinetic spikes to throw them back, exulting in glorious purpose while seeing his allies shine in their own unique ways. Alfred who stood calm and stoic as could be with his giant Shield raised not to protect himself, but others beside him as his big 44 Special sparked and barked to illuminate him in a wispy white glow to match the Spectral blue of his Shield. Antoni who whooped and laughed with a wild look in his eyes while hurling makeshift Molotovs at the horde, ones he made himself after co-opting local supplies of moonshine in his spare time. Cold, calculating Michael who rarely spoke and let his actions speak for him as he gunned down orc after orc with his Strelky while standing two steps ahead of his squad with his bayonet fixed and ready so Abby would have to go through him first. Tina kneeling up top of the wagon and glowing with an Aetheric light as she slung Spells to bolster their spirits while watching and waiting for the right moment to unleash the Big Stick once again. Heroes one and all, and Errol was proud to stand alongside them while fighting the good fight.


    A fight in which the Firstborn was notably absent. Curious that, seeing as Howie was the one who brought them all here in the first place and claimed he¡¯d do everything in his power to keep them safe. Where was Howie now then? Even though Errol didn¡¯t like the man much, he didn¡¯t think the Firstborn was the sort to run from a fight. No, more likely he¡¯d seen the writing on the wall and had fallen back to prepare another fighting position alongside the Captains or something, all of whom were also missing. A good thing, in Errol¡¯s opinion, because if they were here and had fallen back as expected, then the people of Pleasant Dunes who stayed behind to defend their homes and their families would have been slaughtered to the last.


    Where would these people have been without the Rangers and boots here to support them? There wouldn¡¯t have been any beams of flashing Lances cutting through the Aberration ranks, no mortar shells delivering Bombard Spells from overhead, no Flaming Clouds or Entangling Growths to funnel Abby down the street towards the Ranger position. No, Captain Marcus¡¯ plan might¡¯ve been more tactically sound, but it overlooked the reason why they were here. To save lives first and foremost, and kill Aberrations second. That wasn¡¯t Howie¡¯s way, and it might not be the Ranger¡¯s either, but by God it was Errol¡¯s, and he would do what he could to protect as many lives as he could.


    A blossom of heat and light erupted before them, and the boots cheered at the sight of the first Fireball unleashed and Errol¡¯s voice joined in alongside them. Inwardly, he wondered how much time had passed since the battle began and how many Spells the Rangers had already expended. Even a practiced Magus couldn¡¯t throw too many Fireballs a day, usually six or seven if they were starting from full strength, and Howie had gone on and on about the importance of Spell selection time and time again. Now wasn¡¯t the time to hold back though, or at least, that¡¯s how Errol felt, but he didn¡¯t have any big and flashy Spells like Fireball, only support and medical Spells like Staunch Wound and Minor Regeneration, neither of which were of much use here.


    Thankfully, there wasn¡¯t much need for tactics or cover in this fight here. The storm of surging Aether had thrown the greenies into a berserk rage that saw them run headlong into danger without fear or hesitation, robbing them of what little wits they had to begin with and turning them from cunning, crafty foes to mindless beasts slavering at the jaws and eager to get in close. If they weren¡¯t so crazed, they could have easily taken shelter behind the buildings, or gone around back and broken through to come at the Rangers from the sides. The single street was so short, the greenies could¡¯ve hung back in the alleys and lobbed Bolts, Elemental Orbs, or even rocks and skulls at the defenders like they had over the last twenty-four hours and that¡¯d be all she wrote for the Rangers and boots. All tactics he¡¯d come to expect from orcs and goblins, but there was none of that here, just single-minded determination and reckless disregard for their injuries. Fearsome enough on its own, but it denied the greenies their most potent weapon, their cunning intellect, and left them ill-equipped to deal with the Aetherarms arrayed against them.


    Didn¡¯t slow them one bit though, because they weren¡¯t to know it. Some greenies ran across the ichor-soaked sands on two feet with weapons raised over head. Others bounded forward on all fours like human-shaped beasts, robbed of all rationality by the warped magics driving them into this murderous rage. Still more climbed the walls and ran across the awnings to leap out at them from above without caring if they survived the fall. No matter how they came, Abby still died in droves, howling and gibbering right down to their last breath and coating the sands in green corpses and dark, sickly ichor that passed for their blood. Orcs and bugbears crushed goblins underfoot while stumbling over the bodies of their allies, only to succumb to Bolts and Blasts delivered by Aetherarms or burn from flames both magical and mundane, most notably the constant stream of sticky, smoky fire shooting from Sergeant Dixon¡¯s outstretched palm. Flamethrower, a restricted Spell so fearsome it was illegal to use against people, and Errol saw why as Aberrations screamed and died by the dozens while burning to a crisp.


    The people of Pleasant Dunes lent aid to the efforts too, shooting out of windows and down from rooftops with a wild sort of glee. While their guns weren¡¯t the best or the fastest around, every last bit counted, and they weren¡¯t without Spells of their own. Most favoured Elemental Orbs of the Acid variety, which flew unerringly towards any bugbears standing out from the crowd to cover them and any Abby around them in green, caustic fluids which melted away at the skin, armour, and bones. A select few would point down at clumps of Abby, and their targets would explode apart from within, a Spell-fueled detonation lacking any light, fire, or noise which Errol guessed was the Shatter Spell at work. They had their own Molotovs too, and were throwing anything they could get their hands on that might do some damage, showing the pluck and grit of people who survived in a place few cared to visit, much less live full time.


    It was a valiant, no-holds-barred effort as everyone lent aid to the cause, but still the horde came on. There was no stopping Abby now, only slowing as they stumbled over bodies or struggled through Entangling Grasps, dying hundreds at a time just to inch closer and closer to the Rangers¡¯ line. Seconds passed and turned to minutes as clouds of white, wispy smoke hung about, but they did little to obscure Errol¡¯s sight as he gazed out upon a tide of green bodies packed in tight from here all the way to the fallen gates. Aberrations streamed in through holes in the wall torn apart by bared claws, sidled over the battlements and jumped six metres down onto the sands, shouldered and elbowed their way past one another in their eagerness to close in, and he knew they would keep coming until every last one of them was dead.


    So he steeled his nerves and recited a prayer while firing his Whumper off into the crowd, the spray pattern set for twenty metres of range and ten metres of coverage at the furthest point. Ten metres was his sweet spot, the point at which he could shoot and hit not just the target he was aiming at, but any Abby around and behind it, so he waited patiently for his targets to step into range before unloading each Blast. Slow is smooth and smooth is fast, Errol was finally getting it, and his measured shooting meant he still had plenty of shells left when Antoni stopped shooting and shouted, ¡°Empty!¡±


    ¡°Here,¡± Errol said, unslinging his shoulder bag and tossing it over. Was filled with clips he¡¯d picked up in preparation for this fight, but he liked the Whumper much more so he stuck with it and fired off two shots to make up for his brief lapse of attention. Antoni was only the first though, and the Sergeants got to barking orders to get the boots forming ammo supply lines, ones that ran from Howie¡¯s wagon and the hobbled horses amidst them and back to the shooters standing front and centre. The Aetherarm fire picked back up, but the horde drew closer and closer for the absence of a good tenth of their guns. The first time they got within ten metres, Errol¡¯s hand went for his chain only for Tina to unleash the Big Stick with a clap of metal and thunder, clearing most of the street before them from the Sherrif¡¯s office all the way to the saloon. Bought out a big cheer from Rangers and boots alive, as well as a few moments to breathe, but even though they redoubled their efforts, the horde was soon closing in once again.


    At which point Tina fired off the Big Stick again, and again, it cleared the street, but like clockwork, more Abby arrived to fill their place. Didn¡¯t matter how many big guns or powerful Spells they used, the horde wasn¡¯t stopping until every last one of them was dead and gone. Was easy to fight when your blood was hot and your life on the line, but as the long minutes stretched on and there was no end in sight to the Aberration horde, Errol felt the mood shifting all around him. No longer did the Rangers cheer every time Tina unleashed the Big Stick, and the few boots that kept it up were feeble and half-hearted. The mortars had long since fallen silent, their shells spent and the weapons rendered useless, while the Lances and Arc rifles were running low too.


    The Rangers were also running low of Spells, as Errol noted a marked decline in the number of Entangling Grasps and Flaming Clouds up at any one time. A necessity seeing how both Spells only lasted a minute at base and required Concentration to begin with, making it even more difficult to extend their durations through effort and familiarity. Broke his heart to see it happen though, as the throngs of greenies turned their attentions towards the buildings on either side of the street now that the way was clear. Didn¡¯t matter how many the Rangers killed firing forward with Penetrating Aetherarms, they couldn¡¯t keep the enraged Aberrations from tearing through the wooden walls of the saloon and sprinting inside for the kill.


    Mercifully, Errol¡¯s earplugs did more than merely muffle the sound of gunfire and explosions, sparing him from having to hear the screams of the dying, screams Sarah Jay no doubt heard as evidenced by her sharp gasp and sickly expression. All he could do was hope the women were all barricaded upstairs and able to hold out a little while longer, long enough for the Rangers to whittle down the Abby horde enough to advance to the end of the street.


    A brilliant flash of white light and a wave of staggering heat. That¡¯s all Errol caught before a wall of wind rocked him back on his heels and a sharp, deafening roar set his head to swimming and ears to ringing as the saloon erupted in a cloud of orange flame, black smoke, and miscellaneous debris. Rattled and spooked, he moved to cover Sarah Jay, only to stop in his tracks and gape as the smoke settled to reveal destruction unlike anything he¡¯d ever seen before. The front of the saloon was gone, while the remaining walls clung for dear life, but only for a moment longer before collapsing in on its own weight. The acrid scent of burning wood and charred Abby filled the air, and a third, unfamiliar scent overpowered the foul stench of their black blood and the sharp tang of spent Aether. Wasn¡¯t an entirely unpleasant smell, almost sweet, but also pungent and stinging at the same time, and he couldn¡¯t for the life of him understand what Spell had blown apart the saloon like that.


    An errant mortar shell? No, there hadn¡¯t been any whistling beforehand, and the building exploded from within. Fireball was notorious for being ineffective against objects, as pure heat and a moment of flame wasn¡¯t always enough to melt stone or even incinerate wood entirely. Would¡¯ve taken the mother of all Shatter Spells to blow up an entire building, but that wouldn¡¯t explain the smoke and flames.


    ¡°Fucking hell,¡± Sergeant Dixon exclaimed, his gruff tone cutting right through the ringing. ¡°These idiots are using dynamite!¡±


    The declaration sent a chill down Errol¡¯s spine as his mind worked through the implications, a lesson Father Nicolas had instilled in all the children well. The use of chemical explosives was banned worldwide for many reasons, but the most alarming one was how easily they were set off using any Spell with the Ignite property. Oil, black powder, chemical, or even plastic, it didn¡¯t matter what sort of explosive it was, if it exploded, then errant magic could set it off. There was no telling when it might happen, as the Spellcaster didn¡¯t even need to be close; the lingering effects of a Spell cast last week could set off an explosive passing through the area today. The Napoleonic blunder, the Nobel catastrophe, the disaster on the Potomac, the Australian Sacrifice, all catastrophes of literally explosive proportions, and a warning to all not to dabble in man-made explosives. Useful though they might be, there was no safe way to produce, store, and transport them, not when any errant spark of Aether could set off a chain reaction dooming everyone in the area.


    There were worse outcomes for the Frontier, but that right there was bad enough for everyone present, and Errol prayed that was the last of their explosives.


    The fact that the dynamite hadn¡¯t gone off in all the fighting did little to allay his concerns, because everyone knew man-made explosives were dangerous and unpredictable at best. How many other buildings in the area were rigged to detonate? How many people had been in the saloon when it exploded? Errol wasn¡¯t sure, but he knew the other buildings had plenty of townsfolk taking shelter within. All the more reason not to give the people inside a reason to set them off, so Errol redoubled his efforts as the Aberrations came at them fast and hard as usual. The explosion had barely fazed them, but the same couldn¡¯t be said of the Rangers and boots, whose job was made all the harder by the thick clouds of black smoke thrown up by the explosion and subsequent fires.


    Gargantuan greenies came lumbering out of the blackened clouds from only three building lengths away, and Errol jumped to see it, unloading his Whumper into the beast and putting it down hard. No more time for slow and smooth, because Abby was coming out of the smoke in perfect range of his Blastgun, leaving the boots and Rangers precious little time to put them down hard. No more rifles picking them off from range, no more Fire Clouds to corral them in close, no the only Spells going out were Entangling Growths to buy their guns more time to shoot, reload, and shoot some more to keep the Abby horde at bay. The Big Stick sounded off once again to the clear the street of Abby and smoke, but both came billowing back towards them in the blink of an eye. It happened a second time soon after, giving him time to reload his Whumper, only for Tina to fire again before he clicked empty. Not because she was being trigger happy; the opposite in fact, as her discipline made Sergeant Dixon look antsy. No, she was shooting so often because she had no choice but to, as the alternative was to watch as Abby tore into her friends and turned this whole mess into an all-out brawl. Toe-to-toe wasn¡¯t where you wanted to be in a fight against orcs, much less bugbears by the dozens, a thought which spurred Errol to great urgency as he widened the spread on his Whumper and set to clearing the street in between shots from the Big Stick.


    A lunging orc barrelled out of the smoke from the right, a solid wall of black cloud trapped underneath the awnings. Whipping his Whumper around, Errol filled it full of holes just as it threw itself at their line, but there was no time to even breathe before a second arrived hot on the heels of the first. Pulling the trigger again, Errol¡¯s heart skipped a beat when he felt the gun click empty, leaving him well and truly in the lurch. Snarling with a mouthful of fangs and tusks, the flat-nosed, thick-browed orc lunged at him with a clawed arm blackened by flames, and Errol¡¯s chain came up with a vehement, ¡°Wha-Pah!¡± An instinctive reaction, his heavy spiked head shot out like a snake and clubbed the beast square in the face, and the meaty thump was accompanied by a satisfying crack of bone. That wasn¡¯t enough to drop the orc, only send it staggering back long enough for Sarah Jay to put two Bolts through its chest.


    Flashing her a smile of thanks, Errol used the Cantrip once more to loop his chain away while stepping back to reload. Explosions continued to sound out off in the distance, but that wasn¡¯t his concern anymore, not when Abby was so close to their lines. Bugbears were his greatest concern, but orcs and goblins weren¡¯t something to sneeze at, and his spirits sank as he watched a crowd of diminutive greenies sprint out of the smoke and reach the Ranger¡¯s lines. Cries sounded out, garbled greenie grunts and all too human shrieks of pain and alarm as the boots fought tooth and nail to fend them off. Not all of them were like Alfred or Kacey who shone in close combat, and most fared far worse in the second or two it took for the Rangers to come save them. Blink and you¡¯d miss it, but the limping, bleeding boots being carried away were proof positive that when it came to hand-to-hand combat, Abby would always hold the upper hand.


    Part of him wanted to fall back and go help tend to the wounded, but another part of him yearned to stay and fight the good fight. A prayer, that¡¯s all he could spare for his injured comrades, because his job was to stand and fight, to hold back the green tides and deliver unto them the Lord¡¯s Justice. ¡°Though I walk through the valley in the shadow of death,¡± Errol bellowed, feeling the stirrings of Aether within him as he shot a bugbear point blank while quoting Psalm 23:4, ¡°I will fear no evil, for you are with me.¡±


    His words echoed out across the sands imbued with faith and magic, but there was no Spell Structure within his mind empowering his actions. This was more than mere magic, something Howie couldn¡¯t distill down into numbers and mathematics, for this was no Spell or learned ability. As the power surged through him, Errol knew it to be Divine Intervention, the Lord¡¯s hand guiding him in his effort to stand against the berserk Aberrations. There was no other explanation for it, because as the wave of Aetheric power washed over the charging green tide emerging from the smoke, the vanguard lurched and faltered in their advance as they were cut off from the magics fuelling them with rage and strength and left weak and enervated for its absence.


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    The transformation was instant and startling to behold. One moment, their Aberrant features were twisted in rage, hatred, and glee as they barrelled towards the Rangers¡¯ lines with reckless abandon. Then the wave of Divine Power struck them and their expressions turned to ones of shock, dismay, and even outright panic as they quailed before the might of the Lord Above, a power brought to bear through Errol. Awestruck by His glory and holiness, he watched the Aberration battlelines fall into disarray as those closest to him slowed or outright stopped in their tracks and were pushed forward by their still berserk allies behind them. ¡°You are my battle-ax and sword, says the Lord. With you I will shatter nations and destroy many kingdoms,¡± Errol quoted, this time under his breath, humbled before the Lord and honoured to have been chosen as His instrument in the war against Aberrations, for he recognized what he¡¯d just done and knew his path was set.


    Lay on Hands. Divine Smite. Channel Divinity. These were but a few of the Holy abilities available to the Warriors of God. It didn¡¯t matter if they were Templars, Teutonic Knights, Order of Santiago, or some other denomination of Christian militants, so long as they were soldiers of the faith, their faith was rewarded with the strength needed to defeat their otherworldly foes. Sure, many were Spell casters much like the Rangers, but they also possessed these abilities which defied the established classifications of Spells. This was because they required no Spell Structures to function, only Faith, the same as their Rituals to create Holy Water or ward an area to dissuade Aberration attacks. Proof of the Lord¡¯s favour, or so Father Nicolas had said, a reward for His soldiers that Arcanists and mathematicians alike tried and failed to replicate because they lacked Faith.


    And now, Errol himself had been bestowed with His favour and chosen as the Lord¡¯s sword and battle-ax, a role he devoted himself to wholeheartedly as he reviewed what he knew of his new ability. It was a familiar one, something Father Nicolas had used several times to keep them safe from errant Feral attack with only his crucifix in hand. Turn Aberration, an ability that censured Aberrations of any shape, size, and variation within range, forcing them to flee or face the Lord¡¯s Wrath. It wasn¡¯t fear or any other emotion driving them away, but the Lord¡¯s might and majesty rejecting them from His creation, for though this world was a new Frontier, it was still most certainly a world of His making.


    Errol¡¯s only regret was his lacking ability, because he¡¯d seen Father Nicolas use Turn Aberration to reduce a pack of wolf-life Ferals to blackened goo, unravelling their unholy existence through the sheer power of Faith. Modern science called it Radiant Energy, one that ran counter to the Corrosive forces that held Aberrations together and rendered their physical forms to plant matter and Aberrtin, but he wasn¡¯t strong enough to do that. The other issue was his inability to hold the effect, because once those within range had turned to flee or were crushed underfoot, the next wave of Aberrations came out of the smoke undeterred. To make matters worse, the use had left Errol drained and emptied, but not tired or wearied, for he had seen the Lord¡¯s hand at work, and others had seen it too. What¡¯s more, he still had other abilities to use, ones he sensed lingering within just waiting to be taken up in hand. It was different from a Spell Structure embedded in memory, lacking the imagery of moving lights painting a picture in his mind¡¯s eye. It was more abstract, yet also more familiar at the same time, a natural extension of his body and mind that felt like it¡¯d always been there within, and he glanced at Sarah Jay beside him who was looking on with wide eyed awe.


    Despite her milky white skin, her smokey eyes and auburn hair made her a dark and stormy beauty, one who looked gorgeous even while tired and afraid. She¡¯d figured out what was happening here in Pleasant Dunes, knew what was coming the moment that wave of nauseating magic had hit them, and her first instinct was to protect him. It showed how much she loved him, and he loved her too, loved her with all his heart. Reaching out to stroke her cheek, one chilled by the night¡¯s air and her internal fear, he grinned and activated the second ability he¡¯d only just become aware of, one that only needed a touch. Warmth flooded out of his chest and out his fingers to warm Sarah Jay¡¯s cheek and whisk away the fatigue of the last days¡¯ worth of fighting without diminishing in the least. No, it grew stronger, stoked by the love in her eyes and the beauty of her half-smile as they shared a quiet moment on the battlefield, one in which she tried not to pout because she was thinking about how he could¡¯ve used his Lay on Hands ability on someone more important.


    There wasn¡¯t anyone more important than her, not in his eyes, and he doubt it would have done as much for one of the Rangers. It was a matter of quality. Errol had only just been bestowed these abilities, or perhaps they¡¯d always been there lying dormant within him waiting to be awakened. Either way, he lacked practice and familiarity which meant they weren¡¯t as effective as they could be, nor could he use them all that often. One and done seemed to be the theme of his new prowess, but he had faith enough to see him through this day.


    Another explosion sounded as he took up arms again, a smaller one, but closer too, and he glanced up just in time to catch sight of a shiny, metallic tube spinning end over end as it hurtled into the thick clouds of smoke, one thrown from up high atop the roof. Following its arc back, he saw the Vanguard National thugs cheering and whooping from their safe perch while readying another tube to light and throw, a reckless and irresponsible bunch who weren¡¯t concerned with what might happen should one be set off. The tubes were likely lead, one of the best, common metals around to block Aetheric flow, but they weren¡¯t foolproof since there had to be room for a wick to light and ignite.


    Narrowing his eyes to remember their faces so he could report their crimes after the fact, Errol stopped looking up at the roof and turned his attention back to the problem before him. Even with explosives helping to even the odds, there was a long, hard fight in front of them, so he settled in for the long haul and readied to go down swinging if he had to.


    And he would, because that was his purpose, his cause, one bestowed upon him by the Lord above, and one he would devote his life to. The tenets came to him even as he fought, the core beliefs he would adhere by to keep from becoming jaded or overstepping his bounds like others before him. Courage to act even if caution is advised, because to do otherwise is cowardice, tempered by wisdom so that he would not be taken advantage of. Compassion so that he might lend aid to strangers, protect the weak, and punish the wicked, tempered by mercy, for who was he to deny others a chance for redemption? Above all else, he would hold fast to honour by treating others as he would want to be treated and let his actions speak for themselves, even to those who would not listen.


    Yes, these were the principles of a good man, the foundation upon which Errol Dillard would define himself. He was a Holy Warrior blessed by the Lord in Heaven, and he would uphold His will here upon the Frontier.


    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


    The churning anxiety in my belly refuses to settle down, and there is no smile on my lips as I gun down Abby.


    Not today, not with Marcus laid out on the cavern floor below while I stand here utterly helpless to save him. The Stinking Clouds down bottom will last for a full ten-minutes and keep Abby from swarming Captain Jung and Sergeant Begaye, but there are still plenty of Abby streaming out from the tunnel on the other side, the one the downed Proggie crawled out of. While our strike team dukes it out and strives to finish the meaty mouth-sac off, Tim covers them from on high with pinpoint accuracy, thinning out the Abby numbers and letting the close combat specialists do their thing. Again, I wish I could record all this, because that down there is a masterclass in dancing with Abby, but I got enough trouble up here to keep me from paying too much attention. They picked our spot well, and while me and Tim were scouting out the rest of the cavern, the others were busy fortifying this position, leaving only one way up to get at us. A path I¡¯m responsible for guarding, and as I alternate between the Strelky and my Whumper to pick off climbing orcs and marching bugbears alike, I can¡¯t help but wish I could do more to help.


    If only I had prepped Lance and thrown one at the Proggie alongside them, then it might well have been enough to take it out. Prepped Spiritual Weapon to satisfy my own curiosity instead, as well as my Big Spell because I was feeling nervous about the horde of Abby topside. Thought we¡¯d given up on delving down under dark, and might well have switched my whole loadout back to something more suited for rabbiting out of town if I didn¡¯t harbour some suspicions as to why they were keeping me out of the fight. Can¡¯t use my Big Spell either, because there are too many pockets of gas under dark, dangerous ones that you don¡¯t want getting near any sparks. Ain¡¯t seen any signs of them, but that¡¯s what¡¯s so insidious about the mundane dangers of delving. Firedamp, Whitedamp, Blackdamp, and Stinkdamp, those are the big four gases to watch for while delving under dark, and all four are colourless. Those first two are also odourless and explosive, so much so that even a non-Igniting Spell like Firebolt could set off a chain reaction and see us all buried under countless tonnes of rock.


    Would solve our Proggie problem it would, but I ain¡¯t about to die for Ronald Jackson¡¯s benefit.


    Marcus might though. A thought that takes hold of my chest and squeezes down tight, and I retaliate by shooting as many Abby as I can. Doesn¡¯t help though, not when I got a moment to spare and glance down at the cavern to see him still lying there, a big man larger than life all crumpled on the ground like he is. Had no business being here, as he ain¡¯t a delver. Not for a lack of courage, only an abundance of size, as there ain¡¯t much room for giants in most Abby tunnels, not unless the Proggie got a thing for spitting out Behemoths. Man¡¯s a Ranger through and through, but ain¡¯t no squeezing him down any tunnels, not as he is. He¡¯s only here because he¡¯s looking out for me, no two ways about it.


    Should¡¯ve been me down there. Ready or not, it was the right choice, because I¡¯m the Scout of this here operation, while Marcus is the muscle, both physical and magical. I can cast Levitate too, except no one told me to prep it. Sure, I can¡¯t hold the Spell for longer than base, but Marcus could¡¯ve taken over once it was dead and hauled. My daddy would¡¯ve been the one down there if he were here in my place, because he was always first in and last out. Could¡¯ve held the Spell for a good hour at least too, as he used to throw it on me, Chrissy, and Tina and smile as we floated about the treetops with strings tied to our ankles. He would¡¯ve known the Proggie was playing dead, saw right through its tricks with his detection Spell and avoided the hit, then killed it good and well before getting gone right quick. Yes sir, the five would be well on their way out of here now, slipping out in the chaos while Tim¡¯s illusions sent these leaderless Abby spiralling into chaos as they sort out their new pecking order and decide who gets to eat the Progenitor¡¯s flesh.


    None of that came to pass though, because I¡¯m a damn sorry excuse for a Scout, standing up here on this ledge and completely powerless to help out. Shoot and reload, reload and shoot, that¡¯s all I do as Captain Jung and Sergeant Begaye fight for their lives down in the base of the cavern. Don¡¯t know much about how my daddy fought down under dark, but I know he didn¡¯t have no sword or axe. Could dance with the best of them though, and I¡¯m sure he could¡¯ve shown Captain Jung and Sergeant Begaye a thing or two.


    God I miss him. I can¡¯t lose Marcus too. I can¡¯t. Things ain¡¯t been the same with Uncle Teddy since my daddy passed, and while we¡¯ve all had more time to heal from Uncle Raleigh¡¯s passing, his absence is still sorely felt back home in New Hope. Ain¡¯t no impromptu duets from him and Aunty Ray, with him strumming on his guitar while she sings like a songbird for everyone to hear. Only ever had eyes for each other though, and I seen how Aunty Ray gets every fall when the anniversary of his death draws near. Can¡¯t let Simone go through the same thing. She already lost Darren, so how am I supposed to look her in the eyes and tell her she¡¯s lost Marcus too?


    The worst part of all this? There ain¡¯t a god damned thing I could do, even if I jumped down there to help out. Captain Jung¡¯s Elemental Aura is a Concentration Spell, one that¡¯ll damage any target around her slowly over time, and while she¡¯s already excluded Sergeant Begaye from the Spell¡¯s effect, she¡¯d have to cancel it entirely if I showed up late to the party. The Sergeant¡¯s Spiritual Guardian Spell is more discerning, but also much shorter in range, meaning he¡¯s gotta stick right close to the Proggie and avoid all those writhing tentacles that could easily squash him flat. Only now do I work it all out and realize that their Spells were chosen for crowd control, to take out the stragglers still hanging around. They were counting on Marcus to take out the Proggie if it wasn¡¯t already dead, because his Acidic Dragon¡¯s Breath would¡¯ve been perfect for slowly eating away at the Proggie¡¯s flesh while staying a good distance away.


    So what can they do? No fire, explosions, or sparks, which really limits their options. Fireball is a no go, same with Minute Meteor, Lightning Beam, Arc, Call Lightning, and so many other big Spells. Banishing Wave, like what I got in the Big Stick might work, but given the dispersed nature of the Spell, I can only imagine it¡¯d smack the Proggie around a bit. Captain Jung¡¯s sustained Burst Bolt is no good, because even though the Proggie ain¡¯t armoured, its flesh is so thick with Aberrtin that four Maximized Lances failed to kill it, so what good will 192 Bolts do? Not much I¡¯m guessing, like tossing pebbles at a Reinforced glass window. Might make a sound and even leave a mark, but won¡¯t do nothing worth fixing.


    Because Reinforced glass is made strong by adding Aberrtin, a substance so abundant in Proggie flesh that even the soft bits are harder than Darksteel, since they the ones what produce it. That¡¯s why they¡¯re so heavy and gotta drag themselves along, because nothing short of an army of bugbears can carry them around. The Levitation Spell is the best way to move them around, and even then, I hear their bodies don¡¯t float all that high off the ground. To make matters worse, them Proggies don¡¯t got any vital organs to aim for and kill it one go. Humans, animals, and Abby alike all can¡¯t survive without their heads or hearts, but a Proggie¡¯s whole body is its brain and heart. No idea how it works, but I¡¯ve heard it said they can survive even in the vacuum of space, which might well be how they got here in the first place. Floating on through the endless sea of stars until they reach somewhere with biomass enough to wake them out of hibernation. Only then do they land planet-side and start feasting, eating to produce more Abby and also fuel the process of turning Immaterial Aether into crystallized Aether and raise the ambient Concentration levels to their liking.


    Or maybe they lurk in the Immaterium to begin with, and were sent here by higher dimensional beings to prep worlds for their descent. I¡¯ve heard all sorts of wild theories about Proggies. Some say they¡¯re a plague from God, while others claim Proggies are creatures that seek organic perfection and must be guided towards that goal by feeding them ¡®worthy¡¯ sacrifices. Whatever they are, Proggies are damned hard to kill, and I¡¯ve no idea how ¨C


    A warbling gurgle echoes out through the cavern, sending the berserk greenies into a tailspin. A dark and heavy presence lashes out and pierces through my head, similar to the lancing pain of the Mind Spike Spell only about a hundred times worse. Stumbling back into Tim, he stands firm and uses one hand to keep me standing while calmly shooting his Strelky with the other, unaffected by the psychic scream and utterly indifferent to the odds stacked against us. ¡°You good?¡± he asks, and from his tone, I can tell ain¡¯t no answer but yes will do, so I reply in the positive and find my feet while he continues, ¡°Aces. They¡¯re coming up with Marcus and the Proggie, so be ready to rabbit.¡±


    What? ¡°The Proggie¡¯s chasing them up? How? It sprout legs or something?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s dead Howie.¡± Calm and collected as always, Tim stops to reload and chats like we a pair of gossiping gals at market. ¡°Old Flemming carved it up good with his tomahawk and is bringing it back. Ava¡¯s got Marcus on a Floating Disc, but no need to worry about her keeping up. She can snowboard better than I can, and I taught your daddy.¡±


    ¡­There are too many things to process, so many I can¡¯t help but turn and stare, which earns me a glower out the corner of his eye. Suitably chastened, I turn back and pick out the path we¡¯re gonna take while wondering who in the hell names their Native American son ¡®Fleming¡¯. Or what sort of expression Ava would have while snowboarding down a mountain. A smile I would presume, but I can¡¯t picture it. ¡°How¡¯s Marcus?¡± I ask, dreading the answer even as I do, but better to know now than to find out when I lay eyes on him later and it¡¯s time to focus for real.


    ¡°Don¡¯t know,¡± comes the reply, which is better than I expected. ¡°I¡¯m up here same as you Howie, doing my job.¡± The implied, ¡®so do yours¡¯ follows silently after, and I marvel at his strength of mind. Everyone in town is always worried he¡¯s gonna crack and go on a killing spree, but that¡¯s because they don¡¯t know the man. He might be a little mixed up in the head, but he don¡¯t have any give, and he ain¡¯t one to ever crack.


    Thought we Frontier born were a tough bunch, but God must¡¯ve broken the mould when he made Tim ¡®Revenant¡¯ Hayes.


    ¡°Clear.¡±


    ¡°Clear.¡±


    Two confirmations sound out behind me, first Ava, and then Flemming, both of whom I will never call by their first names out loud for fear of what they might do. Tucking that tidbit into memory so I never forget it, I resist the urge to turn and check on Marcus for fear of what I might see. ¡°Moving out,¡± I say, and I set off with Tim hot on my heels, taking the place of Sergeant Begaye as my shadow and protector because the Sergeant is busy doing something else.


    Like keeping the Proggie afloat, or Marcus alive.


    ¡°Can¡¯t make us invisible,¡± Tim says. ¡°Can keep us concealed a bit, but it¡¯s easier to draw attention away as we move. Speed is key, so go loud and kill anything in our way, no hesitation. Got it?¡±


    ¡°Sir yes Sir,¡± I say, feeling a pang of heartache as I picture Marcus¡¯ good-natured scowl he always throws out in response to my cheek. Can¡¯t focus on that though, not here and now, so I focus on the job and bring us out and away while studying the surroundings and maintaining my Detect Aberration Spell. The fact that the Proggie set its army of Abby off into a Berserk Rage works in our favour for now, because it means the gobbos, orcs, and bugbears we come across are all tired, drained, and cranky. Magical Rage will do that to you, as it draws on your reserves to fuel that rage, and the strength given to you by it. They¡¯re still Abby of course, so even a weakened Abby ain¡¯t something to sneeze at, but as I lead our delving party through the cavern, there ain¡¯t much cause to be concerned. I use the dubsies and my Model 10 a few times to good effect clearing out tired groups of orcs and bugbears, mostly ones who just got done slaughtering another group of orcs and bugbears. Their berserk rage don¡¯t leave them much choice when they ain¡¯t got no obvious targets to hit, and they get awful snacky and tired in the aftermath. Even get a chance to stick one with my bayonet, though I shoot it a few times for good measure before getting in close, and lose a second or two struggling to pull it back out.


    And as we move, Tim does all the heavy lifting, setting off his Shatter charges and throwing up illusions of us running into this tunnel or that, while a cacophony of guttural grunts echo throughout the cavern in a poor mimicry of greenie grunts, at which point the other shoe finally drops and I cotton on to what he needed all that beeswax for. Arcane Speaker, a Second Order Illusion Spell that¡¯ll broadcast a recorded message, one Tim whispered into the hex and had it come out a thousand times louder to confuse anyone and anything listening.


    The combination of stealth and misdirection keeps us good and safe as we trundle along the cavern side back to our exit with less than a dozen minor scuffles over the course of two hours and change. Move a fair bit faster since we don¡¯t gotta be quiet, even breaking out into a run when I feel the way ahead is safe. Pick up a fair few tails along the way, opportunists who catch a whiff of the Proggie corpse and got a hungering for its flesh, but Captain Jung sorts them out right quick with Sustained Burst Bolts and submachine gun fire, leaving us free to continue onwards without slowing down. By the time we reach the tunnel we came in from, my shirt is soaked in cold sweat. More from nerves than exhaustion, though I wouldn¡¯t say no to a nice cozy cot, or squeezing into my wagon for a good long sleep. Wouldn¡¯t feel right letting Noora squeeze in with me, and can¡¯t rightly kick her out either. Girl is gorgeous and eager, but while some might call her willing to boot, I¡¯m thinking she¡¯s wanting me for all the wrong reasons, and I ain¡¯t about to take advantage of her like that.


    Setting off the Shatter Charges to seal off our entry point, we trundle on back to the shaft before I can¡¯t take it anymore and turn to look at Marcus. Meets my eyes right away, which comes as a great relief, and he¡¯s got his big soft, smile stretched across his face as he lays back on the Floating Disc, like he¡¯s settled in for an afternoon nap. Ain¡¯t no overlooking bloodstains on his sunken chest, all sunk and indented where it ought to be bulging with muscle, and the sound that slips out of my throat is more animal than human.


    ¡°Hey now,¡± he whispers, comforting me even though he¡¯s the one struggling to draw breath. ¡°Don¡¯t be like that. Didn¡¯t shed tears for your daddy, so how can you shed tears for me?¡±


    ¡°Cried like a baby,¡± I bawl, kneeling down beside him to take his hand as my tears fill up my goggles and leak out the sides. His meaty mitt is so big it dwarfs both of mine, and he can barely hold it up at all, but I cling tight enough for the both of us. ¡°Spent two weeks doing nothin¡¯ but. Only pulled myself together b-because I was runnin¡¯ out of food and had to get gone.¡±


    ¡°Smart,¡± he says, breathing out the word and still smiling for it. ¡°Had the presence of mind to check. Not many kids would have, but you always were smart.¡± Opening my mouth to speak, Marcus gives me a look warning me to keep quiet, and I do because he¡¯s got something to share, something he¡¯s worried he won¡¯t have time enough to say. ¡°So don¡¯t go doing anything stupid now,¡± he continues, holding my gaze with his steely stare despite struggling to draw breath. ¡°Like blaming yourself for what happened here. Was my fault for rushing things. Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast, but I rushed in.¡±


    Pain and regret flash behind his eyes, but he rallies right quick and comes back with a smile. A forced one, but a smile all the same, and it breaks my heart to see him struggle to be strong for me. ¡°You did great on your first delve Howie,¡± he says, squeezing my hand for all he¡¯s worth, and I squeeze back to let him know I¡¯m here. ¡°I¡¯m proud of you. Know that. But I¡¯m also scared for you.¡± Lifting his head with all the strength of a day-old wally, he pulls me close and looks me in the eyes. ¡°Don¡¯t let your anger consume you,¡± he gasps. ¡°Don¡¯t be like me. Let it go Howie. Revenge won¡¯t change a damn thing. Take it from someone who knows.¡±


    Lord help me, I can¡¯t find the words in me to say yes, but Marcus has said his piece and knows how stubborn I can be. The strength fades from his body as he slumps back and relaxes, heaving a long and heavy sigh before drawing one more breath. ¡°Tell Simone I love her,¡± he adds, but she knows, and he knows she knows, but he just wants her to hear it one last time from someone she knows, so I nod along as he continues in little more than a whisper. ¡°Tell her I¡¯m sorry, but that I¡¯ll be with Darren, so there¡¯s no need to worry. We¡¯ll be good and patient, wait for as long as needed until we¡¯re all together again on the other side.¡±


    There¡¯s so much I want to say, so much to ask, but ain¡¯t no words coming out of my mouth. Ain¡¯t no one to listen either, no one worth talking to, because my words are for Marcus, and as he rattles off his last, wheezing breath, I know he¡¯s good and gone now. Taking a second for myself, I take a deep breath, and exhale while squeezing all my tears and emotions back down inside. Laying Marcus¡¯ hand across his chest, I make sure his fingers sit over his star. A good man died here today, a Ranger Captain, and a man who I loved like a sometimes father, and who loved me like a sometimes son, but there ain¡¯t no time to grieve just yet.


    There¡¯s still work to be done. The Abby army up top wouldn¡¯t have just wandered away once its Proggie died. Would¡¯ve been weakened sure, but it looked like there were more greenies than bullets in the Ranger armoury, which means it¡¯ll be a hard, tough fight. If Pleasant Dunes is still standing by the time we topside, and Tina still in one piece, then great. All that¡¯s left then is to handle Ronald Jackson and put this godforsaken town in my six, because even though we¡¯ve won a great victory here, I would burn the whole town to the ground and slaughter everyone in it if that¡¯d bring Marcus back from the dead. There ain¡¯t no coming back though, so I stand and salute the corpse of a man I¡¯ve known since the day I was born, and know that if it wasn¡¯t for me, he¡¯d still be alive.


    A heavy burden that, but one I¡¯ll have to bear, because the alternative is to quit, and there ain¡¯t no quit in me.

 Chapter 52

    Like so many things in life, fighting is simple.


    Boils down to one thing really. Survive. Whether that means getting gone or killing before you¡¯re killed, the process itself ain¡¯t all that complicated. When the Bolts start flying, then all you gotta do is pick your target, take your shot, and repeat as necessary. That¡¯s all there is to it for the most part, but like always, the Devil is in the details.


    The planning and prep for a fight can take hours, days, or even weeks sometimes. Then you get stuck in and the plan goes tits up, but that don¡¯t complicate things. Maybe you gotta move, maybe you gotta run, but so long as you shoot without getting shot, then most times the fight is over and done with in a matter of minutes. If that, because with Aetherarms and Magi roaming around, it¡¯s a whole lot easier to kill than it is to stay alive and survive. All you gotta do is pull a trigger or point a finger and blam. Your target is dead, and you¡¯re left feeling like you done run a whole marathon in a matter of minutes. There are exceptions of course, like the fight I took in the desert on the way over, or the siege of New Hope which went on and off for the better part of a day. Course, those long, drawn-out battles are few and far between, and they still adhere to the same principles as a short fight. You just stuck in it for a bit, so you gotta hope your luck holds a little longer than usual.


    It¡¯s those stretches of time between fights that are difficult, the rest of life as it were. I already said my piece on social niceties and how complicated they be, but that¡¯s just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to not just staying alive, but thriving here on the Frontier. Learned that firsthand from watching Uncle Teddy, who started as a Captain and is now the Marshal. Now, he earned the rank in part because he¡¯s one of the best Spellslingers and gunfighters around, but the title is a different story. Lot of other Rangers can shoot and sling almost as good as he does, and some might even be better, but he¡¯s the Marshal for reasons besides his skills. We call him that because whenever folks are talking about a Marshal, they¡¯re almost always talking about him, because he¡¯s the one with his hand on the pulse of New Hope and the driving force behind the Bulwark going up to contain the Proggies of the badlands and maybe one day even throw them back into the Divide.


    A dream that¡¯ll take a lot of shooting and slinging before it¡¯s done, but that part is handled easily enough. All you need are bodies, bullets, and Bolts, and with enough of all three, you could clear the Divide in a day. The tricksy part is getting all those things in place and ready to go, which Uncle Teddy knew well. The badlands represented a threat to everyone this side of the Divide, and if left unchecked, would eventually spill over to the other side. High Command didn¡¯t care to listen though, thought they had bigger issues to deal with, like drawing lines on maps to parcel out lands they got no right to claim for a nation on a whole other world. Easy enough to ignore the badlands when you living downriver along the Wayfarer, or far west along the coast with the deadlands looming overhead. Those were fights that anyone could take, but Uncle Teddy knew the badlands would be the death of us all if they weren¡¯t contained, because left unchecked, them Abby would strip these forests bare and drain the lakes and rivers dry to feed their insatiable Proggies. This wasn¡¯t just about a fight, or even a war. This was an undertaking of epic proportions, one too big for any man to take on alone, and Uncle Teddy was smart enough not to even try to make a go at it solo.


    His first step was something out of pocket, something that didn¡¯t have much to do with fighting at all. Rather than put out a call for guns and Spellslingers, he set to taking care of anyone and everyone he came across, which he did by building them a town right on the border of the badlands. He knew that if he wanted soldiers to come fight alongside him, he needed to make sure their families were safe while they fought, which would make his soldiers fight that much harder because now they had something to fight for. That how New Hope came about, starting as a supply camp he built up over the course of a week in prep for his first scouting trip into the badlands, before growing into the crown jewel of the Eastern Front that it is today. Didn¡¯t happen overnight, and they had to overcome a whole lot of growing pains to get there, most of which had nothing to do with shooting or slinging.


    Sure, guns and Spells made sure the people had enough meat to fill their bellies and safety from Abby and bandits alike, but they weren¡¯t of much help anywhere else. Can¡¯t shoot the blight out of your crops or threaten the cold to leave you well enough alone, nor can you Spell the clouds to bring rain or the trees to get up and move out the way. Or maybe there is a Spell that could fix all that ails us, and we just haven¡¯t found it yet, but that don¡¯t make a lick of difference to us in the here and now. That¡¯s the thing about magic. It''s always been around, but humans have only had widespread access to it for the better part of five-hundred years. Or wider spread, I suppose, since even in the old world, you still gotta have means and money to pay for all that fancy schooling Spellslingers need, which I got for free thanks to Uncle Teddy. What I¡¯m getting at though is that for most of human history, the majority didn¡¯t have nothing to do with magic at all, so they got right clever about finding solutions without it.


    Solutions Uncle Teddy led the good folks of New Hope to finding. I don¡¯t mean he held their hands and guided them to the answers. No, he asked people what their problems were, then set them all to work together to fix them, all the while playing the arbiter while keeping folks from tearing each other apart. Or worse, climbing all over one another and getting nowhere for it, like crabs in a bucket or so I¡¯ve head. That¡¯s the difference between Uncle Teddy and the Ronald Jacksons of this world, the would-be tyrants and self-titled kings who take advantage of others to better their own lives. Miss Laura is the same way, because she don¡¯t love her town the way I love mine. She loves Pleasant Dunes because of what it provides her, the safety and security she missed out on for all those years. Thing is, now that she¡¯s got hers, she¡¯s pulling the ladder up behind her, putting girls like Noora to work because of some twisted survivor¡¯s mentality. Miss Laura had to suffer to get where she is today, so it¡¯s only right everyone else ought to suffer too, even if they don¡¯t have to.


    She ain¡¯t alone in her thinking. Fact is, most are just like her, even if they claim otherwise. Without laws or governments to hold them accountable, most settlers became almost feral in those first few years, fighting over scraps amidst a world full of riches. Uncle Teddy rose above all that, saw to it that everyone contributed and more importantly, everyone benefitted, which is a damn sight better than what most did in those early days. Hard to pinpoint one thing he did that made him stand out, because he gave the town his all day in and day out, and it showed in the way he conducted himself. Never demanded a bigger share or saved the choice bits for himself, and more often than not went without so others wouldn¡¯t have to. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, he moved Heaven and earth to improve the lives and livelihoods of his people.


    Food, shelter, and safety was only a start, and once that was settled, he set to reclaiming what they gave up by leaving the old world. Hot water for one, piped right into your home rather than pumped from a well and heated in a personal water tank. Dyed clothing for another, so we wouldn¡¯t all be dressed in the same boring, off-white or milky brown of natural loomshrub linens. Water and windmills to cut timber and grind grains. Cans and jars to preserve tastier foods. Paper and ink to support a newspaper industry that shared news from hundreds of kilometres away. Schools and teachers to watch over children while people were off at work. Churches, synagogues, and mosques for any denomination that wanted them, even those with only a handful of believers. All this and more, the Marshal made happen one step at a time, taking on the role of protector and provider both as he funded it all with profits from Abby hunts, profits he shared because it was the right thing to do.


    And now we got six more towns standing alongside New Hope, with three more breaking soil this summer to make a full ten. Ten border towns turned fortresses to hold back the badlands, a feat most thought impossible, but one Uncle Teddy made happen through sheer force of personality.


    Didn¡¯t do it alone though, and he¡¯ll be the first to say it. Was always happy to take advice from anyone who cared to share it, and quick to put someone in charge of a whole project as soon as they showed themselves capable, regardless of their background. Just look at Mr. Kalthoff, a Danish national in charge of the Federal Aetherarms Manufacturing because Uncle Teddy trusted the man to do his best work without anyone looking over his shoulder. Or Quartermaster Lacey, a Frenchman heading up the treasury. Or my daddy, a Qin who rode point in more Ranger delves than anyone besides Drex Durden.


    Yea, New Hope is full of pioneers and trailblazers who¡¯ve worked wonders for the rest of us. Take Uncle Art for example. Man spent the early years collecting fruits, plants, bark, and all other sorts of odds and ends before testing them for medicinal effects. Mostly on himself, because he don¡¯t trust volunteers to tell the truth, since he says everyone lies to their doctor. Add in how he¡¯d go out for months at a time to observe animals, plants, and other natural phenomenon, and he¡¯s discovered more on the Frontier than anyone else I can think of. Most will remember him as the man who identified the local flavours of tobacco, both wacky and sane, but he¡¯s also the reason why every household this side of the Divide keeps a stock of dried frost-thorns.


    Story goes was that he slipped and fell into a bush, which pricked him real good, a minor event in anyone else¡¯s life that they¡¯d soon forget. Not Uncle Art though, who noticed none of his minor scrapes had turned red over the course of their healing. Usually shows up really well on his pale, white skin, so he went back to collect more samples and tested them thoroughly to discover they got a waxy substance on them that reduces inflammation. Anyone else might¡¯ve stopped there, but he went right on studying to discover that when the thorns were brewed into a bitter tea, they helped reduce fevers and aches too. Took a bit more studying, but eventually he concluded that that them frost-thorns produced Salicin, the active ingredient for something called Aspirin. Sounds simple really, but most folks could¡¯ve gone through that exact same experience and come out with nothing but a bad memory. Uncle Art though? He took it and ran with it, and Lord knows how many lives he¡¯s indirectly saved with that one discovery, and he¡¯s saved a whole lot more directly too.


    Uncle Raleigh helped too. The Marshal was the figurehead, and Uncle Art the medico, but Uncle Raleigh was the heart and soul of New Hope in those early years. While others were worrying about the weather, the harvest, or Aberration attacks, Uncle Raleigh spent his idle hours putting together instruments of all sorts. Banjos, pan flutes, and maracas at first, drums, harps, and harmonicas soon after, and eventually guitars, pianos, and pipe organs for the churches. He¡¯s the man who taught me the magic of music, how a song and a dance can do more than any Spellslinger ever could. Wasn¡¯t no worrying when those notes hit just right, because wasn¡¯t no one who could be unhappy while dancing the night away. A touch of whimsy he called it, and it¡¯s one that¡¯s sorely missed, because in this world full of darkness, his smile was much needed beacon of light.


    Music wasn¡¯t the only legacy Uncle Raleigh left behind. His fancy house was another, as it showed everyone in New Hope that it was possible to reclaim a slice of the old world and made everyone aspire to do the same. Man wasn¡¯t no priest or rabbi, barely a man of faith if you could even call him one, but he was New Hope¡¯s Spiritual Leader for sure, a role that¡¯s sat empty since his funeral because couldn¡¯t no one claim it, not for everyone in town.


    Tim¡¯s another man who contributed to New Hope, and not just by hunting game and bandits. Grew up in a rural mining town and knew more than a little bit, so every time he went out, he brought himself a sifting pan and a rock pick and would spend his time searching for deposits of iron, copper, coal, and whatever else our town might need. Easy for anyone to say that Mount Rime might hold a treasure trove of materials just waiting to be claimed. Was Tim who proved it when no one else dared to, because they was too afraid to put in the work and come home empty-handed. Not Tim though, who spent weeks or even months looking before returning with the good news, kickstarting off New Hope¡¯s economy and cementing the town¡¯s place as a central hub for all travellers looking to trade on the eastern Emerald Plains.


    Yea, I harp on about how my mama made good bricks out of clay, wove loomshrubs into soft linens, and rendered grass into paper, but plenty of folks have made great contributions to life here on the Frontier, and most don¡¯t get the recognition they deserve. Like Danny¡¯s daddy, Mr. Berner. Man was a brilliant artificer who built most of the power-tools Mr. Kalthoff needed to make his guns during that first year, including the dremmel he used to make my daddy¡¯s Rattlesnake sitting on my hip. Was held together by glue and twine it was, a right sorry sight of a tool, but it did the job and got the Rangers armed right proper once my daddy finished translating my mama¡¯s notes on Metamagic Etching.


    Then there¡¯s sad, sullen Trevor, who sourced everything needed to tan and cure leather from the forests right outside the gates of New Hope and shared his knowledge freely. Calls himself a cobbler and spends more time drinking now than anything else, but I remember a time when he was always in his shop working hard into the dead of night making sure everyone had three sets of boots at a minimum. One for daily use, one for hard, messy work, and one for special occasions, like the dances and festivals Uncle Raleigh arranged where he met his late wife, and he shared the Mending Cantrip with everyone who cared to learn it so they wouldn¡¯t have to pay him to fix them down the line.


    Could go on and on about what folks have done for New Hope and the Frontier in general. Like the person who figured out breadroot can be dried and ground up into flour, but remains unknown even to this day. Or the genius who caught a fangfish in his net and thought, ¡®That¡¯ll taste good¡¯. It did, but doesn¡¯t change the fact that it¡¯s ugly as all sin. Course, I¡¯d be doing Aunty Ray a disservice if I didn¡¯t mention her, as she was one of the first to tame the local, feral horses, and also semi-tamed marties so they¡¯d leave our crops alone and take care of our rodent problems, much like cats did in the old world. She also does her best to fill the shoes Uncle Raleigh left behind, organizing social activities and mediating minor disputes around New Hope, but it¡¯s a lot more work now that the town¡¯s grown to size.


    Granted, everything¡¯s harder these days, and not just because there are more people around. Back in the early days, the Marshal had a lot of good people working with him, most of whom moved on by now. Art Harding, Tim Hayes, and Rachel Bradshaw are the ones still around, big names one and all, but most have passed like Uncle Raleigh, or were from other nations like my daddy. Unlike my daddy though, many of those other ¡®foreigners¡¯ only worked with the Marshal because their own governments had yet to establish themselves on the Frontier and send out a call to gather settlers to their cause. Folks like Sam Horne, who¡¯s a big name in the Pathfinders these days, their own Marshal of the Emerald Plains who¡¯s been pushing me to join up. There¡¯s also Aaron Bailey of the Protectorate, who acts as Mr. Elten¡¯s handler over on the west coast by the deadlands. Can¡¯t forget the Australian Preacher James Rigsby, who by and large is responsible for my distaste of religion given how he hated all my questions, but ain¡¯t no denying he the one who baptized me in the badlands. He runs Redeemer¡¯s Keep these days and has a real hatred for Abby that burns right hot, which was why I never outright suggested arranging an introduction for Errol. Man does good work though, and was a staunch proponent of all the Marshal¡¯s plans to help the common people, because James Rigsby is an altruist through and through, a Catholic Templar who talks the talk and walks the walk, unlike so many other religious types.


    All of whom were there that fateful day when my daddy stumbled into their camp in the badlands with a day old me in tow. The only one missing from the list is Marcus Clay, a good, god-fearing man who was larger than life and had the heart to match. Took my daddy under his wing he did, alongside Tim, Uncle Raleigh, and the other younger settlers who were barely more than kids themselves. The Marshal was the kindly boss who looked after them all, but Marcus was the father figure, the guy everyone went to when they were having troubles that didn¡¯t have nothing to do with work. Didn¡¯t know how to fix an axle, or sharpen a blade? Marcus got you. Having troubles with the wife or kids? Marcus knew someone to talk to. Feeling alone and without any friends? Marcus would come by with a couple friends, bottles, and cigars and bring you into the fold with them.


    Yea, the Marshal is the top dog round these parts, everyone knows that, but up until a few years ago, Marcus was his number two man, his second-in-command out on the battlefield and his proxy back in New Hope. A man who lost his way the day his son Darren died and had a falling out with the Marshal because of it, but had recently found his way back into the light. Took Marcus a few years, but after my daddy passed, I noticed he wasn¡¯t as angry around me anymore, and it¡¯s only now that I put two and two together. He didn¡¯t want me ending up like him, so he worked harder to change himself for the better.


    And now he¡¯s dead, lying in a cheap balsam box at my feet with a flimsy Freeze Sigil Etched inside so his corpse won¡¯t spoil before we bring it back home for Simone.


    That thought alone is almost enough to break me, but what really burns me is how no one in town seems to care. Marcus died protecting them, for no reason besides it was the right thing to do. Didn¡¯t have no stake in Pleasant Dunes or personal attachment to the people here. Nah, he rode out on my say so because I told him a baby Proggie was sniffing around and getting ready to make the town its new nest, and he couldn¡¯t sit around on his hands while so many lives were at risk. Might be he also tagged along to look after me and Tina, and that¡¯s my cross to bear, but not one of these townies seem to care. A good man died to keep them safe, and they couldn¡¯t care less.


    Took us two hours and change to get out of the cavern, and another two hours to climb out of the tunnel, seal up the Proggie corpse in a lead-lined box, and make our way back to town. By then, the fighting here was all but done and there was nothing for me to shoot, with the clean-up crews sifting through the corpses for stragglers while half the boots were cooking and the other half fast asleep after a full day of fighting. That¡¯s the only upside of arriving too late for the fight. Glad Tina and the others are all alive and well, but I don¡¯t rightly know how to tell her the bad news. Marcus was a part of her life, same as mine, and she was right bright and cheery to see him again after so many years. Or how I¡¯m gonna tell Simone. Or how I¡¯m supposed to live with this guilt, knowing he was only there because he believed in me, and I wasn¡¯t up to snuff.


    Like I said. Fighting is simple. It¡¯s the rest of life that¡¯s complex, and I¡¯ve no idea how to go about it.


    That¡¯s why I¡¯m always spoiling for a fight. Everything¡¯s easier when it comes down to fists and bullets. Something I know and understand, something I¡¯m damned good at if I do say so myself, but I ain¡¯t so good at other things. Like keeping my temper from boiling over as I stand and stare at the coffin before me while the townies laugh, cheer, and dance in the streets. Ain¡¯t right for them to be all happy and jolly while the man who saved them is lying dead at my feet, and there¡¯s nothing I¡¯d like more than to set them all straight. Should march out there and put two Bolts through the speakers I bought them, silence their revelry good and well, then gun down anyone who has a problem with it. Burn down the buildings they left standing while I¡¯m at it, because if not for Marcus, they¡¯d have lost those and a good many more lives to boot.


    So seeing how they don¡¯t care, then why shouldn¡¯t I take it all back? They don¡¯t deserve to be happy, not when a good man died to keep them safe.


    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Most probably don¡¯t even know a Proggie¡¯s to blame for this mess, just think it¡¯s bad luck they got mixed up in all this. That¡¯s how dumb they are, indulging in their ignorance while thinking they saved themselves. Or worse, that Ronald fucking Jackson is the hero of the day, the man with a plan who turned the tides against the Abby horde and scared the strength right out of them with his chemical explosives. The townies must¡¯ve all known about them, because they¡¯ve been mining with them since the town went up. Explains the extensive complex they¡¯ve dug out over the last two years, and why they weren¡¯t all that grateful to have the Rangers around. These townies see us as a nuisance, busybodies who got in the way when they could¡¯ve quietly cleared away the Abby horde themselves using their illegal explosives without anyone being the wiser. Idiots and ingrates one and all, painting the Rangers as fools and the Company as their saviours while ignoring the grave peril they¡¯re placing the rest of the Frontier by producing and utilizing those banned substances.


    Ain¡¯t just because Abby can set off a whole stockpile with a Spell, as could any Spellslinger or errant Aether fluctuation. Townies probably think they¡¯re clever and taking all the necessary precautions, and are ignoring or forgetting the hard learned lessons history taught us. It¡¯s not the threat them explosives pose directly, but the possibility of Proggies getting their fangs and tentacles around enough of them to figure out how to produce them themselves.


    Intelligent. That¡¯s the word we use for Proggies. Driven by urge and instinct yea, but intelligent all the same, with smarts enough to reverse engineer how them explosives are made and either develop a biological process to do it themselves or set their gobbos to doing it manually for them. Either way, it spells disaster for humanity, because even though we call them intelligent, they¡¯re still closer to beasts than humans in mentality. They won¡¯t sit down to develop tech for themselves. No, everything gobbos make has been done by people first, and they just copy how its done. Sleds, weapons, armour, and clothing, they do it because they see us doing it, and don¡¯t entirely grasp the nuances behind it. Might appreciate the differences, but they won¡¯t bother experimenting with different methods to make glue or think about smelting ore into iron and then steel until they come across a working facility and have it all laid out for them.


    Which is why they don¡¯t make explosives for themselves, or Aetherarms for that matter, not just yet. It also has to do with the fact that they¡¯re bottom of the barrel Abby, meaning brains is about the last thing their Proggies cared about when spawning them en masse. So most figure it¡¯s no big deal, because even if they do get their hands on guns and explosives, it¡¯ll take ¡®em ages to work out how to use them, which is a problem for someone else down the line. All true, assuming you¡¯re working in small quantities, but the battle they just fought showed that Ron has gone all in on explosives manufacturing and has the big booms to spare.


    As if exploding Abby weren¡¯t enough of a problem here on the Frontier. Badlands got a variety of roly-poly bugs with glowing bellies full of Alchemical Acid, Impact Oil, Frost Fluid, and Fulminating Brew that they spew out from a good distance away, but they¡¯ve been known to charge right up to the gates of New Hope and explode themselves in hopes of bringing them down. South of New Sonora got a plague of Mephits, smaller, uglier harpies that lob Fire Bolts and explode into Igniting flames on death, which makes it real hard to build a town when the only material around is wood. Then there¡¯s the Deadlands, with them rotting birds flitting around, corpses ridden by Abby Spectres that¡¯ll dive bomb travellers and cover them in rotting flesh, hoping to sicken them and make it possible for them Spectres to overtake a human host.


    All things you can¡¯t really defend against save for shooting them when they still a ways away, which is pretty much standard operating procedure when it comes to Abby. The only saving grace is that all them Abby I listed are few and far between, because they cost a fortune in resources and effort for Proggies to produce. Not so for chemical explosives, even if the Proggies produce it biologically themselves, as it only takes a matter of weeks for them to build up an entire army of gobbos, orcs, and bugbears that¡¯ll explode on death and bring down anyone in the area with them. That¡¯s what happened in the old world. A Proggie got into a munitions factory, worked things out, and shared the information with its local hive or whatever. Within a matter of weeks, they sent out a force numbering in the thousands to overtake a nearby town, only for the horde to be taken out by a scouting patrol who took a potshot on their way out and set off a chain reaction that shook the literal earth.


    Was the mother of all explosions, or so I¡¯ve heard, one to rival the Aetheric bombs dropped on Nippon to close out the Second World War. Took the big brains of the old world weeks to figure out what happened, because they was all focused on the possibility of a new Immortal Monarch who¡¯d come out to strut his or her stuff. By the time they understood the real threat, it was already too late, because the Proggies had learned from their mistake and came back with a whole new army for round two, one where only a third of the greenies exploded and were suitably separated from the rest.


    Ended about three weeks later with the old world governments uniting to glass all of Australia from on high, because they couldn¡¯t see any way to hold the continent. Not when any errant Abby could be packing enough punch to take out a tank and the power-armoured soldiers sitting inside. A single, lone gobbo becomes a threat greater than ever before, because all it takes is for one to blow up in the right place to reap tens of thousands of human lives. Here on the Frontier, anyone not in the general vicinity ought to be safe, as there¡¯s only so far a fire can spread. In the old world though? With so many power stations, condenser arrays, crystal distilleries, and other explosive technologies that are perfectly safe until something explodes around a critical piece of infrastructure? Taking a hundred steps back, most automobiles run on liquid Aether, with newer ones running on gaseous Aether, both of which are highly susceptible to exploding in the presence of explosions, meaning any target was a good target to an exploding Abby.


    A good thing them Australian Proggies were feuding with the aquatic and mainland Proggies, meaning they never shared their knowhow, so it ended then and there. The continent was glassed, the offending Proggies killed, but new ones swarmed in and overtook the landmass, and wasn¡¯t no country keen on offering the displaced Australians any real help in taking their homes back. Instead, the United Nations then condemned the manufacturing of any and all chemical explosives and banned their use in warfare. Happened back in the late seventies, about a decade and change before the Advent, but these fools here in Pleasant Dunes have forgotten all about it, or don¡¯t care so long as their paycheck clears. I ought to set out and find their stockpile myself, set it off and watch their whole town go up in a cloud of dust alongside everyone still in it. Wouldn¡¯t solve the problem though, because this ain¡¯t where they produce them. Least I don¡¯t think it is, because Vanguard National don¡¯t stick around Pleasant Dunes. Make sense, because you don¡¯t want your explosive manufacturing anywhere close to where normal people live, not while they slinging Spells for daily use. Gotta do all your work in a lead-lined box, meaning walls, floor, and ceiling all encased in panels three inches thick at least, else you risk ambient Aetheric fluctuations fucking everything up and really ruining your day.


    Worst part is? I should¡¯ve at least guessed that something like this was in Ron¡¯s wheelhouse. The Marshal probably did, which is why he pushed for this op, and he all but told me outright himself. Said Ronald Jackson served in Lebanon, where he survived two civilian suicide bombings, bombings which would¡¯ve involved chemical explosives since those are a whole lot easier to make than the Aetheric alternatives. Chemistry is just mixing shit together and not getting blown up in the process, which any idiot can do so long as someone teaches them the process. Alchemy is the same, but with the added requirement of soul and Aetheric components, which really ramps up the difficulty. Especially since not anyone can just up and become an alchemist. Gotta be able to cast Second Order Spells first, which ain¡¯t all that high a bar of entry, though I suppose it would¡¯ve been higher in the old world considering the faster flows of Aether and whatnot.


    Which don¡¯t change the facts none. The clues were right there in front of me. I just never considered the angle, because I didn¡¯t think to. Know yourself, and know your enemy, but I don¡¯t know much about either right now.


    ¡°Howie.¡± A hand comes down on my shoulder, and I jerk away on instinct while going for my gun, but Tim¡¯s stony, impassive features stop me dead in my tracks. Not because he¡¯s someone I know. No, I stop because he sees the dark storm of intensity and violence inside me all ready to bubble over and burst, and he¡¯s ready for it. If I draw, he¡¯ll be faster, and I¡¯ll be dead for it. Then we¡¯ll both be screwed, me because I done got shot for poking the bear, and him because he¡¯ll have to live with the guilt of gunning me down on instinct. With emotions high as they are, we were both a hair¡¯s breadth away from disaster, and we both take a long moment to wind down in the aftermath, our eyes locked and guards up despite having known each other for so long.


    It''s the Devil in me it is, and the Revenant in Tim, two birds of a feather that don¡¯t flock together at all.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± I say, breaking the silence as soon as I¡¯m able to relax my guard and move my hand away from my Model 10. ¡°Caught me off guard and not in my right mind.¡±


    Tim don¡¯t say anything to acknowledge it, and don¡¯t make no apologies either, but that¡¯s because it¡¯s who he is. He takes a good long look at me though, because maybe for the first time, he¡¯s seeing who I am too. ¡°Won¡¯t happen again,¡± he says, and he means it. He¡¯ll call out from further away, give me the time and space another killer needs, because he recognizes me as one now and won¡¯t soon forget it. His gaze softens just a bit as he takes out a cigarette he got stashed behind his ear and holds it out for a light. He don¡¯t smoke though, so his actions catch me by surprise, and he reads it in my expression. ¡°For Marcus,¡± he says, and I break a little inside while doing my best not to show it. Grabbing the forgotten cigar Marcus tucked into my breast pocket before setting out on our delve, I fumble around with my knife to cut the end and make a real mess of it, but Tim don¡¯t rush me. Just stands in silence and waits with cigarette in hand while I finish up with the unfamiliar task and touch the flintstone in my component¡¯s pouch.


    A snap and a word, that¡¯s all the Ignite Cantrip takes, and it takes me on a long trip down memory lane. Tim lights his cigarette, and I light my cigar, and when I take my first puff, it brings tears to my eyes. There was a time when I dreamed of standing alongside the older folks and being a part of their group, because I was the Firstborn, and everyone younger than me was too much of a kid to get along with. I was responsible for those younger than me, a burden which aged me before my years and one I resented at times, but I carried it all the same since it was the right thing to do. With the adults though, I was no different from any other kid, and it was there I could be young again, so I yearned to be a part of their group where I wasn¡¯t the Firstborn, but just another kid to look after.


    Would¡¯ve been nice if we was sitting out on Aunty Ray¡¯s porch, with Marcus, Uncle Raleigh, Uncle Teddy, and my daddy here with us, but I¡¯m glad Tim¡¯s still here with me. Maybe Noora¡¯s right, and I¡¯m broken inside, but Tim¡¯s broken too, and he¡¯s made something of himself, so might be there¡¯s still hope for me just yet.


    The cigar smoke tastes bitter, its aroma pungent and intense, but otherwise, it¡¯s got a smooth, sort of toasty flavour. Don¡¯t love it, but don¡¯t hate it either, though I can¡¯t imagine finishing the whole cigar in one go. Might take a whole hour of puffing, but now that I don¡¯t got nothing to fight or kill, the only thing keeping me on my feet is rage and hatred, while all the sadness and guilt weighs heavily upon me. Tim¡¯s cigarette burns up much quicker though, so that might be more my speed, but he ain¡¯t here to indulge an addiction. He¡¯s here for me, because he knows it¡¯s what Marcus would¡¯ve done. Knows he can¡¯t fill those shoes, but tries anyways, and that¡¯s what matters most, the fact that he cares enough to give it a go.


    ¡°Thanks Tim,¡± I say, and he smiles, nods, and quietly pats the back of my head over my Stetson. Traded my helmet for it soon as I got back, because I feel safer hidden under its brim, as it hides my tears so long as I keep my chin down.


    ¡°He was right you know,¡± Tim says. ¡°You did good back there, and what happened wasn¡¯t your fault.¡± His gaze goes soft for a moment as he lays his eyes on the coffin, but then it hardens again to seal off all emotions. ¡°Soldiers die. That¡¯s war. There¡¯s no one to blame but the enemy.¡± Turning to face me, he waits until I meet his steely gaze to continue. ¡°So don¡¯t go blaming yourself, and don¡¯t go blaming these townies.¡±


    Which only goes to show Tim knows me better than most, even better than Marcus, Uncle Teddy, and Aunty Ray.


    ¡°Ten-Four,¡± I say, and he gives me a small smile and a nod before handing me a little metal tube to store the cigar in when I¡¯m done.


    ¡°Sack time,¡± he says, giving me a look that says I should lie down and rest too. Adrenaline does a real number on a body, especially after a long, drawn-out conflict like what we experienced under dark. The body gets used to being on high alert, so much so that minor things like a friendly hand on your shoulder can set you off. If I¡¯m being honest, I¡¯ve been like that for awhile now, and don¡¯t rightly know how to decompress, but I give him a nod all the same that doesn¡¯t really commit to taking his advice without disregarding it outright. Earns me another look, but he¡¯s said his piece and trusts me to handle myself well enough, so he heads off to find a place to rest where won¡¯t no one stumble across and surprise him.


    Not for his sake, but for the unfortunate soul who wakes him. Birds of a feather we are, except he¡¯s bigger, scarier, and far more dangerous. I¡¯ll get there eventually. All I need is time and experience.


    For the next little bit, I stick around Marcus¡¯ coffin out of sheer stubbornness and puff away at the cigar, not so much enjoying it as using it to reminisce and ward off the anger and resentment. Ain¡¯t no sleep for me tonight, not with the townies celebrating for all their worth, singing, shouting, and popping off shots like they are. Fact is, given what I know of stereotypical Americans, Pleasant Dunes seems more American than New Hope. Which ain¡¯t a compliment to Americans or the people of Pleasant Dunes, because New Hope took the best the Federation had to offer and worked hard to rid themselves of the worst, whereas Pleasant Dunes seems to have gone in the complete opposite direction.


    Should¡¯ve kept my mouth shut. Ron wouldn¡¯t have died, but his town would¡¯ve been overrun and his breadbasket lost, setting him back some. These mining operations probably supply him with what materials he needs, either directly from the mines themselves or by paying for it using money saved from skimping on his employees¡¯ basic needs. So what if these townies died? Their lives ain¡¯t worth shit next to Marcus¡¯, not even all added up together. This is what they mean when they say no good deed goes unpunished, and I¡¯ve no idea how the Marshal can stay above it all, not with all the shit he¡¯s seen.


    A rude awakening is what this trip has been, one that¡¯s put me good and well in my place. Thought I was doing fine after my daddy passed, was keeping up and on my way to being Ranger ready ahead of the rest, but I was wrong. I¡¯m barely ahead of the pack, and they¡¯ve only had three months of basic training, so what are they gonna be like after six months? Or after a year on the job, learning the ins and outs of Ranger life? Far ahead of me, that¡¯s where, because despite all the dangers I¡¯ve faced and sacrifices I¡¯ve made, I¡¯m only a step or two ahead of where I was at fourteen and change.


    And I got no one to blame but myself. Had all the answers laid out for me in my daddy¡¯s training, but instead of keeping up with it, I moved on to newer and more interesting things that I thought were more important. Like learning my Big Spell and pushing my limits so I could sling more of them each day, but a Spellcaster¡¯s greatest strength ain¡¯t in the Spells they sling. It¡¯s in the utility those Spells offer them, a lesson my daddy drilled into my head for as long as I can remember, and one I disregarded because I thought I knew better. The same way I disregarded his rules for the road, and though I paid dearly for it, I didn¡¯t learn from it. If I did, I¡¯d have reflected on his other lessons too, and gone back to mastering the Spells already in my wheelhouse, like the Detection Spells and Find Magical Traps to really push my Portent ability along, or Levitate and Mind Spike to add more utility to my toolbelt. That last one would¡¯ve clued me in to the Proggie playing dead if I¡¯d thrown it out alongside their Lances, which would¡¯ve been the next best thing to a fifth Lance added into the mix.


    In short? I didn¡¯t do great. I did better than they expected, but I fell far short of my daddy¡¯s expectations. If he¡¯s up there in Heaven looking down on me, then he must be damn disappointed, because I¡¯ve done taken every advantage I¡¯ve been given and squandered it all away, including the head start my mama died for.


    The cigar is about halfway done, and I still ain¡¯t finished beating myself up inside, but another presence comes along to disturb my vigil. One noisier than Tim, so I turn to see Wayne striding over with a cautious look in his eyes. Caught by surprise by my alertness, he blinks for a good long second before finding his voice. ¡°Need to talk,¡± he says, holding his hands up palms out to show he don¡¯t mean any harm, but I gotta fight the urge to shoot him dead where he stands just out of pique.


    An errant thought which sends a pang of guilt through me, especially given what Marcus said while on his literal deathbed. Fact is, if I shot Wayne, I wouldn¡¯t be like Marcus. I¡¯d be worse, because even though he spent years in a hate-fuelled rage, Marcus used that anger to scour the Bulwark clean of drug dealers and suppliers alike. Never once killed an innocent man either far as I know, not by my definition at least. Don¡¯t matter if you just a salesman or a drug mule; if you profit from the crime, then you ought to pay the price, and Marcus made them all pay dearly.


    But Wayne¡­ Wayne is more or less a victim himself. One who turned to crime to fix what ails his wife, so I suppose I shouldn¡¯t blame him too much. Like I said, I¡¯d do worse for Chrissy, Tina, and Aunty Ray, so who am I to judge Wayne so harshly? ¡°You can have my share of the Mage Armour Core,¡± I say, which catches him by surprise. ¡°Write something up and I¡¯ll sign it over to you. If you need more, I¡¯ll see what I can do, but don¡¯t expect a full twenty before year¡¯s end. I¡¯m good, but not that good, and I got six months of Basic ahead.¡±


    Rather than smile or jump for joy like expected, Wayne blinks and shows an expression that is difficult to read. Something like guilt and regret, but it disappears in a flash as he finds his resolve and hits back with a shake of his head. ¡°Too late Howie,¡± he says, and for once, he don¡¯t got his stupid smile on. Running a hand over his face, he heaves a big sigh and steps closer while gesturing for me to lean in close too. ¡°Too little, too late. Damage is already done. Told you it was your last chance, and you told me to do what I gotta do. Well, that¡¯s what I did, so now it¡¯s your turn to face the music.¡±


    Leaning in real close, Wayne whispers, ¡°I know you killed that merchant Howie, and I even know how. You used a Primal Savagery Cantrip and¡­¡± Stopping as if to read off an invisible piece of paper, Wayne repeats what I told Noora almost word for word. ¡°Bit right down on his meaty neck and delivered a nice big dose of Acid right into his bloodstream.¡±


    My stomach drops, then somersaults a few times over as I look over at my wagon where Noora ought to be sleeping. The smooth, wooden grip of my snub-nosed Model Ten feels cold to the touch, but I¡¯m burning with anger enough to set it aflame. ¡°Ah, ah, ah,¡± Wayne says, his 1911 already out and pointed at me from the hip. ¡°Hand off your gun,¡± he says, and I begrudgingly comply, glaring daggers at him and my wagon both while hating myself for being weak and stupid. ¡°Good.¡± Nodding as he carefully puts his pistol away, Wayne grins and says, ¡°So now that we¡¯re on the same page, you and me are gonna go explain how you¡¯re gonna settle up on your debt. You play ball, and nothing bad happens. You don¡¯t?¡± Wayne shrugs and moves as if he¡¯s glancing around the quiet camp without taking his eyes off of me. ¡°Then things get ugly when I signal to my friends in Vanguard National to come grab you and part you out so they can sell your organs to the highest bidder.¡±


    The pieces all fall into place to reveal a picture more complete than I imagined, one that I never even considered possible. ¡°You¡¯re working for Ron,¡± I say, and Wayne flinches to hear it. ¡°You¡¯re his inside man.¡± The one who warned him about Captain Jung, but failed to pass on word of Marcus and Tim too, and was supposedly in talks with Ron to handle them for the Khaganate. ¡°Bad enough you got that rat-face, but you gotta go and be a double-dealing rat too?¡±


    ¡°Shut your fucking mouth.¡± There¡¯s a cold warning in Wayne¡¯s heated outburst, and he eases off immediately to flash an insincere smile while looking around to make sure no one¡¯s watching. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t have ever gotten so bad if Marcus didn¡¯t press me for my connect,¡± he says, making excuses over the body of the man he was ready to betray. ¡°Said I¡¯d be out on my ass if I didn¡¯t give it up, and then left me and Tamara holding the bag when all was said and done. Wasn¡¯t anyone willing to sell to me anymore, and the withdrawal would¡¯ve killed her for good, but Marcus didn¡¯t care. He lost his son, so I gotta lose my wife? That make sense to you?¡±


    ¡°About as much as a black Ranger gettin¡¯ in bed with a slave dealer,¡± I say, and again, Wayne winces to hear it.


    ¡°The fuck do you know?¡± Glaring for all he¡¯s worth to shut me up, he says, ¡°Come along now, and no one gets hurt.¡±


    ¡°No one besides the boots and Rangers you just threatened to kill,¡± I say, and before I can think better of it, add, ¡°And were going to kill on your way out of the desert.¡± Stupid is what that is, because he didn¡¯t know I knew, but now he most certainly does. ¡°Don¡¯t look so surprised,¡± I add, mostly to cover it up. ¡°Makes you look dumber than you already do. Any fool could¡¯ve guessed Ron wasn¡¯t gonna let us walk away, not with all our guns, Cores, and Aberrtin.¡± Carefully keeping my hand away from my guns, I square up so the rest of me is ready to draw and make no effort to hide it. ¡°So why should I leave with you when you already got us all earmarked for death? Better I kill you now or go down swinging and let everyone know you for the traitor you are.¡±


    Doesn¡¯t matter what story Wayne spins to cover up my murder. Tim will kill him dead, because Marcus told him and Captain Jung everything I passed along about Ron¡¯s plans, and neither one of them have a soft spot for Wayne blinding them to the truth. Wayne sees the logic, so he narrows his eyes and shakes his head. ¡°You got it all wrong,¡± he says, hand on his pistol and ready to do away with all pretenses the second I move. ¡°They were planning to take you out, but plans have changed. They showed their hand with their explosives, so they¡¯re going down a different avenue.¡± Because Ron will have trouble enough keeping his head attached now that every nation will be calling for it, putting a bounty out that¡¯ll make the Stagecoach Killers look like chump change.


    Now there¡¯s a thought to put a smile on my face. Might even try and collect that bounty myself if it didn¡¯t mean giving Ron a stay of execution while waiting for the various governments to get their asses into gear. Seeing his words have an effect, Wayne says, ¡°Look, they¡¯re not gonna kill you. They¡¯re all about profit, and there¡¯s no profit in killing someone who owes them a debt. Conner told you right? I didn¡¯t want to see you get jammed up, but you left me no choice.¡± A hint of pleading creeps into his voice as he stares at me in both threat and appeal, a man at the end of his rope and nowhere to run. ¡°No one else has to die,¡± Wayne says, and damn me if I don¡¯t believe him, because I see the hurt and ache in his eyes when he glances at Marcus. ¡°We¡¯re just gonna talk, then we¡¯ll come back and all leave this shit hole of a town behind. All together, all alive. All right?¡±


    Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, I force out the all the grief and tension because I can¡¯t afford it. Wayne¡¯s probably right anyways. Ron¡¯s got bigger problems to worry about, but if I push him too far, then he might well just go for broke and kill us all on his doorstep regardless. Then, all he has to deal with are the Feds until his secret gets out, and it will get out. Won¡¯t help us much if we already dead, so I suppose I ought to play nice and go along with Wayne¡¯s plan. Even if he means to double cross us, then at least their deaths won¡¯t be on my hands.


    And truth be told? I¡¯m almost hoping Wayne¡¯s lying and walking me into a trap. I don¡¯t mind taking a fight on Ron¡¯s terms, not tonight. Odds might be stacked against me, but whatever he¡¯s got planned can¡¯t be worse than sitting here and mourning Marcus¡¯ death.


    Like I said. Fighting is simple. Kill or be killed, that¡¯s all there is to it. It¡¯s all those moments in between fights that are difficult, so given the option, I might as well stick with what I know. ¡°Alright,¡± I say, cutting off the lit portion of my cigar before stuffing it into the metal tube to keep in my breast pocket for later. ¡°Lead the way.¡±


    And God help us all if this is a double cross, because the Yellow Devil won¡¯t be so forgiving.

 Chapter 53

    Soon as we¡¯re clear of camp and amongst the townies, I put everything out of mind and focus on the task at hand.


    Step one is preparation, of which I have none. Got my Model 10, my two Doorknockers, and my trusty Rattlesnake, as well as plenty of ammo, three Flashbangs, and eight vials of Alchemical Acid. There¡¯s also my components pouch and an assortment of stuff inside, none of which amounts to much outside of slinging Spells or casting Rituals. Not the worst loadout, but not as good as it could be, and things only go downhill from here. The Mage Armour from the Artifact I worked up only lasts three hours and change, so it ran out on our way back to town, while most manually casted support Spells have even shorter durations, usually measured in minutes if not seconds. Means the only defensive Spell I got on me is Hearing Protection, so I¡¯ll have to rely on active defensives like my Shield Bracer or Misty Step, and Force Barrier, both of which are Second Order Spells. On my best days, I can sling five or six of those a day, but I¡¯m hardly at my best. Got about a third left in the Spellslinging tank, with the only change from the Proggie fight being that I cast Detect Aberration one more time after the fact.


    Best case scenario? I got 4-5 First Order Spells left in me. That¡¯s 16 to 20 Aether, so at most, I got 23 Aether available, since having 1-3 Aether left hanging around is as good as empty. Could most certainly throw out a Second Order Spell or two, but depending on how things stand after the fact, I might have a First Order Spell left in me, or I might not. No way to tell until it happens, as gauging your status is more a matter of feel rather than hard numbers, so I shouldn¡¯t expect more than one Spell and plan accordingly.


    Hope for the best, and prepare for the worst, that¡¯s the best way to go about it after all. Putting a lot more on hope this time around than I like, but that¡¯s just how things go.


    Besides, it¡¯s not like I got all that many useful Spells to Sling. My current loadout is tailored for tracking Abby under dark, not fighting people in town, which limits my options greatly. Detect Aberration, Hunter¡¯s Mark, Entangle, and Find Magical Traps are all pretty much useless in my current situation, while Detect Magic, Grease, and Expeditious Retreat ain¡¯t much better. Leaves me four sorta useful options: Misty Step, Force Barrier, Spiritual Weapon, and my Big Spell. The first two won¡¯t win me any fights outright, while the problem with Spiritual Weapon is how I don¡¯t know much about it. Using an unfamiliar Spell for the first time in a real combat situation sounds like a recipe for disaster, especially considering its Second Order and represents a good half of my reserves if not more, so I might as well write it off. Doubt a single glowy weapon is enough to swing the odds in my favour either way, which only redoubles my regret for keeping the Spell Structure in mind instead of Lance, Shatter, or almost anything else.


    On the bright side, if my lack of Lance is what got Marcus killed, then chances are I won¡¯t have to live with the guilt for long.


    So far, things are looking pretty grim should it come down to a firefight, but that don¡¯t mean I¡¯m a dead man walking. Most likely, it won¡¯t get that far, because even though Wayne¡¯s got my short hairs in a twist, the boots and Rangers on watch duty saw us leave camp together. Wasn¡¯t no way around it, so it means he¡¯s got a vested interest in keeping me alive, else they¡¯d hang my death around his neck right quick. Course, that¡¯s assuming Ron and his boys care one whit about Wayne¡¯s fate, though I would say keeping a crooked Ranger on the payroll is worth its weight in gold. Besides, Ron don¡¯t want me dead on his doorstep, nor any Rangers for that matter, else he wouldn¡¯t have gone to all that effort to put together a plan to pin the blame on someone else.


    Had no idea how he expected to get away with it, because even if he had the Khaganate attack us on our way out of the desert and leave a trail of clues pointing at someone else, Pleasant Dunes would still come under investigation. I figured Gunin would dress up like one of their enemies and let Ron point the finger at them, but life ain¡¯t so cut and dry. Regardless of how it played out, Ron would be still suspect number one in our deaths, no matter which way you slice it, and the Feds would leave no stone unturned while investigating him. Don¡¯t matter how loyal or disciplined his thugs are, all it takes is one of his boys turning Federal witness for a fat purse and he¡¯d be done.


    Now that I know Wayne is in his pocket though? That¡¯s a whole nother story. If it wasn¡¯t for Marcus and Tim coming along for the ride, Captain Jung would¡¯ve been the only Ranger to outrank Wayne. Seeing how her first concern would¡¯ve been the boots, that would¡¯ve left the rat-fuck in charge of the whole operation. Not just the fight itself, but dividing the spoils after the fact, which would¡¯ve afforded him complete freedom to fudge the numbers and make sure Ron got his hands on all the choice Spell Cores, not to mention giving him a bigger cut. Wayne¡¯s been doing it for years now and all his people are in on it already, so the only difference here is a matter of scale.


    As for the aftermath? Well, I was already worried about getting ambushed in the desert on our way out, and now I know it would¡¯ve been a real bad fight. Chess ain¡¯t a difficult game to win when you playing both sides. All Wayne would¡¯ve had to do was leave an opening in his patrols and clue the Khaganate in as to where it¡¯ll be. Might take some flak in the aftermath, but so long as he don¡¯t make the opening too obvious or glaring, most will chalk it up to bad luck. There¡¯s no such thing as perfect coverage after all, so getting ambushed isn¡¯t exactly impossible, and doubly so if he had boots helping out on patrol. Then all he has to do is sell the rest of the story, talk big about how the attackers were dressed and adorned in a way that all but announces their names. Gunin could even capture and kill a couple patsies to leave corpses behind, corpses which would desiccate in the desert heat and still be identifiable a week later so long as no Abby or scavengers eat them up.


    I can see it already, the attack they¡¯ve planned out. A sudden barrage of Bolts to open up, taking out key members like Captain Jung, Tim, and anyone who doesn¡¯t agree with Wayne¡¯s new boss, leaving him in undisputed command. He¡¯d put up a token effort, then spot a way out, an opening left behind on purpose so we don¡¯t stand and fight. Course, he¡¯d take it, order a full retreat as we abandon all our spoils and supplies, a decision made to save the lives of Rangers and boots alike. Might even come out a hero for it, earn himself a badge of honour, all the while pointing the finger at whoever it is Ron wants to take blame. The story would hold a lot more sway with the Feds if a Ranger says whodunnit, and they might not look too hard if they think they already got the answer. Doubly so if their blood is hot, because if you mess with one Ranger, the rest will go scorched earth on your ass. Even if they eventually figure out they got the wrong people, Ron could be long gone by then, running Pleasant Dunes by proxy while using his ill-gotten goods to churn out more drugs and explosives to sell to anyone stupid enough to want them.


    Or something to that effect. Thing is, all this don¡¯t mean squat now that we know he¡¯s using explosives, because that alone ought to be enough to get Ron¡¯s name on a government kill-list. Won¡¯t just be Feds calling for his head, but every member of the United Nations, who all agreed to unilaterally condemn the production of chemical explosives, alongside a whole laundry list of other bad ideas. Either way, Ron don¡¯t want to start nothing, not with so much already on his plate, so if it does come down to a firefight, there¡¯s a good chance I¡¯ll be the one kicking things off. I don¡¯t much like my odds, but I ain¡¯t about to go down without a fight either. Only question is who to shoot first, Ron or Wayne, which is a tough one to answer. Ron deserves it more, but Wayne made this personal, so it really comes down to a matter who I want to take down with me. Probably Ron, since that¡¯d leave Wayne in a real pinch with Vanguard National, and even if he manages to make it out in one piece, he¡¯d have a hell of a time explaining things to Tim and the Rangers in general.


    Now technically, I could tell Wayne to pound sand and go to Tim or Captain Jung with what I know. It¡¯d mean ratting out a Ranger without any actual proof, and I don¡¯t know how many members of Wayne¡¯s Company are in on the grift. Did they know Wayne was about to sell us out to Vanguard National? Some might, but I can¡¯t imagine that sitting well with his whole Company. Especially Conner. He ain¡¯t the malicious type, or ambitious for that matter. He¡¯s happy where he is and don¡¯t care much about moving up. Got no wife or kids to look after, and his only vices are poker and drink in moderation, so he ain¡¯t hard up for cash neither. The other Rangers though? I don¡¯t know them all that well, so I can¡¯t say for certain. If I push Wayne too hard, he might just turn on the boots and Captain Jung then and there. Would put him in the hot seat for sure, but that¡¯s little comfort considering we¡¯d all be dead.


    Or I could play along to hear what Ron has to say and maybe get a better handle on his plan while keeping things quiet for now. Not ideal, walking into the lion¡¯s den like this, but I ain¡¯t afraid of a fight. What I am afraid of is losing the trust of people who care about me, like Uncle Teddy, Aunty Ray, Uncle Art, and so many more. If it was just Wayne slinging mud at me, I could weather it out, but if Noora starts singing too, then I¡¯m in some real trouble even if nothing is ever proven in a court of law. I never was the best liar to begin with, and can¡¯t rightly come up with a good reason she¡¯d lie about it either. Knew I should¡¯ve kept my mouth shut, but I was too stupid and weak, and now I¡¯m stuck between a rock and a hard place.


    Marcus would¡¯ve understood. I should¡¯ve gone to him last year after my run in with that trader, turned right around and taken the cart and bodies right over to Meadowbrook. Marcus would¡¯ve taken one look at the recording and moved Heaven and earth to cover it up for me and Cowie, because he understood how it is. Sometimes you gotta get your hands dirty to make it out here, or protect the ones you care about. The rules of the old world aren¡¯t suited to life on the Frontier, written by stuffy law-makers who were out of touch with their own world, much less what it would be like on a whole new one. Ain¡¯t no black and white in the world, and I ain¡¯t strong or confident enough to value principles more than my own safety or Cowie¡¯s like Uncle Teddy would.


    Tim gets it too, because he¡¯s the same as me, except he don¡¯t care to hide it. Makes folks leery of his presence and liable to whisper the moment he out of earshot, a pariah of sorts in the community. While I don¡¯t like people much, we all live in a society, and I get enough whispers of my own despite my carefully cultivated reputation, so I can only imagine how much worse it¡¯d be if word got out that I was murdering merchants out on the open road. Don¡¯t matter how justified the act might¡¯ve been. Your average townie in New Hope don¡¯t look kindly upon Frontier Justice these days, on account of how Uncle Teddy and Marcus fell out.


    A broken bond which will never be forged anew, and for some reason, that hurts almost as much as losing Marcus.


    Can¡¯t be getting all mopey and teary eyed now though, not with a violence in the air. If I show weakness, Ron and his ilk will pounce on it like tuskwulves on a lame muskari.


    So I shove all those emotions down in the fire burning in my belly and finish piecing things together for a better look at the big picture. Don¡¯t have much time to think as Wayne brings me down the street to the last building on the left, the same one I can sense my speakers in upstairs. That ain¡¯t what stops me in my tracks though, nor is it fear of what lays inside. No, it¡¯s the man standing outside that¡¯s got me concerned as Conner steps out from the shadows and squares up across from Wayne with arms crossed and a determined grimace. The rat-faced traitor don¡¯t seem none too pleased, and he heaves a long and heavy sigh while running a hand over his head. After starting and stopping twice, Wayne finally finds his voice and says, ¡°Just don¡¯t do anything stupid, all right?¡±


    ¡°Won¡¯t have to so long as they don¡¯t,¡± Conner says, meeting Wayne¡¯s gaze with steel in his spine. ¡°This is about a cash debt. No more, no less. So long as Howie agrees to pay, that¡¯s the end of it. That¡¯s what you said, and I¡¯ll hold you to it, L.T.¡±


    All of which was said for my benefit as Conner gives me a look that¡¯s half-reassuring and half-regret, like he ain¡¯t all that sure he wants to be here. He is though, which I¡¯m grateful for, because if there ever were a time when I needed someone to watch my back, it¡¯d be now. Granted, I can¡¯t count on Conner entirely, as he¡¯s torn between loyalties here. Seems he knows all about Wayne¡¯s traitorous ways, or at least aware that he¡¯s mixed up with Vanguard National, which don¡¯t paint Conner in a good light. Nor is he armed for bear, coming in without armour or even a rifle and just a single 1911 on his hip, which means he ain¡¯t fully committed to the fight. No, he¡¯s here to hope for the best and maybe step in if things go bad, but I can¡¯t count on his help if I start shooting without reason. Worst comes to worst, having another Ranger present might give Ron pause, though I doubt it.


    Still, I meet Conner¡¯s eyes and give him a nod of thanks while wondering if his presence here is just an act to get me to lower my guard. Man¡¯s got a terrible poker face, so I assume I¡¯d be able to tell if he was putting on a show, but you know what they say about assumptions.


    With nothing left for it, I put on a smile and stride right into the building as easy breezy as can be, meeting every gaze without flinching while taking in the sights. There are eight thugs hanging about, not drinking and carousing like the townies outside but sitting pretty with their weapons while scattered throughout the room in an effort to look inconspicuous while eyeing me six ways from Sunday. As for the room itself, the first floor looks to be a bunkhouse of some sort, a big open barracks with a kitchen in one corner, a bathroom in another, and two doors. One closed and guarded by two thugs leaning against the wall, while the other sits open to reveal a set of stairs leading down. A quick count of the bunkbeds shows there ain¡¯t enough for all hundred plus members of Vanguard Nation who rode into town, so there must be more downstairs. Guessing upstairs are Ron¡¯s private digs, but seems I won¡¯t be finding out just yet as Wayne leads me downstairs into the basement.


    Which ain¡¯t as dark and dingy as expected. The way down is illuminated by real Lights, ones powered by a dynamo tucked away somewhere that show off the craftsmanship in the stairs and walls as well as the quality of the materials used. The buildings in town have thus far all been built out of rough-hewn stone and laid with cheap, flimsy wood panel floors, but these stairs are polished hardwood while the walls are smoothed black-stone blocks, all cut in perfect rectangles like they were cast from a mould. Raising a hand to the wall as if to steady my steps, I play into the angle that I¡¯m tired and spent while focusing on my senses. Not only the five I was born with, but the sixth I cultivated with hard work and boundless curiosity, one developed using the Appraisal Cantrip during long trips with my daddy and little to nothing else to do. Gives me a good feeling of the material composition of things I touch and clues me in to how sturdy, stable, and durable something is. I mostly use it to tell the difference between a well-made product and a shabby one, or to impress people like Marijke by telling them the general composition of any random parts.


    And these black stone walls? Cut from rocks mined up in the Snake Fang mountain range, but any fool could¡¯ve guessed as much given the colour and location even without having seen the massive mining complex less than a half hour away. No, what I wanted to know about was the mortar between the stone blocks, and my senses don¡¯t let me down as they tell me its lime mortar with lead and Aberrtin. Tells me a good few things about this staircase, like the fact that a lot of money went into its construction. Lead is fairly common round these parts, but highly sought after too because of its Aetheric dampening properties, so the price ain¡¯t exactly cheap. As for Aberrtin, while 30 cents a gram might not seem like much, it¡¯d take a tidy sum to fill the mortar for all these stones, and a damn fortune for rest of the basement too which I soon see has got the same block and mortar construction as the staircase down.


    At the bottom of the stairs sits a wide, spacious common area filled with couches, pool tables, a bar, and other miscellaneous niceties scattered all about as Vanguard National thugs smoke, drink, and celebrate with a bunch of half-dressed girlies on their arms. The immediate area is about one and a half times larger than the bunkhouse upstairs, which was about the same size as the saloon, with plenty of closed doors and visible hallways leading deeper into the brightly lit and well-furnished complex. Small wonder Ron can¡¯t afford to house his townies. Must¡¯ve spent all of his profits building up this bunker of his, which also explains why he wasn¡¯t concerned about Abby overrunning Pleasant Dunes. The town upstairs is just a fa?ade, while the real prize is down here, one heavily fortified an easily defended. A hundred guns could hold this staircase for hours or maybe even days as they got a double gated entry way, a sturdy cage of Darksteel built right around the bottom of the staircase with a good 270-degree view of the room and six scowling Vanguard National thugs standing guard.


    ¡°President Jackson¡¯s expecting us,¡± Wayne says, glancing around at the thugs all calm and cool as can be, but I can sense the underlying tension. He don¡¯t like being surrounded by armed toughs any more than I do, and he¡¯s wondering if he¡¯s about to get a Bolt to the head. Throws a spanner in the works it does, because here I was thinking Wayne and Ron were all buddy buddy, except now I ain¡¯t so sure. Then again, twenty large ain¡¯t no small potates, so I suppose I am to blame for their strained relationship. Should¡¯ve thought about that sooner, and might¡¯ve changed my mind about walking into the lion¡¯s den with a rat at my side, but it¡¯s too late to turn and rabbit now.


    ¡°Hand over your weapons,¡± the top thug demands, and I reply by way of drawing my Model Ten and jamming it into the small of Wayne¡¯s back.


    ¡°What the fuck is this now?¡± I ask, grabbing Wayne by the shoulder and pulling him back towards the staircase as my human shield. ¡°You said we was here to talk, and here I am. Didn¡¯t say nothin¡¯ about servin¡¯ me up for the slaughter.¡±


    Conner comes with as I back away, his 1911 out and ready to support me while Wayne holds his hands up and palms out. ¡°Woah, woah, woah,¡± Wayne says, to me and the thugs who got their guns cocked, locked, and loaded. ¡°Easy now. Easy. No need for this to get ugly. This is a misunderstanding is all. A misunderstanding.¡± That was said for my benefit, but while Wayne turns his full attention on the thugs and Conner watches the staircase behind, I move my free hand to grip Wayne¡¯s shirt along the spine instead, without ever breaking contact with the man. Leaning left, then right as if to keep an eye on the thugs, I use the movement to hide my activation of the bull¡¯s head medallion, because it¡¯s better to have and not need than to need and not have.


    Thankfully, no one is sensitive enough to feel the Artifact spin up, mostly because they all got more pressing matters to deal with. ¡°Easy now,¡± Wayne says, and I can almost picture his rat-faced smile as he says, ¡°C¡¯mon guys. We¡¯re all friends here. Ron and me go way back, knew each other before the Advent even.¡± That¡¯s news to me, and makes me wonder if Philly and Pittsburg are related somehow, but I don¡¯t know much about old world geography, or care to learn. ¡°No need to take our weapons,¡± Wayne continues, acting all friendly and casual, but the guards ain¡¯t buying it. ¡°We¡¯re here for a meeting, a nice and quiet one in fact. Told you he¡¯s expecting us, so nothing to worry about.¡±


    The lead thug stares me down, so I give him a smile and a wink since I¡¯m good and covered by Wayne. If they start shooting, then Wayne dies while I go running up the stairs and out the building, which would be real convenient so long as Conner don¡¯t know all the details. Would make for mighty uncomfortable conversations later on down the road, but I can come up with something to cover my ass well enough so long as I take care of Noora too. The thug don¡¯t bite though, which is a real shame, and once again, I¡¯m impressed by the discipline of these goons and wonder how Ron is able to train them up so good. The top thug glances to the side and points with his chin, sending someone out of sight scurrying right quick, and I watch and listen for footsteps behind me even though Conner got that covered. Much as I want to believe he¡¯s on my side, I can¡¯t trust him completely, not after how he went to bat for Wayne so many times.


    And doubly so considering I just got double-crossed by Noora. Girlie never left camp without Sarah Jay, so I figured I was safe, but she didn¡¯t have to leave to talk to Wayne, which could¡¯ve happened right under my nose without my notice. So fuck trust. Can¡¯t count on no one. That¡¯s what I¡¯ve learned. After I sort the girlie out, I¡¯ll have to talk to Captain Jung to make sure no one learns about my part in tracking the Proggie, then axe all my plans to start my own crew. I¡¯m too green, too weak, too unprepared to put a target like that on my back, and I¡¯ve no desire to be press-ganged into service for some second-rate mercs who think they got what it takes to delve under dark.


    It¡¯s a tense minute or two, but mostly for Wayne who¡¯s standing open and defenseless with hands up in front of me. Soon enough though, someone comes running back to whisper in the guard¡¯s ear, who scowls, spits at Wayne¡¯s feet, then grunts to let us in. As the metal lock groans and squeaks to open up, I let go of Wayne¡¯s shirt and tuck my Model 10 back in its holster, only to find myself staring down the barrel of his 1911. ¡°You point a gun at me again Howie,¡± he begins, his squinty eyes narrowed in threat, ¡°And I¡¯ll kill you. We clear?¡±


    ¡°Fine by me,¡± I say, raising my hands in mock surrender and giving him a wink for good measure. Man¡¯s finger ain¡¯t even on the trigger, as his training is so ingrained he won¡¯t put it there till he¡¯s good and ready to shoot. ¡°So long as you promise to wait ¡®til I point the gun at you first.¡±


    Gets me a chuckle from the peanut gallery and throws Wayne for a loop as his beady rat eyes go wide with rage. Finger doesn¡¯t move though, which is a good sign, and even more promising is the fact that he¡¯s noticed I got a Doorknocker pointed at his nether regions, and my Mage Hand most certainly has its finger on the trigger. A threat ain¡¯t effective if it goes unnoticed, so we have ourselves a silent conversation carried out through our eyes. We¡¯ll settle scores later if there¡¯s a later to be had, but right now, we got business to attend to. Wayne¡¯s desperate see, else he wouldn¡¯t have risked bringing me down here, and I suspect more alone than I thought or he wouldn¡¯t have risked coming down here without backup.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    So I let him know that I know he¡¯s in it deep, but I¡¯ll play nice for now. I also remind him of our earlier talk, when I said I¡¯d back him if he wanted to make a play against whoever got his small hairs in a twist. Having seen this fortified bunker with its clean lines of sight down long corridor hallways and wide-open spaces, I ain¡¯t all that confident about fighting my way out, but with Wayne and Conner on my side? Wouldn¡¯t call it a cakewalk, but I¡¯ll take those odds even if they stacked against us, because I¡¯ll bet on myself every time.


    Wayne understands, and I catch a hint of hesitation in his eyes, one laden with fear and regret that is quickly overcome by resolve. Can¡¯t forget that he¡¯s doing this for his wife, which means Ron is likely supplying the poison keeping her alive. Without that connect, Tamara might well slip into withdrawal and die. If I could talk to him, I¡¯d tell him this here is his chance to turn things around. We kill Ron, make off with his stash of drugs, and then Wayne can slowly wean Tamara off the poison until he¡¯s sure she can survive the withdrawal. Sounds easier than it¡¯ll be, and we¡¯ll have to think on our feet to keep from getting jammed up by the law, but it¡¯s better than being a double-dealing rat.


    Least that¡¯s how I see things. Not sure if Wayne feels the same way, but it is what it is. Finished with our non-verbal exchange, we put our weapons away and face the goons with a united front as we march out the gates without a care in the world for all the attention thrown our way. Eight goons come out with guns at the ready to escort us to our meeting with Ron, but most of them ruffians are busy celebrating their victory over Abby with drink, drugs, girls, and more, and none too shy about it neither. Got bare-breasted ladies lying up on the bar while thugs take turns snorting lines off their bodies, while others chug moonshine like water or smoke cigarettes and fill the air with a familiar harsh, acrid stink of bad eggs and putrefaction. Still more play dice, cards, or pool, while others are getting busy with the girlies or watching others go at it in a animalistic display that is both stomach churning and fascinating at the same time.


    One thing¡¯s for sure, these Vanguard National types know how to live it up. Can¡¯t say I see the appeal myself, as I don¡¯t much like losing what little restraint I got, but they seem to be enjoying themselves for the most part. Druggies and children got that same wild energy about them, a sort of stupid ignorance that lets them enjoy the silliest things in life. It¡¯s endearing in children, and pathetic in grown ass men, though I can¡¯t say I don¡¯t envy them for their ability to ignore the future in favour of today. My whole life has been in preparation for tomorrow, so much so that I¡¯ve had little chance to enjoy myself in the moment. Didn¡¯t go to school and make any friends, don¡¯t got time to stop off at the saloon for a cider or three, can¡¯t go out on camping trips with family because there¡¯s too much work to be done.


    It''s the only life I know, one I believe is the right way moving forward, but that don¡¯t make it any easier to go through with.


    Our armed escort brings us to the end eastern end of the room, where Hobb and Jumbo stand waiting outside a fancy wood door to receive us. Or rather Jacob Senior and¡­ Jumbo, who has an actual name that I¡¯ve forgotten. ¡°Franky!¡± Wayne shouts by way of greeting, and big, dumb, and dark breaks out in a big ol¡¯ smile.


    ¡°Cuz!¡± Wrapping his big, meaty arms around the Ranger, Jumbo lifts Wayne off his feet in the mother of all hugs. ¡°Man, you was crazy out there,¡± Franky says, just beaming with pride at the smaller man, who looks almost bashful to be receiving so much attention. ¡°Calling the shots and slinging Spells like nobody¡¯s business. Fuck the Rangers man. Come work for Mr. Jackson. He¡¯ll pay you what you¡¯re worth and make sure Tamara¡¯s cared for. Not like the fucking Feds.¡± Franky spits to the side after letting Wayne down, who bashfully waves off the big guy in a show of brotherly love. Can¡¯t say I see the resemblance, but family takes all sorts.


    ¡°Might have to soon enough,¡± he says, giving me a sidelong look that ain¡¯t none too friendly, and I can guess why. Regardless of how this plays out, he don¡¯t got Marcus looking the other way no more, and he knows Captain Jung and Tim are both suspicious of him. Best case scenario, Ron gets out with our haul and sets Wayne up as a hero for a bit, but eventually, the other shoe will drop and he¡¯ll have a lot of people in powerful positions asking him a whole bunch of uncomfortable questions. Will have plenty of time to get out of dodge though, maybe meet up with wherever Ron scurries off to lay low and wait for the heat to die down. Thing is, while government organizations tend to be slow and inefficient, they also got long memories, so Ron will have to get himself a new identity. Not so difficult a thing to do, but he¡¯d still lose his breadbasket here in Pleasant Dunes, because the lead-lined, Aberrtin laced walls and floors don¡¯t make them any stronger. All it does is dampen Aetheric waves, meaning if I were to use a Detection Spell down here, any signals I send out would be absorbed and muted by the expensive mortar, leaving me mostly blind and deaf, magically speaking.


    So either Ron is worried about government spies listening in on his parties, or he¡¯s got some other reason to want to dampen Aetheric waves, like say a storeroom filled with chemical explosives somewhere on the premises. Not a factory, because lead in the mortar wouldn¡¯t be enough to ensure safety while working with those chemicals out in the open. Need full on lead panel walls for that, the thicker the better, as well as strict behaviour guidelines while working on premises, but what he¡¯s got here will do just fine for storing lead-encased explosives.


    Is what I assume, considering we spent a full week in town slinging Spells at Abby without blowing the whole place to kingdom come. Can¡¯t rightly understand why anyone would want to work with something so volatile and unpredictable as chemical explosives, even ignoring all the risks of Abby getting their hands on it.


    Jovial as Franky is to see his cousin Wayne, Jacob Senior ain¡¯t none too pleased to see me. Got his vest on this time round, and looks more the part with it covering up his greasy, sweat-stained shirt. His boy¡¯s got his looks, which ain¡¯t a compliment to be sure, not with his angular face and large, pointed nose. Ain¡¯t making any effort to look casual this time as he looms over me all full of malice and menace, hand on his TEC-LS and itching to use it. Me, I got my hand on my Model 10 and my Mage Hands ready with my Doorknockers, both prepped and ready to unleash a hail of kinetic shot in a 180-degree arc behind me. With luck, that¡¯ll take out all our escorts at once while Conner picks off the stragglers and I put two Bolts in Jacob Senior here. As for Franky, I¡¯ll watch and wait for Wayne¡¯s sake, though from what I remember, Franky might¡¯ve done one too many lines over a lifetime of debauchery, and it¡¯s got him all messed up in the head. Figured Ron was keeping the man around out of sentiment or something, or maybe he¡¯s a fiend once his blood gets hot, but either way, Franky ain¡¯t the sharpest tool in the box, and I ain¡¯t all that concerned about him.


    ¡°You gonna pay for what you did to my boy, Qink.¡± Got the air of a promise it does, one Jacob Senior means to keep, and for once, I decide its better to keep my mouth shut than keep adding fuel to the fire. Man¡¯s about a hair¡¯s breadth away from bubbling over with rage, and then I¡¯d have to put him down alongside the eight guards and room full of Vanguard National thugs. The very large room, much bigger than twenty-four metres across no matter which way you slice it, meaning I can¡¯t well clear it out with a single use of my Big Spell, even doubled in size with Widen Metamagic. ¡°Make what Troy tried to do look like a game.¡±


    That gets my head to tilting, because I don¡¯t know any Troy, but the answer dawns on me a moment later. The merchant who drugged me. Furious as it makes me, I let none of it show on my face, only in my eyes as I grin and bare my teeth. ¡°Won that game though, now didn¡¯t I?¡± I say, and my smile grows as it sets Jacob Senior back on his heels, because he don¡¯t see any fear in my eyes, only rage and the promise of death staring right back at him.


    From the sound of Conner¡¯s uncomfortable shuffling, it seems he knows the story too, which annoys me something fierce. Suppose Wayne had to tell him as much to get him on board with this meeting, but I don¡¯t much like how many people know about my deep, dark secret. Or not a secret anymore I suppose. No more talking things out with girlies I just met, no matter how pretty or vulnerable they might seem.


    Don¡¯t know if it¡¯s something in my eyes, or more of that Vanguard National discipline, but Jacob don¡¯t make any more fuss. ¡°Show me your hands,¡± he says. Mine is still clutched firmly to my Model 10, and after I glance at his hand on his TEC-LS, Jacob relents and removes his hand from the gun. Only then do I follow suit, but rather than up by my head, I keep them low with palms up to show I mean no harm, but I ain¡¯t gonna trust them complete. Accepting as much, Jacob sneers and adds, ¡°Mage Hands too.¡±


    Tch. Hard to cheat when they seen most your tricks already, so I holster the Doorknockers behind my back and bring the Mage Hands out too, holding them up on either side of my head with palms forward and fingers spread. That ain¡¯t enough though, as Jacob nods and says, ¡°Cast Dancing Light. No funny business now.¡±


    Standard practice to make sure I¡¯m not holding Concentration on a different Spell or have one prepped and ready to sling. So I play along and slowly reach into my component¡¯s pouch for a pinch of phosphorous before waggling my fingers and intoning, ¡°Choris ¨C Luminum.¡± The soft, hazy light bursts into existence as my Mage Hands fade out, and Jacob glares at where they disappeared from as if worried I¡¯ll bring them out again unseen. Which to be fair is entirely possible, since I can Metamagic it to eschew Verbal or Somatic components. Wouldn¡¯t take long neither, just a second or two with my hands out of sight, or enough distance for me to mutter a short chant under my breath and I¡¯ll have them back again, resting on the handles of my Doorknockers hidden beneath my duster.


    So Jacob does the smart thing and says, ¡°Cast Mage Hands again.¡± So I do, and they appear where they last were, shimmering blue glows that meld with the soft radiance of the Dancing Light. Don¡¯t need to Concentrate on Mage Hands during its natural duration, only to extend it, and Jacob is finally satisfied I got no Spellslinging tricks up my sleeve. I don¡¯t, but I play it cool and cocky as can be, because if he thinks he missed something Spells-wise, he¡¯ll have to divide his attention to watch for any funny business. Better than leaving him focused only on my guns, which are really all I got left to me.


    ¡°Yea, you a tricksy, treacherous Qink, you are,¡± Jacob says, leaning in to snarl. ¡°Got my eye on you this time, so don¡¯t be tryin¡¯ no funny business.¡± His piece said, Jacob finally sees fit to open the door behind him, and gestures for me to head in first. Inside is a well-furnished office, with a little counter that¡¯s got a bucket of ice to chill several bottles of my mead, alongside some other local varieties of shine. Two big bookshelves sit behind a stately wooden desk, with a big wooden chair lined in leather upon which the man himself sits. Ronald Jackson. Looks as handsome as I remember him, with his long, dirty blond locks pulled back into a high ponytail and his piercing blue eyes fixed on mine, even though he got the lovely miss Laura perched in his lap.


    ¡°Howie,¡± he begins, dragging his chair back against the stone floor with a scrape so miss Laura has room to stand. ¡°Wish I could say it was good to see you, but I¡¯m glad you¡¯re here.¡± Walking over to greet me with a crushing handshake, he holds firm and squeezes tight, but this time I don¡¯t play along. Instead of gripping his hand with all five of my fingers, I keep my index and middle finger outstretched towards his wrist, sort of like I¡¯m shaking with a finger gun in hand. Can squeeze all he wants, but he ain¡¯t crushing my hand no more, because my knuckles are aligned and braced rather than bundled up like loose sticks. It¡¯s the least confrontational response to the crushing grip, and as much as I would like to break Ron¡¯s wrist or shoot him in the gut, I¡¯m still not entirely committed to a fight just yet.


    I don¡¯t hate my odds, not here in this tiny office of his. Fifty-fifty I come out on top, which I think is good enough, but my daddy would¡¯ve called me fool for risking my neck without good reason.


    Especially with a whole room of thugs sitting pretty outside¡­


    ¡°Well here I am,¡± I say in response, because ain¡¯t no sense lying. ¡°Was told you wanted to talk, so talk.¡±


    Shaking his head with a chuckle, Ron does that thing where he makes you like him just because he a handsome, well-put-together man. ¡°The stones on you, boy. Told you I admired that and I meant it.¡± After greeting Wayne with a nod, Ron gestures at the bottles of mead and shine. ¡°Drink?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t mind if I do,¡± I say, making a beeline for the bucket and grabbing a bottle of my mead. Not because I got a thirst, but so I can pop the cork and have something close by to light up and throw. I should get me a second bracelet, similar to my Metamagic bead bracelet, only with beads made of common components like flintstone, quartz, jasper, jadeite, and whatever else I might need for slinging Spells on the quick. That goes onto the list, below a portable shower stall, padded seats on the wagon, oil for my new holster, non-clinking straps for my vial pouch, and a whole lot more I might¡¯ve already forgotten.


    By the time I¡¯ve got my drink in hand, Ron¡¯s made his way back to his desk and is sitting there waiting for me to join him. Wayne and Conner stand on either side of the only other chair in the room which I suppose is my seat, while miss Laura stands behind Ron¡¯s chair, her arm draped around it in a slinky, almost intimate fashion. As for Jacob and Franky, they¡¯re standing guard at the door, but inside rather than out so they can keep an eye on us. Makes me feel mighty trapped it does, as I ain¡¯t a fan of tight spaces filled with dangerous men, but there¡¯s no turning back now. Reminding myself that there¡¯s no way Ron can get away with murdering me here in town, I fake a swig of mead on my way back and let most of it dribble onto the stone floor before plonking myself down in my seat. ¡°So,¡± I say, by way of opening up the floor for conversation as I place my right hand and Mage Hands flat against his desk, while my left hand holds firm to the bottle of mead. ¡°How¡¯s tricks?¡±


    Leaning back and looking relaxed as can be, Ron shakes his head with a smile. ¡°Could be worse, but could be better.¡± Pointing at me like he caught me with my hand in the cookie jar, he continues, ¡°And you¡¯re mostly to blame.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯s that then?¡± I ask, genuinely curious. ¡°I went and alerted the Rangers like you wanted, brought you the very Company you hoped would answer the call. Took care of your Abby problem and left most of your town intact too.¡± Shrugging, I add, ¡°Way I hear it, you did most of the damage yourself with your explosives, to the town and your rep too. Whatever troubles you¡¯ve wrought, you brung ¡®em on yourself, dabbling in contraband chemicals like you did. Ain¡¯t my fault all the old world organizations are gonna be calling for your head.¡±


    ¡°Troubles?¡± Looking genuinely surprised, Ron pieces my meaning together quick enough and chuckles beneath his breath. ¡°You call that trouble?¡± Shaking his head, he says, ¡°You keep surprising me Howie. You walk the walk and talk the talk, so much so that I forget you¡¯re still only seventeen.¡±


    ¡°Young an¡¯ idealistic,¡± miss Laura drawls, giving me warning look while casually running her fingers over Ron¡¯s head. ¡°Seen the worst in people, but still hopes for the best, because he ain¡¯t been disappointed enough just yet.¡±


    Can¡¯t say I like how she frames it, but can¡¯t argue against it either, so I ignore it and wait for Ron to explain. ¡°No matter how powerful or ubiquitous Aetherarms might be,¡± Ron begins, his deep gravelly voice full of good cheer and amusement from his recent victory, ¡°They¡¯re bottlenecked by the need for a Spellcaster to Etch the Runes. Doesn¡¯t matter if they¡¯re using a stencil or a stamp, you still need someone capable of casting Spells to provide the necessary spiritual component required to make the Etchings work, and there¡¯s a hard limit to how many Etches any one Spellslinger can safely do in a week. Even the best would be hard pressed to churn out more than two dozen 22-10 Aetherarms, and it gets worse when you move up to 44-40. Add in the fact that we need to kill Abby to procure the necessary Spell Cores and the high degree of difficulty in designing those Aetherarms in the first place, and you¡¯ve got three major bottlenecks to massed Aetherarm production with no easy way to get around them here on the Frontier.¡±


    Facts are facts, and there¡¯s no arguing against them, but I don¡¯t see what that¡¯s got to do with anything at all. A notion I convey clearly without meaning to, earning me another chuckle. ¡°Out of a thousand members and employees of Vanguard National, we¡¯ve got only the one true-blue gunsmith,¡± Ron exclaims, which drawls a snarl out of Jacob Senior. Junior must be the apple of his eye then, on account of his ¡®talents¡¯, though the boy could use a couple more beatings to set him straight. ¡°And that¡¯s like winning the lottery,¡± Ron continues, though he sounds less than thrilled. ¡°Americans, we take pride in our Aetherarms because we used them to conquer the west and win our independence from the Immortal Monarchs backing the original settlers, but the truth is, we don¡¯t know that much about the Spell Cores that power them. And why would we? Back in the fifteen hundreds, the only people who knew magic was real were related to the Immortal Monarchs, or working for them. Sir Issac Newton popularized the study of magic in the late 1600s, but it wasn¡¯t until the Aetheric Revolution in the 1800s that use of magic in everyday life became commonplace.¡±


    Pulling out a drawer from behind his desk, Ron reaches in and pulls something out. A metal tube with a fat cap on one end, and even though I¡¯ve never seen one before, I know enough to say that¡¯s probably an explosive. ¡°Three hundred years, give or take,¡± Ron says, as I shift away from the explosive in his hand, one he waves about willy nilly while he talks. ¡°That¡¯s how long the general population has known about magic, so we¡¯ve barely scratched the surface of understanding it. We don¡¯t really, understand it that is. We know how to utilize Spells and Spell Cores, but we don¡¯t know how they work.¡± Narrowing his eyes as he points at me with the exploding tube in his hand, he says, ¡°Chemistry though? We¡¯ve have a whole lot longer to figure that out, and we¡¯ve been using gunpowder to kill one another for nigh on eight centuries now. Why up until the early nineteen eighties, they were a key element of every soldier¡¯s kit, as even basic grunts carried two frag grenades a piece.¡±


    Again, I give him a look that says I¡¯m waiting on him to make a point, and he does so by brandishing the tube in his hand. ¡°This isn¡¯t a frag grenade. It¡¯s a potato masher grenade,¡± he says, flashing a smile that reminds me of myself when I¡¯m talking about Aetherarms. ¡°Named so because it looks like a potato masher, but it works much the same way. Fully enclosed lead casing, meaning you could sling Spells all day and all night with this strapped to your hip, and there¡¯s no chance it¡¯ll ever go off.¡± Pointing at the skinny end, he says, ¡°All you gotta do is pull and throw. Four to five second fuse delay, and it¡¯ll explode into metal fragments shredding anything within its blast radius, which is round about fifty feet.¡±


    I hate the Imperial system, mostly because it don¡¯t make much sense. A bit of mental math tells me that¡¯s fifteen metres, which is nice and all, but not all that impressive compared to a Metamagicked Fireball. Then I think about it some more, and realize that if every soldier carried two of these, then twenty grunts could tear entire hordes of Abby apart. Even the best Spellslingers on the Frontier can barely eke out double-digit Fireballs before having to sleep, but if a grenade is just a lead tube and a couple chemicals, then we don¡¯t have enough Magi on the Frontier to match that scale of destruction.


    Because like someone once said, quantity has got a quality all of its own.


    ¡°Now you¡¯re getting it,¡± Ron says, pointing at me like I¡¯m some prized student. ¡°A clever one, almost too clever like I said. That¡¯s what I like about you, Howie. You¡¯re quick on your feet.¡± Tapping the grenade in his hand, he says, ¡°After the mess in Australia, the United Nations condemned the use of explosives, but that was in the old world, where they had tanks, planes, helicopters, and power armour to protect them. Weapon batteries powered by gaseous Aether capable of firing thousands of Bolts per minute and torpedo tubes to deliver Ninth-Order Spells from over a hundred klicks away, to say nothing of those Archmagi standing at the top of their craft and those few ultra powerful Spellcasters poised to challenge mortality itself. Taking a hundred steps back, every single soldier was armed with an m4a1 Bolt Burst rifle, a fully automatic Aetherarm with a liquid power pack capable of delivering a hundred and twenty Bolt-1 shots in less than a minute before having to reload. Here?¡± Pulling out the big iron on his hip, Ron rests it gently on the table for me to admire, a giant Ranger Naga 45, the granddaddy of all revolvers and the cream of the crop of all Federation Standard Issue sidearms. ¡°This is what we call cutting edge. A six-shooter designed in the early 1900s.¡±


    Which is really underselling the Naga, as it¡¯s an anti-caster sidearm that punches way above its weight class. Not only does it have the holy trinity of Intensify, Empower, and Maximize, it¡¯s also got Penetrate and Toppling to really ruin the day of whatever you hit. On top of that, it¡¯s got a unique pair of Metamagics rarely used by rifles much less sidearms, namely Siege and Concussive. The former is like Penetrate on steroids, but focused against inorganics, meaning you can blow a hole clean through six-inches of solid steel and still explode an armoured bugbear hiding behind it, while the latter leaves anyone in the general vicinity of your Bolt with a headache like no other. Breaks Concentration and makes it difficult to sling Spells in the aftermath, even if they only in the general vicinity of wherever you shooting.


    ¡°I mean, if you don¡¯t want it, I¡¯ll gladly take it off your hands,¡± I say. He¡¯s got two of them if I remember right, and while they won¡¯t look as nice hanging from my hip, they¡¯ll look good enough.


    Earns me a genuine chuckle outta Ron, because he¡¯s happy to see I still got some spunk. ¡°Maybe,¡± he says, and to my surprise, he sounds like he means it. ¡°We¡¯ll see. The point I¡¯m trying to make though, is that we here on the Frontier? We¡¯re all in over our heads. None of us knew coming in that the Aberration infestation would be so far advanced, because they told us Proggies had only just recently arrived.¡± Gesturing south towards the Divide, Ron says, ¡°You¡¯ve seen it. That look like a recent arrival to you?¡± Shaking his head without waiting for an answer, he stares off into the distance with a grimace. "I¡¯ve spent the better part of a decade getting my hands on all the Aetherarms I can get, built twenty gatlings and stockpiled barrels enough to go through tens of thousands of rounds, but even then, we would¡¯ve lost the town without these.¡± Shaking the grenade for effect, Ron puts it down on his desk with a smile. ¡°This here was a demonstration, a proof of concept if you will, one I recorded and will share with anyone who cares to watch it. You think anyone will care about the United Nations when they see how effective these grenades are and learn how I can produce hundreds of them every week? The only trouble I¡¯ll have moving forward from today is filling all the orders that¡¯ll come pouring in.¡±


    ¡°That why you had your Scout sandbag the Rangers?¡± I ask, genuinely curious for once. ¡°So you could show off your big booms against an enraged Abby horde?¡±


    ¡°Partially,¡± he replies, giving me a smile that¡¯s meant to say there¡¯s more to it, but I already know the rest. Man wanted a pet Proggie, and I should¡¯ve left him to it. Marcus wouldn¡¯t have died and we¡¯d be on our way out here and now.


    Which sounds real appealing, so I give the man a nod of respect before pushing on. ¡°Sounds great,¡± I say, omitting the not so minor fact of how we all in for a real shitstorm if some Proggie gets their tentacles on enough grenades to replicate the chemical process and births a whole army of exploding Abby. ¡°Not that I don¡¯t appreciate you laying it all out for me or nothing,¡± I continue, meeting the man¡¯s eyes while tapping my finger against his desk. Oddly enough, he don¡¯t flinch this time, which gets my brain to itching, because that tells me something important, except I don¡¯t know what just yet. ¡°Thing is, I can¡¯t imagine you¡­ insisting on this meeting just to teach me a history lesson.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re absolutely right,¡± Ron says, leaning back in his chair again, where miss Laura gets to stroking his head once more. Seems nice, the dynamic they got, and from the way he slips his arm around her waist to pull her in close, I think he might even genuinely love her. ¡°It recently came to my attention that you¡¯re responsible for a significant loss I suffered last year when a shipment of cargo went missing.¡± Glancing over at Wayne, who can¡¯t help but shuffle his feet, Ron lets the man squirm for a long second before turning his attention back to me. ¡°Normally, I wouldn¡¯t bother handling this myself. Wayne is the one who dropped the ball, so it falls to him to clean up his own mess, but when I heard all the details, I couldn¡¯t help myself.¡±


    ¡°So it falls on me to pay his debt then.¡± Heaving a sigh, I ask, ¡°Was told the damage was twenty grand? Got at least seven grand coming my way soon. Wayne can vouch for that.¡± I know better than to mention we got a Mage Armour Spell Core on hand, because even if it¡¯s small potates to a man like Ronald Jackson, the rich don¡¯t get that way by letting minor gains slip by. ¡°I¡¯m good for the rest, but not if you set your dogs on me or the Rangers.¡± Rather than make any threats, I meet his eyes and show him I mean business, because don¡¯t nobody fuck with me or mine and get away clean.


    ¡°Forget the debt,¡± Ron says with a smile. ¡°Come work for me.¡±


    The words hang in the air for a moment and I blink a few times, trying to piece together his meaning in a way that makes sense. ¡°Come again?¡±


    ¡°Come work for me, Howie.¡± Leaning forward to steeple his fingers, Ron hits me with his devilish smile. ¡°Told you before. You¡¯re selling yourself short. You¡¯ve got potential, but you¡¯re wasting it hauling goods, hunting Abby, and tracking down outlaws, for what? In hopes the Rangers will train you up to be a Scout? What for? So you can charge them a percentage of the profits when you¡¯re good enough to hire? Why would they when they can train up a Ranger recruit instead? Doesn¡¯t matter who your daddy was, or who your friends are. The Federal Army won¡¯t waste a dollar on training you up unless you enlist.¡±


    Which makes more sense than I care to admit. ¡°And you will?¡±


    ¡°God, no.¡± Ron scoffs, as if he finds the idea ridiculous. ¡°Why would I need a Scout? No, there are better uses for you Howie, using the skills you already have, and you¡¯ll learn the rest as you go, of that I¡¯m sure. You agree, and we wipe the slate clean. Wayne walks away debt free, and you become a prospect in Vanguard National. One of our own, a brother in arms who I bet will be patched in within the month, and maybe even earn your cut if you care to. I¡¯ll make you rich Howie, set you up for success, and if you still want to be an Aether baron a few years down the road, I¡¯ll even help fund your first delve. Might not even need the help if you do as well as expected, and when the Watershed comes around, we¡¯ll be lauded as the heroes who supplied the soldiers of the Frontier the weapons they needed to win them the war.¡±


    Takes a moment to register that all this is real, and another to verify that his offer is a genuine one. A decent one too, because I can see that he¡¯s got what it takes to deliver on his promises. No wonder he¡¯s the bossman. He knows how to turn disaster into profit and when to reach out and shake hands. I came in here ready to go down guns blazing, and now I¡¯m considering an offer to join his crew. Sorta seriously considering in fact, because even though I don¡¯t like how the man operates, it¡¯s not like I got many other prospects. For once, I don¡¯t answer right away, and judging by Ron¡¯s relaxed posture, he seems content to let me think, so I do the smartest thing I¡¯ve done in weeks.


    I stop, shut my mouth, and think about what I¡¯m going to say before I say it. There¡¯s a first time for everything I suppose, and depending on how things go, this here may be the first of many firsts to come.

 Chapter 54

    ¡°You shitting me?¡±


    A question to reflect the one I wanted to ask, though I would never be so crude. It¡¯s par for the course for Jacob though, and I catch a flash of annoyance in Ron¡¯s expression as he fixes his gaze on his Sergeant-at-Arms with a warning gaze. One that goes right over Jacob¡¯s head it seems as the tall, gangly, sweat-stain of a thug marches right up Ron¡¯s desk and slams his hand down beside me. I wince to see it, but not because of Jacob. No, it¡¯s the grenade on the table that¡¯s got me all jumpy, and seeing it bounce on the hard wood has my belly doing flip flops all over the place.


    No one else blinks an eye though, and Jacob don¡¯t even notice as he leans in and says, ¡°This runty Qin disrespects Big Al, shoots Tank in the leg, beats Junior bloody, and you want to patch him in?¡±


    ¡°Also broke Mullet¡¯s hand and gave Nelly a concussion,¡± I add, mostly because I kinda agree with Jacob. Seems a little ridiculous after all. ¡°Junior¡¯s keepers,¡± I add, when they give me a questioning look. ¡°Don¡¯t know their real names.¡±


    Neither do they, and they both would¡¯ve forgotten it if I hadn¡¯t brung it up. Worth it just to see the disbelief on everyone¡¯s faces as they wonder just what my game is. Everyone besides miss Laura of course, who hits me with a frigid gaze all full of sass that says she knows what I¡¯m doing and that I¡¯m better off keeping quiet. Real wordy with her eyes, she is, but this here is a difference of opinion, because I think I¡¯m better off now that Jacob Senior is standing at my side, rather than lurking unseen behind me with his hand on his gun. All I gotta worry about is Franky now, and I got no qualms about using Wayne as a human shield again if things get hot. The rat-faced traitor won¡¯t shoot me outright either, because he¡¯s still hoping for this to all blow over like the fool he is, thinking he can live with one foot in both worlds rather than treading the careful line in between.


    Most criminals think they can do it, benefit from the law while flouting it at the same time. Saw it on the way up here with those fools I gunned down on the highway while Errol and Sarah Jay made every mistake in the book. Wayne¡¯s a little different, because he¡¯s taking advantage of the Ranger star on his chest to do whatever he likes, betraying the trust inherent to the Rangers and the mission they uphold. Man¡¯s a disgrace to the badge, blaming his woes on Marcus just because his wife got a problem with addiction. That ain¡¯t on anyone but her, so it¡¯s her cross to bear. Hard drugs are outlawed for good reason, not just because of the harm they do to the person who takes them, but also the hefty toll they take on the society that supports them. Addiction is a hell of a thing, and while I sympathize with addicts, that don¡¯t mean they get a free pass on the crimes they commit in pursuit of those highs. Them drug-addled idiots who shot Darren all those years back are a prime example, so if Tamara wants to snort, shoot, or otherwise imbibe whatever she likes? Go right ahead, but that don¡¯t mean the rest of us gotta enable her.


    In short? If Wayne wants to act like an outlaw, then he ought to live like one too, instead of crossing lines whenever he sees fit. Like Ronald Jackson sitting across the desk from me, who wears the outlaw title with pride. Man knows he runs a criminal organization and does so with no regard for authority, flaunting the laws and confident others will come down on his side. Don¡¯t make him less of a monster, but at least he don¡¯t make no excuses, which I can respect. ¡°Howie,¡± Ron begins, wielding my name like a club to correct his boy and show where he stands, ¡°Would make a fine addition to Vanguard National. Junior said it himself; Howie all but solved the issues we¡¯re having with the gatlings, and could likely acquire the learning materials needed to bring Junior¡¯s skills to the next level.¡±


    Giving me a look to confirm, I lean back in my chair and raise an eyebrow. ¡°You mean his inability to combine Empower and Intensify? Yea, I know how it¡¯s done.¡± Know a lot more too, like the Etches for Maximize and Quicken my mama left in my notes, though I¡¯ve never Etched them myself. Theoretical knowledge is one thing, actually doing it is another, so it¡¯d probably take me a good year to craft a working Aetherarm with those Metamagics. Twelve long, gruelling months of sitting in front of a workbench and trying to puzzle things out, because there¡¯s no going to Mr. Kalthoff or Marijke for stuff concerning high-level military secrets. Only reason I still have access to the stuff is because my mama¡¯s notes are written in Qinese, so I got to keep the originals, while the translated bits with Uncle Teddy¡¯s explanations are all locked up tight in his weapon¡¯s locker back home.


    Nodding in thought, Ron reads more from my expression than I¡¯d like and continues, ¡°Howie is clever, dangerous, and isn¡¯t above skirting around the law when necessary. Most importantly,¡± he adds, giving Jacob another good, hard look, ¡°This is the same offer I made to you all those years ago, after you tried to cut my throat in my sleep. Why stay enemies when we can make friends instead? I believe Howie will make a fine addition to the club. That¡¯s why I¡¯m personally extending him an invitation to become a prospect. If you can¡¯t let bygones be bygones, then you bring it up when it comes time to discuss whether or not we patch him in.¡±


    A fine way for the bossman to put his underling in his place, but Jacob don¡¯t catch on too quick. ¡°This is bullshit,¡± he says, missing the warning in Ron¡¯s gaze as he turns his sneer towards me. ¡°Junior don¡¯t need him. There¡¯re plenty of gunmakers who can help Junior along, we just gotta make it worth their while.¡± Translation, Junior is a vile little shit and don¡¯t no one want to teach him for peanuts. Turning back to Ron, Jacob¡¯s tone turns whiny and belligerent. ¡°I¡¯ve been with you from the start, and after Georgie died, Junior stepped up big time to fill those shoes, putting what he learned to good use and coming up with those gatlings. We¡¯re Vanguard National through and through, and after what this slant-eyed fuck has done to us, you¡¯re just gonna let him slide?¡±


    ¡°Howie was defending his family, same as you are right now,¡± Ron says, sitting upright to meet Jacob¡¯s challenge of his authority. ¡°And if he agrees to join, then he gets the same clemency we offer all new patches.¡±


    Honestly, I¡¯m a little conflicted seeing him go to bat for me. Still think he¡¯s a terrible human being, but there¡¯s just something about him that¡¯s hard to hate. How many other outlaws would extend an invitation like this? Just look past the animosity and offer to hire me on when he¡¯s got me by the scruff? Shit, there are legit outfits who got a good handle on what I can do and wouldn¡¯t even entertain the thought of taking me on, because they thought it was too much of a hassle to show me the ropes. Never mind the fact that I¡¯ve proven myself capable coming back time and time again with a cargo load full of Abby corpses or information on prime hunting grounds for sale; In their eyes, I¡¯m still just a snot-nosed kid who¡¯ll be nothing but dead weight while they¡¯re out on the road.


    Not that I blame them all that much. Ain¡¯t related to them, so why would they want to take on that burden? Even the Rangers won¡¯t train me up unless I enlist, that much is clear. Especially now that Marcus is gone, because he might well have been the only one willing to bend the rules for me. Like he did here in Pleasant Dunes, and paid dearly for it, a lesson that won¡¯t be lost on the others. Then there¡¯s Uncle Teddy, who¡¯d love to have me back for Spellslinging lessons every Sunday after church, but that¡¯d be it. He won¡¯t bring me out on Ranger operations, not if Ranger High Command won¡¯t allow it. Would see it as an abuse of his personal authority, and The Marshal ain¡¯t one to ever do such a thing. We were both short-sighted to think the Rangers would allow it, because there ain¡¯t no benefit for them, and like I mentioned before, the cost of training boots into Ranger ain¡¯t no small potates.


    And yet Ron here thinks I¡¯m worth it. A real kick in the gut that is, when your enemies value you more than your allies.


    While I brood over lost opportunities, Ron and Jacob play out their silent power struggle and end it as expected, with Jacob scoffing and backing down to lean against the wall and stare at me from my side. Within my peripheral vision no less, showing how he don¡¯t really deserve his place as Ron¡¯s Sergeant-at-Arms. Starting to think Jacob only rose so high because of Junior, and maybe because he¡¯s trustworthy. Same is probably true for Franky back there, who¡¯s all muscle and ain¡¯t all that right in the head. Or maybe it¡¯s part of Ron¡¯s game, putting incapable people in positions of power so they¡¯re too busy holding onto what they got instead of vying for the crown, so to speak. Either way, as enticing as this offer seems, I ain¡¯t all that enthused about signing on with Vanguard National.


    ¡°I appreciate the offer,¡± I say, and to my surprise, I actually mean it. ¡°It¡¯s a generous one, and I¡¯m almost tempted to take it. Thing is, I don¡¯t agree with most of what you do.¡± Waving at Wayne, then up at the town, I say, ¡°The drugs, the explosives, the wage slavery, the rapists in your employ. None of that sits right with me, so if you don¡¯t mind, I¡¯d rather settle up our debt another way.¡±


    Or you know¡­ agree to do so, then come back when I¡¯m not exhausted and unprepared to shoot Ron in the head and blow his explosive stockpile to kingdom come.


    Ronald Jackson ain¡¯t a man accustomed to hearing no, and he¡¯s already riled up about Jacob getting on his last nerve. Gives me a good, hard look over top of his steepled fingers, the king looming over his would-be subject as it were. ¡°Young and idealistic,¡± he says, shaking his head. ¡°Those are all a means to an end, a goal you don¡¯t got the perspective to understand. Tell me Howie; what do you think our goal is here in Vanguard National?¡±


    ¡°Dunno,¡± I say with a shrug, because I¡¯ve never given it any thought. ¡°Money and power I suppose.¡±


    ¡°One and the same,¡± Ron replies. ¡°Money is power Howie, in a very real and direct way. They buy weapons and the men to use them. Not just to fight Abby, but to defend ourselves against others who want to take what¡¯s ours, outlaws and government outfits who think they can step all over us and tell us how to live. Things aren¡¯t perfect here, I¡¯ll be the first to admit it, but you work with what you have.¡±


    ¡°Suppose we¡¯ll have to agree to disagree on that one, Mr. Jackson,¡± I say, not missing how he keeps using my name to try and make it seem like we friends. Might as well let him, because even though I¡¯m spoiling for a fight, I still don¡¯t like my odds, not with a god-damned grenade sitting on the man¡¯s desk. I¡¯m angry, not suicidal, so even though I¡¯d love nothing more than to start shooting the place up, all my training tells me I ought to keep my head down and live to fight another day. If we was having this conversation on the second floor, I¡¯d have less qualms about fighting it out, because worst comes to worst, I can always jump out the window and leg it for the Ranger camp. Here in this basement though? With one way up that¡¯s kept locked and guarded? Only way to win is to kill everyone here, which will need more than a little luck, so might as well see where this goes first. ¡°I don¡¯t agree with everything in the Accords or what the government does, but there¡¯s a lot I do agree with, and I think they¡¯re doing a fine enough job.¡±


    ¡°You call disavowing your father after fourteen years of service a fine job?¡± The question hits hard and makes me sit up straight, one hand clenched around the bottle and the other pressed flat against Ron¡¯s desk. Takes everything I got not to throw the bottle at him, and I only succeed because he¡¯s spitting facts. ¡°Politicians are a bunch self-serving parasites without morals or compunctions,¡± Ron continues, magnanimously overlooking my flaring temper to lay out the facts. ¡°Scummy, double-dealing opportunist who¡¯d sell out their own people for a few extra bucks in their pockets, and will bend over backwards to twists lies into truth. Saw it firsthand in Lebanon, and plenty more back home in Pittsburgh once I was stateside again, and you¡¯ll see it soon as you know what to look for.¡±


    Like how some hot-shot politico downriver got the Rangers to wash out Errol after his dustup with little Dick. Or how Ron sees the ban on explosives as a complete non-issue, so much so that he was surprised when I brung it up. Said it once and I¡¯ll say it again, violence is all folks respond to. Don¡¯t pay your taxes, and the government will put you to work just like Ron does, so the only thing that really separates them is proper justification. An important distinction all the same, and I can¡¯t see a world in which me and Ron team up, not with his outfit being the way it is. ¡°You ain¡¯t wrong,¡± I say, because he isn¡¯t. ¡°They say if you can¡¯t beat ¡®em, join ¡®em, so I suppose that¡¯s your goal then? Become a politico yourself, one representin¡¯ the interests of the Independents?¡±


    ¡°And one willing to stand up to the old world governments even after the Watershed,¡± Ron says, hitting all the right notes in a song and dance I gotta work hard not to join in on. Ain¡¯t no need to get into it though, because we can see that we both agree on this. The old world governments belong to the old world; the Frontier is ours. No two ways about it, and he sees there¡¯s no sense in preaching to the choir.


    Which makes it real hard to stick to my guns, but I¡¯m nothing if not stubborn. ¡°Shame really,¡± I say, shaking my head. ¡°There¡¯s a part of me that wants to join up, or at least sit down and talk it over a bit more, but I don¡¯t see the point. You make some good points, but you cross a lot of lines best left uncrossed, so unfortunately, I got no choice but to pick option B.¡±


    Ron sits there and stares at me for a good long second, then shakes his head with a smile as he turns to miss Laura. ¡°You were right,¡± he says, leaning in towards her as she strokes his cheek. ¡°Not a chance he joins up, even though it¡¯d be smarter to lie and pretend to get out of this bind.¡±


    ¡°Thought didn¡¯t even occur to him,¡± she drawls, and I hate to admit it, but she¡¯s right. I¡¯ll lie when I have to, but it don¡¯t come natural, so I gotta make sure I got all my ducks in a row before committing to one. ¡°A rare breed he is, a killer with principles.¡±


    Heaving a sigh, Ron looks me over and considers making another offer, but he knows there¡¯s no point. There are some things I won¡¯t bend on, and I ain¡¯t worth compromising over. ¡°Fine then,¡± he says, putting his Ranger Naga away, but leaving the grenade on his desk, because he¡¯s caught on to how it unnerves me. Jerk. ¡°We¡¯ll do things the hard way. Twenty grand was my expected return, and it¡¯s been over a year since then. I¡¯ll be charging you interest for time missed, because you don¡¯t work for me and I have no reason not to. Two and a half points weekly puts your debt at¡­¡±


    Ron gives me a look while I process what he¡¯s saying, expecting me to do the math for him. ¡°Weekly,¡± I say, my gaze going dark. ¡°Two point five percent. Retrograde for the last year.¡± Ron shrugs, looking smug as can be, because he thinks I got no choice but to play ball, but now he¡¯s the one being short-sighted. ¡°That¡¯s 68 grand and change.¡± Highway robbery, or the closest thing to it. I tap my finger, wishing I had my Big Spell Prepped so I could blow everyone here to kingdom come, but Ron don¡¯t flinch. Knows I don¡¯t have a Spell readied, because he probably instructed Jacob to make sure I didn¡¯t, but then how¡¯d he know I had it readied last time we did this little dance?


    ¡°Compound interest is a bitch,¡± Ron says, enjoying the moment for what it is.


    ¡°And if I don¡¯t pay?¡± I ask, just to make things clear.


    ¡°Then we release this to the Rangers.¡± Pulling out a crystal from his desk drawer, he places it on the desk within reach. ¡°A recording of your conversation with Noora, where you admit to killing my man. After that, we come calling to collect on your debt, and if you¡¯re not around to pay, then we¡¯ll go looking for friends and family to help settle up.¡± Shrugging, he adds, ¡°Nothing personal. It¡¯s business Howie. I¡¯m a patient man though. You make your payments through Wayne, and come to me directly if you change your mind and want to work something out.¡±


    He''s got more to say, but I can¡¯t take my eyes off the crystal, because things don¡¯t add up. I thought Noora talked, and she still might¡¯ve, but how¡¯d they get me on crystal? A recording device like my bull¡¯s head medallion is hard to miss, and Noora came to us in a pair of itsy bitsy shorts and a shirt only a slight bit bigger than my kerchief. Was she bugged then? But how? Can¡¯t just Spell an item to set an Arcane Bug, gotta Etch a Sigil into something firm, like leather, wood, or metal. Cloth can work, but wrinkles tend to ruin it, and Noora¡¯s been wearing a uniform and boots she borrowed off of Kacey, so how could she be bugged?


    Unless she wasn¡¯t.


    Which means I was.


    Hell¡­ I might even know how.


    Putting aside my bottle of mead, I lift my hat off of my head and turn it around for a look-see. All it takes is a single finger to pull the medallion forward just a bit and spot the Arcane Bug sitting there plain as day. Just an Etching on a square of leather tucked between the medallion and my hat, one that could¡¯ve only been placed by one person without me noticing before my little heart to heart chat with Noora. Turning to Conner in disbelief, I almost want to deny it, to stop and think how else the bug could¡¯ve gotten there, because there¡¯s no way he¡¯d do me dirty like that. Except he did, and Conner cringes to see the rage in my eyes, tries to frame his betrayal in a way that makes it cut less deep. ¡°I only put it there as a precaution,¡± he says, looking all apologetic as can be, but that don¡¯t change the facts. ¡°You know, a word of warning in case you went to Marcus with what you knew, so Wayne would have a heads up in case he had to run. Owed him that much at least, so I did like he asked. Didn¡¯t know it went down like that, or that you¡¯d talk and he¡¯d turn it against you.¡±


    So now Conner¡¯s here to make sure I don¡¯t die for his mistakes. And here I thought he came out because he was concerned, but he¡¯s still covering his own ass like always. Thought I was fine burning bridges with Conner, but I also figured time would heal all wounds. Now there¡¯s no going back though, because he done stabbed me in the back and is standing there like he didn¡¯t mean to do it. Trembling with anger and regret, I take a deep breath to keep myself from flying off the handle and face forward again, just in time to catch miss Laura¡¯s eye as she looks away, and another piece falls into place. ¡°So Conner builds the trap,¡± I say, and the man winces to hear it, ¡°And miss Laura sets the bait. Sends in Noora to bat her eyes and tug at my heartstrings to tell my story, because you saw there was a story to tell.¡±


    Can¡¯t blame them for trying though. Only myself for taking the bait, hook, line, and sinker.


    There¡¯s a moment in there, a brief, fleeting split second in which I consider going for my gun and killing everyone in the room. An instant, that¡¯s all, before reality rears its ugly head and forces me to settle down. Wouldn¡¯t make it to my second shot, not with so many targets in the room, and I can¡¯t decide who I want to shoot the most. Ron for being a soulless piece of shit. Miss Laura for exploiting my pain. Wayne for dragging me into his mess. Jacob for being so god-damned ugly. Franky¡­ Got no beef with him, but he¡¯s gotta die all the same. A dream is what that is, one I imagine and discard in the same breath, but the funny thing is, Ron does something I don¡¯t expect. He flinches, startles ever so slightly as I meet his eyes with death in my gaze, and I know it¡¯s not because he scares easy.


    ¡°Fuck me,¡± I say, doing away with the veneer of cordiality. ¡°You¡¯re a fucking Diviner, Ron.¡±


    Man¡¯s got the Portent, same as me. Explains how he knew to be wary of me last time and to be jumpy around me in the here and now. His gut is telling him I¡¯m close to the limit and about to snap, so he wants to ease back a bit and let me come to terms with my new reality. Should¡¯ve seen the signs sooner, or pieced it together back in New Hope. Uncle Teddy said as much, no didn¡¯t he? Told me Ronald Jackson survived two civilian bombings and took part in thwarting who knows how many more. Can¡¯t use magic around most bombs, but the Portent, now that¡¯d come in real handy when disposing of man-made explosives, now wouldn¡¯t it?


    My own rustling jimmies get to screaming a warning, too little too late as I spot movement to the side as Jacob grabs me by the back of the head and slams me face first into the desk, bouncing my skull of the hardwood and rattling me a fair bit. ¡°That¡¯s Mister Jackson to you, boy,¡± Jacob taunts, a repeat performance from our last meeting that he never learned from, and it makes me laugh to see it. Earns me second face to face greeting with the desk it does, and hurts something fierce, but he¡¯s got a good grip on my right wrist so I can¡¯t go for my gun, and I got no proper leverage to slam my bottle in his face.


    ¡°Enough,¡± Ron says, his commanding tone cutting right over my chuckles as I sit helpless in Jacob¡¯s grip. The two of them have themselves another glare off, because they most certainly had themselves a word after my first visit in town, something along the lines of not escalating things when matters are already well in hand.


    Too late for that, and to make matters worse, Jacob ain¡¯t repentant in the least. ¡°Mouthy Qink turned down your offer to patch in,¡± Jacob says in defense of his actions. ¡°So he¡¯s gotta learn his fucking place.¡±


    ¡°And you the one to teach me?¡± I sneer at the man even though he got me caught good and well. ¡°You miss how he threw out another job offer at the end there? One far less generous than the first, but he still wants to foster cooperation, and blows to the head do exactly the opposite.¡± Shaking my head with a wince, I ask, ¡°How¡¯d Junior grow up so smart with a dumbass of a dad like you? Ain¡¯t no denying he¡¯s yours, not with a face like that, but damn.¡±


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    ¡°You hearing this?¡± he asks, gripping the back of my hair with a fistful of rage, his eyes wide and jaw clenched as he stares his bossman in the eyes. ¡°Little shit has no respect for the patch or the rank and won¡¯t ever come work for us, so what are we still playing nice for? He¡¯s gotta pay, not just in cash, but in blood for what he did to Junior, Tank, Big Al, and them others.¡±


    ¡°Mullet and Nelly,¡± I supply, and at this point, even I don¡¯t know why I¡¯m still talking. Wish I could blame it on my bumps to the nogging, but not so sure that¡¯s it.


    ¡°Howie,¡± Conner interjects. ¡°Shut up.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you Conner.¡± That¡¯s all I got in reply, raw impotent anger as I sit here in the hot seat because of his actions. Mostly mine too, but he ain¡¯t without blame, nor is anyone else in the room. Well, besides Franky I guess. Not much I can do about it though besides stew in my rage as Jacob and Ron have it out between them. Can tell Ron still hopes we can work together, but doesn¡¯t take him more than a minute to decide the juice ain¡¯t worth the squeeze.


    ¡°Fine,¡± he says, heaving a sigh as he puts the grenade away before turning to me with a shake of his head. ¡°You¡¯ve got smarts and stones boy, but no quit. A shame. So much potential, all wasted because you can¡¯t keep your mouth shut.¡± Reaching into his breast pocket, he takes a cigarette out of a metal box and grabs a polished, rectangular flintstone off his desk to light it with. A snap and a puff, the man makes it look cool and natural as can be as he studies me with a look of genuine regret. ¡°Call it seventy flat for now,¡± he says, putting his flintstone back where he grabbed it, a little stand built just so he can find it easily. ¡°You said you could pay seven grand when you get back? Make it ten, and I expect another ten minimum every month until we¡¯re square, with the vig still running. You miss a payment and the recording gets released, then I send Wayne with a few of my boys to collect what I¡¯m owed.¡±


    The statement is made all matter-of-fact, so cut and dry it comes as a surprise when Wayne cuts in to complain. ¡°I¡¯m not one of your thugs,¡± he says, arms crossed in a huff which only shows he ain¡¯t here for a fight. Fucking rat is also a coward, big surprise there. ¡°I got a job to do. Can¡¯t be running off to New Hope every month to pick up his payment neither.¡±


    ¡°Figure it out,¡± Ron says, without missing a beat. ¡°And be glad I¡¯m hanging it all around his neck instead of yours as I should. Told you not to make that deal, said it was too risky and that I expected to be paid, but you went and did it anyways.¡± Wants me to turn some of my anger towards Wayne, but I didn¡¯t need any reminders, and Ron sees that it¡¯s a lost cause either way. Stifling a sigh, he looks at me like the regal king he thinks he is and declares, ¡°Jacob is going to rough you up in front of the crew. A little bit of a beat down is all. Take your lumps and then you can be on your way, back home to New Hope to get me my money.¡± Standing with the cigarette in hand, he offers miss Laura his arm with a smile, and they look picture perfect together as a beautiful, bi-racial couple rather than the monsters that they truly are. As they stride out arm in arm, she glances back over her shoulder to give me a look all full of pity, but without any empathy. Brung this on myself I did, or at least that¡¯s how she feels, because if she didn¡¯t convince herself of that much, then she¡¯d have no way to live with the guilt.


    Caught in Jacob¡¯s grip, I¡¯ve no choice but to let go of my bottle and lift my hands up in surrender as the rangy, hob-looking shite straightens me up so Franky can take my gun belt along with all my pouches full of ammo and components. Leaves me my Shield bracer and Metamagic bead bracelet though, on account of it sitting under my duster sleeves and him being none too thorough about his search. Takes my knife and hatchet too, giving the latter a little heft while rifling through my pockets to make sure I got no other weapons on me. I don¡¯t, so once he¡¯s good and satisfied with his search, he frog marches me out into the main room, overlooking how I still got my Mage Hands which snag my hat off the ground, the bottle of mead, and Ron¡¯s flintstone too, because why the hell not?


    Owe a man seventy dollars and it¡¯s your problem. Owe him seventy grand and that sounds like his problem. Ron and his thugs can come calling to collect, but you can bet your bottom dollar that I¡¯ll be ready and waiting.


    Once outside, I find Ron and miss Laura standing in front of a crowd that¡¯s cleared a space in the middle for the upcoming event, one I set my hat on the bar just outside Ron¡¯s office, on top of the pile of my guns to be sure it catches the whole thing. Spot Junior squeezing his way in for a better view, looking eager as can be, surrounded by similarly aged friends with his face wrapped in bandages and his face all the uglier for it. Mullet and Nelly are there too, though no longer guarding Junior and standing off to the side like pariahs while the little shit boasts to his wannabe thug buddies about how his daddy¡¯s gonna hurt me good. Greaseball, or Big Al I suppose, has got himself a seat front and centre, grinning from ear to ear as he hoists his bottle in my direction and laughs at my predicament with an older woman on his lap. There¡¯s a bit more fanfare as they jibe and cheer, and even their girlies join in on it. Recognize some of them too, ones who were sat out on the porch with Cowie my first time through and gave me all hell for washing in front of them.


    Yea, there ain¡¯t a single innocent in this crowd, nor will I find one in town who didn¡¯t ride in with me. Complicit, that¡¯s what they all are, not just miss Laura and Noora, but Carl and Vicente too, all hiding their dirty little secret that could spell disaster for the whole Frontier, just because it makes their lives just a tad bit easier. Not for the first time, I wish I would¡¯ve kept my mouth about Pleasant Dunes and let Abby tear it to the ground, but it¡¯s too late for regrets now.


    All I can do is take my lumps and come back later on to collect some interest of my own, interest that¡¯ll make Ron¡¯s terms look generous.


    There¡¯s a bit of preamble as Jacob plays it up for the crowd while Franky holds me firm, and when it¡¯s all said and done, the big giant throws me at the other man who starts things off with a rabbit punch to the back of my head. The crowd cheers and pounds their tables, columns, and furniture while closing ranks around us in an impromptu ring, leaving only a meter or two in any direction free for our fight. Fine by me, because I ain¡¯t one to run, and I put my dukes up just in time to block a flurry of big rights. Man was hoping to catch me off guard, which only shows how scare he really is, because the Sergeant-at-Arms can¡¯t afford to look weak in a fight against a kid. Blocking is all I can manage though, because the man¡¯s got a good fifty pounds on me at least, though a good portion of that weight is in his height rather than build. Yea, even the skinniest fellow standing close to six feet tall will weigh a good buck fifty, but I¡¯m a only a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet.


    So I roll with the punches and guard my chin and my head while striving to find my bearings. Ain¡¯t much for close combat, but I been in my fair share of fistfights, so I get to dancing around the ring and counting my steps to get a good read on the distance around me. The other man gets a few good hits in as I bob and weave, but I figure the crowd is a good four meters from edge to edge on either side of me. Could be off by a bit as they push me towards Jacob every time I get too close, and I can¡¯t afford a maybe if I¡¯m going to go big. They all yell slurs and insults while more than one spits or splashes their drinks at me in open derision, all calling for my blood while hopped up on drink and drugs. I don¡¯t let it shake me, because this here is a fight between me and Jacob, one in which the more help the crowd gives, the worse it looks for him, so they won¡¯t do too much out of bounds.


    Or so I thought, until someone kicks the back of my knee out from under me and gives Jacob a big opening to punch me clean in the face.


    The impact sends my head back in a blossom of pain, but the anger shuts it out in an instant. Was just a jab, so my nose ain¡¯t broken, but I¡¯m done playing along with this game. Rather than retreat as expected, I reverse my momentum and charge forward to duck under his follow-up haymaker, one that shows just how bad of a boxer the man really is. A straight would¡¯ve connected, and I was ready to shake it off, but I ain¡¯t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Instead, I tackle his midsection and drive him back. Don¡¯t got strength enough to lift him off his feet, so I don¡¯t even try, just pin one of his arm against his side in a clinch. The man struggles something fierce, but not too desperate just yet, because he still got his pride despite having so much help and coming up empty. Me, I got my pride too, and it done well got poked, so I don¡¯t think twice as I press my fingertips into the small of his back and watch the Cantrip¡¯s Spell Structure come alive in my mind.


    Two and a half seconds don¡¯t sound like much, but in the moment, it¡¯s damn near an eternity as I focus my feral rage upon my hands and sense the magic flow through me. Don¡¯t nothing change about me physically as Aether takes form in reality, channelled through my mind and out into the world around my nails. To an observer, it might well look like my fingernails grow all razor-sharp and claw-like, but it¡¯s all Ectoplasmic cladding that does the growing. My fingernails are still there under it all unchanged as ever, but it¡¯s a difference without a distinction when I drive my talons through leather and cloth to find Jacob Senior¡¯s tender flesh underneath.


    Yea, Primal Savagery got no Vocal component, and barely a Somatic one where you brandish what natural weapons you got. Bare them teeth or flex them fingers, that¡¯s all it takes for the magic to take hold, which is why I thought Cowie might be able to learn it. Used to sit with him and use Minor Illusion to show him the Spell Structure so he could get the timing and memorize it for himself. Never took, but I familiarized myself with the Spell well enough to use it without much thought. If I had, I might¡¯ve done different, but as my claws dig in to deliver a stream of corrosive Acid into Jacob¡¯s bloodstream and elicit a piercing shriek from the man, I can¡¯t stop the grin from stretching across my face.


    In for a penny, in for a pound, so I cut loose in mind and body both as Jacob kicks it into high gear to fight free from my clinch. I let him, relishing my freedom from the stench of sour sweat and tangy Acid with a whoop and a cheer. Credit where it¡¯s due, he comes back swinging, his feet braced and knees locked to keep himself from toppling over in pain. Yea, that Acid¡¯ll be eating away at him from inside, but being a Cantrip, won¡¯t leave more than an ugly scar. Gotta hit them with it few more times to really kill them, as I learned myself first hand. Jacob¡¯s got the spirit, but lacking in skill as I give him the run around while building up the magic within me again. The best thing about Primal Savagery is that you can use it to grow your claws and wait for an opportune moment to use them. I don¡¯t hide it either as I dip and duck with talons bared like a beast on the prowl, my eyes locked on my prey without losing sight of my surroundings.


    To show I mean business, I dance aside and lash out with my left at a thug trying to shove me from the side, raking his arm with razor-sharp nails and leaving a trail of Acid behind. Quick as a blink, Jacob moves to capitalize on my distraction, knowing my claws are one and done only to find my right fist ready and waiting. Miss Laura ain¡¯t the only one that can bait a trap, and I get him clean in the chin with a straight. Hurts me something fierce to deliver it, but it hurts him more, and that plus the rage inside me drives me to do more. While he staggers back, I circle in to his right and deliver a left to his kidney same as I did for Junior, and my grin grows wider when I see Senior arch back in imitation. Much as I¡¯d like to look the kid in the eye before I beat his daddy down, I don¡¯t let my thoughts distract me as I close in for the kill. Nothing fancy or too technical, just a knee to the groin, because Jacob leaves himself wide open and I can¡¯t help myself from going for it.


    It''s a compulsion really, to see a weakness and just want to exploit it. Tim get¡¯s it, as it¡¯s the reason why he spends so much time lining up shots whenever he free. It ain¡¯t that he wants to shoot folks down in the street, but should there ever be a need to, then he¡¯ll be ready for it. I¡¯m the same way, though not so focused on longshots, and not so free about sharing my thoughts on weaknesses to go for, since I seen what that¡¯s done for Tim. Don¡¯t change the need to act though, which is why when Jacob doubles over with a groan, I can¡¯t stop myself from grabbing the back of his head and slamming face down into my knee.


    Payback is a real bitch, ain¡¯t it? Shouldn¡¯t have slammed my face into the desk. Twice no less. Told him last time how to put the scare in a man, but Hobb don¡¯t learn, now do he?


    Chest heaving with rage and exertion, I discover that the crowd has fallen silent. If not for my heavy breathing, you could hear a mouse fart in the room, and as I take in all the angry snarls and drawn weapons that I might¡¯ve done goofed. ¡°What?¡± I ask, holding my hands out to my sides in a sort of shrug and a show of surrender as I turn to face Ron. ¡°I wasn¡¯t supposed to fight back? Should¡¯ve said as much then.¡± Then, because I never know when to stop, I look around with a smile and ask, ¡°So who¡¯s next?¡±


    ¡°Told you to take your lumps, boy,¡± Ron says, his smile gone and jaw clenched, because now he¡¯s in a pinch. He can¡¯t let this insult go unanswered, not when his whole club just watched their Sergeant-at-Arms get bodied by a kid. ¡°Now? Now you¡¯re really gonna pay.¡±


    The crowd sets upon me with a chorus of snarls like tuskwolves on prey, and there¡¯s nothing I can do about it besides activate my Shield Bracer and curl up into a ball. Getting punched in the face is unpleasant sure, but it¡¯s nothing compared to a full-on beat-down doled out by a crowd, one eager for blood and none too picky about how they get it. The rain of blows falls down upon me as I hug my head and hunker down, wishing for once I had Aegis in my pocket if only to protect myself for a few seconds more. Got Barrier, but it won¡¯t do me much good here, not surrounded on all sides as I am, and the next few seconds feel like years as I¡¯m hit again and again and again.


    Even the hits through the Shield hurt something fierce, and the others are all the harder for it. Don¡¯t pass out. Take it all and pay it back a thousand times, but only if you stay conscious. Black out and everything you¡¯ve endured goes to waste. They¡¯re all packed in close now, so just clear you mind, reach for the magic, and you¡¯ll be the one to have the last laugh. Three seconds, that¡¯s all you need, slow and smooth and fast.


    I grit my teeth and take the beating, use every trick I¡¯ve ever learned to block out the pain and impacts to focus on the Spell Structure in mind, but there¡¯s no use. Every time I feel like I got a hold of the Spell, it¡¯s torn away by a new agony as I crumble beneath an unending flurry of fists and boots slamming into me from all sides. The world goes to black, but only for an instant as I watch the world shift before me in real time. There are no more fists obscuring my vision, and my body aches like it¡¯s all one giant bruise. There¡¯s no strength in me to stand much less resist as the crowd drags me to the bar and throws me up against it like a wet dishrag. A hand presses down on the back of my head and holds me face first against the wood, while another holds my left hand and Shield Bracer firmly behind my back and a third grabs my right from across the bar. For a moment, my heart stops and I fight for all I¡¯m worth, only to redouble my efforts when Franky appears in sight and I fear my worst nightmare has come to pass.


    No one reaches for my pants though, and I almost heave a sigh of relief when Ron appears next to Franky, his baby blues ice cold and stormy to behold. Shaking his head, the bossman looks down at me with a scowl and says, ¡°A beating would¡¯ve seen you free and clear just like I told you, but you just can¡¯t help yourself, can you?¡± There¡¯s no admiration for my stones this time around, no appreciation for the skills I¡¯ve displayed, because I¡¯ve done pushed past his limits and forced his hand. His thoughts, not mine, because while he¡¯s used to others showing him their belly, he ain¡¯t nothing but small potates in the grand scheme of things, a wannabe warlord who thinks he can move up in the world by climbing over everyone in his path.


    Well, the Firstborn don¡¯t roll over easy, and he learned that today. The only question is what this lesson is gonna cost me, and from the look of regret in Ron¡¯s eyes, I can tell it¡¯s a whole lot more than I care to pay.


    ¡°Do it,¡± Ron says, and Franky clamps his meaty mitt over my right hand to hold it in place. ¡°Maybe this will teach you to keep a lid on your temper.¡±


    Ron¡¯s words are lost on me when I spot my hatchet come up in Franky¡¯s hand, clenched firm and tight. ¡°No,¡± I say, more in denial than anything else, but the big guy doesn¡¯t so much as pause. There¡¯s no hesitation in him, as he¡¯s been given an order he means to see done. He brings the hatchet down and the world turns white and red as he cuts clean through the meat and bone with a thump. It¡¯s a surreal experience, pulling my arm away from the bar screaming and leaving a whole hand behind, one I won¡¯t ever forget no matter how hard I try to. The spray of arterial blood pouring out of the stump, and the pink meat and white bone contained within, all so neat and tidy it almost looks like a diagram from one of Uncle Art¡¯s medical books before the rain of blood comes back down and turns it into a gory mess.


    No longer pinned in place, I stagger back, then stumble and fall, and all the while I keep screaming, staring at the blood and bone and the empty space where my hand used to be. My right hand. My gunfighting hand. My eating hand. My writing hand. My Etching hand. The hand I use to run a comb through Chrissy¡¯s hair, and these last few days through Tina¡¯s too. Does most of the work tying my shoes, buttoning my shirts, and God knows what else while the left sorta sits there, the hand I rely on the most.


    All of which goes through my head as I scream in pain and denial, but it don¡¯t change the facts none.


    ¡°Stop struggling.¡± A firm hand pries my bloodied stump out of the weak and useless fingers I still got left, and the words flip a switch in my brain as I lay there and watch while Conner sets to tying a tourniquet around my wrist. ¡°Fuck, fuck, fuck,¡± he mutters, sounding more panicked with each reiteration as he works by memory with no mind at all on the task. ¡°They cut his hand off, L.T. How the fuck are we supposed to explain this away?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± Wayne says, though he don¡¯t look any calmer than Conner sounds. ¡°We¡¯ll say he was mugged or something. Got drunk and disappeared. Get Ron to drag someone out to blame and hang them for the crime.¡±


    Even though I¡¯ve stopped screaming, the crowd ain¡¯t all that quiet, laughing and cackling away in the distance, but so far away I can¡¯t even be bothered to look for them. ¡°Chopped my hand off,¡± I say. As if Conner could miss it, but I feel like it needs to be said. ¡°It¡¯s gone Conner.¡± Still feels like my fingers are still there, digging into the meat of a palm that ain¡¯t attached to me no more, a fiery, lancing pain that dulls in comparison to the ache inside my chest. ¡°They chopped my hand off.¡±


    And Conner he stood by and watched it happen, wondering how he¡¯s gonna cover his ass after the fact.


    ¡°You¡¯re fine,¡± he says, and neither one of us believe it. ¡°We¡¯ll get it on ice and bring you back to Meadowbrook, where Doc Grigsby will sew it right back on. You¡¯ll see.¡±


    No I won¡¯t. That¡¯s 300 klicks as the crow flies. Six days of travel, three if we kill our horses. A full day of travel with the Fly Spell, which has a base ten-minute duration. Even on ice, there¡¯s no way to make that trip fast enough to reattach my hand. It¡¯s gone. Can¡¯t get it back no more, and it hurts to even think it, but there¡¯s no point crying over spilt milk, now is there. The hurt, the fear, the pain, the rage, all of it goes quiet as I tear my eyes away from the stump where my hand used to be. Conner¡¯s panicked gaze is telling, as is how he avoids meeting my eyes, but I ain¡¯t looking at him. Instead, I scan the crowd of Vanguard National thugs and the people who support them, the cold, empty pain in my chest comes alive with a fiery blaze of rage.


    There¡¯s Franky, holding my severed hand up for the crowd to see, and they all laugh, drink, and delight in my misery. Junior¡¯s got a wicked look etched across his face, pointing and cackling for all he¡¯s worth with his buddies while his father stands hunched over beside him with a face full of anger and cheeks flushed with shame. Greaseball has got one hand on his belly and his head raised in laughter, while Mullet and Nelly grin as they meet my eyes and bask in the moment. Each and every one of them will pay, and I don¡¯t think twice about it as I take in the moment and force my mind into focus. Slow is smooth and smooth is fast, so I take a deep breath, then another, as Conner finishes tying off my tourniquet. Tearing my eyes away from the crowd, I confirm the location of my gun belt, still sitting with my hat on the bar I just lost my hand on. I¡¯m out of the medallions line of sight, which is good, so I turn to check if the guards are still at the door. They aren¡¯t, having gathered in with the crowd to catch the show, but the gates are still locked tight.


    Good. Good, good.


    One last glance around the open room shows that almost everyone present is packed in tight. Children. Women. Thugs. All gathered in close around Jacob, Franky, and Ron to celebrate the momentous occasion of taking the Firstborn¡¯s hand.


    A moment I¡¯ll make sure they remember for the rest of their lives.


    The Spell Structure comes alive in my mind¡¯s eye as I reach out through the Quicken Metamagic bead on my bracelet, and my left hand shoots up into the air like I¡¯m fixing to grab the sun by the shorthairs. Diviner that he is, Ron senses something¡¯s up as his gaze snaps towards me from across the crowd. Shooting him a grin that¡¯s all teeth, I meet his eyes and pump my fist while chanting quick as can be.


    Credit where it¡¯s due, Ron moves quick. As the last word slips out from between my lips, he clears the crowd with miss Laura in his arms and legs it straight into his office, leaving me a choice with a split second to decide. Point at the office to kill him and miss Laura both, or point at the crowd and clear out his entire crew? The decision is easy, because quantity matters, and I point straight at Jacob who¡¯s standing in the centre of them all. The man of the hour as it were even though he got himself beat by the Firstborn. The ugly fuck doesn¡¯t even see death coming, just meets my gaze with hate and rage that turns to panic as the air around him blossoms into the heat of an all-consuming inferno that devours him and everyone around him in a single, red-hot moment of fiery destruction.


    All brought about by the words ¡°Incendo ¨C Magna ¨C Invoko.¡± Or, ¡°I Invoke the Great Fire¡±, a well-known chant to the most popular Spell of all, and the Big Spell I keep in my back pocket. Fireball.


    There¡¯s no explosion, no big booms or burst of flame. A giant sphere of heat that measures 12m across in diametre, one hot enough to ignite the very air they breathe and steal away their dying screams, that¡¯s what the Spell does. Leaves nothing but blackened bones and the stench of cooked flesh behind, nothing recognizable to anyone from Vanguard National or the groupies they kept around. A half-second later, their ammo cooks off and pops as the bonds keeping the Aether crystallized are undone by the heat of the Spell, a crackle of mostly harmless pings as I gaze upon my work. Didn¡¯t miss a single one, not all bunched up together like they were, because a Quickened Spell takes less than a half-second to throw out. Credit where it¡¯s due, Ron¡¯s a survivor, and even managed to save miss Laura too, but now he¡¯s trapped like a rat and has nowhere to run, and it¡¯s time for the Firstborn to have his due.


    No, not the Firstborn. He¡¯s dead and gone, his hopes and dreams burnt to ashes along with his right hand that¡¯s somewhere in the pile of bones before me. I¡¯m still alive and well, but I can¡¯t carry the burdens the name comes along with, so best I bury it alongside of Marcus. All I got left now is my anger and rage, a Yellow Devil who¡¯s destined to sputter out and die before the night¡¯s end, leaving only a husk of a one-handed man in its place.


    That¡¯s all for tomorrow though, the hard part for future me to worry about. Tonight, there¡¯s still work to be done, so the Yellow Devil can¡¯t rest just yet.


    Pushing myself to my feet, I barely feel the lancing pain that shoots through my arm when I forget my hand isn¡¯t there anymore and try to prop myself up. Hurts something fierce, but it¡¯s more of an inkling than anything else, an awareness of pain that gets shunted off to the back of my brain. Staggering over to the bar, I lean heavy against the wooden frame and loop my gun belt around my shoulder while keeping an eye on Ron¡¯s office door so as not to get got.


    ¡°What did you do Howie?¡± Conner asks, and I can¡¯t be bothered to answer, just tap the bull¡¯s head medallion to stop recording, because I don¡¯t want anyone seeing what happens next. ¡°There were women in the crowd there. Kids too.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know what you¡¯ve done,¡± Wayne says, cradling his head as he stares as the ashes, his 1911 in hand but in no mind to use it. ¡°You¡¯ve fucked everything up. Everything.¡±


    ¡°Nah,¡± I say, recasting Mage Hands for a fresh set while picking out the cleanest bottle of moonshine I can find. Popping it open with my teeth, I pour a good measure over the open stump and bite clean through the cork before pushing the pain back down into the darkness again. ¡°Took care of most your problems, that¡¯s what I did.¡± Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I draw my Rattlesnake and take an extra quarter second to aim seeing how I ain¡¯t used to shooting with my left. Then I put two rounds through Wayne¡¯s neck, and watch as he pivots on his feet with his hands clamped to his throat and his squinty rat eyes wide open in surprise as he looks at his killer with his last breath. ¡°And that does it for the rest,¡± I add.


    And before Conner can say or do anything, I put two through his head too, because he ain¡¯t without blame either, and I can¡¯t trust him to keep his mouth shut. The shots take him from behind before he can turn to face me, and I thank the Lord for small favours, because I¡¯m still weak enough to worry about having to see the betrayal in Conner¡¯s eyes. Man betrayed me first, and not just once, so this ain¡¯t on me. That¡¯s what I tell myself as his head erupts in a fountain of blood and bone, and I turn to face the office door again. There¡¯s no movement inside, none besides the door swinging idly on its hinges. ¡°Missed your one and only chance Ron,¡± I say, throwing a bit of a sing-song lilt into my voice, because if this is gonna be my last rodeo, I might as well enjoy it. ¡°Should¡¯ve come out shootin¡¯ the second I opened up. Might¡¯ve gotten out clean if you did, but now you trapped and proper fucked.¡±


    There¡¯s no reply from within, no clever retort or call for a truce, not even the booming shots of gunfire I expect. Only silence, which I hate, so I fall back and hand my Rattlesnake over to my Mage Hands to reload while fumbling about my pouches for a flashbang. Pocket two for easier access, then take a beat to move my Shield Bracer over to my right arm, since I can¡¯t Shield and shoot with one hand anyways. Only then do I Prime the third flashbang, counting a full second before lobbing it into the office. Soon as it¡¯s out of my hand, I draw the Model 10 and duck down behind the bar for cover. The bang goes off and I charge into the office, putting four into the desk when I don¡¯t see anyone there and listen for the telltale sound of a cry.


    Nothing.


    Growling in pain and frustration, I stalk around the desk and find nobody lying in wait, and no bodies laid out dead or bleeding. The rage bubbles up as I waste the last of my reserves slinging a First Order Spell, one I didn¡¯t use under dark but will come in handy here. Detect Magic as it were, and the room comes alive with the flows of Aether, which are more than just warm glows and shifting textures, but an added dimension to the world around me. Like holding a flame close to words written in invisible ink, except the flames don¡¯t give off light and the walls exude shadows, that¡¯s what it feels like here and now, the effects of my distracted and beleaguered mind combined with the Aetheric dampening effects of the lead in the walls.


    Only makes things harder to read though, not impossible, and the facts come together before my eyes as I spot the telltale signs of the magical locking mechanism in the right bookshelf behind Ron¡¯s desk. One keyed to certain individuals like the locks on the doors back home, and somehow I doubt Ron would be so kind as to merely shock his intruders. I ain¡¯t no locksmith, so I got no way to get around it. Could go through maybe, but it looks like solid stone blocks behind the shelf, so it¡¯d be faster to use the stairs. If I move fast, I might be able to catch the gunners on the first floor by surprise, but my training kicks in and I take a beat to think things through. I¡¯m hurt, tired, and plum out of Spells, but the odds have tilted in my favour now that I¡¯ve killed most of Ron¡¯s crew. Can¡¯t hurt to spare a minute or two to scavenge for some extra gear, like the bottles of moonshine sitting pretty behind the bar.


    Or, I think, as I lay eyes on his desk drawer, the grenade he just showed me and stowed away tight.


    Ron can wait a minute longer, his stay of execution only temporary. Preparation is key after all, and I¡¯d hate to come so far and fall short of the finale. If this is gonna be the Yellow Devil¡¯s debut and swan song both, then I might as well go out with a bang.

 Chapter 55

    Ain¡¯t no two ways about it. The odds are stacked against me.


    A thought which strikes me as I hunker down behind the bar to organize my thoughts and get my tools ready. Ain¡¯t hiding, just keeping out of sight just in case anyone comes down the stairs or stumbles in from any one of the doors or hallways leading in. Can¡¯t rest too long either, no matter how much I want to, because chances are I¡¯ll fall asleep and might never wake up again. There¡¯s no running from this, not anymore, so my only choice is to fight my way out, kill Ron and miss Laura, and be the only soul left alive to tell this tale so I can spin it in my favour.


    That¡¯s all for later though, questions to answer once my work is done. For now, the plan is simple enough. Kill Ron and get out alive, but the chances of success are slim to none, especially given my current state and dearth of options. I got my revolvers, my Doorknockers, and two 1911¡¯s taken from Wayne and Conner. Neither one of them were armed for bear, with only three clips a piece, and no flashbangs, Impact Oil, or useful Artifacts to borrow, only knives and entrenching tools which ain¡¯t of much use. I got no Spells left either, Big or otherwise, only a fistful of Rituals and a whole slew of Cantrips which are of limited effectiveness.


    If only I¡¯d¡¯ve gotten Ron with the Fireball too. Then all this would be done and dusted, leaving me free and clear to head back to the Ranger camp and spin a yarn about what happened. Or better yet, I¡¯d gone with my gut and blasted him the first time we met, instead of playing along and holding back out of good manners. Seems so long ago when we had our little chat at the saloon bar. Had him dead to rights the second miss Laura walked out of the kitchen with my steak and potates and spooked Jacob into going for his guns. Could¡¯ve killed them then and there and gotten away clean, legally speaking, a justified use of lethal force no matter how you spin it, all caught on recording nice and neat leaving me free to move on with my life.


    Just goes to show how tricksy Diviners really are. If Ron were any other kind of Spellslinger, he¡¯d have died then and there without even knowing why. Instead, he kept things from boiling over and as a Diviner myself, I didn¡¯t even notice how. That¡¯s the tricksiest part of Diviners, how our magic don¡¯t even look like magic. Just luck or intelligence, but that¡¯s the thing. Knowing things might not sound like much of a power, but knowledge is power in a way that money and violence can never match.


    Just look at Wayne and Conner. If they had an inkling of what I was gonna do, they¡¯d¡¯ve put up much more of a fight, and likely would¡¯ve come out on top without breaking a sweat. Instead, I got the drop on them while they were still reeling with shock, and put them down hard and fast with two Bolts apiece. A short, truncated rattle, and two battle-trained Rangers are dead and out. One a rat-faced cuck of a traitor sure, but the other was a man I once thought of as a friend. A man who taught me a few tricks when it comes to wagon maintenance and showed me the trick to keeping all the tool shapes and sizes in mind. Told Conner to leave this well enough alone, let me and Wayne sort it out ourselves, but he just had to stick his nose into it. Doubt he would¡¯ve kept quiet about me killing Wayne, and I do want that kept quiet, because traitor or not, man was still a Ranger, and I don¡¯t need that sort of heat. Best thing to do is to lay this all at Ron¡¯s feet, and two dead Rangers will sell the story better than one, but in order for that to happen, I gotta silence the last two witnesses who knew I¡¯d be alone with the two of them after taking care of the crowd.


    Won¡¯t make that mistake again. A secret shared ain¡¯t a secret, so I can¡¯t trust no one anymore, especially lovely young ladies with heart-wrenching tales of woe and weakness.


    Closing my eyes in an effort to banish the image of Conner lying dead on the floor on the other side of the bar, I can''t help but imagine what his expression might''ve been, one I was spared from seeing because I shot him while he was looking the other way. Eyes wide open in horror and disbelief no doubt, as he stood there with hands hanging loosely at his sides while gawking at Wayne''s dead body. Man wasn''t even remotely prepared to shoot me dead, and the guilt weighs heavy on my heart, robbing me of much needed strength and resolve. A choked sob slips out as I lean my head against the bar, and it hurts to hold it in and keep the tears from flowing out. Ain¡¯t much that don¡¯t hurt in the here and now, my heart torn to shreds by loss and my body one giant bruise after the beating I took. My right hand feels like its on fire, even though it ain¡¯t there no more, and its absence is jarring every time I look at the patch of meat and bone that¡¯s still raw and oozing despite the tourniquet Conner applied.


    Right before I killed him. Conner¡¯s dead now, killed by my own hand. Marcus is gone too, because I wasn¡¯t good enough to measure up. I just want to leave this god-forsaken town and go home, to sleep and cry and scream over everything I¡¯ve lost. No cigars on the porch with Marcus, or hoisting a drink with him like the boots did. No talking shop with Conner, or card games when I stop in for the night in Meadowbrook. No Firstborn¡¯s Frontier-born neither, or finding vengeance for my daddy, because how am I supposed to soldier with only one hand? Hell, I might not even be able to look after Chrissy and Aunty Ray anymore, not as I am. Who¡¯s gonna hire a one-handed kid without any education or qualifications to speak of?


    Especially one who can sling Third Order Spells and killed a whole crowd of men, women, and children on recording. Can¡¯t hide that. Need it as evidence, else I won¡¯t be able to explain away Wayne and Conner¡¯s deaths. Need the recording to show that Wayne¡¯s dirty, Conner is his accomplice, and I¡¯m the victim here, one who was well within my rights to strike back at the crowd who just watched me be dismembered. That¡¯s the word for it, ain¡¯t it? Dismembered. Usually means losing a limb, but I don¡¯t know if there¡¯s a specific term for losing a hand.


    Focus.


    Tempting as it is to give up, to go up, get out, and let others handle the rest, I can¡¯t afford to leave things to chance. Sitting back upright, I wipe my eyes and get back to working on organizing my things and my thoughts both, because there¡¯s no turning back now. Kill Ron and miss Laura. That¡¯s the goal. The rest is simple. Still annoys me how he got away. My fault really, because while he was leery of the Spell I had readied the first time we talked, I doubt he pegged me for a Fireball slinging Magus back then. A seventeen-year-old Third Order Spellcaster is pretty much unheard of by old world standards, and most have yet to adjust to the fact that the rules are different here on the Frontier. Chrissy has been a Magus for almost a year now, having Awakened to the Spell Catnap, which lets her rest for ten minutes and gain the benefits of a two-hour nap. Would be right useful in the here and now, help me unclog the brain tubes and let me sling a First Order Spell or Two, but she ain¡¯t around and we don¡¯t like people knowing what she can do. Folks already look at her funny because they¡¯re worried she¡¯ll Spell Madness into their minds, so no sense getting them all worked up about the Beguile, Mortify, Fear, or Major Illusion Spells she can also use.


    In contrast? I¡¯ve only been able to cast Third Order Spells for about six months now, fixing Fireball¡¯s Spell Structure into memory just before Halloween and working on familiarizing myself with it over the winter. Wasn¡¯t easy to learn, especially without anyone to help me. There¡¯s a qualitative leap in difficulty when moving up in Spell Orders, one that¡¯s easy enough to explain. Imagine an orb of light. Doesn¡¯t matter the size or colour, just hold it in mind, sitting there all still and spherical. That¡¯s your primary orb. Then add a secondary, smaller orb of light to orbit the first, leaving a trail that looks like a ring around the middle. Add in two more secondaries on the y and z axis, all moving in sync, and that¡¯s about the difficulty of visualizing a Cantrip. For a First Order Spell, you take those same four orbs and envision them again, only this time, the primary orb is moving too, so you gotta track the movements of the smaller orbs while the primary orb zigs and zags about a pre-determined circuit. With Second Order Spells, you add two more primary orbs, each with their own pattern of secondary orbiting bodies, which is difficult sure, but still similar enough that it¡¯s manageable with a bit more practice.


    Things change drastically when you hit Third Order though. Not only are there more primary orbs to manage, you add an extra layer of complexity wherein your secondary orbs have tertiary orbs orbiting around them too, exponentially increasing the number of moving objects and patterns you have to fix into memory at once.


    All this and more means Fireball is the only Third Order Spell I can prep in less an hour¡¯s worth of time. I played around with three or four others that my mama wrote the formulas for in her notes, and browsed through the copy of my daddy¡¯s Spellbook I made and squirrelled away after he passed, but they all take about three to five hours of quiet work to solve the Formulas and visualize the Structures, if I can even manage it at all. Fireball is pretty much the only one I can reliably count on out in the field, and it¡¯s a real doozy. Pleased as punch to see it in action too, though I suppose there¡¯s no hiding my skills anymore. Don¡¯t like advertising what I can do, because folks treat you different when they know you can clear a room in two and a half seconds at most. Showed off a bit in the desert to clue in Errol and Sarah Jay, but I don¡¯t think he noticed, and she was clever enough not to share.


    Gunin must¡¯ve figured it out though. Don¡¯t take much in the way of brains to look at a twenty-four metre diametre circle of glassed sand and figure out what done it. Must¡¯ve passed word along to Ron, because there ain¡¯t a Second Order Spell I can think of that would get him running how he did. If not for that, I doubt he would¡¯ve seen the signs and gotten clear in time even with his Portent to warn him. The same way my rustling jimmies are telling me to pack it in and head home, but that ain¡¯t an option anymore. Ended when I pulled the trigger on Wayne and then did it again to Conner, because the only way my story will stick is if I¡¯m the only one alive to tell it.


    So go big or go home. That¡¯s the name of the game here, one I been playing for awhile now. Once again, home ain¡¯t New Hope, but rather a cold hole in the ground next to my parents which I¡¯m more than happy to go to, especially crippled as I am. Don¡¯t want to die, but I¡¯ve made my peace with it, because living as a public sinner who killed two Rangers in cold blood would be a whole lot harder. It¡¯s not the consequences I¡¯m afraid of; no, it¡¯s the fact that my actions will tarnish what little is left of my daddy¡¯s good name, who was a better man than I could ever be and didn¡¯t deserve the title of the Yellow Devil. No, that title is mine to bear, and one I would wear proudly if not for his teachings, because I would sooner die than see his legacy go down in flames.


    My preparations are simple, but necessary. Three rituals in total, two of which I knock out in less than a minute each. Simple Servant to start, who will act as an extra set of hands in the fight, ones that can¡¯t shoot no guns, but can reload and carry the molotovs we make from bottles of moonshine and washrags hanging behind the bar. The second Ritual gives me a Floating Disc to carry the Simple Servant and our bucket of molotovs around, as well as a few other choice items I took from Ron¡¯s office and am eager to return. As for the last Ritual, it¡¯s much harder than the others, and will take me a bit longer to get through, so I take a beat to remind myself that slow is smooth and smooth is fast.


    Won¡¯t take much longer than the other Rituals, three to five minutes at most, but I¡¯m thinking I¡¯ll have the time to spare. Ron won¡¯t want word of this to get out, and doubly so now that I¡¯ve taken out a good chunk of his crew. He¡¯ll want to handle this in house, hide it even from Gunin maybe, because he ain¡¯t friends with the Khaganate, only equal opportunists. No, Ron won¡¯t be in any rush to act, especially since he still thinks Wayne on his side. He¡¯ll be busy locking this underground complex down tight and making ready to take out the Rangers and boots in camp if need be, then he¡¯ll sit pretty to wait and see what happens next.


    Unfortunately for him, he doesn¡¯t know I done already rolled the dice and the only thing left to do is see how they fall. Wayne and Conner are dead, so there¡¯s only one way out for me now, with Ron and Laura¡¯s death so I can spin my yarn without any chance for them to tell their side. That¡¯s why I feel confident enough to take my time, and truth is, I need it. Repeated castings of Power Word: Endure don¡¯t help me much, but my first aid kit has got a tin of powdered frost-thorn which ought to help take the edge off a bit. Keeping proper dosage in mind, I drop a candy in the powder and get it all coated up before popping it in my mouth, where the fruit-infused honey helps cover up the bitter taste of the pain-numbing powder. Take two Aspirin and call him in the morning, a line Uncle Art¡¯s wife Rita would use on his patients to get a little laugh outta them, though I wish I could use something much stronger than Aspirin.


    Next, I double check the binding on my severed stump of a hand, because the last thing I need is to bleed out in a fight. Some fools think taking a hot iron to the wound will seal it up and keep you from dying quick, and it will, but usually in exchange for a long, slow, and lingering death by way of infection. Alcohol is the key, and I done already did that, so I wrap the stump in gauze and a clean cloth and call it a day. As for my gear, I got that all loaded and ready, with my gun belt slung over my right shoulder and resting on my left hip like a bandolier. Already rearranged the gun holsters to sit front and centre across my chest, with both revolvers and my Doorknockers readied for a left hand draw. Got Wayne and Conner¡¯s 1911¡¯s too, one in my hand and the other in a Mage Hand, and no clips to speak of. Ain¡¯t used to reloading them, so no sense learning under pressure. Better off sticking to what I know.


    Besides, I can¡¯t lay the blame for Wayne and Conner¡¯s death at Vanguard National¡¯s feet if they find them bodies stripped of gear and their guns in my hand.


    With all my ducks in a row, I take a deep breath and close my eyes to run through the Ritual in my mind. There¡¯s a warm comfort that comes with focusing on the magic, a familiarity and understanding that I can¡¯t put into words. Don¡¯t rightly know enough about the ritual to explain it, but it makes sense enough that I never questioned it. Got my copper lid full of water and a stick of lit incense to represent air, as well as my wand held awkwardly in my left hand and feeling mighty out of place there. A pinch of powdered pearl goes into the lid, followed by a strip of dried seaweed, a drop of Holy Water, and ashes from the incense, one after the other in ceremonial fashion to the beat of a chant that don¡¯t mean much in the way of words, but damn near everything in terms of memory. Whenever my daddy was home for the weekend and the weather warm and sunny, he¡¯d bring us down to the Lake with Aunty Ray to have ourselves a swim. We¡¯d splash and play and laugh the day away while he¡¯d go diving deep into the depths in search of signs of Abby, and he¡¯d go through this very same Ritual each and every time.


    Water Breathing, that¡¯s the Spell that belongs to this here Ritual, a Third Order Transmutation Spell does exactly what it says on the tin. Let¡¯s the target of the Spell breathe through water for a full 24 hours without getting any risk of getting water, ecto, or Contagion into their body. A man-made Spell at that, because Abby that need to live underwater are spawned with what they need by their Proggies. Much cheaper to give them the biological functions rather than empower each one with a Third Order Spell that would be costly and restrictive. It¡¯s a Ritual my daddy made use of often while searching for the Proggie hidden under Last Chance Lake, and one I worked hard to learn for many reasons, but one stands out above all others.


    Wanted to remove the one black mark on my daddy¡¯s record, the only Proggie he couldn¡¯t eradicate within twenty-five klicks of New Hope. Started off as a dream, but after he passed, it became a goal, a mission, a milestone even, something I could do to prove to everyone and to myself that I had it in me to be as great as my daddy was. Maybe even better, but we¡¯ll never know anymore, not with my future looking bleak as it does. Least all my hard work studying the Ritual wasn¡¯t in vain, as it¡¯ll still come in handy here today during what might well be my swansong. Either I come out a victim and survivor, or go down swinging and hide enough to keep my name free and clear, a win-win situation no matter how you look at it.


    Because in combination with a Shape Water Cantrip, a Transmutation trick which lets me work with water the same way Mould Earth lets me work with dirt and sand, Water Breathing lets me breathe through all the smoke and filter out the stench as I set the basement ablaze. The Cantrip is a little finicky as I use it hold a bowlful of water around my nose and mouth, because I can¡¯t fix the water in place to my face. No, I gotta float it where my nose and mouth will be, and move it along with my head as I walk about tossing plumes of Conjured Flame about. Another Cantrip, Conjure Flame creates a flickering flame in the palm of your hand, one that provides a good amount of light and a comfortable warmth, but one that can¡¯t Ignite anything, not even a cigarette. Can hurt a man if hurl it, but is less effective at killing than a plain old Bolt, because there¡¯s no kinetic force to the Spell and leaves your target burned, but rarely dead or incapacitated. Infection might kill them a few weeks later, but that don¡¯t help you in the here and now, which is why it ain¡¯t used all that often in a quick and dirty gunfight.


    Mix it in with an Ignite Metamagic focus though, like one of the beads on my bracelet? Well, then you got an arsonist¡¯s wet dream, and a right useful tool for making sure a fire will most certainly persist.


    Wayne and Conner are the first two targets, soaked thoroughly in moonshine before hand, and they go up in a blaze that will destroy all evidence of what happened here. I throw some more around at anything flammable I can find, be it the couches, pool tables, meeting tables, and more. While I make the rounds and set the fires, I keep a keen eye out for any recording devices with help from my Detect Magic Spell which I still got going, and have a few minutes longer before I gotta Concentrate to hold it. Don¡¯t know if I will, because I¡¯d rather leave that open for other Cantrips and eventually my Mage Hands if the fight takes long enough.


    Hoping it won¡¯t. Quick and dirty, that¡¯s how this needs to go, in and out before the Rangers can rush over and stop me from killing Ron, Laura, and anyone else who stands in my way.


    That¡¯s the one thing I got going for me though. The complete and utter disregard for collateral damage, which is why I sacrifice a costly vial of Alchemical Acid to cut my way through the locked cage. Melts through the Darksteel like butter, which is great because I never considered what I¡¯d do if it didn¡¯t. Even if I were willing to dig through the pile of burnt bones in search of a key, the whole room is aflame already, and while there are plenty of doors and corridors to choose from, I¡¯d rather not go wandering about in search of an exit. Would much rather not be moving at all, as my injuries make trudging up the stairs a trial indeed, even all full of Aspirin as I am. Doesn¡¯t help that I got my Simple Servant hovering next to me, sitting atop the Floating Disc metaphysically anchored to my frame. Could¡¯ve anchored it to the blobby fellow instead, and let him mosey up these stairs in my stead, but it don¡¯t do anything fast, and I¡¯d rather not be a literal sitting target.


    At least there¡¯s a bend in the stairs, a necessary one given the layout up top. The stairs down and up sit on the west side of the building, and I¡¯m guess the exit in Ron¡¯s office leads up to the second floor which I clocked as his private digs. Lets him stay a good distance from the buildings next door in case anyone tries to fix a Shatter charge or Tube to his walls, since it¡¯s a lot harder to hide that on the east side. No more buildings and wide-open views for Ron in his home, since staring out at mass of huddled miners splayed out on the sand is hardly scenic. Doubly so if you the reason those masses are all huddled out in the open rather than comfortably sheltered in a home, which is just cruel when you add in the fact that this underground bunker could house all of Pleasant Dunes and then some as far as I can tell.


    Unconscionable is what it is, but I doubt a man like Ronald Jackson is all too bothered by his conscience.


    If only I could say the same, a thought I reflect on as I pause at the stair landing before making my way around the corner. Part of me wants to give a warning, tell the souls waiting upstairs none too quietly with their likely guns aimed at the door that this is between me, Ron, and God. Give them a chance to walk away as it were, scare a few off and get the others right nervous and twitchy to give myself some better odds. The Firstborn would¡¯ve done it, but that ain¡¯t me anymore. This here is the Yellow Devil, one who can¡¯t be bothered by things like morals and principals, because there¡¯s no winning against outlaws like Ronald Jackson without getting dirty. Not just in the physical sense, because the stain of darkness on your soul will last, like the stain I¡¯ll carry for the rest of my days over Conner ¡®Tinker¡¯ Bell¡¯s death. A clean death, a necessary one even, but a dark deed I cannot deny, not to myself in this moment of choice.


    So I embrace the Devil, and become that which others accused my daddy of. Why not? They¡¯ll pin the name on me either way once all this gets out, so like I told Conner, if I gotta wear the title, then I might as well earn it good and proper.


    That¡¯s why there¡¯s no warning given before my flashbang goes out, one that sails up the stairs and out the door to land in the room proper. The thugs watching the staircase were smart not to stand in the doorway, since they¡¯d¡¯ve been backlit and staring down into darkness, but that means they were all watching real close when my flashbang flew out, leaving them blinded and dazed. A chorus of shouts ring out as the flashbang goes off, and I pop my head up and use my readied True Strike Cantrip to toss a lit Molotov at the front door. Accepting a second molly from my Simple Servant, I light it using the candle in his other hand while my Mage Hands use the Doorknockers to cover the staircase. Helpful little guy that he is, he¡¯s already reaching for another unlit molly as I pop my head up again and toss the flaming bottle at the back wall, blocking off the windows and locking everyone on the first floor here inside with me.


    Because everyone in this building has to die. Everyone. Can¡¯t let anyone escape to tell tales of what happened. Best to let the ones outside speculate, but given the number of smokers, drinkers, and druggies, I doubt anyone will suspect foul play so quickly, though that¡¯ll change soon enough.


    Though my time is limited, I¡¯m careful not to rush in guns blazing as I duck back down into the staircase to light a Third molly and cast the True Strike Cantrip again. Normally wouldn¡¯t bother with it, but I¡¯m a righty through and through, so throwing with my left without the Cantrip is awkward as all heck without the magic to guide my aim true. Same goes for doing almost anything else though, so I gotta take more care than usual, approach this op cold and calm as can be despite the blazing flames of fury burning me up from within. That¡¯s why the third molly goes out towards the biggest group in the room, a quartet of thugs still shaking off the effects of the flashbang who get to screaming real good and loud.


    That warms my cold heart a bit, and buys me time enough to draw the unfamiliar 1911 while trying not to think about whether it belonged to Wayne or Conner. Having already clocked where all my targets were, I come up the stairs shooting and take my targets out one at a time, an easy enough task while they all panicked and fighting the fires that have quickly taken over the bunkhouse.


    My first target is a man with a blanket striving to put the flames out on another screaming thug. Hit him in the throat with my first shot, while the second misses and hits the wall, so I remind myself to aim small and miss small. Next up is a gunner squaring up with his rifle, taking up the stance he gave up in his panic at the sight of fire. He takes two to the chest and slumps down in place, dead before his head hits the ground. The third is a runner, someone who only just found his bearings and the nerve to make a dash through the fire and dive for the window, only to stumble and fall as my Bolts take him in the shoulder and chest. From there on out, it¡¯s only helpless targets who are still blinded and disoriented, thugs who were standing closer to the door and took the full brunt of the flashbang. The 1911 barks again and again, a Silenced, metallic snap that has volume enough to sound over the screams of the dying as they stumble into the flames or take Bolts to the chest. The gun clicks empty and I toss it back down behind me into the staircase before drawing the second 1911, one belonging to the other dead Ranger that I killed.


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    Growling in fury at my own weakness, I clean up the rest of the first floor quick as I can without stepping out of the staircase. All the defensive aspects were built to keep Abby out of the bunker downstairs, meaning it¡¯s meant to guard against things going down, not people coming up. Got me a near perfect vantage point to shoot from so long as no one standing directly in front of the door, which would¡¯ve been a bad idea for reasons I already went through. Don¡¯t matter where they hide, I can hit them with a molly or a Bolt all the same, and I toss a few Ignited Conjured Flames around to really spice things up.


    The fight lasts for less than thirty seconds, start to finish, with every body on the ground and me standing tall and untouched. Retreating back down into the corridor, I kick the first 1911 further down into the basement, while the second follows shortly after. Now I got a choice, a tough one to be sure. Start off with my daddy¡¯s pride and joy the Rattlesnake, or my new favourite starter, the Model 10?


    Taking a moment to crack my neck, I finagle about with the water around my mouth and the goggles over my eyes in an attempt to get more comfortable. The heat is rising quick and the air thick with smoke, but the door upstairs is right next to the basement stairs, so I ain¡¯t all that bothered about time just yet. I can afford a second or two here, so I use it to refocus and plan my next moves, only to stop in my tracks when I sense a trail of magic coming out of the lime mortar laced with lead and Aberrtin. Hard to see it in the stone staircase, but the top of the stairs is a wood panelled wall, making the magic look clear as day. Goes back down the staircase it does, and I bet I know why too, so I figure a few seconds more to play off my hunch can¡¯t hurt.


    Drawing on an old favourite, I chant the words to the Arcane Bond Cantrip and aim it at the base of where the magic comes out. Reaching down into the bucket I grabbed from Ron¡¯s office, which is now sitting on my Floating Disc, I pull out one of the three grenades he kept locked in his drawer, which is three more than I would want so close to my crotch while sitting at my desk. Then again, I get the feeling that Ron loves him some explosives the same way I love me my Aetherarms, so I can see why he does it. Using my Mage Hand to lift the potato masher grenade up over the doorway, I press it firmly against the magical glue and hold it in place, while the other Mage Hand takes a firm hold of the base. In exchange, I put my Rattlesnake away again and hold onto a Doorknocker instead, while the other one goes back into my belt turned bandolier.


    Because with my Mage Hands occupied, it falls to me to do what the Dresden Forzares do best. I square up about three meters from the door upstairs and point the gun at the knob, not even bothering to try the handle because it glows with the light of a magical trap. Carefully uncocking one hammer, I take aim and shoot the Doorknocker with a smile while remember all those campfire stories of the Spellslinger and Gunfighter from Chicago who took on the mob all by his lonesome and gave these weapons their name. With a big bang and a bigger kick, the Blastgun sprays a hail of kinetic projectiles which shred the door, handle, and frame all around it, ripping apart the Spell keyed into it along the way. A burst of electricity is all it is, same as the ones I got home, which goes to show that this here is Ron¡¯s front door. You never want a Big Spell keyed to a door you use daily. They¡¯re reliable enough, but you don¡¯t want to risk a one in ten thousand chance of getting blown up every time you enter or leave your house.


    Is how I figured it before shooting out the lock, but I could¡¯ve been wrong. Better lucky than good though, and with how things have gone so far, Lady Luck owes me more than a little but.


    Taking note of how much it hurts to shoot the dubsie one handed and how high my hand flings up when I do, I wince at my own weakness while reloading a new shell into the Blastgun. No sense going upstairs anything less than fully prepped, so soon as I¡¯m ready, I kick the door open the rest of the way and take a quick glance.


    Only to fall back just in time to avoid getting shot by the man parked up top of the stairs.


    Rather than waste my last flashbang, I stand by the door with my Rattlesnake in hand and repurpose a Mage Hand over to take my dubsie. Floating it up to the ceiling and pointing it at where the shooter was standing, I let the Mage Hand give him both barrels through the wooden interior wall. A big bang and a strangled cry later, I poke my head through the door again and shoot the dying man in the chest as he stumbles down the stairs, thankful the building¡¯s setup lets me lean through the door left side first while facing upstairs, else this would¡¯ve been a whole lot more awkward. Conjuring up a new set of Mage Hands to reload my Rattlesnake, retrieve my fallen Doorknocker and take hold of the grenade stuck over the door to the basement staircase, I head on up the stairs as quick and quiet as I can, which ain¡¯t all that quick or quiet at all. Lot of limping and leaning, and no small amount of huffing either, as I¡¯m tired, hurting, and near spent. Only things driving me now are fury and desperation, but I¡¯ve been in worse spots.


    ¡­Then again, maybe not. On the bright side, if I do make it out, then I¡¯ve set a new personal best.


    Stepping over the corpse on the stairs, I clock his weapons as standard Pleasant Dunes garbage just like the rest. Weren¡¯t any choice guns on the bodies downstair either, or down in the basement, meaning Ron keeps all the fancy toys for himself. At the top of the stairs sits another dead angle to the door, and having learned from my lesson coming up the stairs, this time, I fake a peek using a Minor Illusion Cantrip. I ain¡¯t much of an artist, but a shadowy, vaguely human shaped figure is usually enough to get a nervous shooter to bite. The Bolts fly through the open doorway, past my illusion, and into the wall on the other side, one so close to my face I can feel it sizzle as it passes. A Firebolt of all things, a finger thick nub of bright-orange flame, which is something different from what I¡¯ve see in all of Pleasant Dunes.


    But not in the Coral Desert.


    ¡°Gunin?!¡± I call, only to have to move the water out from around my mouth and try a second time. ¡°Gunin??¡± A smile stretches across my face as I act as familiar as can be and remember the tall dirty blonde scav leader with the fancy, extra-long rifle with its pretty peach-wood stock. ¡°That you in there loosin¡¯ Firebolts at me? Gotta be you, because ain¡¯t no one in town got a gun like yours.¡±


    There¡¯s a long pause as I back away and ready my last flashbang while waiting for an answer, and I can just imagine the confusion the other man is feeling right now. Why¡¯s the Firstborn know his name and recognize his rifle? That¡¯s the scariest thing about going against a Diviner. Got no idea how much they really know, so if I act all chummy and cheery, it won¡¯t just be Gunin wracking his brain to figure out what¡¯s going on. Ron will be pondering too, wondering if he let the fox into the henhouse and if me and Gunin have been working together all along. The Khaganate are supposed to be a third party here, the unknown variable and ace in the hole, so why am I acting so familiar? Don¡¯t matter what answer they come up with, it can only benefit me, because while they distracted thinking about things, I¡¯m lobbing a flashbang into the room and laughing all the while.


    ¡°No Gunin here,¡± comes the heavily accented reply, one that¡¯s cut off midway through and draws a cackle from my lips, because what the hell was he expecting that to accomplish? The flashbang goes off, but knowing I¡¯m up against a Diviner myself, I don¡¯t run right in. Instead, I use Minor Illusion again, but this time to create the sound of boots running on wood. A lot of boots, not just two, and the panicked shooting in response shows I was right to. They were prepped for flashbangs, better prepared than those poor fools downstairs, but you gotta work harder if you want to get one over on the Firstborn.


    No, not the Firstborn. The Yellow Devil. Gotta get into the habit of calling myself that, even if I don¡¯t like the sound of it much. My natural skin colour is almost as pale as Aunty Ray, not quite milky white but pale enough to make me wary of going shirtless and showing off my farmer¡¯s tan.


    Not the time or place, I remind myself, and wonder if I overdid it on the frost-thorn powder. Shouldn¡¯t make me loopy, but I ain¡¯t got a whole lot of experience with drugs either way, not medical or recreational. Least I didn¡¯t take a swig of moonshine to ease off the pain, a thought I complete just as I toss the first grenade through the open door, while everyone is still shooting at shadows. Five, four, three, two, one, and boom goes the grenade, a deafening blast that blows a cloud of smoke out and down the staircase along with a puff of superheated air. Course, the air and smoke coming up the staircase ain¡¯t exactly cold neither, so I remind myself that I¡¯m on a timer as I lob out the second grenade despite all the groans and screams sounding out from within.


    There¡¯s a scramble of boots on wood, someone running for the grenade in hopes of tossing it back maybe, but I primed this one two seconds after throwing the first, meaning there ain¡¯t much time left on its fuse.


    It¡¯s a night of big booms it appears, and there are no screams or groans in the wake of this one, so I poke my head out from behind my Shield and take in my handiwork with a grin. Bodies lay strewn about the foyer at the top of the stairs, an open area to hang your coat and get frisked by guards before heading further inside. Door ain¡¯t right across from the stairs either, but rather off to the left and right, allowing for two shooters to stand on either side and blast the opening as they please, along with a squad of goons who were lined up against the opposite wall with a pair of overturned tables to hunker down behind. Would¡¯ve saved them from the flash, but not the disorienting bang, so they was right frazzled when they unloaded all those Bolts at nothing. Glad they all aimed at the open doorway rather than the wall right next to it, because a through and through might well have tagged me and really ruined my night.


    Day? No, it¡¯s still early yet. Pre-dusk probably. I think.


    Bad sign that, all those distracted thoughts, so I finish off the few mangled bodies who are still twitching despite all the burns and metal fragments embedded into their skin. Gotta say, I can see why Ron likes his explosives so much, because I can¡¯t hate them. Three was all I had though, and none of these bodies got any more hanging off their belts. Makes sense, as this here is Ron¡¯s home and castle, so he¡¯d hardly want his boys blowing the place up.


    Don¡¯t spot not dirty blonde with a fancy rifle though, which means I need to tread lightly. Don¡¯t got no respect for scavs because of what they do, but the Aetherarms in their hands are deadly as any other. ¡°Oh Gunin,¡± I call, careful not to shout too loudly so as to be heard outside. ¡°You still there? Got an offer for you, one time and one time only. Want to hear it?¡±


    ¡°No Gunin!¡± comes the heavily accented reply, and I gotta respect the man for sticking to his story.


    ¡°So what do I call you then? Boris? Ivan? Dragovic?¡± That last one is a right proper name, though I think it¡¯s a family name rather than a given one. Dragovic Zhu. Now there¡¯s a name to inspire fear in the masses, though I wouldn¡¯t name my boy that. Assuming I ever have one, but that¡¯s neither here nor there. ¡°Know what? I¡¯ll just stick with Gunin, and you make sure what I gotta say gets back to him, okay?¡±


    ¡°¡­What is offer then?¡±


    Reaching up to touch the bull¡¯s head medallion again, I say, ¡°Well Gunin, you know what Ron¡¯s plan was.¡± If I want this recording admitted in a court of law, I gotta be careful with what I say, else I might be accused to coaxing Gunin to lie for me. ¡°You know who he was working with.¡± Not sure if he does, but here¡¯s hoping he can read the room once we out of here. ¡°I¡¯m guessing you also know all about his whole illegal operation and have considered taking it for yourself.¡± Or maybe he¡¯s sane and didn¡¯t dare consider it, because I wouldn¡¯t want to be responsible for managing a factory that makes explosives.


    ¡°¡­If Gunin knows all this, what then?¡±


    Grinning as I peer through a door and find no one on the other side, I study the layout and find another tight corner. Means Gunin could be right on the other side of this wall, and maybe has a port to shoot out of. A sliding panel would suffice, so I keep an eye on the wall and an ear on the hall while continuing our conversation. ¡°Well, if you knew all that, then you¡¯d make for a very valuable state¡¯s witness should you choose to report on all of Ronald Jackson¡¯s crimes against humanity, one that would be well rewarded for bringing down this heinous criminal whose actions threaten the Frontier.


    Gunin horks and spits, a sound that will never fail to send a shiver down my spine because of how disgusting it is. ¡°Become informer to Federal Government?¡± A slew of Russian follows as the Soviet National lets me know in no uncertain terms how he feels about that.


    What a shame. Rather than give him any warning though, I use the Minor Illusion Cantrip to send a set of footsteps scampering down the opposite hall. While the gunshots ring out, I step through the door and spot Gunin¡¯s back as he shoots at real shadows and illusory sounds with his fiery rifle. Even though I like what he said about me and my daddy, I put a Bolt through the back of his head all the same before taking in the rest of the second story walk-up. It¡¯s right fancy enough, and cozy too if it weren¡¯t for all the smoke filtering in. Got a worn leather couch and homey sitting area, a little kitchen with a breakfast nook, a dining area with a proper hardwood table, and the bedrooms at the back, where they¡¯ll have the best view in town short of slogging all the way up one of the towers.


    Danny¡¯s place is about the same, only a little nicer because he got all manner of gadgets and gizmos scattered about to make life easier for him and his. Like I said, Ron works real hard breaking laws and stepping all over downtrodden folks just to live a little better than your average family in New Hope. Now who¡¯s lacking perspective?


    Reaching up to turn off the recording, I part the water around my mouth again and say, ¡°Oh Ron?!¡± Throw a bit of singsong lilt in there again, just for good measure. ¡°You back there? Sound out if you are, because I¡¯d hate for this grenade to take you out, sight unseen.¡± Don¡¯t got another grenade, as the last one is plastered above the basement stairs, but he doesn¡¯t know that.


    All the while, my eyes are scanning the room for danger lurking in the shadows, so focused on the darkness that I almost overlook the lights. One light in particular stands out, a light than ain¡¯t actually a light, not in the sense that it gives off illumination visible to the human eye. Fact is, it¡¯s a fancy little mantle clock, one sitting on a counter and glowing with Aetheric flows, which sets my jimmies to rustling and me diving to cover right quick.


    Now, I ain¡¯t ever heard a Naga sound off, but it¡¯s love at first song. A single-action revolver, the hammer¡¯s got a real heavy click to it when you thumb it back manually, and after the fact, I realize that¡¯s the sound which set my Portent off. Can¡¯t hear the trigger pull, but the Naga¡¯s got a sharp, explosive crack that almost rivals the grenade in volume, and a booming retort that echoes throughout the cozy little flat. The Bolt it delivers smashes through the wood lined, steel plated bedroom wall and whizzes bare inches past where my head would¡¯ve been if I¡¯d stayed standing a moment longer, only to pierce through the foyer wall which is also reinforced with steel. That¡¯s the Siege Metamagic Etching at work, vastly increasing the damage the weapon does to solid structures, which don¡¯t include flesh, but most certainly includes bones. Don¡¯t ask me how it works, as I got no earthly idea, a fairly niche Metamagic that ain¡¯t used much anymore, but I don¡¯t see why, because its work is a sight to behold indeed.


    The next shot hits close to where I¡¯m cowering, behind a well used chair that has seen better days, and I get to moving right quick. A mad dash across the way and over Gunin¡¯s body brings me to another corner, but rather than post up behind it, I keep going and dive into the foyer as the shots ring out close behind me. The dash wasn¡¯t for show, because it gets me into a blind spot where the mantle clock can¡¯t see me, a magical viewing device instilled with what I assume is a Clairvoyance Spell. Probably sits out in the foyer most days, so Ron can see who¡¯s knocking on his door and see how they act while they think he ain¡¯t looking. Sneaky man, and somehow, I doubt this is the first time he¡¯s used those Nagas to shoot someone from behind a wall. His shots are too accurate for off the cuff work, meaning he¡¯s practiced good and well for this.


    Even though I¡¯m out of sight, Ron could still shoot blind and flush me out. Won¡¯t take too many tries, as there¡¯s only so much cover here in this nook, so in the interest of staying alive, I mutter a small prayer in hopes that my next move doesn¡¯t bring the whole building down and set my Mage Hands to activate the last potato masher grenade, the one stuck into the suspicious magical emanation leading down into the bunker Ron done dug himself under Pleasant Dunes.


    The resulting explosion is almost anticlimactic, just a boom like any other, only further away with a full floor of distance between me and it. The explosion the grenade sets off on the other hand is one of epic proportions as the ground sets to rumbling underfoot. Then it happens again and again, a chain of explosions meant to bring down the stairs I took down and linked to the other exits too, an option of last resort to buy some time should it look like Abby are about to break through, and I gotta admire Ron for his planning. Built himself a right proper bunker he did, an underground fortress hidden right here in town, with what I can only imagine is a rat¡¯s nest of trails leading in and out of the complex and alarms to let him know if Abby or intruders make it in. Shame it¡¯s all buried now, as it¡¯ll take a good amount of effort to dig back out, and I bet his manufacturing depot was connected to it too. How else was he supposed to transport all his grenades and mining explosives without carting them about in broad daylight? That¡¯d make a tempting target for scavs, bandits, and outlaws alike, which is why he had his meeting with Gunin up here rather than down in his bunker.


    Meaning I might well have just cut Ron off from his breadbasket, at a time when he stood to profit from it the most.


    When the rumbling finally comes to an end, I let out a cackle that sounds out over the concerned shouts and scared screams from outside. ¡°You¡¯ve made a believer out of me, Ron,¡± I say, giddy with laughter as I lay on my back and look up at the smoke-filled ceiling. ¡°Your explosives are a real top-notch product.¡±


    Since the shots have stopped ringing out, I recast Mage Hands, settle my mask of water back over my mouth, and reload my revolvers before sitting back up with a wince. If I rest any longer, I might not be able to move any more, so best finish this while I can. Rather than try to avoid being seen, I pop up and shoot the clock right quick before diving away, avoiding two booming shots from the guns I mean to claim for myself soon enough. Without any eyes left to him save for his baby blue peepers, I come back up and shoot at the holes in the wall to keep him from glancing. When my Rattlesnake clicks empty, I pull out the Model 10 and keep shooting blind in a slow and steady rhythm, buying my newly conjured Mage Hands time to float over quick as they can with the dubsies in hand.


    And soon as they get there, I stuff all four barrels into two different holes and aim to cover as much of the room and floor as I can before unloading all four barrels at the same time. Music to my ears it is, a loud and boisterous bang like a heavy boot on metal, and the resulting agonized groan is too visceral to be faked. Their jobs done, my Doorknockers clatter to the ground without my Mage Hands to hold them up, and I summon a new pair to help me reload both pistols, one after the other. Then, for good measure, I reload the Doorknockers too before approach to the room as low and out of sight as I can, while my Floating Disc and Simple Servant follow on behind me.


    ¡°You still alive in there Ron?¡± I ask, and I get a chuckle in reply.


    ¡°Just barely, kid.¡±


    ¡°And how¡¯s miss Laura? She get tagged any?¡± Let him think I still care, because if he sees hope for her, he might play ball.


    ¡°She¡¯s unhurt.¡± The steel in his tone demands she stay that way, but ain¡¯t nothing in life come free.


    ¡°You want her to stay that way, then you hand over your guns to my Simple Servant,¡± I say, directly the blobby little fella to leave his candle and Molotov behind on the Floating Disc before opening the door and moseying on in. ¡°Two Nagas, and anything else you might have on you, because if I walk in and see steel, then I¡¯mma start shootin¡¯ right quick without much regard for who I hit.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t have any other guns,¡± Ron says, sounding breathless and strained. A few seconds later, my Simple Servant comes back out with two Nagas which I stuff into my empty holsters for now. Just to be extra safe, I send the Mage Hands in with the Doorknockers first and point them around the room as a threat, then peek in through one of the many holes in the wall to make double sure there¡¯s no threat. Don¡¯t see one, so I stride on into the room, the master bedroom as it were with an ensuite bathroom and the biggest damn bed I done ever seen. Propped up against the foot of the bed is Ronald Jackson himself, looking mighty out of sorts with his shredded legs and stomach as he sits there with hands up by his shoulders and palms out. Laura is there too, showing her hands too and glaring at me for all she¡¯s worth, but her sass ain¡¯t so fetching anymore.


    With my Rattlesnake pointed at Ron, I redirect the Mage Hands to cover the both of them with the Doorknockers before looking around the rest of the room. Nothing magical stands out to my Detect Magic Spell, so there ain¡¯t no recording devices around. Course, Nondetection is a Third Order Divination Spell meant to cover up magical tracks, but if he went that far as to hide his own recording devices from a possible Diviner wandering around his bedroom, then he deserves to have it recorded. ¡°So here we are,¡± I say, with a little shake of my head as I lean back against a dresser while my Floating Disc settles in right next to me. ¡°A shame really. Didn¡¯t have to go this way.¡±


    ¡°Your fault, not mine,¡± Ron says, beaming all bright as he leans back against his bed, and because he looking out of sorts, I gesture with the Rattlesnake to let him know he can put his arms down. He does, but reaches for his breast pocket where he keeps his cigs. Does it slow and careful to show he ain¡¯t no threat, but it¡¯s hard when you bleeding from your gut and a dozen other holes. ¡°Miss Laura,¡± he says, turning to her with love in his eyes. ¡°If you could be so kind?¡±


    She gives him a glare as she helps him out, one so full of love it makes me envy what they got. Two terrible people who found love together, it¡¯d almost be sweet if I didn¡¯t hate them so much. In contrast to her anger and sass, her actions are as gentle as can be as she gets him a cigarette, but they ain¡¯t got no lighter on account of it being on the dressing table beside me. With only one hand, I ain¡¯t about to reach for the flintstone in my component pouch or the one I stole off his desk downstairs, so I send my Simple Servant over with a candle instead. Ron laughs as he leans in to light his cig, and he takes a big lungful of smoke before blowing it up at the ceiling to join the clouds of blackness hanging overhead. Heaving a sigh as he sees what¡¯s above and guesses at what¡¯s below, Ron gives me a look that¡¯s almost friendly as he shakes his head and says, ¡°I can see why Gunin was so scared of the Firstborn then. Man was ready to take my money and run once he learned you were involved.¡±


    That puts a bit of pep in my step, and I give Ron a smile and nod in thanks. ¡°Funny that,¡± I say with a shrug. ¡°Can¡¯t rightly say I remember crossin¡¯ any Soviet scavs before the last week, so don¡¯t know how he heard of me.¡±


    Ron chuckles and shakes his head, but doesn¡¯t answer the implied question. Instead, he heaves a sigh and turns to miss Laura, giving her a tender look you wouldn¡¯t expect from a man of his lacking morals. ¡°Should¡¯ve made an honest woman out of you. Everyone knew you were my old lady even if I didn¡¯t marry you, so why bother keeping up appearances?¡±


    ¡°Should¡¯ve done a lot of things,¡± she replies, tears streaming down her cheeks as she strokes his face. ¡°Like steer clear of the Firstborn like I told you to. Think a man like you would know better. Told me all those stories about how you wasn¡¯t the meanest, toughest, or scariest soldier in your platoon, but the hardest one to kill.¡±


    ¡°Because they always underestimate a Diviner,¡± Ron replies, flashing a boyish grin that makes me wonder how he became the monster that he is. ¡°Course, I did the same, and look where that left me?¡± Turning to me, he asks, ¡°How¡¯d you know I was gonna shoot you through the wall? Can¡¯t count the number of times I¡¯ve gotten the jump on my enemies like that, but you? Ducked and danced like you could see me aiming right at you.¡±


    ¡°Detect Magic,¡± I say, seeing no reason to lie. ¡°Spotted the Spell on your clock and moved accordingly.¡±


    ¡°Damn.¡± Shaking his head in admiration, he looks at me in a new light, a man who knows it ain¡¯t as simple as I make it sound. ¡°That quick?¡±


    ¡°That quick.¡±


    ¡°The fucking Firstborn.¡± Heaving a sigh, he adds, ¡°Should¡¯ve come work for me, boy. Got no quit in you, but you¡¯re wasting your talents.¡±


    ¡°Should¡¯ve, could¡¯ve, might¡¯ve,¡± I say by way of reply, shrugging as I hold up my stump of a hand which still got my Shield out to protect me. ¡°Lot of things we both should¡¯ve done, but here we are.¡±


    ¡°Too true.¡± Glancing at the door, he asks, ¡°Where¡¯s Wayne?¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°Your boys done him in downstairs,¡± is what I say, but neither one of us believes it. He knows what I did, because he knows me better than I care to admit. ¡°Conner too.¡±


    The man nods in approval, and I hate that my chest swells with pride to see it. God damn it. If he wasn¡¯t such soulless scum, I could see myself liking the man for what he is. An unapologetic criminal sure, but Ronald Jackson gets things done. ¡°Tell me,¡± he says, after taking another drag of his cig. ¡°Last time you were in town, when we were talking at the bar. Was it Fireball you had readied?¡± I nod, and he laughs. ¡°Damn son. More stones than I thought then. How¡¯d you expect to get away clean, sitting right there next to me when your Spell went off?¡±


    ¡°Had that good, solid bar between us,¡± I say with a shrug. ¡°Throw the Spell at your feet, take cover, and pray. Fireball don¡¯t flood the area with flame and heat. It billows out from the epicentre in a wave. Blink and you¡¯d miss it, but there¡¯s no denying that¡¯s how it works, meaning the bar would¡¯ve born the brunt of the Spell¡¯s damage. Fireball¡¯s great for killing, but it don¡¯t do great against wooden furniture and stone objects for some reason.¡±


    ¡°Because they don¡¯t have reserves of fat underneath the surface to superheat and ignite,¡± Ron replies, spoken like a man who¡¯s seen it first hand. Thinking back on how it went down in the bunker, I nod in agreement, because that do be how it is. Heaving another sigh, he leans into Laura a little harder as the cigarette in his mouth droops down from his lips. ¡°Sorry darling. Seems this is the end of the road for me then.¡±


    ¡°Fool man,¡± she says, giving him a kiss, and my stomach twists as I watch their touching little moment. The way they¡¯re going on it¡¯s like I¡¯m the villain here, when they the ones who brung this on themselves. They¡¯re the monsters, and it ain¡¯t fair that they such a fetching couple when they both so ugly on the inside.


    So to make the outside match the in, I kick the Molotov my Simple Servant left sitting on my Floating Disc and send it hurtling towards the monstrous couple in a fit of pique. The glass shatters on the bedframe and sends a spray of alcohol out in all directions, one that¡¯s ignited by Ron¡¯s lit cigarette and sets the loving couple ablaze. Neither one of them was expecting it, and their screams are delicious to hear as their skins blacken to a crisp while writhing in agony next to one another. If I had the patience, I¡¯d have asked him more about his chemical explosives and try to figure out where he stores and manufactures them, but I¡¯m tired and hurting and in no mood to hear him plead for her life or her refuse to leave or whatever. Instead, their screams serve as the closing to my journey here in Pleasant Dunes, a sound that will haunt my nightmares for years to come, but for now, I find them soothing as can be as I watch them flail about in futile effort for a few seconds. Then my disgust kicks in and I loathe myself more than I could ever hate either one of them, so I put a Bolt through each of them to end their misery.


    Her first, then him, so he has to watch her die. One final slap across the face for taking my hand and my future both.


    And just like that, it¡¯s almost over, the job done and my vengeance complete. Marcus was right though. Revenge doesn¡¯t change a damn thing, but I learned that lesson long ago when I gunned down the men who shot my daddy dead. Didn¡¯t make me feel better then, and it doesn¡¯t make me feel better now. Only empty and aimless, with nothing left for me to do except face facts. The fight is over and done with, the battle won and victory complete, but there¡¯s still the matter of getting out of this with my reputation intact without taking too much flak for what went down here today. There will be questions aplenty, and consequences to boot, to say nothing of the fact that even if I come out of this clean, I¡¯m still down a hand and have limited options moving forward.


    Which is why I take a minute or two looking around for something to pocket and plunder, but there¡¯s no obvious safe full of cash or box filled with jewels laying about. Don¡¯t have much time for a thorough search though, so I leave the burning room feeling neither better nor worse for having finished things neat and tidy. It¡¯s over, that¡¯s all that matters, and I got myself two fancy new Naga¡¯s for it. Lovely guns, but juice wasn¡¯t worth the squeeze, not even if I add in Gunin¡¯s fancy rifle too. His pistols ain¡¯t nothing special, so I leave those with his corpse which I set aflame too, using up the last of my mollies because why the hell not?


    Taking one last look about the blazing inferno, I put the scene out of mind because I never want to remember this moment ever again. As I open the window, a rush of cold air surges into the building and sets the flames to burning even hotter than before, so I hop out right quick and pay for my haste when my back foot catches onto the window frame and sends me tumbling through the air head over heels. Been through this a thousand times before, like when my daddy would drop the Levitation Spell suddenly or tell me to jump off the side of the mesa where he made his home with my mama in the badlands. A focused effort of Will directed down into my boot draws the stored Featherfall Spell out and around me, billowing about to wrap me in a blanket of magical sensation which I drink in with the Detect Magic Spell still active.


    This must be what Tina, Chrissy, and Aunty Ray see all the time. It doesn¡¯t change anything about the night¡¯s sky or the stars twinkling up overhead. It enhances it, adds to it, layers an extra set of impressions over everything that I¡¯m suddenly all too aware of and never want to be away from again. That¡¯s magic, and I yearn for it more than almost anything else in this world, because it¡¯s the only thing that¡¯s never let me down. As the Featherfall Spell gently deposits me down in the sand, I cling fast to the tiny spark of hope which just ignited in my chest, a tiny, flickering flame that is nothing compared to the gutted inferno of fury that sputtered out with Ron and Laura¡¯s deaths.


    Maybe, just maybe, I can still keep doing what I do, so long as I find the right magic to fix what ails me. Can¡¯t regrow limbs with magic, but a stronger Mage Hand? An arcana-tech prothesis? A hand-golem linked to my brain and no different from a real hand? All within the realm of possibilities. Not today, and probably not before the Watershed either, but there¡¯s still hope to be had.


    Hope for the best, and strive for it too, even as I prepare for the worst all the same.


    So here¡¯s hoping.


    - End of Book One -

 Book Two - Chapter 56

    Home is where the heart is, or home is where you hang your hat.


    A conflicting pair of sayings to be sure, which goes to show how different folks can be. My daddy believed in the first no doubt, having long since given his heart to my mama and made his home there at her side. That¡¯s why he never put much effort into our house in New Hope, because a house without her could never be home. For him, home was up on a mesa about 300km east southeast from New Hope as the crow flies, and only a stone¡¯s throw away from the cavernous Divide. A right dangerous location to be sure, one they chose out of desperation after a group of nearby settlers realized my parents had taken down a Proggie and had a steady source of crystal Aether to draw on.


    Wasn¡¯t exactly hard to figure out either. Back in those early months, most folks were running around with stone spearheads tied to sturdy sticks, while my daddy had himself not one, but two slam-fire Aetherarms my mama put together using clay tubes, tree sap, and twine along with the Spell Cores they got from their successful Proggie hunt on their very first day. Them guns had no Metamagics to speak of, took an ungodly amount of time to load, Prime, and fire, and were only good for a dozen or so shots before falling apart, but they was packing real heat in comparison to the rest. Guns were loud too, so they drew a lot of attention every time they were used, which was often enough to make my parents a target to a band of opportunistic bandits.


    Now that I think about it, that was up by the Snake Fang Mountain Range, which borders the Coral Sands and Emerald Plains both. Was a little area with sand on one side, plains on another, and mountains for the backdrop. More importantly, it was only a few days ride northeast of Pleasant Dunes. Might explain how Gunin knew about my daddy then, having heard the tales of two Qin youngsters who fought off a group of ten opportunistic bandits and come out unscathed. Hell, might be Gunin was the one who done raided them, and Gunin¡¯s friends the ones my daddy done killed with his knife in the dark before they even knew he was there. Maybe that was enough to send Gunin running for the hills, so scared that he kept an ear out for all of my daddy¡¯s future accomplishments. Now wouldn¡¯t that be something? Large as the Frontier might be, it¡¯s still a small world out there, so who knows who¡¯s crossed paths with who before?


    That being said, my mama was three months pregnant at the time of the attack, and it scared her something fierce. Didn¡¯t feel safe knowing there were others who knew what they had, because even now, some seventeen years later, a Proggie corpse is still worth killing for. An endless supply of crystal, that¡¯s what it represents once you turn that corpse into an Aetheric condenser, all for the low, low cost of supplying it with enough biomass to fuel the process. Don¡¯t take much either. Grass clippings, cooked bones, egg shells, or whatever else you have handy, all you gotta do is load it up into the tank and the condenser will secrete acidic fluids to break that biomass down and turn it into crystal Aether. Free money pretty much, albeit at a god-awful rate unless you got the tech, materials, and know-how to make a proper industrial condenser, as well as the power and resources to maintain it, what with all the heat and gasses and whatnot, so it ain¡¯t as lucrative as you¡¯d think.


    Problem is, most old worlders were promised riches and splendour here on the Frontier, most of which came in the form of owning one such condenser, so the fact that my parents had one three months after the Advent made them prime targets for anyone and everyone who knew about it. So, being young and scared, my mama decided their best option was to skedaddle some six-hundred klicks south of where they started, averaging over twenty klicks a day on foot before settling down on a mesa next to Grand Proggie Station. Was a dangerous and inhospitable location to be sure, but one well away from human civilization, or what might¡¯ve passed for it back in those days. Even as a kid, I thought her decision was a touch extreme, but my daddy said it was what they was taught, to fear the ¡®foreign devils¡¯ who¡¯d sooner kill them than look at them. As you might tell by their name, the Qin Vanguard came here to wage war, to fight for territory and secure the wealth of the Frontier for the Republic, wealth which should¡¯ve all been theirs to start with. That¡¯s how my mama saw it, the world against the Qin, which was why she was running scared; she thought she was vastly outnumbered and only had one soldier to rely on.


    Yea, theirs was a strange dynamic to be sure. My mama called the shots, while my daddy was happy to obey, all because she¡¯d been given a rank by some government official that said she was much more important than him. Never did learn how she earned it, or why her brother is so similarly high ranked, but I imagine there¡¯s some sort of nepotism at work there. My mama was brilliant to be sure, but even if she was put in some super special learning program alongside her brother, most folks don¡¯t teach kids the Spell Formula for Fireball without good reason. That¡¯s how I learned it after all, as it was one of the first things my mama scribbled down onto paper as soon as she figured out how to make it. I¡¯ve looked over those notes so many times they¡¯re ready to fall apart at a touch, and Mended them even more times since, so much so that I don¡¯t dare touch them anymore and had to make copies to pore over instead.


    My daddy rarely talked about my mama, not unless I asked him direct, but he didn¡¯t have to say anything at all to know how he felt about her. When I was young, I always hated celebrating my birthday, because my daddy was never around for it. He¡¯d always make a trip back to the mesa to pay his respects at my mama¡¯s grave, and I thought that meant he blamed me for her death and couldn¡¯t stand to see me round that time of year. Had to be it, because even for him, it was a gruelling, seven-day trip through the badlands, and he¡¯d come home more than once with a nasty new scrape or scar to show for his efforts. Never stayed there for long either, as he was usually back within a week of my birthday, meaning he spent less than a day or two out at the mesa, and the rest of the time travelling there and back.


    So why else would he go to see her every year instead of staying home to celebrate Christmas, my birthday, and New Years with me and the family?


    Childish and selfish is what that is, but it¡¯s how I felt right up until my eight birthday, when my daddy finally brought me out to the mesa for the first time. Was a right frightful journey it was, since I didn¡¯t know much about anything and my daddy had to keep warning me about this or that. Thought he was trying to scare me something fierce so I didn¡¯t pay it any mind until a burrowed borer beetle Feral popped out of the ground while I was making water and tried to make a snack of my giblets. After that, I heeded every word of sage advice my daddy gave me, and a good thing too. Got into three more fights with Abby before we made it to the mesa, and that¡¯s after running away from a fair few more. When he pointed it out in the distance, I was so grateful to be there, because it meant we were one day closer to heading back home and safety behind the walls of New Hope.


    My mama¡¯s grave is nothing special. A bare plot in the ground and a rough-hewn tombstone to mark it, with a second plot dug out right next to it. That¡¯s all there was the first time I saw it, so I didn¡¯t really know how to feel. To me, my mama was a stranger no different from any other, the woman who birthed me but one I ain¡¯t ever known. So after running my fingers over the characters ¡®Zhu Li Na¡¯, I glanced at my daddy to see if that was enough, and I¡¯ll never forget the look on his face. He wasn¡¯t what you¡¯d call an emotive man, a real calm and quiet sort so different from myself. Wasn¡¯t no big smiles from him, or angry scowls neither, just a cold, stony expression that wasn¡¯t ice-cold like Sarah Jay¡¯s, but wasn¡¯t exactly warm and welcoming neither. Wasn¡¯t much difference between his happy face and angry face, or at least that¡¯s what I thought until I saw the love and longing in his eyes as he stood over my mama¡¯s grave.


    Ain¡¯t no describing it, but I reckon we all seen it once or twice before. Uncle Raleigh and Aunty Ray had those eyes for each other, which is how I knew my daddy loved my mama so. They only spent a short nine months together, but I think that if it wasn¡¯t for me, he would¡¯ve lain down in the grave beside her and followed her right into the afterlife. That¡¯s why he kept coming back here year after year, because that rocky little plot of dirt was home to him. Not our house in New Hope, and not the shabby shack he built with my mama up on the mesa, and not wherever he happened to hang his hat. Home was the open plot in the ground next to my mama, one he dug up the same time he dug hers, and one that sat empty for a long fourteen years before I brung him home to rest.


    Yea, my daddy loved me dearly and moved heaven and earth to make sure I never wanted for nothing, but his heart died the day I was born, because he¡¯d given it to my mama who took it with her to the grave.


    Might be there comes a day when I meet a little lady who makes me feel the same way, though I can¡¯t even imagine it. Attraction I get, as I do got me an eye for the ladies, but love is a mystery to be sure. I¡¯ve met plenty of lovely ladies in my time, and have come to know a fair few in recent days, like Sarah Jay, Kacey, and Noora. Thing is, though they all pretty as a picture to look at, I can barely stand spending the whole day with any one of them. Not because they ain¡¯t good company for the most part, as I¡¯m the problem, not them. I just don¡¯t like being around people much, and even Tina can get on my last nerve after spending too much time together. Only exception I¡¯ve ever known is Chrissy, and I don¡¯t mind having her around because she depends on me, which changes the dynamic.


    All this only goes to show that for me, home ain¡¯t this tiny house in New Hope either. Much as I love this town and take pride in the history I got here, if the town were to become uninhabitable for any reason at midnight tonight, I¡¯d be out the gates by 12:15 at the latest without so much as blinking an eye. Would be sad to lose a few things, like the primitive Aetherarms my mama made hanging on the walls or the house Uncle Raleigh built, but so long as the people make it out okay, then we can always rebuild. That¡¯s how I see it, which is why I consider home wherever I hang my hat. It¡¯s the open road that¡¯s got my heart, with the wild Frontier just waiting to be explored and conquered, and there¡¯s nothing I love more than seeing it in all its glory. Once all is said and done, I always figured I¡¯d eventually make my way back to my parents¡¯ side, laid out in the ground right next to them up on the mesa in the badlands. Except now, I gotta rethink my entire life, because I bet big in Pleasant Dunes and came out on top, but not unscathed. Now, the open road is no longer my home, or at least not one I can make it in as I am. A harsh pill to swallow, but them¡¯s the facts, so ain¡¯t nothing to do but keep on carrying on and figure out what to do next.


    Can¡¯t bring myself to do it though, not while I blink out the last vestiges of sleep as I lay there in bed, too awake to fall back asleep but in too much pain to get up and go on about my day. Instead, I stare at the wooden supports holding up the brick ceiling, ignore the burning pain in my wrist, and ponder how to turn this house into a home for real, a home in which I will live out the rest of my new life right here in New Hope.


    Won¡¯t be all that bad really. Could find a job doing something or another, maybe Etching Artifacts, construction work, or even a factory gig over in Riverrun. I¡¯d work from sundown to sunup earning a wage like any other, only to spend it all on drink and drugs to numb the boredom and drudgery away. Get me a wife maybe, someone easy on the eyes with a heart of mithril and a Darksteel Spine to keep me in check, because Lord knows I need a firm hand. We¡¯d make ourselves a family, with two kids at least, one boy and one girl ideally. I¡¯d be home for all the holidays and never miss a single one of their birthdays, and we could even get a pet or three to help fill out the house. One I¡¯d have to rebuild and remodel from the ground up, because fine as my daddy¡¯s workmanship might¡¯ve been, he wasn¡¯t all that concerned about aesthetics or livability. I¡¯d hafta build us a proper house and home, just like the one Uncle Raleigh built next door, with two stories, four bedrooms at the minimum, and a ranch out back for our wallies, cattle, and horsies to graze and stretch their legs. I¡¯d make mead and sell it to shops in town, while my wifey would bake sweet treats for the kids which I¡¯d steal with a smile, and Aunty Ray would spoil them silly with love and care. Life wouldn¡¯t be perfect, as it rarely ever is, but we¡¯d have each other, one big happy family.


    All of which sounds fine on paper, so why¡¯s the mere thought of it bring tears to my eyes?


    It¡¯s because I¡¯m the Firstborn of this here Frontier. The frontrunner of an entire generation so vastly separated from the last. The youngest person older than me has got a good sixteen years, while most got twenty at the very least. Means that when it comes to older role models, I¡¯ve only ever had folks from my parents¡¯ generation, whereas some are closer to my grandparents like Uncle Teddy. As for the other kids, they look up to me, so I had to work hard to set the standard for excellence and become a goal for them to aspire to. That¡¯s how my daddy framed it, because the Qin put a lot of stock in seniority, even if it¡¯s only by a few days or weeks. The Federation does too, though not formally and not as much, so folks have always expected more from me on account of my age, and I ain¡¯t ever been one to disappoint. I worked harder than most adults to get as far as I did, gave up on making friends and hanging out like all the other kids my age just so I could put those extra hours to good use, and it shows.


    Showed. Because after all of that hard work and sacrifice, what do I got to show for it now? Nothing, that¡¯s what, because this is where I ended up all the same. Right here in New Hope with one hand and a bleak future, to live out the rest of my days as a townie like any other.


    Ain¡¯t like I got something against townies, not really. Most are a good enough sort, and the very best of us are probably townies, the folks who¡¯ll lead us forward into the future of the Frontier. Can¡¯t fight Abby without the factories in New Hope churning out guns, ammo, and gear week after week, or brilliant men like Armand Kalthoff to illuminate the way forward into the future. I only mention guns and gear because that¡¯s what I know, but I¡¯m sure there are other shining examples of townies to draw on out there. Folks who find new things like the bricks, linens, and papers my mama crafted, or more advanced stuff like medicines and materials. Can¡¯t live without them, that there is the truth, because they the ones doing all the important stuff, like making sure we all got enough food to make it through the winter and whatnot.


    Thing is, for all the vital and important work they do, I never saw myself as a townie. No, I wanted to be a Ranger, one of the brave men and women defending the townies from the dangers of the Frontier. As a kid, I wanted to be like my daddy, delving under dark and clearing Proggies out by the dozens, or Marcus hunting bandits and bringing them to justice, Frontier or otherwise. In recent years, I figured it wouldn¡¯t be all that bad to be like Tim either, someone feared but respected because others knew they could count on him in a pinch. Was a goal I worked towards all my life, and one I almost lost when the Rangers disavowed my daddy. Thought I found my way around it by aiming to work freelance, so I could have all the upsides with none of the down. Came face to face with reality in Pleasant Dunes though, when I saw how much effort the Rangers were putting into their boots, and realized that my dreams of getting trained up the same way was all just a pipe dream that would never come to pass. Why put all that money, time, and effort into training me, if I¡¯m just gonna turn around and charge them once I¡¯m good and ready?


    And then, before I could even mourn the loss of my dream much less move on from it, I lost everything all at once when Ronald Fucking Jackson had Franky lop off my hand. Forget being a gunfighter or Spellslinger. As I am now, I¡¯ll have trouble enough just being a townie.


    A creak at the door gets me moving right quick, as if the Frontier is keen to show me just how hard life is gonna be. Pain shoots through me as I reach for my weapon safe, only to remember halfway that I don¡¯t have a hand there to open it with. That stops me right quick, and I sink back into bed when I realize there ain¡¯t nothing to be alarmed about, because the Alarm I got inlaid on the doors and windows never went off. Nor does the Shocking Grasp Glyph on the doorknob meant to give intruders a real rude awakening, and it don¡¯t take much in the way of brains to figure out why. Not two seconds later, the door to my room opens and Chrissy pokes her head in to see what¡¯s what, only to find me sitting in bed ready and waiting to greet her.


    ¡°Morning Princess,¡± I say with a smile. Not my biggest or brightest, but the best I can muster. Ain¡¯t had much to smile about lately, and still feel like one giant bruise all over, with all of my muscles tight and sore at best. Little woozy too, from sitting up so fast, but that ain¡¯t on Chrissy, so I muster up what little cheer I got so as not to bring her down. Should¡¯ve known better, because she was never one to let what others do affect her much, paying my greeting and my smile no mind as she waltzes right on in with her slippers still on to kneel at my bedside. Reaching for my right arm, she takes me gently by the forearm and brings it up for a closer look, peering at the bloodied brown bandages with her pale purple eyes likes she¡¯s a Diviner out of the television stories the old worlders put one. They¡¯re always tossing bones or reading tea leaves before muttering something cryptic and ultimately unhelpful, as if they can see the future and can¡¯t be bothered to speak in plain English.


    That ain¡¯t how Divination works though. If I could read the future, I¡¯d get in a whole lot less trouble, that¡¯s for sure. Can only read the present though, which is usually too late to avoid said trouble, but enough to get me out of it intact. Not this time though, and while the lessons I learned in Pleasant Dunes didn¡¯t cost me an arm and a leg, I figure a hand and a father figure comes up a fair bit more. Still ain¡¯t wholly settled up on the butcher¡¯s bill just yet either, but ain¡¯t no sense worrying till I see the final figure and the Feds come a calling. Instead, I focus on the here and now, putting up a brave front as Chrissy looks my bandaged stump over for a good long minute, her eyes focused and gaze alert in a rare show of active perception. Ain¡¯t nothing magic about my injury, so there ain¡¯t no magic for her eyes to see, but she stares this way and that all the same as if there¡¯s more to it than missing flesh and bone.


    ¡°Hand¡¯s gone,¡± she says, meeting my eyes with her customary lack of expression. Her sorrow is clear as day though, to those who know how to read her. The slump of her shoulders, the set of her jaw, the glint in her eyes, it all tells me she¡¯s on the verge of tears, and it hurts me more than any beating or mutilation ever could.


    ¡°That it is,¡± I reply, staying easy breezy as can be. ¡°Rest of me is still here though, so don¡¯t you worry about nothing. I¡¯m fine, and things¡¯ll be back to normal in no time.¡±


    Lifting her head for a rare moment of direct eye contact, Chrissy sees right through my bluster. ¡°Liar,¡± she whispers, without any heat behind the word, only a direct declaration of fact.


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    She¡¯s got me there, so I take a breath, purse my lips, and try to frame things in the best way possible. ¡°I¡¯ll be fine,¡± I say. ¡°Soon enough. Just need some time is all.¡± She doesn¡¯t say anything, just cradles my stump in her hands and blinks out a few tears, fat, dewy droplets that soon turn into a stream. ¡°Don¡¯t cry, Princess,¡± I say, casting Mage Hands to grab a clean kerchief and wipe her tears, but they don¡¯t slow down any, not even when I stroke her hair. Ain¡¯t nothing left to do but sit there and comfort her until she¡¯s all cried out, and the strange thing is, it makes me feel better to have her cry for me. Cried for Marcus before he passed, then shed a manly tear at his funeral, but I ain¡¯t cried for myself just yet. Felt like it early on, but then the days went by without much of a change, and I just became numb to the loss. Wasn¡¯t till I got home last night and saw how Chrissy and Aunty Ray reacted that reality hit home again, and before I know it, I¡¯m quietly crying right there alongside Chrissy and mourning the loss of my dreams again.


    And when we both all cried out, I wipe both our tears and give her a smile. A small one, not stretched and toothy, just a quirk of the lips is all, but it¡¯s real as can be. ¡°Thanks Chrissy,¡± I whisper, my throat horse from holding back my sobs, because even though she wouldn¡¯t care one whit, I still got an image to maintain. ¡°Love you lots.¡± Add in a quick three squeezes to make sure the message get through loud and clear, and she squeezes right back harder than usual as she clenches my left hand tight. Then she does it again, and again, and again, to let me know she¡¯s here for me, and I can almost understand how my daddy felt about his home on the mesa. Wasn¡¯t the bricks that made it home, nor the smoothed stone floor or crude furniture meticulously arranged all about, nor was it my mama¡¯s grave sitting right next to it. No, it was the memories he made there that made it home, and this memory here with Chrissy brings me one step closer to the same.


    Because home is where the heart is, and my home is wherever Chrissy, Tina, and Aunty Ray might be. They¡¯re family, not by blood, but by choice, one I¡¯m thankful for each and every day. That¡¯s a large part of why I worked so hard and sacrificed so much. Not just because of my love for the road or to seek vengeance for my daddy. As the only man of the family, it falls on my shoulders to defend it, so I had to sharpen up and get ready for whatever may come. Not saying women are helpless, but there are some things that only a man can do, like ward off the evils of this world without having to fire a shot. Sure, Aunty Ray, Tina, and even Chrissy can take care of themselves, but it ain¡¯t about their competence. It¡¯s about the fact that there are unscrupulous fellows out there who¡¯ll see them as victims first and foremost, meaning they need a reason not to attack them, rather than a reason to.


    Yea, I love the Frontier something fierce. It¡¯s the people I could do without.


    Course, losing a hand don¡¯t mean my job has changed any, just how I go about it. Can¡¯t keep ahead or even keep up with only one hand, but I don¡¯t gotta be the best of the best to protect and provide for my family. Still gotta work hard, only the type of work has changed now, and I ain¡¯t afraid of hard work. Plus, there¡¯s still a chance there¡¯s some way to make up for the loss of my right hand. There are questions to ask and brains to pick before I come up with a proper plan, but there¡¯s still hope yet. So why am I mourning before I know its all good and lost? Gotta keep my head up and my spirits bright, because half the battle is showing up, and here I am ready to quit when the fight¡¯s barely even begun.


    Can¡¯t do that. There are people who love and depend on me, and a whole life yet to be lived, even if I won¡¯t be the Firstborn anymore. Was always about more than just the circumstances of my birth, but also the expectations that come with it. First of a new generation, the first generation of the Frontier, the ground breakers and trailblazers who¡¯d set the trend for everyone who came after them. Can¡¯t be that man anymore, not with only one hand, because in the time it¡¯ll take for me to get back to square one, the others will have overtaken me by then. Some were already damn close, like Tina, Kacey, Michael, and Alfred, while others ain¡¯t all that far behind, meaning I¡¯ll be eating their dust before summer¡¯s end, and left far behind by Christmas.


    Ain¡¯t even April yet, so round about eight months till I fall off hard. Don¡¯t seem like much time at all, but Pleasant Dunes was the crucible within which the first group of boots were forged, and most have come out stronger for it. Not to mention the fact that they¡¯ll have six months of on-the-job training by New Years, which¡¯ll sort you out right quick. Ain¡¯t much room for mistakes out there, not for Ranger recruits, so they¡¯ll either shape up or wash out, no two ways about it. Those that stay will have those expectations hoisted upon their shoulders, the stand-out characters of the Frontier¡¯s first generation and the future of the American Rangers.


    As for me? I¡¯m just Howie Zhu now. Not the Firstborn, and not much of a Yellow Devil either, though I might not have much say as to whether folks¡¯ll call me the latter. That¡¯s for later me to worry about though, so for now, I send Chrissy out of my bedroom so I can get dressed. Pausing at the door, she turns back, tilts her head, and says, ¡°Mama says, ¡®Make sure he puts on somethin¡¯ nice and bright, like his blue button up with his cream-coloured pants. No hat either, so remind him to brush his own hair, ¡®kay?¡±


    It¡¯s always a treat when Chrissy repeats something her mama or sister says. For some reason, she don¡¯t got the same twang the rest of us got, but rather speaks in slower and more precise tones like Uncle Teddy or my daddy. Can do voices like no one else though, and Aunty Ray¡¯s southern drawl fits Chrissy to a tee, adding a lively splash of colour to her otherwise monotone voice. Which is why I pretend I didn¡¯t hear her and ask her to say it all again, and it brings another genuine smile to my face. Knowing Aunty Ray¡¯s suggestion was more of a polite demand, I dress up in my Sunday best and curse my past self for not taking Ron¡¯s silver cuff-links. Would¡¯ve look mighty fine on me indeed, though I might¡¯ve gotten some strange looks for wearing jewellery scavenged off a dead man. One who was on fire the last I saw him, so it wasn¡¯t like I could¡¯ve put him out and picked his pockets. Got his guns though, which I collect from my wagon¡¯s gun safe alongside the rest of my Aetherarms before heading over to Aunty Ray¡¯s, with Chrissy clutching my right arm and a shoulder bag of weapons slung over my left.


    That¡¯s how I appear when I walk through the door, though I¡¯m not so sure what Aunty Ray sees as she watches me come in. Got a look in her eyes that¡¯s halfway between proud and distraught as she stands at the stove cooking up a feast, all of which she puts aside to greet me with a hug. ¡°Look at you,¡± she says, and not in a complimentary way, but with a tone full of love and worry. ¡°Like you been chewed up, spit out, and dragged along ten miles of bad road.¡± Carefully extracting my right arm from Chrissy¡¯s two-armed grasp, Aunty Ray looks the stump over with a disapproving ¡®tch¡¯. ¡°Chrissy, be a dear and get the kit,¡± she says, all sugar and spice before turning up the heat to hit me with a glower. ¡°You ought to know better. Got to change the dressing daily and check for signs of infection and gangrene.¡±


    Shrugging, I can¡¯t help but smile and say, ¡°Worst comes to worst, Uncle Art could always just shave a little more off the top. Not like it¡¯d make much of a difference.¡±


    Giving my head a soft rap with her knuckles, Aunty Ray gets all huffy and indignant. ¡°Shows what you know. Infection could spread or worse, poison your blood and leave you sick as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.¡± Which don¡¯t make much sense at all, but I know better than to say as much, because my smart aleck mouth done got her good and riled. Gingerly wrapping me in another big hug, she strokes my hair the way I stroked Chrissy and presses her cheek right up against my temple. ¡°We makin¡¯ big strides and breakin¡¯ new ground every day now,¡± she says, all choked up and emotional as can be. ¡°Might not have anything to get you back to one-hundred percent, but any improvement is better than none. Even if there ain¡¯t nothin¡¯ to be done, don¡¯t let that get you down. You¡¯ll bounce back from this in no time flat, and go on to do whatever it is you wanna do with your life. Don¡¯t matter what it is, so long as you happy and safe, understood?¡±


    ¡°Got it, Aunty Ray,¡± I say, resisting the urge to clear my throat of the phantom blockage that¡¯s found its way there, because what I want is to be the Firstborn again and all that the title entails. Ain¡¯t no sense in crying over spilt milk though. Best to move on right quick, so I push past the pain and look to the future instead. There¡¯s no fooling Aunty Ray though, who pulls back out of the hug to shoot me with a suspicious glare, having read me like a book without so much as having to flip through the pages. Doesn¡¯t say anything, just looks at me in question, and I can¡¯t help but explain. ¡°Just hate havin¡¯ let everyone down is all. Know they was expectin¡¯ a lot from the Firstborn, and there ain¡¯t no way for me to measure up anymore.¡±


    ¡°Oh Howie.¡± Taking me by the cheeks, Aunty Ray forces me to look her in the eyes instead of down at my feet. ¡°It¡¯s true your daddy expected a lot out of you, and maybe the Marshal too, but that¡¯s because of who they are. They saw how you excelled and didn¡¯t want you to waste all that potential, because they knew you had it in you to be great. You still do, but Lord knows I argued about your training with your daddy often enough, fought tooth and nail to keep him from bringing you gallivanting about at the tender age of six, but once Ming got an idea in his head, there wasn¡¯t no one who could talk him down besides Raleigh.¡±


    Seeing I got my hackles up, Aunty Ray stops and smooths my hair with a pout, as if she wasn¡¯t the one who mussed it up to begin with. ¡°You the same way in that regard,¡± she says, pinching my cheek ever so gently, ¡°So I know there ain¡¯t no changin¡¯ your mind. You, your daddy, and the Marshal, y¡¯all saw a future with you as the Firstborn, some big, bad gunfighter and Spellslinger who¡¯d show Abby and outlaws what¡¯s what, a boy who¡¯d grow into a man fit to lead the next generation of Rangers and conquer the Frontier. That changed some after your daddy¡¯s death, but not by much, and nowhere near enough, because I know how heavy those expectations were weighing on you.¡±


    Shaking her head, she cuts herself off before getting too far off track, because she can sense my guard going up. ¡°You know what I think of when I hear you call yourself the Firstborn?¡± Her eyes tear up as she looks at me with a smile, only it ain¡¯t me she¡¯s seeing. ¡°I think of that baby boy who came into our lives out of nowhere on the last day of December that first year. A beautiful, darling little thing with the sweetest smile and chubbiest cheeks, so quiet we all thought you were already dead until you scrunched your face up at the cold.¡± Shaking her head as she comes back to reality, she looks me dead in the eye to keep me from speaking up. ¡°You don¡¯t know how it was back then. We¡¯d come from the old world, with food, shelter, and comfort aplenty. Even the worst off back home lived better than we did in those early days, and we¡¯d been doing it for eight, long gruelling months with no end in sight. Then we marched through the badlands and out to the Divide, and when we saw what we were up against, wasn¡¯t a single one of us who thought we¡¯d come out on top.¡±


    Wiping her cheeks dry, Aunty Ray heaves a soft sigh. ¡°Then you came along, and we all had hope again. Hope for the future, not just ours, but yours too, and it was a beautiful thing. Your daddy, he fell asleep dead on his feet soon as he arrived, but the rest of us were fighting to hold you. Well, not Mr. Elten,¡± she corrects herself, with a wry purse of her lips. ¡°Aaron wouldn¡¯t let him. Too scared he¡¯d do something wrong, even though Mr. Elten wouldn¡¯t hurt a fly without his say so.¡± Waving the errant thoughts away, she rallies back with a smile. ¡°That¡¯s what the Firstborn means to me, Howie, and that¡¯s what it meant to Marcus. I know as much because he told me so himself, said seeing you gave him the courage to go home to Simone and start a family, because he had hope again.¡±


    We share a teary little smile in memory of the big man, and I hope Marcus is happy with Darren in Heaven right now. ¡°Thanks Aunty Ray,¡± I say, giving her another hug because she needs it almost as much as I do. ¡°Needed that little pep talk.¡±


    ¡°Hardly,¡± she says, kissing my temple ever so lightly before setting me free. ¡°You a smart boy who grew up into a fine man, as well you should seeing how I half raised you myself, so you got no quit in you.¡±


    ¡°More than half,¡± I say, and wouldn¡¯t you know it, she beams ever so brightly to hear it. Still can¡¯t bring myself to call her ¡®mom¡¯, but she¡¯s the closest thing I¡¯ve ever had to it, and done more for me than most mothers would. Family, that¡¯s what I got here in New Hope, that and a home she¡¯s never had to welcome me into because in her eyes, this is my home too. Home is where the heart is for Aunty Ray too, and her heart has always been with her kids, Tina, Chrissy, and me.


    Showing she knows more than she lets on, Chrissy strolls on in with the first aid kit in hand, having hidden away in the bathroom so we could have our little heart to heart. Welcoming her over with open arms, Aunty Ray gives Chrissy all the extra affection she knew I¡¯d balk at, including far too many kisses and a hug that¡¯s much too tight and constricting. Chrissy loves it though, melts right into her mama¡¯s arms and delights in the attention while I get to changing my bandages myself at the kitchen table. Ain¡¯t no hiding it from either of them, and the wound underneath is still ugly and raw, the surface scabbed over and broken too many times to count. ¡°Looks worse now than it did when it was fresh,¡± I say with a smile, hoping to ease the pain in their hearts. ¡°Same¡¯s true for the rest of me too. Never seen an uglier shade of yellow than a bruise that¡¯s almost healed.¡±


    Neither one of them buys it, and their sorrow cuts to the quick, so I tend to my stump as quick as I can without drawing Aunty Ray¡¯s ire. Then I¡¯ve no choice but to sit still while she dabs this or swabs that onto my many scrapes and bruises and resists the urge to ask about what went down, while Chrissy watches on with a doleful air about her, one that¡¯s got both me and Aunty Ray all worked up and worried. Ain¡¯t until Tina comes down to join us that I find a reprieve, because Aunty Ray knows her daughter is an easier nut to crack. While my sorta-sister faces the inquisition, I slip away with my bag in tow and open up the gun room, where I set to putting my weapons away for what feels like will be a good, long time. The Ranger Repeater goes up onto the wall first, the trusty 22-10 carbine I been using for years now, first to hunt big game, and then Abby in the badlands with my daddy. The Model 10 goes next, a new compact and deadly addition to my arsenal that I¡¯ve come to love so dearly, but one too dangerous to use as an everyday carry, so even though our time together was short and bittersweet, I¡¯ll always remember it fondly.


    The next few guns are less sentimental, though it hurts to see them all the same. The Squires I lent to Errol and Sarah Jay go back in the drawer, and the 3-Line finds a new place on the wall, one lower than where it used to sit before because I got other ideas for the prize spot in the room. Wasn¡¯t no discussion about my two prospects going back to Basic, because there wasn¡¯t nothing to be discussed. No future to be had riding with a cripple, so they moved on to greener pastures. Can¡¯t blame them for it, especially considering how Errol¡¯s now a crusading paladin capable of smiting Abby into oblivion. Told him he was the talented one, but he didn¡¯t believe it, so at least things worked out for him. As for Sarah Jay, she¡¯ll do great in the Rangers, and will likely be fast tracked to Lieutenant before she turns twenty-five, maybe even Captain before she¡¯s thirty. New talent will be needed in the ranks, both officer and grunt alike, especially in light of recent losses.


    Which means they don¡¯t need my guns or my teachings no more. Funny thing is I was ready to call it quits with the both of them, and now I¡¯m bitter they¡¯ve moved on. Sour grapes is all, but it don¡¯t make a bad day any better.


    The twin Whumpers go into the cabinet along with their compressors, as the bulky weapons are too fat to sit up on the wall, and I curse my past self for splurging on two, even if they were both sorely needed. Now they¡¯re dead weight unless I care to sell them at a loss, because Tina was never one for using Blastguns and Aunty Ray got her favourites already picked out. Leaves me with nothing to do but pack them away and figure out where to put my new additions, starting with the big irons that once sat on Ronald Jackson¡¯s hips. Two twin Naga¡¯s with their shiny steel barrels and polished redwood grips, each one bigger than my Rattlesnake by more than half. A whole lot of gun is what they are, and I doubt I could¡¯ve used one with my right hand alone, not with how much they liable to kick. Real pretty pieces though, right shiny and prettied up with an embossed frame full of golden patterns that ain¡¯t Etches, only decorations that really make it pop.


    Which means they deserve a spot on the wall, so I move a few guns to make room for them underneath what will be the centrepiece of the room, the long-barrelled, bolt-action rifle I took off of Gunin. The peach-wood stock is pale as can be, save for the black rings from the wood which give it some extra pop, and even unprimed, the golden-hued Orichalcum Etchings seem to glow in the light. Got a bit of tarnish on it already, and I resist the urge to break out my polish to rub it away right quick, but there¡¯s no stopping once I¡¯ve started and I don¡¯t got the time to spare. Better to just put it away for now and come back to it later, even if it hurts my heart to leave such a pretty piece be. Asked around a bit and found out the rifle¡¯s based on a blueprint called the Nanfoodle, or more accurately, the 1370 DR Firebolt. Takes an overpacked 44-80 round, meaning it¡¯s a Bolt 1 rifle with twice the Metamagics of my Ranger Repeater, at the cost of added wear and tear on the barrel and receiver. Comes standard with a 10-round magazine, but I didn¡¯t stop to pocket any extras from Gunin. Really goes to show how I wasn¡¯t in my right mind, because them custom mags and overpacked rounds don¡¯t come cheap. It¡¯s an issue of reliability, in that the more expensive the weapon, the more reliable you want it to be, so the variance on parts is lowered and you end up rejecting a lot of pieces that might¡¯ve been fine otherwise.


    Either way, it¡¯s the most expensive gun in the room by far, and likely the most powerful too if you measure shot for shot. It¡¯s a silent, long-range killer that¡¯ll light up the skies for miles around, showing any and all looky-loo¡¯s what business you on about. Got the full suite of Intensify, Empower, and Maximize Metamagics, as well as Piercing to get through Spell Resistance, Burning to set your targets aflame, and Ignite to make those fires keep going long after the Spell¡¯s duration is done. The Brits used the 1370DR to great effect in the Second World War, outfitting their commandos and dropping them behind enemy lines to take out fuel and ammo depots with a single shot, and I wish I could¡¯ve gotten my hands on this back when I had both of them to work with.


    Unfortunately, I doubt I¡¯ll ever get to fire it proper, and won¡¯t be able to use it or most of the guns in this room. Even with a prosthetic, I¡¯ll have to learn to shoot with my left, since that¡¯ll have to be my dominant hand from here on out. The Nanfoodle and every other rifle here is built for right-handed shooting, and while you technically could still use them left-handed, you¡¯d have to move the weapon more so you weren¡¯t ejecting the brass right out in front of your face every time you shoot. Never really thought about how most guns are fitted for righties, and now that I¡¯m not one anymore, it seems mighty unfair, but that¡¯s the way of the world now. Ain¡¯t nothing to do by grin and bear it, so I set the Nanfoodle on the wall and marvel at the golden Etches across the stainless-steel barrel.


    Won¡¯t have much use for any of these guns in the coming months, seeing how I¡¯ll be stuck in town for a good, long bit. Doubt I¡¯ll need the Doorknockers and the Rattlesnake either, but I can¡¯t bring myself to put them away. Time was I only carried the single revolver in town, but seeing how I got the Rattlesnake sitting on my left hip now, I know I won¡¯t be as quick or accurate as I¡¯m used to. Better to walk softly and carry a big stick after all, or two smaller, double-barrelled ones that¡¯ll ruin anyone standing within a five-metre cone in front of them. Besides, the sawn-off Forzare¡¯s have got a special place in my heart, being the first guns I ever commissioned and paid for using my own hard-earned cash.


    Granted, Mr. Kalthoff gave me a deep discount on them, another person I¡¯ve no doubt disappointed with my failure, because he too was expecting great things from the Firstborn. Anita the Grocer, Trevor the Cobbler, Quartermaster Lacey, the list of people who¡¯ve helped me out over the years and put their trust in me goes on and on, and I don¡¯t know how to face them now that I¡¯m less than what I was.


    I¡¯ll cross those bridges when I get there though, and push on forward one I realize I¡¯ve been waffling for fear of facing facts. There are only two more guns left in my bag, and even taking them out is enough to bring tears to my eyes. Simply calling them revolvers would be doing the guns an injustice, because they¡¯re so much more than just that. For starters, there ain¡¯t no Bolt Cores in these revolvers, but six Blast Cores, meaning everything else had to be sized up to accommodate. Got a grip so thick I can¡¯t touch my fingers with my thumb while my hand is closed around it, and an extra long cylinder that makes the body of the gun look more rectangular than most. Add in a huge rifled barrel you could stick your thumb in with room to spare and all that extra metal lends a real heft to the weapons, which comes in to just over a two kilos a piece when fully loaded. A real heavy sidearm built for power over all else, these Blastguns take a 12¡¯ gauge 40 grain shell and come fully loaded with all the bells and whistles. Not just Intensify, Empower, and Maximize, but Distant and Extend Duration too, allowing you to adjust the cone of fire from each Blast to reach up to 40m in a pinch. Wouldn¡¯t count on hitting anything with much precision at even half that range, but it beats not being able to hit anything at all beyond five metres. To top it all off, the weapon has Penetrating Metamagic too, which is what earned them the nickname ¡®The Judge¡¯, because should you ever find yourself measured against one, then you will most certainly be found wanting.


    These six-shooter Blastguns are real sweet, but they ain¡¯t exactly popular, because they are a whole lot of gun that most can¡¯t handle. Marcus could though, which is why he used them as his sidearms for as long as I can remember. Now they¡¯re here with me, because Simone didn¡¯t want them. Always hated how folks called Marcus the Judge, because it dredged up bad memories of dark times in both their lives, times they¡¯d moved past in recent days. Rather than be reminded of all that unpleasantness, Simone gave the guns to me. Said they should go to someone who¡¯d appreciate them for what they were, and that maybe someday, I¡¯d make use of them again, once I was back up on my two feet.


    An amazing woman, Simone is. Even though she¡¯d just found out she¡¯d lost her husband, she still had it in her to think of me, to whisper a word of encouragement to help me through my dark times while mired in a pit of darkness all her own. Wish I could¡¯ve stayed longer to help her out, but wasn¡¯t my choice to make, so here¡¯s hoping she¡¯s got friends and loved ones to help her in Meadowbrook, because she¡¯ll most certainly need them.


    The twin Judges go up on the wall where my Forzares usually hang, looking all big, black, and imposing just like the man who used them. Wasn¡¯t cold like them though, as Marcus was as sweet as could be, making sure to let me know it wasn¡¯t my fault even though I¡¯m the reason he¡¯s dead and buried.


    Taking one last longing look at the tools to a trade denied me forevermore, I lock up, put a smile on, and sit down for breakfast. A big, hearty meal with all of my favourites which Aunty Ray cooked special, no doubt eager to make sure I got enough nutrients to make up for what my body¡¯s been burning under the strain of daily Regenerations. Thing is, I told the medicos I could handle the Spell myself, but up until now, I¡¯ve only been casting it once every three days. Not because of the strain it puts on the body, though I do admit it¡¯s got me feeling more tired and worn out than ever, but because I want my wounds fresh and visible for what comes next. Seeing is believing after all, and looking like ten miles of bad road might just buy me sympathy enough to keep me out of hot water after I tell my side of story of what happened in Pleasant Dunes. Ridiculous is what that is. Here I am all beaten up, bloodied, and short a right hand, yet somehow, I gotta prove I ain¡¯t responsible for what went down else I might well be clapped in chains and shipped off to prison.


    They say Justice is blind, but there are times when I think the lady be slow and simple too, so here¡¯s hoping her sister Lady Luck is watching real close and feeling magnanimous to boot.

 Book Two - Chapter 57

    ¡°Uh¡­ I plead the fifth?¡±


    The stern and sombre faces arranged all about the room grow even more dour and austere, a feat I didn¡¯t think possible until I seen it happen. Can¡¯t help but squirm when they all hit me with that look. Different one from each, though all conveying much the same message in varying different tones; quit playing the fool and take this serious. Problem is, I am being serious, and I thought pleading the fifth was a great response to the question asked of me, but they all think I¡¯m throwing it out there for a lark.


    Seems my reputation for sass is doing me an injustice here, and I only got myself to blame. I¡¯d be the first to admit I got my issues with authority, but in my defense, I got good reason for it. See, my daddy was a strict man who liked everything done his way. The right way, he¡¯d call it, because it usually was, and whenever it wasn¡¯t, he¡¯d always correct himself soon as he noticed. That¡¯s why I still do a lot of things his way, as Sergeant Begaye pointed out, because it is indeed the right way to go about it. Ain¡¯t always easy, convenient, or comfortable, but doing things right makes perfect sense and gives me an edge over everyone else, so it¡¯d be stupid not to. That¡¯s why I never had any issues with my daddy when it came to matters of authority, because far as I¡¯m concerned, he learned things the hard way and was teaching me how to avoid those hardships because he didn¡¯t want to see me suffer.


    So you can¡¯t really blame him for my rebellious ways, not directly at least. My problems with authority stem from the authority figures themselves. Experience has shown that there are a lot of folks out there who are about as sharp as a bowling ball and twice as dense, yet somehow find themselves in positions of authority. Usually because the smarter people know wrangling idiots is more work than it¡¯s worth, so the job get¡¯s left to the smartest idiot out there. So when some fool who can¡¯t find his own ass with both hands and a map tries to tell me my business like he knows better than me or my daddy, then I can¡¯t stop myself from mouthing off. It¡¯s disrespectful sure, but respect is earned, and I can¡¯t be bothered to play nice with every self-important bigwig who expects me to listen just because they got a fancy title and a decade or two of years over on me. With age does not come wisdom. Experience is what does it, though there are some folks who¡¯ll never learn no matter how many times they go through the wringer. No idea why God, in His infinite wisdom, decided to give some folks less sense than He gave a goose, and it¡¯s one of the first questions I¡¯d ask if given the chance.


    All of which is to say that if I¡¯m being flippant, the other party is usually deserving of it. Got none of my usual sass here today though, because the line-up arranged against me is a formidable one to be sure, a who¡¯s who of big names from round these parts. There¡¯s the Marshal of course, Uncle Teddy all dressed to the nines in full Ranger regalia and looking sharp and clean shaven as ever. Got his cream-coloured collared button-up alongside a simple, single colour tie and dark pants to round it out, with three pins sitting in a row over his left breast pocket which identify his Spell specialities. A medieval shield for Abjuration, a sun for Evocation, and a war horn for Conjuration, which combined with the silver hexagon pins on his collar tell a story for anyone who knows how to read it. It says that this modest, soft-spoken, salt-and-peppered man is a Grandmagus in three different disciplines, which just so happen to be the ones most suited to warfare. Means he can take a hit, deal one out, and keep on punching long after most Spellslingers have expended all their Spells, the backbone of the team and the star of the show.


    All them pins are a bit extra if you ask me, as you typically don¡¯t want your enemies knowing what you can do. If I¡¯d shown up to Pleasant Dunes with a pair of bronze triangle Magus pins on my collar and a sun on my chest, Ron might well have put a Bolt through the back of my head as soon as he saw me, because playing games with a bonafide Magus Evoker is a sure way to get got. Course, I haven¡¯t really earned those pins yet, seeing how I can only really cast the one Third Order Spell, but I¡¯ll get there soon enough.


    Thing is, the Rangers wear those pins to tell other Rangers and soldiers what they¡¯re capable of, and they don¡¯t gotta worry about their enemies catching on because Rangers are the tip of the spear in the war against Abby. Even then, most don¡¯t bother with all that outside of official events, because they wearing more than one hat out here on the Frontier. Now the Marshal, he ain¡¯t afraid of others knowing what he can do, and still shows up to work in full uniform each and every day despite lacking any immediate superiors to keep him in line. Don¡¯t insist on his people doing the same, because he understands their reasons and knows it¡¯s a bit extra, but he feels the work demands that tiny bit of respect and maintains the standard for himself.


    That¡¯s all good and well for your average day in New Hope, but today, the Marshal has gone a step even further and donned a starched military jacket, one he¡¯s left unbuttoned due to the comfortable spring weather. A single-breasted light grey blazer with shiny brass buttons and all the patches you could think of, a bunch of stripes and stars to denote his rank and specialties in ways I don¡¯t know how to read. Even has the various medals of honour he¡¯s earned since arriving on the Frontier all pinned to the front, with far too many of them to list. Ain¡¯t a single mock up of an old world medal to be seen neither. No, every star, cross, and heart on his blazer today was earned right here on the Frontier.


    This here is a man my daddy saw as a father figure, and one I respect and revere with all my heart, but he ain¡¯t here as Uncle Teddy today. No, he¡¯s here as the Marshal and nothing else, one deeply concerned by the operation in Pleasant Dunes and on a mission to find out what¡¯s what. His glower is one of disapproval, delivered from across the table and to my left as he sits with his back ramrod straight, fingers steepled, and slate grey eyes full of thunder and fury. He ain¡¯t one to stomach incompetence, an attitude which in part is reason why he ain¡¯t been tapped to work in Ranger HQ, because he¡¯d make enemies of half the higher ups in their first meeting and the set the other half to task for failing to make sure their peers and superiors measured up. Nor does he have any patience for tomfoolery, which is what he thinks I¡¯m up to, cracking a joke to lighten the mood in what should rightly be a grave and serious discussion.


    Strict and severe though the Marshal might be, he¡¯s the least of my worries here today. I know him well enough to know that he¡¯ll buy the story I laid out without too much fuss, professionally at least. The Rangers are an organization, and sometimes in organizations, the less you know, the better, but that won¡¯t hold true in our private relationship. There¡¯s no avoiding it now, as I¡¯ve disappointed him greatly, and I¡¯ll have to live with that hanging over my head for the rest of my life.


    Ain¡¯t immediately relevant though, because business comes first, and the slim, swarthy man sitting across and to the right is all business. Man¡¯s fitting me for cuffs and jumpsuit as he studies me with an unblinking stare, one that makes the whites of his eyes really pop against his toffee skin. Visually, he ain¡¯t much to look at, all of 5¡¯6 with a bantam build and a general slovenly look about him aside from his hawk-like stare. Got a red plaid shirt that¡¯s unironed, untucked, and unbuttoned all the way down to show off the white wife-beater he got underneath, with plenty of body hair sticking out from every nook and cranny. Got no pins or patches to show off, but not because he ain¡¯t earned them, as he¡¯s deserving of a Purple Heart, a Silver Start, and a Distinguished Service Cross at the very least. Only reason he ain¡¯t got them is because he ain¡¯t a soldier, or even American, but that don¡¯t change the facts none. This is a man who¡¯s been through the wringer and then some, and because of his valiant efforts and unshakable morals, he¡¯s been elected by the good people of New Hope to bring law and order to its streets, a job Sherrif Dharani Dhar Patel takes dead serious.


    And right now, he¡¯s wondering if I¡¯ve graduated from local nuisance to major threat and what to do about it, as he sits there with one bare foot propped up against his chair, his arm slung across its back, and six-pointed star of a badge sitting on the table in front of him. This is not a man to mess around with, as many a bandit, outlaw, and criminal has found out firsthand, a bonafide Bharathi national hailing from one of the nastiest hotspots in the old world, the war-torn state of Gujarat sitting on the coast of the Aberration Sea. Now Aunty Ray said that for most settlers, coming to the Frontier was a rude awakening as they left safety and security far behind. For Dharani Dhar Patel, it might well have been an upgrade. A massive, impoverished nation surrounded by water on three sides, Bharath has been under siege from aquatic Abby for centuries now, and its people fight tooth and nail to keep it free and clear of all threats. Not with fancy Aetherarms or modern mechanized armour, but mostly with spears, swords, slings, and Cantrips same as the settlers did during the early years on the Frontier, which is why Sheriff Patel found his footing so easily here. Fact is, most Bharathi nationals are seen as a welcome addition to any town, but given their nation¡¯s long and storied history plagued by European imperialists, Asian pirates, Soviet defectors, and Nazi Arcanists all flocking to their troubled borders over the years, they¡¯ve also earned a reputation for being notoriously xenophobic.


    I heard it said in less than reputable circles that the only thing a Bharathi hates more than foreigners is another Bharathi from a neighbouring state. Got themselves a caste system see, one put in place by their Immortal Monarch for whom their nation was named, but has since been twisted to oppress the ¡®lesser¡¯ ranks after his untimely death during the Second World War. Don¡¯t know all the details, only the general gist, in that the landlocked states are primarily responsible for food and manufacturing, while the coastal states are in charge of defenses. Time was, they all worked together to hold back the Aberration threat, but without an Immortal Monarch to oversee them, the landlocked states have taken to withholding funds and getting fat off the blood of their neighbours, leading to an inner conflict that can¡¯t easily be resolved by an outside party.


    A sad state of affairs it is, which goes to show the old world ain¡¯t all that more civilized than the Frontier. It¡¯s only dressed up to appear like it is, an illusion so many are desperate to believe in again just so they don¡¯t have to worry at night. Heads in the sand is what that is, and ain¡¯t much more needs to be said about that.


    All in all, this means Sherrif Patel got no tolerance for lawbreakers. Not just the Ronald Jacksons of the world, but also the Howie Zhu¡¯s who might¡¯ve taken the law into his own hands and enacted some Frontier Justice on his way out of Pleasant Dunes. No maybe about it, only I ain¡¯t about to admit it, as that there would buy me a one-way ticket to a prison labour camp, where I¡¯ll mine ores, farm crops, or build roads for pennies on the dollar as penance for my crimes. The good news is that the Sherrif ain¡¯t ever held my Qin ancestry against me, on account of how the Qin Immortal Monarch was indirectly responsible for the Barathi Immortal Monarch¡¯s death by intentionally showing up late to a fight against a dozen Nazi Archmagi fleeing from the Allied push into Prussia. The bad news is that just means Sherrif Patel hates me as much as he hates everyone else. A real charmer he is, but despite his brusque manner and slovenly appearance, he is a man who knows how to uphold the important laws, let the silly ones slide, and bring the hammer down on anyone who tries otherwise. That¡¯s why he keeps getting elected Sherrif, though there¡¯s also the fact that he¡¯s a Grandmagus Abjurer who can throw up a nine-by-nine-meter Force Barrier in a pinch and maintains most the personal wards in town to boot. Not the ones on the walls and towers, those belong to the Rangers. I¡¯m talking about the ones on the doors and windows to most houses and shops, because him and his boys do the job right, and they do it quick.


    And if he ever finds out I had any part in the death of two Rangers, then he¡¯ll string me up in the town square without so much as blinking an eye. Nothing personal. Just his job is all.


    Formidable as the Marshal and the Sherrif might be, it¡¯s the third man who¡¯s got the lion¡¯s share of my attention today. One who ain¡¯t even got a gun on his hip, much less a badge or medal on his breast. Don¡¯t look all that imposing either, a dowdy older gent with a paunch of a belly which he tries to hide with a frumpy loose shirt and a bald spot combed over so thinly he might as well paint the hairs on. Still, the fact that he¡¯s sitting in the central seat says a lot about the power he wields, because even the Marshal and Sherrif are side characters once he appears. Judge Samuel McKean is his name, a circuit court Judge who makes the rounds along the Blue Shield and the various Federal settlements nearby to preside over cases and sentence criminals to due punishment.


    Today, he¡¯s here to decide my fate, whether I go home a free man or get locked up and shipped off to do hard time for what I done in Pleasant Dunes, and he¡¯s none too pleased to hear me plead the fifth.


    ¡°Son,¡± he begins, and I can¡¯t help but scowl at how he ain¡¯t earned the right to call me that. ¡°Do you understand what¡¯s happenin¡¯ here?¡±


    ¡°Y¡¯all here to sit in judgement of what I done in Pleasant Dunes,¡± I reply.


    ¡°No son,¡± he says, with a slow shake of his head, one that sets his saggy jowls to quivering. ¡°Sherrif Patel has not charged you with any crime, so I¡¯m not here to pass judgment. If this were a trial, we¡¯d be in open court and you¡¯d have a lawyer and guardian sittin¡¯ with you. Still could, as is your right as a minor and a freeholding resident of the United Federation of American States.¡± Glancing at the Marshal, Judge McKean says, ¡°I was under the impression that the boy was made aware of his rights. Was I mistaken?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I reply, because I don¡¯t like seeing Uncle Teddy take flak for something I done, even tangentially like this. ¡°Was told this was a voluntary discussion, and that I could have a lawyer and guardian present. Waived my rights and everythin¡¯ in writin¡¯ before we started.¡± Didn¡¯t really want Aunty Ray hearing all the nitty gritty details, which makes me glad she bought my lie about them wanting to talk to me alone. She¡¯s sitting outside in the greeting area of the Sherrif¡¯s office with Chrissy and Tina right now, no doubt fretting about this or that and worried to no end, but that¡¯s better than in here with us and seeing me sweat. She¡¯d read me in an instant and know that I¡¯d done wrong, unlike the Marshal who only suspects even after coming this far.


    ¡°Alright then son,¡± Judge McKean says, giving me a look I usual reserve for fools who don¡¯t know better. Man thinks I¡¯m making a mistake here, but I just want this all over and done with. Besides, going to a lawyer means coming clean with everything that happened, and I ain¡¯t about to make the same mistake twice. A secret is only a secret if you keep it to yourself, so come hell or highwater, I ain¡¯t about to share shit. ¡°Let me be clear regardless if only for the sake of my conscience.¡± Dabbing at his forehead with a kerchief that comes away damp, the Judge adjusts his collar as if unused to the stifling air here in the enclosed room. ¡°We are not here to determine if a crime was committed in Pleasant Dunes. I myself have looked over the reports and recordings, and while I found them most troubling, I have determined that you have broken no Accords for which we can charge you with.¡± Pausing to hit me with a look, he makes it clear in no uncertain terms where he stands. ¡°And believe you me, I looked long and hard for cause.¡±


    The silence is deafening in the wake of his statement, but I don¡¯t let it shake me none. Or at least I try not to show it, as I sit there with my one hand resting on the forearm of my dismembered stump, one I ain¡¯t shy about showing. I¡¯m the victim here, one who was extorted, beaten, and mutilated on recording before retaliating, so I know damn well that I¡¯m clear by way of the Accords. Maybe not by Federal law, which is a whole different kettle of fish, but Pleasant Dunes is Independent and therefore not under Federal jurisdiction. That¡¯s the umbrella I been counting on to keep me clean and free of trouble, but one that offers scant protection from a Federally appointed Judge or public opinion. Outside of this room, I reckon the only people who know most of the story is Tim and Captain Jung, because I had to tell them most of it to keep them from handing me over to the angry townies of Pleasant Dunes.


    I don¡¯t say a word here and now though, just sit, stare, and give as good as I get while the Judge waits for me to crack, but he¡¯ll be waiting a long time if he wants to commit. Man realizes it soon enough too, and to his credit, doesn¡¯t stick to his guns out of stubbornness and changes tact instead. Heaving a sigh, Judge McKean slumps down in his seat and says, ¡°What we¡¯re here to determine is if you represent a threat to this fine community, and others like it under the protection of the Federal Government. A seventeen-year-old Magus with Fireball in his Spell book is not somethin¡¯ you see every day, even if we were to overlook your unlawful possession of the Spell.¡±


    ¡°Unlawful under Federal Law, not the Accords,¡± I retort, having had two weeks to line all my ducks up in a row and Tim to help coach me on. ¡°Means I was well within my rights to have it prepped in Pleasant Dunes. Ain¡¯t ever used it within Federal borders, much less in any other town, Federal or otherwise, only against Abby out in the badlands and desert.¡±


    ¡°I know the law son.¡± There¡¯s no heat in his reply, only resignation as he tries to make me understand what he¡¯s going on about. ¡°But like I told you, we¡¯re not here to determine if any laws were broken, or even to charge you with a crime.¡±


    ¡°Nah, you just worried I¡¯ll commit one in the future, so you want to nip this problem in the bud before it starts.¡± I can¡¯t help but scoff at the logic, because it seems so silly and arbitrary. ¡°I got a gun, but that don¡¯t mean I¡¯ll use it to shoot up the town. Don¡¯t see why having a Spell is any different.¡±


    ¡°It is a matter of scale.¡± Though the Marshal seems none too pleased by my attitude, Sheriff Patel takes it in without batting an eye as he says in his lilting Bharathi accent. ¡°Your gun. It kills one, two people at a time. Your Fireball? Eighty-seven men, women, and children.¡± The Sherrif snaps his fingers. ¡°All dead, like this.¡±


    Eighty-seven? That¡¯s less than I expected. Ran the numbers a couple times in my head on the way home, and learned that a twelve metre diametre circle is a whole lot of space, much less a sphere where you could have targets stacked in three-dimensional space. That¡¯s 116.77 square meters of flat real estate to stand on, and if you assume each person only needs about 1/3 of a square metre to stand comfortably, you could pack about 315 people into the area of effect of a single Fireball. Granted, the ones at the edges would only get clipped around the shins, but they¡¯d be close enough to the heat to burn something fierce all the same. Now, even though them Vanguard National thugs wasn¡¯t all packed in tight like books on a shelf, they was crowded in close together after the fight, so I figured my body count would be closer to two hundred than one.


    Eighty-seven. Shit. Didn¡¯t even break three digits.


    Which I suppose ain¡¯t the right thing to focus on here and now. Don¡¯t know what to say though, so I shrug instead, and soon as I do, I know it was the wrong move. In for a penny, in for a pound, so I open my fool mouth and say, ¡°They deserved it. Wasn¡¯t no innocents in that crowd, or that town for the matter of fact. They was all calling for blood when Jacob was beating me, then joined in when I won the fight. Not to mention how they all cheered and laughed when big Franky took my hand and future both. Those women? Complicit in the crimes their men committed, at the very least accomplices after the fact. Them kids? All wannabe outlaws, prospects hopin¡¯ to patch in to Vanguard National and become the next generation of slave drivin¡¯, drug dealin¡¯, explosives manufacturin¡¯ criminal scum.¡±


    ¡°True,¡± the Sherrif says, catching me off-guard as he nods in agreement, before hitting me with a glare that¡¯s got me feeling real small. ¡°But it was not your place to pass judgement on them Howie.¡±


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    Nor will he allow any extra-judicial actions here in town. That¡¯s the part he leaves unsaid, a warning to keep me in check now that he knows I¡¯m here for the long haul. Man was usually happy to wave off my brawls as hot-blooded youth, especially when the worst injury was a bruised ego, but things are different now that he knows what I can do. Stupid is what that is, because like I said, I walk around every day with a gun on my hip and ain¡¯t used it on anyone undeserving just yet.


    ¡­is that still true though? Did Conner really deserve to die how he did? Shot in the back of the head and left to burn on the ground. No coffin to lay in, no plot to be buried, no gravestone to mark his passing. Just blood and ashes, because I wanted Wayne dead right then and there.


    Thankfully, my lapse in determination goes unnoticed as the Judge fakes a cough to take control of the discussion once more. ¡°Justified though your actions might have been under the Accords,¡± he begins, shooting the Sherrif a look before turning back to me, ¡°You still killed close to a hundred souls with a single Spell.¡± Thirteen shy ain¡¯t close, and the fact that he thinks it is makes me suspect of his ability to judge impartially. Don¡¯t say as much as he looks me up and down and says, ¡°So given the facts, along with your history of violence, you understand why we¡¯re wary of letting you walk away from this free and clear.¡±


    ¡°Not really,¡± I reply, because it¡¯s the truth. ¡°They caused me grievous bodily harm. I retaliated. End of story.¡±


    ¡°By way of the Accords, yes,¡± Judge McKean replies, looking all too pleased as he hammers home the point I just unwittingly set up for him. ¡°Under Federal Law though? You would have been charged with voluntary manslaughter at the very least, and I myself would have pushed for murder two, if not one. Add in assault with a deadly Spell, reckless endangerment, criminal negligence, and destruction of property, and I would be well within the bounds of the law to sentence you hung by the neck until dead.¡±


    ¡°Then it¡¯s a good thing it didn¡¯t happen under Federal jurisdiction then.¡± Soon as I say it, I regret letting the words leave my mouth, as all three men hit me with yet another glare, but I hold my ground and give as good as I get. ¡°What you expect from me then? You think they was done then and there? You watch the whole thing? They wanted me to pay ten grand a month. Seventy grand in total to start, with interest still running weekly. How am I supposed to pay that, even with two hands to earn with?¡± Not to mention a crooked Ranger to make sure I paid, but I leave that out for Uncle Teddy¡¯s sake. They all saw and heard it, so no sense rubbing salt into the wound and pointing out that a crooked Ranger was at the heart of all this.


    Truth is, I still can¡¯t believe Wayne was in so deep with a criminal like Ron. Skimming Cores and Aberrtin is one thing, but it sounds like Wayne was moving contraband for Vanguard National and letting Ron¡¯s wagons check in at Meadowbrook for clean papers, which they¡¯d then bring along with them as they move along the Highway and maybe even down the Wayfarer River all the way out west. Was probably drugs all things considered, something high value and low weight that dealers could cut and sell one teenth at a time for a ridiculous mark-up, but I can¡¯t help but wonder if it was something else. Not explosives for sure. Ron wasn¡¯t even committed on selling those before everything that went down, had his hand forced so to speak. Spell Cores maybe, but Ron could¡¯ve sold those legit so long as he was willing to pay taxes, which seems like a real waste of a crooked Ranger.


    And there¡¯s no doubt Wayne was crooked. The video I took makes that clear as day, and Tim stayed over in Meadowbrook to oversee the investigation into Wayne¡¯s actions and gather proof of his crimes. Not to mention take over in Marcus¡¯ absence until the higher ups decide who they want to replace him. None of the Rangers in Meadowbrook, that¡¯s for sure, because every Ranger there is tainted by association with Wayne now, a poor legacy for Marcus to leave behind. The worst part is, I couldn¡¯t even stay behind after the funeral and keep Simone company for a day or two, because the Rangers wanted me back in New Hope for questioning here and now.


    Which might have something to do with my sour disposition regarding the whole proceedings. That and the fact that Ronald Fucking Jackson took my hand and they all acting like I¡¯m the God-damned criminal here. Ain¡¯t right is all I¡¯m saying. Ain¡¯t right in the least, especially since the law and the Accords both say I¡¯m in the clear.


    ¡°There¡¯s no changing the past,¡± the Marshal says, as if he can read my mind and knows exactly why I¡¯m so steamed up. ¡°So we must look to the future and ensure the same mistakes are not made twice, but far as I can tell, you don¡¯t feel like you¡¯ve made any mistakes at all.¡±


    That does it. ¡°Oh I made mistakes alright,¡± I say, resisting the urge to slam my hand into the desk. Mostly because I would¡¯ve done it with my right and hurt myself something fierce banging the tender stump like that, one which aches with strain as I clench a fist that ain¡¯t even there. ¡°Like trusting a Ranger at his word. Wayne comes to me and threatens the whole camp to get me to go along with his game, says they¡¯re not gonna kill me because dead men pay no debts. Well, they didn¡¯t kill me, but they might as well have, leaving me crippled and worthless like I am.¡± Breaking away from Uncle Teddy¡¯s pained gaze, I turn to Judge McKean and say, ¡°Or not killing Ronald Jackson the first time I rolled into his town. That¡¯s another mistake I done made. You watch my first run in with the man? How he set his dog to scare me and asked what Mr. Kalthoff might do if they mailed him a box with my finger in it? Would¡¯ve been justified to kill him then and there under the Accords, was prepared to do it even if necessary, but I didn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°I did watch that recording, yes, and yes, you would have been justified.¡± Tilting his head ever so slightly, his comb-over finally gives up and stops sticking to his scalp. Undeterred by his undignified appearance, Judge McKean asks, ¡°So why didn¡¯t you?¡±


    Which wasn¡¯t a question I was expect to get asked, so I take a moment to think my answer through before opening my mouth. Learned more than just how to keep secrets in Pleasant Dunes, no two ways about it. Only wish the lessons weren¡¯t so costly. ¡°Lots of reasons,¡± I eventually say, mostly to cover all my bases. ¡°Mostly because I was there for a job, not to start trouble. Or end it, when trouble start something with me.¡± Unable to help myself, I glance over at Uncle Teddy who¡¯s still hiding behind his mantle of the Marshal, all stoic and poised as he sits there without so much as a twitch. ¡°And because even though I had reason and justification to act, that ain¡¯t enough to kill a man in cold blood.¡±


    Not by the Marshal¡¯s strict standards at least, standards he expected me to hold to and ones I upheld as best I could. Only ever covered up the one killing before, the merchant and them guards that got me into this whole mess, but I did that to protect Cowie and ain¡¯t ever gonna come clean about it. I mean, look at how they putting me through the wringer and treating me like a threat to be wary of even though I had all the right reasons to act. Silly and undignified though Judge McKean might be, I doubt the man would blink twice before ordering Cowie¡¯s death. Not because my best buddy had done anything wrong, but because he got the potential to cause future harm, which is just a backwards way to go about it.


    ¡°Good.¡± Flashing a proud and grandfatherly smile, the Judge nods in approval I don¡¯t care for but thinks I crave all the same. ¡°Good. See, now we¡¯re getting somewhere son. Having a discussion. Getting to understand how you think and why you do what you do. When you clam up and plead the Fifth, which is a viable legal defense, all it does here is make us wonder what you have to hide.¡± Bullshit is what that is, but I let it go unchallenged as he reaches over to fumble with the Major Illusion Artifact and rewinds the video just a bit. Only a few seconds, not enough to see the people go up in flames, see their faces turn twisted as the fat boils beneath their skin now that I know to look for it. Only the aftermath, the clouds of ashes and piles of charred bones settling in now that the life in them has been snuffed out, from an angle all too different from the one I saw firsthand. Over to the right, and narrower in perspective, which really lets you focus in on the details of what you can see when the picture ain¡¯t all fuzzy with static. Due to the lead and Aberrtin laced into the mortar of the walls no doubt, which also made the dialogue cut in and out too. Not so bad that they couldn¡¯t get the full gist of what was said, but nowhere near as clear as I would like.


    ¡°What did you do Howie?¡± Conner asks from beyond the grave, and then the recording cuts out as my bloodied left hand covers the screen and makes contact with the medallion, making it all too clear that I was the one whodunnit.


    ¡°So let me ask you again,¡± Judge McKean begins, studying my expression like a hawk and leaving me feeling naked and bare. What did he see in my eyes while I was watching that? Pride and satisfaction? Guilt and regret? Apathy and indifference? Can¡¯t rightly say for sure, as I wasn¡¯t expecting to have to see my work or hear Conner¡¯s voice again. ¡°Why did you stop recording there?¡±


    Got my answer all lined up and ready, but I pled the fifth to start with because things given too easily aren¡¯t so easily trusted. More of Aunty Ray¡¯s teachings, though applied in a way she most certainly wouldn¡¯t approve. What she don¡¯t know can¡¯t hurt her, so I press on with what I had prepared. ¡°Honestly?¡± I shrug. ¡°No idea. Barely even remember starting the recording, or what I done after the delve.¡± An eighteen-hour operation under dark where a Captain and friend lost his life. Feels like a cheap way to use Marcus¡¯ death, so I brush over it quick as can be. ¡°Remember talking to Wayne, and going along with his threats because the alternative was all out war with Vanguard National while half the Rangers and boots were fast asleep, and the other half damn close to it. Then I get down there and they throw me into a fistfight after saddling me with a debt I can¡¯t ever hope to pay. Didn¡¯t mean to lose my temper and fight back, but couldn¡¯t help it, so that¡¯s on me.¡±


    Losing my hand though? That¡¯s on them, every last one of those screaming faces I caught on video. Don¡¯t matter how horrible it looked or how pitiful they might seem. That¡¯s the price for the Firstborn¡¯s future, one they paid for in blood, and one I¡¯ll pay for in tears.


    Waving at the illusion, which is paused on the scene of my bloody hand covering up the ashy aftermath, I say, ¡°After slinging that Spell, I was all tapped out there, with almost nothing left in the tank, physically, mentally, or Aetherically. That¡¯s why I pled the fifth. I don¡¯t know why I turned it off there. Not sure if I meant to, or just thought things were over and done with, or if it was just habit or accidental while picking it up. I don¡¯t got an answer for you, because I don¡¯t know myself.¡±


    The Judge looks me in the eyes for long seconds, and I make no effort to hide how I¡¯m beyond caring anymore. He wants to throw the book at me, then go right ahead. Prison would be bad, exile worse, but I¡¯ll survive. Or I won¡¯t. Either way, I¡¯ll face what tomorrow might bring when it comes. Today has only just started, and I¡¯m already done with it, ready to hide my head under the blankets and sleep away the pain, even if it¡¯s in a prison cell instead of my bed in the house that ain¡¯t ever been a home. Can¡¯t be the Firstborn, won¡¯t make much of a Yellow Devil either, so might as well embrace whatever title they throw at me. Criminal. Murderer. Psychopath. Whatever they got, I¡¯ll wear it proudly, because I know I done no wrong, only righted the ones done to me.


    Except for Conner. Still can¡¯t make up my mind about him, because for all his faults and mine too, he was still someone I considered a friend. Man was caught between loyalties and tried to play peacemaker between friends, and what did it get him? Dead is what, because he betrayed me, and the fact that he tried to fix his mistake don¡¯t change the facts none.


    ¡°Okay then,¡± Judge McKean says, before sitting back and moving on with the questions. Some about what happened after the video ends, which I answer with mostly the truth sprinkled with lies to sell the story better. Other Vanguard Nationals come out of the surrounding tunnels to gun Wayne and Conner down, then I beat a hasty retreat into Ron¡¯s office fixing to take the man down with me in a blaze of glory. Ain¡¯t no Ron there, only an open door to an escape tunnel leading upstairs. Basement explodes, I get into a firefight Ron and his people, win using my flashbangs, Acid vials, and the grenades I took from Ron¡¯s desk, and bing bang boom, I go out the window after collecting their guns and land softly on the sand below.


    All of which sounds mighty suspect considering I just claimed to be a man on his last legs, but don¡¯t no one blink twice about it. Well, the Judge looks like he can¡¯t believe it, but the Marshal and the Sherrif ain¡¯t fazed in the least, because they both know what I can do when I really cut loose. The Marshal because he¡¯s seen it first hand; the Sherrif because he¡¯s read the very detailed reports I¡¯ve made in various Sherrif offices over the last two years. Pleasant Dunes was my biggest body count and tightest spot, but I¡¯ve been in a pinch or three and gotten out clean enough for the Sherrif to have a handle on my skills.


    When the first round of questions are over and done with, the Judge sits back lets the Sherrif take over, who runs me through a similar set of questions, only in a different order with some curveballs thrown in. Like how he got a stack of mugshots for me to look at and wants me to pick out everyone I saw in the room. Ron don¡¯t have one, and neither do Franky or Jacob, but Greaseball does, and same for Tank and a few others I never bothered naming. I pick out a few, mull over a couple others, and skip over a couple I¡¯m certain I never saw in town proper, only underground in the bunker. All the better to sell my story of not remembering the whole thing, and though it prickles my conscience to do so, I¡¯ve long since learned to look after myself, because the government don¡¯t always got my best interests in mind.


    By the time the Sherrif has gotten around to asking me the same question three times in different ways and demanding I answer using different words, it¡¯s well past lunch time with not a sandwich in sight. Luckily Aunty Ray cooked me up a big breakfast and I ate like a man starved on the off chance it was my last meal with family for a good long while. Then it comes time for the Marshal¡¯s turn, which he begins by way of a long silence, like he don¡¯t want to know the answer but has to ask anyways. Placing a crystal on the table, he asks, ¡°You know what¡¯s on here?¡±


    I nod. ¡°The general gist, yea. Wayne read me the highlights before we went down into that bunker to convince me to play along.¡±


    ¡°And you went with him.¡± Even now, he can¡¯t bring himself to ask outright, because he¡¯s afraid of what I might say. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because if I didn¡¯t, he said he¡¯d give the signal for Vanguard National to open up on camp,¡± I reply, without so much as missing a beat. Don¡¯t let my heartrate spike either or the pit in my belly touch my mind, because I know they all got the Detect Heartbeat Cantrip going and probably an Empathy Spell to gauge my general mood. Thankfully, there¡¯s no Spell to Detect Falsehoods or compel a man to speak truth, because then I¡¯d really be in hot water. That said, the world would probably be a better place if there were such a Spell, since at the very least we could hold politicians accountable for the things they say and do. ¡°Wayne said he made the recordin¡¯ to convince Ronald Jackson, because he didn¡¯t want to be on the hook for his own mess. Was convinced I had to have somethin¡¯ to do with that missin¡¯ merchant and guards who had whatever contraband they was carryin¡¯, all because I was in the area at the time. Like I said, he been bothering me about it for a whole year now, and it¡¯s why he threw hands at me on our way over to Pleasant Dunes.¡± All of which is fact, so there ain¡¯t no reason to panic.


    ¡°When that other thug, Jacob, brings it up,¡± the Marshal begins, not ready to give it up just yet. ¡°You said something along the lines of how you ¡®won that game¡¯. Why?¡±


    ¡°Wayne¡¯s version of events certainly made it sound like I did,¡± I reply with a shrug. ¡°Can¡¯t show weakness in front of those types. Gotta stand strong, else they¡¯ll walk all over you. Didn¡¯t even recognize the man¡¯s name if I¡¯m bein¡¯ honest.¡±


    That¡¯s all the questions the Marshal has for me, because anything more ain¡¯t in his wheelhouse, while Sherrif Patel ain¡¯t all that concerned about a crime that might¡¯ve been committed outside his jurisdiction, with the only proof being a conversation that could have been recorded, but also might well have been faked since the crystal was pulled out of Wayne¡¯s head, rather than recorded using a proper Artifact that could be properly verified and authenticated. Not to mention how everything I said made it sound like the man deserved what he got and that I¡¯d have good reason for hiding it. Don¡¯t love that, them thinking I covered up killing that merchant out of shame, but it¡¯s better than the truth, so I keep mum and sit pretty while the three of them leave the room to discuss my fate.


    Not for too long thankfully, as they return after leaving me to stew for less than a quarter hour and retake their seats once more. ¡°I¡¯m going to be honest with you son,¡± Judge McKean begins, heaving a sigh and mopping his brow that started sweating the second he stepped foot back inside the room. ¡°You scare the livin¡¯ daylights out of me, and I¡¯m not afraid to admit it. Been a Judge for going on eight years now, presided over some horrific cases and seen more than my fair share of ugly, but you? You take the cake.¡± Waving dismissively at the recording, he continues, ¡°Not because of what you¡¯ve done. Concerning as it might be, you were clearly pushed beyond your limits and left with little to no recourse, especially with two Rangers standing idly by and doing nothing to stop it.¡±


    More flak thrown the Marshal¡¯s way, and I bristle to hear it, which gets the Judge beaming bright. ¡°Well, will you look at that? See how he rears up ready to defend you? Even after all that¡¯s happened, he¡¯s still loyal to the Rangers, like he¡¯s one of you himself.¡± Fixing me with a look, he continues, ¡°Astounding is what that is, and it shows the quality of your morals, which is why I struck down the Sherrif¡¯s request to have you remanded into juvenile detention. Largely because we don¡¯t have any such program in place, though I suppose we¡¯ll have to rethink that after today.¡± Waving a hand to clear the air, the Judge gets back on track with another sigh. ¡°No, you scare me boy because of your complete and total lack of remorse. In your eyes, you were justified, and that¡¯s enough. Even most soldiers feel conflicted after taking a human life in wartime, but you only need a reason.¡± Gone is his smile and slatternly air, and in its place is a man determined to uphold the rule of law with a conviction that burns as hot as the rage in my heart. ¡°That,¡± he says, fixing me with a steely gaze to match the best I¡¯ve ever seen, ¡°Is not justice. You believe it to be so, because that is the world in which you¡¯ve grown up in. To strike back when struck, to kill or be killed, but we settlers of the first wave came here to colonize the Frontier, to tame and civilize it, not adopt the wild ways it thrusts upon us.¡±


    ¡°He who fights with monsters should be careful,¡± I quote, having heard this spiel before, only in different words from different folks.


    ¡°Lest he thereby becomes a monster. Good.¡± Nodding in approval once again, the Judge says, ¡°So you understand this much at least, yet still you allow yourself to sink to the same level as the criminals and outlaws you so despise. A fault many have fallen victim to, more than I care to count, but I¡¯m here to tell you that that there is a slippery slope young man. All it takes is one mistake for you to become a criminal yourself, as lies beget more lies until what was once a good man is no longer recognizable as such anymore, a death by a thousand cuts that leaves only a monster behind. You saw the results yourself after all, for I believe Lieutenant Wayne Marlon was once a good man too, and might well have still believed himself as such before his untimely end.¡±


    There¡¯s no hint of suspicion there, only facts as the Judge waxes on about the duality of man and how we civilized men must uphold the morals of the old world rather than succumb to the evils of this one. It¡¯s a long-winded lecture that¡¯s almost poetic and entirely boring while I struggle to hid my disdain. To think, the Judge is an optimist, a man who sees things through the rose-tinted goggles of the old world rather than the clear lens of the Frontier. Well too bad, because sometimes, a man¡¯s gotta do what a man¡¯s gotta do, and what you gotta do ain¡¯t always pretty.


    When he finally runs out of steam, the Judge wraps it all up with, ¡°Which is why it pains me to see the fabled Firstborn fall so low. You stand at the forefront of a new generation, and if you succumb to the savage air of lawlessness, then it sets a precedent for all those who come after, and bodes poorly for the future of the Frontier.¡± Done with his one-man rant, the Judge hits me with a stern look that I don¡¯t like much. ¡°So while I have found no legal recourse with which to discipline you, I am inclined to allow the Marshal to treat you as if you were a soldier in Pleasant Dunes, rather than a civilian, even though there is nothing to prove that you there in any official capacity.¡± Giving Uncle Teddy another look, the Judge silently rebukes him for the lacking paperwork before turning back to me. ¡°As an aside, I would like to add that you would do well to enlist. An encouragement, not a requirement, and there will be no repercussions should you chose to ignore this. That said, the Frontier could use a Ranger like you son, and from what I¡¯ve seen on that recording, you could use the Rangers too.¡±


    Yea, true enough, but had a better Ranger, a man who moved Heaven and Earth to fulfill his duties to the letter and spirit both, and they and disavowed him after his death without so much as blinking an eye. So thanks, but no thanks, because use is the operative word there. The government will happily take me on, train me up, and squeeze me for all I¡¯m worth in return for a pittance of pay before tossing me aside the second it becomes inconvenient to keep me. Learned that lesson second-hand once before, and ain¡¯t keen on repeating it myself, but I don¡¯t say as much and look to the Marshal to see what the butcher¡¯s bill is gonna be.


    ¡°Four-hundred and eighty hours of hard labour for conduct unbecoming of a soldier,¡± the Marshal says, which is a little on the high end, but about what I expected. ¡°In addition, you are to hand over any and all copies of illegal Spell Formulas and strike any such prepared Spells from memory. For the next year, the Sherrif¡¯s office will conduct random examinations and inspections to ensure you have no illegal Spells prepared or Formulas hidden away at any given time. If you are found in violation, then you will be punished to the maximum extent of the law, which includes fines and jail time.¡±


    There¡¯s more to it, like a mark on my record should I ever try to enlist and consequences if I skip out on community service, as well as a general gag order over what happened, but I let it all wash over me as I sit there in silence. When he¡¯s done, the Judge, the Sherrif, and the Marshal all trade looks before the first two get up and leave, while the Marshal stays behind. Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes for a second, then opens them again and it¡¯s no longer the Marshal looking out at me. It¡¯s Uncle Teddy, with a gaze so full of love, pain, and disappointment I can¡¯t bear to look at it for more than a moment. This is the moment I been dreading, not the legal proceedings which I knew I was probably safe from, but the consequences of disappointing someone I respect with all my heart, and someone who¡¯s always held me in high esteem.


    ¡°Howie,¡± Uncle Teddy begins, and I cringe to hear it, because I know he¡¯s gonna ask about the merchant I done killed and I don¡¯t know if I got it in me to lie anymore. I hate lying to him, hate having to sit here and pretend I¡¯m someone better than who I am, someone who lives up to the potential he sees in me rather than the failure I really am. ¡°Took your hand and your future?¡± He asks, and I have no earthly idea what he¡¯s going on about. ¡°Might as well have killed you? Crippled and worthless? That really how you feel?¡± Takes me a moment to register that he¡¯s only parroting back what I said in this very room, and I got no answer for him besides a shrug. ¡°Losing a hand is tough,¡± he says, reaching out to take my one good hand that remains, ¡°But never let yourself believe you are less of a person because of it. I¡¯ve known plenty of soldiers who¡¯ve lost limbs or worse who¡¯ve picked themselves back up and moved on, and I know you¡¯ve got it in you to do the same.¡±


    ¡°Getting back up ain¡¯t a problem,¡± I say, and I don¡¯t even have to lie. It¡¯s the truth. I¡¯m already back on my feet and ready to move forward, but I also know the truth that he won¡¯t admit. ¡°Just a tough pill to swallow is all, knowing I¡¯ll never be the Firstborn you and my daddy wanted me to be.¡±


    ¡°Son,¡± Uncle Teddy says, and his tone compels me to look him in the eyes, eyes which are firm and unwavering despite all the doubts I¡¯ve given him cause to have. ¡°If this is all it takes to stop you, then you never had it in you to begin with. Maybe I saw wrong, but I don¡¯t believe that for a second.¡± Nodding as if everything¡¯s already decided, he pats my hand, stands up, and says, ¡°Hard labour isn¡¯t the end of it. I expect to see you for two hours every Sunday after church. Same as before. We¡¯ll start with Eldritch Palm, studying what I can remember of the formula and structure unless you have other ideas you want to go with.¡±


    And just like that, he strides out the door, ready to pick up our weekly lessons where we left off some three years back and leaving me no recourse to refuse. My pride prickles to want it, my conscience demands I reject it, but I can¡¯t help but cry in relief to know Uncle Teddy doesn¡¯t hate me for what I¡¯ve done. That¡¯s mostly why I went along with Wayne¡¯s hare-brained scheme to begin with, because I didn¡¯t want Uncle Teddy to learn the truth and think less of me, but now I know I was a fool to ever fear that in the first place. Aunty Ray, Tina, and Chrissy are my family, but not my whole family, as I forgot I had Uncle Teddy too, a man who saw my daddy as the son he never had and all that that entails.


    Guess I been away from New Hope for too long, so long I forgot what family I got. It¡¯s good to be reminded though, and frankly, good to be home too.

 Book Two - Chapter 58

    Hands. How do they work?


    An odd question to ask considering I was born with two perfectly functional hands and spent years learning how to seamlessly use four at the same time, but one that sits front and centre in my brain as I pick up the bristle hairbrush with my left hand. Seems simple enough, running a brush through Chrissy¡¯s hair, one I¡¯ve done thousands of times before, but all it takes is a switch up of which hand to use to throw me completely off my game. How much strength am I supposed to use? What angle do I hold the brush at? Did I go from right to left for a reason, or just because it was more convenient when I had both hands?


    It¡¯s not like I can just sub in a Mage Hand and magically know how it works either. The ¡®muscle memory¡¯, for lack of a better term, ain¡¯t there, because the Mage Hands aren¡¯t copies of my hands, but individual appendages all on their own. Nor is the actual mental memory stored in the same place, as the Mage Hands get their own little subsection in my brain associated with their control. So even though my real right hand knew how to brush Chrissy¡¯s hair, that knowledge don¡¯t translate over to either Mage Hand, right or left. That¡¯s why I gotta spend so much time training them up after all, because what I learn to do with my own hands got nothing to do with my Mage Hands, and vice versa. That extra bit of practice is why most folks don¡¯t use the Mage Hand Cantrip all that much. Otherwise, even a single extra hand would be¡­ well, handy, especially since a ten-pound limit ain¡¯t as restrictive as you might think. Can use it to grab cups or tools, take notes while you work, hold a piece of string while you run out with the other end to take measurements or what not, and all sorts of other useful things. Problem is, it ain¡¯t easy acclimating to a new appendage lacking any tactile feedback to start, and most folks think the time invested ain¡¯t worth the effort.


    Always thought that sort of mindset was silly and short-sighted, but now I realize I didn¡¯t have a day job or family to take care of when I was learning the Cantrip. I¡¯m also understanding the frustration of learning something you feel you ought to already know, because as I stand behind Chrissy and go through the familiar motions of brushing her long, silver locks with a decided lack of familiarity, I can¡¯t help but get irked by my gross incompetence. What¡¯s so hard about brushing hair? Nothing, that¡¯s what, so how come I can¡¯t do it right? Keep running into snarls and tangles rather than feeling them out in advance, then accidentally pulling too hard and breaking fine strands off. Chrissy, sweet girl that she is, don¡¯t raise word one of complaint, not now and not yesterday when my actions made it clear I don¡¯t know what I¡¯m doing. Sat through all that tugging and snapping yesterday morning, then came to fetch me this morning to do her hair again, all too happy to sit there like a lovely little doll while I do I hack job with her brush in hand.


    Used to be so easy and relaxing, this little ritual of ours. Left arm lifts up a section of hair to hold like a waiter in a fancy restaurant drapes them napkins over their arm. Then the right hand starts brushing in sections, up and down motions starting from the bottom and moving right to left before continuing on to the middle, then top. Not too hard and not too fast, with the odd spray of miss Elise¡¯s conditioning water to soften up the tangles and stop static electricity from causing frizz or flyaways. Simple and easy, no two ways about it, but my Mage Hands can¡¯t hold up all of Chrissy¡¯s hair at once and lack the fine motor control needed to brush with strength enough to get through the thick mass without breaking, tearing, or pulling every time they hit a snarl. Leaving me feeling like a bull in a porcelain shop, all caught up and afraid to move because something is sure to break the moment I do, and got me right ready to call it quits.


    ¡°You know Chrissy,¡± I drawl, trying to distract her from my fumbling efforts while not letting my frustration show, ¡°A little birdy told me that when I¡¯m out on the road, you brush your own hair in the mornings. That true?¡±


    Rather than answer, Chrissy slowly pivots away from the mirror and my gaze both to stare out the window. It¡¯s an endearing bit of subterfuge, because in her mind, out of sight is out of mind. It¡¯s the same reason little kids love playing peekaboo so much, because object permanence ain¡¯t a thing they understand just yet. Chrissy ain¡¯t all that bad, but she don¡¯t understand that the rest of us ain¡¯t seeing or sensing all the same things she does, which means her behaviour can come out seeming strange until you understand her reasoning behind it. Might be she¡¯s hoping I¡¯ll get distracted by some flows of Aether or the rhythm of my Spell Structures and forget I asked a question, or maybe she¡¯s hoping I won¡¯t press her for an answer if she just doesn¡¯t say anything.


    Can¡¯t let her get off that easy, because sweet and endearing as she is, she is anything but simple. Tapping her on the shoulder to get her attention, I ask, ¡°You still with me Chrissy?¡± She nods. ¡°You hear my question earlier?¡± A pause, then she shakes her head, a bit more forcefully than necessary which gives away the lie. ¡°Want I should ask again?¡± Another shake of the head, one more subdued and girlish, because she¡¯s caught on to my teasing and is none too pleased by it. Don¡¯t wear her emotions on her sleeve or show them in her expression, but she feels them same as anyone, so I ease off the screws and lean in to give her a one-armed hug. ¡°I¡¯m just playin¡¯ Chrissy,¡± I say, and my heart warms when she leans into the hug and nuzzles her temple into my cheek, even though her reflection in the mirror is impassive as ever. ¡°No need to worry. I was just curious is all. I¡¯ll still brush your hair whenever I can, so long as you still want me to.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡± Then after a pause, she adds, ¡°Thank you Howie.¡±


    ¡°Anytime, Princess.¡± Don¡¯t take much thinking to figure out why she never let on that she could do it herself. Was a time when we used to be inseparable, the two of us and Tina all thick as thieves. Then I started riding out with my daddy, and then she lost hers, leaving her with half the family she used to have most of the time. Two years later, my daddy passed too, and I didn¡¯t take it well, not one bit. Threw myself into my training and didn¡¯t spend all that much time with her even though I was home all the livelong day, not until a couple months later when she insisted on having me braid her hair one random afternoon, and here we are almost three years later.


    Can¡¯t braid her hair anymore, not for a bit. Gotta learn how to do it with the Mage Hands first, which means practicing on the horses I done bought and got no use for anymore, so they¡¯re just crowding up the barn with Cowie and his gals.


    The thought pierces through the thin veil of warmth and contentment I only done just found, so I hug Chrissy that much tighter in hopes of finding it again, but no dice. That ain¡¯t her fault through, so I get back to work on her hair with a smile while going on about this or that, telling her the little things that went on while me and Tina were away, like my first meeting with Inari or the big ugly birdos the Khaganate had pulling their wagons. Didn¡¯t take too many pictures of new animals this time around, as I had more pressing matters on the mind, but Chrissy is a forgiving soul and don¡¯t hold it or my many mistakes against me.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t see no ornitheros.¡± I can hear the pout before turning around to see it pasted across Tina¡¯s rosy red cheeks as she leans against the door frame, her baby fat still clinging to her face gamely out of sheer stubbornness considering how hard she works everyday. Not just training for the Rangers, but chores too, as evidenced by the backlog she started chipping away at soon as we got back from my interrogation yesterday afternoon. I tried to help, but every time I got up to do something more than just hold her tools or play support, she¡¯d shoot me a glare like I was fixing to get her in trouble. Then again, chances are she¡¯d be blamed if Aunty Ray came out and saw me hauling hay bales, carrying wet laundry, or churning the compost heap to get it mixed in good and well. Doubt I could shear a wally, not sore, bruised, and one handed as I am, but I can still amble about the yard checking fences or sit down and sharpen shears if need be, so I don¡¯t see why she gotta get so dramatic if I so much as try to pour myself a cup of coffee.


    ¡°Them big, mean birds were out in the desert, not in town proper,¡± I say, by way of reply, and she lets out a little huff of displeasure. Whole reason there weren¡¯t pack animals in Pleasant Dunes wasn¡¯t a lack of water. Nah, Ron didn¡¯t want the locals getting familiar with beasts of burden and giving them ideas of maybe making a break for it in the dead of night. Not that them townies would¡¯ve dared. Hell, half of them were up in arms when they found out what happened to their precious company employer, while the other half looked like they¡¯d lost all meaning in life. Fools one and all is what they are, and I almost wish they¡¯d¡¯ve come at me in the morning light, so I could¡¯ve put ¡®em all out of their misery once and for all.


    Hope Carl, Vicente, and the saloon gals made it out okay though. Rangers offered safe passage to anyone leaving with us, but not many took them up on the offer. Couldn¡¯t spare anyone to leave behind and help guard the town either, meaning they in for a bad time should any bandits or other Abby come a looking. And believe you me, them bandits will come, whether it be Ron¡¯s enemies looking to take over where he left off or them scav Khaganate wanting to find out what happened to their fearless leader Gunin. Shame he wasn¡¯t smart enough to take the deal I offered him. Would¡¯ve been nice to know what Wayne was really mixed up in or where Ron¡¯s explosives manufacturing factory might be. Then again, Gunin might¡¯ve come out singing a different tune from the yarn I spun up regarding what happened after my recording cut out. That¡¯s why I futzed with the crystal and wiped my conversation with the man up on the second floor. Made it look like the crystal was struggling to record, maybe on the fritz or jammed up by Aetheric interference, like the sort caused by lead and Aberrtin in the walls.


    Don¡¯t feel good pulling the wool over everyone¡¯s eyes, but the law is one thing, and Frontier Justice another. Wayne got what¡¯s coming to him, that there is a fact. Wish I could¡¯ve trusted Conner too, but he done betrayed me twice already, once when he bugged my hat, and again when he stood by and watched while they chopped my hand off. Maybe that ain¡¯t enough to earn him a Bolt to the head in the eyes of the law, but I¡¯d say it¡¯s close enough.


    And half the time, I even believe it.


    While Tina leans in the doorway, I finish tying off Chrissy¡¯s hair into a loose, low ponytail that starts just above her shoulders. With all the cat¡¯s cradle I play, my Mage Hands are deft enough to tie all the knots my real hands could, and a hair tie don¡¯t gotta be all that tight either. The work done, I gently nudge Chrissy to scoot over, and the sweet girl happily shifts aside to lean against the windowsill and stare down at the wallies and kiccaws playing outside. As for me, I gesture for Tina to come take a seat with a smile. ¡°C¡¯mon now,¡± I say, seeing her eyes light up, then dim again as she thinks twice. ¡°Was supposed to brush your hair the whole trip home plus a day, but missed out on almost two weeks by my count. Figured you¡¯re owed this, so long as you don¡¯t mind if it ain¡¯t my best work.¡± Flashing a grin to soften the blow, I add, ¡°Could most certainly do better than that fresh-out-the-bucket mophead look you got goin¡¯ on.¡±


    Earns me a pout and a scowl it does, but Tina takes a seat in the chair all the same, pleased as a peach to be having her hair brushed even if I feel the fool for doing it. Only because of my lack of ability mind you; ain¡¯t no crowd around to watch, which was the only real issue I had with brushing Tina¡¯s hair. Course, things get a little more complicated with her, but mostly because of my feelings that I ain¡¯t sorted out and don¡¯t know how to, but that ain¡¯t on her. So I work hard to keep my eyes on her hair rather than the curve of her chest, the nape of her neck, or her dainty little ears poking out from under her hair once I got her bangs and tresses out of the way. Though cut from the same cloth as Chrissy, Tina¡¯s shorter hair gives her a plucky, stouthearted sorta look, like she ready to ride for the hills and shoot Abby from sunup to sundown. Shows in her manner of dress too, a crisp, clean, cream-coloured button up and a sturdy pair of navy-blue jeans without the wear and tear of desert travel. Add in her new healthy tan and freshly washed hair that smells of flowers and honey, Tina is the very picture of an all-American Ranger cadet once she puts on her Stetson.


    Small wonder why most the other boots make eyes at her. Especially with the pinky-sized blue sapphire sitting front and centre of her forehead, with two golden bands emerging from it like a circlet atop her head. Regal is the word for it, striking another, while her soft eyes and rounded features make her appear cordial and approachable at the same time. And she is, a right friendly girl who¡¯s always happy to put a name to a new face and lend a helping hand wherever she can, which is why she¡¯ll make such a great Ranger. Learning how to fight, why any fool with luck enough can learn in time, but Tina¡¯s got that can-do attitude that can¡¯t be taught, a real go-getter who can go the distance no matter how tough the going gets. Looks easy breezy as can be on the outside, all cheery and bubbly as she is, but underneath that sunny disposition is grit and tenacity aplenty.


    Showed it off in Pleasant Dunes, manning the Big Stick like she did, timing her shots to clear out the crowds while conserving what little ammo she had for as long as possible. Wish I could¡¯ve been there to see it myself, but from what I¡¯ve heard, she did a phenomenal job keeping a cool head and calm nerves in a sea of chaos and fire. We would¡¯ve made a great team, the two of us running point down under dark, with me as the scout and her running interference on anything that keeps me from doing my job. Illusions and subterfuge, same as what Tim did back in Pleasant Dunes, with the added benefit of Tina¡¯s breadth of Enchantments that can draw Abby to her or send them running for the hills all the same. What a pair we would¡¯ve made, the Firstborn and the Songbird, partners and battle buddies to the end.


    In a different world and a different time maybe. Now? Now all I¡¯d be doing is holding her back.


    So wrapped up in my thoughts about something that¡¯ll never be, it takes me a minute to notice Tina¡¯s hawk-like gaze snapped on my reflection in the mirror, her big blues all wide and watery as she takes in the sight. Can¡¯t help but take a glimpse of myself in the mirror to see what she sees, and I can¡¯t say I blame her for wanting to cry. I would too if I had to look at me all the time, a sad sack of scrapes and bruises that makes for a real sorry sight. Got me a pair of panda eyes, so similar to the ones I love to give my enemies, or what Captain Jung gave Sasquatch who¡¯s sitting in cell awaiting trail at the same Sherrif¡¯s office I visited just yesterday. That¡¯s the first thing that really jumps out at you, but the rest don¡¯t make it better, only worse. Got so many cuts on my lips they¡¯re more scab than skin, and a big patch of skin on my left cheek that¡¯s all raw abrasion. The bruises have mostly healed by now, but there are some patches still darker than the rest. Gives my skin the look of poorly stained leather, while the puffy bits brings to mind bruised, half-rotten fruit, that sorta swollen and saggy appearance that you don¡¯t want to see.


    On the bright side, it could¡¯ve been a whole lot worse if it wasn¡¯t for my Shield bracer and defensive measures, which is a fancy way to say how I curled up into a ball, but my ribs took a pounding and so did my legs. No breaks, only many suspected hairline fractures, meaning my duster did its work blunting the lion¡¯s share of the damage I suffered. First time really putting it to the test really, and while it didn¡¯t feel like it did much in the moment, the fact that the bruises on my torso are healing better than the ones on my face and legs tells a whole different story. Maybe I¡¯d have been even better off with a Mage Armour thrown on too, and I bet I could¡¯ve waded through the whole crowd with a set of Conjured Armour like Sergeant Begaye¡¯s.


    Then again, if I¡¯d called up a suit of steel plate out of thin air, I¡¯m pretty sure Ron would¡¯ve just had me shot, so ain¡¯t no real point in considering what ifs.


    ¡°I really look that bad?¡± I ask, giving Tina a soft smile because a big one might split a scab on my lips. ¡°Keep saying I look worse now than I did when these wounds were fresh.¡±


    ¡°Ain¡¯t true though,¡± she says, before glancing at Chrissy to make sure she ain¡¯t listening all that close. Seeing the silver-haired girl with her head half out the window, Tina leans back into my chest and whispers, ¡°After the big explosion, they wouldn¡¯t let us get close to the burning building, because they thought it was their stock grenades cooking off and there might be more to go boom. Was standing there watching the inferno for a good minute before I got to wondering where you were, then spent a few more going around asking if anyone had seen you. Then Sarah Jay gasps your name, and I look over to see you take a tumble out of the second story window with a cloud of fire and smoke on your tail like dragon¡¯s breath showing you out. Ran right over and pushed my way through the crowd to get to you right quick, but you didn¡¯t so much as move a muscle when I called you name. Just laid there so covered in ashes I didn¡¯t even see the blood until we splashed some water on your face.¡±


    Biting her lip, Tina takes a breath as if to continue, then thinks better of it and breathes it out slow, but her teary eyes and quivering lips tell me everything I need to know. She thought I was dead and gone for moment there, a cold, terrifying stretch of time, because uncertainty is a terrible thing. ¡°Still here, ain¡¯t I?¡± I ask, gently pressing my knuckles into her chin, because I don¡¯t know what else to do. ¡°It¡¯ll take more than Ronald Jackson and Pleasant Dunes to bring me down.¡±


    Took the Firstborn, and maybe the Yellow Devil too, but Howie Zhu is still standing, even if he ain¡¯t entirely sure who that is just yet.


    Tina¡¯s eyes flash over to Chrissy before coming back to me with steel and fury. There will be a reckoning for this, and she wants all her questions answered. Not the edited broad strokes I¡¯ll tell Aunty Ray and Chrissy, a yarn that might as well be fiction with how whitewashed the story will be, but the cold, unvarnished truth. For a long, torturous second, my stomach alternates between somersaults and backflips while I go through everything I¡¯ve said and done since coming out that fire to figure out how she knows, but then Tina goes a step further and says, ¡°It¡¯s high time you stopped treatin¡¯ me like some porcelain doll. I ain¡¯t gonna faint when I hear the details Howie, or have nightmares and not be able to sleep.¡±


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    So it¡¯s not that she knows I¡¯m hiding something from everyone else. She only asking for the full story because she wants into the inner circle. Truth is, she is ready for most of it, though I doubt she¡¯ll ever be ready to know I killed two Rangers in cold blood because it was easier than giving them a fighting chance. Even if she were ready, that there is a secret I best take to the grave, but she ought to know the rest of it. ¡°You right,¡± I say, giving her a little nod, because truth is, she¡¯s more than ready. ¡°Fact is, I can¡¯t keep protecting you even if I wanted to, not as I am.¡± That puts a frown on her face, which tells me she needs more confidence if she wants to take on this burden. She¡¯s only lacking because I been working hard to keep ahead of her all these years, and that¡¯ll change soon enough. From here on out, it¡¯ll be me seeing her off as she rides out into the Frontier to fulfill her dreams, while I stay at home and hold down the fort.


    Never knew I could be so proud and envious at the same time, and I can¡¯t say I like the second feeling much.


    Eking out every scrap of cheer I got left in me, I give Tina my best smile while quietly promising to get healthy quick so I can take over her chores and give her more time to train. Or just be a girl her age, so she can stop off at the saloon for a glass of cider after Basic, head down to the lake on weekends for a stroll and a swim, or whatever else it is kids her age do. I wouldn¡¯t know, because I ain¡¯t ever acted my age, and it¡¯s too late to even try now. Tina¡¯s still a month off from turning seventeen, while I¡¯ll be a grown ass man of eighteen by the end of the year, so can¡¯t hardly start searching for youth now. Better off working on those adult things instead, like getting a job, building a home, and finding a wife to love and to hold, in sickness and in health, or however them vows go. My daddy was married with a year-old baby and a steady job with the Rangers by the time he was my age, with a Proggie kill under his belt wherein he played a pivotal role and finished up without anyone going the way of the dodo. In contrast, I¡¯m here foundering with only one hand, no prospects, and no idea of where to go next after doing the bare minimum as a set of eyes in a delve that got a decorated Ranger Captain killed.


    Folks were always telling me how I was doing great, but no matter how you slice it, I don¡¯t measure up to anything my daddy ever did. Incredible really. Add in how my mama was smart as a whip and accomplished so much in a short eight or so months on the Frontier, and I can¡¯t help but think my parents would be sorely disappointed in how their son turned out, even if I still had both my hands on me.


    Ain¡¯t no sense bringing it up, because ain¡¯t nothing anyone can say to change the facts, so I put the finishing touches on Tina¡¯s hairstyle and make a voila gesture with my hands. Or one hand and a stump I guess, but she don¡¯t take no notice of the gaffe while she looks this way and that to admire my work in the mirror. ¡°Thanks Howie,¡± she says, beaming pretty as a posey now that her bangs and side flicks ain¡¯t all up in her face. ¡°You could make a whole career out of this if you wanted you know? Give Madame Martin a real run for her money.¡±


    ¡°Hard pass. You and Chrissy are family, so you the exceptions.¡±


    Leaning back to look me in the eyes, Tina sits there with a smile and doesn¡¯t say a thing, just waits expectantly like there¡¯s something I¡¯m missing. All I got for her are a few puzzled blinks, which earns me a pout and a scowl. ¡°Where¡¯s my hug then? Chrissy got two while you was brushin¡¯ her hair.¡±


    ¡°How long was you watchin¡¯ for?¡± Maybe everyone ain¡¯t walking all that soft, and it¡¯s my situational awareness that¡¯s lacking. Giving Tina a hug all the same, I hold her tight because I can tell she needs it, as she¡¯s still shook up by what went down in Pleasant Dunes and all the talk that¡¯s gone on since. I was under strict orders to keep my mouth shut about the specifics during the journey home, and truth was I was happy to keep mum about it all since I hadn¡¯t made up my mind on how it would go. Gave the Captains the broad strokes in my A.A.R, but they both decided it was above their pay grade and left the problem for someone else to handle. Pretty sure they both suspect some funny business went down, as does the rest of Wayne¡¯s company, but the recording is proof positive that he was mixed up with Ron¡¯s illegal enterprise. From there, the rest of the details don¡¯t matter much. A Lieutenant working with a slave driving, drug dealing, explosives manufacturing outlaw is a bad look for the Rangers and the Federation as a whole, which means the higher ups will be all too happy to sweep everything under the rug.


    A good thing too, because I was counting on that to get away clean with what was likely legally considered murder. Hooray for me.


    Breaking off our hug, I give Tina a light swat on the back of her head to keep her sharp, as she gonna hafta toughen up to make it out there. Earns me an indignant glare it does, mostly because she knows she can¡¯t fight back, not with me as I am, so I laugh it off and head down with the both of them to get a start on the day. Breakfast is a toothsome affair once more as Aunty Ray brings out the savoury chive and egg pancakes alongside a hefty portion of grilled greens, crispy back bacon, and all the fixings so I can wrap everything up into a strange sort of burrito. Makes it easy to eat with one hand it does, which goes to show how food and cooking is Aunty Ray¡¯s love language. Not only is she making sure I eat plenty so my body has strength enough to fix what ails me, she even accounts for my inabilities without making mention of it at all. Haven¡¯t had to use chopsticks or a fork and knife since coming home, though I¡¯ll have to adapt eventually. The problem with eating with Mage Hands is that they¡¯re slow and weak, so I¡¯ll need to put more force and attention into controlling it so as to mind my manners and keep from scraping plates or having my mouth open wide for too long while waiting for my Mage Hands to make it there. So much to learn and adapt to now that I only got one hand, things I took for granted before. Like buttons, which are near impossible to fasten one handed, or even putting on socks, which is why I went without today.


    ¡°They say if you¡¯ll be back for lunch?¡± Aunty Ray asks, the question directed towards Tina since me and Chrissy ain¡¯t got nothing planned.


    ¡°Should be,¡± Tina replies, talking around a mouthful of bacon which puts a frown on her mama¡¯s face. After chewing and swallowing with a sheepish expression, Tina adds, ¡°Captain Jung said it¡¯d be a short meeting to discuss what¡¯s happenin¡¯ with training moving forward. Good quarter of the boots were injured in the fightin¡¯ and are out for a few weeks at the very least, which don¡¯t leave much time before we graduate. Heard talk of extending Basic out to a year and runnin¡¯ two classes at the same time, with seniors helping the juniors on the foundational stuff.¡±


    ¡°As well they should,¡± Aunty Ray says, having made this argument before. ¡°Six months of Basic is hardly enough to get you kids ready for what¡¯s out there, and y¡¯all haven¡¯t even had that much. Don¡¯t know what they was thinkin¡¯, sendin¡¯ you out like they did, not when we got all manner of Abby attacks to handle right here at home.¡±


    Neither one of them knows about the Proggie I don¡¯t think, though I know Tina got her suspicions. She ain¡¯t about to share them at the breakfast table though, and I ain¡¯t gonna be the one to spill the beans to Aunty Ray. Woman¡¯s already worked up as it is, and she¡¯ll have a full-blown conniption if she knew I went delving under dark even after she specifically warned me to steer clear. Means I¡¯ll have to work something out to hide my share of the Proggie money when it gets back to me, but it shouldn¡¯t be too difficult since I got plenty of savings to draw on.


    All in all though, almost everything that happened in Pleasant Dunes is being covered up. Luckily, none of the boots died, and I was the only one to come out crippled. The others got broken bones mostly, with a smattering of lacerations and a concussion or two to top things off. Not bad at all considering Wayne went off book and held his ground in town instead of running for the hills, which goes to show how effective them chemical explosives really are. Still, that there is a dangerous double-edged sword I wouldn¡¯t trust most governments with, much less your everyday average joe. As for the Rangers, they incentivized to keep a lid on what went down in Pleasant Dunes so as not to let on that they had a crooked Lieutenant on the payroll, which will also allow them to downplay the part those explosives played in defending the town. Far as I can tell, the official response so far has been that it was a live-fire training exercise in real battlefield conditions that stumbled across an Abby staging ground. A home away from home essentially, one where greenies grow fungus and break down gathered biomass into a nutrient dense paste that don¡¯t spoil and is easier to carry back home to their Proggies deep under dark. As luck would have it, our training mission arrived while they was sitting on a large cache of paste, and they got all riled up thinking we was here to steal it away. While Wayne held down the fort, Marcus led a small strike team to wipe the place out, leaving the enraged horde of greenies nothing to protect once their base of operations was no more.


    Truth mixed in with lies, that¡¯s how all governments operate, so I don¡¯t see any reason why I can¡¯t pay them back in kind. Only bad thing about how it all played out is that Marcus¡¯ death will be swept under the rug, listed as a casualty in battle and his achievement left off the record since officially, there was never a Proggie at Pleasant Dunes. As for what went down between me and Vanguard National, that¡¯s not related to the Rangers, so it¡¯s all on my shoulders, which is fine by me. The official story won¡¯t fool everyone, but it¡¯ll fool enough folks, as even the townies in Pleasant Dunes weren¡¯t to know they¡¯d come under a Proggie attack. As for Wayne and Conner, they¡¯re being listed as Killed in Action same as Marcus, and were given funerals with full honours back in Meadowbrook, even though there weren¡¯t no corpses to bury. Burns me to know Wayne¡¯s rep won¡¯t get out to the public, but his Company and the higher ups will know enough to leave me alone.


    Which is a real weight off my shoulders now that I¡¯m home free and clear, both figuratively and literally as it were. All that¡¯s left is for me to work out what I¡¯m gonna do with the rest of my life. No small potates that is, and it won¡¯t be easy, but the important things rarely are.


    Doesn¡¯t help seeing the boots getting back on track so fast, even if it¡¯s just a meeting to discuss their future. One I can no longer be a part of, so I keep mum while Aunty Ray and Tina fill the silence talking about this or that, until it comes time to clear the table. While I putter around trying to make myself useful without catching Aunty Ray¡¯s ire, she says, ¡°Oh Howie, I talked to Art and he said to go see him soon as you free so he can take a look at your injuries. Bring Chrissy with you for a ride in the wagon and stop off at the bakery on the way back. Order¡¯s been made and paid for, so it should be ready by the time you get there.¡±


    After telling me to take it easy and be careful a half-dozen different ways, Aunty Ray stands in the doorway and watches me make my way down the stairs with Chrissy clinging to my arm. Takes me longer than I like and I don¡¯t dare rush for fear of stumbling, because that¡¯d only make Aunty Ray worry even more. Though I pretend not to notice, I spot her peering out through her windows while I ready the wagon, and I take my sweet time so Chrissy can stop and play with the wallies for a bit. Ignores the kiccaws all lined up on the fences, which is strange considering she seemed enamoured of them yesterday, all too happy to pet and cuddle the rotund little birds while teaching them how to chirp instead of squawk when they want attention. Ain¡¯t no open arms from Chrissy today though, as she pats the wallies and stares at the birds one by one in an uncharacteristic display of focused contemplation.


    After a long minute of studious silence, Chrissy turns to me, tilts her head, and asks, ¡°Which birdy?¡±


    ¡°Which birdy?¡± Takes me a moment to pick up on what she¡¯s putting down, and when I do, I can¡¯t help but break out into a smile. One that splits a dry scab in my lips, but even the taste of blood can¡¯t dampen my spirits here. ¡°You mean which little birdy whispered all your secrets into my ears?¡± She nods, as serious as the grave and adorable as all heck, because she¡¯s rightly steamed about getting snitched on by some feathered fool. ¡°Well, what you gonna do when you find out who it is?¡±


    Chrissy¡¯s head dips in thought before coming back up with an answer. ¡°No hug,¡± she says, only to correct herself a moment later when she decides that might be too harsh a punishment. ¡°Short hug.¡±


    ¡°How awful,¡± I gasp, all wide eyed and shook, but Chrissy ain¡¯t buying it. Just stands there and waits for my answer, so I grin and say, ¡°Well, luckily for these kiccaws here, wasn¡¯t any one of them that sang. Was a bird you know well though, one you¡¯ve already hugged today, so any punishment will have to wait until tomorrow.¡±


    With only a moment¡¯s thought, Chrissy arrives at the correct answer. ¡°Songbird.¡±


    ¡°Got it in one, but don¡¯t be upset. She didn¡¯t mean nothing by it, just wanted to let me know how you capable and independent now. That¡¯s why your mama sent you with me right? To gimme a hand if I should need it.¡±


    Takes a moment for the words to sink in before I realize my gaffe, and I chuckle a bit at the statement. Gimme a hand, because I only got the one. Silly I know, and ain¡¯t even all that funny, but here and now, it feels like the funniest joke I done ever heard. Chrissy don¡¯t laugh, just nods and goes about hugging the hoppy little birds one by one like the darling angel she is, while I laugh until I¡¯m red in the face.


    Because the alternative would be to cry, and I done cried enough these past couple weeks.


    Now some folks would think Chrissy simple for thinking the kiccaws gave up her secrets, but they don¡¯t understand animals and how much information a good Enchanter can glean from them. And make no mistake, Chrissy is an exceptional Enchanter, a bonafide sixteen-years-young Magus who¡¯s more than earned her bronze triangle, and is close to earning her Heart and Eye, the respective symbols for the schools of Enchantment and Illusion. Means that if she wanted to, she could learn all the towns secrets from the various birds around town, to say nothing of what the marties, horsies, wallies, and other domesticated beasts could tell her. Not everyone can pull it off, but Chrissy most certainly can, and she assumes everyone can do what she does because it comes so easily to her. Might as well be breathing in her eyes, something wholly natural and not at all remarkable, but I can¡¯t even convince the kiccaws to eat something out of my hands using the Animal Friendship Spell, so reading their emotions is a whole other level of mastery that I don¡¯t got. Can read a person¡¯s general mood with the Empathy Spell, which is from the school of Divination, but like I showed in the talk with the Sherrif, Marshal, and Judge yesterday, it ain¡¯t an exact science as the Spell only reads your surface emotions, not the ones you suppress down or intentionally hide away.


    Some Diviners claim they can tell when someone is lying 100% using a combination of Empathy and Detect Heartbeat, but most dependable Diviners will tell you it¡¯s 50/50. Might as well guess if you go by the Spell alone, but used in combination with standard interrogation techniques, then it most certainly helps. Still, gotta keep in mind that folks are all built different. There are those whose hearts will race when asked what the current date is, while others can look you in the eye and believably claim innocence while standing over a pile of carved up bodies with a bloodied knife in hand. That¡¯s why that sort of lie detection magic ain¡¯t admissible in a court of law, and why I was so confident I could lie to the Marshal despite our long history together.


    Still don¡¯t like it much, but not like I had any other choice. Conner and Wayne didn¡¯t leave me any other, and I wasn¡¯t about to risk Cowie¡¯s hide, so I did what I had to do and would do it all over again.


    Once I got the wagon all set up, Cowie trundles on over to say good morning, larger than life and gentle as can be as he pushes his enormous head into my chest for a hug. Don¡¯t act no different now than from before, not stopping to look at my missing hand or make any faces when he sees my bruises and cuts, because he knows it¡¯s still me underneath, albeit a bit battered about. Don¡¯t mean he don¡¯t care about my injuries neither; to hear Tina tell it, Cowie didn¡¯t leave my side the whole night after everything went down, and he stuck close for the next few days while staring down any and all possible threats around me, Rangers included.


    A more dependable partner, you¡¯ll never find, but now Cowie gets to live out his life happy as can be right here in New Hope. There¡¯s the bright side in all this. He don¡¯t yearn for the open road or relish in the violence like I do, so he¡¯ll adjust to his new life better than I ever could, and I can be grateful for that at least.


    Cowie¡¯s stoic acceptance of my injuries is a world of difference from how the townies treat me as they watch me go by on the wagon with Chrissy beside me. Get a whole lot of looks as we roll along the cobbled streets, with folks stopping to stare and whisper about this or that. I do my best to smile and nod at everyone I can, but most try to play it off like they wasn¡¯t caught staring and avoid making eye contact by glancing around at empty air. Makes them right uncomfortable it does, seeing evidence of the violence that¡¯s so commonplace outside their walls, but they¡¯re also burning with curiosity too, eager to find out what happened in Pleasant Dunes now that the rumour mill has had a day or two to spread fact and fiction alike.


    Ain¡¯t a one of them brave enough to stop me ask outright though, and it might have something to do with the bloody smiles I¡¯m flashing left and right without fail, a fact I forget until we roll up to the hospital to find Uncle Art waiting to greet me outside. ¡°Looks like you been chewed up and spit back out,¡± he says, welcoming me with open arms and a tear in his eye as his weathered features struggle to put on a happy face. Pulling out a wad of white gauze, he gently dabs at my lips and grimaces at what he sees underneath. ¡°Fool boy,¡± he mutters, using one strong hand to tenderly help me into the hospital at a slow and steady pace while staring at my stump. ¡°How¡¯s it possible for someone to be so smart and so stupid at the same time?¡±


    Seeing the opportunity, I give him a shrug with both palms up. ¡°Good question. I¡¯m stumped for answers. Can¡¯t really think of anything off-hand.¡±


    Earns me a snort of laughter before Uncle Art catches himself and looks mortified, only to spot my soft smile and roll his eyes. ¡°Well, can¡¯t be all that bad if you already cracking wise.¡±


    ¡°You know how it is,¡± I reply, doing my best to put on a happy face as I hold up the stump. ¡°Trying not to focus on what¡¯s missing.¡± Holding up my left hand, I continue, ¡°Instead, I¡¯m trying to appreciate what¡¯s left.¡±


    Got a whole host of jokes lined up, and rapid fire them to test them out, but Uncle Art just shakes his head and smiles while making sure I¡¯m in good health. The check-up don¡¯t reveal anything I don¡¯t already know, and it¡¯s tough seeing Uncle Art take it so hard. Unlike most townies, he knows good and well how bad it is out there, because he¡¯s the one who¡¯s gotta fix up the worst of us who make it back alive. Not even a whole case of whiskey is enough to cheer him up, mostly because I can¡¯t unload it myself, not with one hand as I am. Need Chrissy¡¯s help to get it out of my wagon, and Uncle Art puts the gift aside without so much as a taste. That¡¯s how I know he¡¯s really feeling down in the dumps, and all the hand jokes in the world can¡¯t lift him out. Not sure if he knows everything that went down in Pleasant Dunes either, because even though he¡¯s technically a Ranger, he keeps himself insulated from the day-to-day stuff and is pretty much just a medico on payroll.


    A damn good one, which is why he don¡¯t inundate me with questions or materials on where to go next. Just lets me know there are plenty of options to explore and that we¡¯ll look through them all together when I got the desire to do so, because he can tell I ain¡¯t ready to talk about it just yet. I¡¯m still in mourning is why, unable to move past the loss of my hand and struggling to come to terms with the fact that my entire life has changed for the worse. That¡¯s the reality of my situation, one I¡¯ve been ignoring because there were more pressing issues to attend to, like getting my story straight and avoiding prison or worse, but now that that¡¯s all settled and done for, I got no choice but to face the facts.


    I, Howie Zhu, am a cripple.


    Ugly word that, but don¡¯t make it any less true, and all the stares and whispers only hammer home the facts. Though Uncle Teddy still got plenty of faith in me, I can¡¯t help but despair for my future, because it¡¯ll be a long hard road to recovery which might well never see me back to 100%. Even with a proper fitted prosthetic or a new and improved Mage Hand Spell, I¡¯d still be a burden to any crew willing to take me on, because there are limits to prosthetics and Spells both that are all too easy to get around.


    Forget things like having to strap on you hand or Conjure it up before a fight; any gunfighter that can be taken out of action with a blanket, wide-spread Dispel ain¡¯t much of a gunfighter at all.


    To make matters worse, I was so close to making a name for myself, one that goes beyond the Blue Bulwark here and out into the Frontier proper. Even though most won¡¯t ever know even half of what happened in Pleasant Dunes, the facts of the matter speak for themselves. I went head-to-head with Vanguard National, who I imagine weren¡¯t no small potates themselves, and now only one of us is still standing. That there would¡¯ve been my ticket to the big leagues, a debut of epic proportions that shows Howie Zhu ain¡¯t a man to cross lightly. Forget having to sell hot ticket Cores like Mage Armour; won¡¯t be many outlaws eager to cross the man who put Ronald fucking Jackson down, not if they know what¡¯s good for them. Took his guns, and Gunin¡¯s rifle too, who no doubt had a rep of his own out there on the Coral Desert sands. Outlaws talk, and mercs pick up on those whispers because there are plenty of dubious outfits with a foot in both worlds after all. That alone might¡¯ve earned me enough cred to get genuine offers from a reputable crew, and maybe even applications from seasoned hunters looking to join mine.


    It¡¯s ironic really. My actions in Pleasant Dunes would¡¯ve really kickstarted my career, if they hadn¡¯t also been the end of it. These are the thoughts that rattle through my mind as I finish up at the hospital and head to the bakery with Chrissy, a slow start to a slow day that¡¯ll set the tone for every day yet to come. I¡¯m going from the Firstborn of the Frontier to just another townie like anyone else. No longer can I call myself a gunfighter, Spell slinger, bounty hunter, Abby killer, or Proggie tracker, a career I barely got off the ground before crashing and burning in most spectacular fashion. Though like in the song, I was born to be a rambling man, it seems I¡¯ve yee¡¯d my last haw and put all my beloved cowboy bullshit behind me. Here on out, I¡¯m just Howie Zhu, an uneducated townie with one hand who¡¯s at least a year behind his peers when it comes to finding a proper career. Got nothing to look forward to either, nothing besides hot showers, afternoon naps, and fresh baked pastries, a dull and boring life lived behind these walls amongst the sheep of the Frontier whom I look down on so much.


    Could be worse. Could be in prison, or scheduled for a long drop and a short stop, so there¡¯s that. Could still end up there eventually, if I should ever let slip the sins I committed in Pleasant Dunes, a soul-crushing concern that¡¯s been weighing heavy on my conscience these last two weeks and will continue to haunt me for all the rest of my livelong days. This here is the hard fight, one you can never outright win, because so long as you still breathing, the struggle to survive is always gonna be there. All I can do is hope for the best like how my daddy taught me, but he never covered what to do when the best don¡¯t look all that bright to begin with.


    Suppose I¡¯ll just have to figure it out for myself, one slow, boring day at a time.

 Book Two - Chapter 59

    ¡°Tell me Howie. What would you say is the defining factor that separates a Magus from a regular person?¡±


    A question with an obvious answer, but one I stop to think about while sitting at Uncle Teddy¡¯s dining table. Not because he¡¯s tricksy or anything, as Theodore Ellis is a straight shooter in every which way, so I doubt he¡¯s trying to pull a fast one on me. Thing is, magic ain¡¯t always straightforward, so the answer might not be as simple as I think. Seeing how I ain¡¯t pressed for time, there ain¡¯t no harm in taking a moment to consider my response. That¡¯s one thing I¡¯ve learned from my time in Pleasant Dunes. Loose lips sink ships, or in my case, loses you a hand. Not saying I¡¯m to blame for how things went down, but I ain¡¯t entirely without fault either. Ron wanted me to work for him after all, right up until he saw that this bronco wouldn¡¯t break, so he cut his losses and had me crippled to ensure I wouldn¡¯t be a threat moving forward.


    Proved him wrong in the end I did, though I¡¯d call that too little too late. Juice wasn¡¯t worth the squeeze, not by a long shot, but I don¡¯t know what I could¡¯ve done different. Not say anything to Noora I guess. Kill Wayne the moment he threatened me maybe, instead of worrying about what others would think if they heard the recording of me confessing my sins. Or kill Ron the first time we crossed paths, which would¡¯ve saved me a whole lot of heartbreak in the long run. More proof positive that my daddy was right. Mercy to your enemies is cruelty to yourself, a mistake I ain¡¯t ever gonna make again.


    As for Uncle Teddy¡¯s question, I find myself unable to put together an answer that I like, so I go with the obvious answer even though I don¡¯t think it¡¯s right. ¡°The ability to cast Third Order Spells?¡± I ask, which is a mistake, because any answer given without confidence is nothing more than a guess.


    ¡°You asking me, or telling me?¡±


    ¡°Asking,¡± I say, with a bit of a smile to show I got no real answer for him, and he offers me a nod in return.


    ¡°Good. No shame in admitting ignorance.¡± We share a small smile as we both remember what my daddy used to always say. ¡®There is no cure for stupidity, but ignorance can be fixed.¡¯ The moment comes and goes in the blink of an eye before Uncle Teddy gets back on track, looking to make up for lost time as quick as he can. ¡°You¡¯re not entirely wrong. That is the definition of a Magus, with the bare minimum requirement to be considered one is having three Third Order Spell Structures embedded in memory. It¡¯s not the answer I¡¯m looking for though. What I want to know is what you think makes a Magus capable of casting Third Order Spells, while more than ninety percent of humanity will never move past Second Order Spells, assuming they even make it so far.¡±


    ¡°Hard work and dedicated effort.¡± The answer leaves my lips before I have time to think twice, which only goes to show I still got a lot to learn when it comes to thinking things through before I speak.


    ¡°That so?¡± Raising an eyebrow ever so slightly, he asks, ¡°So you believe that anyone capable of casting a Cantrip can eventually learn Third Order Spells so long as they apply themselves? Or that anyone who can¡¯t is simply lazy or refuse to apply themselves?¡±


    ¡°I mean, I wouldn¡¯t frame it like that exactly,¡± I reply, even though it¡¯s close enough. The Frontier is a dangerous place, but it¡¯d be a whole lot safer if everyone could sling a Third Order Spell or two each and every day. Granted, the best of them are all restricted like Fireball, Call Lightning, or Erupting Earth, but there are plenty of unrestricted Third Order Spells that¡¯d be useful in and out of combat. Raise an Earthen Wall to temporarily hold back a flood and buy time to stack sandbags or dig ditches or whatnot. Plop down a Stinking Cloud to flush rodents and pests out of your granary without spoiling what you got stored inside. Throw on a Fly Spell to get away from Abby knocking on your gates or fetch a doctor for a midnight medical emergency. Seems obvious to want the ability to do these things, and don¡¯t seem all that far out of reach so long as you work hard at it, except most folks I¡¯ve met can¡¯t be bothered to even try. Not just the vagabonds and layabouts you don¡¯t expect nothing from, but decent, hardworking folk who seem to have a good head on their shoulders, yet somehow think Third Order Spells are far beyond their ken, like they could never learn one even if given the best teachers and a million years to try it.


    Never understood that sort of mindset myself. I get it, people got jobs and stuff, but even at base value, those Third Order Spells can be real useful. I know the difficulty ramps up between First Order and Second, then kicks it into high gear when moving from Second to Third, but that ain¡¯t an excuse to not even try. Then again, most folks know you ought to stay fit enough to run away from Abby if need be, yet few bother to ever exercise besides what walking they gotta do to get where they going. To work, the bar, and back home is pretty much it, their whole lives contained within a perimeter around those three points. As for me, I could never. Even if I¡¯m stuck homebound for the long run, there¡¯s no way I can live out the rest of my life behind these walls. A run along the shores of Last Chance Lake, a hike up to the peaks of Mount Rime, a stroll through the shady forests surrounding the town, there¡¯s so much to see and do within a day¡¯s ride of the walls, and yet most townies confine themselves to an area even smaller that what the walls afford them.


    Unfathomable is what that is, and I doubt I¡¯ll ever think different.


    ¡°Four to eight years of post-secondary education.¡± That¡¯s what Uncle Teddy says in reply, and I¡¯ve no idea what he¡¯s going on about. It must show, because he adds, ¡°That¡¯s how much education it takes to produce a typical Magus in the old world. This is after twelve years of primary and secondary education mind you, meaning even the youngest Magi are around twenty-two years old, while the average sits at twenty-five, and not everyone who tries is able to succeed.¡±


    ¡°I ain¡¯t ever been to school, and I picked it up fine,¡± I reply, which earns me a frown rather than the proud look I was expecting.


    ¡°You¡¯re an outlier,¡± he says with a shake of his head. ¡°Even putting aside the three years you spent under my tutelage, it¡¯s not often you see a self-taught Spellcaster utilizing Orthodox methods, much less one that makes it to Magus. An Innate or Intuitive Caster perhaps, but Newtonian Spellcasting isn¡¯t something most pick up without proper step by step guidance. I¡¯m talking whole courses and textbooks designed to teach a set number of Spells, walking you through every step of the process. The mathematical concepts can be formulated and solved by anyone who understands the numbers, but knowing how to turn those numbers into a Spell Structure is a whole different kettle of fish.¡± Giving me a look that is half admiring and half forlorn, he sighs and says, ¡°The fact that you managed to work out Fireball from a memorized Formula and notes from your mother who never used the Spell herself is a testament to your talent. Your hard work and dedication were the tinder which enabled your success, but your talent was the spark that made it even possible at all.¡±


    And he wishes he could¡¯ve been there to see it himself. Can tell from the look of guilt in his eyes, how he blames himself for not being there and wishes it were otherwise, but it wasn¡¯t his fault. Was my decision to draw a line in the sand, because I knew he fought the decision to disavow my daddy and earned himself a bellyful of ire from the higher ups for it. Knew then that I was going down a different path from what we both envisioned, and I didn¡¯t want him wasting his time on someone who was never gonna be a Ranger. That¡¯s why I stopped showing up for these Sunday lessons, and why he never pushed to have me come back. Not until now at least, and I still ain¡¯t so sure as to why, though I am grateful to be here and benefit from his years of experience.


    Either way, I¡¯m not entirely sure if he¡¯s taken me in as his apprentice again, and I¡¯m too afraid to ask. Could be he thinks I¡¯m too much of a loose cannon to be left uneducated and unattended now that he knows I can sling three Fireballs a day, but so far, there haven¡¯t been any lectures on morals or ethics just yet, only magic and math like how it used to be. Granted, this is only our second lesson since sitting down at my ¡®trial¡¯, but aside from glancing over the first few pages of the Spell Formula for Eldritch Palm and realizing it was too much Spell for me to comprehend, we¡¯ve pretty much picked up where we left off with him teaching me the ins and outs of Spellslinging. Standard stuff, like reviewing Spells and studying the flows, or repetitive practice in the form of slinging Spells, then doing it again while balancing a stack of plates on my head and dodging beanbags all the while. Throw in a bit of theoretical exercises and general Q&A, and that¡¯s how our lessons have gone so far, and I¡¯ve been loving every minute of it.


    Don¡¯t know what that means in terms of our relationship, and don¡¯t want to ask for fear of ruining everything. I can see how much he missed our time together, these scant few hours between church and lunch which we shared every week, and truth is I miss it too. Regret stopping it to begin with, but I knew folks would talk when they found out the Marshal was spending so much time teaching a student who wasn¡¯t ever gonna sign on with the Rangers, and I wasn¡¯t about to let anyone find fault with him.


    Still, I should clear things up as soon as possible, because apprentice is a loaded word for a lot of traditionally minded Spellslingers, and comes with a whole host of expectations I ain¡¯t sure I¡¯m ready to take on. It¡¯s all but synonymous with ¡®successor¡¯ in most things magical, someone to pass on the customs and traditions to a new generation and ensure they¡¯re not lost to the ravages of time. A Structure doesn¡¯t change, but how you go about parsing the Formula or linking the flows to your movements and intonations is usually unique to each and every caster. Stuff you learn from your teacher, mentor, master, or whatever you want to call it, with some traditions being so old you can trace them back to antiquity, when magic was all hush hush and only the best and brightest were allowed to even learn of its existence.


    Now, I won¡¯t say it¡¯s all a load of crock, because there¡¯s still a lot we don¡¯t understand about magic. There are a good number of man-made Spells that have been tailored made for a certain purpose, like Detect Water, Beguile Person, or Flamethrower, but most Spells are derived from Spell Cores, meaning they¡¯re of Proggie Origin. Alien magic, essentially, concocted by an inhuman mind for use by aberrant life forms which appears to have developed independently from any other form of life on this world or the old. They say there¡¯s less than 2 percent difference in the DNA of a person and chimp, which I¡¯m told is our closest living relative, but from the Illusions I¡¯ve seen, they don¡¯t look much like people at all. Sure, they¡¯ve got some similarities, but putting clothes on a chimp won¡¯t fool no one into thinking they a human, not once you¡¯ve gotten a good look at them.


    In contrast? Abby don¡¯t even got 2% in common with human DNA, because they don¡¯t use the same building blocks for their genetic code. That¡¯s what makes them Aberrations. They ain¡¯t natives to these here parts, because if they were, there¡¯s next to no chance of them developing completely independently of all other life on the planet. Not to say they¡¯re aliens from some distant planet chock full of Abby, as there ain¡¯t no proof they came over on meteors or whatnot. Could still be some form of Aetheric life, bioengineered terraforming agents for something living in in the Immaterium that¡¯s looking to jump over to another plane of reality, or something else entirely. No one really knows, the same way no one really knows why some Spells work the way they do, only that they do.


    That¡¯s why even the best Spellslingers around gotta cling to old conventions and traditions to get things done, and we don¡¯t got a good answer as to why. Take Fireball for example. Incendo ¨C Magna ¨C Invoko. That¡¯s the chant I use, the vocal component to the Spell which was popularized by a movie from the old world which I¡¯ve only see amateur recreations of. The somatic component is from the same source, reaching up high into the sky like you grabbing the sun and wrenching it down into your fist, before shooting your hand out like a spear with two fingers pointing at the target you want to hit. A sensational, showy movement combined with a dramatic Latin chant, both of which were designed for the stage rather than real, every day life. So of course, my first thought when learning the Spell was to change them both up, because it¡¯s silly to use a movement and chant that is so instantly recognizable when you fixing to really ruin someone¡¯s day.


    Except I couldn¡¯t do it. No matter how hard I tried, the connection between the Spell, those words, and the big, showy movements had already been made in my mind, and there was no changing it after the fact. Not without investing a lot of time and effort into it at least, more than I care to with so much on my plate. Strange, isn¡¯t it? Was my first time learning the Spell, so you¡¯d think I¡¯d be starting off fresh and able to use whatever somatic and vocal components I liked, but that ain¡¯t how the magic works. A large part of it is the math, that¡¯s for sure, but even with the Structure nestled in my mind, I couldn¡¯t use any other words or movements to trigger the Spell. The reason? Far as I can tell, even though I know on a conscious level that the words and movements don¡¯t matter, my subconscious will accept no alternatives when it comes to slinging Fireballs.


    And that¡¯s the power of tradition and popular culture. Looking at it from another angle though, you could say those stories and shows helped me form an image of how the Fireball Spell looks, sounds, and even feels, allowing me to learn it more easily than I otherwise would. I had access to a good number of Third Order Spell Formulas, but while I admit I put most of my time time and effort into Fireball, part of it was because I saw the best results while studying it. Could be because of those stories again, but then you look at the only other Third Order Spell I can use, and you¡¯ll see the power of tradition at work again. Water Breathing, a man-made Spell designed for the express purpose of dealing with aquatic Abby, and a Ritual I saw my daddy use time and time again.


    Could be why I found learning Fireball and Water Breathing so much easier than the other Third Order Spells, ones which I¡¯ve had little to no progress with just yet. Because I already had the foundation laid out for me, one placed down brick by careful brick whenever I watched one of those shows on stage or saw my daddy prepping for another dive into Last Chance Lake. The math gets you the Structure sure, but understanding the symbolism behind the movements and the meaning behind the invocation allows you to better link your mind and intent with the cadence and rhythm of Aether flowing through the Structure itself.


    That right there is what makes it magic, rather than Aetheric Science; our lack of understanding and the knowledge that there¡¯s more to it than raw numbers or indisputable fact.


    Which is why most Magi put so much stock into their lines of succession, and what Uncle Teddy means when he mentions knowing when, where, and how to apply the mathematical formulas. Those can be derived in an almost infinite number of different ways, but having a formula alone does not a Magus make. If it were, you¡¯d have Spellslingers killing each other for their Spell books in the streets, but it doesn¡¯t happen because them numbers and letters are mostly gobbledegook without someone to explain what all the variables stand for, how to go about deriving them, and what it means in terms of flow, shape, cadence, and dynamics. Even then, there¡¯s more to being a mentor or teacher than passing on a Formula; they¡¯re sharing their knowledge, understanding, and traditions accrued over centuries or even millennia, wisdom and experience gathered over countless lifetimes of trial and error. Little of which is rooted in indisputable fact mind you, as in there¡¯s no real basis behind why some Magi do things the way they do. They do it that way because that¡¯s how it works for them, for the same reasons why I couldn¡¯t use different Vocal or Somatic components to Fireball no matter how hard I tried.


    Don¡¯t got anything to do with Structure or Formula itself. No, I couldn¡¯t change things because I¡¯d already made up my mind on how the Fireball Spell ought to be. It''s a backwards sort of faith, one based more on results than fact, but faith all the same. If you do these things in this order and this manner, then this happens; do it in a different way, and you will fail.


    Then it hits me, the answer to Uncle Teddy¡¯s question. ¡°Faith?¡± I ask, still not entirely sure I¡¯m right. ¡°You saying that¡¯s what separates a Magus from a Spellslinger?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t put words in my mouth or give me that look,¡± he replies, rolling his eyes and taking a sip of his chicory coffee before explaining, ¡°This isn¡¯t the start to some lecture about you yawning during mass, though I¡¯m sure the Padre would appreciate it if you made some effort to stifle them.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the daily Minor Regenerations,¡± I complain, because this time it really ain¡¯t my fault. ¡°Can sleep a solid twelve hours and wake up fresh as a daisy, but once the Spell kicks in, it¡¯s like I¡¯m caught in a pit of fatigue.¡±


    ¡°How poetic,¡± Uncle Teddy drawls, giving me a look that says he don¡¯t buy my story one bit. ¡°You ever consider switching things up and casting Minor Regeneration on yourself before bedtime instead of first thing in the morning?¡±


    ¡­Honestly? Not even once. Always wake so sore and achy in the morning, I can¡¯t hardly wait to cast the Spell to hurry along my healing, but I ain¡¯t about to admit as much. ¡°I supposed I¡¯ll try that startin¡¯ tonight,¡± I say, avoiding his slate grey eyes so I don¡¯t have to acknowledge the twinkle of amusement caught up inside them. ¡°So if this ain¡¯t about me yawning in church, then what¡¯s it all about?¡±


    ¡°Right now, faith, because you brought it up.¡± Waving a hand as if to dispel my sour expression, he explains, ¡°Call it confidence or conviction if you prefer, but it¡¯s all the same. You don¡¯t wholly understand how the Spell Structure works, only that it does, and that strength of conviction is partially why you are able to make use of it. This is true of all Spellcasters, because who among us can claim complete and total understanding of a Cantrip much less a Spell? Why does one systematic flow of Aether propel a Bolt of kinetic force while a second, similar flow propels a Bolt of flame instead? There¡¯s an answer there to be sure, but not one we¡¯ve been able to grasp, which means that every time you cast a Bolt Cantrip, you¡¯re operating on faith.¡±


    Which makes too much sense for me not to agree. Before today, I¡¯d¡¯ve said faith was only necessary for Rituals and the like, but now I see different. Sure, we know how to solve the Formula and use that to embed the Structure into our minds, but that¡¯s only one or two steps removed from monkey see, monkey do. Knowing how to do something ain¡¯t the same as knowing how it works. Just look at Aetherarms. Any fool can pull a trigger to fire off a shot, but it takes a whole lot of learning and plenty of practice to build one yourself. Not like anyone can do it either, Ron found out firsthand when he lost his old gunsmith and had to make do with Junior. Magic is the same, only in a different way, though I¡¯m still not entirely sure what Uncle Teddy is getting at here.


    And I say as much, because that¡¯s what I¡¯m here for. To learn, and he¡¯s always happy to teach me a thing or two. ¡°What I¡¯m saying is that this faith and conviction in magic comes easily to you, and it¡¯s because you possess an inherent understanding of magic which you are not wholly aware of.¡± Before I can protest this talk of talent again, Uncle Teddy says, ¡°I¡¯ll prove it to you.¡± Getting up from his chair and heading over to the bookshelf, he pulls out a few random books and opens the top one to a random page. Gives it a quick glance, then brings everything back to the table before putting the open book down in front of me. ¡°Take a look at this page and this page only. If you can identify what Spell this is from that much alone, then I¡¯ll give you five dollars.¡±


    Only thing I like more than a challenge is getting paid, so I smile and get right to it. The numbers and letters to the formula don¡¯t mean much on their own, especially when I don¡¯t know what any of the variables refer to, but you see enough of the math and you can pick out the patterns within. My first time through the page gives me nothing, but that¡¯s just to familiarize myself with the formula as a whole. The second time through, I pay more attention to the repeating offenders, not just the letters themselves, but the subsections of the formula that call back to other parts within the same page. Just like that, I start to see a pattern, a cumulative build-up without any output. Suggests a convergence of some sort, a concentration or condensation perhaps depending on the School of Magic. It¡¯s doesn¡¯t have the quick and dirty feel of Evocation, nor the slow and steady accumulation of Conjuration, but a static presence that is simply there with no other purpose than to exist, which is a thread I tug on in hopes of finding clues enough to identify the Spell this Formula belongs to.


    ¡°Pretty sure this is an Abjuration Spell,¡± I say after a good bit of pondering, pointing at the relevant sections of the formula and explaining my thoughts so he knows it¡¯s logic and reasoning rather than inborn talent. ¡°Same sets of variables with six similar coefficients show up repeatedly throughout the page, but them numbers don¡¯t form a shape or curve like you¡¯d expect. They¡¯re hexagrams laid out side by side, working together to build something¡­ not solid. Dense. Layered. Passive too. Doesn¡¯t stop so much as just¡­ get in the way, like a strainer or something. Also, the Formula as a whole lacks a variable representing a constant tether point, like what you see in Shield or Force Barrier, so I don¡¯t think this is a physical barrier. Not solely a self-targeted Spell either, else you wouldn¡¯t need to solve for all these same variables in so many different configurations.¡± Moving my finger down the page in search of another pattern to parse through, I keep seeing the same six variables again and again, with only minor changes to the numbers around it create a dizzying knot of sluggish flows which I struggle to visualize without losing my way.


    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    Dense. Dizzying. Sluggish. Untethered. That¡¯s what I¡¯ve got from this snippet of the formula, an intangible yet definitive defense that doesn¡¯t so much stop something as absorb and filter. This isn¡¯t meant to protect the body, but the mind, which narrows my options down to two, and unluckily for Uncle Teddy, I know one of those options well enough to eliminate it. ¡°This is Mental Fortress,¡± I say with all confidence. ¡°Protection from Mental attacks, not just direct damage Spells like Mind Spike and Psionic Blast, but also Enchantments and Illusions like Charm or Fear. You still feel the effects of those Spells, just lessened and muted after pushing past the defenses laid out.¡±


    Gesturing for me to hand the book over, he flips back through the pages until he reaches the start of the chapter titled ¡®Mental Fortress¡¯. ¡°One for one,¡± he says with a proud smile, placing the book aside to go grab another. ¡°Double or nothing?¡±


    Enjoying the game for what it is, I parse through the numbers, but come up empty. After about fifteen minutes of solid effort, I throw in the towel after realizing I ain¡¯t found a single thread to tug at and got no where else to go. Uncle Teddy magnanimously lets me turn the page and keep going, and that¡¯s all it takes to notice the pattern of symmetry throughout the formula, wherein you solve for one variable then plug it in later to find its inverse counterpart in negative space. Still ain¡¯t enough to figure out the Spell, though I¡¯m guessing it¡¯s some sort of concealment Spell. Not sure if it¡¯s meant to block sight, sound, or some other sense, not from just these few pages alone, and it becomes clear why as soon as Uncle Teddy shows me the answer. Obscure Self is the Spell, one meant to hide from Divination Spells, meaning it¡¯ll warp your face and voice on a recording, but do nothing to change how you look to the naked eye.


    Right useful for avoiding detection from cameras and such, but you can still be identified by your clothes or gear, since none of that gets hidden. ¡°One more try,¡± I say, and Uncle Teddy is happy to oblige, picking out a page from a third book which he places down in front of me. Doesn¡¯t take more than a minute for me to figure it out, and I can¡¯t help but look up with a grin. ¡°Lightning Beam,¡± I say, before I can think better of it and realize I¡¯ve stepped into a trap I should¡¯ve seen coming.¡±


    ¡°Seems you¡¯ve studied the Spell Formula long enough to recognize it at a glance,¡± he says with pursed lips, and there¡¯s no denying now. Not without lying at least, and I don¡¯t want to get into the habit, as I can¡¯t say I enjoy doing it much. ¡°Hmm.¡±


    ¡°Never could get the Structure down pat,¡± I say, feeling sheepish about having spent so much time on it with nothing to show. ¡°The flows are too erratic, overlapping and packed in tight to start with, like a complicated knot that turns in on itself. It¡¯s funny though. Spell ain¡¯t so much of a beam as it is a long burst of lightning, one that bounces back and forth between your hand a point 30m straight ahead.¡±


    Still none too pleased to learn I¡¯ve had access to another dangerous and illegal Spell Structure for years now, Uncle Teddy opens his mouth to speak, then thinks better of it and sighs. ¡°Just don¡¯t expect me to bail you out if you get caught with any of those Spells prepared in town,¡± he says, dashing my hopes of ever getting any pointers about the Spell. ¡°Not just here in New Hope mind you, but in any town along the Bulwark whether they be Federal, Metis, or even New Sonora down south. I¡¯m sure Sherrif Patel will have warned his counterparts without breaking the gag order, so tread lightly moving forward.¡±


    Not like I got plans to travel anytime soon, so I accept the warning with a suitably contrite nod. Suppose this means his help and guidance will be limited to legally obtainable Spells then. Still plenty to choose from, like Nondetection, the other Abjuration Spell that first formula could¡¯ve belonged to, one meant to guard against Divination Spells similar to Obscure Self, except it¡¯s Divination as opposed to Illusion. There¡¯s also Spirit Guardians which Sergeant Begaye used to Conjure up three spectral defenders down under dark, or Fly and Haste, which I haven¡¯t tried yet because you don¡¯t want to be testing either of those Spells on your own.


    Looking forward to it really, because Uncle Teddy ain¡¯t the only one who¡¯s missed our time together¡­


    ¡°Putting aside your unlicensed studies,¡± Uncle Teddy says, with a grimace to say that this ain¡¯t the end of it at all, ¡°You¡¯ve proven my point well enough. Though unable to embed the Spell Structure into memory, you not only identified the Spell from a snippet of the Formula, you even parsed how the Spell functions without having ever cast it yourself. We could ask every Magus in town today, and we¡¯d only find a handful who could do the same, with most limited to their respective Schools of expertise. That¡¯s a gift son, your gift, a familiarity and comprehension of the flows that makes sense to you and you alone.¡±


    I still don¡¯t buy it, because the numbers make perfect sense and I don¡¯t see how others don¡¯t get it, but I suppose he could be right. Reading me as easily as I read those Formulas, Uncle Teddy shakes his head with a smile and continues. ¡°I¡¯ve seen the inverse too, scholars and arcanists who can break down a Sixth Order Spell and explain it in a manner even a child could understand, yet they themselves couldn¡¯t cast a Third Order Spell to save their life. You understand without comprehending, while they comprehend without understanding, and if you want to create a brand-new Spell to suit your needs, then it is imperative you learn to do both. You need to not only feel out how the Spell works, but be able to visualize the whole Structure and understand how and where the Aetheric Dynamics interplay with one another to create the intended effect. Then and only then will you have the ability to alter and improve the Mage Hand Spell Structure.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± I say, nodding my since it all sounds up and above board. ¡°So¡­ How do I do that?¡±


    ¡°Same way you do anything else,¡± he replies. ¡°You put in the work.¡±


    Which is where he sets me to task casting Conjure Weapon out in the yard to get a feel for the Spell. The idea is to familiarize myself with the Spell until I can visualize the Structure as a whole and see if there¡¯s any overlap when compared to Mage Hand. Which I also have yet to visualize in its entirety, but that¡¯s homework far as Uncle Teddy is concerned. The worst part is, the similarities might not even be visual in nature, or even mathematical, because it¡¯s not like Mage Hand was derived from Conjure Weapon. Was derived from Ethereal Palm, but it¡¯ll be years before I can embed that Structure in memory, seeing how it¡¯s a Fifth Order Spell. Best I can do is try and Frankenstein some concepts from other Spells and tack them onto Mage Hand in hopes that it all works out. Conjure Armour, Spiritual Weapon, Spirit Guardians, hell I¡¯ll study whatever Spell I can think of if it even has a chance of helping me out. Like throwing cooked pasta at the wall and seeing what sticks, a Hail Mary effort from which nothing is likely to come of, but I gotta at least give it a try.


    Ain¡¯t as easy as it sounds though, because Conjure Weapon is a tricksy Spell to pull off. Unlike most Spells, like say Fireball or Bolt where you cast the Spell and it does the rest, you gotta supply all the parameters for Conjure Weapon before it can take effect. I¡¯m not talking about physical dimensions or anything, because it¡¯s not like the Spell understands Metric or Imperial. You can¡¯t plug in the numbers for the weapon you want and have it spit something out, because that would make too much sense. Instead, you gotta provide the parameters with memory of purpose, encapsulate your experiences with the weapon you want and feed that to the Spell, which then creates something to match that experience out of Ectoplasm for you to wield. Sounds simple enough, but you try and sum up what it¡¯s like to hold a hatchet in hand without using any words, and you¡¯ll understand why it ain¡¯t so easy. The feel of it in your hand, the heft of its weight, the sound it makes as it cuts through the air and when it connects with the wood, the Spell takes all of that awareness and mindfulness from your consciousness and subconscious both to Conjures the perfect tool to suit your needs.


    Difficult memories to pull up, because who pays attention to that sort of stuff when you pick up a tool? Takes a bit of effort to provide what the Spell needs, and more focused effort than I can give in a mere two and a half seconds. Speed ain¡¯t important though, since I¡¯m doing this to get a feel for the Spell, so I take my time feeling out the flows and falling into the cadence of the magic itself. A few minutes later, I successfully Conjure up a nice little hatchet to hold in hand, one almost twin to the hatchet that done cut off the very same appendage I¡¯m working so hard to replace. A touch macabre you might say, but I ain¡¯t ever held a sword, spear, or bonafide battleaxe before, so how am I supposed to supply the sensation of wielding a weapon I ain¡¯t ever used? Hell, I don¡¯t even use a lumber axe all that much, because truth is, even though I¡¯m physically capable of using one, I feel more in control with a smaller, lighter hatchet which chop firewood good enough, and I¡¯m nothing if not a stickler for control.


    Soon as the hatchet takes form, Uncle Teddy has me give it a few swings. Nothing fancy, not even real combat training, just wants me to flap my arm about while holding the thing to get a better feel for it. Has me let go and try to have it float it place too, but that don¡¯t end in any way save for the hatchet dropping right down into the dirt by my feet. The second time round, I hold it out a little further so as to avoid losing any toes to match my missing hand, and I keep it that way the next dozen tries too, but let¡¯s just say I won¡¯t be clearing out Abby with a single swing like Sergeant Begaye anytime soon.


    And when it¡¯s clear I¡¯m growing too bored and frustrated to keep going, Uncle Teddy has me cast the Spell again. Rinse and repeat, with little minor curveballs thrown in, like asking me to put a spike at the top of the hatchet, craft a doubled headed hatchet instead, or give it a good toss at some targets he got lined up a little ways off.


    ¡°Make no mistake, son,¡± Uncle Teddy begins, after I¡¯ve burned through a dozen First Order Spells and we head back inside for a chat. ¡°You¡¯ve set your sights high, and no matter how hard you work or talented you might be, there¡¯s still no guarantee of success. Only the best and brightest are capable of taking a working Spell and changing it into something else. Most fail, and those who succeed are typically going in the other direction, taking a higher Order Spell and reducing it into a lower Order Spell.¡±


    ¡°Whereas I¡¯m trying to take a Cantrip and turn it into a proper First Order Spell,¡± I reply, ¡°And it¡¯s always easier to destroy than it is to create.¡± Conjuring up my Mage Hands to give them a little flourish, I add, ¡°A stronger, faster, more durable Mage Hand that lasts a full hour per cast without Concentration. That¡¯s the dream, so I can keep the Spell active all day and shoot a gun without having to recast the Spell again.¡± One hour per cast would mean I¡¯d have to dedicate all my Spellslinging efforts to keep this hypothetical Spell up for 14 hours, assuming I never use my Concentration to extend the base duration. Add in a solid 8 hours of sleep afterwards to get back to full strength, and that accounts for 22 hours of the day. So I¡¯d have to go without the Spell for at most 2 hours a day while I¡¯m awake, which ain¡¯t great, but is head and shoulders above what I got now. Besides, my limits are growing with each passing day, and as long as I keep pushing to improve, it won¡¯t be long before I can cast 16 First Order Spells without needing to rest, or even more later on down the line.


    So yea. All I gotta do is create a new Spell that fits all those parameters, a feat most Immortal Monarchs shied away from because it was just too damn difficult. Easy peasy, right?


    Though I try to put on a happy face, Uncle Teddy can see I¡¯m struggling to hold on to hope. Patting me on the shoulder, he heaves a long sigh and hits me with a look that feels all out of sorts in his slate grey eyes, a pain that no words could ever convey, because it ain¡¯t a pain in his body or mind, but rather his heart which aches to see me like I am. ¡°I won¡¯t lie to you son,¡± he begins, acknowledging my unspoken worries with a steely gaze of determination. ¡°This goal you¡¯ve set might not be possible. You know it, I know it, so there¡¯s no dancing around the fact. Chances of success are slim to none, and downright impossible if you¡¯re hoping for results within the year. Just know that I won¡¯t give up, and I know you¡¯ve got no quit in you.¡±


    We share a smile before he continues, ¡°It¡¯s not all hopeless though. Going back to my earlier question, I need you to know that being a Magus is about more than just slinging Third Order Spells. Even the best and smartest Spellslingers in the world have to start with Cantrips and work their way up. That¡¯s because in using magic, the magic changes you, allowing you to adapt and improve your ability and capacity for casting Spells among other things.¡±


    ¡°And what? Some people just naturally got higher limits than others?¡± Not liking where this is going at all, I frown and ask, ¡°You saying that you gotta be born lucky to sling higher Order Spells?¡±


    ¡°Not all son.¡± Shaking his head, Uncle Teddy explains, ¡°I¡¯m not saying anything you don¡¯t already know. What I¡¯m getting at is that not everyone adapts at the same rate, or even changes in the same way, but the fact that the magic changes you is undeniable. Transmuters are the most evident, as they tend to become more physically adept over time, growing stronger, faster, and tougher as their Spellcasting progresses, like how Cowie is so much larger than his non-magical counterparts. Enchanters tend to become more attractive over time, not merely in terms of physical beauty, but also charm and appeal in general social interactions, while Illusionists typically develop sharper memories which enable them to better replicate what they¡¯ve seen, heard, or even smelled.¡±


    Maybe that¡¯s why I¡¯m all hung up over Aunty Ray and Tina, though I doubt that¡¯s the only reason. ¡°And Diviners?¡± I ask, eager to hear what I got to look forward to, because so far, everything he says makes sense.


    Giving me a smile that says he knows what I¡¯m thinking, Uncle Teddy says, ¡°The changes are more subtle with Diviners, as the School of Magic affects your natural intellect and intuition like with your Portent, while there are arguments to say it could also improve the Spellcaster¡¯s dexterity and reaction time, though it¡¯s difficult to prove or disprove those claims.¡±


    ¡°So Magi are actually physically better than regular people?¡± Cocking my head in curiosity, I ask, ¡°How come I ain¡¯t ever heard about this before?¡±


    ¡°Two reasons really.¡± Smiling to see my spirits bolstered, if even for a bit, Uncle Teddy explains, ¡°First off, we¡¯re not entirely sure if it¡¯s true. Though the improvements are undeniably there, they¡¯re all within the realm of reason, meaning it¡¯s possible for non-Spellcasters to achieve similar results with physical or mental training that has nothing to do with magic. What¡¯s more, there is no actual physical difference that can be attributed to magic and magic alone. Transmuters could be more physically adept because of their choice of Spells, or it could be because their skillsets lend themselves to physical activities which keep them fit and strong. Perhaps it¡¯s Magic that gives Illusionists better memories, or it could be because they often create their complex, multifaceted illusions from memory which hones it naturally with use. What I¡¯m getting at is there¡¯s no extra part in your brain that enables you to use your Portent ability, no new organ that Evokers use to shape their Spells, no discernable brainwave pattern which allows Conjurors to create simple objects and effects out of Ectoplasm with little more than a thought, so it¡¯s impossible to say for certain that it¡¯s the magic that changes a Magi, or if it¡¯s simply a natural development of skills over time.¡±


    Leaning forward to meet my eyes, Uncle Teddy captures my attention to make sure I¡¯m picking up what he¡¯s putting down. ¡°What this means,¡± he says, in slow and clear tones while studying my expression as if he can read my thoughts, ¡°Is that Spells aside, Magi are no different from common folk. Yes, we can develop certain skills that can only be attributed to magic. It¡¯s undeniable that this happens, but not every Spellcaster develops an ability as such, with no scientific reasoning to explain why. Nor is it limited to Spellcasters at all, as there are documented cases of men and women without so much as a Cantrip to their name developing wonderous abilities that can only be described as magic. Musicians who can enthrall a crowd with a song, thieves capable of breaking wards with a touch, craftsmen who can perceptibly improve an Artifact¡¯s performance with a simple ritual of maintenance, one does not need to be a Magus to develop these wondrous and magical abilities. Take your friend Errol, who awakened his abilities as a Warrior of Faith and is now eligible to become a Paladin of the Knight¡¯s Templar. Even though he himself is capable of casting Spells, most Paladins come from humble backgrounds and were unable to cast Spells at the time of their awakening, and the science has yet to explain how or why it happens. There are thousands upon thousands of unique documented cases of abilities just like that, both in the old world and here on the Frontier, with no rhyme or reason as to how they¡¯re attained. Many believe it has something to do with blood or genetics, but there¡¯s more proof against that perspective than supporting it, though you wouldn¡¯t know it looking back on history.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡± Giving myself a moment to chew on his words, I figure out where he¡¯s going with it and why he¡¯s emphasizing how it ain¡¯t got nothing to do with being a Magus. ¡°Which brings you to the second reason why it ain¡¯t talked about so much. Because it¡¯s a hot button topic.¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡± Heaving a sigh as he leans back in his chair, Uncle Teddy deflates just a bit, no doubt thinking over all the atrocities which have been carried out in the name of Magus Supremacy. The Nazi¡¯s and the Holocaust. The Bharthi caste conflict. Generic racial divides. Innate and Magus breeding programs the world over, most of which were horrifically inhumane to all parties involved. Then there¡¯s the various bloodlines of Immortal Monarchs who¡¯ve claimed their right to rule stems from the fact that they have an Immortal Monarch in the family tree, which supposedly makes them superior specimens of the human race. Ridiculous is what that is. We all human and all equal, and even if science or magic should one day say different, I don¡¯t see why we can¡¯t rise above it. Regardless of our strengths and weaknesses, we all got our parts to play. Much as I personally loathe the townie life, I acknowledge their value and appreciate the hard work they put in making sure we got food, shelter, hot water, and munitions enough to make Abby think twice about trying to take what¡¯s ours.


    I can tell there¡¯s more Uncle Teddy wants to say on the issue, but I give him a look that tells him he¡¯s preaching to the choir. He smiles to see it and switches topics to bring us back on track. ¡°Fact is, I suspect you yourself have one such ability that may help you succeed in creating the Spell you envision.¡±


    Don¡¯t take a genius to figure it out after our long conversation on the subject in question. ¡°You talkin¡¯ about my familiarity with the Spell Formulas?¡±


    ¡°Indeed I am,¡± Uncle Teddy replies, nodding and smiling all proud as can be. ¡°You know it¡¯s estimated that 1 in 10 people are born with aphantasia? The complete and utter lack of ability to picture an image in their minds. Keeps them from embedding even the most rudimentary Cantrips into memory and in turn renders them wholly unable to cast Spells in an orthodox manner. It does not, however, stop them from becoming Innates or Intuitives, because their minds will adapt to grasp the flows of Aether in a different manner.¡±


    ¡°Mm,¡± I say, having heard some of this before. ¡°The Brits discovered as much during the Second World War, when they was running their whole ¡®Innate Super Soldier¡¯ experiments. Rejected a candidate because he was diagnosed with aphantasia, and he couldn¡¯t accept it. Went home and considered eating a Bolt because that was his last chance to serve, seeing how he¡¯d already been rejected by the army for a health condition. Ended up eating his gun¡¯s Bolt Spell Core instead, which let him enlist as a Spellslinger as opposed to standard infantry.¡± Shrugging, I add, ¡°Far as I know, nothin¡¯ really came of it. Man served and died in the war, and no one really thought about it until afterwards when all the big brains got to trading stories.¡±


    ¡°That might be true, but the implications of this discovery go further than you think.¡±


    Rather than give me the answer outright, Uncle Teddy leaves me to puzzle it out myself, and I do after a spot of thinking. ¡°It shows there¡¯s more than one way to perceive Spell Structures, which means there could still be other methods we don¡¯t know about, and you think I¡¯ve got one.¡±


    ¡°Right again.¡± Reaching across the table to pat my hand, Uncle Teddy says, ¡°I don¡¯t mean to belittle your hard work, nor do I want you to get your hopes up too high, but that doesn¡¯t mean you¡¯ve got no chance at all. I said it before Howie. You¡¯re one of the most talented orthodox Spellcasters I¡¯ve ever met, so if anyone can succeed at this task you¡¯ve set for yourself before becoming an Archmagus, it¡¯s you. Just remember though,¡± he continues, gently gesturing towards my missing right hand, which painfully curls up into a fist soon as it¡¯s brought to my attention even though it ain¡¯t actually there. ¡°The battle you¡¯re fighting isn¡¯t here.¡± Tapping me on the chest and then the head, he adds, ¡°It¡¯s in your heart and in your mind, a battle against yourself that only you can fight, but that doesn¡¯t mean you have to fight it alone. Understand?¡±


    ¡°Yea.¡± Wrapping him in a hug, I squeeze him tight and smile when he squeezes back that much harder. ¡°Thanks Uncle Teddy.¡±


    ¡°Anytime, son. Anytime.¡±


    ¡°So¡­¡± I drawl, as our hug goes on for much too long, but he don¡¯t seem ready to end it. ¡°¡­¡®Bout that five dollars you owe me¡­¡±


    Earns me a roll of the eyes it does, a rare and exasperated look from the Marshal himself, and he breaks the hug to reach his wallet. ¡°Should¡¯ve known you wouldn¡¯t forget,¡± he says in a good-natured grumble while pulling out a crisp five for me to take. ¡°You¡¯d think with all the money you¡¯ve earned in recent days, you¡¯d be happy to let an old man¡¯s debt slide.¡±


    ¡°You saw the big numbers on the check,¡± I say, stuffing the bill into my breast pocket because it¡¯s a whole ordeal getting money into my wallet now. ¡°But me? All I saw was how much I paid in taxes. Ridiculous is what that is. You know I got taxed on the estimated value of the guns I brung back?¡±


    ¡°Spoils of battle fall under taxable income,¡± Uncle Teddy replies. ¡°And you still came out on top. A Nanfoodle is an expensive piece of hardware, and a pair of Ranger Naga¡¯s only slightly less so. As for Marcus¡¯ twin Judges, even though they were a gift, that doesn¡¯t exempt them from an inheritance tax, so best you remember that this time next year.¡± We both fall silent at the mention of the big man¡¯s name, and the air grows thick with regret. Not just mine for having failed him, but Uncle Teddy¡¯s too, because there was a time when they was thick as thieves, and that there is a broken fence they can now never mend.


    After a long pause, Uncle Teddy pats me on the back and says, ¡°Best you get going now. Rachel will have my head if you¡¯re late to lunch. Thinks I work you too hard as it is, when you ought to be resting and recuperating instead.¡±


    ¡°If Aunty Ray had her way, I¡¯d be asleep eighteen hours and stuffing my face the other six.¡± Grinning, I ask, ¡°You sure you don¡¯t want to come for lunch? Will most certainly be more than enough to go around, and everyone will be happy to see you.¡±


    ¡°No, I¡¯ve got other plans.¡± A sandwich at his desk while he works, most like, but it wouldn¡¯t be polite to point it out. Instead, I give him a look to say he ain¡¯t fooling no one, and he doesn¡¯t bat an eye, because he makes no apologies for working hard as he does. It¡¯s who he is, a Ranger to the core, and here on the Frontier, the work never ends. ¡°While we¡¯re on the topic of rest and recuperation,¡± he says, segueing into a point I know he been itching to make all day, ¡°How are you feeling? You sure you¡¯re good to work so soon? I know I sentenced you to 480 hours of hard labour, but you have a whole year to work it off.¡±


    ¡°Sure as shootin¡¯.¡± Might still be a little stiff and sore in the mornings, and lightheaded come night-time, but I¡¯m going stir-crazy sitting around at home with nothing to do. Aunty Ray has a conniption every time I so much look like I¡¯m about to lift a finger, even though Uncle Art gave me a clean bill of health and says I¡¯m good to go. Hard labour won¡¯t be pleasant, but I got a lot of hours to get through, and I¡¯d rather get it done sooner rather than later. ¡°Can¡¯t run no marathon or hump a sixty-kilo pack twenty klicks through rough terrain, but diggin¡¯ ditches and layin¡¯ pipe shouldn¡¯t be too hard on me.¡±


    ¡°If it is, let the Deputy know and head home early,¡± Uncle Teddy says, even though he knows I¡¯d sooner pass out on my feet than call it quits. ¡°It¡¯s only been a few weeks, and that sort of damage doesn¡¯t heal quick.¡±


    He ain¡¯t talking about the beating I copped, or the hand I lost either, but it¡¯s easier to pretend he is and ignore what he¡¯s going on about. ¡°Well, you know what they say about idle hand,¡± I reply, waggling my eyebrows at the intentional use of the singular noun, but Uncle Teddy ain¡¯t as easily amused as Uncle Art. ¡°Devil¡¯s workshop and all that.¡± Changing the subject, I ask, ¡°You got plans for dinner? Having a couple folks over for a barbeque later, one last hurrah before I get to work.¡±


    ¡°You kids just enjoy yourself,¡± he says, waving the invitation off with the intention to work long into the night, same as he does every other day of the week. ¡°Last thing you need is for the Marshal to show up and spoil your fun.¡± He smiles. ¡°It¡¯s good to see you¡¯ve finally made friends your own age though. Cherish these times son. You only get to be young once.¡±


    The gleam in his eye has got me wondering what he was like in his youth, but he don¡¯t give me any chance to ask before shooing me out the door. Wasn¡¯t kidding about Aunty Ray chewing him out if I¡¯m late, and I won¡¯t be spared her ire neither, so I hurry on back with as much haste as I can manage without running through the streets. Wouldn¡¯t go so far as to say I got a skip in my step, but I¡¯m feeling livelier than I have in weeks now that the end of my convalescence is finally in sight. No more early nights and afternoon naps, no more tiptoeing about to get my steps in and extra showers to wash away the sweat before Aunty Ray sees it. It¡¯ll be good to have something to do again, and once I get through all my hours, I¡¯ll be free to figure out what I¡¯m gonna do with the rest of my life, a puzzle I ain¡¯t made any headway on since I started.


    Figuring out how Magic works? That¡¯s simple enough, though I wouldn¡¯t call it easy. Life though? That¡¯s complicated. Got no earthly idea what to do with mine now that my dream has died a second time. Can¡¯t be a Ranger, and can¡¯t be a freelance merc, so what else is there left to dream of? Nothing that gets my blood pumping, I¡¯ll say that much, but I suppose I¡¯ll learn to love whatever it is I end up doing.


    I mean, what¡¯s the alternative? Far as I¡¯m concerned, there ain¡¯t one, so might as well keep on carrying on until things work out. For better or for worse, but that¡¯s how it is out here on the Frontier, no two ways about it.

 Book Two - Chapter 60

    Four dozen spicy saurian skewers slathered in cloves, honey, and spice for a sweet and savoury heat.


    Six racks of hoggidilla ribs seasoned with a custom dry rub and grilled over charcoal until the meat slides right off the bone.


    Two sides of muskari brisket, smoked long and slow over starmelon logs for sweet and smoky flavour that pairs well with Aunty Ray¡¯s special BBQ sauce.


    Twenty massive Jaibex lamb chops in a vinaigrette reduction, cooked medium rare but ready to throw back onto the grill if any heretics want it well done.


    One bramble elk steak waiting in the wings, saved special for Errol to make up for the one he missed out on after bagging that elk on our way up to Meadowbrook.


    Mac and cheese. Coleslaw. Baked beans. Potate salad. Cowboy caviar. And last, but not least, a whole slew of clove-butter flatbread ready to grill hot and fresh so my guests can mop all that saucy food up with it. That right there is all the fixings of a proper American barbeque, or at least as close as you can get here on the Frontier. It¡¯s about all you¡¯ll ever hear from old timers whenever anyone throws a barbeque, how things were so much better back home and how much they miss the ¡®proper¡¯ fixings. Cornbread for one, beef and chicken for another, though I could never bring myself to eat Cowie or his kin. Besides, most say muskari is just as good, while those brave enough to try saurian say it¡¯s better than chicken. Juicier and more tender, with less gristle to boot, though them fat frilly lizards are an ugly bunch to be sure. Plenty delicious though, as is everything else I¡¯ve prepared for the first barbeque I done ever hosted, with invites going out to all my friends and the boots who went out to Pleasant Dunes


    Even those who turned tail halfway there and came running back to New Hope. Might be they was the smart ones, though that was probably clear from the start. Ain¡¯t no one ever accused the Rangers of being too smart, now have they?


    ¡°Whew,¡± Aunty Ray says, waving her hand all about to fan away the smoke as she looks over my shoulder at the grill. ¡°Goin¡¯ on eighteen years and I still ain¡¯t used to how much work goes into throwin¡¯ a proper shin-dig. Lookit you rollin¡¯ out all them stacks of flatbread dough. You really gonna need that many?¡±


    ¡°Well you know how it is,¡± I say, flashing a grin with a face no doubt covered in flour as I look up from the prep station. ¡°Better to overprepare than under deliver. Besides, not like I gotta cook it all. Can grill ¡®em up as needed and freeze what¡¯s left when we done.¡± Not that I expect to have all that much left over, not with forty plus young and hungry guests on the way. Still, she ain¡¯t wrong in saying it¡¯s a whole lot of work, so I add, ¡°Thanks for all the help Aunty Ray. Promise I won¡¯t make a habit of puttin¡¯ you to work every Sunday. How¡¯s every other Sunday sound?¡±


    Tweaking my nose with a smile, Aunty Ray follows up with a pinch of my cheeks that is gentle as can be. ¡°Ain¡¯t no thanks needed, not now and not ever. Besides, it¡¯s nice to see you invitin¡¯ friends over for a spot of fun, so you do this often as you like.¡± Turning her cheek towards me, she gives it a little tap-tap and says, ¡°You can just pay me in sugar like you used to.¡±


    Even though she¡¯s like a mother to me, I can¡¯t help but flush red with embarrassment at the thought of kissing her cheek. ¡°Aw, c¡¯mon Aunty Ray¡­¡±


    ¡°None of yer gripin¡¯ now.¡± Tapping her cheek again, she stands there and waits for her due payment, and I know her well enough to know she ain¡¯t gonna leave until she gets it. ¡°Pucker up and plant one right ¡®ere before I charge you extra interest.¡± Knowing guests could be arriving any moment now, I take a quick glance around to make sure there are no witnesses besides Chrissy and the animals before giving Aunty Ray a quick peck on the cheek. One which earns me a pout and a glare as she huffs and sucks her teeth. Wrapping her arms over mine, she hugs me tight and plants a big, wet kiss on my cheek before drawing back with a smile. ¡°That¡¯s how it¡¯s done,¡± she says, while I laugh and squirm in her grasp before giving up and sinking into her embrace. ¡°It¡¯s nice havin¡¯ you home,¡± she says, resting her chin on my shoulder with a sigh. ¡°Guess it had to end sooner or later. You sure you ready to start workin¡¯ so soon though? You still look like death warmed over in the mornin¡¯ light, all pale and shaky as you are. It¡¯s hard work layin¡¯ a pipeline five feet under, full ten-hour days toilin¡¯ from sun up to sun down, and you still need an afternoon nap to keep yourself from fallin¡¯ asleep at the dinner table.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t need the nap,¡± I say, although even I gotta admit she got a good point. ¡°I just enjoy them is all. That¡¯s what these last two weeks have been all about, rest and recouperation, but I¡¯m startin¡¯ to go stir crazy sittin¡¯ around with nothin¡¯ to keep me busy.¡±


    ¡°Nothin¡¯?¡± Pulling back from the hug, Aunty Ray gives me a look and asks, ¡°Naps and nights aside, you ain¡¯t sat still for more than five minutes since the day you got back, always putterin¡¯ around here and there to get your steps in. In the last ten days, you¡¯ve mended the fences, cleaned the gutters, sheared the wallies, fixed the leaky barn roof, and chopped enough firewood to see us through this winter and the next. All on top of takin¡¯ over the lion¡¯s share of Tina¡¯s chores mind you, leavin¡¯ her untethered and free to fritter all her time away.¡±


    ¡°All things that needed doin¡¯,¡± I say, feeling more than a little defensive at having my sore spots poked, because she¡¯s not wrong. I hate sitting around doing nothing, and there¡¯s a whole lot of nothing to do here at home. ¡°Well, not the firewood, but that was homework given to me by none other than the Marshal himself. You got a problem with that, then you gonna hafta take it up with him.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you go tryin¡¯ to scare me by throwin¡¯ big names around. I know all the same people you do, and a fair few more to boot.¡± Giving me a good poke in the cheek, Aunty Ray adds, ¡°And I doubt he told you to chop wood until you were ready to drop. Probably asked you to familiarize yourself with that Conjure Weapon Spell, meaning sit around and study it, but you never could sit still.¡±


    ¡°Could if I wanted to,¡± I say with a shrug and a smile. ¡°But how else are you supposed to familiarize yourself with a Spell if you don¡¯t use it? Not to mention how the Spell only useful if I can get it to Echo, and it can¡¯t do that unless I swing it first so it got something to Echo off of.¡± Which is harder than it sounds. The Echoed movement don¡¯t come stock with the Spell, similar to how splitting my Mage Hands ain¡¯t standard, but I think I can figure it out with another month or three. Got no real basis for making the claim besides general self-confidence, but ain¡¯t like I gotta learn the Echo to get what I need from the Spell. It¡¯d just be useful to know is all.


    Still feels odd Conjuring up a copy of the very hatchet that done took my left hand though, as the real one is little more than scrap metal and ashes underneath a whole pile of stone and sands back in Pleasant Dunes. Yea, Fireball ain¡¯t great at damaging objects and the like, but that¡¯s only in comparison to how effective it is against people. Saw that firsthand in the recording of the event, especially since I knew to look for the boiling fat underneath my targets¡¯ skins. Blackened to a crisp from the inside out, rather than the outside in like with the medium rare chops I got sitting warm on the grill. Forget well done; I served up Vanguard National charred and extra crispy, which is what I call a debt paid in full, so I got no qualms about wielding that same hatchet again.


    Well¡­ At least not enough to bother learning how to Conjure something else. Only need the Spell to know how to Modify the Mage Hand Cantrip anyways, so no sense putting too much effort into Conjuring something entirely different just because I got a hang-up about hatchets now.


    Aunty Ray don¡¯t know none of this, least not in its entirety. Only the broad strokes, so she don¡¯t think anything of me practicing with the hatchet, nor has she asked where mine went. Hasn¡¯t asked much about my time in Pleasant Dunes either, though I can tell she¡¯s burning with questions. She¡¯s better off not knowing, because what she does know already keeps her awake some nights, so why give her more to worry about? Even then, it don¡¯t stop her from being concerned, and I can see it in her eyes as she reads something in my expression, one that¡¯s still bright and smiling as it was when we started, but ain¡¯t fooling her one whit.


    So I do what I always do, and pretend I don¡¯t notice, while she pretends to believe the story I¡¯m telling about being 100% all right. ¡°Made good progress with the Spell already,¡± I say, gesturing over at the pile of firewood I stacked next to the barn wall. ¡°Barely split any logs the first day I was at it, but you can see my improvement right there.¡± Furthest from where we stand, the firewood is all uneven and misshapen, with some short, others fat, and still more that are just chopped to all heck and chipped enough to burn. All chopped manually mind you, and not clean and neat neither, since I ain¡¯t all that used to swinging left-handed. Don¡¯t take away from my progress though, because the stacks of wood closer to us are looking right proper and uniform, a feat I¡¯m proud of even if it ain¡¯t nothing but firewood stacked against the barn.


    Shows that even without no custom Spell, I can still be of use, even if I can¡¯t be the Firstborn no more. A good thing too, because neither me nor Uncle Teddy thinks our chances of success are high. We¡¯re both too pragmatic to believe otherwise, even if we won¡¯t admit it, since it gives us a reason to keep our lessons going, and that¡¯s fine with us.


    ¡°I¡¯m proud of how far you¡¯ve come in so short a time,¡± Aunty Ray says, her arms still wrapped around mine and chin back on my shoulder as she gives me a good squeeze for extra effect. ¡°All I¡¯m sayin¡¯ is maybe you ought to take it easy another week or two before throwin¡¯ yourself into work. Hard labour ain¡¯t called that because it¡¯s easy, and you could use a few more weeks of good eatin¡¯ to make up for what you lost.¡± Freeing me from her embrace with a sigh, she pinches my sides and sets me to squirming away as she adds, ¡°Wasn¡¯t like you had all that much to lose to begin with. Uncanny is what that is, how you eat and eat and eat, yet never seem to put on any weight. You already all skin and bones, so how you gonna look after a week of hard labour, eating whatever gruel and hardtack they care to feed you?¡±


    That¡¯s always her number one concern, making sure I have enough to eat, and it¡¯s a wonder I ain¡¯t as big as a barn and twice as wide to boot. ¡°Tell you what,¡± I say, after slipping away from her tickling with a smile. ¡°I¡¯ll pack up whatever leftovers into a freeze box and bring it out with me when I leave tomorrow mornin¡¯. In fact, maybe we ought to save that whole tray of slab pie you got cooling on the window still over there, just to make sure I got enough to good eats to make it through the whole week.¡±


    ¡°You wish mister,¡± Aunty Ray retorts, waving me away with a smile. ¡°I made that for you to share, not to stuff your face with instead of eatin¡¯ good and proper meals. Nutrition, that¡¯s what a growin¡¯ boy needs, not sugar enough to rot your teeth.¡±


    Now usually, I¡¯d make a quip about how my big ol¡¯ brain needs it, what with how many Spells I sling on the daily, but this time, all I can think about is how Marcus warned me of the same. Thankfully, Chrissy comes strolling in to the rescue as she throws her arms around her mama and gives her a big kiss, no doubt wanting her fair share of affection after an afternoon watching us both putter about. Gives me time to fix my game face back on while Aunty Ray showers Chrissy with hugs and kisses, and not a moment too soon either, as I glance away from the mother-daughter pair just in time to spot Danny¡¯s bright red curls and hunched, gangly frame coming down the street with a backpack slung over his shoulder and both sisters in tow.


    There¡¯s a good reason me and Danny get along so well. Even though we don¡¯t look it, we¡¯re birds of a feather, with much more in common than most would think. For one, we both understand what it¡¯s like to be the dependable older brother, and his burden might be even heavier than my own. I always had Aunty Ray to rely on, who was more than capable of taking care of all three of us all on her own. Sure, she might¡¯ve given up on a lucrative career taming and training horses after Uncle Raleigh passed away, but it¡¯s not like she was left broke, destitute, and helpless after the fact. Far from it, as between wally wool, bee honey, cow¡¯s milk, and her skills with leatherwork, she kept us clothed and fed without ever having to rely on no charity, loans, or government handouts. The money I gave her was just icing on the cake, welcome to be sure, but not necessary for our continued survival.


    On the other hand, Danny¡¯s mama, bless her heart, is what others would call a homemaker. She can manage the household just fine, and does it well far as I can tell, having raised a son and two daughters to be proud of. Thing is, she don¡¯t got much in the way of marketable skills, meaning she got no way of earning without a husband to provide for her. Seems silly to base your entire skillset around having a partner to depend on, but apparently that was how they did things back in the old world. A lot of older women are stuck in the same boat as Danny¡¯s mama, which don¡¯t make much sense at all seeing how they¡¯d signed up for a life on the Frontier, one in which nothing was guaranteed, not even your personal safety. Don¡¯t see why anyone incapable of taking care of themselves would want to come all this way to put their lives in the hands of somebody else, but then again, most townies got that same mindset regardless of gender. Instead of spending weekends at the shooting range prepping to fight off Abby when they come, most would rather sit around smoking and drinking while chit-chatting about nothing at all, like they sitting safe inside a city with whole armies of soldiers to protect them, instead of right smack dab in the centre of the Bulwark, the first and last line of defense against the Divide.


    Don¡¯t know if I¡¯d call that brave or stupid, living life the way they do, but I suppose I¡¯ll have plenty of time to find out firsthand.


    That¡¯s another big reason why I like Danny so much. Man was dealt a bad hand and made the most of it without complaint, taking over his daddy¡¯s business at the tender age of fifteen and making a name for himself in the trade. Same as me really, save in a different profession, and I can respect the time, effort, and dedication he¡¯s put in to get where he¡¯s at. Most of his daddy¡¯s long-time clients up and left after he passed, but Danny won some of them back with sheer grit and perseverance, on top of skill enough to stand out from the crowd regardless of age or experience. That¡¯s why I keep going back to him whenever I need work done. Wasn¡¯t my charitable heart that led me to ask him to install the Big Stick up top of my wagon and fix it so it don¡¯t tear the roof apart with every shot. That there is a weapon that could mean the difference between life and death, and might well have done just that for Tina and everyone else in Pleasant Dunes, so I would never have let Danny work on it if I didn¡¯t trust his skills. He might not be the best Artificer in town, but he¡¯s the most versatile one around, able to do almost all the work I bring him and willing to put in the extra effort to learn when something outside his wheelhouse comes up.


    Still scares me something fierce, thinking of Tina standing the up top of the wagon while the berserk horde of greenies came charging down the street towards her. Making the call to stand firm instead of retreating back into the mountains should¡¯ve been enough to earn Wayne a Bolt to the head, but at the time, I was more concerned about Marcus¡¯ death and so relieved everyone had made it out alive and well that I wasn¡¯t thinking clearly. Sure, them chemical explosives were enough boom to hold them waves of Abby back, but them townies were willing to risk the lives of every Ranger and boot standing down there on the streets, and Wayne let it happen.


    Turned out fine, but all it takes is one orc to make it through the hail of Bolts and into the firing line, and then all hell would¡¯ve broken loose. Could be them boots and Rangers hold firm, or they could break and scatter as more orcs come pouring in hot on the heels of the trailblazer. Make no mistake, close combat specialists are a rarity even among the Rangers, and I imagine Sergeant Begaye likely ranks highly among them, but even he can¡¯t hold off more than two or three orcs at a time on open ground. What¡¯s more, if those greenies had gotten in good and close, then I wouldn¡¯t have put it past them Vanguard National types to start lobbing grenades into the crowd, and I doubt I¡¯m the only one who thinks that way. Yea, giving the order to stand and fight cost Wayne a lot of goodwill among his men, which might well be why they didn¡¯t say word one to me the whole way home.


    Or maybe they was under strict orders from Captain Jung, because none of the Drill Sergeants spoke much to me either. Who knows. Maybe one day, I¡¯ll even find the courage to ask her, though I doubt our paths will cross much moving forward.


    Pushing aside all my morose thoughts of the future, I stride out to greet Danny with a smile. ¡°Thanks for coming out,¡± I say, clapping him on the shoulder before giving his sisters a smile and a nod. Not too friendly a smile mind you, as they still Danny¡¯s sisters, and I don¡¯t want him to worry none. Course, he don¡¯t have to worry at all, seeing how his sisters take after him, and that ain¡¯t a compliment. ¡°Nikky. Manda. Good to see you both.¡±


    ¡°Thanks for inviting us,¡± the two unrefined little gremlins chime, before running over to greet Chrissy and Aunty Ray, though I suspect they¡¯re more interested in the kiccaws, wallies, and marties hanging about.


    ¡°Grab you a drink?¡± I ask, leading Danny over to the picnic bench which I got fully stocked next to my little stone shack of a house. Waving away the begging marties, I say, ¡°Got cider, sweet tea, juice, chicory coffee, and a couple cases of fizzy sarsaparilla.¡± Danny¡¯s eyes light up at the mention of the last, and I grab him a bottle out of the ice bucket before he even has to ask.


    ¡°Thanks Howie,¡± he says, taking short pull of the drink with a smile. ¡°Feels like forever since I¡¯ve had one of these.¡±


    ¡°Then have a few more while you here. Don¡¯t be shy. Couple bottles of fizz ain¡¯t thanks enough for them flashbangs you sold me. Real lifesavers those,¡± I add, dropping my smile a moment to show my sincerity.


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    Danny being Danny can¡¯t just nod and take the thanks. He¡¯s gotta get all quiet and emotional about it, glancing at my severed stump of a hand before looking away right quick and staring at his bottle instead. He don¡¯t say anything, but I can tell he¡¯s working his way up to it, so I keep quiet and putter about organizing things nice and neatly on the drinks table. ¡°They say you killed a whole lot of people in Pleasant Dunes,¡± he begins, his voice barely more than a whisper. ¡°My ma didn¡¯t want us coming here after found out. Said you set a whole building full of people on fire and laughed while you watched it burn. Heard it from miss Elise, who heard it from Mrs. Peterson, who looks after the younger brother of a boot who was there.¡±


    Amazing how stories will grow with each retelling. ¡°I killed a lot of people, yea,¡± I say, unwilling to turn my head ever so slightly to see what sort of expression he got on at the moment, because he might well be the only real friend I got. ¡°And the building did catch fire, yea, but you can¡¯t put that on me.¡± Not without proof at least. Sure, I set it ablaze, but there was a whole gaggle of drunks and smokers in that building, so ain¡¯t no one knows I done it for certain. Besides, it¡¯s not like I left anyone for the fire to kill, though it was a close thing with Ron and Laura. ¡°As for laughing, that there just ain¡¯t true.¡± Waving my stump in front of me, I add, ¡°Wasn¡¯t in much of a laughing mood, as you can probably guess.¡±


    ¡°¡­Meaning you killed a bunch of people before the building went up in flames.¡±


    God damn it. I spent so long prepping to answer any questions the Marshal, Sherrif, Judge, or Aunty Ray had for me, and I done forgot to prep for Danny. Man knows me better than most, because I used to tell him almost everything after our daddies passed since he was the one person I thought would understand. ¡°Yea,¡± I say. ¡°Yea I did.¡± Ain¡¯t a problem admitting as much. Got that on recording now, don¡¯t I? Besides, Danny ain¡¯t one to talk, though I suppose he¡¯ll try to convince his mama, and she a gossip same as miss Elise. ¡°But make no mistake Danny. I didn¡¯t go lookin¡¯ for trouble with Vanguard National. I walked myself into a bad fight thinking it could end peacefully so long as I showed them my belly and accepted their terms, and you seen what they did. They took me for a sheep and tuned me up before lopping off my hand. Thought they could get away with it clean because they took me for a victim, but I proved them wrong, now didn¡¯t they? Killed everyone there because I wouldn¡¯t have walked out otherwise, and if I could do it all over again, the only thing I¡¯d do different is kill ¡®em sooner. They didn¡¯t deserve any better Danny, even if the law might say otherwise, though the Accords most certainly don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I told my ma,¡± Danny says, and I see his shadow shift as he nods to himself. ¡°That you wouldn¡¯t have killed those people if you didn¡¯t have proper justification, and the Marshal wouldn¡¯t have let you off if you wasn¡¯t clear by way of the Accords. Ma didn¡¯t get it though. Kept saying there¡¯s no good reason to take so many lives, how that sort of bloodshed would stain even the purest soul black and whatnot.¡± That takes me by surprise, because I always thought Danny¡¯s Ma loved me. Seeing my expression, Danny gives a little shrug. ¡°It¡¯s been the talk of the town these past few weeks, though I notice no one who was there is saying much of anything at all.¡±


    ¡°Gag order from above,¡± I reply with a shrug. Was done partially to keep me safe, but mostly because the Rangers lost a Captain, a Lieutenant, and an Artificer in Pleasant Dunes and the higher ups don¡¯t want anyone knowing the exact details. Would be a real bad look if folks found out a decorated Lieutenant Ranger was in the pocket of a slave driving, drug dealing, explosive manufacturing outlaw and had to be put down by a kid who wasn¡¯t even a boot. ¡°You know how it is with Feds. Need to know basis and all.¡±


    ¡°And we common folk don¡¯t need to know,¡± Danny adds, his lips pursed in a grimace. ¡°Thing is, that makes it look like the Rangers are covering up for what you done, and that don¡¯t sit well with a lot of folks.¡±


    I scoff. ¡°As if. Anyone who thinks the Marshal would cover up a crime I committed ain¡¯t ever met the man.¡±


    ¡°Or maybe you¡¯re the one who doesn¡¯t know him well enough.¡± Giving me a look, that same one I give outlaws too dumb to leave breathing, Danny says, ¡°You¡¯re the closest thing he¡¯s got to family, Howie. If that isn¡¯t reason enough for a man to go against the grain, then nothing is.¡±


    ¡°¡­Fair enough.¡± Conceding the point with a sigh, I shrug and say, ¡°Don¡¯t know what you tellin¡¯ me all this for though. Not like me coming out and saying different is gonna change things much. I walked out of Pleasant Dunes with a big body count and short one hand, but clean as a whistle in the eyes of the Accords.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just tellin¡¯ you which way the wind¡¯s blowing is all.¡± Matching my shrug, Danny adds, ¡°Tensions with the Qin aren¡¯t helping either, not with them watching so close as we expand south towards their settlements. Hasn¡¯t been any fighting just yet, but there¡¯s whispers of it on the horizon, or so the papers say.¡± Holding up a hand to forestall my objection, he say, ¡°I know you got nothing to do with the Qin, but others don¡¯t think the same, and I heard some folks are whispering about starting a petition to have you 86¡¯ed from town for being a clear and present threat to public safety.¡±


    ¡°On what grounds? My race? Ain¡¯t that against the constitution?¡± Everything else he¡¯s mentioned can be waved off as townie talk, but this here is different because it parrots the statute in Federal Law concerning Freeholding landowners, which is what I count as. I pay American taxes and live in an American town, but I ain¡¯t American in the end, meaning I don¡¯t got all the same rights and protections as a full citizen. Under certain circumstances, like the one Danny mentioned just now, I could very well be stripped of all my rights as a freeholder and exiled from any and all Federal settlements, and ain¡¯t much I could do about it if a Judge signs off on it.


    ¡°On the grounds that you killed a lot of men in Pleasant Dunes,¡± Danny replies, giving me a variant of the same look he done gave me earlier. ¡°That tends to put the scare in us common folk, and not without reason.¡±


    ¡°You scared Danny?¡± Soon as I ask it, I wish I could take the words back, but better to know where I stand with the man before moving forward. The question takes him by surprise, as does my tone, a cold and harsh one he ain¡¯t ever heard from me before, the remnants of the Yellow Devil leaking out even though I thought I done put him well away. ¡°Worried I¡¯ll snap and go postal in the middle of town?¡±


    Rather than answer right away, Danny looks me in the eye, and I ain¡¯t sure what it is he sees. After a long second, he says, ¡°I dunno Howie. Should I be?¡±


    Part of me wants to say no, get angry that he¡¯d even think that of me, but the pragmatist inside can¡¯t help but commiserate with his position. ¡°Well, you know how it is,¡± I drawl, heaving a sigh and letting my pique drain away. ¡°Hope for the best.¡±


    ¡°And prepare for the worst.¡± Flashing a smile like I didn¡¯t just tell him I might well be a ticking time bomb, Danny says, ¡°Good. I¡¯d worry more if all did was cry victim and claim innocence, because then I¡¯d think you had a guilty conscience.¡±


    ¡°What about now?¡±


    ¡°Now I know you have a guilty conscience,¡± Danny says, without so much as missing a beat, then pauses to take a long sip of his drink. ¡°Which is good, because that¡¯s how it should be after what you been through. You might be the Firstborn, but underneath all that swagger and bluster, you¡¯re still human yet.¡± Giving me a fist bump to the shoulder, Danny adds, ¡°Don¡¯t worry too much about what folks are saying. That¡¯s all it is really. Talk. They scared is all, but they got no good basis to have you exiled, and the Marshal would never let it happen regardless.¡±


    Much as I¡¯d love to get all heated and angry, unleashing that all on Danny won¡¯t do nothing to change facts, so I swallow it all and heave another sigh instead. ¡°Yea, well maybe it¡¯s better this way, bein¡¯ a social pariah and all. Least I won¡¯t have to work so hard at smiling all the time.¡±


    Danny don¡¯t know what to say about that, so he takes another sip of his drink and falls silent. Then, without any preamble, he reaches into his backpack and says, ¡°Oh right. I need measurements of your arm, so you mind if we do that first before I forget again?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ sure? What for though?¡±


    ¡°Well I was thinking,¡± he begins, pulling out a length of shaved wood with two pieces of twine already attached and pulling off the leather cover so he can tie both around my stump. Does it without so much as blinking, even though most work real hard to avoid even looking at my missing hand, and it show¡¯s how Danny¡¯s got more steel than it seems. There¡¯s no discomfort in his actions, no hesitation or wince as he takes it all in, just the facts and nothing more. ¡°You know my skitterbots?¡± He asks, as if anyone could forget those spider-like robots that scurry around him while he works. ¡°I figured I could teach you to make something like that, so you have something better than a plain old clamp of a prosthesis, or worse, something that just looks like a hand but doesn¡¯t do anything at all.¡±


    ¡°Silly that,¡± I say, though now that I think about it, might not be so silly after all, not when it still feels like my wrist is locked up tight and my missing fingers are digging into a palm that ain¡¯t there anymore. It doesn¡¯t always hurt, only sometimes, mostly when I forget my hand is gone and then I¡¯m reminded of the facts again. Maybe a fake hand will make trick my brain into forgetting more often, and not remembering the pain of my trusty hatchet cleaving straight through bone and muscle with little precision and plenty of force.


    ¡°Yea,¡± Danny says, already lost in his thoughts and not really paying attention to anything I¡¯ve got to say or the thoughts running through my head. ¡°Anyway, the official term is automaton, which in this context means a moving mechanical device powered and controlled using Arcanic methods. You remember how it works?¡±


    ¡°Vaguely.¡± Dredging up his past explanations, I struggle to put what he said into plain old English, mostly because I don¡¯t really understand it to begin with. ¡°It¡¯s uhh¡­ a sorta-summoned but actually crafted contraption that¡¯s linked to my Spirit, which I use to infuse it with ¡­ designated commands stored inside crystals as strings of one and zeroes?¡±


    ¡°Close enough.¡± Which means I¡¯m way off the mark, but Danny don¡¯t see no point in correcting me. ¡°So yea, it won¡¯t be like having a hand again, something you can control with a thought. You¡¯ll have to pre-program a set of routines, one for say making a fist, another for grabbing a cup, and more still for clapping, snapping, or whatever else you want to do. Then instead of intuitively reaching for a cup and having the automaton grasp it, you¡¯ll have to position it within reach of the cup, then run the subroutine for picking up a cup. It sounds extra complicated, but it isn¡¯t really, just a different way of thinking that you¡¯ll get used to pretty quick, and eventually even learn to write up new programs on the fly as needed.¡±


    Huh. Never knew he had to pay so much attention to his skitterbots, because they always moved about like they had minds of their own and coordinated seamlessly with his movements. Sure, he said they weren¡¯t golems, but I always assumed they had some measure of autonomy at the very least. Why else would they run around on the walls and ceilings like they do? Before I can ask though, Danny finishes taking his measurements and keeps right on talking. ¡°I¡¯d have to teach you how to make one, because that¡¯s the only way you can interface with it using your own Spirit, but you know how to Etch well enough, so it shouldn¡¯t take too long to pick it up. The language you can learn as we go, and I can even help you write up the first few programs, though keep in mind, there¡¯s no guarantee this will work out. Even if it does, it still won¡¯t be anywhere near as good as having a hand, what with the extra focus and lag time between giving a command and executing it. It¡¯ll be a massive undertaking to try and replicate the full range of motion of an actual hand, so don¡¯t even try. In fact, you¡¯d probably be better off not making it a hand at all. A clamp or even a mechanical tendril would offer more functionality, or you could even have them be fully independent like mine, and use it to¡­ I dunno. Grab things you can¡¯t reach, or whatever it is you need done.¡±


    Like shoot a Bolt, if I mount a gun onto it like I keep telling Danny to do. ¡°Hmm¡­ Sounds interesting,¡± I say, trying to think up a reason not to learn something new and coming up empty. Even if it fails and doesn¡¯t work out, a new skill ain¡¯t nothing to turn my nose up at, especially seeing how I don¡¯t have many marketable ones under my belt. Plus, if I can get them skitterbots to shoot and reload on their own, then my days of roaming the Frontier might not be entirely behind me once I get a bit of advanced Spellslinging under my belt, which is the best news I¡¯ve heard in weeks.


    In short? This here is a ray of hope, of which there has been little to none of in recent days.


    Grinning from ear to ear, I throw an arm around Danny¡¯s shoulder and pull him in for a sorta hug, which he sorta returns in a manly sorta way. ¡°Thanks Danny,¡± I say. ¡°If you¡¯re game to teach, then I¡¯m game to learn, and right grateful for it too. You a real one, you know that?¡±


    ¡°Shut up,¡± he says, elbowing me away with a grin. ¡°You¡¯ve done more for me without thinking twice, like telling me to sell my Flashbang formula to the Rangers quick as can be. Papers went through two weeks ago, so I¡¯m sitting flush for the next little bit. Doubly so since I hear a company downriver just unveiled their own flashbangs, so I would¡¯ve lost out big time if I didn¡¯t act when I did.¡±


    ¡°That was just advice Danny. You the one who done all the hard work.¡± Changing the subject so we don¡¯t keep going back and forth like this, I ask, ¡°So¡­ that programming language you mentioned. It ain¡¯t all ones and zeroes is it?¡±


    ¡°Sort of, but not really. Oh right. I brought you some books to read up on it.¡±


    After revealing a thick stack of textbooks concealed inside his backpack, Danny dumps them in my arms and goes off on a long and lengthy explanation that I don¡¯t follow much of at all. When it¡¯s all said and done, I leave with the understanding of how the skitterbots think in ones and zeros, but I talk to them in English. Except not plain old English, but a very formal English, with specific syntax and punctuation which I need to use if I want it to understand. All of which goes right above my head, but Danny keeps assuring me I¡¯ll pick it up right quick, though I have my own reservations about that. Lots of folks think I¡¯m smart as a whip just because I can do numbers, but math makes sense to me in a way few other things ever did. What¡¯s more, hopeful as I am for what this bodes for the future, I¡¯m worried about getting my hopes up too high, because there ain¡¯t nothing worse than crashing down to those lowest of lowest, except crashing back down to those depths once again.


    Ain¡¯t so sure I can crawl my way out even the once, so I¡¯m rightly worried about having try it twice. Still, gotta cling fast to hope, because without hope, what else do I have to hold onto?


    ¡°Lookit you two.¡± Showing off more of that Ranger stealth, Tina appears out of nowhere while me and Danny are chatting it up, and only then do I notice the time. ¡°Gabbin¡¯ away like a pair of gals on their best day. Thanks for comin¡¯ out Danny. Ain¡¯t just sayin¡¯ it either. Haven¡¯t seen Howie in such high spirits for weeks now.¡±


    Shows what she knows. I¡¯m halfway between terrified and anxious without knowing which side to come down on, so I give her a smug look while Danny stammers out a reply that don¡¯t sound much like English at all. Poor man is head over heels, but she don¡¯t even notice. I¡¯ve told him he¡¯s better off turning his affections elsewhere, since Tina¡¯s focused on being a Ranger and won¡¯t lose that focus until she makes Lieutenant at the very least. Can¡¯t rightly help him either, especially seeing how I don¡¯t know much about women, so all I can do is watch him flounder and step in when it looks like all is lost. ¡°Of course I¡¯m happy to see him,¡± I say, clapping him on the shoulder. ¡°Danny and his sisters are the only ones who bothered to show up on time. Can¡¯t even count on my own sorta-sister to be punctual, or Heaven forbid drop in early to help set up.¡±


    Glancing around, I notice she arrived alone, even though she¡¯d been out all afternoon with a whole slew of boots putting shots in downrange. Say what you will about how things turned out, but Pleasant Dunes lit a fire in most of the boots who were there. Even after Basic started up again, they still get together every day to hit up the range, obstacle courses, or do general PT whenever they got the time, and the results are starting to show. Even Tina ain¡¯t gone full slacker once freed from her chores, and instead spends more time training like a proper boot should.


    Which is all good and well, but that don¡¯t excuse her from showing up late to the first barbeque I done ever hosted, or showing up alone when I asked her to invite all her fellow boots in my stead. Couldn¡¯t really go down to the training camp, now could I? Not persona non grata as I am, which is why I tasked Tina to do it. Looking aggrieved as can be, she pouts and apologizes without really meaning it, mostly because she doesn¡¯t really tell me the real reason why. ¡°Sorry for showin¡¯ up late, but better late than never, right? Ooh, fizzy sarsaparilla.¡± Grabbing herself a bottle, she cracks it open and takes a deep pull, then another as she winces like she got something to say, but knows I won¡¯t want to hear it. ¡°I got a good reason though, so uh¡­ don¡¯t be angry.¡±


    ¡°I ain¡¯t angry,¡± I say. And I mean it too, though things are trending that way. Not at her, because I sense something is up, and after hearing Danny¡¯s concerns, it¡¯s easy to guess what. ¡°Let¡¯s hear it.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± she drawls, digging her toe into the dirt like she was just caught with her hand in the candy jar. ¡°Word around town hasn¡¯t exactly been singin¡¯ you praises, and a lot of folks have been asking us what went down.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡±


    ¡°And we been told by the higher ups to keep mum,¡± Tina continues, unable to meet my eyes. ¡°Except even if they didn¡¯t, we wouldn¡¯t have all that much to tell, since ain¡¯t a one of us knows exactly what went down.¡± Giving me a glare to say she still waiting on me to come clean, Tina blinks first and moves on after a brief contest of wills. ¡°So some of the boots have been trying to piece things together, and uh¡­¡±


    ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± she drawls, looking over to her mama for help, but Aunty Ray is too busy keeping the peace between the marties and kiccaws to pay us much mind. ¡°The general consensus is that you uhh¡­ started somethin¡¯ with Vanguard National and got in a bad way, then Wayne and Conner got got tryin¡¯ to get you out.¡±


    Now if that don¡¯t stick in my craw, then ain¡¯t nothing ever could. ¡°You sayin¡¯,¡± I begin, enunciating my words as carefully as I can, ¡°That them boots think I¡¯m to blame for their deaths?¡± Which ain¡¯t entirely wrong if you look at it a certain, but the context is what matters, because it sounds like they¡¯re saying I done goofed and got two Rangers killed for it.


    ¡°More or less,¡± Tina whispers, and I hate how she looks scared to break the news. Not because she¡¯s thinks I¡¯d ever lash out and hurt her. No, she¡¯s scared for her friends, because while she knows I¡¯d never lay a finger on her, them loose-lipped, hare-brained boots ain¡¯t got that going for them, now do they? Only now do I realize that keeping mum about what went down in Pleasant Dunes ain¡¯t entirely to my benefit, because even though nothing could be further from the truth, the story the boots came up with is an easy pill to swallow. The fiery, hot-tempered Firstborn gets in over his head with them Company types, and two Rangers die heroically saving his bacon. Without knowing any of the details involved, like how Wayne was a dirty, double-dealing rat stuck firmly in Ron¡¯s pocket, that sounds like a perfectly plausible story to anyone who hears it.


    Even the boots who were there and saw Wayne sucker punch me in the back of the head.


    Without needing Tina to fill in the blanks, I figure out the rest on my own. ¡°So now no one wants to be seen with the fool who got two Rangers killed. That how it is?¡±


    ¡°Not no one, but yea. I tried convincin¡¯ them otherwise, but wasn¡¯t like I had much to add to the conversation.¡±


    ¡°I know you went to bat for me Songbird.¡± Patting her on the shoulder, I strive to keep my rage from bubbling over while my mind works at a hundred miles a minute, struggling to find some way to set the story straight without broadcasting to the world that Wayne was dirty. Try as I might though, there ain¡¯t no proper explanation for anything that went down, not one that sounds more believable than the conclusion those boots made. ¡°Well¡­ shoot.¡±


    ¡°Ain¡¯t nothing to worry about.¡± A familiar voice sounds out, and I glance past Tina to spot Sarah Jay striding over with an easy smile on her face, looking bold and proud as can be. ¡°Those who matter know better, and those who don¡¯t know don¡¯t matter.¡± Reaching out to slap hands in greeting, she don¡¯t say anything else, and truth is, ain¡¯t nothing else needs saying.


    Well, one thing at least. ¡°Thanks for coming,¡± I say, before turning to the dark and impassive Errol beside her, who clearly don¡¯t share her sentiments. ¡°Good to see you,¡± I lie, because it wouldn¡¯t surprise me if he believed that bullshit story in its entirety, even though I told him Wayne was dirty from day one. While introducing myself to Sarah Jay¡¯s younger siblings, I make a mental note to cook his elk steak well-done. By the time I¡¯m done making friends with Mary Ann and little Jimmy, more guests have arrived, people Tina invited last minute which is why she was so late. Marijke and her brother Dieterich show up with their customary lack of good cheer, but the fact that she offers to buy back the guns she sold me before Pleasant Dunes speaks volumes to her big heart. I decline of course, much to her relief, because I ain¡¯t hurting for money and see no reason to get rid of my guns, but it¡¯s the thought that counts.


    Next comes Noora alongside a gaggle of local girls, including Josie whose family took Noora in. Glad to see the dusky beauty land on her feet after what went down in Pleasant Dunes, and conflicted as I am by the part she played, I can¡¯t really hold it against her. Not like she had much of a choice, and she didn¡¯t say word one when pressed about the recording, just lied through her teeth and said she ain¡¯t never heard me say none of that. A couple of Tina¡¯s friends from school also show up, people I¡¯ve known for years, but never really hung out with because I wasn¡¯t ever around, so I get to refamiliarizing myself with them. To my surprise, a smattering of boots end up coming around, with guests of their own to help pad the numbers, and though it¡¯s still a far cry from the forty-plus guests I was expecting, I prefer smaller crowds anyways. Makes every face here all the more precious, more genuine, and I make a note of them all. Antoni, Alfred, Micheal, Gabriella, Ike, and Kacey are the ones I know well, while their various friends and squad mates make an appearance too. ¡°Glad you could all make it,¡± I say, with a genuine grin once the food is served and we¡¯re all hanging out. ¡°You sure you all want to be here though? Smart move is to cut ties and walk away. Could well be risking your future careers, or placements at the very least, as there gonna be some Rangers who don¡¯t like seeing you kick it with a deadbeat like me.¡±


    ¡°If so,¡± Michael says, in a rare moment of candour, ¡°Then you best keep a spot open for us in the Frontier Born.¡±


    Though the sentiment is lighthearted, the man is serious as the grave, as are the others who meet my eyes with smiles aplenty and leave me utterly speechless. With the odds so stacked against me, I¡¯ve all but given up on my dreams and moved on, but not a single person here thinks I¡¯m down and out for the count. Not Michael, not Sarah Jay, not Danny, hell, not even Errol, who clearly believes I¡¯ve done some sort of wrong, and is fuming to see me get off with a slap on the wrist. There¡¯s no doubt in their minds that this ain¡¯t the end for me, so maybe, just maybe it¡¯s too early to write myself off just yet.


    They all ready to bet big on my success, so why am I so reluctant to do the same? I¡¯ve always bet on myself before, even taken some long odds I probably should¡¯ve avoided, but I don¡¯t see what that should change now.


    Strange how life is sometimes. Ain¡¯t nothing changed between now and five minutes ago, but with a few simple words and actions, my friends have taken the weight of the world off of my shoulders, and I ain¡¯t feeling so down and out anymore. I¡¯ve been in such a rush to move on with my life and leave my past behind, because I been too afraid to admit the truth out loud. I don¡¯t want to move on, don¡¯t want to give up what I¡¯ve already lost, want to take it all back and be the Firstborn again. Thought people would laugh if they heard it, tell me to be real and accept the truth, but ain¡¯t a person here who thinks that way, which means more than they¡¯ll ever know.


    ¡°Alright,¡± I say, giving each one of them a nod to convey my gratitude, even Errol who scoffs to see it. ¡°Will do.¡±


    Music to my ears it is. The Firstborn¡¯s Frontier Born, a dream I ain¡¯t so ready to give up on just yet.

 Book Two - Chapter 61

    Four-hundred and eighty hours of hard labour.


    A long sentence it is, and one made more complicated by the fact that I ain¡¯t been arrested. If I had, then Sherrif Patel could¡¯ve simply shipped me off to a penal camp to work all my hours off. That¡¯s what I figured would happen, that I¡¯d be thrown into a quarry, added to a road crew, or one of a dozen other penal labour programs we got going on in the area. There¡¯s always work to be done, and more now than ever with three new settlements going up south of Redeemer¡¯s Keep. Whether it be digging canals, logging trees, clearing land, baking bricks, or general construction, there are never enough labourers to go around, so why leave prisoners sitting in jail cells with three squares a day when we can make use of them instead, while teaching them a valuable job skill and work ethic at the same time?


    That¡¯s how I see it at least, though most old worlders seem divided on the issue. Call it barbaric, exploitive, or even modern slavery, but I don¡¯t know about any of that. All I know is that penal camps have been around my entire life, and my daddy sent more than his fair share of prisoners to them. Also know that most are miserable as all hell, because even though the prisoners are sentenced by the Federal Government, the camps themselves are almost always company run. Not always by the same company, but company men are all cut from the same cloth. Means any corner that can be cut most likely will be, with prisoner comfort sitting high on top of the list. Safety and security is a must, since any company using prison labour will be fined a hefty sum if any prisoners are injured or killed on the job, but comfort? Who cares if prisoners sleep easy at night? Not the company, and not the general American public either, because in the eyes of your average Federal citizen, prison labour is a punishment that¡¯s supposed to be miserable as all heck, and ain¡¯t no way to change their minds.


    Yea, Americans as a whole tend to get real excited about punishing prisoners. Never thought much about it before, but now that I¡¯m on the other end of it, I¡¯m finding it all real extra. Luckily, penal camps are for prisoners only, and neither the Marshal nor the Judge were willing to throw me to the proverbial wulves. Personally, I think I could¡¯ve done it, so long as I was allowed to leave on weekends and given my own room to sleep in. Sure, I would¡¯ve been working shoulder to shoulder with hardened criminals without my guns or my gear, but so long as they¡¯re all clapped in anti-magic manacles and I¡¯m not, then I got nothing to be afraid of with Bolt and Blast in my wheelhouse.


    Would have to half-kill a man my first day most like, and probably a few more until all them prisoners get to see my work first hand, but eventually, they¡¯d¡¯ve learned not to mess with this bull. Hell, if I was allowed to bring Cowie along, I might not even have to hurt anyone. Two tonnes of Transmuting bovine flesh makes for a mighty fine deterrent, and Cowie knows good and well how to lay the smackdown on a fool without killing them outright.


    As for me? I know how to show mercy. I just learned I¡¯m better off not doing it. Folks respect Cowie when he shows them how it is, that he could¡¯ve killed them, but didn¡¯t. When I do the same, folks tend to get angry instead, and I can¡¯t rightly say why. Maybe it¡¯s my smile, or the glint in my eye. Could be my age, and how it rankles the pride for a grown man to get put in his place by a kid half his size. Might be any one of a thousand things, but what I can¡¯t say for certain. Whatever it is, I¡¯ve found that showing mercy tends to come back and bite me in the ass, like it did in Pleasant Dunes. I told Danny, I did things the right way, the way Uncle Teddy would¡¯ve wanted it handled, but the problem is, morals and ethics don¡¯t matter when you working with scum like Wayne and Ronald Jackson. Uncle Teddy don¡¯t see it that way, but I don¡¯t got his skills, stature, or backing, so he don¡¯t understand what it¡¯s like for me out there.


    No matter how you slice it, I keep going over everything that happened and wishing I¡¯d¡¯ve shot Wayne in his stupid smug face while he was reading me the transcript of my recorded conversation with Noora. Would¡¯ve put us all in a bad place for the ensuing firefight, but Ron and his people were all in the bunker below, so we would¡¯ve had plenty of time to get out of dodge, with me in one piece no less. Brings up an unpleasant hypothetical though, one that¡¯s been on my mind these last few weeks. If I could go back and do it all over again, would I exchange the lives of a few Rangers and boots for my right hand back? A big part of me hates to even consider it, thinks it a monstrous trade I could never make, but then there are those quiet moments when I¡¯m reminded of what I¡¯ve lost and I think about what I wouldn¡¯t do to have it all back again.


    Not just my hand, but my life and reputation too. Sure, killing Wayne in cold blood would¡¯ve been bad, but then the world would¡¯ve known him for the traitor he was once Vanguard National opened up on the Ranger camp. Course, the worst-case scenario would¡¯ve been if I¡¯d¡¯ve killed Wayne, then Vanguard National did nothing. Wouldn¡¯t put it past Ron to order his hitters to stand down if I wasn¡¯t conducive to a talk, then quietly leak the recording and have me crucified in the court of public opinion before sentencing in an actual Federal court. While the American Justice System don¡¯t look favourably on crucifixions, I could¡¯ve counted myself lucky to end up in a penal camp rather than swinging from the gallows next to the courthouse.


    So yea. Maybe this was the best I could¡¯ve hoped for once things progressed that far, but ain¡¯t no way to ever know. No use crying over spilt milk though, so I suppose I ought to be thankful I¡¯m alive and breathing, albeit short a hand and in possession of a tattered reputation. Still a free man though, which is good, because while I¡¯m pretty sure I could cut it in prison, that don¡¯t mean I¡¯m eager to book a ten-week stay at the Iron Bar Inn. What it does mean is that I can¡¯t just work off all my hours right quick. Instead, I gotta sit around and wait for an opportunity to come up, or more specifically, for a prospective employer to put in a work request with the Sherrif¡¯s office for extra hands. Usually it¡¯s for smaller projects in dire need of ¡®unskilled¡¯ labour, meaning the work is measured in days, rather than weeks. Pulling stumps for a homestead, tilling soil for a private farm, raising a barn or church for a rural community, that sort of thing.


    So even though I got the drive and desire to work off my hours ASAP, I can¡¯t throw myself into work whenever I please. Ain¡¯t just a matter of waiting for the employers either, because it¡¯s early spring and there¡¯s plenty of work to be done. There¡¯s a whole slew of red tape to go through first though, bureaucratic nonsense so the Feds can say they done their due diligence when something goes wrong and fob the blame off onto someone else. Got a whole host of rules and regulations to comply with when it comes to working with, and it¡¯s only after them employers get their stamp of approval that the Sherrif¡¯s office puts up the work order, and from there it¡¯s a first come, first serve basis. Luckily for me, Sherrif Patel has been coming by at least twice a week to make sure I don¡¯t got no restricted Spells prepared. Has been dropping in at all hours of the day and even once in the dead of night, no doubt to keep me on my toes, but I¡¯ve been on my best behaviour since coming back to town, and even handed over every single copy of every single restricted Spell I own here in New Hope.


    Ain¡¯t much of a problem really. I can write out the Fireball Spell Formula by memory after solving it so many times, and I do so for practice at least once every few days to make sure I don¡¯t forget. If I ever do, I got copies of my mama¡¯s notes and my daddy¡¯s Spellbook stored at their place in the badlands, which I can get to even without any Big Spells. Would much rather have them should I find myself in a pinch, but I made the trip twice solo before I could sling Fireballs, and I can do so again if I have to.


    Either way, I¡¯m looking forward to getting all my hours done, which is why I asked the Sherrif about work every chance I got. At first, all he had to offer were minor day jobs, some of which took longer to get to than the hours they was offering, so when a chance to clear a full fifty-hours off my card came up, I jumped at it without thinking twice. A week-long job only five hours ride out from New Hope, with travel and accommodations included, I¡¯d be a fool for not taking the job. The extra cherry on top of the shake? This employer already got paperwork in the pipeline for other jobs coming up. Means that if I make a good impression, I could let them know I got more hours to make up and ask to get hired on for whatever else they need doing.


    Complicated is what that is. I just want to finish my hours as soon as possible, but who would¡¯ve thought finding work ain¡¯t easy?


    That¡¯s why I show up bright and early to the job, a good half-hour before we¡¯re supposed to head out, with my bags packed and Cowie at my side, because he¡¯d never let me leave town on my lonesome. Don¡¯t rightly know how he figured out I¡¯d be gone for more than a few days, because I certainly didn¡¯t tell him, but he was sitting pretty outside my door this morning, all ready and raring to go. Seeing how this ain¡¯t a proper penal camp, I figure there shouldn¡¯t be a problem bringing him along, and if there is, then I¡¯ll cross that bridge when I get there. Not like I expect them to house and feed him either, as Cowie sleeps wherever I do and can eat almost anything round these parts. Got a nose on him he does, one he uses to find all the choicest veg wherever he may be. It¡¯s so effective I suspect he might even have a Divination Spell or three to help him along, but being an Innate and an animal both means he got a way with magic that we don¡¯t wholly comprehend.


    Take the Spell he uses to shrink down for example. Minify, a Second Order Transmutation Spell that does exactly what it says on the tin, except Cowie does even more. If I were to use it, I¡¯d look exactly the same as I do now, only around half my size and 1/8<sup>th</sup> my weight, but Cowie don¡¯t shrink down like that. He goes from bull to calf in more than size, but appearance too, with his proportions shifting to match a baby bull rather than staying the same as he should. His muscles don¡¯t just shrink down, they completely transform, going from a stocky, thick necked bull with a back broad enough to seat two side-by-side, to a sleeker, leaner, more delicate build as he turns into a calf. His facial features are rounder and softer, his head shape less clearly defined, and his white coat turns fine and soft as opposed to the thicker, coarser growth he sports in his adult form. Can even change his voice when he wants to, from a deep, resonant bellow to a soft, high-pitched cry, all of which ain¡¯t possible if he¡¯s using the Minify Spell as stock.


    Not to mention how he loses far more than half his size and 7/8ths of his weight, or how he can sleep while shrunk down even though the Spell requires Concentration to maintain. Yea, for all the talk of my talents in Spellslinging, I ain¡¯t ever felt all that talented growing up. Chrissy and Tina always kept me humble, but Cowie is on a whole nother level, even if he ain¡¯t capable of slinging Third Order Spells just yet. A good thing too. Folks who know what he can do already step carefully around him, and I¡¯d hate to see what they¡¯d do if they knew he could cast one of them restricted Third Order Spells too. Only one on the list from the School of Transmutation is Erupting Earth, the same Spell Marcus used on our way up to Pleasant Dunes, and it¡¯s a real doozy it is. He stretched the Spell from a six-metre radius to fifteen using Metamagics and familiarity, killing hundreds of Abby in a single go. Was a damn impressive sight no matter which way you cut it, one that¡¯s difficult to explain, because even if I tell you the area of the Spell goes from 113 square metres at base, same as the Fireball I lobbed at Ron¡¯s boys, to a whopping 706 square metres with Marcus¡¯ full-sized Erupting Earth, the words just don¡¯t do it justice.


    ¡­Now that I think about it, I can sorta sympathize with some of Sherrif Patel¡¯s worries. Fireball is fearsome enough at base values, so how scary will it be after I¡¯ve got a few weeks, months, or years of practice and familiarity under my belt? Still think it¡¯s silly to worry more about my Spells than my guns, but it is what it is, I suppose. It¡¯s ingrained in the mindset of all Americans, a love for Aetherarms and a mistrust of Magi, unless said Magi are serving in some form of government office. Hearkens all the way back to before there was a United Federation of American States, and them states were all just a bunch of colonies belonging to Great Britain, France, Espa?a, and all them other European nations secretly led by Immortal Monarchs at the time. The way I hear it, George Washington was none too pleased about taxation without representation in the Americas, but his good friend Ben Franklin kept warning him to tread lightly. See, back in his youth when he was an up-and-coming Magus, Ben had been a big champion of civil rights. A very outspoken and influential one, so much so that when he became a Grandmagus, he was visited by the British Immortal Monarch himself. Old King William the Conqueror as it were, a King who never really passed his throne on, only let his descendants keep it warm for him while he did whatever it is Immortal Monarchs do to pass the years by.


    A right mean son of a gun according to the history books, and the visit spooked Ben something fierce, so he quit championing the downtrodden and behaved for a good long time until making friends with George Washington. Eventually, Ben got so worried about what his friend might do, he came clean about the Immortal Monarchs and shared everything he knew. Rather than being dissuaded, old George redoubled his efforts to secure independence from the British, and sought out other powerful Archmagi to help him do it. This led to the Revolutionary War, one they won when the Founding Fathers ambushed William the Conqueror after he arrived to set the colonies straight. While the others kept Bloody Bill busy, Archmagus Benjamin Franklin conjured up a thunderstorm of epic proportions that zapped the Immortal Monarch multiple times and sent him running back to Britain to lick his wounds. Having injured him gravely in the battle, the Founding Fathers then let word of the Immortal Monarch¡¯s injuries leak out to his peers in France and Espa?a, who responded by giving Bill a real hard time and waging all out war for the next few years. Thus the balance of power was broken in Europe, and while the Immortal Monarchs were all distracted with their own borders and revolutions, old George formed the United States of America alongside the other Founding Fathers.


    A country which went on to fracture in the 1860s shortly after President Lincoln was assassinated in the wake of a brief and bloody civil war, and his successor refused to uphold agreements with the Native American Alliance whose aid played a major role in winning the war so quickly. Several northern states seceded alongside their Native American allies and went on to found the M¨¦tis Nation to the north, while the remaining states reformed into the United Federation of American States, though I never really saw much of a point in the name change. At the same time though, the Brits and the French both quietly overthrew their own Immortal Monarchs, which led the others to sit up and take notice. Even then, the Immortal Monarchs remained something of an open secret, in that those who knew, knew, and those who didn¡¯t laughed at the thought of Immortal Spellslingers ruling them from the shadows. Kept right on laughing until World War One, when them Monarchs saw firsthand the power of industry and gave up on maintaining their veil of secrecy, because they might well have lost their nations if they didn¡¯t.


    Yea, the First World War was a bloody one, when the Immortal Monarchs ravaged whole battlefields by themselves and spilled blood like wine without so much as a second thought. Wasn¡¯t no real winners there, not among the people, because even though the Allies emerged victorious, without an Immortal Monarch to lead them no less, the butcher¡¯s bill was a hefty one indeed. Led to plenty of bad sentiments directed at the Immortal Monarchs, so much so that the moment World War Two was launched, the newspapers were calling it the War of the Immortals. Wasn¡¯t our war, was theirs, but was common people who did the dying all the same. Turned it into us against them, and even after the last Immortal Monarch was bombed and dead, the mistrust of powerful Spellslingers never really went away.


    And let me tell you this: there ain¡¯t no nation who embody that mistrust more than the United Federation of American States. Yes sir-ree. In the eyes of most Americans, a Grandmagus is nothing more than a terrorist waiting for their moment to strike, unless they got themselves a badge to prove they on the up and up. Coming to the Frontier didn¡¯t change their minds none, at least not as a whole, which might well be why there ain¡¯t as many American Magi as there ought to be. Hell, there are whole communities who eschew the use of magic completely. Some are American, like the Amish and Mennonites, but the whole world got their own varieties, like some Orthodox Jewish communities and a whole laundry list of minor African and Asian groups to boot.


    Can¡¯t even imagine it, a life without magic. There are so many Cantrips prevalent in everyday life, like Protection from Insects to keep me from getting eaten alive, or Umbrella so I don¡¯t burn up after fifteen minutes in direct light. Most gals and plenty of nancy-prance men like to throw on Make Up before going out, and I¡¯d hate to live in a world without Deodourant. Then there¡¯s all the time saved using magic to do in minutes what would otherwise take hours, like using Shape Water to pull the moisture out of a side of meat and turn it into deliciously tender jerky, or Mending to patch my jacket every time some fool puts a hole through it. Taking a step back, even if most folks use little to no magic in their everyday lives, they still reap the benefits of magic along the way. The street lamps, factory machines, running water and more, all of it is made possible by Aetheric dynamos, which is technology built off the back of magic in the end, technology them religions eschew because of the Magic inherent within them.


    Crazy is what that is, denying so many tangible benefits all because your religion says so. Forget magic, there are religions out there that don¡¯t let you eat pork, and even that¡¯s too much for me to stomach. Ain¡¯t no way I¡¯ll willingly commit to a lifetime without bacon, ham, pork chops, cottage rolls, and all the other different delicious parts that come off a hoggidilla, not even if it ends up costing me my place in the afterlife. I¡¯ll say my prayers and go to church, but an eternity without bacon cannot, by definition, be paradise, and you can¡¯t tell me different.


    Luckily for me, the nondescript white man sitting in the waiting area with a big, four-horse wagon don¡¯t look like he belong to any one of them groups, just your average, everyday settler who makes his life out on the Frontier. Got that wild, untamed look about him, what with his skin bronzed from spending his days out in the sun and his shaggy hair and unkempt beard recently shorn in rough fashion. Got a brown homespun tunic without any sleeves and loose, matching pants that have been Mended more times than I can count, and a beige cloak over his shoulders of all things, even though there ain¡¯t a raincloud to be seen in the sky.


    That ain¡¯t what gives him the wildness though, because even though his grungy apparel and scruffy appearance is a little out of place here in New Hope, it wouldn¡¯t warrant a second glance outside them gates. No, when I say he¡¯s wild and untamed, I¡¯m talking about his eyes, how they dart directly to meet mine the moment I make my approach and take the full measure of what he sees. It¡¯s in his posture too, standing straight without leaning on nothing, all alert with arms at his sides and tension enough in his shoulders to show he¡¯s ready to throw down on a dime even though he ain¡¯t got no big iron on his hip. Wary and guarded, without being aggressive or confrontational, this here is how all them settlers should be, a man ready to face whatever may come. Thing is, them townies have gotten so used to easy living they all act like they still on the old world with all them laws and government organizations to protect them. Sure, that stuff exists in some form or another here on the Frontier, but at the end of the day, all a man really has to rely on out here is himself.


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    Resisting the urge to put my palms forward and arms out to the sides as I make my approach, I give him my best smile and say, ¡°Howdy sir.¡± Ain¡¯t no harm in being respectful, seeing how he gonna be my bossman for the next week. ¡°Name¡¯s Howie Zhu. You Carter Willis? That¡¯s the man I¡¯m supposed to meet here for pickup to the job site.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s me.¡± Man speaks slowly and carefully as he shakes my hand, like every word is precious as Aether and not to be wasted lightly. Looks over the pack I got over my shoulder, with some clothes and food for the week, as well as the saddlebags slung around Cowie which got even more food because I had to make good on my promise with Aunty Ray. Can see the gears turning in Carter¡¯s head as his eyes go to my hip, where I got the Rattlesnake sitting front and centre over my left hip, then drifting over to the small of my back like he can see right through my duster and body to spot the twin Doorknockers I got stashed there. ¡°Didn¡¯t know convicts were allowed to carry while working off criminal charges.¡±


    ¡°Technically ain¡¯t a convict,¡± I say, keeping my smile bright and tone cheery. ¡°Never been charged with a crime, much less convicted in Federal court. I¡¯m here to work off hours given to me by the Rangers. Conduct unbecoming of a soldier.¡± No need to spook the man with specifics, as I¡¯m just here to work my hours and get gone. ¡°Gun stays holstered unless I spot a threat,¡± I add, and to be safe, I even clarify, ¡°Bandits, beasts, or Abby, and nothin¡¯ else.¡±


    Carter nods slowly, still studying me real close, but he don¡¯t say much of anything else for a good, long minute. ¡°Fine,¡± he eventually says with a nod. ¡°Settle in and wait for the rest. I¡¯ll go over the rules once everyone¡¯s here.¡±


    Rather than make my way over to his wagon to stand in the shade, I post up along the side of the road in plain sight and spend some time playing with Cowie while we wait. He ain¡¯t changed one bit after our ordeal in Pleasant Dunes, because even though he knows I lost a hand, he don¡¯t think much of it. I¡¯m still alive and capable of giving him scritches, so what there to be sad about? Was downright furious when I came back bloodied and bruised though, ready to go a full tear through the town to find whodunnit, but he calmed down soon enough when he realized I wasn¡¯t out for blood no more. Day by day, that¡¯s how Cowie sees things, so even though I was hurt a few weeks ago, I¡¯m better today, which makes it a good day to be alive.


    There are times when I envy animals for their simple mindsets. Like the flock of kiccaws that done followed us home. Ain¡¯t none of them sad about leaving the desert behind, or excited about their new life here in New Hope. So long as they got a warm home and food to eat, they¡¯re happy, and everything is just gravy. Me, I can¡¯t just enjoy their cute antics or lovely calls. I gotta think about building them doors into the barn, or little swings on the fences so they can perch and look darling without having to worry too much about marties.


    Doesn¡¯t take long for the rest of the work party to arrive, eleven more miscreants who¡¯ll be toiling at my side for the next five days. One is even a familiar face, angry, ruddy Olav, the town drunk and tobacco aficionado, though we ain¡¯t familiar enough for anything more than a passing nod in greeting. Sherrif Patel shows up too, with his shirt half buttoned and hairy chest bared, alongside two of his deputies, Deputy Walt and Deputy Juan, whose full names I never learned. They give me a good look, with the latter going so far as to glare, but I don¡¯t pay them any mind. I just stifle a sigh as the Sherrif brings out his testing kit without so much as a how you do. After a dip in some disinfectant, the Sheriff hands me a needle which I promptly stick into my thumbpad. Soon as I got a drop of blood to give, I smear it on the Sherrif¡¯s proffered glass pane, which then gets fed into a mechanical doodad that looks like a book with only two, thick metal pages. A Silent Image projection displays the results on the right ¡®page¡¯ of the doodad, but not in so many words or numbers. Instead, it outputs a bunch of scribbled lines, ones that got no real meaning to them that we can discern, but each one is a unique identifier for all the Spell Structures I got.


    There¡¯s a whole textbook that covers how the Blood Divination Spell works, one I¡¯ve read cover to cover more times than I care to admit. The base Spell itself will only glow different colours to depict the primary School of Magic amongst all of the target¡¯s prepared Spells. That¡¯s all we can see with the human eye at least, but the Spell tells you so much more, information every Abby is born knowing how to read. We humans though, we mostly rely on tech to parse through the subtle nuances, which means Sherrif Patel has to look at what results his doodad is showing, and compare that to a notebook which got every pattern for every restricted Spell and make sure I don¡¯t got any prepared.


    Which I don¡¯t, but I do have more than fifty Cantrip Spell Structures embedded in mind, meaning it takes a good amount of time to go through it all. Didn¡¯t think he¡¯d want to test me here this morning, seeing how he only just tested me last night after the barbeque, but I suppose he wanted to be doubly sure I didn¡¯t sneak anything in on my way out of town. Least it means his inspection is quick, because all he has to do is compare and contrast with last night¡¯s results and make sure nothing changed. Nothing has, and soon as he¡¯s confirmed it, he gives his deputies a nod and walks off without a word. Rude is what that is, but he never was one for social niceties, so I don¡¯t hold it against him.


    ¡°Okay then,¡± Carter says, watching the Sheriff go and no doubt full of questions regarding our exchange, but he don¡¯t ask a single question, just makes good on his promise to go over the rules and explain what work he¡¯s got for us before setting out. Long story short, he got a village of twenty houses situated about a quarter kilometre away from shore, and he needs us to dig him a trench five feet deep and lay pipe to the lake so his people don¡¯t gotta make the long trek for water every day. Seems like a light workload for twelve people over the course of a week, until I realize that he expects us to dig it all out using shovels and pickaxes.


    So when it comes time for questions, I ask, ¡°You mind if I use magic to dig?¡± Holding up my right stump with a wry smile, I add, ¡°Believe you me, it¡¯s faster than the alternative.¡±


    Carter don¡¯t so much as bat an eye when he sees my stump, just shakes his head and says, ¡°So long as you can keep up. If you can¡¯t, then you won¡¯t get your hours, simple as that. Fair?¡±


    ¡°Fair,¡± I say. I can move a cubic foot of loose dirt every second using Mould Earth, so long as I don¡¯t gotta move it far or fast, and while that volume drops significantly the harder packed the dirt is, I¡¯m confident I¡¯m still faster than any man with a shovel.


    There¡¯s a few more questions before we set out, mostly about accommodations, because even though everyone here is working off hours of hard labour, they¡¯re all small potates in the criminal world. Drunk and disorderly usually nets you twenty hours, and brawling anywhere from twenty to forty. Minor theft depends on the value of what¡¯s stolen, and usually tops out at a hundred hours, because anything more gets you real time in a penal camp. Public indecency, petty fraud, vandalism, and minor drug offenses, those are likely the crimes these men are here to work off, meaning that even though they ain¡¯t exactly respectable sorts, they¡¯re still citizens in relatively good standing, so they won¡¯t stand for being rode hard and put away wet. Carter answers their questions with curt and direct statements that leave little to nothing to hide, marking him as a straight shooter who won¡¯t bend over backwards to please us, but won¡¯t do us wrong neither. He needs workers, and we¡¯re the cheapest option, so as long as we get the job done, then won¡¯t be any problems from either side.


    Good. Beats working for another company man, someone who sees others as a stepping stone on their path to wealth and riches.


    Ain¡¯t long before we set out, with the ruby red sun still rising over the horizon, and as I jog alongside the wagon with Cowie, I give myself a moment to take it all in. The crisp air with its earthy scents, the singing birds and chirping chitter rats, the endless forest of pastel white trees and the shining sapphire waters of Last Chance Lake. Sure, it ain¡¯t a real trip out into the wild Frontier, only a jaunt through the woods to a more secluded lakeside spot, and yea, I ain¡¯t all by my lonesome, saddled with eleven offenders, two deputies, and a boss at my side, but it¡¯s better than being stuck at home with nothing to do but watch the world pass me by. Tina¡¯ll be heading off to Basic in a little bit, where she¡¯ll continue training to become one of the best of the best, a delver in the making just like her daddy and mine. Errol will be there too, back on the path he diverged from with extra care and attention given to him due to the wealth of untapped potential he got. As for Sarah Jay, she never should¡¯ve left, and seeing how I loaned her my share of the nine grand we got from selling the Mage Armour Spell Core interest free, she can fully focus on her training and career now that she don¡¯t gotta worry about money no more.


    There¡¯s also Kacey, Michael, Antoni, and all the rest will keep doing what they do. They the ones who gonna tame these wild lands, the first generation of Frontier Rangers and the trailblazers who¡¯ll set a high bar for any and all who follow.


    Hell, even Danny is making progress these days, learning new things and taking commissions from customers before completing them to his best ability, which is a high standard to be sure and getting higher with each passing day. He¡¯ll take the money he got from selling his flashbang production process and put it into new tools to help him do what he does with more speed and precision, or books to read and study from cover to cover until he¡¯s ferreted out all the secrets contained within. Man ain¡¯t a Magus, or even much of a Spellslinger if I¡¯m being honest, but he got no quit in him. I bet if he signs on for the next round of Basic, he¡¯ll come out as one of the top boots, if not the very best after a bit of a rough start.


    Then there¡¯s me. Sitting around convalescing with Chrissy beside me, playing with wallies, kiccaws, and marties all the livelong day. Break for lunch, and a short nap after, then maybe take a stroll down the main thoroughfare for an ice cream after dinner if I¡¯m feeling so inclined. Got no worries about money in the short term, because my Proggie check cleared and it made the Mage Armour Spell Core look like small potates, so I got that going for me too. That¡¯s been life these past few weeks, and pleasant as it is, I can¡¯t help but feel like every day I sit idle is two days I¡¯ve fallen behind, because not only do I gotta make up for the days I miss, the time spent catching up has gotta be accounted for too.


    Four-hundred and eighty hours. Get those done, then I¡¯ll be back in full form with time a plenty to focus on what to do next, but that doesn¡¯t mean I can¡¯t make progress while I¡¯m here. The Longstrider Spell lets me keep pace with Carter¡¯s four-horse wagon well enough. Ain¡¯t the Highway we on, but rather a well-worn dirt path that takes us north east around the lake while Mount Rime looms to the North. Means, among other things, Carter can¡¯t push his horses all that hard lest he bounce one of his passengers out the back. The five-hour trip is probably closer to fifteen klicks from New Hope rather than the thirty I figured it for, which I could cover on horseback in maybe half the time. Course, running even one klick is too much in my current condition, so it ain¡¯t long before I gotta call it quits and climb up onto Cowie¡¯s broad back for a rest. He don¡¯t much like being ridden like a horse, but he don¡¯t make a peep of complaint when he hears me huffing and puffing for all I¡¯m worth after what I would¡¯ve once called a short jaunt at a brisk pace.


    Don¡¯t rightly understand how a beating can leave me feeling winded and weak more than a month after the fact, but Uncle Art assured me it¡¯s perfectly normal. Even with Minor Regeneration, contusions can take weeks or even months to fully heal, while minor fractures need even longer. Muscle tears are the same, and if there was any nerve damage, then I might well never recover, which bodes poorly for my missing hand that still feels like it¡¯s on fire sometimes.


    All of which I put out of mind before I spiral down into a pit of concern and anxiety about how I might never be whole again. Can¡¯t give up hope, not with so many people who believe in me, trust me to make it out of this and come back stronger for it. Gotta make use of every moment I can to not just recover, but put myself back out front again, so I go back to the basics and get my Mage Hands doing Cat¡¯s Cradle while I practice my Divination Cantrips. Rangefinder to read distances, Appraisal to check the materials used in my clothes, bags, and whatever else I got squirreled away, Compass to fix true North in mind, and Detect Heartbeat to see if there are any animals hiding about. All basic Divination Cantrips I would¡¯ve said I know like the back of my hand if you¡¯d¡¯ve asked me two months ago, but my first and maybe only delve showed me just how wrong I was. Had to work too hard to parse what Detect Aberration was giving me, slowing me down and taking a toll on my mental endurance which led to losing Concentration more often than I should¡¯ve. This in turn forced me to cast the Spell more often than necessary, which led to me having next to nothing left in the tank when Wayne came calling to pay his debt. If I had more Spells to sling, then I might not¡¯ve held back for so long, been more confident about my chances in taking Vanguard National head on. Things might¡¯ve gone different if I projected that confidence, given Ron pause enough to make him think twice about pushing me so far, and maybe I¡¯d¡¯ve been more receptive to a more reasonable amount debt.


    If, might¡¯ve, and maybe. Words I¡¯ve been haunted by these last few weeks. If only I¡¯d prepped Lance instead of Spiritual Weapon, then I might¡¯ve killed the Abby and maybe Marcus would still be alive. If only I¡¯d thought to check the Proggie as they approached, I might¡¯ve had time to shout a warning, then maybe Marcus would still be alive. If only I¡¯d¡¯ve kept my mouth shut in the first place, then Marcus might¡¯ve stayed in Meadowbrook instead of tagging along with Wayne to Pleasant Dunes, and maybe he¡¯d still be alive. Cruel, cruel words they are, capable of dredging up hope for a future which has already passed me by, because the dice done been rolled and there ain¡¯t no changing the past.


    Seems slinging Spells ain¡¯t enough to keep my mind off of regret, or maybe the Spells I¡¯m slinging are too simple. Much as I hate wasting First Order Spells while outside of town, especially lessened as I am, I throw caution to the wind and cast a Detect Aberration Spell, then start counting the minutes until it¡¯s time to hold Concentration again. Would¡¯ve been better off using an actual Concentration Spell, but I don¡¯t much like those since my chosen profession will typically need to keep their Concentration free for whatever Detection or Divination Spell fits the situation. Sure, Spells like Entangling Growth, Fog Cloud, Expeditious Retreat, and Shield are all top tier picks that require Concentration from the get go, but the way I see it, the they¡¯re all situational Spells which are only of use when the time for Detection Spells is over and done with, so my efforts are better spent elsewhere. Course, big Alfred and his big blue tower Shield make for a compelling argument against me, but I gotta stick to my guns and go with what I decided long ago. There¡¯s a fine line between staying versatile and becoming a jack of all trades who¡¯s a master of none. Ain¡¯t nothing wrong with learning a bit about a lot of Spells, but end of the day, I gotta pick a selection to focus on, because you can only sling so many in a day.


    While I sit atop of Cowie and practice holding Concentration, my mind drifts and my ears hone in on what little bits of conversation I catch on the wind. The other eleven workers are all getting chummy in the back of the wagon, which is unavoidable considering the tight fit. That¡¯s why I didn¡¯t climb in to join them, because the whole reason I love the open road is the fact that it¡¯s open. While Dante¡¯s Inferno lists out nine circles of Hell, it¡¯s missing a tenth wherein those consigned within are subjugated to an endless array of two-minute conversations with strangers you don¡¯t really want to get to know.


    How¡¯s the weather, where do you work, what your drink of choice, and by the by, you tried this new food craze? It¡¯s all the same, boring conversation, one I¡¯ve heard thousands of times before, but I ain¡¯t got anywhere else to be or anything else to do, so I keep on carrying on. Soon enough, they run out of safe and boring topics to cover, so they move on to shared circumstances and someone asks the question on everyone¡¯s mind. ¡°What are you here for?¡±


    Almost every answer is related to drinking, and not a single one was charged with anything worse than brawling. Means no one was really hurt in the fight, else they¡¯d¡¯ve been booked for assault, a charge I¡¯ve come damn close to catching more times than I care to admit. Once they¡¯ve all made the rounds, their voices drop and I don¡¯t hear any more of their conversation, which is curious to be sure. Trying not to be too obvious about it, I slip off of Cowie¡¯s back and get to jogging again, which gives me a good reason to fall back a bit and look into the wagon without anyone growing suspicious. Sure enough, they all working real hard not to look my way, aside from the odd furtive glance to check if I¡¯m watching. Seems someone in the group knows why I¡¯m here, or at least the broad strokes and shared it with the group, so now they¡¯re all wondering if the rumours are true.


    Rumours that paint me as a sadistic pyromaniac at the very least, and an unrepentant murderer at the worst. Don¡¯t much like it, but I can¡¯t help but wonder if things are better this way. I tried my daddy¡¯s way, being all calm, cool, and collected, and all it did was paint me as an easy mark to anyone willing to bend or break the law. Tried Aunty Ray¡¯s way too, and while the friendly, cheery Firstborn bit worked for a little while, it also made some folks take me less seriously than they should¡¯ve, most notably Ronald Jackson. He knew I was dangerous, knew it better than almost anyone else, and even then, he still underestimated me in the end. Thought he could saddle me with debt and take my hand, and I¡¯d come crawling back to him on my one hand and two knees in hopes of gainful employment once all was said and done. Seems crazy to even think about it, but Ron was a scary smart man, so I¡¯m guessing he only thought it was possible because he¡¯d seen it countless times before.


    Then there¡¯s Gunin, who was terrified of me from the start. Well, not exactly terrified, but wary and respectful of my skills. Not just because he saw the mark my Fireball left out there on the sands. No, he was worried because he knew my daddy¡¯s rep, and believed that as the Firstborn, I¡¯d¡¯ve learned a thing or two from him along the way. That¡¯s where I went wrong with trying to emulate my daddy. I did everything he did the way he would¡¯ve done it, but I was lacking the necessary reputation to back up the unspoken threats. Now though? I ain¡¯t proud of what I done, but I done it all the same, so in the future, maybe I ought to lean into that aspect and play the part of murderous thug. The Yellow Devil as it were, a hot-tempered, trigger-happy killer who only needs a reason to shoot you dead, and not even a good one as it were.


    Put a lot of effort into doing my best to avoid that sort of rep, but maybe, just maybe, that¡¯s the sort of rep I need to make it out on the Frontier without the Rangers at my back.


    Food for thought really, and I mull it over for a good, long time as we travel through the chalky white forest. So lost in my thoughts, I almost miss it when one of the thugs asks me outright, calling out from the back of the wagon. ¡°So what you here for, kid?¡± Got a haughty little smile stretched across his lips as he looks me up and down, seeing the same thing Franky and Jacob saw the first time I moseyed on up to the saloon bar all those weeks ago, when they was just Jumbo and Hobb in my mind. A skinny kid in his daddy¡¯s clothes who¡¯ll scare all too easily, with that same disdain that I overlooked then, but ain¡¯t so sure I should let slide now.


    I remember thinking that their disdain was better than the bossman¡¯s studied interest, because I thought it was better to be underestimated than seen as a threat. Now? Now, I¡¯m thinking I was wrong then, and I ain¡¯t a man to make the same mistake twice.


    So I don¡¯t answer the man¡¯s question, just give him a look. A cold, hard look that says to mind his own business, but he don¡¯t listen so good. ¡°C¡¯mon,¡± he says, all friendly like, as if that¡¯s all it¡¯ll take to convince me to open up about my crimes. ¡°Be honest now. You set fire to a building maybe, but you didn¡¯t kill no tens of people, much less dozens, right? Wouldn¡¯t be here if you did. They¡¯d¡¯ve clapped you in chains and sent you to prison proper if you did.¡±


    That puts a smile on my face, because it¡¯s a reminder of how ignorant this townie really is. Thinks the whole Frontier is just like New Hope, because chances are, this trip right here is probably the farthest he¡¯s gone from the walls since he found safety inside. That¡¯s why he¡¯s happy to sit in the back of a cramped wagon completely unarmed with only two deputies and a driver to protect him, because he thinks he¡¯s safe and sound this close to town. He¡¯s wrong, because even though I ain¡¯t scanned no Abby just yet, I¡¯ve clocked two packs of predators who¡¯ve watched us roll by, neither of which were hungry enough to take on so big a prize. That¡¯s why Carter¡¯s wagon got four horses; not because he needs the extra muscle to pull a dozen men and their luggage, but because four horses is a whole lot of flesh to beasts more accustomed to taking down lone elk at most.


    Don¡¯t know what it is the other man sees in my smile, and I¡¯d love to ask, because whatever it is, it gives him pause. Will have to remember this smile and take a look at myself in the mirror, a half-quirked lip with mouth closed and jaw clenched. Don¡¯t sound all that imposing, but regardless, I fix the expression into muscle memory before answering. ¡°I¡¯m here,¡± I begin, raising my right arm to display the stump without shame, ¡°Because some fool thought he could take my hand and live to tell the tale.¡±


    That there is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, as they say when they swear you in. Ain¡¯t all the facts, and don¡¯t paint me in a good light, but it does the job good and well. The other man ain¡¯t smiling no more, ain¡¯t even looking at me direct, just swallows and nods before turning in his seat to stare at the floor and see nothing in front of him. Ain¡¯t a one of the other passengers looking my way either, no one besides ruddy Olav who gives me a measured look, with one eyebrow raised ever so slightly.


    Not because he got his doubts about what I said. I¡¯m thinking Olav knows me better than the rest of these townies, because he had the stones to come out and fight alongside me the last time the harpies came to town. He saw what I can do, so he knows I¡¯m more than capable of what the rumours say. No, his raised eyebrow is there because he¡¯s asking if I¡¯m sure that¡¯s how I want to play this, to embrace the mantle the public has laid upon my shoulders with only a fractions of the facts unveiled to them.


    And honestly? I dunno. Only time will tell if this is a mistake, and if so, then I¡¯ll reap what I¡¯ve sown, but for now, I might as well see where this road takes me.

 Book Two - Chapter 62

    In my seventeen years and change on this here world, I seen more than my fair share of the Frontier.


    Ain¡¯t saying it to brag, just stating the facts, that I been around the block once or twice. That said, even though I seen about two thirds of what there is to see west of the Divide, I ain¡¯t ever taken the scenic route alongside Last Chance Lake, because there are typically better ways to get where I¡¯m going. Ain¡¯t true today though, as Carter brings us off the beaten path to trails never before seen, and far as I can tell, his wagon was what made this trail on his way to New Hope. One that follows the lakeshore the whole way through, with the water well in sight through the thick tangle of towering trees and dense growth of purple, blue, and green shrubbery. A good way to keep your bearings, and his four-horse team has no trouble pulling his wagon over rough ground, trampling the thick undergrowth as they pass without so much as a flinch. Goes to show the quality of their training it does, as most horses will shy away from thorny bushes or pause to chomp on a bush apple while they passing by. Not Carter¡¯s horses though, which is impressive to be sure, and doubly so when I notice the man himself ain¡¯t doing much driving, but is simply letting his beasties find their own way home.


    Take it from a man with years of experience pretending to drive a wagon. Carter ain¡¯t doing nothing. His reins ain¡¯t even attached to them horsies¡¯ bridles.


    Which is a little worrying, seeing how horsies ain¡¯t known for their calm and stoic demeanours, Old Tux notwithstanding. That¡¯s what makes him stand out though, his indomitable and unflappable disposition, and I ain¡¯t never seen a second horsie like him. Not even in the ones he¡¯s sired, and believe you me, Aunty Ray and Uncle Raleigh tried to raise more horsies like Old Tux, because ain¡¯t nothing more valuable to a military organization than a horse that can keep its cool. Looks like Carter might¡¯ve gotten himself some choice animals though, and I wonder if he even knows the value of what he got. Then again, the fact that a community with only twenty households and no running water has any horsies at all is a bit surprising, as they ain¡¯t cheap to feed or easy to maintain. Most settlers prefer cattle of the non-Magical variety, like all of Cowie¡¯s gals we got back home. They don¡¯t need no expensive grains or constant exercise to maintain their powerful physiques, as cattle can and will eat damn near any vegetation they can get their lips around.


    So why¡¯s a backwoods resident like Carter got four first-rate horses that are so disciplined and well-trained they¡¯d put most Ranger horses to shame?


    It¡¯s a minor thing really, a small detail that doesn¡¯t fit perfectly with the rest of the facts, and one that could be easily explained. Maybe one of Carter¡¯s people is an Enchanter like Aunty Ray, or knows horses same as Errol, and these beasties are ones they done tamed and trained themselves. Could be they¡¯re rancher looking to sell horses to the Rangers, which is why they living a few hours from New Hope, or might be they just likes horses and don¡¯t mind the extra expense. There are dozens of other legitimate reasons to explain away this trivial discrepancy, one that ain¡¯t nefarious or even remotely worrying. All it is, is a fact that don¡¯t gel with everything else I know about Carter, which is next to nothing to begin with, so it seems silly to fixate on it. That said, it always pays to look at the facts that don¡¯t fit, because there¡¯s always a way to make it fit. Answer will likely be something simple and innocuous, like what I outlined already, or it could be Carter here done stole these professionally trained horses and couldn¡¯t find a buyer to unload them.


    Which is unlikely, but could still be the case. It ain¡¯t about seeing the worst in everyone you meet. It¡¯s more about focusing on the facts and letting those lead you to the truth, because people will lie to you for no reason at all sometimes.


    That¡¯s why I sit up and take notes as we roll up on Carter¡¯s home, which is not at all what I expected. This ain¡¯t no shanty boondock with wooden shacks or cloth tents scattered all about a clearing. This here is a proper secure compound on a stretch of semi-cleared land. I say semi-cleared because it¡¯s pretty overgrown, with trees, bushes, hedges, and undergrowth still scattered about, but they made do with what space they had and designed their buildings to fit. The main anchors of the village are four towering whitewoods, old growth, pastel-white trees that stand over eighty metres tall and at least twenty-five metres in diametre across. There¡¯s one at each corner, with a line of log cabins going from one tree to the next, forming a neat little square about a hundred metres across each side. There are plenty of log fences to fill in the gaps, and a big, double-door darksteel gate to serve as the main entrance. Must¡¯ve cost them a pretty penny that, but it shows they take their safety serious, though anyone could¡¯ve guessed as much seeing how they live in a what looks like a fortified military encampment.


    They even got rope ladders and bridges built into the sides of the whitewoods to double as watchtowers. Ones that are still alive and flourishing judging by the thick tangle of dark-purple vines creeping up the towering tree trunks, ones that¡¯ll bear plenty of starmelon fruits come autumn.


    Sturdy. Solid. Sensible. Not terms I typically associate with civilian-built communities, as they typically spring up out of necessity, as opposed to proper planning. Not Carter¡¯s compound, because I can tell a whole lot of thought went into this before digging out the foundation, one I suspect is rather deep considering their walls are about nine metres tall. Can¡¯t build a freestanding fence that high without a foundation, not if you want it to stand for more than a minute, and these log walls look sturdy enough to stand for decades.


    That¡¯s all I can see of the compound itself, but the people living here are nowhere to be found. Odd considering it looks like they do all their work outside the walls, seeing how their workstations are built out here. Far as I can tell, the do a little bit of everything, but they¡¯re lacking in scale to be wholly self-sufficient. Got a decent sized plot of farmland that¡¯s been tilled and sowed, with spouts and shoots in various stages of early development as they should be by the first week of April. Next to it sits a large pen occupied by a herd of baying hoggidillas, who hunker down in the muck and brandish their scaled backsides while honking all the livelong day. There¡¯s a small smithy and forge geared for day-to-day work, stuff like nails, horseshoes, or minor repairs so they don¡¯t gotta go into town every time they have a need for metalwork. In that same vein, they got a woodworking facility with a whipsaw for cutting planks the old-fashioned way, a job I could never do for more than a day. A well-worn path leads right down to the lake, close to two-hundred and fifty metres as the crow flies just as Carter promised, with a single, flat-bottomed trawler big enough for two sitting tied to a floating dock, which got ropes, moors, and room enough for three more such boats.


    Last but not least, there¡¯s a solid log bunkhouse next to what looks to be the stables, and this¡¯ll be home for the next little while. While the townies stretch and grunt after what they¡¯d consider a long, rough ride, I look, listen, and put together what I know to make a few guesses about the people who live here. Ain¡¯t nothing that stands out too much about Carter¡¯s little community, save for three things. First, they got a leader or builder with military training and good sense, which is rarer than you¡¯d think. I know this because the compound and surrounding facilities are a good mix between cozy and defendable, rather than all uniform square huts plonked down in that manner because that¡¯s how they¡¯re drawn in the guidebooks.


    Brings me to the second thing that stands out, how close knit the community has got to be to live out their days in a compound like this. Twenty houses Carter told us, and all inside a hundred metres squared. That¡¯s not a whole lot of living space for that many families, damn near claustrophobic if you ask me. Doubly so when you consider the top reasons for living outside of town is for space and solitude.


    Lastly, it¡¯s interesting to note how new everything looks. Not brand spanking new, but there ain¡¯t no logs warped from exposure to rain, sun, or snow, no natural cracks or splinter that form over time, no rusted metal or sagging roofs, and not even a mended fence post around the pen in sight. Their tools are sharp and shiny, with polished wood handles that have yet to wear down from overuse, and the coat of whitewash they threw onto the outside surface of every building to blend in is still fresh and only slightly faded from the sun. The ropes on the trees are all clean and neat with nary a fray in sight, and the trails look about a week away from being reclaimed by nature.


    All this and more tells me these folks have been here for more than two years, but less than five. Relative newcomers, but highly capable and competent ones who¡¯ve thrown together something impressive in the short time they¡¯ve been around. That takes good leadership and firm discipline, especially to keep striving for improvement after they got the basics down pat, which they most certainly are seeing how we out here to put in plumbing. People like this are always welcome in towns, and typically thrive there too, because good help is hard to find and well rewarded when you got it.


    Which begs the question: why they out here then?


    Too close to town to be isolationists. Too competent to be exiles. Too productive for criminals, though I mostly ruled that out since most would avoid going into town to invite two deputies and a dozen convicts back to do work for a week. Those are the two groups most likely to recognize a community of criminals, and this here ain¡¯t it.


    Now, I ain¡¯t saying everyone living outside of town is a criminal, kook, or ne¡¯er do weller. I¡¯m saying most fit into one of the three, because living in a town is so much easier. That¡¯s the reality of the situation, because while the Federal Government told the first wave of Settlers they could strike it rich as Aether barons or landowners, it ain¡¯t all sunshine and rainbows when it comes to building your own community out in the sticks. There are benefits to be sure. Land ownership for one, up to five-hundred acres for one family, and ain¡¯t no one can take that away from you, unlike my property back in New Hope. Even though I own the land proper, it¡¯s inside a Federal town, meaning the government can still take my house away from me in a number of scenarios. If I get exiled for one, or don¡¯t pay my taxes, or breach zoning and land use agreements. There¡¯s also eminent domain, environmental protection, adverse possession, and abandonment clauses written into Federal Law, all of which could theoretically result in me losing ownership of my land.


    Can¡¯t happen out here with homesteaders though. They own the land outright under the Accords, which as we all know is a whole different kettle of fish from Federal Law. Means Carter¡¯s rights to this here land are protected under international law, and if the Federal Government infringes on those rights, he can plead his case to an international court. Don¡¯t mean much of anything, but it¡¯s still a bad look for a government to screw its constituents, so the Feds haven¡¯t tried any funny business just yet.


    I know a fair bit about this sort of business because I got myself a claim on the mesa out in the badlands, where my mama and daddy are buried now. It¡¯s a claim recognized by no less than six governments mind you, one my daddy set up before he passed. Ain¡¯t worth much of anything, seeing how close to the Divide it sits, but my daddy claimed it all the same because it¡¯s where he and my mama made their life, and he wouldn¡¯t stand to let anyone else have it. That¡¯s why I gotta go up there at least once a year, so I got a record of maintaining the place, which means it¡¯s my land to do with whatever I please so long as I don¡¯t break the Accords.


    That said, the same applies to Carter¡¯s people out here. Even though this compound sits within Federal territory, it ain¡¯t Federal land. The Rangers don¡¯t come by on patrol, and the Sheriff don¡¯t send his deputies by to maintain law and order. The Feds don¡¯t supply the land with water or power, don¡¯t build any roads or manage any wildlife, nor will they defend this place from Aberration attack, like they do with New Hope. That ain¡¯t to say Carter¡¯s people are left high and dry out here. The Feds will help when they can, but they ain¡¯t bound to defend this place by anything besides their oath to defend the American people.


    The key term there being people. Even if you ain¡¯t American, they¡¯ll offer to shelter you in New Hope during the Watershed, but if you choose to stay out here, then don¡¯t expect no Rangers or guards to come help you fend off hordes of Abby.


    All in all though, the land around Last Chance Lake is a good place to hang your shingle for anyone looking to get into homesteading themselves. It¡¯s hard, gruelling work it is, and the payoff is a place to call your own. That¡¯s it. 500 acres of home, that¡¯s what you get, which sounds like a lot until you realize how much work it takes to farm a handful of acres by hand, leaving the vast majority of your land unused. The upside is that the Federal Government calculated that a single-family household only needs 160 acres to support themselves, leaving you enough land divide your homestead into three parcels of land and sell or rent the other two. Not much demand for it just yet, especially when it ain¡¯t even all developed, but after the Watershed, the second wave of Settlers will be arriving on the Frontier, and they gonna need a place to live. Can¡¯t all stay in town, as there ain¡¯t enough room or food to house and feed them, so most governments are planning to buy those parcels of land from homesteaders of the first wave and mortgage them to the second wave.


    So yea. If Carter and his people get to developing the few thousand acres of land they¡¯re entitled to, then they could stand to make a pretty penny in a few years time.


    Personally, seems like a whole lot of work and effort for not a huge payoff considering that¡¯s like a decade¡¯s worth of backbreaking labour. Not to mention having to defend it against Abby come the Watershed, else your homestead won¡¯t be worth a dime. Then you gotta account for the rapid inflation that¡¯s sure to come with a massive influx of population and the subsequent monetary expansion the Federal Government is sure to undertake in order to pay for all that land. That¡¯s fancy talk for printing more money, which means what money we already got will be worth less, even though the numbers don¡¯t change. Seems silly to put so much work into collecting papers that the government can print more of whenever they like, and that there is the core issue I got with stacks of cash. That¡¯s why I spend mine as soon as I can, though I¡¯ve been running into issues with that of late. Don¡¯t got all that many expenses is the problem, and there are regulations on how much Aberrtin, Crystal Aether, and precious metals you can buy in any given fiscal year, not to mention the target it paints on your back once people hear about how the crippled Qin kid converted thousands of dollars into fungible assets which are easy to move and difficult to trace.


    Never thought I¡¯d see the day when having so much cash in the bank would prove troublesome to deal with. And that¡¯s after giving the better part of eight grand to Sarah Jay so she could buy a house for her family, which is money well spent far as I¡¯m concerned. Still think it would¡¯ve been cheaper to tune up her abusive dirtbag of a step-daddy. Couple cracked ribs and a promise to do worse if he should ever show his face again would¡¯ve sorted him out right quick, but I didn¡¯t know what she needed the money for until after she spent it. No big deal though, because it¡¯s money well spent, since a house in New Hope will only appreciate in value, unlike cash which loses value by the day while sitting in the bank. Fact is, if there wasn¡¯t laws against real-estate speculation, I¡¯d buy up more land in New Hope, because that there is a sure-fire fail-safe against inflation.


    You know¡­ unless the Watershed does us all in with them hordes of desperate Aberrations looking to feed their starving new-born Proggies.


    So knowing all that I know, I can¡¯t help but feel like there something off about Carter and his people. I ain¡¯t one to pry, but this here is a gut feeling, not exactly a rustling of jimmies or full-on Portent, but an inkling that¡¯s gonna bother me till I figure out the answer. Again, could be something completely innocent. Maybe they like the convenience of having a town nearby but prefer living out here in a close-knit community. Because they¡¯re swingers, polygamists, nudists, or just plain religious maybe. Wouldn¡¯t even have to be an esoteric religion. For all their talk of freedom and independence, your average American townie is a typical Christian who does a whole lot of pearl clutching whenever they encounter anything that ain¡¯t, and there ain¡¯t nothing Christians hate more than other Christians who¡¯re doing ¡®their¡¯ religion wrong.


    Well¡­ that¡¯s not true, but they do love to argue about it. We got five churches for different denominations of Christians in New Hope alone, and I¡¯m told there are dozens more with no real explanation of what differs from one to the other. Didn¡¯t stop folks from raising a big fuss when Uncle Teddy announced he was lending Federal funds for the construction of a place of worship for any religion with more than ten practitioners in town.


    You can best believe there were plenty who weren¡¯t pleased to see a Gospel, Protestant or Episcopalian church spring up, so you can imagine the fuss when non-Christians put up their own places of worship. Felt like every other week there was someone getting up in arms about one congregation or another chanting in tongues or whatnot. Personally, I don¡¯t see no difference between having mass in Latin, temple service in Hebrew, or Arabic mosque, as it¡¯s all a bunch of kneeling and chanting that takes up more time than it should. Doesn¡¯t stop me from showing up at mass every Sunday with Chrissy, me because it reminds me of all the time I spent there with my daddy, and Chrissy because she loves the hymns and pipe organ. Strange is what that is, a bunch of like-minded folks sitting in a room singing about the glory of God and eating wafers of flatbread that represent the body of Christ, so the fact that other religions are equally as strange don¡¯t bother me none. Seeing how even the sizable non-Christian denominations got their fair share of hardships in town, it wouldn¡¯t surprise me if a whole congregation of a less recognized religion up and moved out beyond the walls to do whatever it is their deity demands of them away from the crowds.


    Maybe that¡¯s the deal with Carter and his people, which is more interesting than anything I¡¯ve done in weeks. That¡¯s why I waste no time putting my things away in the bunkhouse before coming back out to see the sights. Takes me all of ten seconds to pick out my bed as the one furthest from the door, which is why Carter is still unharnessing the horses when I step back out. Cowie''s long gone, having wandered off to explore the surroundings, and he''ll come back to a full water trough if he feeling thirsty. Wanting to get a better look at the well-trained beasts, I mosey on up and ask, ¡°Lend you a hand? Only the one though, and I¡¯ll need it back when you¡¯re done.¡±


    Carter don¡¯t laugh or look mortified at the joke, just nods and grunts without looking. Waste of a perfectly fine joke that was, but no one heard besides him so I can reuse it again later. The first horse I approach is a big, docile bay, who barely even glances at me as I unhook him from the wagon, while the second is the ugliest horse I done ever seen. Patting his neck as I take in the seal brown horse with the messed-up cheeks, I shake my head and say, ¡°Poor horsie. You get kicked in the head or somethin¡¯? Got a face only a mother could love, unless she the one who done the kickin¡¯.¡±


    That gets me a laugh out of Carter, one he tries to disguise as a cough. The ugly horsie with the broken face don¡¯t appreciate my presence none though, tries to turn his head and give me a nip, but I dance away and pat his flanks in a soothing gesture. ¡°Hey now, none of that. Better, more handsome horses than you have tried, and they ain¡¯t gotten a piece of me yet.¡± Eventually, the mean ugly horse calms down enough to let me reach over his back and unharness him, but he a clever one who sidesteps soon as he¡¯s free in an attempt to knock me on my ass. Dancing back with a grin, I keep my forearm and elbow braced against the big horse until his momentum is played out, then I pat his neck to soothe his temper. ¡°Tricksy one, ain¡¯t ya?¡± I ask, struggling to get a handle on the horse¡¯s body language, because he ain¡¯t like any horse I ever worked with before. He¡¯s angry, but not aggressive, snappy, but not mean-spirited. Tired too, which is odd considering he looks like he in phenomenal shape, but has worked up a real lather from the light trot.


    So I take the ugly brown and well-mannered bay on a short walk to cool down, which also gives me an excuse to look around. Unfortunately, Carter follows along hot on my heels with the other two horses. Doesn¡¯t hold them by the reins and trusts them to keep close, but don¡¯t trust me to wander around on my lonesome, so I take the cue and stick to a circuit out front of the compound in sight of the bunkhouse, rather than going all around for a good look like I wanted to. Habit is all it is, not necessarily an expectation that these folks got something nefarious going on about, but considering my Detect Heartbeat Cantrip tells me there¡¯s at least a dozen living creatures on the other side of the outer wall and have yet to see a single face come out and greet us, I can¡¯t help but feel weirded out. They know we here, but want to stay out of sight, which means they got something to hide, so even if it¡¯s just a general fear of strangers, my curiosity can¡¯t help but be piqued.


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    Doubly so when we finish putting the horses away and Carter gathers the whole group for a talk. ¡°We¡¯re private folk, so you¡¯ll have to forgive us for not opening our homes up to you all. There are barrels full of freshwater to drink from, and we¡¯ll provide three square meals a day, but you¡¯ll have to stay outside our walls while you¡¯re here.¡± Giving me a pointed look, he adds, ¡°I ask that you respect our wishes, as it¡¯ll be a nightmare getting through all the paperwork should one of mine accidentally hurt one of you thinking you were a thief or a pervert.¡±


    Guess I wasn¡¯t being as circumspect about my curiosity as I thought, but that don¡¯t discourage me none. I¡¯ll respectfully continue my investigating, mostly because I ain¡¯t got much else going on. Either way, I give him a nod to say message received, which ain¡¯t enough to put to rest all his misgivings. He don¡¯t harp on like a broken record though, just has us kick up on feet and wait while he heads inside to bring us our midday meal. While he does that, I head back inside to grab some leftovers from the barbeque alongside a bottle of fizzy sarsaparilla before finding myself a nice spot of secluded shade where I can heat and eat my meal in peace.


    The meal Carter brings out alongside three other men is a stew and flatbread, and judging from the grimaces and grumbles, the convicts ain¡¯t singing the cooks no praises. The fact that Carter and his people sit down to eat with them changes things though, as it shows it¡¯s what he always eats, so the others can hardly complain about it. Carter¡¯s friends are all old worlders who could be American, but I doubt it. One¡¯s a big, rotund man with a decidedly Eastern European look about him who I name Santa, and I ain¡¯t talking about his roots like with Sarah Jay. Got the rounder, slavic face with them high cheekbones all covered up with a big, bushy beard that¡¯s neatly trimmed around the edges. Poofy, but firm with neat lines and soft curves, same as how most Americans like their hedges, and ridiculous as it looks, I can¡¯t help but envy his ability to grow facial hair. Add in the narrow eyes, bulbous, slightly hooked nose, and a touch of generic melting-pot features, and I¡¯d put good money on the bear there hailing from the Eastern Bloc, if not a Soviet proper.


    Don¡¯t much like the look of him, as he moves with the grace and power of a dangerous man, though I admit it could just be my recent run-in with Gunin¡¯s scavs that got me on high alert.


    Then there¡¯s Beanpole, a tall, gaunt man with the complexion of obsidian rather than the deep browns I¡¯m accustomed to seeing in darker shades of skin. Man looks like he could step back into a shadow and disappear from sight, with smooth, flawless skin that just drinks in the light. Keeps his hair shaved close to bald, and got a jawline that could cut glass if need be, which combined with the intensity of his stare puts me on high alert. Can¡¯t rightly say where a man like that might hail from, but even though most would call him black same as Errol or Marcus, there¡¯s about as much similarity between them as a Texan and a Soviet. Might share the same general shade of skin, but they look worlds apart, not just in complexion, but temperament and attitude as well.


    Can¡¯t say for sure where he from, as it could really be anywhere. Black ain¡¯t limited to Africa after all, and I don¡¯t got any other clues besides his appearance to go on.


    Lastly is a small, South East Asian gent with a long, sleek beard that looks as smooth as silk. At least, I assume he¡¯s South East Asian and not Qin, mostly on account of how he greets me with a mouth full of smiles until he thinks I ain¡¯t looking, then it¡¯s all glares and scowls directed at the back of my head. Lot of bad blood between the Qin and their so-called vassal states, nations they conquered and enslaved for the better part of two millennia if the Qin history books are to be believed. Which I don¡¯t, because while most Immortal Monarchs were big on rewriting history, the Qin Immortal Monarch went a step further and killed every scholar and historian who ever wrote a book about him shortly after ascending to Immortality, all so he could hide his origins and become a man ordained by Heaven to rule over his people.


    Tian Zi, or the Son of Heaven. That¡¯s the only other name the Qin Immortal Emperor has ever gone by, one he used in many different incarnations over his twenty centuries of rule. A right pompous prick by all accounts, one who believed in the racial supremacy of the people he ruled over, as evidenced by how he enslaved and oppressed every surrounding nation until most had little to no identity left to them besides that of Qin slaves. Didn¡¯t care much for expanding beyond that, not like the various European Immortal Monarchs, because the Qin Republic was larger than the whole European continent, about half the size of all of Africa during its heyday and with a population so big it was measured in the billions, rather than hundreds of millions.


    As for the small gent with his squinty eyes and fake, open-mouthed smile? Can¡¯t rightly say which country he hails from, only that he don¡¯t much like what he sees when he looks my way. Would love to claim it don¡¯t bother me much, but nothing sticks in my craw more than when my heritage gets in my way. What¡¯s the Qin Republic got to do with me? Nothing, that¡¯s what, less than nothing in fact, because I got no love for them and theirs after what they done to mine. Brainwashed both my parents and sent them off to die, then set their rabid dogs on my daddy just because he dared to be different. Don¡¯t matter if it was my mama¡¯s brother who gave the order, or some other high muckity muck in the chain of command; I¡¯mma find the person responsible and collect on my debt, with interest enough to make two and a half points of vig look like small potates.


    Soon as I get back to combat ready. I was hoping to deal with it right after I got my official bronze triangle to mark me as a Magus proper. Fireball is nice and all, but having two more Third Order Spells under my belt would be nice, and Rituals don¡¯t count. Would¡¯ve been nice to settle the score with whoever greenlit the hit on my daddy before the Watershed, because then I¡¯d¡¯ve been on more or less equal footing with anyone I came up against, but sadly that debt will have to wait a little longer until I get back on track.


    Either that, or I face facts and roll the dice as I am to gamble on whether or not I make it out alive. Even though I know my daddy wouldn¡¯t want me to get got getting even, I gotta at least give it a try. Can¡¯t rest easy knowing that somewhere out there, there¡¯s a man or a woman who ordered my daddy¡¯s death and ain¡¯t caught a Bolt between the eyes just yet.


    Ain¡¯t nothing for it, so I do my best to ignore the Oriental¡¯s glares and jump right into work when we start. Carter and his people lead us out to the north, where they got a patch of land all marked out and cleared for us to dig, and we all get right to it. The eleven convicts all work side by side with Carter¡¯s people, but me, I wander off a little further down and take a knee, ready to begin until I hear the scuffle of footstep behind me. Turning in place, I spot Deputy Juan barreling over with a scowl, and I raise my eye in question. ¡°Where in the hell do you think you¡¯re running off to?¡± he asks, his hand on his pistol and a gleam in his eye that tells me he¡¯s all too eager to use it.


    ¡°Firstly, didn¡¯t do no running,¡± I say, mildly amused by his bluster, but keeping this calm and professional unlike him. ¡°Secondly, I ain¡¯t a prisoner, so even if I wanted to run, you got no justification to draw on me. Lastly, what I¡¯m doin¡¯ is what I came here to do. Dig.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you tell me what I can and can¡¯t do.¡± Spitting into the dirt, which I¡¯m gonna hafta dig, Deputy Juan sneers and asks, ¡°What? You too good to dig alongside everyone else too?¡±


    ¡°Nah,¡± I reply, holding up both arms to show off my hand and my stump. ¡°But seeing how I only got the one hand, and the Mould Earth Cantrip requires physical contact with the earth you lookin¡¯ to mould, I figured my fingers would be safer away from all them shovels.¡± Narrowing my eyes, I ask, ¡°That all right with you?¡±


    ¡°Deputy.¡± I don¡¯t answer, and Deputy Juan takes another step closer to loom over me as I kneel. ¡°That all right with you, Deputy.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s perfectly alright,¡± I say with a smile, adding, ¡°I ain¡¯t no deputy though.¡±


    That really grinds his gears, and I can see them turning in his head, but if he draws on me, then he¡¯ll get both barrels from my Doorknocker which is already out of the holster and aimed centre mass. Amazing what an oversized coat will do to hide what¡¯s happening behind it, and while it¡¯ll make a real mess of my duster, I can Mend it right up when we done. Can¡¯t say the same about the deputy, and I¡¯d be well within my rights to defend myself with lethal force under the Accords if he draws on me without cause.


    Which as I already established, is what we go by outside of town. Don¡¯t think Deputy Juan has picked up on that fact, and I¡¯m about to remind him when Deputy Walt hollers, ¡°Juan. Come here a sec. Need to talk.¡± Which is just an excuse to de-escalate without making things worse, and I give the older man a nod in thanks as Deputy Juan slowly walks away. Annoying is what it is, a badge on a power trip, but I ain¡¯t one to bend to no petty tyrant. Now that I¡¯m free to work though, I get to digging quick as I can, moving a cubic foot of soil every second with the aforementioned Cantrip. Also bring out my Mage Hands while I¡¯m at it and pay some attention to how they function, feeling out their 5lb limits and molasses like speed. Every ten minutes, I take a fifteen second break to recast Mage Hands rather than sustain it with Concentration, because that lets me test out new ways to squeeze and finagle it.


    See, that¡¯s the other option I got when it comes to recovery, one I ain¡¯t talked about with Uncle Teddy. Everyone and their mother knows that familiarity with a Spell allows the caster to improve it. Mage Armour is the classic example, wherein a base Mage Armour Spell is only good enough to blunt punches and kicks, and even then, it doesn¡¯t allow you to ignore them completely. A Mage Armour from an experienced Abjurer who¡¯s practised the Spell ten-thousand times though? It¡¯ll block Bolts, blades, and other heavy impacts without any Metamagics to speak of. The Shield Spell is another big one, as the base Spell creates a blue disc about the size of a serving platter. With practise and familiarity however, Big Alfred can use that same Spell to create a giant tower shield to cover his entire six-foot frame, and make it stronger and more durable to boot. You can make Spells hit harder, move faster, last longer without Concentration, improve the benefits they bestow upon you, or a dozen other different things, all with practise and familiarity, but the problem is, you can¡¯t guarantee what result you gonna get when you put in the practice.


    Why? Because the way you improve a Spell in this manner don¡¯t make no logical sense. You¡¯re not putting more Aether into it, not twisting the flows into something different, not adding a spin here or a turn there to change the Structure in any way. What you¡¯re doing is taking the same Structure with the same flows and getting a different outcome from what others get, because you finagle what comes out the other end before it makes its way out into reality. If Aether is water, and a Spell Structure is a hose, and Metamagic is putting a nozzle on the end of a hose, then changing a Spell through familiarity is like making the water that comes out hot instead of cold, or as juice instead of water. This is full on magic, because the caster is manipulating Aether itself as it flows through the Spell Structure to create a different outcome from what you¡¯d expect.


    So how is it done? That¡¯s difficult to say, because you¡¯re finagling something that can¡¯t be perceived with the original five human senses. Yea, Spellcasters can develop a feel for the Aether, but it¡¯s not some magical sixth sense we all awaken to. It¡¯s a blend of our five senses bridging the gap to help us perceive what we know is there but cannot otherwise discern. That means how each Spellslinger perceives Aether is unique to them and them alone, which makes it difficult to describe how they finagle a Spell. You think Captain Jung doesn¡¯t want to share how she¡¯s able to take Burst Bolt turn it into a sustained Spell that fires off a 196 Bolts in a minute? Of course she does, but she doesn¡¯t know how to describe the process in a way every other Spellcaster understands. It¡¯s like trying to describe a musical symphony to a deaf man, or an abstract painting to someone born blind. It¡¯s possible to bridge a connection that makes sense, but exceedingly difficult to come up with something that everyone or even most people understand.


    As for me, I learned how to split one Mage Hand into two because my mama was a brilliant woman. She didn¡¯t just write down how it felt to her, but also all the tests and exercises she used to discern how to finagle the Cantrip and get what she wanted. It was so simple I could follow along despite being only eleven years old while learning my first Cantrip, but now, I gotta figure this out on my own.


    How can I improve Mage Hand to make it stronger, faster, and more durable? Sounds similar to what I¡¯m doing with Uncle Teddy, but we¡¯re trying to come up with a whole new Spell Structure to do something similar and better, whereas this is taking the same Mage Hand Cantrip everyone else knows and uses, and getting more out of it than they can. If I succeed, then I might not have a Spell to replace the hand I¡¯d lost, but I could have better floating Mage Hands that can do more they already do. Imagine if they were tough enough to survive shooting a Blastgun, instead of coming apart at the seams with a single Blast. Or fast enough to quick draw in a pinch, or even just deliver a gun to my hand without taking forever. Or strong enough to poke a man in the eye, trap a gun in its holster, or push heavy objects off of great heights. 10lbs of force is not the same as being able to push 10lbs of rock off a cliff, because there¡¯s still friction to consider, so it ain¡¯t as useful as most people think.


    So I sling Spells and dig all day long, which is a lot more involved than it sounds. I gotta swirl the dirt to build up momentum before moving it any actual distance, because friction and inertia are a bitch. The topsoil is easy enough to move all about, but the deeper you get, the more packed the soil is, and the Cantrip don¡¯t do nothing for the pebbles, twigs, and other detritus packed in deep. That¡¯s where the Mage Hands and my Simple Servant comes in, picking that stuff up and tossing it into a wheelbarrow, but despite practicing all day, I don¡¯t really understand how I¡¯m supposed to improve the Cantrip. Don¡¯t even know what I¡¯m supposed to be paying attention to as I cast or use it, because it¡¯s like saying you gotta squeeze harder. Sounds great, but what do I do to improve my grip strength besides squeezing? I don¡¯t rightly know, though I¡¯m sure someone does, but how am I supposed to figure that out for myself?


    Ideally without spending ten-thousand plus hours using the Cantrip, though honestly, I¡¯m probably not too far off from that number. Might even be past it, which only goes to show I ain¡¯t as smart or talented as folks think.


    Which is why I gotta make up for it with hard work. Them others look at me using Mould Earth and think I got it easy compared to shovelling, but I still gotta scoop up the stones and move wheelbarrows full of dirt or rocks same as them. What¡¯s more, even though there ain¡¯t any limit on Cantrips, they¡¯re still tiring if you sling enough. It¡¯s the same as walking slow and steady, in that you can do it for hours without breaking a sweat, but eventually, all that effort adds up and you gotta stop to take a rest. Still, I didn¡¯t get to where I am by doing the bare minimum, or even just a bit more than everyone else, so I work up a good lather before Carter says it¡¯s time to call it quits. Climbing out of my pit, I take a few steps back to take it all in and realize my ditch is about one fifth the size of theirs, and they had fourteen men to my one. Don¡¯t say nothing about it though, just give Carter a smile who responds with a nod to say I¡¯ll get my full hours.


    Even though my job is done for the day, I still got plenty of work ahead, which is why I crack open one of Danny¡¯s textbooks to read while eating dinner. More leftovers, though I help myself to a bit of the stew just to see what it¡¯s like. Tasteless mostly, because they didn¡¯t use much salt or spices, which is fair seeing how those are expensive. Probably make do without the former and grow the latter, but it¡¯s early April and they probably used everything they had over the winter. Still, it¡¯s a hearty enough stew with plenty of filling veggies and they ain¡¯t shirking on the flatbread, so I eat as much as I can while poring over the dry text and barely understanding half of it. Perseverance will see me through though, because even though I might not understand it the first time I read it, but maybe by the tenth time, something will get through and I¡¯ll start piecing things together well enough. Not in any big rush, because slow is smooth and smooth is fast, same in this as with everything else, so when the words start getting to be too much, I take a break and move on to envisioning the Spell Structure for Mage Hand.


    According to Uncle Teddy, the goal here is to draw out the full Spell Structure using Minor Illusion, which is a tall ask. While every Spell Structure has its shape, one formed by a series of moving lights and the trails they leave behind, it¡¯s difficult to envision the Spell Structure as a whole when I close my eyes and picture it in my mind. Instead, it¡¯s more like you¡¯re there with the Spell Structure, being taken along for the ride, and you don¡¯t so much see the dips and curves as feel them. Even the most basic Spell Structure has a sense of animation to it, a vitality that almost makes it feel alive, like you¡¯ve been caught in the talons of some giant bird and they¡¯re taking you up through the air to offer you a perspective you¡¯ve never before seen. It ain¡¯t always quite so vivid, but the general gist remains the same, as if you looking out through a tiny window and only seeing what¡¯s visible at this very moment. When you solve the Spell Formula, you¡¯re building the path the Spell takes one step at a time, letting the numbers guide you through the movements second by precious second. You get a feel for the flow and see the path laid out before you, and all you gotta do is guide the Aether to follow it, and there you go. Spell Structure formed, simple is as simple does.


    ¡­So maybe I¡¯ve been going at this all wrong. Why try and envision the steps one by one and see them as a whole, when I can just clear it all out and build it back up again?


    Pulling out my Spellbook, I flip through the pages in search of the relevant Formula, and I thank my past self for hoarding all my Cantrips for the sake of having them, instead of keeping a single copy of them at home which I would never look at. Then, after going through the math a few times for practice, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and focus on the Mage Hand Spell Structure embedded within my memory, the first Structure I ever put together and the one Spell I¡¯ve used more than any other. I remember poring over my mama¡¯s notes damn near every night, looking through every character and number in hopes of learning more about her. Then I learned this Cantrip, and realized just how much effort she put into making things ready for me, because it takes a whole lotta of practice to make the Mage Hand useful, and a whole lot more to get to the point where you can knit two socks at the same time. One set of needles in her real hands, and a second set in her Mage Hands, that¡¯s how my daddy described it, and truth be told, I¡¯ve been at this for years and still don¡¯t think I could match what my mama did in less than eight months on the Frontier.


    I can play a mean game of cat¡¯s cradle and reload my guns without looking, but getting my Mage Hands to do fine, detailed work like knitting a sock? I couldn¡¯t knit with my real hands, when I still had two of them, so there ain¡¯t no chance my Mage Hands could do it either. Yes sir, my mama was the genius, and I only inherited a small bit of her brilliance, alongside my daddy¡¯s mule-head persistence which has served me well. Hard work won¡¯t ever disappoint you, because even though it ain¡¯t no guarantee of success, the lessons learned along the way will serve you well in other ways.


    So even though I only got me the one hand to work with, I dismiss the Spell Structure for Mage Hand from my mind and watch the glowing lights fade into nothingness. Soon as it¡¯s gone, there¡¯s a tightness in my chest which I can¡¯t explain, and I can¡¯t help but panic at the thought of never getting the Spell back again. I can still think back and catch glimpses of what it was like, it¡¯s the difference between doing a thing in real life and watching it play out on a recording. The Cantrip is lost to me now, and no matter how many times I say the words or make the motions, those blue, spectral hands will not appear out of thin air, not until I solve the Formula and embedded the Spell Structure into memory once more.


    Which was the plan, but in the moment, I can¡¯t help but mourn the loss. I know in my head that nothing tangible was lost, that it¡¯s only a matter of minutes before I have the Spell Structure embedded back in mind. Thirty minutes tops, if that, and yet, somehow I feel¡­ lessened without it. Empty even, as if I¡¯ve been sapped of energy by more than just a half-day of hard work. The loss isn¡¯t physical, isn¡¯t emotional, or even mental, but something real and ineffable that I don¡¯t entirely understand, only to say that it most certainly has to do with the Spell Structure I just threw away.


    So dismayed by the loss, I set to solving the Formula as quick as I can and make a few mistakes along the way. When I finally settle down and solve it once more, I feel the Spell Structure come alive within my mind and find peace and contentment again. What I lost wasn¡¯t the Spell Structure itself, or my memories and connection with my mama or anything like that. No, what I gave up alongside the Spell Structure was my connection to the Spell itself, the source of power the Structure draws upon somewhere out there in the Immaterium. Ain¡¯t a theory that¡¯s been proven just yet, that every Spell Structure links to a metaphysical engine out there in some reality somewhere, but this little experiment made me a believer. This here was my oldest Spell Structure, and a Cantrip I likely put more practice into than the rest of my Spells combined. Maybe that¡¯s why I could feel that connection, and don¡¯t feel the same when I do away with Water Sphere, Mending, Deodorant, or Umbrella, because I forged myself a connection to the Mage Hand Spell Structure, one that defies expectations and understanding because it¡¯s still magic in the end.


    I think that¡¯s what I love so much about magic, a love that doesn¡¯t translate over to tech. It¡¯s the unknowable, the inscrutable, the unfathomable arcane, with mysteries that can¡¯t ever be solved because there ain¡¯t no answers to be had. Not in the sense that my answer will be the same as the next person over, because magic is, at the end of the day, a personal journey. We can learn from our predecessors sure, but there¡¯s only so much you can convey with words alone, while magic is so much more. As I conjure up my Mage Hands through a new Spell Structure for the very first time, it is both familiar and alien at the same time, a journey I¡¯ve taken thousands of times before but from what feels like a slightly different perspective. For the sake of comparison, I set to prepping those other Cantrip Spell Structures once again, but they don¡¯t feel any different when I use them. Could be my imagination with Mage Hands, or it could be I ain¡¯t familiar enough with the other Cantrips to notice the changes. Could be any one of a thousand different things, but at least now I got a thread to pull on, something to follow just to see where it leads me even if it doesn¡¯t take me anywhere at all.


    What does it mean? I can¡¯t rightly say, but I got an inkling in the back of my mind, a churning in my gut that says there¡¯s something here to be studied, so I dismiss the Mage Hand Spell Structure once again and fixate on the sensation of loss, trying to put into words a feeling I ain¡¯t even sure is real or imagined, and again, I come up empty. Then, as I put my mind to the math once more, I focus less on the numbers and more on the journey they bring me on, a thrilling ride through the Immaterium within my mind that brings me right back to that big Metaphysical engine lurking somewhere within the cosmos which powers the Mage Hand Cantrip, though how that¡¯s even possible, I can¡¯t rightly say.


    A grasping hand. That¡¯s what the trip puts me in mind of, the image of the Spell Structure firmly embedded in my mind. Before, it was all about the journey, but then something clicked and I can¡¯t see anything else. Me, at the tip of a finger as a hand pushes me forward, like it¡¯s reaching for something sitting on a table out front. Ain¡¯t an image at all real, but more of an impression, that of five fingers reaching out towards me to take hold of my desire, Ectoplasm given form here in reality to heed my bidding with little more than a thought. That¡¯s what the Spell Structure puts me in mind of, though how I¡¯m supposed to show that with a Minor Illusion is beyond me. It¡¯s that movement that gives the Spell agency, the flows of Aether coming together to have an effect on reality, and if I can understand even a small portion of how those flows work, I might be able to squeeze more out of this Structure, or even improve upon it and turn the Mage Hand Cantrip into a genuine, First Order Spell capable of doing everything my real hand could¡¯ve done, and maybe more.


    That¡¯s the goal, a lofty one indeed, but maybe Uncle Teddy¡¯s right and my innate grasp of Aetheric Flows will bring me success in the end. Personally, I¡¯d much rather rely on hard work, which is why I immediately dismiss the Spell Structure before setting to solving the Formula to embed it into memory once again. Then again, and again, and again, until the glowhoppers get to glowing and chirping and Deputy Juan comes over to snarl and say it¡¯s time for lights out. Only then do I realize the moon is hanging high in the sky above, with the sun having come and gone without my notice. A good day¡¯s work, that¡¯s what I call that, so I head on inside the bunkhouse, lock away my dubsies in my warded gun safe, tuck my Rattlesnake under my pillow, and fall fast asleep as soon as I close my eyes.


    Didn¡¯t accomplish much today, but it was a good start. I¡¯ll get there eventually. I believe it with all my heart, because to believe otherwise would be to give up hope, and where would I be without that?

 Book Two - Chapter 63

    ¡°Stables need mucking, boy. Get to it.¡±


    Ain¡¯t the words that register as I wake. It¡¯s the bed shifting underneath me, which ain¡¯t pleasant in the least. By the time my head¡¯s got a handle on the situation, I already got my Rattlesnake out and finger sitting pretty on the trigger while pointed at the shadowy figure looming over the foot of my bed. Deputy Juan, judging by the raspy voice and slim profile before me, and as my eyes adjust to the early morning gloom of the unlit bunkhouse, I can just barely make out his wide-eyed expression as he stares down the barrel of my gun.


    Which I keep trained on him a moment longer to make sure Deputy Walt ain¡¯t got a bead on me from somewhere else, because I¡¯d hate to get got the second I stand down. Homebound peacekeepers like deputies tend to be the sort who dream of action yet lack the discipline, dedication, and maybe even courage to go outside of their safe zones. Not to mention how their training is barebones at best, so you never know how they might react in a tense situation. Shows in how Deputy Juan reacts here, all bug-eyed and slack-jawed like he can¡¯t believe a sleeping man might draw on him after so rude an awakening. More fool him then, so I put up my gun while keeping it in hand just in case he goes for his. ¡°Then best you go muck them,¡± I growl, barely able to restrain the rage at both him and myself. Him for not knowing any better, and me for not being more alert to his presence standing so close to me as I slept. ¡°I¡¯m here to work, but not for you.¡±


    Takes him a moment to find his words, or courage enough to speak them, and when he finally gets there, his voice is full of false bravado and genuine anger. ¡°You just pointed a loaded Aetherarm at a Federal Officer of the Law,¡± he says with a snarl, putting a whole lot of extra weight into that last word there. Puffs up his chest too, and squares his shoulders as if making ready to draw, so I give him a casual raised eyebrow that says I like my odds. Puts a damper on his temper it does, enough to keep him from touching his gun, but ain¡¯t enough to still his fool tongue. ¡°That¡¯s a criminal offense, boy.¡±


    There it is, that harsh uptick at the end which makes the word ugly and hateful. Flashing a smile that¡¯s all tooth and no cheer, I shake my head at his sheer stupidity. Threatening a man who got him dead to rights, that there is asking for a Bolt to the head, especially when the law ain¡¯t actually on his side. ¡°Inside a Federal Settlement, sure,¡± I say, radiating anger enough to cook an egg, ¡°But in case you haven¡¯t noticed, we ain¡¯t in one. Sure, this bunkhouse sits on Federal land inside officially recognized Federal borders. Unsecure borders though, meaning you can¡¯t say for certain that everyone you run into is a Federal citizen. That¡¯s why the Accords take precedent over Federal Law out here, which don¡¯t see you as no deputy, only a fool who done woke a man you knew was armed in the dumbest and rudest way possible. That¡¯s how I¡¯ll argue my case in court if you choose to push the issue, and there ain¡¯t a judge or jury in the land that¡¯ll convict me for exercising my right to defend myself.¡± Giving him a look meant to convey just how close a call it was, I add, ¡°Not even if I shot you dead.¡±


    Now, I ain¡¯t said a single word of falsehood, but the truth is all it takes to bring Juan¡¯s temper to a boil and expose his true colours. ¡°And you think they¡¯ll take the word of an offender doing hard labour over the testimony of a sworn officer of the law? This goes how I say it¡¯ll go, boy, so best you show some proper respect.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± I drawl, standing to face him head on and holstering my gun to make this fair. Move my hand to over my belly too, rather than hovering over the weapon like Juan¡¯s, because a craven cur like this trembling shit stain needs at least that much of an advantage to act. ¡°In that case, with all due respect Deputy Juan, you can go fuck yourself.¡±


    Ain¡¯t eager to kill a man so early in the morning, but there ain¡¯t nothing that stick in my craw more than a bent lawman. He don¡¯t bite right away, which shows he got at least some sense in him. The gears get to turning inside his head as he does the math, and after a long bit of hard thinking, he comes up with odds in his favour. I know as much because he flexes his fingers with that glint in his eyes, the one that says he¡¯s working up the courage to draw and shoot. Hyping himself up, when he really ought to be relaxing, because being all tense and tight will slow you down. Me, I¡¯m cool as a cucumber, having already seen how this plays out in my head. He gonna draw, I¡¯m gonna shoot, and he¡¯s gonna die here and now because he¡¯s too stupid to know any better.


    Ain¡¯t pleased I gotta kill a man first thing in the morning, but I ain¡¯t in no mood to back down before a two-bit bully with a badge like Juan here.


    ¡°Is bad idea.¡± There¡¯s a hint of whimsy in Otis¡¯ Slavic accent, one that can¡¯t be blamed on the alcohol considering the sun ain¡¯t even up yet. Fool that he is, Juan¡¯s eyes dart over to see who¡¯s talking, which might as well be an open invitation to kill him dead. I don¡¯t take it of course, because then I wouldn¡¯t be in the clear, but Juan panics when he realizes his mistakes and almost draws without thinking. His hand goes for his gun, and mine does the same, but then he thinks better of it and freezes in place. Again, his hand already on his weapon, which is justification enough under the Accords, but even though I got him dead to rights, I¡¯ll be in for a real headache if I shoot a deputy whose gun is still in the holster. Annoying is what that is, his lack of courage to follow through, because now I gotta let him live for no reason beside the badge he disgraces with his behaviour and actions.


    ¡°You see?¡± Otis asks with a chuckle. ¡°No fear in Firstborn, not of you or your Federal law. In Soviet Russia, we have saying. Don¡¯t wake doom while it sleeps quiet.¡±


    ¡°Doom eh?¡± Can¡¯t help but smile at that, though I keep my hand on my weapon and eyes trained on Juan. ¡°That how you see me, Otis? Gotta say, I like it. A sure step up from a sleepin¡¯ dog.¡± Earns me a laugh it does, and not just from Otis, as the other offenders snicker from their beds while watching the show. Burns Juan something fierce, losing face like this in front of his charges, and I¡¯m guessing he thinks it a fate worse than death. Hardly surprising, being the puffed-up scaredy cat he is, a coward who hides behind his badge and the authority it represents. Man¡¯s sworn to uphold the law, but openly flaunts it when it suits him, all but admitting he¡¯s willing to perjure himself just because I didn¡¯t smile and hop to the second he said jump. Well, if that¡¯s how it¡¯s gonna be, I got no qualms about helping Sherrif Patel clean house, even if I¡¯ll take a lot of heat for it, because public opinion don¡¯t mean much to me.


    My reputation¡¯s already in the gutter, and it¡¯s not like my daddy¡¯s helped him much after the fact. Spent over a decade working tirelessly for the Rangers, and when he wasn¡¯t working, he was helping out in other ways. Donated his time and money to helping raise churches and fortify the shops along the main thoroughfare, on top of bringing in big game and barrels of mead to share at every festival and celebration. Was always happy to listen to someone¡¯s troubles and either do something about it or find someone who could, while never saying nothing bad about no one. Wasted Lord knows how much time teaching people to forage, hunt, and survive out on their lonesome, and often went back to check in or help out on his own dime. Then he dies and some big wig politician upriver says he was never a Ranger, so how do all those people he helped react? They nod and accept it as fact. Even though he embodied everything an American Ranger ought to be, he wasn¡¯t American, and apparently that¡¯s enough to not give a shit.


    Well fuck them, and fuck public opinion, because it don¡¯t take much to turn against you. As for my actions scaring folks into petitioning to have me exiled? If them pearl-clutching townies want to raise a fuss and have me 86¡¯ed from New Hope, the place I¡¯ve been living in before there was even a town here to call home? Well, then they best be ready for a real fight, because I ain¡¯t one to go quick or quiet. They all afraid of what I might do and don¡¯t want me living next door, but they ain¡¯t stopped to consider what I will do if they try and take my home from me.


    ¡°We got a problem here?¡± Bored and sleepy. That¡¯s how Deputy Walt sounds as he pokes his head in through the door, but judging by the way he got one hand behind his back and how his holster sits empty, it¡¯s obvious he got his gun ready and waiting to start Blasting. Or Bolting, I suppose, which don¡¯t sound as nice, since the word got different connotations. Shows he knows his business though, and I can respect that, more than I respect his partner¡¯s posturing.


    ¡°Not from me,¡± I say, letting go of my Rattlesnake and all too happy to put this behind us, because either way, I ain¡¯t gonna be the one to die today. Juan¡¯s got a 1911, same as Tina, which means no Maximize or Penetrate Metamagics. As for me, I got my Shield bracer Primed and ready, so even if he gets a shot off before I put him down, chances of punching through in one go are slim to none. At worst, might make me bleed a bit, but won¡¯t put me down, and I can¡¯t say the same about him.


    Juan ain¡¯t figured it out yet, that he outclassed and outmatched in every which way. I know this because it takes him a good few seconds before taking the lifeline he been thrown. Rest of us all knew there was no other way this would go, but he gotta posture a bit before finally taking his gun off his hand. ¡°Nah,¡± he drawls, still acting as if I¡¯m the one who lucked out. ¡°Kid¡¯s got a lip on him is all.¡±


    ¡°And you thinkin¡¯ you gonna put him in his place?¡± Sounding amused as all hell, Deputy Walt straightens up and holsters his pistol in plain view, though the fact that he leaves his left hand out of sight leads me to suspect he got another weapon readied. ¡°Better men than you have tried and failed,¡± Deputy Walt says. ¡°Women too, so best you do like Otis says and leave him be.¡±


    Ain¡¯t it the truth, but Juan don¡¯t much like to hear it, giving me a glare as he saunters out the room like he done came out on top. As for me, I give Otis a nod of thanks for speaking up when he did, because I¡¯m pretty sure Juan forgot there were other people here in the room the second he saw red. In retrospect, seems like a silly thing to take a stand on, since mucking stables ain¡¯t no big thing, but you give a bully like Juan a single inch, and he¡¯ll take a mile right quick, so it¡¯s best to show folks like him where we both stand from the get go.


    Otis don¡¯t share the same sentiment it seems, as he gives me a look devoid of all humour. ¡°Should know better,¡± he says, with a slow shake of his head. ¡°Pick your battles.¡±


    I get the sentiment, I really do, but wasn¡¯t like I had much of choice from the get go. Juan was the fool who came in to mess with the bull, so ain¡¯t nothing I could do besides show him the horns. Hate to admit it, but I was a split second away from pulling the trigger before I registered what was happening. Been feeling a bit high strung of late, and figured idle hands and lack of direction were what done it to me. That¡¯s why I came out here after all, to work off my energy and hours both, instead of sitting around at home going over everything I could¡¯ve done different. Not just in Pleasant Dunes itself, but down under dark with Marcus and the others, with me running circles round inside my head until I was too dizzy to even stand.


    Been over it all before, and several times since in my nightmares, so no sense getting into it again. Long story short? I failed Marcus, and he died for it, then I threw a tantrum which cost me a hand. Them¡¯s the facts, and there¡¯s no denying it no matter how much I wish it were otherwise, which means I ain¡¯t aiming to recover and be just as good as I was; I need to be better, faster, stronger, and smarter if I want to make it out here, to be the Firstborn at the head of the Frontier Born who¡¯ll make a mark on the Frontier.


    So I ain¡¯t about to let no bent cop on a power trip walk all over me and mine, no sir-ree. If Juan thinks he can push me around just because he got a shiny, six-pointed star on his chest, then he¡¯s got another thing coming.


    I don¡¯t say as much though, just give Otis a sheepish little nod, because he ain¡¯t entirely wrong either. Could¡¯ve handled it better, but it is what it is, so I move on without a second thought. Grabbing my hat off the windowsill, I stop the recording which I started last night. It would¡¯ve conveniently caught Juan¡¯s bold-faced claims about how this was gonna go and everything after too, but that¡¯s not why I set it up. No, I recorded myself sleeping in case Carter¡¯s folk had ill-intent, but caught a lucky break now, didn¡¯t I? I ain¡¯t no snitch though, so the recording won¡¯t ever see the light of day so long as Juan don¡¯t make no trouble, mostly because there¡¯s no upside and a whole lot of downside to doing anything unprompted. Just to be safe, I switch out the crystal with a fresh one while I¡¯m in the jakes so I don¡¯t accidentally record over it. Goes right into my warded gun case it does, dropped in with no one being the wiser as I take out my Doorknockers for the day. Part of me wonders if I ought to warn Juan off, or let Deputy Walt know what I got so he can rein his partner in, but the rest of me isn¡¯t feeling so generous towards bent lawmen as of late.


    One thing I¡¯ve learned from Pleasant Dunes is that playing by the rules means taking on all the risks. I make one wrong move, one bad decision, and it¡¯s over for me, but Juan there wouldn¡¯t get nothing more than a slap on the wrist if I presented the recording as is. While Sherrif Patel ain¡¯t one to tolerate malfeasance from his deputies, he also ain¡¯t exactly spoilt for choice when it comes to the help, and I know firsthand how good help is hard to find. Juan¡¯s baseless claims might warrant a stern talking to and keeping a close eye on for the next little bit, but weren¡¯t no laws broken there, so nothing to fire Juan for, much less arrest him.


    Backwards way of going about it, giving more leeway to the men and women hired to uphold the law than the civilians them laws are supposed to protect. Just look at how I was treated after coming home from Pleasant Dunes, like a criminal, and for what? Exercising my right to defend myself, that¡¯s what. The language in the Accords is about as clear as mud, but the justifications of self-defence boil down to three steps. Step one. There was a force or threat of force unjustly used against you. Check. Back in Pleasant Dunes, I was thrown into a fight, then beaten bloody by the crowd and mutilated when I won, which I would say goes beyond a force or threat of force used against me. Step two. You acted for the purpose of defending yourself or others against said force or threat of force. Check Check. I eliminated the entire group of aggressors in a single, decisive alpha strike, which is in full accordance with Ranger standard operating procedure. And lastly, step three, the action or actions taken to defend yourself are reasonable considering the circumstances.


    Which is where things get iffy. Ain¡¯t no proper definition for what constitutes ¡®reasonable¡¯, but seeing how the crowd I killed was all cheering while big Franky held up my freshly severed hand, I like my chances with a jury should it ever make it that far.


    And yet despite catching all of that on verified, authentic, and untampered video, Judge McKean and Sherrif Patel wanted to throw the book at me just because they didn¡¯t like what I did. Were it a Ranger who done it, like Wayne or Conner, they wouldn¡¯t blink twice, because a soldier fighting back is just another Tuesday. God forbid a civilian do the same though, in the exact same circumstances, because somehow, that¡¯s an entirely different kettle of fish. Bullshit is what that is, treating me like I¡¯m some criminal by default just because I don¡¯t got a badge on my chest. If anything, we ought to put more scrutiny on our Sheriffs, soldiers, and law enforcement officials, because if we did, then maybe wouldn¡¯t more than half of them be bent no more.


    Bad way to start the day, with a belly full of fire and a thin, millet gruel. Porridge they calls it, but I know gruel when I sees it, even if they throw the odd grumble berries and bapple slices in for a bit of sweetness and serve plenty of coffee to wash it all down with. To make matters worse, Cowie¡¯s none too pleased at having been relegated to the stables for the night, so I spend most of breakfast making it up to him with cuddles and chin scratches in spite of my foul mood. Ain¡¯t polite to let your bull sleep on another man¡¯s bed, even if that bull be house-trained and that bed be in a bunkhouse. Since, Carter¡¯s been nothing but polite from the get go, I been putting my best foot forward so far, though Cowie been doing his own thing the whole while.


    You get what you give, that¡¯s how it is with me, and Juan could stand to learn a thing or three about good manners. Shows in how he rallies back after downing his breakfast with a beer and a cigarette, all fired up and on a mission to make my day miserable without overstepping his bounds. ¡°You¡¯re here to work, convict,¡± he says, giving me a glare that¡¯s all bark and no bite seeing how he keeps his thumbs tucked in his belt loops like he do. ¡°Not sit around and play with your pet all day. Get to it.¡±


    Rather than answer, I continue petting Cowie while leaning back and looking up at Juan. Meeting the man¡¯s eyes, I give him a stare while a Mage Hand brings my mug to my lips for a long, unhurried sip of coffee. Then I break eye contact and grimace at the taste, staring down at my cup to inspect what¡¯s it in. Coffee, but over steeped, though I suppose there ain¡¯t no helping it when you making it in a bonafide cauldron over a campfire. Pot was probably started by the fellas from Carter¡¯s compound who went out on the boats, the one¡¯s that done came back last night with three Reds, two Browns (from different continents, one South American and the other East Asian), and one Euro white I couldn¡¯t place. A real melting pot, this community is, mostly Reds but with a good mix of almost everything else.


    Which is less common than you¡¯d think considering every last settler who passed through the Gate was dumped in a random location. Personally, I¡¯d say that¡¯s how we all ought to live, all mixed in together instead of making our own little districts all across the Frontier, or even inside of towns sometimes. Sure, all that diversity might make for more conflict in the short term, but ain¡¯t no one like feuding with the neighbours, so I figure we¡¯d eventually learn to play nice.


    Or kill one another until only one group is left. That¡¯s usually how it goes, one of two ways, and can¡¯t rightly predict which it¡¯ll be.


    ¡°You deaf or something? I said get to it!¡±


    ¡°I hear you,¡± I say, before taking another, shorter sip of coffee while Juan tries for intimidating and comes off as huffy. ¡°Just don¡¯t see no point in listening. Said it before and I¡¯ll say it again, Juan. I¡¯m here to work, but not for you. Can bark all the livelong day and it won¡¯t change the facts none. You here to guard, not manage, and seeing how we all still free citizens here of our own volition, that means watching for beasts, bandits, and Abby more than anything else.¡±


    Rather than face the facts as they are, Juan doubles down on flexing his non-existent authority and snarls, ¡°You trying to tell me my job, boy?¡±


    ¡°No try about it,¡± I say with a grin, one that¡¯s slightly strained from have to hold Cowie in place, because he ready to throw down and got a whole lot of muscle on him even when he baby sized. No idea how the physics of it all works, but shrinking down and shedding weight don¡¯t affect his actual strength as much as you¡¯d think it would. He might look all cute and cuddly, with his silly little face and curly white coat, and weigh one eighth of what he should, but he only slightly weaker as a baby compared to his full-sized self. Seen him pull a fully loaded wagon while tiny because he felt like being small that day, and it makes for a sight to be sure. Course, I don¡¯t much let him do it too often because I¡¯d much rather folks focus on the cute and cuddly aspects of his baby calf form, rather than his innate strength and the inherent danger he might present.


    While Juan glares and glowers for all he¡¯s worth, Carter moseys on out of the compound with his three helpers in tow, all ready to start the day. A different bunch from yesterday, but I recognize them from the glimpse I caught of them coming back from the boat. As for Carter, he gives us a look, sees the tension between me and Juan, then decides he don¡¯t want to get involved, which I¡¯d say is the right way to go about it. ¡°New day, new start,¡± he says, and I take that as my cue to stand, which Juan don¡¯t like much. See, if I was as stubborn with Carter as I am with him, then Juan could write it off as me being me, but his pride can¡¯t stand to see me heed another man, one he think he¡¯s better than. More fool him then, because seeing how Carter is willing to travel by his lonesome five hours one way to cart a dozen convicts back for hard labour, I figure he knows how to handle himself. Travelled all that way without so much as a sidearm, much less a rifle hanging off his shoulder, so either he¡¯s the bravest and luckiest fool I done ever seen, or he¡¯s got confidence enough in his skills and Spellslinging to see his way through whatever he comes across.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Or a mix of both in reality. Even if I had Fireball prepped, I wouldn¡¯t care to wander through these woods without so much as a pistol on my hip. Ain¡¯t many bandits to be wary of this close to New Hope, but Abby are always a clear and present threat, what with the Proggie hiding somewhere beneath the waters of Last Chance Lake. Granted, the Rangers keep the Abby population well in check, so there won¡¯t be no hundred-strong hordes of scavenging fodder or packs of hunting Ferals roaming about in broad daylight. That said, Proggies are nothing if not adaptable, and this particular one is even craftier than most. Favours quality over quantity when spawning its Abby, many of which come out of the meat sack even bigger, stronger, and tougher than your average armoured bugbear. With smarts enough to learn right quick to be sneaky and stealthy mind you, so as to avoid the many patrols circling all about the lakeside. To make matters worse, those Abby who survive long enough to recoup the losses from birthing them tend to come back equipped with Spell Cores more often than not, so even though you¡¯re unlikely to come across more than ten to twenty Abby at a time, each one will likely be a veteran of multiple conflicts and powerhouses in their own right.


    Ain¡¯t like the Coral Desert, where there was one brainy hobgoblin commanding thousands of dumb orcs and Lord knows how many gibbering gobbos across the sands. The local Proggie hiding under Last Chance Lake is suspected to have dozens of evolved Abby just like the hobgoblin, only all them started off a whole lot scarier than a measly little goblin.


    I wonder if the hobgoblin Illusionist survive the shitshow in Pleasant Dunes¡­ I hope so, because then I¡¯ll have good reason to revisit the desert besides a whimsical desire to see the sights and hunt down the remnants of Ron¡¯s now defunct company. As for Gunin¡¯s crew¡­ Well, we¡¯ll call it square since I done killed him and took his rifle after he said all those nice things about me and my daddy.


    Since folks tend to get antsy when you start chanting incantations and waggling fingers unannounced, I wait until I¡¯m back at the section of ditch I done started digging yesterday to throw on my suite of daily Spells. Deodorant, Umbrella, Protection from Insects come first like always, then Prestidigitation to clear out the grains stuck between my teeth. From there, I throw on some Hearing Protection and a Mage Armour too, because better safe than sorry after all. Cowie also gets his daily Bolstering Compliment, which is just an excuse to rub his cheeks and call him cute, followed by a Console which earns me a quick nuzzle before he runs off to play.


    Probably found some bicorn bunnies to nuzzle, or a choice patch of bapple bushes that¡¯ve already borne fruit. Ain¡¯t too concerned about his safety, as most things in this forest ought to be afraid of Cowie more than anything else.


    Then I get to work, same as yesterday, save for the occasional visit from Juan looking to make my job miserable, but aside from the odd cigarette butt tossed into my ditch, I don¡¯t let his words or deeds shake me none. Man¡¯s doing his best to get a rise out of me so he got reason to put me in my place, but I ain¡¯t so easy to bait once I¡¯m good and well awake. I simply pay him no mind and do my work one cast of the Cantrip at a time. Keep my medallion recording the whole while too, just in case, and thank my past self for packing extra storage crystals for an occasion just like this. Each one is good for about eight hours, but only because they gotta be small to fit behind the medallion. I hear the old world was on the cusp of cracking some sort of compression tech to let you fit even more data into them gems. No idea how it all works, save to say that the Record Video Spell Core doesn¡¯t actually store a copy of everything it sees onto the crystal, not directly at least.


    Was a time when I thought that if you got good enough with Eagle Eye, you might even be able to look into them crystals and see the scenes play out inside. A child¡¯s fancy is what that was, and the technical details are far more confusing, as the Spell Core uses light to embed tiny Aetheric patterns into the crystals that form a sort of visual language, one the Major Illusion Spell Core can read and translate into a moving image in real time. Same with Record Audio, which makes about as much sense as the tech alternatives with their magnetic strips on their VHS and Betamax.


    Which again, goes to show how much there is about magic that I don¡¯t really understand. Fact is, Record Video and Record Audio are both Divination Spells, Second Order ones I can cast well enough, but only got a passing knowledge of how they function. It¡¯s different when cast manually, because there ain¡¯t no need to do any translation, since we storing information directly into our brains which are already equipped to do that. Same with the Photograph Cantrip which I use to snap pictures of wildlife for Chrissy to look at, and it feels more natural that way. Thing is, I been warned not to store too much Aetheric information up in my noggin, as that can have bad side effects over long periods of time and lead to stuff like dementia, amnesia, bipolar disorder, and more because of how the Aether waves interfere with the electromagnetic pulses of your mind.


    More stuff I don¡¯t rightly understand. Even magnets seem like magic at times, because even though I understand the science behind them, I still don¡¯t really get how it all comes together to work how it do. Strange that, how you can look at something so normal and get your head all twisted in knots trying to figure it all out, and that¡¯s how I been feeling these days with my quest to upgrade or improve Mage Hand. Keep trying to use it all manner of different ways and figure out the reasons behind the limitations, because if can understand the flaws, then I can focus on how to fix them, or at the very least shore them up enough to create a Mage Hand strong and durable enough to fire a gun without coming apart at the seams. That¡¯s the goal here, to make up for my missing right hand anyway I can, while anything extra is gravy. To that end, I find myself bashing my Mage Hands into the dirt and using them to dig like a marty, scooping out fistfuls of soil wherever I can and pushing them to their very limits until the Cantrip falls apart and I gotta recast it again.


    Slows me down some, taking a beat to slowly recast Mage Hands so often and interrupting my continuous use of Mould Earth, a fact that don¡¯t escape Juan¡¯s notice. After the third time he drops by telling me to quit faffing about and is promptly ignored, he finally loses his temper and tosses a shovel into my ditch, clocking me in the head with the handle none too gently on the way down. That gets my blood boiling as I give him a glare, and he grins in response. ¡°Enough of your games with all your little Spells, boy,¡± he says with a hateful sneer. ¡°Pick that shovel up and put your back into it. You here to work, and by God I¡¯ll see that you do.¡±


    Turn the other cheek. That¡¯s the thing to do here, to ignore him and not engage or escalate. So I do the smart thing and leave the shovel where it is instead of throwing it blade first at the man¡¯s face. Instead, I cast the Mould Earth Cantrip again, swirling my finger in the dirt and stirring up the soil until a good chunk of it shakes loose and streams into the waiting buckets by my feet. Once it¡¯s full, I stop casting and squat down to haul the bucket up and out of the ditch. Gotta do that myself, because at about 5-gallons a bucket, each one weighs a good 20 kilos when full, which is too much for my Simple Servant or Mage Hands. Ain¡¯t a lot of weight to be sure, but with only one hand, it gets tiring right quick, especially when I gotta do five in quick succession to fill the wheelbarrow, which I then gotta cart off to add to the pile. Add in how the others can take turns digging, lifting, and hauling, and I¡¯d say I¡¯m putting more effort into the work than any two of the others combined, while doing the work of at least three.


    Course, Juan don¡¯t care about the facts as he stands over me in my pit like a marty over a mouse to watch me while I work. ¡°You must be deaf,¡± he says with a shake of his head and an ugly grin stretched across his face, while he rests his hand on his pistol like he has been all day like the idiot he is. ¡°I told you to pick that shovel up and work, boy. You here for hard labour, and last I checked, that don¡¯t mean slinging Spells to avoid breaking a sweat.¡±


    Never mind that Carter already cleared me to work with Spells, or the fact that I can¡¯t work a shovel one-handed. Then there¡¯s the fact that I work non-stop digging, hauling, and carting stuff away, while the others can work in shifts since they dig fast enough to need dedicated haulers and carters. None of that matters to Juan though, because he¡¯s doing all this just to be petty. Got no real power over me, but I got no real recourse to put him in his place without enduring a world of frustration. Won¡¯t matter if he deserves the thrashing I¡¯d give him if he didn¡¯t have that badge on his chest. All the townies would know is that Howie Zhu done assaulted a Deputy, and that¡¯s that. If I ain¡¯t arrested, it¡¯ll be because the Marshal bailed me out, and if I am and get off in court, it¡¯ll be the same, so I continue to ignore Juan and go about my work, because like Otis said, it¡¯s better to pick your battles.


    I have my limits though, and Juan hits the limit right quick when he kicks on the bucket I just done hauled up and topples it back down into the ditch. My furious glare only makes his grin grow wider as he looks down on me from above, all smug and self-righteous as can be. ¡°What¡¯s the matter, boy?¡± he asks, as his smile turns into a sneer. ¡°You thinking of putting a Bolt in old Juan here? That why you reaching for a gun that ain¡¯t there with a hand you don¡¯t got?¡±


    Didn¡¯t even notice my right arm had moved until he pointed it out, and it burns me to know I done lost control so easily. Flexing my phantom hand that still burns when I remember it, I grit my teeth and curse myself for a fool. Part of it is because I stopped being so concerned with my right arm and started focusing more on my left to get into the habit of keeping it free and clear of my gun, but like my daddy used to say, good habits are hard to make, and bad habits hard to break. Could get me in trouble later on down the line, so I straighten up and take a deep breath before turning back to my work. Juan don¡¯t say nothing, just stands there and gloats in silence, right up until I haul the bucket back up, at which point he moves to tip it back down again.


    And I let him, then get right back to filling it up again, because I¡¯m still doing the work all the same, and it¡¯s his fault ain¡¯t no progress being made. All on recording too, so let him dig his own grave. Given the speed with which I work and how often I make the trip back, it don¡¯t take more than half an hour before someone takes notice, and Juan wanders off to play innocent when Carter comes by to see what¡¯s what. I don¡¯t say a peep, don¡¯t even meet the man¡¯s eyes, because I¡¯m too full of fury to do anything besides grit my teeth and work. Carter don¡¯t say nothing either, just leaves me be, and without Juan getting in the way, I fall back into the rhythm of digging and hauling the day away, only to have it interrupted every so often when he drops by to make life just a bit more miserable for me. It¡¯s a long half day before we break for lunch, and I eat mine in silent solitude, as even Cowie has caught onto my dark mood and don¡¯t come find me to play. After lunch, I continue my work until I come across a network of roots from a tree growing some twenty meters to the left, and after checking in with Carter to make the call, I alternate between digging and hacking apart them roots with a Conjured Hatchet in hand.


    More to the point, Juan don¡¯t come anywhere near me while I got the blade going, and it might have something to do with the look I give him the moment I Conjure it up. Man don¡¯t deserve to die for what he done, but I wouldn¡¯t lose sleep over killing him, which is a failing of mine to be sure. Gotta have limits and rules to abide by though, else I¡¯m no better than the outlaws, that¡¯s what my daddy used to say. The laws ain¡¯t perfect, but they must be followed, because only then can society function, which is a completely different outlook from the American mindset of freedom and independence above all else, even the very laws their own government sets down. So long as you aren¡¯t affecting anyone else, then you ought to be able to do whatever it is you please, whether it be safely jaywalking across the thoroughfare, growing few plots of wacky tobaccy for personal consumption, or fudging a few facts when you kill a man in justified self defense so it looks like more of an open and shut case, rather than questionable as one-sided fights tend to be.


    That¡¯s the American way, and in this, I¡¯m as American as any.


    Tiresome having to jump through all those hoops, ones set up to make sure us citizens are abiding by all the laws while those in charge got no oversight to keep them honest. That¡¯s the worst part of it really, how I¡¯m here paying for my sins and taking all the heat for what went down in the public eye, while Wayne gets off scot-free despite being a double-dealing rat who was crooked as a corkscrew. Even gets his full pension to boot, which his druggie whore of a wife will snort up her nose to forget all about him, while my daddy got stiffed out of his. Unfair is what that is, and no matter how hard I try to let go of the anger and focus on the work in front of me, it keeps coming back stronger than ever every time Juan shows his stupid, hateful face.


    So after a long, hard day, I¡¯m about a hair¡¯s breadth away from committing murder outright, which is why I take my food to go and post up in the stables with Cowie instead. Which ain¡¯t been mucked, but ain¡¯t all that bad either, because there are only two horses stabled inside. The deputies¡¯ horses, meaning Carter¡¯s people moved their horses to their stables inside at some point. Makes sense considering how expensive them horsies be, just surprising because I never saw it happen and figured I would¡¯ve caught it. Guess I gotta work on that perception of mine, so I don¡¯t give it much thought beyond that as I throw myself into my studies, working until my mind and body are both too tired to stay awake any longer. With Deodorant and Gust to keep the hayloft smelling fresh, a night spent snuggled up with Cowie does wonders for my mood, so much so that even Juan¡¯s attempts to rile me up the next morning don¡¯t bear any fruit. Don¡¯t matter what he says, I pay him no mind while holding Cowie back and studying the lay of the land.


    This is a nice place, with a decent community in a beautiful place. Lots of wildlife roaming about, not just marties, chitter rats, and bunnies, but also ducks in the water and gryphikins in the treetops, as well as a whole host of bugs that I could do without. Carter don¡¯t talk much, and neither do any of his people, mostly communicating in a series of nods and grunts, which means they my sort of people to boot. They lead a decent life out here. Food could be better, but they do well enough, and they¡¯re committed to improving too. Haven¡¯t seen many of them out and about though, not during the day at least. Just the three who work with Carter, and today it¡¯s a new bunch I never seen before. Guess the other six are out on the lake, because three boats are gone same as yesterday. Gotta get up early to catch them fish, or at least so I¡¯m told. No idea why, as I ain¡¯t much of a fisherman.


    ¡­Now that I think about it, what are Carter¡¯s people doing out on them boats? Certainly not fishing like I assumed, because I didn¡¯t see them carry in no catch now did I? They don¡¯t got no nets or poles in them boats either, no spears or traps to speak of, nor did I spy any Aetherarms or diving gear laying about. So if they ain¡¯t fishing, trapping, hunting, or diving, then what are they doing out on the water all the live-long day? Avoiding the digging work, seems like, though they don¡¯t look the sort who are adverse to hard work. Each and every man in this community is hale and healthy as can be, a robust and able-bodied bunch considering they¡¯re all in their forties at the very least. In comparison, the work crew from New Hope are far more lacking in strength, stamina, and determination to boot, having to take constant water and smoke breaks to keep themselves from toppling over in exhaustion while yapping away about all sorts of nonsense that I don¡¯t care to engage in.


    And yet Juan don¡¯t give any one else a second look while we work the next day, just hovers over me with his snide remarks and impotent demands as I work harder than anyone else from sun up to sun down. By the end of the third day, I¡¯m about ready to drag Juan off into the forest and teach him a lesson real quick and quiet, show him there are consequences to his actions that his badge don¡¯t protect against, but I rein it in and endure as best I can, because I only got a few more days left. Fifty hours, this job is supposed to give, and I¡¯ll be damned if I go home with even a single one less. The upside is that when it comes time to sleep, I discover that someone mucked the stables, though I got no idea who. Wasn¡¯t Juan or Walt, and none of the other workers had the time to spare, meaning it had to have been someone from Carter¡¯s community. A shame they had to clean up after their guests, and makes me feel mighty sheepish for being so stubborn, but it¡¯s the principle of the matter.


    Thursday comes and goes same as the days before, and by the time Friday afternoon rolls around, I consider putting my name in the hat for Catholic Sainthood for putting up with Juan¡¯s shit and leaving him none the worse for wear. Man¡¯s still got ten fingers and ten toes, with not a single one broken or dislocated at all, and as many teeth as he left town with, which is less than a full set. A miracle is what that is, considering all of the bullshit I¡¯ve had to put up with because of him. Never stopped his needling, kept at it like a marty with a bone he just refused to let go of. As for me, I handled it well enough, mostly by sticking within earshot of the rest of the crew instead of working further out and making them hopscotch around me more often whenever they catch up, or vice versa. Mildly inconvenient for everyone involved, but Carter¡¯s presence alone was enough to keep Juan from getting in the way of my work. Don¡¯t stop the whiny shit-stain from harping on the same damn opinion all the livelong day about how I¡¯m getting off easy using Spells to do the bulk of my work. The words fall on deaf ears, but he¡¯s kept at it, and even though didn¡¯t no one say nothing, I¡¯m pretty sure Carter and his people are all less than pleased.


    Didn¡¯t no one speak up for me, nor do I expect them to, because end of the day, Juan is still a deputy, and he can easily make life miserable for everyone present if he felt so inclined to. Carter included, considering he¡¯s gotta work through the Sherrif¡¯s office if he wants another crew out here again. Looks like he will too, because even though we still got the rest of today and a half day tomorrow, that¡¯s barely enough time to finish digging out the whole ditch, while laying pipe will take at least two more days. Might¡¯ve finished the whole job if all ten men I seen from the community helped out from the very start, but every day without fail, six of them are gone by the time I wake and don¡¯t come back until just before dinner after doing Lord knows what out on the lake all day.


    No point saying as much though, as this is Carter¡¯s gig, and I¡¯m just a pair of hands here to work. After the all that digging, the lakeshore is finally in sight, and I take a moment to stretch my body and senses both by the shore as I peer out over the waters. Inside the forest, the Detect Aberration Spell don¡¯t give much of anything at all, since all them trees and tangled growths do a fair job of absorbing all the Aetheric signals I send out. That changes once we push past the treeline however, and I relish the feeling of being able to reach out as far as the eye can see. It¡¯s the difference between stumbling around in the dark with your hands outstretched before you, and moseying on through with the sun shining overhead, one that¡¯s more mental than anything else considering I ain¡¯t sensed any Abby all week, but a welcome change nonetheless.


    Because even if there ain¡¯t nothing to see, it¡¯s a world of difference from not seeing anything at all.


    Contrary to how I¡¯m feeling, the rest of the crew grows wary at the sight of open waters, and not without reason I suppose. To them, the dark waters is where Abby spring forth from, so they want nothing to do with it so long as they can avoid it. Me, I used to go swimming in these waters when the Proggie was more active and spawned wave after wave of tiny, tender little mudkippers that¡¯d die to a good whack with an oar. They¡¯d come up about once a season to try and plunder New Hope and the surrounding areas for biomass to bring home, but the Rangers gave them what for and exterminated droves of Abby every time they emerged. Then the raids started coming less and less often, and these days, you¡¯d could go a whole year without spotting a single mudkipper even if you travelled to and from Riverrun five days a week.


    Course, your average townie had best hope they don¡¯t spot any bigger, scarier Abby than mudkippers, because by they time they do, it tends to be much too late.


    Once again, Juan proves himself a fool as he saunters on over to give me a glower, standing front and centre before me with his back to the waters without so much as a glance to look for danger. ¡°Why is it,¡± he begins, looming over me with a sneer, ¡°That every time I look your way, I see you slacking off?¡± Credit where it¡¯s due, I haven¡¯t answered the man in days, and he keeps on trying. Persistent he is, so I exhale slowly and get back to digging, starting about a foot back from the waterline and working inland so the others can stay further away from the shore. ¡°That¡¯s right, boy,¡± he says, grinning like he just won a big pot and got an armload of cash to spend. ¡°Won¡¯t be no slacking while I¡¯m here, and I¡¯ll make sure to join in on your next little excursion too. Keep you honest and hardworking, because a boy like you needs watching. Poor upbringing is your problem, and a lack of good breeding.¡±


    My breath catches in my throat as it closes in rage, and I can¡¯t help but turn and meet Juan¡¯s eyes. He¡¯s delighted to see it, straightens up and puffs his chest as he moves his hands to his hips and closer to his gun. ¡°It¡¯s that mangy Qin blood of yours if what does it,¡± he says, delighting in having found my last nerve, but he¡¯s mistaken in the source. Don¡¯t give a shit about being Qin, only the aspersions he cast on my daddy, not to mention Aunty Ray, Uncle Raleigh, Uncle Teddy, Marcus, and everyone else who played a part in raising me.


    Conner included. Man taught me how to spot a loose spoke and tighten it to keep the wagon from wobbling, and fix the axle alignment should it ever tilt uneven. Taught me a lot more too, like how to play poker, then how not to play when I realized how bad he was at the game. Good memories those, all ruined by the fact that he done betrayed me to Wayne, and how I shot him in the back because I didn¡¯t have the courage, decency, or determination to do it while looking him in the eye.


    ¡°-all angry and bloodthirsty like a rabid attack dog,¡± Juan continues, utterly unaware of my complete disinterest in my heritage and the disdain I have for my people. My anger over Conner bubbles to the surface though, and Juan mistakes it for his own success. ¡°That¡¯s what all them Qin Vanguard are, remorseless killers raised and bred to kill and conquer, a bunch of feral savages unfit to live in decent human society. Them others, they don¡¯t see it, but I see you for what you are, boy, a barbaric Qink no different from the rest of them murderous, slant-eyed fucks.¡±


    There¡¯s more to his rant, but I tune it out as my jimmies get to rustling down beneath my belly. Ain¡¯t just that either, and I turn to look out over the waters for no reason I can put word to, none besides an inkling in the back of my head that that¡¯s where I ought to look. Not back behind me at the rest of the crew, or to either side along the edge of the water. Don¡¯t see nothing until I reach the middle of the lake, where a line of boats are making the trip to and from Riverrun while birds fly about overhead, and nothing but clear waters beyond until they reach out over the horizon where I know the other shore lies, but cannot be seen.


    Nearby though? There ain¡¯t a thing moving within a few hundred metres, not a sign of life to be seen, so I don¡¯t know what it is that¡¯s got my jimmies all jangling while Juan rants and raves in my ear.


    Then it hits me. Ain¡¯t a sign of life to be seen. That ain¡¯t normal, not in a vibrant forest on the edge of a bustling lake like this. Got no bright birds singing their songs, no blind chitter rats making their way through the underbrush, no bunnies hopping, froggies croaking, fishies bubbling, or even insects buzzing about, and there¡¯s only one reason why that¡¯d be.


    See, trees ain¡¯t the only thing that block Aetheric signals. Water does too, even better than trees, on account of how dense water is compared to air. 830 times denser as it were, meaning my Detect Aberration Spell, which has a range of five-hundred metres, don¡¯t penetrate more sixty centimetres beneath the water¡¯s surface. A number certain crafty, cagey Abby have picked up on, and as such, know to stay below such a depth until they¡¯ve no other choice, like when they moving over the uneven shallows under the community¡¯s makeshift floating dock.


    Without thinking, I step back and my hand goes for the Rattlesnake even as I open my mouth to shout a warning, but Juan was ready and waiting for just such an opportunity. His gun comes up before mine does, his eyes wild and full of murderous excitement at the thought of killing me dead, and there ain¡¯t much I can do except throw up my Shield and eat the shots. His body leans back to give him that extra half-inch of clearance so his draw is that much faster, and I can appreciate the time and effort that went into making it look so smooth and easy. Man¡¯s put his hours in down at the range, but his lack of real life experience proves to be his downfall, as he leans right back into the open maw of the voracious ranakin that comes diving out of the water behind him faster than you can blink.


    One moment, I¡¯m watching my life flash before my eyes as I await the Bolt that¡¯ll end my life, and the next, there¡¯s only half of Juan left, his blood spraying all about and upper torso chomped away by the fanged-frog Abby with bulging eyes, giant arms and a muscular frame covered in slime and armoured plate. ¡°Abby!¡± I call, and I can¡¯t help but smile as I unload a fistful of Bolts into my saviour while backing away, a smile that turns into a howl of laughter as I take it all in. Better to be lucky than good, and better still to be both, which means it¡¯s a great day to be me, and a terrible one for Juan.


    Farewell, Deputy. You shant be missed, though fondly remembered for this moment, if not for anything else.

 Book Two - Chapter 64

    My Rattlesnake sings its deadly lullaby with a mean, keen hiss, one that cuts deep and fades away quick.


    The muzzle flashes as the Bolts fly out, leaving a white, wispy haze of smoke and the sweet, tangy scent of cooked Aether behind. A right heady rush it is, unloading all six chambers into a target at near point-blank range, with three shots hitting centre mass and three more slamming into the fanged frog¡¯s engorged gullet, which is hard at work swallowing Juan¡¯s upper half. Six solid hits, albeit with Bolt Cantrip Cores, but modified with the full suite of hard-hitting Metamagicks tacked on to hit with as much force as a Bolt Cantrip possibly can. The cherry on top? Toppling to send whatever it hits falling back onto its ass. The Rattlesnake does all this with more accuracy and with less recoil than most sidearms too, with clean sights and Bolts that fly true from the barrel with minimal deviation. It¡¯s my fault and mine alone that all six shots don¡¯t hit target square in the jaw, rather than any fault of the gun itself. Fact is, were it any other Bolt Cantrip Aetherarm in my hand, like the snub-nosed, pocket-sized hand cannon of a Model 10 I grew so enamoured with in Pleasant Dunes, I would¡¯ve counted myself lucky to squeeze off six shots so quickly and land them all centre mass. What¡¯s more, the Rattlesnake is mechanically incapable of jamming, what with it being a revolver, and so long as you don¡¯t spin the cylinder in the frame like a fool, the timings will stay tight and reliable as always.


    Yes sir, the Rattlesnake is a whole lot of gun that does it all, the perfect all-rounder every day carry for life out here on the wild Frontier. It¡¯s served me well these last few years, and served my daddy for even longer still, a damn near relic that¡¯s almost as old as I am and has yet to fail either of us so far.


    Which is why it comes as something of a surprise when the ranakin shrugs off all six shots and only stumbles back a few steps. Got a couple new craters in its flesh while it teeters at the edge, but otherwise none the worse for wear. Wasn¡¯t exactly expected, as I figured it for dead, but like always, I planned for the worst and was already dancing away before it even started to swing. A right nasty pair of hooks it has, and I mean that in more than one way as it throws two big, scything haymakers one after the other with its muscular arms ending in a jagged, curved talon. Like a big, winged bicep with a sharp, boney crook at the end of it, that¡¯s what its arm is like, a natural weapon these froggies use to tear ships and sealife apart with frightening ease.


    Swish swoosh goes them hooks, a quick right left combination that sends a breeze blowing at my face as I dodge death by the skin of my teeth. One¡¯s bared in a big smile despite the dire circumstances. Or maybe because of, since I¡¯m feeling more alive than I have in weeks, though that might not last long seeing how I got no bullets left in my Rattlesnake and a big, beefy ranakin no smaller than Marcus to deal with. Stands seven feet tall if it¡¯s an inch, and thrice as wide as my scrawny frame, its slimy, dark-green musculature makes for a right intimidating sight as it opens its fanged, froggy mouth in a big old croaking warcry, a sound that is fury and frustration made manifest at how it fumbled such an easy play.


    ¡°Yea, I know the feeling,¡± I drawl, backpedalling while taking notice of how quickly it swallowed half a man¡¯s torso without chewing. To make matters worse, it¡¯s taking longer than I¡¯d like to switch over to a Doorknocker. Time was, I¡¯d hand off the pistol with my right hand while drawing the Blastgun with my left. Mostly because the Mage Hands are too slow in a real pinch, so it¡¯s better to set them to reloads than try any fancy hand-offs. Got no choice now, but having to complete the handover before even beginning to draw is really slowing me down, enough so that I not only have time to mouth off in the middle of a firefight, I¡¯m also out of range by the time I got the Doorknocker good and ready. If I still had both hands, I¡¯d have shot the froggie twice in the head then once with the Forzare before moving on. Tsst-Tsst Boom, and this would be a done deal, but now I¡¯m stuck in the thick of it with an empty revolver, a double barrel Blastgun that don¡¯t shoot an inch over five metres, and about three-hundred plus pounds of pissed off Abby.


    Honestly, even if I were still in range for the Doorknocker, I¡¯d much rather have more space between us, and I¡¯ve no desire to close the gap once again. Not with how fast and tough it is, and me with no grasp on where it¡¯s limits lie or how many of its friends are still lurking in the shallows which ain¡¯t so shallow after all. Explains why Carter¡¯s people opted for a floating dock rather than fixed one, so a heads up would¡¯ve been nice. My fault for not checking the depth anytime these last few days despite knowing I¡¯d be working right down there by them. Made an assumption and almost paid the ultimate price, but looks like Lady Luck is watching over me these days, after heaping a whole steaming pile on me in Pleasant Dunes. A fickle gal she is, but I ain¡¯t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.


    Uninterested in having an open dialogue, the ranakin quits its croaking to hunker down in place, and I get to diving aside right quick. Even with my jimmies and the second-hand stories to warn me in advance, the ranakin¡¯s leaping pounce brings its hooked hands within a hair¡¯s breadth of snagging my jeans. Would¡¯ve really ruined my week, as it ain¡¯t just the hooks on the end you gotta watch out for, but also the sharp, spiny protrusions dotted all along its limbs. Those¡¯ll snag clothes or flesh and slow you down long enough for the ranakin to close in and finish the job. My lacking familiarity doesn¡¯t help either, because I dove short in hopes that I¡¯d still be in range for a shot once all was said and done, only I vastly underestimated its speed and reach. Again, my life flashes before my eyes as I come up from the roll to find myself face to face with the furious froggie, its hooked hands raised high to plunge down into my tender flesh.


    So I give it the first barrel with a smile and watch as its big, froggie eyes go wide and wild when the Forzare shreds its torso in a hail of Penetrating kinetic shards. Then it sends its hulking frame flying back to splash into the water courtesy of the Toppling Metamagic Mr. Kalthoff so kindly tacked on to keep it¡¯s Aether consumption in line with the standard twelve-gauge forty-grain shell.


    Ain¡¯t much time to take in my work though, as more froggies come shooting out of the shallows, diving up and out at speeds I can barely track much less avoid. Thankfully I backed up far enough so they couldn¡¯t see me while they was coming in, and not a one of those dives are coming headlong towards me. Three still land too close for comfort, but slow is smooth and smooth is fast, a mantra I keep in mind as I cock the hammer on the second barrel and take a moment to line up my shot and hit two landing froggies with the Blast. Gotta aim lower than I¡¯d like for fear of missing the shot should they land in a crouch, which sort of works out in my favour as I catch the closer one full on with the spread, while the one behind it gets off easy with a pair of shredded frog legs.


    Undeterred by the plight of its companions, the third ranakin closes in for the kill, and again, I¡¯m reminded of how much I¡¯m handicapped by the loss of my right hand. Can¡¯t draw my second Forzare without a second hand to hold it, or shoot and sling Spells simultaneously since I only got the one hand. Not unless the Spell got neither a somatic or material component to it, a Spell you can activate with words alone which are few and far between. The material component is there to let the Aether do more with less, as it¡¯s working with what¡¯s here in reality instead of having to produce everything out of nothing instead. As for the somatic component, all that finger waggling is there to offer the caster more control, largely so they don¡¯t go accidentally slinging Fireballs every time they mutter the wrong set of words out loud. Add in how I¡¯m hamstringed by a set of laws designed by folks living in a world far safer than the Frontier and not allowed to prepare the best and choicest Spells, I¡¯m left with precious few options to defend myself against the massive mass of Aberrant flesh hurtling headlong towards me.


    So I got no choice but to utter, ¡°Recumbere¡±, burning a Second Order Spell to Misty Step my way out of trouble, which ain¡¯t ideal for several reasons. For starters, the Spell drags me a measly ten meters away from the lakeshore. Too far for a Blastgun shot if I had one ready, and too short to buy me enough time to switch my guns out, since the loaded Doorknocker is tucked away behind me for a right-hand draw. That¡¯s on me for setting my holsters up in criss-cross applesauce out of habit without thinking, but now ain¡¯t the time to ruminate over regrets. To make matters worse, my Misty Step puts me front and centre of the crowd, rather than off to the side, so now it ain¡¯t just one ranakin bearing down on me, but all four remaining froggies.


    Bad news all around, and might well have been my end if not for my lessons with Uncle Teddy. Helped me go over my legally available Spells and pick out a loadout to help make up for the loss of my hand, though I plum forgot about the unfamiliar additions in the heat of the moment. Leaves me scrambling to channel Aether through my Metamagic bead bracelet while four froggies pounce towards me from too many angles, and I pray my Quickened Spell materializes before one of them hooked talons finds its way past my skin.


    ¡°Ad Ventum!¡±


    The words come out not a moment too soon as my Warding Wind Spell takes form to cover me in a howling cyclone of buffeting winds. The gale emerges in an instant and reaches out three metres in all directions, which don¡¯t seem like much and ain¡¯t if I¡¯m being honest. If you¡¯ve ever stepped out of doorway and into a gust of wind though, then you know how it can catch you off guard. Does the same to every froggie hopping headlong towards me, throwing them aside along with a slew of dirt and branches to hold Abby back as they struggle to hop through the gale and get at me. Given the reach of the hooked talons, I¡¯m only a few inches away from death as they swing at me from all sides, but it don¡¯t matter if they miss by an inch or a mile, a miss is still a miss. Backpedalling away, I scramble to stay ahead of the determined ranakin as they fly into a rage over being denied so long, but the buffeting winds and scattering debris let me keep one step ahead of them at all times.


    Sweating something fierce for reasons besides exertion, I finally stop clinging to my empty Forzare like a fool and toss it aside. Quit reloading the Rattlesnake too, as I seen the lacklustre results once already and would rather not set myself up to be disappointed a second time. Instead, I direct the right Mage Hand over to draw my second Forzare, only to realize too late that I should¡¯ve abandoned the Rattlesnake and set the left Mage Hand to reloading the first Forzare I done already thrown away. Would still take time, but would be better than having a half-loaded Rattlesnake floating about beside me as I backpedal away. Then again, I¡¯d be stuck holding the Forzare with no fingers to waggle, and all the best Spells require one free hand to sling.


    Problem is, after one cast followed by a Quickened Spell, I can¡¯t start slinging another Spell for a full two-and-a-half seconds, and the Spell won¡¯t take effect until two-and-a-half seconds after that. Five full seconds start to finish, which might not seem like a long time all things considered, but feels infinitely close to an eternity as I dance away from the hooked hands of my ardent pursuers. Got no hopes for help coming from behind, not with all the screaming and scrambling I heard going on before my Warding Wind went up. Can¡¯t hear them now, not with the buffeting winds howling like they are, but I¡¯d much rather be deafened than dead.


    Fed up with the futile struggle to push through the wind, one froggie straightens up to its full height and puffs his throat out in a bubbly sac of skin. Knowing what¡¯s coming and helpless to do anything about it, I lift my Shield and wince as the ranakin vomits out a spray of Acid towards me. Dragon¡¯s Breath, same spell as what Cowie uses, except the Froggie didn¡¯t think things through before belching a mouthful of liquid into a veritable wall of wind powerful enough to push it back, much less a bunch of droplets.


    Acidic droplets, which get caught up in my Warding Wind and sent hurtling round and round to splash against the froggie who done cast it as well as its friends beside it. A right fun combination that is, and I cackle with glee to see it, even as a voice in the back of my head gets to heaping thanks on the Lord above for bringing me an idiot fanged froggie who belches Acid instead of Flame, Ice, or Electric. Warding Wind might¡¯ve protected me from the fire itself, but it wouldn¡¯t have done much to the heat, or anything at all to the latter two, which is just more luck than even I feel I deserve. It¡¯s one thing to say ¡®better lucky than good¡¯, and another altogether to count on it, so rather than hope my luck holds true, I seize fate in my own hand as the excess Aether from my Quickened Spell drains out of me and I start slinging another.


    Not Quickened, because the Metamagic bead can¡¯t be used in quick succession without risking burnout or worse. Not a Big Spell either, because Fireball was the only one I had in my wheelhouse and any other Third Order Spell that could¡¯ve rid me of my current woes would¡¯ve likely been illegal to prep same as Fireball. Ain¡¯t just Third Order Spells that require licenses either, though most lower Order Spells are at least attainable for a civilian like me, instead of outright banned like Fireball. Ain¡¯t acquired them licenses yet though, so no Lance, Shatter, Arc Lightning, Flaming Cloud, not even an Elemental Bomb, the bigger, more explosive cousin to Elemental Orb which ain¡¯t of any use besides starting fires from afar.


    It''s a real kick in the gut when you realize life has got you down hard, and the government sees fit to make things even harder, because I could¡¯ve ended this whole encounter with a single Spell. Well, maybe two, since these slimy fanged frogs look like they can take a licking and keep on ticking, but I doubt they¡¯d need a third Fireball. Which would put me out on my ass for the day even if I started fresh, and I¡¯m not sure I could swing a third Big Spell after all the practice I¡¯ve done today. Hell, I¡¯m feeling the pinch after the two Second Order Spells I¡¯ve used already, which is only slightly more costly than a single Big Spell, meaning I¡¯ve wasted more Spells practicing than I noticed.


    Another mistake from me, at a time in my life when I can¡¯t afford to make a single one, because even a minor setback could see me dead now that I only got one hand. Seen enough of it already, a rude awakening indeed, because it¡¯s one thing to know the deck is stacked against you, and another altogether to see exactly how bad it really is.


    A bitter pill to swallow, one made all the worse by the mixed feelings I got as I cast Spiritual Weapon and watch it take form. With so many restricted Spells limiting what I could prep, and Warding Wind eating up my Concentration to maintain, my options were sorely limited on what to add in, and Spiritual Weapon made its way onto the list. The potential damage it can do ain¡¯t nothing to sneeze at, and it¡¯s part of the natural progression of Conjuration Spells starting from Mage Hand and moving all the way up to the Fifth Order Ethereal Palm. Conjure Weapon, Conjure Armour, Spiritual Weapon, Spiritual Guardians, and Telekinesis, those are the Spells I need to study in order to bridge the gap in my understanding of Mage Hand so that I might stand a chance of improving it. Other than Telekinesis, which is a Fourth Order Spell, I got the Spell Formulas for all the rest, but only Conjure Weapon and Spiritual Weapon have made the list so far. Armour I can study later, because I still think specializing in melee is silly when you got Aetherarms to lean on, and even sillier still when you only got the one hand. As for Spiritual Guardians, I figured Warding Wind would be more useful and didn¡¯t bother prepping both since they both require Concentration.


    Spiritual Weapon though? Ain¡¯t a Spell I much like, mostly because keeping it prepared instead of Lance, Mind Spike, or any other more useful Spell is what got Marcus killed, and ain¡¯t no one can tell me different. Even if it wasn¡¯t for that glaring detail, Spiritual Weapon ain¡¯t much of a Spell, not when you got so many better options around. For the cost of a Second Order Spell, I get a big glowy lumber axe like what I used to split firewood with when I had both hands. Don¡¯t need Concentration to maintain it, but the Spell only lasts one minute at base duration, so it might as well require it from the get go. Shines bright white instead of blue like my Mage Hands, but otherwise is just as spectral and ethereal. Even moves with the same ponderous lack of haste, not accelerating as it floats along at a fixed pace until it comes within range to take a swing. Which it does with a big wind up and a bigger miss, what with how it gets blown off course by my Warding Wind. Focusing on the fool weapon, I direct it to swing with the wind rather than against it, and to target the ranakin that done cast Dragon¡¯s Breath and is ready for a second try. The Warding Wind protected me well enough the first time around, but even a single droplet getting though wouldn¡¯t be any fun to take, and doubly so since the clever froggie looks like he¡¯s aiming high and hoping it¡¯ll splash down on me from on high.


    Canny Abby, these ranakin are, a cut above them dumb, lumbering bugbears running all over the Coral Sands. The other three have already backed away and started circling around to cut me off even though not a single croak has been exchanged. Not that they could hear it amidst the torrent of buffeting wind, but their coordination and teamwork is startling to behold as I watch the Spellslinging froggie¡¯s throat puff up all big and stretchy. With all the speed and grace of a rock, my Spiritual Lumber Axe bobs over towards the big throated Abby with what feels like indifferent lethargy, but just as I think it¡¯s too late, it lashes out with all the speed and grace of a striking serpent.


    Ain¡¯t like any swing I¡¯ve ever made, not once in all my seventeen years. I could chop a log as good as anyone, and better than a fair few, but that plus a couple boxing lessons and a few dozen scuffles is about the full extent of my martial prowess. Don¡¯t keep me from recognizing real skill when I sees it though, and the Spiritual Weapon has got it, lashing out with slice so smooth it almost looks like it misses at first glance, only for the ranakin¡¯s ballooned throat sac to split open and send a cascade of Conjured Acid spilling down its front side. Whatever screams it makes is drowned out by the Warding Winds, sparing me and its fellow Abby from having to hear what it sounds like to be melted alive. While we¡¯re all staring at the unfortunate Spellslinger, the Spiritual Lumber Axe follows through with an impressive flourish and a decisive chop, one that lands clean on the next closest froggy¡¯s head and spits it wide open down the centre. Seeing it¡¯s bugged out eyes go bulging on impact would be comical to behold if not for the spray of greenish yellow blood and greyish gore, the creature¡¯s brain matter erupting out from the pressure of a single, masterful strike.


    That¡¯s a head hard enough to eat three full-powered Bolts from my Rattlesnake mind you, which once again makes me wonder if I¡¯m wrong to look down on melee. Sure, range is king and all, but I ain¡¯t gonna lie and say these results ain¡¯t impressive.


    Less impressive when Abby knows what¡¯s what and start tussling with the glowy white axe instead of treating it like the light source it looks like. The next strike from the axe gets swatted aside, and though the attack itself is lightning quick, the recovery is anything but. Raises questions about how the Spell actually works, and buys me time enough to grab my loaded Doorknocker. The hand off is gonna need some work, and I should really put the half-loaded Rattlesnake down now, but there are more pressing matters to attend to as I point my sawn-off Blastgun at the closer froggie and grin when its slitted pupils shrink in palpable fear. Letting out a whoop, I pull the trigger ¨C


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    And cut myself short as the Warding Wind catches the hail of kinetic shards and blows them astray, leaving the ranakin untouched despite standing less than five meters away.


    Ain¡¯t ever gonna live that one down, getting jammed up by my own Spell, so I quickly cock the second hammer and aim to the right of the ranakin, then further right still after thinking it through for a sec. Barely over its relief of avoiding near certain death, the froggie opens it fanged maw wide in a bellow I can¡¯t hear to reveal a cavernous pit inside, one that snaps shut as I pull the trigger and laugh as the Blast shards are carried away by the Warding Wind to slam home into its side. Only staggers the Feral rather than kill it, which ain¡¯t ideal by any means, but with the highspeed winds keeping me out of arm¡¯s reach and my Mage Hand carrying a fistful of shells for a reload, I reckon I can clean up these last two stragglers before the Spell¡¯s ten-minute duration is even halfway done.


    Unfortunately, I don¡¯t get the chance to find out as the last two ranakin trade looks, then turn and bolt back towards the docks, only slowly ever so slightly to impale the corpses of their dead friends killed by the Spiritual Axe and drag them back into the dark, murky depths of Last Chance Lake. Standing there in a circle of howling wind and a Blastgun split open for loading, I blink and stare at the empty shore in confusion for a good long second, then another as I register the facts before me. The other three Abby I done shot are gone too, along with the bottom half of Deputy Juan¡¯s corpse, all of which was likely dragged away by the one I done legged but didn¡¯t kill, leaving the whole dockside empty save for a bit of blood and debris and me without my prize.


    ¡°Well I¡¯ll be,¡± I say, to no one in particular. ¡°Don¡¯t seem fair, now does it...¡±


    Abby ain¡¯t supposed to run, not when their blood is all hot like it was, and they most certain ain¡¯t supposed to abscond with my bounty. Them ranakin looked thick with Aberrtin, both in armoured plate and empowered physiques, what with the big muscles and dense bones I assume they gotta have to shake off Bolts like they did. That one with the Dragon¡¯s Breath probably had a Core too, which is still money in the bank even if it ain¡¯t a particularly valuable one. Too finicky to get working right with tech, though it¡¯s a popular one for aspiring Innates, since Transmutation is a powerful school of magic, but not so powerful that it¡¯ll get you put on a list like most Evocation and Enchantment Innates tend to be.


    Which ain¡¯t neither here nor there. The important thing is, I got nothing to show for all my hard work besides the sweat dripping down my neck and the bill for the ammo I wasted. Still do my due diligence though, keeping the Warding Wind up and away from the shoreline until I¡¯m certain the coast is clear, and only then do I glance back to see what everyone else has been up to. Not much it would appear, as most them convicts are long gone along with Deputy Walt, while Otis, Carter, and his boys stand ready with shovels and rocks in hand like they was thinking about backing me up, but never really got around to doing it. Still, the thought counts, which is more than I can say about the rest, so I give the men who are still standing close by a nod of thanks before heading back down to pick up my discarded Doorknocker. Thankfully, them Abby didn¡¯t steal it on their way out, else I¡¯d really be out of pocket for this fight, so I make a note to be careful with discards while loading and putting the weapon away. Reload the Rattlesnake to, and just as I slide it back in my holster, Cowie comes a charging down the lane all full of fury and brimstone. Makes for a right frightful sight it does, two tonnes of horned bull bellowing out a battle cry as he surges headlong into the fray. A day late and a dollar short as it were, and I can¡¯t help but laugh when he pulls up with a fuming snort and waves his big head around in search of the fight.


    ¡°Too late, partner,¡± I say, knowing better than to move in for a hug when he got the horns out and breath going. ¡°Ain¡¯t nothin¡¯ here to kill, so you can stand down.¡± Pawing at the ground, Cowie lets out another puff of smoke and a muted bellow in protest before letting his horns fade away, melting into thin air before my eyes as the Ecto returns to Aether. Leaves him looking right sheepish as he trundles forward for a gentle headbutt, like he trying to say he¡¯s sorry for showing up so late. ¡°All good Cowie, all good. I cleaned it up on my lonesome I did. Would say we eatin¡¯ good tonight, but we ain¡¯t, since they done stolen my bounty. Can you believe that? Thievin¡¯ Abby. Guess their Proggie got ¡®em on a budget or somethin¡¯.¡±


    Cowie don¡¯t entirely understand what I¡¯m saying, as he more going by my tone as I rub his cheek and scratch his head. Don¡¯t stop me from talking to him like a person though, even if he ain¡¯t ever gonna answer back. ¡°Does raise the question though,¡± I say, moving my hand down to his chin so he looks up at me while I ask, ¡°Where was you at that took you so long to get here? You find somethin¡¯ good to eat out here? Hope it wasn¡¯t them crops, because those don¡¯t belong to you.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s been good,¡± Carter says, which is a surprise given how little the man has said to me these last few days. Less than a hundred words total outside of the first day, so to waste three reassuring me of Cowie¡¯s good behaviour shows the character of the man. Say¡¯s he cares about animals, even if he don¡¯t know how to take care of his horses all that well, though I suppose that could be more ignorance than anything else. Maybe he borrowed the horses for the ride here, and will have to borrow them again for the ride back, which I assume is gonna happen tonight. Say as much too, as we trundle on back to the encampment in a circuitous route, just to give him a heads up. Man simply nods, but doesn¡¯t add anything else, so I don¡¯t press him and just signal him and his boys to hang back once we get close to the bunkhouse.


    Cowie too, so I make the approach alone, with hands at my sides and plenty of noise. ¡°Deputy Walt?¡± I shout, well before I come into view of the window he¡¯s posted up against, one with a clear view of where them Abby would¡¯ve been coming from if I hadn¡¯t seen them off myself. ¡°It¡¯s Howie. Them Abby done cleared out, so we all good now. I¡¯m coming up with Carter and the rest.¡± And I¡¯d appreciate it if you didn¡¯t shoot none of us, is the part I leave out, because folks tend to get real twitchy when you ask them not to kill you. Especially when they scared and stressed, as I gotta assume Deputy Walt is, and the last thing I need is to stress him out even more and get myself shot by accident.


    Or not so much of an accident, as Walt repositions inside the bunkhouse and pokes the barrel of a pistol out in my general direction. Got no glass in them windows, which is how I can see the gun, though he would do well to pull back about half a foot so I don¡¯t know exactly where he aiming. ¡°You stay back boy,¡± he yells, which is not what I was expecting, all ready with my reassurances that them Abby were really gone. ¡°I saw what happened, and you ain¡¯t gonna silence me too.¡±


    ¡°¡­Um. What?¡± I ask, which is all I can really come up with, because I got no earthly idea what he going on about.


    ¡°I saw it with my own eyes I did,¡± Walt says, peeking one wild eye out from the corner of the window, and even though he got his pistol pointed in my general direction, I got a tree between us I can duck behind if need be. ¡°You baited Juan out there, tricked him into standing right where he could get got. You knew they was there, lurking beneath the surface, and you brought him out there to die!¡±


    ¡°I did no such thing,¡± I say, getting all heated up and indignant. ¡°If I had known them Abby were there, you can bet your bottom dollar I wouldn¡¯t have been standing so close to the water¡¯s edge. I went out there for a stretch and a gander, and Juan came looking for trouble himself, with no invitation from me whatsoever.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t fool me, boy.¡± Can hear the panic in his voice and see it in the way the barrel of his pistol shakes about, which makes me feel better about staying right where I am so as not to spook him further. ¡°You a killer through and through, and I know you got them tricksy ways from that Enchantress who raised you.¡± Spits the word out like a slur, which really gets my hackles up. Don¡¯t mind the fear making him point a gun at me like a fool, but any harsh language directed towards Aunty Ray is fightin¡¯ words, no two ways about it. ¡°Probably lured him over with a Spell, and them Abby too, set it up all clean and simple to look like an accident, but I see right through you.¡±


    Don¡¯t even know where to begin untwisting his facts, so I stand and blink for a bit as I ponder it over. Funny thing is, was Juan that was baiting me, trying to get me to draw so he¡¯d have legal justification to shoot me down, and now it sounds like Walt knew as much and is projecting it back onto me. Now ain¡¯t that a crock of shit, though ain¡¯t nothing I can do about it, which is why I can¡¯t think of nothing to say in the heat of the moment.


    ¡°That¡¯s ridiculous,¡± Carter says, coming to the rescue while approaching the bunkhouse on my left. ¡°Not to speak ill of the dead, but Deputy Juan has been on Howie¡¯s case all week, and didn¡¯t need any Spell or prompting to go over and harass him.¡± Or launch his racist tirade about how I¡¯m the result of some centuries long attack dog breeding program, which don¡¯t make much sense at all. If all Qin were as good as me and my daddy, then they¡¯d have conquered the Frontier in ten years flat, but they ain¡¯t doing much better than the rest of us down in the Knife¡¯s Edge Mountains. Faring far worse by all accounts, though I ain¡¯t seen it for myself, nor do I care about their mostly self-inflicted plight.


    All for the Fatherland, that¡¯s their motto, so if they gonna starve for their stupidity instead of thinking for themselves, then best they get to dying right quick and save the rest of us the hassle of having to put them out of their misery.


    ¡°You¡¯re only sayin¡¯ that because you don¡¯t know the boy,¡± Deputy Walt shouts, never taking his one wild eye off of me. ¡°You even know why he¡¯s here? Set a building on fire and killed dozens of people inside. Outlaws yea, but women and children too, and he laughed to watch it happen, like how he laughed when Juan died.¡±


    In my defense, that was more out of shock than glee, though I ain¡¯t gonna deny that it was hilarious too. Man didn¡¯t deserve to die, but better him than me, and it would¡¯ve been me if that Abby was a half-second slower. I got faith in my Shield to stop one Bolt, but the 1911 can shoot eight in three seconds. Even with my Mage Armour and duster to protect me, I don¡¯t like those odds, and Juan moved like a man who knows what he was doing. I don¡¯t say as much of course, just stand there with my arms out and to the sides to show I don¡¯t mean no threat while trying to think of some Spell to sling or place to move to deescalate the situation.


    Carter doesn¡¯t give up though, continues walking right up to the bunkhouse and says, ¡°I don¡¯t know why he¡¯s here, but I know he works harder than any three of you during the day and spends his free time working even harder. Didn¡¯t cause my people any trouble, and that¡¯s all that matters to me. As for the Aberration attack, it was an unfortunate event, but I warned your Sherriff that it could happen. Told him in writing that all the noise and activity might attract their attention, which is why he sent you and the other Deputy along.¡± Can hear the contempt loud and clear as Carter opens up the front door, risking himself getting shot by Walt in a panic. The worst don¡¯t come to pass though, as Carter¡¯s muted voice comes out through the window as he says, ¡°So how about you stop pointing your gun at the young man who saved us all a hard fight, and we move on from this? If you¡¯re so concerned, take a sample of his blood for the Sherrif to test and see if he has any Spells that could do what you¡¯re accusing him of. I take it you need to return to town and report this either way?¡±


    Grabbing onto the lifeline like a drowning man, Walt wavers a bit longer while making sure I¡¯m agreeable to the test, which I am. Makes me start bleeding right then and there too, just to be extra sure I don¡¯t wipe the Spell Structures from my mind in the short time it takes him to come outside with his kit. Don¡¯t bother arguing how it takes longer than that to remove a prepared Spell, as you don¡¯t just whisk it away with a thought, so I stand there bleeding from my palm for a good two minutes because Walt¡¯s eyes ain¡¯t what they used to be and needs a good stream of blood going before he can see it. Ridiculous to come out of a fight unscathed and have to cut myself to prove my innocence, and it annoys me to even have to do any of this. What happened to innocent until proven guilty? These days, feels like I¡¯m presumed guilty of some crime until I prove otherwise, which ain¡¯t how it¡¯s supposed to be. Damned criminals are treated with more respect than me, but don¡¯t suppose there¡¯s anything I can do besides swallow my grievances and move on.


    Don¡¯t escape my notice how Walt don¡¯t say word one about Juan¡¯s body, because the thought of bringing the man¡¯s corpse back don¡¯t even cross his mind. Sure, it¡¯s probably tucked away in some Abby¡¯s belly by now, but Walt don¡¯t know that, which goes to show his character, or rather the lack thereof. These are the men we rely on to keep us safe from criminals, which is why I¡¯m grateful the Founding Fathers saw fit to add in the Second Amendment which protects my rights to bear arms and sling Spells. Would be a goner if I had to rely on the likes of Juan and Walt to keep me safe out here, and I pity Otis and the others for having to come out here unarmed. Don¡¯t none of them meet my eyes though, no one besides Otis who don¡¯t seem to care about much either way as they all sit pretty in the back of the wagon and wait to be brought home.


    Takes a bit of doing it does, because while we all packed light and are ready in mere moments, Carter has to head back inside the compound to see his people safe. Takes a good twenty minutes for him to come back out with four bareback horses trailing after him. Funny that, how the horses just follow him without stopping to graze or sniff the flowers as horses are wont to do, and they even line up in front of the wagon and wait patiently to be harnessed. That¡¯s some training they got there, even the ugly one who stands out so much. As for me, I don¡¯t got much to pack, and what little I do have is inside the stables, which I intend to steer clear of until Walt is done wrangling his and Juan¡¯s horses. Makes a man wonder why Carter¡¯s people built this nice, neat, and rarely used stable when they clearly keep their horses inside. Seems like a real waste of space is all, seeing how limited the real estate be within them walls, and better for Abby or outlaws to nick your horses without threatening the safety of you and your loved ones.


    What do I know though? Maybe they just got sick of having their expensive, well-trained horsies stolen away. Should say something to Carter though, maybe let on that him and his are missing out big, because anyone that can train horses so well is at least on par with Aunty Ray, if not better. She never could get them horses lined up like they ready for a parade, not without a rider sitting up top at least, so I¡¯m guessing they got themselves an Enchanter too, one who knows their business well enough to make their name on this here slice of the Frontier.


    I point out as much as I help him harness the horses, but he simply nods and dismisses it without thinking. Calm and stoic, that¡¯s Carter in a nutshell, doing everything with the same level of coolheaded rationality whether it be digging a ditch or readying to square up against Abby with only a shovel in hand. Which is more than what he¡¯ll have on the way home, another point I bring up before he climbs up into the driver¡¯s seat, because he went to bat for me and I respect that. ¡°More than just Abby to be wary of out here,¡± I add, just in case he thinks he¡¯s safe because lightning never strikes the same spot twice, which is just patently untrue no matter how you slice it. ¡°I¡¯m sure I¡¯m preaching to the choir here,¡± I add, holding up a hand to show I mean no offense, ¡°Living out here like you do. Can¡¯t be easy, and you done a damn fine job up to now, but if today¡¯s kerfuffle ain¡¯t a call to arms, I don¡¯t know what is.¡±


    ¡°Thank you for your concern,¡± Carter says, with a curt but dismissive nod. ¡°We¡¯ll take it under consideration.¡±


    Had a lot more ready to share if he seemed interested, like how he don¡¯t necessarily gotta buy the newest toys and biggest calibers. Something like a Penetrating rolling block rifle wouldn¡¯t cost them more than forty to sixty dollars a piece and will last until their grandkids are having kids so long as its treated right. Single shot weapons sure, but they did the job well enough for the townies in Pleasant Dunes, and could double as hunting rifles to put some more meat into their sorely lacking pots. Seeing how he ain¡¯t all that interested though, I zip my lip and throw on a Longstrider Spell so I can keep up with the wagon on foot. Mostly to work off all the excess energy and adrenaline I still got all pent up inside of me. Ain¡¯t shaking as bad as Errol was after the showdown with the harpies, but there¡¯s a tremble in my hand that kept me from even thinking of taking a shot at Deputy Walt because I had no confidence I could make the shot.


    So where did it all go? My confidence that is. Back in Pleasant Dunes, I went on a tear and hit every shot I needed to with my left hand only, albeit with plenty of help from flashbangs and Cantrips to buy me time to line them up first. Between then and now, I¡¯ve somehow lost all faith in my abilities, and it shows as I look back on how the fight went. Bad from the get go, but after that first Abby popped out, I should¡¯ve backed off then and there and slung a Spell to hold it in place, along with any others that come out of the waters. Don¡¯t got Web or Spike Growth prepped because I didn¡¯t want too many Second Order Spells, but I got Entangle which would¡¯ve slowed them ranakin down long enough for me to get my Blastgun shots off.


    A clean and easy fight that would¡¯ve been, simple is as simple does, with no survivors to run away with my bounty. What¡¯d I do instead? I stood there like a fool and waited for the ranakin to close in so I could get a shot off. Passive play, that¡¯s what that was, and I did it again when its friends showed up right after. Forced me to blow Misty Step to get away, then use a Quickened Warding Wind to defend myself because I was caught in a bad pinch. All because I played passive to start, which left me reacting to everything that came after. Was lucky the frog had an Acid Dragon¡¯s Breath instead of any other Element, or a different offensive Spell that wouldn¡¯t be affected by Warding Wind like Arc Lightning or Flaming Cloud.


    All of which could¡¯ve easily been avoided had I done the smart thing and thought about my next moves. That¡¯s the strength of a Spellslinger, preparation, which don¡¯t change just because you get caught unawares.


    Been barely a hot minute since I been out of the game, and it looks like I¡¯m already falling apart at the seams. Thought I only lost a hand, but it seems I¡¯ve lost my confidence and wits too, which is a right rude awakening if there ever was one. Leaves me feeling about low as a snake¡¯s belly as we make the long ride home, short ten hours of my expected fifty no less. Means I still got 440 hours of hard labour ahead of me, which is doubly bad since the number four is bad juju. Least that¡¯s what my daddy believed, though only because it¡¯s a homonym for ¡®death¡¯ in Qinese. Silly superstition that, but no sillier than the rest of them like throwing salt over your left shoulder every time you spill it or going to church every Sunday so your eternal soul don¡¯t suffer from damnation. Seems mighty petty for an almighty being to consign you to suffering for not showing up for a lecture every week, even if said lecture has wine, bread, and songs to keep things lively, but what do I know?


    By the time we make it back to New Hope, the sun is just beginning to set, but I ain¡¯t free and clear to head home just yet. Gotta sit through an interview with the Sherrif, who clearly thinks this is nonsense since he don¡¯t say a word and lets Walt take the lead. Man might be a deputy, but he¡¯s not much of an interrogator, just levels baseless accusations which I argue until my patience is worn thin and I had over the recording crystal instead. Tried to play it nice and spare Juan the embarrassment of being outed as a petty racist after his death, but being treated like a criminal gets real old real fast. Sherrif Patel watches the recording once without saying a word, and Deputy Walt has the gall to act all offended that I would even think to record things, like somehow it makes his job harder if a Deputy has gotta be held accountable for his words and his deeds.


    Gets me out of the interrogation room though, without so much as an apology, but I¡¯m just glad to get gone. As I head out, I spot Carter still sitting outside in the waiting area like he got nowhere to be. ¡°Need a guide, boss?¡± I ask, keeping it cordial, but not too friendly. ¡°Travel lodge ain¡¯t far, and I know a place that serves the best stew in town for cheap.¡± A bit of a jab, because all he done served us these last few days was stew, and a right thin one at that, plus flatbread without any clove butter no less. Would invite him over for a meal, except I got no food in my fridge, and don¡¯t like him enough to impose on Aunty Ray.


    Sure, the man was ready to stand and fight, but he didn¡¯t come running in to help. Earns him a drink at most, which I¡¯m happy to provide, and not a thing more.


    ¡°I¡¯m not staying,¡± he says, which gets me to blinking, because travelling alone and unarmed during the night is a fool thing to do, and he don¡¯t strike me as no fool. He knows it too, so he amends the statement and adds, ¡°At the lodge.¡±


    Doesn¡¯t clarify further, so I shrug and say, ¡°Well, if that falls through and the lodge is full up, you can ask the Sherrif to send you my way.¡± Can¡¯t leave the man out on the streets, now can I? ¡°Them horses can bunk up in Cowie¡¯s barn, and I got a spare room.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, but it won¡¯t be necessary. I¡¯ll be out and settled soon as I sort out some paperwork.¡± Giving me a nod, he adds, ¡°There¡¯s still work that needs done. You got more hours?¡±


    ¡°Plenty,¡± I say, then wince to hear it, because it sounds like I¡¯m bragging. ¡°I mean, yea. If you need me, I can even make the trip out there myself with whoever else is willing. Smaller group might attract less attention, and I get the feeling it¡¯ll be a while before the Sherrif can rustle up enough volunteers to work out at your place.¡± Ain¡¯t his fault, as Abby be Abby, but folks get antsy about working at a jobsite where a Deputy got got.


    ¡°That¡¯s what I was thinking too,¡± Carter replies. ¡°Got permission to take you on alone. Will take longer to finish the job, but you¡¯re a good worker and I trust you¡¯ll stay that way even without supervision.¡±


    And less mouths to feed and prying eyes on the home front is also a plus, but it¡¯d be rude to point it out. Besides, it¡¯s difficult to fault a man while he complimenting you to your face, so I smile and stick out my hand for a shake. The wrong one at first, but Carter don¡¯t let that phase him, and his grip is firm without approaching overbearing. ¡°Well, so long as the Sherrif is amenable,¡± I say with a shrug, ¡°I¡¯m happy to work as long as you need me.¡±


    ¡°Good man,¡± Carter says, still clasping my hand tight. ¡°And thank you,¡± he adds. ¡°Even though you had no choice but to fight, you were still protecting me and mine. We won¡¯t forget it Howie, so if the Sherrif¡¯s office gives you any pushback for this, you come to me and I¡¯ll speak on your behalf.¡±


    ¡°Thanks boss, but here¡¯s hoping it won¡¯t come to that.¡±


    Probably won¡¯t, not legally at least, not with the recording I handed off. Still, the court of public opinion is already against me, and I doubt Deputy Walt or them other convicts will keep their lips buttoned up for long, meaning my rep is about to take another nosedive. Nothing to be done about that though, and honestly, I can¡¯t say I care much to even if there was. So long as they leave me and mine alone, then they can have whatever opinions they like, because I couldn¡¯t care less about what some townies think.


    My lacking confidence though? That¡¯s a real problem. Gotta get back what I lost and then some. I know I can do it. It¡¯s only a matter of time now, and I¡¯ll be out on the road hunting Abby and outlaws soon enough. A year, maybe two, and then I¡¯ll pick back up where I left off, like I never stopped at all in fact.


    I¡¯m almost certain of it.

 Book Two - Chapter 65

    The scent of fresh baked bread and bacon crisping in the oven made for a heady bouquet as Tina skipped down the stairs to start her big day.


    Rounding the corner into the kitchen, she Mama waiting with arms wide open. ¡°There¡¯s my birthday girl,¡± Mama whispered, her bright and beautiful smile so full of love and adoration as Tina went in for a hug. ¡°All grown up at seventeen years young.¡± Mama held her extra tight this special morning and snuck in a couple kisses too. ¡°Let me get a good look at you,¡± she said, pulling back once she was done, her voice still whisper quiet like they was in the library instead of the kitchen of their own house. ¡°Give us a twirl in that dress now. Been too long since I seen you wear anything besides them drab tan shirts and dark jeans, without so much as a splash of colour or femininity to be seen.¡±


    All too happy to comply, Tina struck a series of poses while turning this way and that, pleased as peach to be wearing an honest to goodness dress again. A sleeveless blue linen Pinafore over a nice white blouse, which was a real fancy way of saying a set of overalls that ended in a skirt instead of shorts. Would pair perfectly with her strappy white sandals, while her riding shorts underneath meant she was perfectly capable of riding, running, shooting, and anything else that might come up over the course of the busy day, so long as she remembered to kick off her sandals first. Struck a good balance between fashion and practicality it did, and she wished she could dress like this everyday, though she understood why she couldn¡¯t. Was hard enough running in full gear without having to hike up your skirts, a problem which could be solved by shortening their length to just above her knees, but God forbid a lady show her calves lest the sight of so much bared flesh drive all the men insane.


    Silly that, having to cover up just because some folks couldn¡¯t be bothered to behave, especially since there were those who¡¯d catcall you no matter what you wore. Been that way since Tina turn twelve, and not just from folks her age or younger. Thought she¡¯d heard it all here in town, but the trip up to Pleasant Dunes showed her different. Seeing how them poor miners lived was a real eye-opening experience, especially with how comfortable so many of the men were with threatening violence on her and the other women. Turns out, the drunken lecher she¡¯d pulled her gun on was downright polite compared to the rest, who didn¡¯t say nothing out loud within earshot, but the dark looks they gave her all the livelong day left no doubt as to what they had on their minds. Then there was that lippy brat Junior, who was spewing all those hateful things before Howie tuned him up, none too shy about announcing his horrible intentions like it was the most natural thing in the world. Don¡¯t even get her started on how their womenfolk were dressed, not just the gals working at the saloon, but most all of them including girls younger than Tina even.


    Wouldn¡¯t be polite to speak ill of the dead, but Ronald Jackson and the members of Vanguard National got what they deserved, no two ways about it. Wasn¡¯t just because they took Howie¡¯s hand; the way they treated those townies might have been legal and aboveboard in keeping with the Accords, but that don¡¯t make it right.


    So these days, Tina wasn¡¯t so fussed about her skirt going down to her calves or keeping her neckline by her collarbone anymore. Was still a right lovely outfit, and Mama thought so too, piling on compliment after compliment while snapping Photos with the Cantrip before waxing nostalgic. ¡°Feels like just yesterday when you was wandering around in skirts and pigtails,¡± Mama whispered, taking Tina¡¯s cheeks in her hands with a teary little smile. ¡°While dragging that stuffed horsie around everywhere you went, no less.¡±


    ¡°Sunflower. She¡¯s still sittin¡¯ upstairs next to my bed,¡± Tina replied, beaming bright to remember it. Daddy was the one who made it for her, hand stitched it out of scrap cloth and wally wool, while Uncle Ming Mended it more times than she could count. She remembered sitting with Uncle Marcus and brushing Sunflower¡¯s hair, and Uncle Tim using Illusions to make the horsie come to life. Good memories all around, and Tina was disheartened to know none of them were around today. At least she still had a chance to see Uncle Tim again, though things had to be bad in Meadowbrook if they were keeping him up there as the man in charge. As for the other three? They were all dead and gone, alongside too many other lost friends and family to list, but that¡¯s how it was. Wouldn¡¯t find a single person here in New Hope who hadn¡¯t lost someone near and dear, and losing more just meant you were fortunate enough to know so many good people before they passed.


    Rallying back from her wistful thoughts before she started shedding tears, Tina gave Mama another hug with an extra hard squeeze before back off and asking, ¡°So why we whisperin¡¯ Mama? The neighbour bein¡¯ nosey again?¡± A running joke of theirs, because the neighbour was Howie, who was here more often than not and was family through and through. Man only lived alone in his tiny shack of a house out of sheer stubbornness more than anything else, instead of moving into his old bedroom which was now the guestroom, or rather had always been called as such even though Howie lived there for years and years before joining his daddy out on the road.


    ¡°Some top boot you are,¡± Mama whispered, tweaking Tina¡¯s nose ever so gently before pointing over at the living room with a mischievous little smile. ¡°Gotta work on that perception of yours before you Ranger ready.¡±


    It took Tina¡¯s eyes a moment to adjust to the shadows and make out what was there. The fact that it was all dark and gloomy should¡¯ve been her first clue, because Mama always threw the curtains open first thing in the morning to open the house up to all that sunlight. Soon as Tina saw what them shadows were hiding, she let out a little gasp, only to cover her mouth with both hands for fear of making too much noise. There in the armchair where they¡¯d left him last night was Howie sleeping peaceful as can be. Rare to see him so still and tranquil, his features all soft and relaxed and head tilted ever so slightly. All the cuts and bruises he¡¯d picked up in Pleasant Dunes had healed over and cleared away, leaving his pale, porcelain skin without so much as a scar despite how badly he¡¯d been beaten. Was strange really. Folks all called the Qinese yellow, but Howie¡¯s skin was naturally as white as hers, albeit with a warmer undertone which really showed on the back of his hands that¡¯d been tanned near bronze from working outdoors all the livelong day.


    Was a two-to-three-hour ride to Carter¡¯s community where Howie worked sun rise to sun set, though knowing him, he paid no mind to the hour of day and worked until someone told him to stop. Could never get him to sit still, but put him to task and he¡¯d go at it with inhuman focus at the expense of almost everything else. Seeing how he squeaked in last night just before they closed the gates at ten, Howie was probably still working when the clock struck eight, then high-tailed it home atop of Cowie with a Longstrider Spell and liberal use of Expeditious Retreat to make it back in time. Small wonder he¡¯d fallen asleep on the armchair then, nodding off in front of the fireplace after singing happy birthday and scarfing down a piece of cake. Not that Tina blamed him. The fact that he rushed home to even be there instead of staying the night like usual was enough to show he cared, honoring their tradition of celebrating the night before Tina and Chrissy¡¯s actual birthday like they had for so many years.


    Course, she hadn¡¯t forgotten Howie had fallen asleep in the living room. She just figured he¡¯d already be up and about, having taken to rising early to handle all the morning chores. Guess he really was beat after doing whatever it was he¡¯d been up to these last few weeks. A full month of hard labour without a break, 190 hours total, 10 short of the maximum 200 he could¡¯ve legally worked in that time frame because of a scuffle with Abby cutting the work week short.


    Wasn¡¯t no one pushing him to finish his hours so quick, not the Sherrif, not Uncle Teddy, not even Carter to hear Howie tell it, but he went hard in the paint because that¡¯s the only way he knew how to live. Wanted his hours out of the way ASAP so he could start earning for himself again, which was why he''d come home every weekend and disappear into the depths of Danny¡¯s workshop every Saturday. Was learning more complicated Etches and how to craft doo-dads and doo-hickeys every week, having already crafted a new set of speakers and two amplifiers for their guitars so they wouldn¡¯t have to use a Spell to make themselves heard in a crowd. So far, they¡¯d gotten by with using Bardcraft, but you could get a much better quality of sound with tech. The Cantrip made it sound like you was sitting right next to the source of whatever was being projected, whereas the tech projected the sound from a static point, letting you take advantage of the natural acoustics of your location.


    A detail Howie remembered from Lord knows how long ago before setting to build them amps without being asked. That¡¯s how he spent his Saturdays, before disappearing for all of Sunday morning and not coming back until lunch. Sometimes not even, as he¡¯d stay at Uncle Teddy¡¯s and cook for him after their lessons on the ins and outs of theoretical Arcana, Quantum Dynamics, Ray Theory and more. All some real egg-head sorta stuff, things most old worlders barely understood themselves because those who did made a career of it instead of running off to start a new life on the Frontier. Make no mistake, Tina was happy to see Howie bounce back from the loss of his hand and barrel forth along a new path he¡¯d picked out for himself, but he was burning the candle at both ends in his rush to get there. Left him precious few hours to spend with the family before heading to bed after Sunday night dinners, because he needed to be up well before dawn to make it back to work on time.


    All in all, it meant they saw him even less than when he was riding out and about, or at least that¡¯s how it felt. Back then, when he came home, he was here for good, puttering around the houses, working on his wagon, finishing all her chores unprompted, or just spending time with them down at the park or around town. Nowadays he was so busy they¡¯d barely had a proper conversation in weeks now, and Tina missed spending time with him something fierce.


    Wasn¡¯t the only one who felt that way it seems, as Chrissy had taken it upon herself to sneak down in her jammies and cuddle up beside Howie. Had her legs curled up over his lap and head snuggled right into his chest, while he had his cheek nestled against her long, silver locks. A right darling sight it was, sweet as molasses and heartwarming as can be, and Tina could hardly contain herself to see it. Only way it could be sweeter is if Howie wrapped his arms around Chrissy, instead of keeping them laid out slack atop the armrests, or if Chrissy hugged Howie instead of clutching at the quilt wrapped around her shoulders. One she¡¯d stolen from him no less, as it was the same one Mama laid over Howie last night to keep him from catching chill, but given the fact that he was wont to sleep outdoors without so much as a blanket much less a bedroll, Tina figured he¡¯d be alright.


    ¡°I gotta get me a Photo,¡± Tina whispered, only for Mama to hold her back.


    ¡°Fool girl,¡± Mama said, moving her left hand through the familiar motions as she slung a Spell for Tina to see. ¡°I already got plenty. This one¡¯s my favourite.¡± An image sprung up from overtop Mama¡¯s hand, showing an angle so close she would¡¯ve had to stand over them to take it. Even added in some contrast and colour to make it easier to see, as if the Photo had been taken in the full morning¡¯s light, showing details too difficult to pick out with the natural eye. Neither Howie nor Chrissy were smiling in their sleep, their expressions best described as neutral or mayhap even cold and grim if you were feeling ungenerous. Was just how it was with the both of them, a fact some folks were quick to forget ever since Howie started going round with a smile pasted across his face. Made him look a lot friendlier, and he said it helped out on the road, which if true made Tina wonder how bad it was before he started smiling. Them pearly whites didn¡¯t do him no favours in Pleasant Dunes, and it seemed like he¡¯d all but given it up these days to go back to his natural, indifferent, almost disdainful neutral expression.


    Wasn¡¯t his fault really. Was just how his features naturally came together, with his narrow eyes and pursed lips making it look like he was always glaring and sneering to boot. Uncle Ming had the same expression, and Howie looked enough like his daddy to clearly see the resemblance. Only difference was Uncle Ming had rougher, broader features, while Howie¡¯s were finer and more delicate, with well defined brows and long lashes she envied with all her heart. Losing the baby fat on his cheeks to reveal his sharp jawline hadn¡¯t helped, because the sallow gauntness of his features made him look even younger than he was, rather than the Firstborn and oldest of an entire generation.


    More than anything though, at this very moment, Howie looked¡­ peaceful. Tired yea, but relaxed and tranquil too, which is what you¡¯d expect to see in a man fast asleep, only that wasn¡¯t always the case with Howie. Tina only just noticed it on the trip to Pleasant Dunes, when she spotted him fast asleep on her way to and back from watch duty. Had to do a double take more than once, because most times he looked more like a man who¡¯d only just closed his eyes to rest rather than one fast asleep after a long day¡¯s travel. There was a set to his jaw, a stiffness of his shoulders, a readiness to spring up and do violence at the drop of a hat, which Tina thought was funny at first until she realized it¡¯s how he had to sleep to deal with whatever may come while riding out on his own. Seemed a bit extra, and his actions while awake were downright unseemly until Tina noticed Captain Jung tacitly encouraging his behaviour, because she knew that sort of readiness to inflict violence was how you had to be in order to get through to them Vanguard National thugs.


    This was the sort of life Howie lived out here, one of bloodshed and brutality without mercy, a life he¡¯d been living for more than two years riding solo without major injury until she¡¯d ridden out beside him.


    No two ways about it. Howie lost his hand because he¡¯d been looking out for her, too afraid she¡¯d be caught in the crossfire if he showed Wayne what¡¯s what instead of going along with the crooked Ranger¡¯s schemes. And Conner too, who backed Wayne the whole way through, a betrayal that cut Howie deep seeing how he avoided talking about the friendly, afroed Artificer as much as he could. The wounds Howie took in Pleasant Dunes were the price paid to keep her safe, because she¡¯d been leaning on him too heavily for him to fight unburdened, and Tina would never let it happen again, because now it was his turn to lean on her.


    Which made it all the sweeter to see him so laid back and serene, unburdened by his worries here at home with his family. Giving Mama her best and brightest smile, Tina asked, ¡°If I sneak on over there, could you take a Photo of all three of us?¡±


    Caught between her desire to leave Howie be or snapping a Photo of all three of her babies, the latter won out as Mama urged to be quick and quiet as can be. Tiptoeing over the carpet with as much care as she could, Tina moved to Howie¡¯s left so she could kneel next to him while Chrissy slept on the right. Beaming brightly, she held her pose as Mama framed the Photo and snapped a few off, then moved her hand behind Howie¡¯s head and raised two fingers to give him bunny ears. A chance like this didn¡¯t come around often, so she had to take advantage while she could, but the moment she turned to face Mama for the Photo, Tina¡¯s smile froze on her face as the room came alive in a blue, spectral glow. Turning to the side, she was greeted with Howie¡¯s smug smile as he watched her through half lidded eyes, still sleepy and half-awake despite conjuring up a Mage Hand to give her a matching pair of bunny ears.


    ¡°Gotta get up real early to get one over on old Howie,¡± he drawled, his voice all dry and gravelly. Shifting in his seat, he stretched ever so slightly before turning towards Chrissy. ¡°Same goes for you Princess. You awake yet, or you still pretending to sleep?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± came the muffled reply, eliciting a soft smile from Howie and Tina both.


    ¡°No, you ain¡¯t awake, or no, you ain¡¯t pretendin¡¯? Which is it, Princess?¡±


    Having caught on to being made fun of, Chrissy didn¡¯t answer, just reached up to gently pinch Howie¡¯s cheeks in a minor fit of pique. Raising his arm to squeeze her shoulder, Howie froze for all of a moment when he remembered he didn¡¯t have a right hand anymore, a mistake he made at least once or twice a day even though more than six weeks had passed since he lost it. Broke Tina¡¯s heart to see it, but Howie rallied right quick and switched over to his left instead, squeezing Chrissy¡¯s hand three times to tell him he loved her by way of apology.


    ¡°Happy Birthday,¡± he said, glancing at Tina to include her as he gathered Chrissy up in his arms. ¡°Time we got a start on the day though,¡± he continued, gently coming to his feet without so much as a grunt as Chrissy nestled deeper into his chest, unwilling to give up her comfy perch just yet. Made Tina jealous to see it, especially considering how Howie would make all sorts of sour faces whenever she asked him to carry her the same way. Was always one to spoil Chrissy, carrying her over to give Mama a peck on the cheek before heading up the stairs. ¡°Got a lot on the schedule for today,¡± he said, after admonishing Chrissy gently about sneaking into his bed, because even though it was an armchair, being asleep on it made it a bed, and boys and girls ain¡¯t supposed to share beds. ¡°Best we get it all out of the way early so there¡¯s more time for celebrations. Ain¡¯t just your birthdays after all; it¡¯s the Advent Anniversary too.¡±


    April 29<sup>th</sup>, the day the settlers passed through the Gate way back in 1989, and the reason Tina and Chrissy always celebrated their birthday a day early. Now it was 2007, marking the start of the eighteenth year on the Frontier and another day closer to the Watershed. They didn¡¯t always celebrate the Advent, and truth was, it wasn¡¯t really much of a celebration even now, more a day of remembrance for all those they¡¯d lost along the way. Was likely why Chrissy was being so clingy, her arms still wrapped around his neck even though he¡¯d sat her down on her chair in front of her mirror. She knew they¡¯d be going to visit Daddy¡¯s grave later on after breakfast and she was dragging her feet out of sadness and misery. Knowing this, Tina did her best to help Chrissy cheer up, including bringing out a matching pink Pinafore for her to wear. That did the trick, as it¡¯d been years since they¡¯d dressed to match, and Howie hightailed it right out the room when Chrissy stripped out of her jammies without so much as a word of warning. She was seventeen now, same as Tina, but mentally, she was still the same sweet little girl as always, one lost in her own mind and unwilling to find her way out, because she preferred to stay in there where she felt safe and sound.


    Was a time when they all hoped she¡¯d eventually snap out of her fugue and become more grounded and down to earth. Was precious little hope of that now, what with her being seventeen and still as dreamy as ever, somehow able to forget she was getting dressed halfway through putting on her dress and standing around in a daze for a good long second while glancing out the window. ¡°Kiccaws on the swing,¡± Chrissy said, as Tina stepped in to help, and she couldn¡¯t help but smile to see her sister so happy.


    ¡°Yea they are,¡± Tina said, unable to resist giving Chrissy a peck on the cheek. Howie built those swings up top the ranch fence, so the kiccaws had a place to perch where the marties couldn¡¯t bother them. Not that them fierce birdies had anything to fear from the marties, who¡¯d much rather go after some burrowing rodents rather than pouncing birds with a penchant for fighting back. The wallies loved the kiccaws too, since the birds used their big eyes and deft beaks to snap up all the ticks, fleas, and other pests nesting in their wool. As for Cowie, he wasn¡¯t a huge fan of having to share his barn, especially with four new horses in there taking up so much room, but the big sweetheart would come around to them in time.


    Just like Howie, who grumbled about the birds the whole trip only to come home and build them all sorts of perches and toys, as well as multiple birdhouses to take shelter in and pet doors into the barn for them to hop up into. A softie is what he was, acting all cold and grumpy despite being warm and fuzzy in all the places that counted. Showed in how he came back to brush Chrissy¡¯s hair with a soft and gentle touch, then did the same for Tina without prompting. Not just because it was her birthday either, as Howie had been doing her hair whenever he was around ever since coming back from Pleasant Dunes, and learned a fair few tricks in the process. Left her hair down today, brushing it out to have more volume while looking both wild and natural as can be, only to tidy it all up with a ribbon to keep her bangs and flicks out of her eyes. Kept with the theme of matching outfits with Chrissy, as they now sported similar hairstyles and bunny-ear ribbons which he tied off with his deft Mage Hands before declaring his job done.


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    All without saying a word mind you, just a series of grunts as Tina carried the conversation. Wasn¡¯t because he just woke up; Howie was even less chatty than usual in recent days, never really offering much about himself unless directly questioned. Mama had noticed it too, which was why she set to gently grill him while they all sat down for breakfast. ¡°So Howie,¡± Mama began, adding a hefty helping of bacon and grits onto his plate while trying to act all nonchalant. ¡°How are things going with Mister Willis and his community?¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    That was all he had for them before tucking in, using his Mage Hands and two forks to eat because one was too slow and Chrissy was still clinging to his left arm, making full use of her birthday privileges to push the envelope even further. It worked too, as Mama simply rolled her eyes at Howie and Chrissy both before asking, ¡°I know you finished the water tower, irrigation channels, and cobbled walkway, but I don¡¯t rightly remember what he got you working on these days.¡±


    That¡¯s because Howie never shared, and Tina figured out why soon enough. ¡°Dock,¡± he said, keeping his head down while he ate to avoid having to meet Mama¡¯s eyes.


    Because he knew how she¡¯d react, all concerned and alarmed as she fired off her sentences without stopping to breathe. ¡°After what happened with Deputy Juan? Ain¡¯t that dangerous? You said yourself they ain¡¯t got any guns to protect themselves, so what you gonna do if more of them Abby show up?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine.¡± Hand to God, Howie thought that¡¯s all that needed to be said, and might well have stayed silent if Tina didn¡¯t give him a swift kick to the shins underneath the table. A light one, so light he didn¡¯t even flinch, but Mama gave her a glare all the same. Got the job done though, as Howie sighed and continued, ¡°Ain¡¯t started on the stone work out in the water just yet, but we¡¯ve already laid out a perimeter of wards and traps to keep us safe when the work starts. Which ain¡¯t exactly hard labour, but it needs doin¡¯ and they can¡¯t afford the Sheriff¡¯s rates.¡±


    ¡°So you been doin¡¯ it for them on the sly?¡± Frowning something fierce, Mama asked, ¡°You sure about that? Not to say you can¡¯t lay a ward, but there are legalities to it that you might¡¯ve overlooked. If somethin¡¯ goes wrong and your wards don¡¯t work as expected, they could rightly sue you for negligence or even wrongful death in civil court. That¡¯s why Abjurers all gotta get licensed and insured after all, so you best think twice.¡±


    ¡°Told them as much before I set it up,¡± Howie said, pocketing a mouthful of bacon in one cheek so he could speak around it. Then, under Mama¡¯s glare, he carefully chewed and swallowed before explaining, ¡°So we wrote up a contract saying he put in the wards, and I¡¯m just there to provide muscle. Was supposed to be uprooting trees at the time, but that was just an excuse for the Sherrif, because again, hard labour and whatnot.¡±


    Mama wasn¡¯t happy, but she didn¡¯t press the issue, because Howie was a stubborn as they come. Instead, she went at it from a different angle and asked, ¡°What sort of wards you do for them?¡±


    ¡°Alarm mostly, all along the shore and some out in the forest too,¡± Howie replied, more alert and lively now that they were talking about stuff he was actually interested in. ¡°Wanted to lay one in the lake proper, but moving water interferes with Aetheric harmonics. The currents would tear any ward I set down within the day, though Danny says they had contraptions to fix that sort of thing back in the old world. Some sort of silicon wafer that converts the Aetheric Waves into electro-magnetic? Don¡¯t rightly understand the tech, and it can¡¯t differentiate Abby from fish or even boats, so you gotta tinker with the parameters to avoid a deluge of false positives, but it does the job. Supposedly. Got none of that though, so we got nets attached to bells and plans to lay down a Protection from Abby Ward to dissuade them from coming up anywhere close to the dock.¡±


    ¡°Won¡¯t stop them cold though,¡± Mama said, even though Howie knew it good and well. Just wanted to be sure he told Mister Willis and his ilk, and sure enough, Howie confirmed it with his next words.


    ¡°Yea, warned them a fair few times, and I think they even listened.¡± Taking a bite of his bacon with a shrug, Howie went right back to eating, but now Tina¡¯s curiosity was piqued.


    ¡°Sounds like you like working there,¡± she said, because Howie was never one to suffer fools lightly, and she hadn¡¯t heard him make a single complaint about the little community besides their lack of Aetherarms.


    ¡°Yea, they good people,¡± Howie replied, after glancing at Mama and swallowing his food.


    ¡°That so? Who else you know there besides Mister Willis?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­¡± Looking like a deer in the headlights at so simple a question, Howie hemmed and hawed before doubling down on his ignorance to crack jokes. ¡°There¡¯s tall and dark, short and brown, mean and yellow, and a couple others.¡± At least he had the decency to look sheepish as he listed off the descriptors, making it clear he didn¡¯t know anyone¡¯s name besides his boss. ¡°Look,¡± he said, sounding defensive as can be as he tried to head off another lecture about judging by colour, ¡°Carter¡¯s folk don¡¯t do much talking, not even amongst themselves, so I keep my lip buttoned to maintain the peace. Usually say less than a dozen words a day if you average it out, which is real nice. Don¡¯t gotta ask after the family or how so and so is doin¡¯, or what happened with that thing they mentioned last time I was around.¡±


    Tina could hardly believe it, a whole community of folks who hated small talk as much as Howie. Get him on the right topic and he wouldn¡¯t shut up, but wanting anything more was like pulling teeth from a tuskwulf. Mama kept at it though, without learning much of anything at all by the time breakfast was done, but it wasn¡¯t like Howie was being intentionally obtuse. He answered any direct questions quick as he could, but missed out on the implied ones like how the frequent travel must be hard on him without a wagon to ride on, or whether they were feeding him enough while he worked. No and yes were his answers to those, without so much as an attempt to clarify, which just wasn¡¯t how normal folks communicated, but Howie was nothing if not abnormal.


    Was still family though, which was why they headed down to visit Daddy¡¯s grave all together after the chores were done, with Chrissy on Howie¡¯s arm and Tina on Mama¡¯s. Was always a teary reunion, their little talks down by the gravestone, a right proper marble slab Daddy carved himself. As a joke, he said, but Mama knew different, that it was his way of coping with all the fear and stress that came with the job. ¡®Husband, Father, Uncle, and Ranger,¡± that¡¯s all the tombstone said before Mama added, ¡®Forever loved, and always missed¡¯ underneath it. There it was, proof positive that Howie was a part of the family, because Daddy thought of him even in his darkest moments. Always brought a tear to Tina¡¯s eyes, and Mama¡¯s too, which got Chrissy crying alongside the both of them. Not Howie though, who stood there all calm and composed as could be, the same way he¡¯d stood tall during the funeral. Tina remembered it well, how he¡¯d been there at her side all dry-eyed and stoic as they lowered Daddy in the ground, holding her hand and Chrissy¡¯s too, squeezing oh so tightly because that¡¯s all the emotion he allowed himself to show. Wasn¡¯t that he loved his Uncle Raleigh any less than Tina loved her daddy. No, Howie stood strong because he thought that¡¯s what everyone needed from him, a tough and dependable sorta brother to be Tina and Chrissy¡¯s stoic rock in a sea of emotional turmoil.


    Which was true. She did need him, and Chrissy did too, but only now did Tina realize Howie had no rock of his own. Who would stand strong for him now that he needed someone to cling to? No one, that¡¯s who, meaning he had no one to hold him tight while he cried for all that he¡¯d lost. Man walked into the lion¡¯s den to keep her safe, lost his hand and livelihood both in one fell swoop, and even then, the first thing he did when he saw her after the fact was smile and say, ¡°It ain¡¯t as bad as it looks.¡±


    Liar. It was far worse, because even though he was still alive, his dreams of being the Firstborn were all but gone. That¡¯s how he felt, even if he never said it, and Tina knew it because she knew him too well. Time was, he¡¯d have come back from that Abby ambush and hatched himself a plan to get even and get paid, but instead, he chalked it up as a total loss and acted like it didn¡¯t bother him none. Wasn¡¯t practicing his left-handed draw at his makeshift shooting range, or bringing his new guns down to the proper range to give them a go. Even stopped referring to himself as the Firstborn, and was just ¡®old Howie¡¯ now, like a retiree who¡¯d gotten out of the game despite being only seventeen years young. Sure, he talked the talk about how he was fixing to craft an automaton prosthetic or improve Mage Hand well enough to wholly replace the hand he¡¯d lost, but actions spoke louder than words, and Howie had always been a man of action.


    And now, his actions said he was all but throwing in the towel, getting ready to settle down for a life here in town as an Artificer, handyman, or some other sort of trade. Make no mistake, he¡¯d do well no matter what he set his mind to, even hunting Abby if he wanted to, but for Howie, being the Firstborn meant more than being good. He had to be the best, and since he couldn¡¯t, he figured he might as well not even try. Lost his dream of being a Ranger, and now he couldn¡¯t even be the Firstborn no more, which left him hurting more than he¡¯d ever admit.


    Small wonder he liked helping Mr. Willis and his community so much. Was the sort of thing Uncle Ming used to do, back when this here slice of the Frontier was more unforgiving without the Bulwark of fortress towns all set up.


    Despite all of Tina¡¯s pleas for him to join them for the festivities, Howie ran off to Danny¡¯s workshop soon as they were done visiting graves. Claimed he had some commission to finish up right quick, which might even be true this time around. Still, Tina couldn¡¯t rightly remember the last real festival Howie had gone to, not including those impromptu celebrations like the one they held the last time he fought off all those harpies. He¡¯d been the talk of the town that night, with people lining up to shake his hand, and now those same people were whispering about how he ought to be exiled instead. Wasn¡¯t why he was in hiding though. Howie stopped coming to the Advent Anniversary after the Rangers disavowed his daddy and Uncle Ming¡¯s name didn¡¯t make it onto the list of that year¡¯s fallen heroes, one that was read out to the town and engraved into a cenotaph sitting outside the cemetery. Still, maybe it was better for Howie to stay out of the spotlight for a while, because he was never one to play nice or back down from a fight.


    And sure as shooting, there would be a fight if he saw how some folks were eyeing Tina, Chrissy, and Mama from the crowd, all judgy and conspiratorial like they¡¯d raised a hardened criminal instead of a fine young man they¡¯d celebrated as a hero not two months ago.


    Putting them out of mind, Tina did her best to enjoy the day as best she could, and stuck around for the speech which Uncle Teddy nailed as always. When the representative from the Rangers came out to recite the names of fallen heroes, it burned Tina to hear Wayne¡¯s name called out like he wasn¡¯t some two-timing, double dealing, scumbag of a traitor. Wasn¡¯t fair for him to be honoured while Uncle Ming was spurned, and even from a distance, Tina could tell it didn¡¯t sit right with Uncle Teddy either. Still, she didn¡¯t make any fuss, only cried all the harder when Uncle Marcus¡¯ name was read out and Howie appeared to take her hand, just like he did all those years ago at Daddy¡¯s funeral.


    Yea, Howie was family through and through, and if this town didn¡¯t want him, then Tina didn¡¯t want nothing to do with the town neither.


    Course, that was an option of last resort, because it wasn¡¯t like everyone had turned against Howie. Only the loudest and dumbest, who also happened to be the most cowardly as they stood back in their groups judging everyone who came to greet Howie after the ceremony was done. Sarah Jay was first in line, dragging Errol along behind her, though Tina was of the opinion she¡¯d¡¯ve been better off leaving him in the crowd. While he hadn¡¯t come right out and accused Howie of nothing, Errol heavily implied in front of everyone and God that he didn¡¯t buy the official story, nor did he believe the rumours going about accusing Wayne of being dirty. Was as good as kicking dirt at a downed man, and Tina burned to hear it, especially after what Howie did for Sarah Jay by giving her the whole check they earned from selling a Mage Armour Spell Core.


    Not to mention his cold offer to handle things with her drunk and abusive stepfather, one made in all seriousness as soon as he found out why Sarah Jay was so hungry to earn.


    Stung Errol¡¯s pride something fierce, any fool with eyes could¡¯ve seen it. This on top of the caribou steak made for a vicious one-two punch, one Howie delivered without batting an eye. Don¡¯t know what happened between the two of them over those short three weeks together, or how they could fall out so quickly and not even try to hash it out, and Howie didn¡¯t seem interested in mending fences with the man. Fact was, he seemed done with Sarah Jay too, offering the money as a way to cut ties with a clean conscience, because that¡¯s just how Howie was. Would grumble and grouse about every little thing, but he¡¯d still help wherever he could, because underneath his tough, uncaring exterior was a big ol¡¯ softie who cried the first time his daddy took him out hunting because he didn¡¯t want to shoot no cute bunny.


    Tina didn¡¯t envy Sarah Jay her precarious position, doing her damnedest to maintain the peace between her man and her childhood hero, but luckily, Errol and Howie were content to simply ignore each other¡¯s existence for the most part. There were plenty of other more welcome guests, like Antoni who came in hot with a hug for Howie, or Michael and Gabrielle who paused their all too intense staring contest to check in with the gang. Kacey showed up with a gift for Tina and Chrissy, hair pins decorated like flowers in blue and violet, a sweet gift from a sweet girl who Tina adored. Couldn¡¯t say the same about Noora, who slipped in while Mama wasn¡¯t looking to gave Howie a hug that was none too chaste as Josie and her friends stood close by and giggled their brains away. They were only a year younger than Tina was, so why did they seem so much more immature? A mystery for the ages that one, but she didn¡¯t have the heart or desire to investigate, and instead trusted Howie to be a gentleman, in spite of how he looked coming down the stairs of that saloon in Pleasant Dunes.


    All in all, Tina believed his story, if only because it sounded so farfetched. Still, she couldn¡¯t help but wonder why he¡¯d let Noora mess his clothes up so much, especially since there wasn¡¯t no need to go so far just to sell a story¡­


    The night wore on and Howie soldiered through, smiling a familiar faces and chatting with anyone who stopped by. Danny paid them a visit with his sisters in tow, while his mama hung back and looked appalled and ashamed, followed by the Padre who waxed poetic for a good quarter hour about redemption and recovery. All Howie did was nod in silence, and eventually even the Padre had to give up and walk away, only to be replaced by flirty Miss Dawson who dropped in to see why her best customer hadn¡¯t been around in awhile. Miss Shirley from the pub gave Howie a big hug, while Rudy from the gun range said he¡¯d be happy to lend Howie a few left-handed rifles to practice with until he got his own, and still more people came by to offer support and condolences, to show that Howie wasn¡¯t entirely alone.


    No matter who it was, Howie greeted them warmly with a sad little smile that was all the more heartbreaking for being entirely genuine. He appreciated their support, but deep down, he believed it wasn¡¯t necessary. He¡¯d never give up on his dream of being the Firstborn, but he also didn¡¯t think he would ever succeed, and Tina didn¡¯t know how to rekindle the fire inside him.


    Man wasn¡¯t even getting into no fights anymore, though Lord knows there were those who deserved it. Like Gabe and Steve, along with the rest of their cronies who went on and on about they¡¯d be working for racist Richard¡¯s racist daddy after Basic was done. They hung out nearby and looked ready to start something, but Howie put them in their place with little more than a glare. One that promised pain and worse, only time was, he would¡¯ve welcomed the fight with a big smile on his face before laying a beatdown on them fools. Gabe and Steve didn¡¯t have courage enough to face Abby with a full company of Rangers supporting them, so of course they didn¡¯t have the stones to take on Howie?


    Was almost a miracle really. Six weeks or so in town without so much as a scuffle, which had to be a new record for Howie, but Tina knew he was hurting real bad, and his way of coping was putting that hurt into others. Not the best way to go about it, but still better than bottling everything up inside, which was what it looked like he was doing now.


    Round about eight was when Howie called it a night, claiming he was tired and headed home for bed, and Tina went along with him and Chrissy. Was in no mood to celebrate her birthday with friends, not with the Advent Anniversary being a day of mourning more than anything else. A terrible day for a birthday, all things considered, but Tina didn¡¯t mind it all too much. Doubly so when they got home and Howie took a seat on the porch bench before indicating for Tina to come sit down beside her. Chrissy was already sitting, clutching his right arm close like she always did when they¡¯d just come out of a crowd, and Howie gave her a few minutes to come out of her shell before revealing why they were all sat out here on the porch.


    Reaching under the bench, he pulled out a bag with two wrapped boxes inside, and handed the first over to Chrissy. ¡°Happy Birthday,¡± he said with a smile, looking like a proud papa himself as Chrissy carefully opened her gift with rarely seen gusto. Inside was a mini projector mounted on a silver medallion, like what he used to project Photos and notes on his wagon. ¡°Now you can look at Photos whenever you like, Princess,¡± Howie said, even though Chrissy had figured it out for herself and had already activated her gift to look through the images stored inside. ¡°It even plays music and shines lights, though the last bit is Ben Franklin rather than Issac Newton.¡±


    Raising an eyebrow in question, Tina met Howie¡¯s eyes as he clarified, ¡°Mundane, rather than magical.¡± That wasn¡¯t what she wanted to ask though, and he knew as much, was just avoiding it altogether. Tina didn¡¯t let up though, so eventually, he pursed his lips, shrugged, and nodded ever so slightly, confirming that the Silent Image Spell Core in Chrissy¡¯s gift had come off his wagon. Might not seem like much, but it was just another way Howie was slowly and quietly giving up on his dream, dismantling the tools he used to make a life out on the Frontier. Reading the pain in her eyes, Howie shook his head, smiled, and handed her the second box. ¡°Now, don¡¯t be jealous Chrissy,¡± he began, speaking to her even though she was lost in the iridescent image of jaibex on a mountain ledge. ¡°But truth is, your gift was mostly practice for making Tina¡¯s gift.¡±


    ¡°Okay Howie.¡± Sweet girl that she was, Chrissy took the prompt seriously and even put away her projector for a moment to see what Tina got. Taking that as her cue, she opened her gift with far less care than Chrissy had shown. Tearing aside the wrapping paper, Tina found a lovely velvet jewellery box inside, like what you¡¯d see in the windows of them fancy stores on the thoroughfare. Even popped open like one with brass hinges and everything, and inside sat a beautiful silver pendant of a round kiccaw with its chest puffed and wings outstretched.


    ¡°I love it,¡± Tina whispered, running her finger over the little birdie and feeling the hum of Aether contained within. ¡°¡­What¡¯s it do?¡±


    She couldn¡¯t tell, not like Chrissy could, and she knew better than to Actuate a Spell Core without knowing what it did first. ¡°A pendant on a chain,¡± Howie supplied, which was none too helpful, but he refused to be rushed as he picked it up and Conjured a Mage Hand to help her put it on. ¡°The birdie there is just the Actuator though. The real gift is still in the box, which ain¡¯t just to hold yer jewellery. Open it up.¡±


    Tina lifted up the padded interior to reveal the inner workings of an Artifact more compact and complicated than anything she¡¯d ever seen. Wasn¡¯t simple and intuitive like the recording medallion Howie kept on his hatband, or large and sprawling like the makeshift Mage Armour Artifact he worked up on the way to Pleasant Dunes. No, this was some real professional work, an array with Runes so tiny she could barely even see them, all planned and laid out with care and precision beyond the simple devices Howie had made before.


    Was breathtaking to see how much progress he¡¯d made in only a few short weeks, and she said as much. ¡°I didn¡¯t actually plot out the array,¡± Howie admitted, which was a tacit admission of having Etched the whole thing, with only his left hand no less. Can¡¯t make an Etch with a Mage Hand, as it had to be flesh and blood making the connection, meaning he¡¯d learned and adapted in only a few short weeks. ¡°Got a list of optimal Metamagics from big Alfred, and Danny helped plan out most of it, but truth is, I still don¡¯t entirely understand how or why it works. Too complicated for me, as I¡¯m still stuck on the basics, but a few more weeks of study ought to get me there.¡±


    ¡°Still haven¡¯t told me what it is,¡± Tina said, impatient as ever and unwilling to sit through a lecture of Aetheric Dynamics.


    ¡°Mm, best you try it for yourself and see.¡± Pointing at a lacquered copper cable, Howie said, ¡°Take that cord there, and fix it to the back of the birdie pendant. Clunky, I know, but if you can sit down with Chrissy and figure out how she Acuates Artifacts without having to touch them, then we can reconfigure how it works without the cord or pendant.¡±


    ¡°Like this,¡± Chrissy said, holding out her box with her new medallion still inside before holding her other hand a good six inches over it. Didn¡¯t do nothing physically, but Tina saw how Chrissy took hold of the Aether flows and gave ¡®em a good metaphysical yank to get the projector started. Again, the jaibex appeared above the medallion in all its glory, with the music playing and lights shining all the while.


    Had no earthly idea how it was even possible, but Tina couldn¡¯t deny what she was seeing, while all Howie could see was the results. ¡°Thanks so much Chrissy,¡± he said, his tone patient without spilling over into patronizing. ¡°I can¡¯t see what you see though, so do you think you could you use your words and explain what you¡¯re doing?¡±


    Bless her heart, Chrissy cocked her head and thought about it for all of three seconds before giving up and saying, ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Well, thanks for trying,¡± Howie said with a smile, one he shared with Tina as he got back to business. ¡°Failing that, you¡¯ll have to put up with the wire. Ideally, you¡¯d wear the pendant under your collar and flush against your skin, but for now you can just tap it with your hand.¡± Even saying that much made Howie blush, but before she could make fun of him, he rallied and pushed on. ¡°The box is just to hold the Core and Aether tank, but the Actuator is where the Spell is localized, so make sure the pendent is sitting close to the hollow of your neck, ¡®cause that¡¯s where I calibrated it for.¡±


    An awful lot of specifics to adhere to, but Tina found that the pendant sat perfectly where Howie said it should, as the fine steel link chain was just the right length. With his go ahead, she Actuated the Core and gasped as a soft, shimmering disc of translucent, blue-white light manifested about a foot in front of her. No, not just a disc, but a protective plate that was more solid and defined than she¡¯d ever seen it before, with a palpable substance to it that wasn¡¯t there before. She¡¯d seen that glowing disc many a time, first on Uncle Ming¡¯s wrist than later on Howie¡¯s, a spectral Shield taking form to protect them in a firefight, and now it was hanging there in front of her. Perfectly positioned mind you, covering her head and upper body while leaving her free to shoot from the hip without firing through the Shield.


    Even though he¡¯d seemingly given up all hope for his own recovery, Howie was still doing his best to protect her, because that¡¯s what big brothers do.


    ¡°No! I told you to hang onto this for yourself,¡± Tina sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks as she tried to take the pendant off, but Howie placed his hand over hers and she couldn¡¯t bring herself to fight him.


    ¡°That¡¯s back when you thought I¡¯d be getting shot at every other day.¡± Howie¡¯s smile was warm and full of love, but hiding all his pain and sorrow underneath. ¡°Won¡¯t be much of that anymore. Promise. You the one who¡¯s gonna be out there now, so best you use this instead of letting it go to waste, specially now that it got so many extra Metamagics attached to it.¡± Leaning forward, he touched his forehead to hers and held it there for all of a second before backing away, which wasn¡¯t long enough by half. ¡°Besides,¡± he added, his smile growing wider and faker as he forced levity into the conversation. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t want to waste all of Danny¡¯s hard work that went into making this, now would we?¡±


    Tina couldn¡¯t help but laugh though the tears, and consoled herself by leaning on his shoulder while he explained the ins and outs of how it worked and what to watch out for in terms Spell tolerance, time limits, and general wear and tear. She did her best to listen, she really did, because this was important stuff that could mean the difference between life and death out there. Even then, she couldn¡¯t help but zone out as she listened to Howie talk and thought about how to reignite the fire inside him, only to come up empty on all fronts.


    For now. She¡¯d think of something soon enough. If not today, then tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after next. Eventually, an idea would come, and it might even work out, but so long as she never stopped trying, then it was only a matter of time before she got him back on his feet again. He was Howie Zhu, the Firstborn of this here Frontier, and even though he thought he was down and out, she knew there was no quit in him. None whatsoever, no matter how he might feel right now, so Tina would hold onto the Shield Core his mama gave him for now, and give it back when he was feeling like the Firstborn again.


    No. Not again, because he still was the Firstborn even now. The loss of a hand was just a minor setback, one he¡¯d bounce back from in no time at all. Was a matter of confidence is all, and he¡¯d find it soon enough, because historically, Howie¡¯s issues with confidence stemmed from an overabundance of, rather than a lack thereof, so Tina was sure he¡¯d find his footing soon enough. All he needed was someone to lean on for a bit is all, and soon as he realized that, then she¡¯d be right here to help prop him up.


    Because that¡¯s what family do. They stick together, and Howie was family through and through.

 Book Two - Chapter 66

    Unseen and unheard.


    A principle Noora lived by after her parents died, and it was a hard habit to break. Hard as smoking, which was also why she lit up while lurking in the shadows of Howie¡¯s house, a tiny brick shack that looked like the toolshed to the big house next door. Habit is all, and nothing to do with the fact that she was waiting for him to finish hanging out with his gorgeous, twin ¡®sorta-sisters¡¯ who didn¡¯t act like any sisters Noora had ever seen. They were always holding his hand, clinging to his arm, or resting their heads on his shoulders whenever they could. The three of them didn¡¯t act like any siblings Noora had ever seen before, here or in Pleasant Dunes, all close and touchy feely as they snuggled out on the front porch like it was the most natural thing in the world.


    Small wonder Howie was immune to Noora¡¯s charms. Wasn¡¯t willpower that did it; he¡¯d just grown used to that sort of intimate contact.


    Those ¡®sorta-sisters¡¯ made for some real stiff competition, which was why Noora was waiting to catch him alone before making her approach. Difficult enough trying to top the gorgeous, blonde, buxom Tina, so spirited and lively without even having to try, but it was damn near impossible to hold Howie¡¯s attention with Chrissy around. A beautiful, silver-haired angel, one touched by Aether and so innocent and defenseless that even Noora wanted to love, cherish, and protect her. As for Howie, he guarded her almost jealously whenever they were together, glaring at any man caught staring at her porcelain features or coming in close for a chat, but it wasn¡¯t entirely their fault. There was more to Chrissy than just her beauty that drew your attention, something besides her alluring looks, milky white skin, and exquisite amethyst eyes. Tina had the same face, but beautiful as she was, she didn¡¯t capture your attention the way Chrissy did, the same way the towering, whitewood trees of the alabaster forest captured Noora¡¯s attention the first time she saw it.


    It was the sheer majesty of the expansive woodlands that did it, as well as the complexity and diversity of it all. They rode for six days alongside the forest, and she watched the trees go by the entire time while marvelling at the ever-changing scenery. Wasn¡¯t like the desert sands, where one sand dune was same as any other. The forest was vibrant and alive, a dynamic growth of endless white wood, creeping blue vines, entangled purple shrubbery, and flowers and fruits in all colours of the rainbow.


    As for why Chrissy¡¯s expression, or lack thereof, was so compelling to look at, Noora really couldn¡¯t say. The girl had an air of relaxed indifference about her as she went about her day, all alone in the world save for whatever captured her interest. Adrift and untouched by her surroundings, like an angel out of heaven here to see what the humans were all about.


    Which was why Howie was so protective of her. Chrissy could only live this way because she had him there to look after her, her own personal guardian and bodyguard. Wasn¡¯t just an arm for her to cling to either. He¡¯d point out things of interest for her to look at, pull snacks out of his pockets for her to eat, wipe her mouth with a clean kerchief and fuss about with her silken, sliver tresses whenever the wind moved even a single hair out of place. He loved the girl something fierce, did everything he could to protect her from the ugliness of the Frontier, and Noora envied Chrissy her good fortune for having someone like that in her life.


    That said, Noora wasn¡¯t here to steal Howie away from Chrissy. Not really, and not just because she didn¡¯t think she could win. No, she just wanted to talk to him alone, where he didn¡¯t have Chrissy to distract him and she didn¡¯t have to deal with Tina¡¯s jealous pouts or Aunty Ray¡¯s pointed questions about her intentions with Howie or subtle disapproval of how she dressed. Now there was a woman unlike any other, so perfect in every way it hardly seemed fair. Aunty Ray was tall, fit, buxom, and attractive, with big expressive eyes and full luscious lips that were so red and juicy that even Noora sometimes wondered how they might taste. A kind and compassionate mother, Aunty Ray made sure everyone had a plate of food and a drink in hand at Howie¡¯s barbeque while finding the time to let Noora know in private that she was always welcome to come and talk or just have a meal if that¡¯s what she needed. Not that she did; the Ramirez''s welcomed her into their home and made sure she had everything she needed. Not just a bed to sleep in and food to eat, but new clothes to wear and her own ¡®sorta-sister¡¯ in Josie, a sweet, bubbly, na?ve girl with big, brown eyes, pouty little lips, and the cutest button nose you¡¯ve ever seen.


    Girl wouldn¡¯t have made it two days in Pleasant Dunes, but that¡¯s the thing. She didn¡¯t have to, and hopefully never would. That¡¯s what New Hope was about, keeping their people safe and sound here inside it¡¯s massive stone walls. They were two or three times taller than the walls in Pleasant Dunes, and so long you couldn¡¯t see either end of them while standing at the gates. That¡¯s how big the town was, a sprawling stretch of brick buildings and cobblestone streets which were bustling at all hours of the day. Could get lost here so easily just wandering about, and spend days exploring the area without ever retracing your steps. Been here for little over a month and Noora had yet to see everything there was to see, but not for lack of trying. New Hope was just that big, a sprawling metropolis that that seemed like paradise next to the nightmare that was Pleasant Dunes.


    And Howie¡¯s modest little house sat almost dead centre amidst it all, in the sleepiest neighbourhood of all, a quiet sanctuary of scattered homes sitting in a meadow which the whole town was built around. Was incredible to see it, the fields of clipped white grass with their neat purple hedges and manicured trees to break up the monotony. The houses each had big fields around them, which Noora assumed had once been farmland but now sat idle and unused, save for the odd barn, shed, or stable scattered about. Howie¡¯s place was the only one with a fenced ranch, with painted wooden posts that looked nicer and cleaner than anything they had back in Pleasant Dunes, while a whole herd of adorable wallies hopped all about, looking soft and fuzzy as can be.


    Was a world of difference from Pleasant Dunes, and not just for the lack of sand. There was a gentle liveliness to the town which almost seemed unreal, a place of peace and unity so different from what Noora thought was normal for so many years. The people weren¡¯t guarded and standoffish, with no one watching their back from anyone else as they went about their days, most wearing more wealth than even Mr. Jackson. In fact, there were some who made him look downright shabby in comparison, businessmen all dressed in their bright, clean slacks and matching jackets over colourful, collared button ups, with silk ties, gold watches, and folded pocket squares that were there for decoration. The women around them were even fancier with their tight, square shouldered jackets and long pencil skirts, with fur or silken scarves, pearl and ivory buttons, as well as big, lumpy earrings and bulky necklaces to show off shimmering gemstones aplenty.


    Small wonder Howie was so angry about Pleasant Dunes. He knew the prices these rich people paid for the uncut stones the miners dug up for Mr. Jackson to sell. Enough to have everyone back there living like kings no doubt, except none of them knew it, none except Howie who saw how both sides lived. Made her all the more grateful for his efforts to see them free and clear of the Company. Sure, it was the Rangers who brought them all out of the desert, but Mr. Jackson never would¡¯ve let them leave if Howie hadn¡¯t put him and his dogs down first.


    And make no mistake, that¡¯s what happened in Pleasant Dunes. Noora didn¡¯t see it for herself, but she heard the explosion and the gunfight that followed, one that ended less than a minute before Howie came tumbling out the second story window of Mr. Jackson¡¯s living room. He went in there with nothing but the guns on his belt and left only death and ashes behind, because he was the Firstborn and that¡¯s what he does. Made her feel silly for stopping him on his way up the saloon stairs, because he¡¯d have made short work of the bouncers and any reinforcements to boot, even without the Rangers there to back him. Maybe if she hadn¡¯t interfered, he could¡¯ve cleaned up Vanguard National a week earlier and saved himself a whole lot of heartache, including the hand he lost somewhere along the way.


    A message that, a punishment for stealing Company profits, meaning there was more to this than just Howie disrespecting Big Al or shooting Tank and getting him arrested. Somehow, the Firstborn hurt the Company¡¯s bottom line and pissed Mr. Jackson off enough to make an example of him. There¡¯d been plenty of those over the years, miners who thought they could palm or pocket a gemstone and sell it on the sly only to lose a hand once they were caught. Most died soon after, because if the infection didn¡¯t do them in, then poverty would soon after, and of the two, Noora would pick infection every time. Least they died in a matter of days; a one-handed miner working down in the tunnels could survive just long enough to wish otherwise.


    It''d be different for Howie though. Not only did he not get infected, everyone was talking like losing a hand was only an inconvenience for him, what with how he had two Mage Hands to work with. A tricky Spell to pick up it was, and Noora knew this firsthand, having learned the Cantrip from Josie¡¯s Spellbook and spent the last five weeks practicing as often as she could. Still couldn¡¯t pick up a cup filled with water without spilling out half, or hold a pencil properly much less write with it. Granted, she didn¡¯t have all that much time to practice considering the piles of schoolwork she had to finish in order to catch up, but she relished the opportunity to learn with a hunger most kids in New Hope didn¡¯t understand. They didn¡¯t know how good they had it, sitting at their desks all morning and reading up on history or math, instead of learning how to pick a lock or shimmy a door just so you could get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.


    Got plenty of that these days too, in her own bed right next to Josie¡¯s. Had a soft, stuffed mattress, warm, fluffy blanket, and no unexpected visitors to boot, but her wonderful bed would go unused tonight so long as things went according to plan. And if Josie kept her cool without giving the game away. The sweet girl was innocent as could be, all shocked and appalled Noora would be so bold as to spend the night at Howie¡¯s. Jealous too, because she clearly had a crush on the Firstborn, but was too scared and shy to do anything about it. Too bad for her then, because it didn¡¯t matter how safe or orderly New Hope might be, it was still every woman for herself out here. That¡¯s why Noora stuffed some clothes under the covers of her bed to make it look like she was already fast asleep, even though the sun had only just set, and seeing how Mr. Ramirez had yet to sneak in even once so far, she figured no one would be the wiser so long as Josie didn¡¯t squeal.


    Still made Noora nervous though, standing out here in the open where anyone could see her, but there was no helping it. There wasn¡¯t much shelter on this side of Howie¡¯s house, just an open field until the next house over at least a hundred metres away. Not all of the houses were spaced so far apart, as Howie¡¯s was an outlier here in this sleepy neighbourhood, built right next to the ranch on Aunty Ray¡¯s property, while doing absolutely nothing with the rest of his land. A crazy concept, owning land inside a town instead of everything being owned by the Company, and Noora didn¡¯t understand how it all worked save to say Howie had a whole lot of space he wasn¡¯t using in the most desirable part of town. Close to the main thoroughfare and far from any of the four walls, a jewel nestled safely in the middle of New Hope because he¡¯d been here before there was even a town to name.


    ¡°You lost there little lady?¡±


    Noora almost jumped out of her skin at the unexpected question as she turned to face Howie, who was leaning out from around the corner and tucking his pistol away. Even here at home, he was careful and vigilant as can be, having somehow discovered Noora standing around the corner without knowing it was her. Uncanny that, alongside his stealthy approach, and she reminded herself never to try and take him by surprise ever again. ¡°Not at all, handsome,¡± she replied, flashing a smile as she recovered from her surprise. ¡°I¡¯m right where I want to be.¡± Slipping her arms around his waist, she glanced at Aunty Ray¡¯s porch to make sure Chrissy and Tina were gone. They were, but standing out here in the open was a surefire way to get caught, so Noora pretended to shiver while pressing herself right up against him. ¡°It¡¯s a little cold though. Mind if we take this inside?¡±


    Howie didn¡¯t answer right away, or jump at the chance to get her inside and alone. He just raised and eyebrow and smiled at her as she leaned back in his one-armed embrace, like he knew exactly what she was trying to do and wouldn¡¯t have any of it. ¡°Get¡¯s a whole lot colder out here, don¡¯t it?¡± he asked, gently extricating himself from her arms before removing his duster and slipping it around her shoulders. One of them at least, while the other slipped off because he didn¡¯t have a hand to hold it in place. Made his smile slip too as he clenched his jaw in muted frustration, and she hurried to help him fix it, which only made things worse as the whole thing slid off her shoulder until it was just dangling there in his hand. Cheeks burning as she wrapped the heavy leather jacket around her, she glanced up to see his soft smile back in full force, not a big toothy grin like what he was flashing in Pleasant Dunes, but a muted quirk of his lips that fit his sharp features well.


    ¡°It¡¯s the breeze,¡± she said, shivering as the warm wool lining pressed against her bared flesh, of which there was hardly enough. Wanted to look good for him, which was difficult to do in an oversized, long-sleeved button up and pants with a waistline so high it sat above her belly button, but she made it work by leaving all the buttons undone and tying her shirttails into a knot. Was a far cry from the tight shirts and short shorts she was used to back in Pleasant Dunes, but the people of New Hope were a prudish bunch who balked at the thought of showing a knee. Sweet Josie loved her a sundress, which looked loose and comfortable to be sure, but they covered her from neck to ankle and were impossible to run or hide in. That and the ribbons, so very many ribbons, which is why Noora opted for the loose linen pants and baggy plaid shirts even though they were an eyesore.


    Truth was, she didn¡¯t mind looking dumpy and unappealing most of the time, except that made it hard to look good when she wanted to. Not that it mattered all that much, because Howie¡¯s eyes stayed fixed on hers at all times save for when he was glancing around at their surroundings, casually scoping things out because he never felt safe, not even at the literal door to his own home.


    ¡°I¡¯d invite you in,¡± he began, in his slurred, sing-song tone which suited him so well once you got past the unexpected surprise, ¡°But it¡¯s late, and it wouldn¡¯t be proper for a man and a woman to be seen together alone. How about we walk and talk while I escort you home?¡±


    Even though it was phrased as a question, Howie was already guiding her away from the house, but Noora dug her heels in and stood her ground. ¡°Forget proper,¡± she said, snuggling in close to his chest with a pout. ¡°I came all this way in the cold, so I deserve a tour before I go.¡± At the very least, and she had a whole lot more in mind, which she conveyed with her eyes as she pressed herself against him again. Couldn¡¯t come right out and say it, because she¡¯d already tried that twice and gotten nothing for it, so now she was trying something different. ¡°Please?¡±


    Worked like a charm too. Push and he¡¯d push back, but melt and he¡¯ll pick you up and carry you around, because that¡¯s just the sort of man Howie was. ¡°Alright,¡± he say, relenting even though he knew full well what she was doing. ¡°A quick tour, in and out, then we get you back home safe and sound.¡± She had so much to say about in and out, but she held her tongue and gave him a devilish grin, one that ignited a fire in his eyes. Disentangling himself from her embrace, he paused to pat his pockets and make sure he still had everything on him. Was doing a bit, because she could feel his wallet sitting inside his duster which she had draped around her shoulders, so she laughed and followed him over to the door. One he unlocked with a touch, the bolt disengaging with an audible click-clack as he rested his hand on the doorknob for all of a second before turning.


    Glancing at the door as she followed him in, she studied the mechanism as best she could without being too obvious about it. Was a bit more involved than the locks she was used to seeing, but it seemed like they worked the same way mechanically. A latch on a spring pretty much, meaning she could still shimmy the door open with the flat of a knife same as any other, unless there was more magic there to keep people out.


    ¡°Locks are only there to keep honest folk honest,¡± Howie drawled, reading Noora thoughts like she had them written on her sleeve. ¡°The Wards are what keep the ne¡¯er do wellers out. Pumps a good bit of Electric shock into anyone who opens that door without being Keyed and alerts me to their presence to boot. Ain¡¯t pleasant for anyone involved, whether it be the poor soul dumb enough to try the door or me who¡¯s gotta drag myself out of bed and keep them from choking on their own tongue after they pass out.¡±


    A warning, telling her not to sneak back later to try again, so Noora batted her eyes and played innocent instead of owning up to her thoughts. ¡°Isn¡¯t that expensive?¡± she asked, both out of interest and because she knew he loved to talk magic. ¡°Even if the Wards don¡¯t use much Aether to start with, keeping them up all the time has gotta get pricy over time.¡±


    ¡°Nah, that¡¯s the beauty of Wards,¡± Howie replied with a grin, grabbing the door before she could close it behind her and propping it open with the door stand. ¡°They¡¯re idle and dormant until triggered, so they don¡¯t cost nothing to maintain Aether wise. Ain¡¯t until they¡¯re used is all that Aether spent, at which point you gotta spend Aether rearming them, but it¡¯s a pittance compared to a single bullet since most Wards don¡¯t got much in the way of Metamagics.¡± Dipping his head in a little shrug, he added, ¡°Does make them susceptible to tampering if someone knows they¡¯re there and what they¡¯re doing, but ain¡¯t no perfect lock that can¡¯t be broken.¡±


    Much as she wanted to ask him how one would learn something like that, Noora wasn¡¯t here to talk shop. Glancing around the tiny shack, she saw a nice and serviceable living area that was bare bones, but well cared for. Wasn¡¯t much in the way of personal touch, no paintings or pictures, plants or decorations, just two old-school guns that looked put together with care and a shelf full of books sitting in disarray, all half open and laying about instead of stacked nice and neat. ¡°Yea,¡± Howie said, when he noticed her staring, because leaving his books in a mess didn¡¯t seem like something he¡¯d do. ¡°The Sherrif sends his boys around at least once a week to rummage through my books, so I figured there ain¡¯t no point tidying things up since they keep messing it up all the time.¡±


    Though he said it all with a smile, she sensed a whole lot of resentment buried deep inside, so she skirted around the issue and moved on right away. Wasn¡¯t much else to see to be honest, so she made her way over to his bedroom while he stood by the front door in plain view of anyone who might look this way. Funny for a man who didn¡¯t blink twice about killing to be so nervous about being caught alone with a woman, so she didn¡¯t push too far too fast and just poked head in for a look. Was clean and orderly as could be, with his bed neatly made, clothes put away, and chair tucked into his desk, all square and tidy as expected. A bit cumbersome to navigate given the layout, with the door opening up to his desk right in front while the bed was pushed up to the left side of the wall. Meant you had to step over his bed to get to the empty space on the right side of the room where he had his dresser with all his clothes. ¡°Why don¡¯t you swap your bed and dresser?¡± she asked, without thinking too much into it. ¡°Would give you more room on the left side to move around.¡±


    ¡°Was like that until recently,¡± Howie replied, still standing at the front door with no intention of closing it. ¡°Had to move things around so I could grab my gun from the gunsafe should any vagrants or vagabonds think to let themselves in.¡±


    Because he only had the left hand now, and wanted to sleep with his left side closer to the gun safe. Giving the reinforced steel lockbox a once over, with the big dial up front for a three-digit combination code and a five-spoked handle you probably had to turn a full 720 degrees to disengage the lock, Noora turned to Howie with a raised eyebrow and said, ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter which side of the safe you¡¯re on if it takes a good ten seconds to open the lock even if you know the code.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­¡± Drawing out the word like it had a half-dozen syllables, Howie finally moved away from the door and kicked off his shoes. Only then did he step off of the welcome mat and into the house proper, and Noora felt her cheeks flush as she realized she¡¯d been stomping all over his neat and tidy house in her dirty sandals. He didn¡¯t say anything about it, even gave her a wink to reassure her as he passed, stepping over his bed to stand by the gun safe before turning to face her. ¡°Like I said, so long as you know what you doin¡¯,¡± he began, spinning the dial and pulling on the handle to show her it was locked up tight. Flashing a smile, he balled his hand into a fist and slammed the base of his hand into the face of the door with a big, booming knock. ¡°Ain¡¯t no perfect lock that can¡¯t be broke.¡±


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    The safe¡¯s internals spun and clicked for a good second or two before the door popped open nice and neat as can be, and Noora¡¯s jaw dropped to see it happen. ¡°How¡¯d you do that?¡± she asked, kicking off her sandals to land by the front door before rushing into the room to inspect his safe. ¡°Bypassing the Ward is one thing, assuming you even have one on there, but how¡¯d you get the lock to just open up on its own?¡±


    ¡°I knocked,¡± Howie said, grinning from ear to ear as he leaned back against the wall, just oozing with smug self-satisfaction. Wouldn¡¯t say anything else about it though, just grinned through all her questions until she sat on his bed with a huff. Leaning back on her hands until his jacket slipped off her shoulders, she bit her lip and gave him a pout until he rolled his eyes and explained, ¡°Seriously. I knocked. Capital K. Second Order Transmutation Spell which opens locks, magical and mundane both. Built it into the Ward and keyed to myself for just such an emergency. Only keep my everyday carry in here while I sleep, so if someone ever breaks in while I¡¯m away and makes use of the Knock to open it up, then they ain¡¯t gonna find much anyways.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a Spell that opens locks?¡±


    ¡°That there is,¡± Howie said, closing the safe door and locking it up tight before knocking on the door again. Only then did she notice that the sound was louder than it should be, a hollow clang that sounded like metal-on-metal right in her ear rather than ringing out from the door itself. ¡°Course, given how every half-decent sneak-thief has the Spell in their repertoire, any decent safe will have at least two locks, meaning you gotta cast the very loud Spell twice to get in. Doesn¡¯t do anything to stop Wards neither, which is why I only got an Alarm on the gun safe and no Shocking Grasp.¡±


    ¡°Spell¡¯s loud,¡± Noora said, speaking her thoughts while considering everything he told her. ¡°Means anyone nearby will hear it open.¡±


    ¡°Yea, up to 100m if you use the Spell manually.¡± Grinning as he patted the safe once more, he shrugged and said, ¡°Pretty sure they baked that into the Spell on purpose when designing it, so folks would hear the noise and call it in. I had it dampened so the sound don¡¯t leave the room, but that only works because it¡¯s a ward. Out there in the wild? I¡¯d have to use a Silence Spell to keep things quiet, another Second Order Spell, so for most, it¡¯d be easier to learn how to pick locks instead.¡±


    It was fascinating stuff, and not just because Noora liked breaking into locked rooms. There was so much more to Magic than most people thought, not just slinging Spells around at one another, but trades to learn too. She wasn¡¯t here for career advice though, so she got herself back on track and straightened up to show off her belly and chest. ¡°You put those Wards in yourself?¡± Most men liked to have their ego stroked, and large as Howie¡¯s might be, he was no exception. ¡°That¡¯s incredible.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Etches all the way down,¡± Howie said with a shrug. ¡°Only difference is the medium. A Rune is an Etch laid out in conductive metal like what I got on my gun, while a Ward is an Etch laid out in three-dimensional space.¡± Noora pursed her lips, because he wasn¡¯t really getting it, still thinking she wanted to know more about Wards instead of taking her up on her unspoken offer. Instead, he thought she didn¡¯t understand, so Howie explained, ¡°Runes and sigils and watnot, those are two-dimensional circuits. Aether starts at one end, travels through the whole path, then exits out the other end. A Ward is technically four separate circuits which come together to enclose a space. Each individual circuit works same as the above, but they also work together to create an effect through Aetheric dynamics. Let¡¯s you do more with the Etch, even create Spell-like effects, with the caveat being that if the Ward is moved, it weakens the effect, making them fragile and easy to break. That¡¯s why most Wards are kept immobile, laid out in doorframes or on the floor or something. Either way, long as you learn how to Etch, then you can do Runes, Wards, Alchemy, Augments, Imbuements, or anything really with just a little bit more studying.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± she replied, wondering if he¡¯d keep going on about Etches if she took off her top. Probably, considering how happy he was to go in depth on the subject matter. Went on a long discourse talking about how Alchemists used Spiritual, immaterial Etches to weave ingredients together to create magical concoctions that were more than the sum of its parts, while Artisans learned to make use of the natural Etches contained within Aetheric materials like hides taken from Magical Beasts or Aether infused lumber. There were also suspended matrices, which was a combination of Alchemy and Craftsmanship, and Augmentations which was using Etches to enhance the natural properties of an item, and still so much more. It was a lot to unpack in a very short amount of time, and Howie only rarely stopped to take a breath, so it wasn¡¯t long before she caught herself nodding off. Figuring it couldn¡¯t be all that bad, she let herself slump down in his bed and pretended she¡¯d fallen fast asleep to see what he¡¯d do. Seeing how he was the type to balk at a forward woman, maybe he¡¯d be tempted by a helpless, defenseless girl lying in his bed.


    Wasn¡¯t ideal, but she knew well enough what men were like, which was why she spent so much time learning how to pick locks in the first place.


    ¡°Noora?¡± Howie whispered, and she worked really hard to keep her breathing slow and steady. ¡°You fall asleep there?¡± Though her eyes were closed, she could feel him draw close as he gently placed a hand on the bed beside her and leaned in real close. This was it, and she could feel her heart pounding in her chest as she fought to stay limp and still as can be. ¡°If you don¡¯t move, then I guess you leave me no choice then.¡± The pressure on the bed eased up as he lifted his hand, but he didn¡¯t move to lift her shirt, unbutton her pants, touch her lips, or anything. Instead, he whispered, ¡°Obtestor.¡±


    Which sounded familiar, but it took her a long second to place what the word actually was because his accent was so thick. By then, he¡¯d finished the chant with, ¡°Aqua ¨C Sphaera,¡± and it was too late for her to react. The cold orb splashed all over her bared belly and she stifled a yelp of surprise as she jumped to his feet and glared at Howie, who looked plenty pleased as he leaned against the wall on the other side of the small room. Grinning from ear to ear, he shook his head and said, ¡°Let that be a lesson to you little lady. Gotta take better care of yourself out there. Town¡¯s safe as any, but don¡¯t mean you can let you guard down entirely.¡±


    It was just a stupid prank, one Noora would¡¯ve laughed off from anyone else. The kids in New Hope often spent their afternoons lobbing Water Spheres at one another out front of school, and Noora had joined in more than once. Here and now though, she couldn¡¯t help but let her frustration bubble over into anger and misery as she tried to understand why Howie kept rejecting her. He wasn¡¯t stupid and knew exactly what she was doing, as well as what she wanted, but no matter what she did, he just didn¡¯t want her. ¡°Why?¡± Noora asked, her throat closing after uttering the single word and preventing her from finishing the question.


    Why didn¡¯t he want her?


    Was it because he thought she was tainted goods? Or because he blamed her for losing his hand? It might even be her fault, because she didn¡¯t know what went down, but the facts were the facts and Miss Laura had sent Noora over to him to get him to talk. She never told anyone what he said though, would never tell a soul, but before she could push past the lump in her throat and explain herself to him, Howie tilted his head and offered her his hand. Held it out in front him, palm up, and just stood there waiting, and she gave him a look and tried to figure him out. He didn¡¯t give her any clues or reassurances, just stood there looking calm, patient, and serious as can be, so she couldn¡¯t tell what he was trying to do.


    ¡°Been about a minute now,¡± he said, after what felt more like an eternity. ¡°Yet you still don¡¯t trust me enough to take my hand.¡± He lowered his arm and gave her a smile, a soft, sad one that spoke volumes. ¡°So maybe you ought to ask yourself why, Noora. Why you here lookin¡¯ for me?¡± He paused to let her think it through, even though they both knew the answer. ¡°Lotta good reasons. I¡¯m handsome. Funny. Tough. Talented. Humble too. The whole package really.¡± He grinned, and Noora laughed and cried at the same time, because even though he was joking, he wasn¡¯t too far off the mark except with that last bit. ¡°But none of that is why you here. You here because I helped get you out of Pleasant Dunes, and you want to say thank you.¡± Reaching up to tenderly brush her bangs out of her eyes, he said, ¡°That ain¡¯t affection. That¡¯s gratitude, and you don¡¯t ever gotta thank me for what I done. Got it?¡±


    His part said, he leaned past her to grab his duster and throw it around her shoulders again, but this time with help from his Mage Hands. ¡°Besides, flattered as I am by the attention, it¡¯s still same as before. Time and place, and now ain¡¯t a good time because I ain¡¯t in a good place.¡± Man winked when he said it, played it off like a joke, but they both knew he was speaking unvarnished truth. ¡°Even if it wasn¡¯t, you move a bit fast for a shy boy like me. Was raised proper, which means you gotta romance me before you can get into my drawers.¡±


    Noora laughed, enjoying how the big, bad Firstborn had reversed their roles, and wanting him all the more for it. Was embarrassing, because he just told her he needed his space, but she couldn¡¯t stop herself from leaning into his embrace. ¡°So, while I wait for the proper time and place to sweep you off your feet, how do we go about getting to know one another?¡±


    ¡°Difficult to say,¡± Howie replied, nuzzling his cheek into her forehead while pulling her in close for a one-armed hug. ¡°You free tomorrow after lunch?¡± Noora nodded, and he continued, ¡°How ¡®bout we take a ride down to the lake? You bring Josie, and I¡¯ll bring Chrissy to protect my chastity. Maybe Tina too if she ain¡¯t busy, but I think she goin¡¯ to the gun range.¡±


    ¡°The lake?¡± Balking despite the opportunity before her, and not just because Howie wanted to bring his sorta-sisters, Noora bit her lip and asked, ¡°Aren¡¯t there Abby in there? Heard they attacked you a few weeks back while you were working by the shore. Killed a Deputy even.¡± There were also rumours of how Howie lured the Deputy to his death and ensorcelled the Abby to attack him, but she didn¡¯t believe them.


    Mostly because if Howie wanted a man dead, he¡¯d have shot him instead of jumping through so many hoops.


    ¡°I mean yea,¡± Howie replied, all too casually considering the topic of conversation. ¡°But only a couple Abby. Seven, and I killed four of them. Deputy Juan was just unlucky. And loud. Should¡¯ve known better than to stand with his back to the water while shoutin¡¯ all sorts of nonsense, but it is what it is. Besides, that was way out in the sticks, a couple hours ride along the shore. Can¡¯t even see the place from the docks, and Abby know better than to surface round these parts, because that¡¯s a sure way to get got.¡± Giving her a look, he pursed his lips and said, ¡°If you¡¯d rather stay in town, we could ¨C ¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s fine,¡± Noora said, all too quickly for her liking. He enjoyed the chase, she knew that already, so she had to stop throwing herself at him every chance she got. ¡°A ride down by the lake sounds great.¡±


    ¡°¡­Okay. Only if you sure though. Can¡¯t promise that you¡¯ll be in safe hands after all, seeing how I only got the one.¡±


    The joke was so terrible and distasteful, but he looked so proud of it she couldn¡¯t help but laugh, more out of shock than anything else. Patting him on the chest, she stifled her laughter long enough to say, ¡°It¡¯s all right. Josie showed me the second-hand store, so we can stop off there before we set out.¡±


    Grinning from ear to ear, Howie chuckled and shook his head. ¡°Nah, they overpriced. Charge you an arm and a leg for anything halfway decent, which¡¯ll put me back to square one.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a good one. Gotta hand it to you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d applaud you for that one, but you know how it is.¡±


    They traded off a few more hand puns before Howie paused and said, ¡°Thanks for playing along, Noora. Everyone else either rolls their eyes or looks horrified whenever I bring it up.¡±


    ¡°I get it.¡± With a little half-hearted shrug, she leaned into him and said, ¡°Sometimes, you gotta laugh just to keep yourself from crying.¡±


    ¡°Truer words ain¡¯t ever been spoken.¡±


    They stood there in silence as they reached their first awkward pause, one they let hang until Noora felt compelled to fill the silence. ¡°I never told anyone,¡± she whispered, glancing up to see his reaction, but his expression was solidly neutral now, without so much of a hint of anger or amusement. ¡°About our talk. And I won¡¯t. Ever. I should¡¯ve told you miss Laura sent me to talk to you, but I wasn¡¯t planning on telling her a thing.¡±


    ¡°I believe you,¡± Howie said, squeezing her shoulder and flashing a brief but warm smile. ¡°And I appreciate you keeping quiet.¡± Changing the subject, Howie guided her out the door while asking about how she was settling in and what it was all like. Kept the focus on her and stuck to lighter topics while walking her home with his arm around her shoulder and hers around his waist. Drew a good number of looks from the people they passed, but more curiosity than anything else. All the rumours she¡¯d heard lately didn¡¯t paint Howie in a good light, but it only went to show how sheltered these people were if they thought he was anything like the truly terrible monsters out there. She told Josie and anyone else who asked that anyone who died in that fire back in Pleasant Dunes was deserving of death, because Vanguard National was a company filled with animals clad in human flesh.


    And Howie cleared them all out in a single night. Maybe by himself, or maybe with help from two other Rangers. Noora wasn¡¯t all too clear on the specifics, though she knew he had some run ins with the Lieutenant who died that same night, and was real close to Captain Marcus who died even earlier while clearing out the staging ground from which that army of Abby had come out. No wonder he wasn¡¯t in a good place, losing his hand and a close father figure like that, and Noora kicked herself mentally for forgetting such an important fact. They¡¯d only just listed off the names of the fallen a few hours earlier, and Captain Marcus had been on there, but she hadn¡¯t been paying attention and was too busy looking for Howie¡¯s face in the crowd.


    A good thing Noora didn¡¯t see him, else she might¡¯ve made her approach then and there, assuming she could convince Josie to distract Tina, Chrissy, and Aunty Ray.


    She was enjoying the evening stroll so much, she didn¡¯t consider what would happen when she arrived at the Ramirez¡¯s home some twenty minutes later. She couldn¡¯t just go waltzing on through the front door now, not when she was supposedly already asleep in bed upstairs, so she glanced around to make sure there was no one around and whispered, ¡°Think you could give me a hand and boost me up onto the porch roof?¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t,¡± Howie replied, smiling as she realized her mistake and stifled a groan in advance. ¡°Only got the one left to me.¡± Chortling beneath his breath, he added, ¡°That¡¯s a doubler. Get it? Only left to me?¡±


    Rolling her eyes with a smile, Noora said, ¡°This is serious. I asked Josie to cover for me and tell her parents I already fell asleep. The bedroom window¡¯s right there though, so if you help me up, I can get inside without anyone besides Josie noticing.¡±


    ¡°Already got sweet innocent Josie complicit in your crimes.¡± Shaking his head in mock severity, Howie wagged his finger and said, ¡°You a bad seed, girlie, first in a whole bumper crop of home-grown miscreants here in New Hope.¡± Reaching into his pouch, Howie rummaged around without looking for all of a half-second before pulling out a shiny loop of what looked like gold wire twisted into a coil. Probably wasn¡¯t real gold though, just something that looked like it in the dark, else he wouldn¡¯t be so carefree about waving it around. ¡°Lucky for you, I got something better than a boost up.¡± Muttering some of his heavily accented Latin under his breath, he waggled his fingers with the coil in hand before tapping her on the nose with it, and Noora felt herself grow taller. No, not taller, but lighter, so light she was literally floating off of the ground. ¡°Calm thoughts,¡± Howie said, gently taking her by the hand before she floated away. Pulled her back too, keeping her feet underneath her instead of continuing up while her hand remained in place, which was good because if she was going to float away on the wind, she¡¯d much rather be right side up.


    ¡°What¡¯s happening?¡± she asked, her eyes wide in alarm and excitement both.


    ¡°Levitation Spell,¡± Howie said, while guiding her over to the side of the porch. ¡°Now be ready to grab onto the roof, then keep at least one hand in contact with it as you pull yourself along. If you miss, then just try to stay over the roof, because I can drop the Spell which will very gently put you down, at which point you¡¯ll have to walk. Got it?¡± Noora nodded, all too eager and excited to go floating off into the sky now that she knew it¡¯d be safe, and Howie beamed to see it. ¡°Alright then,¡± he said, giving her a wink and a wave as he let go of her hand and kept hold of his duster. ¡°See you tomorrow after lunch then.¡±


    She waved back and almost forgot to grab onto the roof as she watched him back away into the street. Following his instructions, she pulled her weightless self alongside the gutters and over to the window which Josie had left cracked open ever so slightly. Lifting it up all the way as quietly as she could, Noora paused to turn and wave goodbye to Howie one more time before diving headfirst through the window, where Josie was sat up in her bed with wide-eyed wonder as she watched Noora make her grand entrance. The Spell faded ever so slowly, giving her plenty of time to get her feet under her before they settled down onto the hardwood without so much as a creak, and she couldn¡¯t help but release the breath she¡¯d been holding now that she¡¯d gotten back in without the Ramirez¡¯s noticing. ¡°Well?¡± Josie asked, her voice all high and excited. ¡°What happened?¡±


    Noora told her everything, without hiding a single thing. Even though she knew Josie had a crush on Howie, the other girl never let that get in the way of being happy for Noora. It was touching in some ways, silly in many others, and she didn¡¯t know how exactly to feel about Josie. Sad because she missed out? Scornful because she missed her chance? Proud for getting one up on the other girl? Truth was, it was hard to be anything but nice to the sweet, innocent doe-eyed girl who gasped at the thought of Noora sitting on his bed and giggled uncontrollably when she heard Howie had his arm around her shoulder as they walked home.


    The next day, afternoon couldn¡¯t come soon enough as Noora watched the minutes go by. Soon as lunch was finished, she was ready and waiting at their bedroom window, watching for Howie¡¯s approach. And what an entrance he made, riding up on a frisky brown horse that stood taller than her at the shoulders. As if that wasn¡¯t enough, he had Cowie trundling there beside him, so big and burly he made the horse look skinny and weak in comparison. Tina and Chrissy were there too, one on a golden-brown stallion while the other rode a horse that was white from head to toe with a beautifully braided mane, and they each had a riderless horse with them which was when Noora realized Howie expected her to ride on her own.


    Not that was a whole experience altogether, one that took more courage than she knew she had to get up onto the black and white horse Howie affectionately called, ¡®Old Tux¡¯. ¡°This the same horse I learned to ride on,¡± Howie said, pulling his hand back from the beast¡¯s cheek to narrowly avoid losing his fingers to a set of snapping teeth. Madman that he was, he patted the horse¡¯s cheek after the fact like it didn¡¯t just try to eat his only hand and said, ¡°A real sweetheart he is. You just sit there and let him bring you about.¡±


    Which she did as Howie mounted up and led them out of the city towards the lake. Was a bit of wait getting through the gate, but once they moved passed the chokepoint, they were home free. The lake stretched out as far as the eye could see, more water than Noora could ever imagine in one place. Even though she couldn¡¯t see the other side, this was still somehow nothing compared to the ocean, which was even bigger, wider, and deeper than the lake could ever be. Was a forty-five-minute boat ride across to the other side, though that was on the slowest ferry which was also the safest and cheapest way to make the trip. There were faster and smaller boats you could take, but then you risked getting attacked by Abby and having your boat break apart in the middle of all that water. Despite the risks, Noora saw plenty of folks frolicking in the water and more boats than she could count making their way to and from Riverrun over on the other side. They made it seem so normal and commonplace, to risk death by Aberration each and every day just to make it in to work or deliver a shipment of wood or whatever.


    Then again, it wasn¡¯t like the miners had it safe as could be, and they still marched off into the mines every time their shift came about. At least here they had the Rangers watching out for them, which was something at the very least.


    Perhaps sensing Noora¡¯s fear of the lake, Howie didn¡¯t bring them right down to the shore and instead took them along a well-worn dirt path that ran parallel to the water. Was no denying the beauty around them, what with the clear blue waters and bright white grass amidst a forest of towering white trees that stretched so far overhead she imagined they must almost touch the clouds in the sky. Wasn¡¯t so foolish as to say as much out loud, but she did ask how tall the biggest trees grew, to which Howie suggested they all climb one and find out. For a moment, she thought him crazy for even suggesting such a thing, until she remembered he had Levitate in his back pocket.


    So they dismounted and took turns climbing trees with Howie¡¯s Levitation Spell to help. Wasn¡¯t easy as it sounded, because once you got to a certain height, the Spell stopped pushing you upwards and just let you float there in place. You could still climb higher using your own hands and feet, but the further up you went, the less the Spell helped until you were pretty much climbing without any assistance at all. Tina made it up the furthest, to no one¡¯s surprise, while Chrissy was a close second trailing only a few metres behind. Both of them were crazy though, which they proved by jumping off the tree once they were done climbing and plunging straight down towards the forest floor, a good four or five seconds of freefall until the Levitation Spell kicked in again and slowed them enough to land gently. Tina laughed and whooped the whole way down, while Chrissy was silent and stony the entire time, only to land lightly and hop back over to get in line for a second trip.


    As for Josie, she didn¡¯t even make it to the maximum height of the Spell, clinging to the tree tight and refusing to got any higher before demanding Howie let her down. Noora wasn¡¯t that bad, but as soon as the Spell stopped lifting her up, she made the mistake of looking down and didn¡¯t want to go any higher. By then, they¡¯d each had a turn, but Howie announced he only had one more Second Order Spell left in the tank, and they all agreed to let Chrissy go up a second time. The girl looked utterly emotionless as she ascended and dropped back down, but the skip in her step on the way back showed how much fun she was having.


    Howie too, who had a big smile on his face the whole time despite not taking part in the climb, and Noora¡¯s heart warmed to see it. They continued their ride and took in the sights, with the seemingly unending line of boats going to and fro while birds flew over head and animals ran about in the brush. Howie pointed them out whenever he saw them, mostly for Chrissy¡¯s benefit, and Noora saw more wild animals in one day than she had in her entire life. Was plenty of wildlife out in the Corral Desert; she just rarely saw them is all, because most shied away from the town and the mines because they didn¡¯t like the near daily explosions.


    While Howie seemed enamoured of the marties, Noora was more partial towards the gryphikins, these four-legged beaked mammals with four wings, which they used to fly over the lake and dive straight down onto fish and birds alike. The first time she saw one dive, she thought it was Abby jumping out of the lake, but then the tiny brown animal popped back up out of the waters and flew off with a fish in tow. She¡¯d never forget the sight, so speedy and graceful despite its heavy cargo and dripping wet feathers and fur.


    Soon enough, it came time to head home, but Noora made the most out of every minute of the trip. As they neared the town gates, she turned around for one last look at the lake, and as luck would have it, she spotted another gryphikin diving down into the water. ¡°Look!¡± she said, beaming brightly as she pointed at it like an excited little kid. ¡°It¡¯s diving.¡±


    There was a pause as everyone turned to look, and then Tina gasped as the creature hit the water. ¡°Not diving,¡± Howie corrected, frowning as he stared out over the water. ¡°Falling.¡±


    Blinking in confusion, Noora glanced back at the water and waited with bated breath for the gryphikin to surface, but long seconds passed and it never did. Spotting more motion on the horizon, she looked up and saw more feathered forms hurtling towards the water, only this time she noticed what she¡¯d missed out on last time. They weren¡¯t diving head first; like Howie said, they were falling, tumbling head over talons like they¡¯d been shot out of the air. Wasn¡¯t just gryphikins either. They were just the biggest and most noticeable flying animals around, as sparrows, ducks, and all other sorts of winged creatures started raining out of the skies too. Beside them, Tina gasped again, only this time not in fright, but a sharper, deeper intake like she was in pain. Then Chrissy screamed, a shrill, agonized shriek, and the horses all joined in. Well, all the horses besides Old Tux, who stood firm and stamped his feet beneath Noora while the others reared up or circled about in panic. Howie was quick to act as always, leaping off his horse and narrowly avoiding a flurry of hooves to take hold of Chrissy¡¯s reins, then Josie¡¯s soon after and somehow dragging both beasts back down despite weighing maybe one tenth of their weight, all while Tina got her own horse under control while Noora watched on from her pocket of calm with a dull, pitchy hum sounding in her ear.


    ¡°What¡¯s happening?¡± Noora asked, once Howie had things under control and was sat behind Chrissy, whose teary eyes were shut tight as she cradled her head in both hands and leaned back in Howie¡¯s embrace.


    ¡°Nothing good, that¡¯s what,¡± Howie replied, heeling his horse forward with a grim and troubled expression. ¡°Beyond that? Got no earthly idea.¡±


    A terrible note to end their first date on, without so much as a chance to steal a kiss, but what could you do? Glancing back at the lake, Noora¡¯s heart ached to see all the bird corpses floating atop the clear blue waters, and wondered if this meant her peaceful days in New Hope were already coming to an end. A thought which filled her with determination more than anything else, because it just went to show that you couldn¡¯t take anything for granted. You never knew what tomorrow might bring, so you had to seize everything you could for today, even if you couldn¡¯t hold onto it forever.


    So Howie could balk all he wanted. Noora wasn¡¯t about to give up, not until she got what she wanted at least. A night with the Firstborn, a memory to cherish, and maybe even more if she dared let herself dream. Not too much though, because dreams rarely came true, a lesson she would do well to never forget.

 Book Two - Chapter 67

    Be careful what you wish for.


    That¡¯s the moral of a short story called the Monkey¡¯s Paw. It¡¯s about a man who finds a magically Imbued object that grants the owner three Wishes, a made-up Ninth Order Spell that can give you whatever your heart desires. The caveat to the Spell is that each Wish comes with tragic and unintended consequences, making the story a cautionary tale of reaching too far beyond your ken and the unforeseen outcomes of unchecked greed and desire.


    Always thought it was a stupid story, but it feels all too relevant in the here and now as I head into the darkened interior of the living room and find my three best gals all huddled up on the couch in abject misery. Tina and Aunty Ray are doing their best to put on a brave face as they greet me with weak smiles, but sweet Chrissy wears her woes on her sleeve and her face both. For long as I could remember, I been wishing for the day when she gets over her inability to express her emotions through facial expression, and now that the day has come, I find myself wishing I¡¯d been more circumspect with the wording. A finger on the monkey¡¯s paw curled, and now Chrissy¡¯s darling, doll-like features are all crumpled in pain as she lays limp in her mama¡¯s arms, her teary eyes screwed shut and trembling lips pressed into a thin line as she struggles under a deluge of induced Aetheric overload.


    Breaks my heart to see her in so much discomfort, and I can¡¯t get my boots off quick enough to get over to her side. Taking a knee in front of the couch, I put my hand over hers and squeeze it right quick three times. ¡°Hey there, Princess,¡± I whisper, knowing everyone present has got a throbbing headache so bad they can¡¯t hardly think. Don¡¯t got nothing else to say, just letting her know I¡¯m here, and she cracks an eye open to make sure it¡¯s really me before grabbing my one hand tight in both of hers. Then she closes her eyes and sinks back into her mama¡¯s embrace, looking more miserable than I ever seen her in all my seventeen years, and there ain¡¯t a thing I can do to help her.


    ¡°The Proggie under the lake built itself a Mindspire,¡± I say, in answer to Aunty Ray¡¯s unasked question regarding what I learned at the town meeting I¡¯d just come back from. ¡°Or at least that¡¯s what they¡¯re thinkin¡¯. It¡¯s some sort of Abby bio construct that serves as an amplifyin¡¯ dish for the Proggie¡¯s mind-affecting abilities. Enchantment Spells mostly, but some Illusion too. Let¡¯s it mess with the heads of anything within a set area around it, sending out a droning pulse that can make people and animals feel anxious, paranoid, aggressive, or even outright murderous if finds the right person with the right buttons to press.¡±


    ¡°Well ain¡¯t that a kick in the pants?¡± Heaving a sigh, Aunty Ray strokes Chrissy¡¯s shoulder and asks, ¡°That¡¯s what all the buzz is about? There¡¯s a Proggie tryin¡¯ to get into our heads?¡±


    ¡°Sorta.¡± Wincing at the sight of how miserable she is, I explain, ¡°It¡¯s still learnin¡¯ how to make use of the Mindspire, and that¡¯s what we seein¡¯. They think the Proggie had big ambitions and tried to outright incapacitate everythin¡¯ within range using a mass Mind Spike, but it didn¡¯t have enough juice to affect anythin¡¯ bigger than a marty. We might not¡¯ve even noticed if all them birds didn¡¯t fall out of the sky, so we can¡¯t even say how long the Mindspire been up and operational. After failin¡¯ to knock us all out, it tried a Bane Spell to make us more susceptible to other Spells, which had more widespread success in spooking the horses, wallies, and other faint-hearted animals. Now it¡¯s testing its limits on small groups in town, charmin¡¯ animals to get them to run wild, Commanding folks to drop whatever it is they holdin¡¯, and Hexing groups at random so any injury starts rottin¡¯ right quick.¡± Gesturing at all three of them and their respective headaches, I add, ¡°As for all this, best guess is the Proggie¡¯s settled on usin¡¯ somethin¡¯ like Dissonant Whistle to annoy us while it gathers strength for more tests later on down the line.¡±


    Like a Taunt Spell to lure us into the water, Enthrall to put someone into a suggestible, fugue-like state, or Madness to drive us into a murderous rage directed at anyone and everyone around us. Fear, Blind, Deafness, Discord, the possibilities go on, and we only got theories as to why it ain¡¯t done any of that just yet. Uncle Teddy is pretty sure it¡¯s because the Proggie has yet to Attune to the Mindspire, which is the process of bonding with a Magical Artifact that teaches you how to use it, so the clock is counting down as we speak. Could be hours, days, weeks, or months, but eventually, the Proggie will master its new weapon. The upside is that even when it does, Uncle Teddy says the Mindspire doesn¡¯t empower the Proggie¡¯s magic, it diffuses them, spreads them out over multiple targets making them individually less effective. Because of this, he thinks we got a good chance of holding out, because if we know about the Enchantments and Illusions, we can be ready to resist them, and work together to help those who succumb to the Spells.


    Me? I ain¡¯t nowhere near as confident. I seen how little it takes to drive a man to murder, so I¡¯m pretty sure the Proggie won¡¯t need to do much to break down our unspoken social contracts.


    ¡°Then how come you fine and dandy when the three of us can barely stand it?¡± Tina asks, hugging a cushion tight for lack of anything else to hold.


    Poor girl. I¡¯d give her my other hand to hold, but I only got the one, and I don¡¯t want to pat her with my stump, so best I can do is a sympathetic look. ¡°It¡¯s a matter of Aetheric sensitivity,¡± I say with a shrug. ¡°I guess y¡¯all are highly sensitive, more so than most in town, so it¡¯s hittin¡¯ y¡¯all the hardest.¡± Most townies didn¡¯t even notice anything going on besides the odd animal behaviour, which goes to show that they pretty much potates in human clothes. Nothing behind the eyes besides starch and water, which for once is actually an advantage. Me, I got a bit of a beat going on in the back of my head, a minor pounding like someone¡¯s taking a hammer to a wall I¡¯m leaning against. Unpleasant for sure, but nothing I can¡¯t live with, and certainly not strong enough to make me sit down at the kitchen table with my head in my hands like how I found Aunty Ray when we got back.


    Wouldn¡¯t know it to look at her now though, because a mama¡¯s gotta be strong in front of her babies. ¡°How come I ain¡¯t ever heard of no Mindspire before?¡± Aunty Ray asks, her pout a mirror of Tina¡¯s with her big blues opened wide in grievance and concern. ¡°Seems like somethin¡¯ I ought to have been warned about.¡±


    ¡°Most haven¡¯t heard of it neither,¡± I say with a shrug, because it¡¯s all new to me too. ¡°Only ones in the know were Old Guard Rangers like Uncle Teddy.¡± Namely those who made the cut and saw action in the old world before they lowered standards to fill their quota for the Frontier. ¡°Even then, most had only heard about Mindspires in passin¡¯, because there weren¡¯t many Proggies who built one in the last half century. Soon as one would pop up, government would send out scouts with some sorta scanners to collect a bunch of data, which they¡¯d use to triangulate the Mindspire¡¯s position and launch a metric truckload of missiles at it.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± Frowning more because of the ¡®colourful¡¯ language she knows I watered down rather than the massive psychic attack hammering at her brain, Aunty Ray heaves a sigh as she cotton¡¯s on to the hitch in our giddy up. ¡°Except we don¡¯t got no missiles to launch.¡±


    ¡°Or scanners,¡± I add, wincing as Chrissy clamps down hard on my hand for all of a second or three. Her nails dig deep into my skin as she weathers the storm, a stronger pulse from the Mindspire that brings to mind nails on a chalkboard inside of my skull. Soon as it passes, I heave a sigh and continue, ¡°They¡¯re co-opting every tech in town to form a think tank, but the principles behind Mindspires are esoteric, so ain¡¯t many folks out there who know much about them.¡± Seems silly to come all this way to the Frontier and not prepare for every eventuality, but I suppose it might¡¯ve been a blind spot seeing how most militaries saw Mindspires as a solved issue. To make matters worse, we got more to worry about than standard Spells, because Proggies don¡¯t got as many restrictions as we do when it comes to slinging Aetheric Energy all around.


    Regardless if you a beginner or an Immortal Monarch, we humans got a set list of Spells we can use. Cantrips aside, most of those Spells are derived from Spell Cores, and each Spell has a very specific and narrow scope of effect. A Bolt Spell fires off a grape-sized projectile in a forward direction. The projectile moves at a set speed for a fixed amount of time and is affected by outside forces like windspeed, gravity, and friction. Upon striking a target over a set size and hardness, the Bolt expends itself and dissipates into thin air, leaving nothing but the force of impact behind.


    That¡¯s the Spell in a nutshell. You take a hundred people, teach them the Spell, then line them up and measure the parameters of the very first Bolt they cast, and you will get the exact same values each and every time. The reason being is that most Spells are derived from Spell Cores, which are tools created by Proggies for their Aberration minions to use. As such, we¡¯re not really using magic and manipulating Aetheric Energy freely; we¡¯re slinging a Spell, which as I¡¯ve said before is sorta like using a stamp. Sure, a Spellslinger can learn to squeeze more out of their Spells and get something different from standard, but that takes practice and familiarity which is where the real magic happens. Said it before, but ain¡¯t nothing impressive about learning a Spell from the Formula. Almost anyone can do it if they put in the time and effort, and I¡¯m sure there are workarounds for those who can¡¯t.


    As for Proggies, they¡¯re the stamp makers, the artists who designed the bulk of humanity¡¯s Spells. This is possible because they live and breathe magic, in what might well be a very literal sense. Means, among other things, they ain¡¯t limited to the Spells dictated by the Formulas and Structures we know, because they understand and perceive Aether in ways we can¡¯t hardly imagine. Let¡¯s them do all sorts of things outside of the established Spells, like this Dissonant Whistle being emitted in the here and now. That¡¯s a First Order Enchantment Spell that¡¯s supposed to target a single creature within visible and audible range. Most Spellslingers whistle as per the Spell name, though you can scream, shout, clap, or whatever you like, and that sound will drill into your target¡¯s ear in a very painful way. It¡¯s a short, sharp pain that don¡¯t last for more than a moment regardless of how long the caster whistles for, and it¡¯s mostly used to interrupt enemy Spellslingers mid-cast or break their Concentration. How you finagle that into a constant and incessant droning is beyond my understanding, but feasible enough that it¡¯s the best explanation we got.


    The problem of an improved Mage Hand that¡¯s been plaguing me for weeks? If I could talk to a Proggie and pick its brain on the subject, I bet we¡¯d have a solution within a matter of days, if not sooner. Really puts Sir Issac Newton¡¯s abilities into real perspective, having derived the Spell Formula for the Light Cantrip and built the very foundation of Orthodox Spellcasting as we know it before he turned thirty. Wasn¡¯t even a Grandmagus yet, not by today¡¯s standards, which is why I could never consider myself talented. Being slightly better than average ain¡¯t nothing to celebrate, not when you¡¯ve seen how far you got to go before you can call yourself one of the greats.


    The stab of self loathing is especially poignant amidst the constant pounding in my head, because I still don¡¯t entirely understand how it¡¯s even possible. This modified Dissonant Whistle has been going off for the last two hours now, starting shortly after we got in through the gates following our trip down to the lake. Ain¡¯t nowhere near as painful as the base Spell would be, but it¡¯s aggravating as all hell to have it constantly grating away at my last nerve. That¡¯d be impressive enough of a Spell if it was only targeting me, but the Proggie is somehow hitting everyone in New Hope and Riverrun both. Likely every community close to shore too, though the effects may vary depending how good a Spellslinger you are. Won¡¯t everyone be hit as hard as Chrissy, who¡¯s got a migraine bad enough to bring her to tears, but I¡¯d bet on sooner rather than later for when the first person snaps.


    Nefarious is what it is. The Proggie is hitting the strongest of us the hardest, the best Spellslingers around. Makes sense seeing how we¡¯re the greatest threat to its survival, and it¡¯s only a matter of time before something gives. Whether it means to drive us all out of its territory or into a murderous frenzy remains to be seen, but I for one ain¡¯t about to let no screeching Proggie scare me away from the town I done built and grew up in.


    ¡°So what happens now?¡± Tina asks, sounding so small and scared as she hugs her cushion even tighter. ¡°We just live like this ¡®til it blows over?¡±


    ¡°Yes and no,¡± I say, trying to sound as optimistic as possible while still whispering. ¡°There ain¡¯t nothin¡¯ we can do about the Mindspire except wait for the Rangers to find and dismantle it, unless you care to leave town. Radios ain¡¯t working, something about Aetheric Entanglement and interference, so we don¡¯t know how bad it is out there, but y¡¯all could visit Simone in Meadowbrook and see how she¡¯s holdin¡¯ up, or head to Irongate or Summerbloom and check if they affected.¡± Aunty Ray is already shaking her head, so I don¡¯t press the issue, though you can bet your bottom dollar I¡¯ll circle back around to it in a day or two. ¡°There are ways to defend against the Mindspire besides taking it on the chin, most notably Protection from Abby. Won¡¯t block out the hum, but I got it on good authority that it¡¯ll dial it down a fair bit.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a ten-minute single target Spell,¡± Tina grumbles, her tone plaintive and melancholy as can be. Doubly so since I know she never learned the Abjuration Spell, because she never thought it¡¯d come in handy. That¡¯s the difference between her and me. She curates her list of known Spells with care and attention, because she knows she only got so much time in a day to practice. And so much room in her head, considering she got a whole slew of Spell Structures she¡¯s permanently stuck with on account of her Innate bloodline. Me, I¡¯m greedy so I learn everything I can, even if it ain¡¯t of much use when manually cast. Makes me versatile, but a jack of all trades is a master of none, and Tina is growing into a master of Enchantment and Illusion soon enough. Unaware of all the good things I¡¯m thinking about her, Tina sinks into her cuddled cushion with the mother of all sighs. ¡°With Concentration to boot,¡± she adds, still harping on the Protection Spell. ¡°Can¡¯t hardly keep it up all day, much less use it to get any sleep.¡±


    ¡°You ain¡¯t wrong.¡± Resisting the urge to wince now that I know how bad she got it, I continue, ¡°There¡¯s also Mental Fortress which¡¯ll stack with Protection from Abby, but that¡¯s Third Order compared to First, and also single target with Concentration. Lasts a full hour though, so it¡¯s a better option if you got it.¡±


    Pausing to give Aunty Ray a look, I wordlessly ask if she does, and she gives a mournful little nod in reply. ¡°Prepped it while you was at the meeting and cast it on Chrissy,¡± she says, stroking her daughter¡¯s silver hair ever so gently. ¡°Brought her back from catatonic, but she¡¯s still miserable as frog stuck on a busy highway on a hot summer¡¯s day.¡±


    Damn. And here Tina is going without. Explains why she¡¯s looking so down then. She ain¡¯t as adept a Spellslinger as Chrissy is, but they still twins after all, which means this droning is probably hitting Tina just as hard. She just better at hiding it, but I reckon she¡¯s ready to curl up in bed and cry her heart out. ¡°Well, we could always go stay at the church,¡± I say, knowing it won¡¯t be a popular suggestion, and all three grimace to hear it. Even Chrissy, who joins me for Sunday Mass every week, but only because she loves listening to the organ music. Can¡¯t say I blame any one of them for their aversion to all things religion considering their poor track records regarding Innates. I mean Hell, the Catholic Church even wanted to burn Sir Issac Newton for being a heretic just because he used ¡°Let there be Light¡± as the vocal component of his Light Cantrip. That said, taking shelter in the church is the best option, because even if I had the skills to lay a ward around the whole house Imbued with Protection from Aberration, it¡¯d take at least two weeks to work out the math and longer to gather the materials, assuming the Rangers don¡¯t declare it all a strategic resource and box civilians out from buying.


    Which would be a jerk move, but also the right one, since the Rangers are amongst the most affected by the droning, and also the ones responsible to taking it out. Means we better off protecting them so they can do their job, so there ain¡¯t nothing to do but shill for the church in this one specific instance. ¡°The grounds are Consecrated,¡± I say, which is really the biggest selling point I got. ¡°Means among other things, it¡¯ll be like having Protection from Abby on you 24/7 so long as you stay within the grounds.¡± It¡¯s a whole Ritual to cast Consecration which lasts a full 10 days, but the Church don¡¯t share how it works with anyone who ain¡¯t ordained. Hate that, the unwillingness to share something that could help us all, but they gotta keep something to impress their flock. ¡°Plus, the Padre is a good man,¡± I add, and I even mean it. ¡°He won¡¯t stand for no nonsense while you there.¡± And there will be nonsense, because ain¡¯t nothing stuffy old Catholics love more than telling you why you gonna burn in Hell. Silly is what that is, condemning someone to eternal suffering just because they born a certain way. Mind you, this is after their own Pope announced that being Innate or homosexual ain¡¯t a sin, way back in the 70¡¯s.


    Some folks just need a reason to hate, and religion is the veneer they choose to take in spite of what the good book says about loving thy neighbour.


    Takes a bit more upselling, but eventually, Aunty Ray caves and decides to give it a shot, which tells me everything I need to know about how bad it is. Real bad, so I double time it helping them pack a few things into Old Tux¡¯s saddlebags, who suffers through the droning with stoic aplomb. Didn¡¯t even flinch when the Bane went out and spooked the other horses, which goes to show how dependable the old horse be. Hell, even Cowie ain¡¯t taking things well, and is all cuddled up with his cow gals in the barn which is why we gotta inconvenience Old Tux in his retirement. As for the kiccaws, wallies, and marties, they¡¯re all hidden away in their homes, peeved and put out but otherwise unharmed. Funny that, to think that the round, rotund kiccaws are tougher than the fearsome griphikin, who I always thought of as marties with beaks and wings. Just goes to show you can¡¯t judge a book by its cover, because far as I can tell, the kiccaws are feeling the Dissonant Whistle and weathering it well enough as a group.


    Being one of the older buildings in New Hope, the church is only a short jaunt away from home, and it looks grand and stately as always. Built in what I¡¯m told is the American Colonial style of architecture, the front entrance of the church has got a half-dozen pillars packed in together when two would be more than enough to do the job. Ain¡¯t got nothing to do with the belltower behind it neither, because these columns were a later addition added after the main section of the church was built, which was pretty much just a big empty room behind the belltower.


    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    Soon as we step through the towering double doors, I feel the Consecrated grounds take effect, muting the incessant pulsing droning down to a minor throb. Beside me, Aunty Ray, Tina, and Chrissy all heave a collective sigh, and Chrissy even recovers enough to hold her head upright to take a look around, though her brow still furrowed just a bit. It¡¯s a stately place, the church is, simple yet elegant without crossing over into opulence. The room is dimly lit by far too many candles to count, casting a warm but weak light that sets the polished pews to gleaming in the gloom. It''s shine enough to irritate my eyes, and I ain¡¯t hit half as hard as Aunty Ray, Tina, and Chrissy, so I can only imagine how they feel. Still, it¡¯s God¡¯s house and God¡¯s rules, so I take off my hat and dip my finger in the water receptacle before making the sign of the cross. Aunty Ray does too, but Tina forgoes the religious gesture as does Chrissy, who¡¯s still clinging to her Mama for all she¡¯s worth. Doesn¡¯t bother the Padre though, who wanders over to greet us with his customary warm but sleepy smile. ¡°Howie!¡± he says, beaming over the stack of blankets and pillows he¡¯s carrying to prep for folks seeking refuge. ¡°Good to see you and Chrissy again, even if circumstance could be better. And Mrs. Walker-Bradshaw, I don¡¯t think you¡¯ve aged a day since we first met. How are you and Tina holding up? Come in, please, and hopefully the Consecration does something to help.¡±


    There¡¯s no salacious intent behind the compliment and no sly attempts to guilt trip Aunty Ray for not coming to mass. Just warm welcomes and genuine concern from the Padre who is a good man all around. Truth is, I got no idea why we call him the Padre instead of Father Lewis. Which is his family name, something I only learned recently when I heard someone jokingly use his full name, Kenneth Patrick Lewis. Ain¡¯t Spanish or Mexican, not even South American, just plain old average American white. Sits on the younger side of the old-timers, and looks the part too, a real handsome son of a gun with his longer than average auburn curls that ain¡¯t neat, but ain¡¯t messy neither. Goes well with his youthful features, all clean-shaven and wrinkle free. Got that average American accent too, which mean he speaks real casual with a complete lack of pretension. Keeps it light and conversational, which makes it¡¯s easier to sit through his sermons without fully falling asleep or getting right hopping mad, like with some preachers who love spewing ignorance and hate.


    That ain¡¯t the Padre though, as I doubt he¡¯s ever said a word in anger he didn¡¯t immediately apologize for. Man¡¯s got a bright energy that lights up every room he¡¯s in, and radiates warmth and affection like you¡¯re his best friend and he¡¯ll do anything for you. Makes it right difficult to dislike him, though not for lack of trying on my part. There¡¯s just something about him that irks me to no end, and I can¡¯t for the life of me say what it is. He got a clean smile, soft eyes, and not a single whiff of impropriety about him, which might well be the biggest reason he bothers me so much. He¡¯s too squeaky clean, and I ain¡¯t talking about his grooming habits. Which are impeccable by the way, as is the way he dresses, though I only ever seen him wearing a priest¡¯s shirt. You know the one, with the hidden buttons and the tab collar with a white band around the neck. Got a simple but clean look to it, one I¡¯d be partial to myself if them shirts weren¡¯t only for clergy.


    Got no stole, robes, or vestments today, not even the big red sash around his waist, but the absence don¡¯t take away from the Padre¡¯s priestly air as he helps settle Aunty Ray and her girls in a cozy little room. Only got two beds, but they decline his generous offer to split one of them into another room, because I doubt Chrissy will be letting go of her mama anytime soon. Being kind and thoughtful as he is, the Padre hunkers down to talk to Chrissy and says, ¡°I see you brought your guitar. Why don¡¯t we have ourselves a jam session later, play a little music and sing a few songs once everyone¡¯s settled in. How¡¯s that sound?¡± Chrissy nods, because she loves playing music, even the God-awful campfire gospel songs the Padre favours all the livelong day. ¡°Awesome,¡± he says, much too happy and enthusiastic for a man his age, much less one of the cloth. ¡°I¡¯m gonna work extra fast so we can play even longer.¡±


    Get¡¯s Chrissy out of her shell a bit it does, which is why I never give the Padre any lip when he gets to lecturing. Man¡¯s got his heart in the right place, just a little mistaken in the brain parts a bit. Shows in how he tries to hustle me out the room, as if he¡¯s worried I intend to stay and sleep there too. I don¡¯t put up a fight, but I stop in my tracks as soon as we out of the room. ¡°No worries Padre,¡± I say, giving him a brief smile which is all I can muster. ¡°I ain¡¯t stayin¡¯. I¡¯mma head out after they get settled in.¡± Gotta get over to Uncle Teddy¡¯s and make me a copy of Mental Fortress to study. Won¡¯t be easy to get it prepped, at least two weeks before I¡¯m ready to even try would be my guess, but best start sooner rather than later. ¡°Unless you got work for me around here?¡±


    ¡°Oh no, we¡¯re good man,¡± he says, clapping me on the shoulder with a firm hand. ¡°You don¡¯t have to go though. We¡¯ve got plenty of spare rooms and I doubt we¡¯ll have more than a handful of other guests coming over tonight.¡±


    Assuming things don¡¯t get any worse. Much as I¡¯d love to stay close by to keep an eye on the family, someone¡¯s got to make sure the horses, cattle, wallies, and bees are all safe and sound at home, and I tell the Padre as much. Still stick around a little longer to help Tina keep Chrissy entertained with the Photo projector/music box I made her while Aunty Ray heads off to the kitchen to help rustle up some grub for said guests and the rest of us. She was prepping for dinner when the drone hit, and the fact that she couldn¡¯t push past it to cook dinner really sells how bad it is. In her books, skipping a meal is right up there with adultery and blasphemy in terms of sins, though I¡¯ve no earthly idea where she tucks it all away. Really shows when you line her up next to other townies her age, most of whom are best described as stout rather than shapely. Not saying they thick or heavyset, just that they got a sturdy rigour to their bodies that is neither thin nor athletic, a physique fashioned from years of household labours.


    Ain¡¯t fair to judge these ladies by their appearance in the here and now. Could be there was a time when they was all slim and dainty, much like Noora and Josie were today. Already knew Noora was gorgeous, but when did lanky little bucktoothed Josie Ramierez transform into a beauty in her own right? She got these soft, striking, mixed race features which combined with her shorter, almost sleepy looking hair-do with a big bright ribbon up top has got her looking cute as all heck. Add in her big doe eyes, cute button nose, and plump, kissable lips and it¡¯s hard not to forget she ain¡¯t even sixteen. Won¡¯t happen for a few months yet, before the end of the year even which means I¡¯m technically only like 20 months older than her, rather than the full two years our ages suggest. Not that far off in terms of age, but it¡¯s more about her lack of maturity that puts me off. Still, little Josie¡¯s done a whole lot of growing since I last seen her, having come into a slender figure with more curves than I¡¯m comfortable acknowledging. I know it was supposed to be a sorta date with Noora, but this is the first time I seen Josie since Danny clued me in to the fact that she had a crush on me, and it¡¯s painfully obvious now that I know to look for it. The shy glances, the quick blushes, the constant giggling, which I could do without, but is still endearing as can be.


    Then there¡¯s Noora, who¡¯s bold and brave in a different way from I¡¯m used to. Ain¡¯t the stoic calm you¡¯d get from Kacey or Sarah Jay as they set out into the wild Frontier, but there¡¯s a fiery confidence in how Noora approaches life. Won¡¯t ever catch Josie sneaking out of her room and showing up at my house late at night, no sir-ree bob. Then there¡¯s how Noora faced off against Old Tux for the first time, or how she climbed that tree without blinking until she happened to glance down at her feet. Was clearly scared out of her gourd in both cases, but she went at it without making a fuss or fretting even a bit. Just did what she had to, whether it be get up on that horse or shimmy back down the tree, all calm and collected because she had things under control. Brains, beauty, and bravery all rolled up in a gorgeous little package, with hips that don¡¯t quit and a pair of long, slender legs to die for. All of which is just the cherry on top, because even though she only a couple months older than Josie, Noora¡¯s got an old soul that understands me in ways no one ever has and a sense of humour more twisted than my own.


    And yet, gorgeous as both girls are, I don¡¯t know how I feel about embarking on a journey of a lifetime with either one of them. During our ¡®date¡¯, I felt more like a guide and chaperone than anything else, though that could be because we had Tina and Chrissy there with us. Fell into the role of big brother all too easily as I kept an eye out for trouble and made sure everyone was safe and having fun the whole time. Sure, I enjoyed myself, but it wasn¡¯t no different from any other trip to the lake, with no spark that made me fall head over heels in love with either one of the eligible ladies. And not because I¡¯m hung up over Tina neither, or Aunty Ray for that matter. I look at Josie and Noora and my heart speeds up as I get to wondering what it¡¯d be like to hold them close and feel the warmth of their body pressed against mine, but that ain¡¯t love. That¡¯s lust, and lust ain¡¯t hardly enough to build a whole life out of.


    Would love to know how my daddy knew my mama was the one so quick. Met her for all of a day before deciding he¡¯d spend the rest of his life at her side, which is just wild. Always thought it was crazy growing up, and now that I¡¯m older, it ain¡¯t fun to face facts and admit my parent¡¯s relationship might¡¯ve started as lust. Nothing wrong with that, but I ain¡¯t brave as my daddy or Noora even, able to just put myself out there and see what¡¯s what. What if it don¡¯t work out? What if later on down the line, I come to regret my decision? What if one day I wake up next to a woman I call my wife, the mother of my children, and find myself wishing I had someone else laying right there next to me? Till death do us part, which sounds romantic as all heck until you realize there are some couples out there just counting down the days till one of ¡®em drops dead.


    Plus there¡¯s still Chrissy to account for. Any woman I marry is gonna hafta accept that she¡¯s always gonna be a huge part of my life, and I saw the sour glances Josie and Noora were trading when they saw me holding Chrissy¡¯s hand for most the afternoon. Also clock how scandalized the other ladies in the church look when I tuck a napkin into Chrissy¡¯s collar, as if they can¡¯t fathom how a man can put hands on a woman without any carnal intent. I don¡¯t pay them any mind though, just keep my head down and cut her sandwich into triangles because that¡¯s how she likes them. Dips them into her soup and nibbles around the toothpick in the centre until all she got left is one big bite of primo centre sandwich, hence the need for the makeshift bib.


    It is what it is. It¡¯s not that Chrissy is a messy eater, more that she¡¯s easily distracted and forgets she¡¯s holding a dripping hunk of bread every now and then. To cheer Tina up, I cut her sandwich into quarters too, which earns me a shy little smile over the novelty of it all. She¡¯s more the type to take the whole sandwich in both hands and chomp away until it¡¯s all gone, which is just part of her hasty nature. Shows in how she immediate reaches for her sandwich before everyone is settled in and ready, so I gotta give her a nudge to remind her we in church and gotta say grace before we eat.


    Which is an actual prayer, one I mumble alongside the rest of the group because I¡¯ve forgotten most of the words. It¡¯s embarrassingly short too, so I got no real excuse, and can only hope no one listening all that closely to what it is I¡¯m actually saying. When we¡¯re all done eating, I volunteer to do the dishes, and the Padre joins me to help. ¡°It¡¯s incredible,¡± he says, shaking his head as he dries a bowl handed to him by my Mage Hand. ¡°Feels like it was just last week when you were the terror of these streets, always running around and getting into all sorts of trouble. Now look at you, so mature and dependable. I mean, you¡¯ve always looked after Chrissy, but now you¡¯re volunteering to wash dishes and looking after the house and everything. I¡¯m proud of you Howie.¡±


    ¡°Just doin¡¯ what needs to be done is all,¡± I say, not seeing what¡¯s so laudable about doing basic chores.


    ¡°Good to see you in the pews every week too,¡± he continues, ignoring my complete and utter lack of inclination to carry on a conversation. ¡°I know you made it a point to come to mass whenever you were in town, but it took some getting used to knowing you were out there for weeks at a time all by your lonesome.¡±


    ¡°Same answer as before,¡± I reply, adding in a little shrug. ¡°Man¡¯s gotta earn if he wants to eat.¡±


    ¡°A real go-getter, that¡¯s what you are. I hear you¡¯re already back at it again, doing construction work for a community just a few hours away? It¡¯s great that you¡¯ve bounced back so quick. I also couldn¡¯t help but overhear you made that music box for Chrissy? That¡¯s incredible. Not just that you made it, but that you found the time to do it between a fifty-hour work week and your studies with Mr. Ellis. You¡¯re on your way to being a full-on Artificer, if not something even more specialized.¡±


    ¡°Been checking up on me, have you?¡±


    ¡°Not even a little.¡± Flashing his too-handsome smile with his perfectly even teeth, the Padre leaves me in suspense for a good few seconds before explaining, ¡°Mr. Ellis loves bragging about your exploits. Always has, but he¡¯s had a lot more to say in recent weeks.¡± Because I¡¯ve actually been around, instead of stopping in town for the weekend every other month. The silver lining to my crippling, though he don¡¯t come out and say that, it¡¯s pretty much the gist of what he hinting at. ¡°I also know he¡¯s worried about you,¡± he says, after a long silent exchange. ¡°Concerned about how you¡¯ve lost a hand and had to pivot your whole life¡¯s plan a second time. Troubled by that look in your eye every time he asks about Captain Clay. Afraid you¡¯re bottling up all your anger, pain, heartache, and resentment inside, and that it¡¯ll all come bubbling out one day.¡±


    ¡°He said all that?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± the Padre admits, all matter of fact like. ¡°But I can read between the lines.¡±


    So can I, and he¡¯s telling me all this not just for my benefit, but Uncle Teddy¡¯s too. ¡°I see. Well, neither of you got anything to worry about. It is what it is, and ain¡¯t nothin¡¯ to be done about it.¡±


    The Padre takes a moment to digest it all, and I know he looking at me, studying me, but I keep my eyes forward on the task at hand. After spending a few seconds mulling things over, the Padre says, ¡°I can¡¯t imagine what it¡¯s like, to walk around in your shoes, but if you ever want to talk about it, my door¡¯s always open.¡±


    ¡°I hope you mean that figuratively, because that could make for some real awkward moments, now wouldn¡¯t it?¡± Turning back to the sink, I get back to scrubbing a bowl while my Mage Hands hold it in place. ¡°Appreciate the offer Padre, but don¡¯t got much to say really.¡±


    ¡°Not much isn¡¯t nothing,¡± he replies. He falls silent for a bit, his head down and eyes focused on his work. ¡°I just want you to know you aren¡¯t alone. You have people you can talk to, and not just me.¡± That¡¯s all he says, and doesn¡¯t push me any further. Just goes back to drying whatever I pass him and stacking it in the rack in comfortable silence. Man¡¯s said his piece and knows not to push any further, because all he wants to do is help and any more would be harmful. That¡¯s why I can¡¯t bring myself to like him. He¡¯s too perfect, all cheery and optimistic without coming across as na?ve or innocent. A good third of the town probably comes to him with all their woes and unload their darkest sins on him in confession, so he¡¯s got a good inkling of how bad things are out there. Even then, he still goes about his days with big, bright, genuine smile on his face. Ain¡¯t normal is all I¡¯m saying, especially since he don¡¯t smoke or gamble. Doesn¡¯t drink either, aside from a sip of communion wine at mass once a week, and ain¡¯t no one ever caught him eying any ladies, gents, or children neither. On top of it all, he¡¯s got the voice of an angel too, even if his choice of lyric is suspect at best, and I ain¡¯t buying that a man can stay this perfect out here on the Frontier.


    Because I know I most certainly can¡¯t, so if he can, then it means I¡¯m doing something wrong.


    Soon as the last dish is done, I make ready to escape, but he holds me in place with little more than his unwavering attention. ¡°You sure you don¡¯t want to stay for our jam session?¡± he asks, smiling because he already knows the answer. ¡°Was a time when you loved singing along to the greatest hits of the 70¡¯s and 80¡¯s.¡±


    Back when Uncle Raleigh was around. ¡°Was before I realized I got a tin ear,¡± I say, smiling to remember those days. ¡°Figure the merciful thing to do is keep quiet and spare you all the suffering.¡±


    ¡°I think you could be a great singer if you put some effort into it.¡± The worst part is, the Padre means it. ¡°Seriously Howie,¡± he says, all sickly sweet with his genuine enthusiasm. ¡°You have it in you to do anything you put your mind to. Not because of what you can do or have done, but how you go about it. You set your mind to something, and you do everything in your power to accomplish it. No whining, no complaints, no excuses or lashing out at others. Well, not much lashing out,¡± he corrects, giving me a stern but amused look as he remembers all the fights I¡¯ve been in. ¡°I admire you for all that. A word of unsolicited advice though?¡± I get the feeling he¡¯d even stuff it if I told him to, but it¡¯s impossible to be curt with the man when he¡¯s looking at me with all the heartfelt sincerity of a starving marty in search of a treat. So I nod and he hunkers down a bit so we can speak eye to eye, because on top of everything else, he¡¯s also at least 6¡¯2. ¡°Don¡¯t be in such a rush to ¡®fix¡¯ things. You don¡¯t need any fixing Howie. You lost a hand, but that doesn¡¯t make you any less of a person. In the same vein, no fancy automaton or custom Spell will make you more of one, so don¡¯t lose sight of the present in your hurry to arrive at the future.¡±


    ¡°Will do,¡± I say, and even I can hear the lacking sincerity in my tone, because I can¡¯t help myself. Says I can do anything I set my mind to, but I just want to be whole again. Be capable as I used to be and earn the right to call myself the Firstborn again. Try as I might though, I don¡¯t realistically see that ever happening, so I gotta keep pushing myself, keep striving to improve, because I¡¯m terrified that if I ever slow down or stop in place, then I might never find the strength to get going again. Thought I had no quit in me, but it¡¯s only been a handful of weeks and I can¡¯t count the number of times I¡¯ve considered throwing in the towel. Just can¡¯t help it when I spend weeks studying a Cantrip I¡¯ve used for years and got nothing to show for it, but I keep on keeping on because what else is there to do?


    Settle my daddy¡¯s affairs and put a Bolt in the low-down dirty son of a gun who ordered his death, that¡¯s what. A job I don¡¯t expect to walk away from, not as I am, but if I¡¯m not getting any stronger, then best I head out sooner rather than later. Wait too long and my enemies will grow even more difficult to track and kill, while my resolve will weaken with time. That¡¯s the main reason why I¡¯m so reluctant to give me and Noora a try, even though a part of me really, really wants to. Wouldn¡¯t be fair to go in with one foot out the door, so I figure I ought to test the waters with a couple more dates before committing one way or another.


    Got my head in the clouds as I mosey on home again, so lost I almost push past the Sheriff without noticing before I realize he wants a word. After a brief reprieve in the church, the droning from the Mindspike feels even worse than before, so I can¡¯t help but let the resentment come bubbling out when he indicates he¡¯d like a word. ¡°Oh come on,¡± I say, making no effort to hide my exasperation. Only way I could look any whinier is if I stomped my feet, so I dial it back just a touch. ¡°You don¡¯t got nothing better to do?¡± I ask, as set my Mage Hands to rolling up my left sleeve. ¡°And could you tell your boys to be a little neater when they go through all my things? Gets tiresome cleanin¡¯ up after them every time.¡±


    ¡°Which eye you see me holding test kit with, hmm?¡± Sherrif Patel asks, his tone curt and pithy as always. ¡°Which eye? Don¡¯t tell me. You tell Dr. Harding, because whichever eye it is? Need checking.¡± Only then do I realize he ain¡¯t here to see what Spells I got prepared, and my neck retracts into my shoulders to hear it. Scoffing at my non-apology, the Sherrif pulls out a map and says, ¡°Look here. Carter¡¯s community here. Then here, here, here, and there. Five stops. You leave tomorrow morning. You tell them about Mindspire. You warn them to stay off the lake. Travel ban for safety.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t leave town.¡± When did my voice get so pitchy and contentious? Sound like an entitled little brat who don¡¯t wanna eat their veggies. ¡°Aunty Ray and them are over at the church, because they can barely function outside of it.¡±


    ¡°Only need you for one day, then you come home. Padre, he look after your family, and I look after your animals.¡± Cattle are sacred animals in Bharathi culture, and I hear most don¡¯t eat meat either, so I suppose I can count on him to look after the homestead for a day. ¡°You do this. I give you ten hours hard labour.¡± This ain¡¯t a negotiation, the Sherrif is just telling me how it is, and I don¡¯t rightly know if I can refuse. Seeing that I still ain¡¯t none too pleased, he leans in and says, ¡°The Ranger patrols, they say increased Abby activity all around lake. My deputies, they only move in groups. Five or more.¡± We both share a little look there, because we know how it is, and neither of us care to suffer fools lightly. ¡°You go. You warn these communities. Free up Rangers to travel further out, get word to others and find out how far this goes.¡± Then, to show that he really desperate, the Sherrif adds, ¡°Please.¡±


    Ain¡¯t no way to refuse anymore then. ¡°Okay.¡± Glancing at the map one more time, I commit the details to memory.


    ¡°Take Photo,¡± the Sherrif says, shaking the map and impatient to get going as soon as he can. No thanks, no word of warning, just wham bam thank you ma¡¯am. No wonder he ain¡¯t married.


    ¡°Sure.¡± To make a point, I hold up my hands to frame the image, except I only got the one. ¡°Oh wait. I can¡¯t,¡± I say, my tone dripping with sarcasm. ¡°Need two hands to cast the Photo Cantrip, and I left one back in Pleasant Dunes. Silly me.¡±


    ¡°Tch.¡± The Sheriff ain¡¯t one to be cowed so easily, and he¡¯s got no tolerance for my sass. ¡°Should fix soon. Photo Cantrip vital for evidence collection.¡± And he expects me to get in more trouble that¡¯ll require it. That¡¯s almost sweet of him. Handing me the map, he says, ¡°Hold it up.¡± I do, and he snaps a Photo one handed as if to make a point, making a circle with his hand like it¡¯s a telescope to frame what he wants taken. Then he turns and saunters off without so much as a goodbye, ignoring the quiet attempts of various townies to catch his attention because he has more pressing matters to attend to.


    Him, I like. No idea why. Maybe I¡¯m just weird, but the Sherrif is my kinda guy, unlike the Padre who¡¯s too¡­ I dunno the word for it. Like a marty that¡¯s too friendly, so I can¡¯t help but suspect there¡¯s something wrong with it. That¡¯s how it is though, so I turn around and head back to the church to let Aunty Ray knows what¡¯s happening, because she¡¯d never forgive me if I simply left a note. Honestly though? It feels nice to be needed. The Sherrif could¡¯ve fobbed the job off onto the boots or something, but he came to me instead, because he knows every minute counts and I¡¯ll get the job done right. Ain¡¯t much of a job really, just a day trip through the forest, so while I ain¡¯t the Firstborn no more, this much I can handle at least.


    And if I can¡¯t? Well¡­ best we find that out sooner rather than later. I got decisions to make and a timeframe to stick to, so might as well bite the bullet and see what¡¯s what.

 Book Two - Chapter 68

    There are many reasons to be upset on this particular morning.


    For starters, I didn¡¯t get much sleep last night. Partially my fault, as I stayed up later than I should¡¯ve copying the Spell Formula for Mental Fortress, then pored over it once or twice to see if I could visualize the Spell Structure with only a few hours of study. I couldn¡¯t, which is expected, considering it took me six months to figure out Fireball without any extra help. Then, in all the rush to prep for today¡¯s trip, I forgot to fix something up for breakfast, which means I¡¯m eating dried applesauce and hardtack instead of a hot meal since I didn¡¯t have time to make anything else. Then there¡¯s my right hand, which I done lost close to seven weeks ago now and still hurts something fierce. Usually not so bad that I can¡¯t block it out, but today it¡¯s aching like I done dipped my missing hand in molten lava and it¡¯s still there to burn away. Add in the pulsing Mindspire drone which, as far as I can tell has yet to stop since it started yesterday afternoon, and the pounding headache I got from it, then you can imagine how I ain¡¯t the happiest camper around when I wake up before the sun¡¯s up to get a head start on the day.


    I do what I can to look on the bright side, but the sun¡¯s barely peeking out over the horizon, so their ain¡¯t much illumination to light the way. What I do have is Old Tux plodding ever onwards, all hot to trot after yesterday¡¯s snooze of a walk. Old though he may be, he still got a lot of grit in him, and he seems happier now that we out in the forest proper. Don¡¯t seem bothered at all by the Mindspire, which is interesting to say the least, especially considering how empty the forest appears. Every other animal has gone to ground, with no hoggidilla¡¯s roaming their trails or scale bears out marking trees. Don¡¯t hear no chitter rats navigating through their burrows and the brushes, or griphikins cawing at the morning sun. In short, there ain¡¯t nothing scurrying, ambling, hopping, or flying about in this hear forest, no fishies bubbling, frogs croaking, or even insects buzzing about, which makes for a right scary atmosphere in an otherwise vibrant forest.


    Feels like I¡¯m watching a Video without any sound, save for the clip-clop of Old Tux¡¯s hooves and the wind blowing through the pastel white trees. Don¡¯t bother my horse none though, as he canters along with a bounce in his step like he all too happy to be out and about. I think he¡¯s been in better spirits now that he got a proper herd to watch over. All four of my new horses look to him as their leader, and he seems to enjoy the job immensely. Just this morning, when I let them out into the ranch to stretch their legs, none of the younger horses wanted to come out. Old Tux saw that and went for a quick patrol around the fences, then headed back inside to entice his herd to follow him out to play. I swear he¡¯s aging in reverse now that he got some friends to play with, and it makes me feel downright awful for keeping him alone for so long.


    He a great horse, the best there ever was if you ask me. Even better now that it looks like he can shake off the Mindspire¡¯s droning, since you¡¯d think he¡¯d be at least a little upset. Could be he¡¯s on the opposite side of the spectrum when comes to Aertheric sensitivity, dull as opposed to hypersensitive. Then again, I gotta think Aunty Ray would¡¯ve noticed while she was training Old Tux to begin with, since she does use a fair few Spells to make friends with the beasties. Enchantment is a big part of her wheelhouse after all, even if she primarily specializes in Illusion, not to mention how she married a bonafide Enchanter and horse whisperer in Uncle Raleigh.


    So either they both missed the mark when it came to Old Tux here, or he just built different from the rest. Maybe it¡¯s his natural temperament, or could be a magical gift that lets him power through the Mindspire¡¯s attacks without so much as blinking an eye. Whatever it is, I wish I had a tenth of his poise and self control in the face of adversity, because the constant droning is starting to really take a toll. Not just on me, but on Cowie too, who¡¯s all bundled up in a blanket and cradled in my arms with a big old scowl stretched across his adorable calf features. The funny thing is, I was planning on leaving him at home, but he wasn¡¯t having none of it, throwing a big old hissy fit in the yard and refusing to let me go without him. Was the gentlest tantrum I done ever seen, with him stamping his hooves one by one in ultra slow motion for fear of stepping on a kiccaw, marty, or wally, and I didn¡¯t have it in me to leave him be.


    Yea, the Mindspire¡¯s got Cowie all out of sorts, as he probably got that heightened Aetheric sensitivity too. Ain¡¯t a term I¡¯ve heard before yesterday¡¯s town meeting, and I¡¯m not entirely sure what it means aside from being more affected by the Mindspire than most. Didn¡¯t stop him from insisting I bring him out, as we ain¡¯t ever been separated since the day he was born, not for more than a handful of hours at least, so I don¡¯t mind carrying him like a baby all day. Got me a few strange looks from the guards when I rode up to the gates looking like I was out for a lark, but they ought to mind their own business and stick to their jobs. Which is opening the damn gates when I ride up, not stopping me to warn me off or pester me about the ¡®increased Abby activity¡¯.


    A few rumours of Abby roaming about and it¡¯s got everyone shaking in their boots. Me, I see it as a matter of perspective. Sure, there are more Abby roaming these forests today than there were last week, but that¡¯s still a far cry from what it¡¯s like in the badlands or even the Coral Desert, so I ain¡¯t all that concerned. We¡¯ve gone from a two to a three around New Hope, whereas I¡¯m comfortable riding solo in eights and nines without blinking an eye, so ain¡¯t no reason to act shook. Don¡¯t mean I don¡¯t take any precautions neither, but this here might as well be a walk in the park compared to my yearly trip up to the mesa, so I ain¡¯t sweating much.


    Which I suppose is why the Sherrif gave me this job in the first place, so I best step to and get it done right.


    Truth is, people act like riding out into the Frontier is a death sentence, but the way I see it, a competent traveller got it much safer than most. Ain¡¯t every day you run into bandits, with a close call coming in maybe once every month or two, whereas you can pick up the newspaper on any given day and find an article to read about some accident at the workplace. Poorly maintained machines, unsecured shelves, grease fires, steam scalding, heat stroke, frost bite, and more, all injuries sustained while on the job making a wage they can just get by on. Meanwhile, the fatcats who don¡¯t do nothing besides call the shots are raking the profits in while sitting safe and sheltered inside town. A long drop and a quick stop, that¡¯s what they deserve, a bunch of leeches who are a burden to the rest of us who do the real work around these parts. Problem is, there always gonna be scabs who don¡¯t know their own value and will work for pennies on the dollar, while expecting the rest of us to do the same and be grateful for the opportunity.


    Backwards is what that is, but people are self-defeating, because there always gonna be those who are happy to get by with the bare minimum. Which is disheartening, because they lowering all our prospects by undervaluing their own self-worth. I been keeping an eye out on who¡¯s hiring of late, looking for a proper job once I¡¯m finished with all my hours of hard labour. Will need something to put food on the table after all, but the prospects ain¡¯t all that appealing. I got no qualms about putting in a long day¡¯s work as a construction worker, as evidenced by the 190 hours of hard labour I already put in last month, just 10 shy of the legally mandated maximum in that period of time. What I won¡¯t do is that sort of work for a measly five dollars a day. That¡¯s downright criminal, less than half of what a Ranger makes which is already too low to begin with, and while you¡¯d think construction work is a whole lot safer, the statistics say otherwise. Got a higher chance of getting injured on a worksite than out on patrol, and while work injuries are rarely fatal, they can put an end to your career all the same.


    Or you could get real unlucky like Deputy Juan and get got by Abby on the worksite. His fault really for making such a big fuss so close to shore with his back to the water, but let¡¯s not forget how I almost died several times that day too.


    Mostly because the local Abby are a lot tougher than the gobbos and blitzbugs I¡¯m used to dealing with. That¡¯s why I added my compact Szass and Tam Model 10 back into my every day carry, which I got sitting on my hip at the 9 o¡¯clock position, while my Rattlesnake stays as my primary at the 11. Considered breaking out the Ranger Repeater or one of my Whumpers too, but didn¡¯t see much of a point. With only one hand to work them, I doubt I could hit the broadside of a barn from more than fifty metres, not unless I work up some sort of prosthetic to clamp onto the forward grip. Talked about it with Danny a few times, and even scribbled out a few ideas that seemed workable, except I kept putting off the work claiming my arm needed more time to heal.


    It don¡¯t. The flesh is about as good as it¡¯ll get now, albeit still tender, and there¡¯s the issue with the phantom hand pain to deal with. The biggest problem ain¡¯t physical though. It¡¯s mental, because truth is, I¡¯m dreading the day I go to the range and find out how bad a shot I really am. Going from right to left-handed shooting ain¡¯t a matter of just switching hands. It shifts your whole perspective too, which means I gotta forget everything I¡¯ve learned and all the habits I¡¯ve cultivated to relearn and recultivate them anew. I¡¯ve already turned down Tina and Sarah Jay¡¯s invitations to the shooting range thrice now, and I suspect they¡¯ll ask me again this weekend too, and I¡¯m running out of excuses to give.


    Don¡¯t get me wrong. I love all the support and confidence I¡¯m getting from the people around me, but that also adds weight to the expectations I got riding on my shoulders. Lemme get my feet under me first and figure out how to live my day-to-day life with one hand, and I¡¯ll move on to shooting and soldiering once that¡¯s all good and sorted.


    All thoughts rattling about inside of my head as Old Tux brings us towards Carter¡¯s compound, which is gonna be our first stop of the day. There are plenty of closer communities, and even individual homesteads as close as a quarter-hour ride from the walls, but I reckon those folks already done come in to see what¡¯s what last night. Far as I can tell, ain¡¯t no one happy about the lack of real information, and there¡¯s a lot of doom and gloom going around about shutting down traffic on the lake. I say there ain¡¯t no other choice, because with the morning fog still hanging over the waters, I can¡¯t see more than 5, 10 metres out into the lake. Imagine trying to navigate a boat through that, without a Radio to call for help if needed, or speakers to announce your presence. Turn either one on and all you get is harsh, pitchy static on account of the Aetheric interference from the Mindspire, which is a death sentence to any ship that runs afoul of the shallows or worse, gets attacked by Abby en route.


    One ranakin is all it takes to punch a hole in the bottom of your boat, and then its only a matter of time before it sinks. Not so big a deal for the flat-bottom trawlers like what Carter¡¯s people use to do whatever business they got out on the lake, but for the big ferries carrying dozens of people across to the other side? That¡¯s a death sentence if I ever heard one. Can¡¯t park a Ranger strike team on every ferry, not with them moving out ever hour on the hour, because then we¡¯d have no personnel to call upon in the event of an attack on the town. Didn¡¯t stop them affluent townies from demanding as much though, because how are they supposed to maintain their lavish lifestyles if their profits take a hit?


    That¡¯s really the worst part of it all, the ugliness underneath this already dire situation. Them greedy moneybags expecting other people to risk their lives for a pittance, all so the rich can get richer. Them folks who own the ships, stores, and factories which are so dependent on shipping were the ones clamouring the loudest against the lockdown on the lake. Without that lockdown though, you wouldn¡¯t find a single one of them out on the waters, I guarantee you that. Ghoulish is what it is, expecting your employees to take the greatest risks while reaping the smallest benefits, no different from what was happening in Pleasant Dunes. Things ain¡¯t nearly as bad here in New Hope, but it¡¯s scary to think how we ain¡¯t all that far off, because if company men had their way, Pleasant Dunes would be a shining example to aspire to, rather than a cautionary tale against unchecked greed.


    Got me a bellyful of ire and resentment this morning, which I can only partially blame on the Mindspire. Has me in a right foul mood it does, one compounded by the fact that my Detect Aberration Spell is giving me some pitchy feedback. At first, I thought it was because I did the Ritual wrong or my tuning fork got bent from sitting in my breast pocket instead of the nice little custom stitched slot I put inside my components pouch. No helping it, because with all the guns I got on the left side of my belt, I had to move my components pouch to the right, which makes it tricksy to reach into with the one hand I got. Tuning fork ain¡¯t bent though, nor was it something I messed up, because after the third iteration of Detect Aberration, I¡¯ve come to accept the facts as they are. It¡¯s gotta be the Mindspire again, putting out extra noise for the Detection Spell to pick up, like a pitchy, whiny hum nestled inside my ear and a distinctly discomforting quality to the signal I pick up.


    Like swimming through turbid, mossy water that¡¯s thicker that what you¡¯d expect. Nothing wrong with it exactly, just unpleasant is all.


    And that¡¯s before we get into the Mindspire¡¯s shifting patterns and intermittent tests. Though it slowed down last night, the Proggie picked things up again this morning by hitting us with a widespread Discord. It¡¯s an insidious Secord Order Spell that incites anger, hatred, paranoia, and general mistrust, which means your mileage may vary when it comes to actual results. Most people will shake it off or swallow their anger, suspicion, and resentments, but I¡¯m more accustomed to acting on my feelings and doing something about it. Ain¡¯t nothing to do though, because all I¡¯m getting upset at are the facts of life, with constant needling from the Mindspire to poke the embers every time I get them fires banked. Then there¡¯s the random Suggestions it keeps throwing out, faint and indirect inklings of danger telling me to draw my weapon or lash out for no real reason. Those don¡¯t come out often, and they¡¯re easy enough to resist, but every time I let my mind wander to take in my surroundings as a whole, I get the urge to reach for my guns for no real reason at all.


    Yeah, Enchantment Spells are a real pain in the backside to deal with, because they deal with emotion, not logic, and the Mindspire is throwing out Second Order Enchantments like they¡¯re nothing. At least the effectiveness is a mere fraction of a fraction of the real thing, but that also means the effect is subtle and insidious enough to make you think those thoughts come from within. The human mind is a strange thing, in that once you suspect there¡¯s a problem, it¡¯s difficult to let go of that suspicion even if you know there¡¯s no basis for it. In the short term, I don¡¯t think the Mindspire¡¯s Discord and Suggestions will amount to much of anything at all, but sooner or later, someone¡¯s gonna snap over something innocuous, and things are gonna snowball from there.


    Won¡¯t take much. A wry comment. A sardonic jab. A sour look. Something minor and inconsequential, but it¡¯ll be the straw that breaks the camel¡¯s back, and hell will break loose soon after A right insidious tactic this Mindspire is, and I¡¯m worried that I¡¯ll be the spark that sets off the Aether keg in New Hope, the instigator who brings everything down on all of our heads.


    More of the Discord poking at my brain, but partially my own concerns too, so I do my best to focus on the task at hand and take my cues from Old Tux. He¡¯s relaxed and comfortable as can be, so I let him pick his pace and stop every now and then to gather grumble berries, dig for sunspine tubers, or collect alabaster nuts to roast when we get home. Cowie¡¯s adorable frown keeps my spirits up, and I do what I can to raise his too, rocking, feeding, and singing for him as we move through the silent, white forest without incident.


    I keep my eyes and ears open the whole time though, and my mind on my Detection Spell too, right up until it peters out about twenty minutes from Carter¡¯s compound. That¡¯s when I decide to hold off on recasting right quick. Better to use a Ritual when I get there to conserve my Aether reserves, because I¡¯ve already cast the Spell twice and still got most of the day to go. Been keeping track of how long I can hold Detection, and it¡¯s been about 75 minutes each time. None too shabby considering the Spell only has a 10-minute duration at base, but I learned in Pleasant Dunes that the added tension and stress of being down under dark will cut that time down by a quarter or even a half. 4 hours is my goal in ideal conditions, one I intend to reach before even thinking about going back under dark again, alongside a whole slew of other conditions I¡¯ve set for myself. Bad enough I got Marcus killed, so the least I can do is learn from my mistakes and not repeat them my next time around.


    Assuming there even is a next time. Here¡¯s hoping, but I ain¡¯t all that hopeful, if you know what I mean.


    A rustling in the bushes startles me up out of the saddle, and Old Tux huffs in displeasure at my sudden movement. It¡¯s only in hindsight that I identify the minor spike of panic as the Mindspire¡¯s attempt to cast Fear, one that pales in comparison to the Hobgoblin Illusionist¡¯s Spell that I got hit with in the Coral Desert. Still enough to put me on edge, and it¡¯s got Cowie stirring in his sleep too. A kiss on the nose and a pat on the head is all it takes to soothe him, but the same can¡¯t be said for the animals of the forest. A family of quill shrews scurry across the dirt trail, all spines and eyes like they are, while overhead a flock of birds take flight, flapping up a storm and cawing in chorus to express their extreme displeasure. The distinct grunting of a scalebear sounds off in the distance, the 2-foot armoured ursines making a rare appearance in the daytime, since they¡¯d much rather sleep and save their energy to forage at night.


    For a few minutes, the once silent forest comes to life as creatures bark, squawk, chitter, and screech in mild alarm, and I track it as best I can while maintaining my cool. Right up until I catch wind of thundering hoofbeats clip-clopping away at a rapid pace, one that¡¯s bringing them runaway horsies headlong towards me. Pulling Old Tux over to the side of the well-worn dirt path, I get him to slow down to catch his breath for a bit while my Mage Hands tie the end of my rope into a lasso. I also make sure my guns are all close to hand, because galloping horses can only mean one of two things. Either Carter¡¯s horsies got loose and need wrangling, or his people are riding away from something right quick, so I¡¯ve a mind to do something about it.


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    Never occurred to me before today, but this dirt path is pretty well-used. Means Carter and his ilk travel more than I¡¯ve seen, since forest trails like these will get overgrown right quick without constant traffic. My comings and goings twice a week wouldn¡¯t be enough to maintain it, so I suppose whatever business Carter¡¯s people are up to has them coming and going this way fairly often. Ain¡¯t all that relevant in the moment, but it¡¯s something to consider, because things ain¡¯t been adding up when it comes to Carter and his ilk, and I don¡¯t like not knowing what¡¯s what.


    Putting aside my nosey thoughts, I slowly make my way along the trail until I spot the horsies coming at me. Two of them, one spotted white and the other the ugly horsies I done maligned so often. The spotted white sees me waiting from around the bend and veers off out into the trees, but the uggo horsie¡¯s got his head down and legs pumping while running from whatever done spooked him. Something imaginary brought about by the Mindspire¡¯s low impact Fear Spell, but that¡¯s the thing about panic. Once it takes hold, it¡¯s hard to shake off, and even harder for prey animals like the big horsie here. Never one to suffer fools, Old Tux digs in his hooves and lets loose with a challenging whinny, and only then does the ugly horse notice we¡¯re there. It veers off to the side to avoid hitting us head on, and runs headlong into the loop of my lasso, then goes barreling by while I let the rope play out before heeling Old Tux into a pivot and chase.


    Old Tux turns on a dime and follows after the horse, hot on his heels but not so close as to risk a kick to the face. Me, I pull on the lasso to urge the horse to slow down, but it don¡¯t take to the rope well as it bucks and flings its head about. Strange that, because I was under the impression these horsies were well trained, what with how they lined up all nice and neat for the wagon, but this one acts like a wild beastie who ain¡¯t ever known the touch of a rope. I chalk it up to the panic and work the horse good and well, putting more and more weight on the rope while Old Tux gradually slows down and drags the other horse to a stop. The poor ugly beast is all covered in lathered by the time it¡¯s done running, with burrs, sticks, and other forest debris all caught in its mane and coat to show how it¡¯s been running all up and around these parts in a panic.


    ¡°Easy there,¡± I call, speaking soft and gentle as I dismount from Old Tux with Cowie still asleep in his sling. The other horse doesn¡¯t startle from the sound of my voice, only turns its head to watch my approach. ¡°Hey there big fella,¡± I say, stopping in plain sight so it can acclimate to my presence. ¡°You remember me? Yea you do, you ugly beastie you.¡± Still sounding sweet as molasses I am, but the horse don¡¯t take, letting out a tired huff of displeasure in between big, deep pants that got its flanks shaking and legs quivering. Pulling out my waterskin, I open it up and hold it out so he can smell the water inside, because I bet he¡¯s mighty parched after the run he had. ¡°Don¡¯t got much water, but you welcome to it,¡± I say, and wouldn¡¯t you know it, the horse turns and ambles towards me to chomp down on my waterskin, then stands there and waits for me to start pouring.


    ¡°Guess this aint the first time you drank from a waterskin,¡± I say, mostly because I find it amusing. Pausing to mutter, ¡®Influunt ¨C Gratis¡¯ to get the Shape Water Cantrip going, I continue, ¡°Won¡¯t no one ever call you pretty, but ain¡¯t no denying you one smart horsie.¡± The ugly horse eyes me from over its misshappen muzzle, but he don¡¯t make any sounds as he sucks down the water. I don¡¯t give him too much too quick, because he gonna need every drop I got in the waterskin to have any hope of making it back to Carter¡¯s place, even though it ain¡¯t much more than a ten minute trot at most. Once half the water is down his gullet, I stop the flow and try to get him to move a few steps forward with the waterskin still in his mouth. It¡¯s a lot easier than expected, as he don¡¯t fight me one bit, but he do balk when he realizes I want him to keep walking so I can bring him on back home.


    ¡°Come on ugly,¡± I say, crooning as my Mage Hands give his nose and his neck a couple good pats. ¡°We gotta get you home where there¡¯s more water to drink, or at least close enough to where we can cart some water over in case you collapse.¡± I get the water flowing just a bit, then shut it off until he takes a step forward, then give him more and more as he gamely moves ahead on all four shakey legs. ¡°Atta boy,¡± I say, and he eyes me while greedily lapping up the water without spilling much of anything at all, leaving me to wonder how he¡¯d fare if I didn¡¯t use the Shape Water Cantrip at all. Doesn¡¯t do anything besides move up to 1.5 litres of water about. Once you get it flowing, that¡¯ll keep going for about an hour after the fact, and I set the water in the waterskin to just swirl around the horsies mouth until he drinks it all down.


    It¡¯s odd how Magic interacts with living flesh. Note how I say Magic, not Aether, because they ain¡¯t exactly one and the same. Aether powers the Magic, while Magic is more than just Aether in too many ways to count. I can control the water in the horsies mouth until it gets into his throat, at which point there ain¡¯t nothing any Spell can do to keep him from swallowing. Means among other things, you can¡¯t use Shape Water to drown a man or beast by sending water into their lungs. Best you can do is get it to the opening, and a little might go down the wrong pipe if they ain¡¯t expecting it, but even with your mouth wide open, you got enough muscle control to choose between breathing and drinking. Course, even if you couldn¡¯t, once the water moves past a certain point and is surrounded by a certain amount of living tissue, then your magical control over the water ends just like that. No real idea why, and that¡¯s not just me, as this is a problem most Arcanists can¡¯t entirely figure out. You can blow a hole through flesh just fine using a Bolt Spell, because the Magic creates kinetic force, and its the laws of physics doing all the damage, but try and use a Spell like Telekinesis to rip a man¡¯s heart out of their chest and all you get is blank stares. The Magic itself can¡¯t penetrate through all those layers of flesh to affect something underneath, and don¡¯t no one know why. You could use Telekinesis to poke a hole through that man and rupture their heart that way, but then it¡¯s no different from the Bolt. Seems like the same thing, but really isn¡¯t, and it¡¯s a fascinating phenomenon to study once you did into the thick of it.


    Like if Magic can¡¯t affect something inside a living being, how do Enchantments work then? Those affect the mind, which last I checked is usually incased in a skull, so how¡¯s the magic get in there and do it¡¯s thing? A good question to ask Uncle Teddy next Sunday, since knowing could offer some insight on how to counteract the Mindspire¡¯s finagling.


    Distracted as I am by my concern for the ugly horse and my errant thoughts about the wonders of magic, I don¡¯t notice the figure creeping up on me until Old Tux lets out a whinny of warning. Already got my Rattlesnake in hand because I was wondering what got this horse and his friend so spooked, but luckily for all parties involved, I got presence of mind enough not to point and shoot before looking at who done spooked me. It¡¯s one of Carter¡¯s people who¡¯s name I never got, a tall and hairy nordic type with a face only his mother could love and not a stitch on him. Ain¡¯t shy about it neither, just wanders out of the brush bold and nekkid as can be, without so much as a peep while wearing a sour look on his face, like he suspect I done come out here to steal his ugly horse.


    I knew they were nudists. Said it didn¡¯t I? Wish it wasn¡¯t a big hairy man that done proved it though, because there are some sights you can¡¯t unsee.


    To be fair, he ain¡¯t entirely naked, as he got some jewelery on, a necklace that looks like braided horse hair attached to a scrimshaw carving of a horse. He got a leather bracelet too with another animal charm hanging from it, but not an animal from the Frontier. Looks like a bear at first glance, and I don¡¯t try for another, because he got his big swinging dong just dangling about, which ain¡¯t of any interest to me. ¡°Sleppa Honum,¡± he barks, and I flinch to hear it. Sounds like he¡¯s slinging a Spell to my ears, but then he points at the horsie and repeats himself. Sleppa Honum!¡±


    Takes a bit of thinking, but we come to an understanding soon enough as I hand him the rope. Rather than accept it with grace and hold on tight to safely guide the skittish beastie back home, the lanky nord pulls out a knife and saws through the rope even though it¡¯s a simple Honda knot that¡¯s easily unfastened. ¡°Yea sure,¡± I say, as he tosses the whole length of rope down into the dirt and walks away with the horsie trailing beside him. ¡°Just cut right through the rope and throw it away. Wasn¡¯t like I wanted it back, and that last two feet was no good anyways.¡± Still grumbling sarcastically under my breath as I lean over to pick my rope back up, I add, ¡°No need for any thanks neither. Not like I kept your ugly runaway horse from wearing himself out and collapsing a good quarter-hour away from your home. I¡¯m sure you would¡¯ve had a real easy time carting him back from where he fell, assuming you found him before any wild animals or Abby got to him.¡± Pausing to conjure up a Water Sphere to rinse the horse spit off of my waterskin, I grumble, ¡°Then again, I doubt anything¡¯d with two brain cells to rub together would want to eat him. One look at that ugly, misshapen face and they¡¯d think he was diseased.¡±


    The horsie turns to give me meanest side eye I done ever seen, and feeling petty as can be, I glare right back as I walk alongside Old Tux and escort the ungrateful pair all the way back to the compound. The Nord don¡¯t pay me no mind, doesn¡¯t even acknowledge anything I say, not even when I try to tell him he got another runaway horsie out in them trees. I can¡¯t hear it running no more, but if he don¡¯t care to go look for it, then I can¡¯t be bothered to help. Looks like they¡¯ll need it though, as the compound is abuzz with activity for once, as faces both familiar and unfamiliar move in and out of the compound. Fully dressed, thankfull, and on foot no less, as I¡¯m guessing all their horsies done run off, along with their hoggidillas to boot.


    Don¡¯t nobody greet me with smiles or thanks. Don¡¯t even ask the Nord what¡¯s what, or where the other horse might be. Ain¡¯t because no one¡¯s around neither, because in three weeks of working here, I ain¡¯t seen so many faces of Carter¡¯s community all at once, and its the first time seeing any of the women that are wandering about. All older folks still, and armed with bows and staves no less, while their kids are all still safe and sound in the compound. Heard them laughing at least a couple times over the last few weeks, so I know they got a fair few. Don¡¯t know what they got to laugh about, living their life cooped up in a tiny compound like they do, but seeing how busy and free they are today, I get the feeling the reason they stay cooped up all the time is because Carter don¡¯t want his people interacting with me.


    Which is a little insulting if I¡¯m being honest. I mean, yeah, I¡¯m technically here because I got saddled with 480 hours of hard labour after the kerfuffle in Pleasant Dunes, which means in their eyes, I¡¯m about one or two steps removed from a straight up criminal. Still, I ain¡¯t been nothing but polite, well-mannered, and hard working these last three weeks, so they should¡¯ve warmed up to me enough to warrant an introduction to the whole crew. Not that I care to meet everyone or learn their names, but it irks me something fierce that Carter don¡¯t want the same, though I admit it¡¯s probably mostly the Mindspire making me feel crabbier than usual. Not entirely though, so when Carter greets me with a brusque, ¡°What are you doing here?¡±, without any regards at all to common courtesy, I respond with less than my usual charm.


    ¡°Well,¡± I drawl, glancing around in casual challenge to every looky loo that looking too hard. ¡°Could be because I¡¯m scheduled to work here. It ain¡¯t, but you¡¯d think you¡¯d assume as much, seeing how we agreed on as much not three days ago.¡± Pausing for effect and taking in Carter¡¯s neutral and unamused expression I lean to my left to look at the naked Nord and ugly horse making their way into the compound and say, ¡°Could also be I come out to offer my horse wranglin¡¯ skills for free, catchin¡¯ that ugly runaway that got so spooked by whatever it is we got goin¡¯ on.¡± Carter don¡¯t even blink at my roundabout insinuation, nor does he seem ready to offer any thanks. Wouldn¡¯t make any difference anyways, since any gratitude that¡¯s been compelled ain¡¯t gratitude at all. ¡°There still another one out there, the white spotted one, but unfortunately for you, I ain¡¯t here to wrangle horses either."


    ¡°So? What is it?¡± Carter asks, finally showing a hint of emotion as he scowls in impatience, his stony facade finally cracking for once.


    Doesn¡¯t help that Cowie takes it upon himself to decide this is where he wants down, and it takes some doing to get him out of his sling without me taking a hoof in the chin. After a shake and a bleat, Cowie does a quick little happy prance around Carter¡¯s shins before running off and rounding the corner despite my calls for him to come back. Probably to answer nature¡¯s call, so I can only hope he knows not to use any of the trees that are part of the compound. Heaving a sigh to hide my embarassment, I pick up where I left off and get right to the point. ¡°Sheriff sent me out here to let you know what¡¯s what. You wanna gather the troops so they can all hear? I don¡¯t got time to say it more than once.¡±


    ¡°You tell me, and I¡¯ll tell the others.¡±


    ¡°You the boss.¡± So I give him the long and short of it all, how the Proggie raised a Mindspire and is poking at our brains with magic. ¡°The Marshal thinks Madness is a real possibility in the not so distant future,¡± I say, because that¡¯s the big danger here. ¡°So maybe have everyone sleeping in separate, locked rooms while keeping something on hand for non-lethal takedowns. Shocking Grasp Cantrip works best, but you gotta grab hold of your target. Living Whip¡¯s another good one, unless someone keeps cuttin¡¯ all your ropes short for no good reason.¡± Earns me a raised eyebrow it does, but Carter don¡¯t ask nothing, so I run through the list of viable defenses and possible safeguards to counteract the Mindspire, which is a short list that includes Protection from Abby, Consecration, Mental Fortress, and not much else.


    ¡°Hear tell there are some Imbued items that can help,¡± I conclude with a shrug, because I sure as shooting can¡¯t afford one. Or maybe I could, but ain¡¯t none for sale, as that sort of trinket tends to be made to order, and I don¡¯t know anyone who does that sort of thing. ¡°But unless you got a master Artisan or priest among you, your best bet is to gather all your people and make your way back to New Hope. Free food and shelter in the churches, and plenty of folks opening up their homes to guests.¡± Gesturing into the compound where the tired horsie is hopefully rehydrating and getting wiped down, I add, ¡°If you don¡¯t got enough fresh horses left to pull your wagon, I can lend you Cowie and have him bring you back in.¡± He won¡¯t mind too much I don¡¯t think. He likes Carter and his people, and they like him more than they like me. Just goes to show my social skills are worse than a bull¡¯s, unless I work really hard at being charming.


    ¡°No need,¡± Carter says with a shake of his head. ¡°We¡¯ll ride it out here.¡±


    Don¡¯t got a word of thanks for the warning or offer neither, so I hold up my empty waterskin and shake it about. ¡°Mind topping me off? Your ugly horse drained it dry.¡± Without waiting for an answer, I toss it at him none too gently, but Carter snatches it out of mid-air so quick and casual he might as well have grabbed it off a hook. While he heads inside to do just that, I raise my voice and say, ¡°I¡¯mma set up here for a Detect Abby Ritual, so don¡¯t no one shoot me.¡± Barely get a glance much less any actual assurance, so I look around once or twice more just to be sure I¡¯m in the clear. By the time Carter gets back with my waterskin, I¡¯m just about finished with my wand waving and candle lighting, and thankfully, he don¡¯t interrupt me while I cast. Just puts my waterskin down nearby before retreating to manage his people without so much as a single spoken word, and I can¡¯t help but wonder how so many socially awkward people came together to form a community.


    Soon as the Ritual is done, I gather up my things and call out for my partner. ¡°Cowie?¡± I call, raising my voice enough to hear it disappear into the forest. ¡°Where you at?¡± There¡¯s no trundling hoof beats to announce his presence, no bellowing moo in reply to tell me he¡¯s on the way, and my heart seizes in my chest as I imagine all the worst possibilities that could happen. ¡°Cowie?! Quit playin¡¯!¡± Grabbing hold of Old Tux¡¯s reins just to make sure he don¡¯t run off, I wander over to the side of the compound where I last saw my partner. ¡°You come out here right now, or you can walk all the way home by yourself.¡± Ain¡¯t around the corner, or the next one either, and I¡¯m about this close to casting a Locate Object on the tag I got tied around his tail when I hear a soft little moo behind me.


    And above. Which is where I find Cowie, with his head sticking out from over the wall looking sheepish and guilty as can be.


    ¡°What are you doing up there?¡± I hiss, lowering my voice to a whisper so as not to get found out. ¡°You¡¯re not supposed to go into the compound, or climb stairs for that matter. How you gonna get back down? You know you can¡¯t.¡± I mean, physically, he can most certainly walk down a flight of stairs, but I gotta be there to drag him along because he can¡¯t see the ground by his feet. Makes it right proper scary to go down a flight of stairs, so I can¡¯t really blame him there. ¡°You gonna get me in trouble now, and then what?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine.¡± Carter¡¯s voice sounds out from over the wall, and Cowie pops back in to curry favour with the man. ¡°He found his way in the first day you were here, and we figured no harm no foul. I¡¯ll bring him back out in a minute. Just head back to the front gate.¡±


    Of course Cowie is welcome inside the compound, while I gotta sleep outside in the bunkhouse. Just goes to show how he more popular than me, and I hate the flash of jealousy that surges through me. That one is most definately due to the Mindspire, because I ain¡¯t never cared about no popularity contests or meeting new people, so why would I care if Carter¡¯s never invited me in or introduced me to the people of his community? I do though, mostly because the Mindspire is poking me in the brain and telling me to care, making me angry enough to spit fire over something I¡¯d normally avoid like the plague, and there ain¡¯t nothing I can do to stop it. Doesn¡¯t help that Carter leaves me waiting at the door for more than a minute, too much more to stomach really. Just as I¡¯m about to pound on the wooden gate and ask what¡¯s what, I catch wind of a heated exchange between a man and woman in what sounds like French.


    ¡° ¨C cherch¨¦ partout et je n''arrive toujours pas ¨¤ la trouver. Elle n''est pas ici." That¡¯s a woman, sounding all hurried and panicked.


    ¡°Calme-toi.¡± Sounds like Carter, but there an edge there that gives away his stress.


    ¡°Ne me dis pas de me calmer! Elle a disparu, je te dis, disparue!¡± A real wildcat this lady, ready to rend and tear anything that stands in her way.


    ¡°Laisse-moi le renvoyer et nous la chercherons tous ensemble. Elle ne peut pas ¨ºtre all¨¦e bien loin.¡±


    The latter proves to be Carter who opens up the front gate, letting Cowie squeeze by to prance around my feet. Looks worried as he headbutts my leg and pushes me onwards towards action, while Carter¡¯s expression is impassive as ever and the fiery French lady is nowhere to be seen. Now that I know to look for it though, I spot a couple hints of Carter¡¯s heritage. The straight hair without a curl in sight, the light skin tone with an almost olive complexion in the places where he sees more sun. High cheekbones and piercing eyes too, which I noted the first day I met him and wrote off as readiness, as well as a nose bridge that¡¯s a little wider than what you¡¯d see in most Euros. That¡¯s what I pegged him as until now, or generic white American pretty much, but it seems I was off.


    He ain¡¯t American at all. He¡¯s M¨¦tis, hailing from America¡¯s hat and closest trading partner, as well they should be considering half of the M¨¦tis Nation is made up of formerly American states.


    Carter¡¯s background ain¡¯t the issue here though, because unless my French is failing me, it sounds like there¡¯s more pressing matters to attend to. ¡°Couldn¡¯t help but overhear,¡± I say, and Carter scowls to hear it. ¡°There a girl missing? I can help track her. Easiest way would be if you got a Photo of something she¡¯s wearing right now, like a ribbon, necklace, or hair clip. Could make do with hair too, but it needs to fresh, as in plucked in the last 24 hours. Blood works better, with a 72-hour limitation, but even without any of that, I can still help.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re fine,¡± Carter replies, acting like I just offered to help move some furniture or something. ¡°It¡¯s not a girl, just one of the hogs.¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡± Didn¡¯t sound like the lady was worried about no hoggidilla, but then again, it takes all sorts. There are folks in town who baby their ¡®pet¡¯ marties who would much rather roam wild and free, and there ain¡¯t no girl crazier than a horse girl, I tell you what. No idea why anyone would want to make friends with food though, especially when hoggidillas are so ugly and stinky to boot, but ain¡¯t my place to judge. ¡°Alright then.¡± And because I still ain¡¯t entirely sure what¡¯s going on, I say, ¡°I could help find the hog too you know. That¡¯s even easier. If you got any other hogs around, all I need is a bit of blood and distance.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll be fine,¡± Carter says, and I hear a thump from the other side of the closed gate, one powerful enough to set the darksteel to ringing. Man doesn¡¯t blink an eye though, just puts his hand on the door to silence the ringing and says, ¡°I take it you have other communities to visit, so you should get going now.¡±


    ¡°¡­Okay.¡± Not much I can do about it if he don¡¯t want no help, so I pick Cowie up in my arms and climb back into the saddle. No more sling for Cowie, because he too squirmy to lie still, but that¡¯s the least of my problems as I let Old Tux bring us out and away towards our next destination.


    No idea what it is, but there¡¯s something weird goin¡¯ on here. Far as I can tell, Carter and his people are good enough folks. My kinda people if I¡¯m being honest, namely quiet, asocial, and more or less competent from what I¡¯ve seen. Their boats are still by the floating dock, so didn¡¯t none of them go out this morning, and they haven¡¯t done any work on the permanent dock since I left which means they smart enough to leave the dangerous and important parts to the person who knows what he¡¯s doing. Namely me. That¡¯s ain¡¯t no small potates, being able to leave and let lie like that, because it ain¡¯t like they allergic to hard work.


    So why would they not want my help finding a missing girl? Even if it is really a hog, which I don¡¯t buy, having a Diviner¡¯s help would save them hours of manual tracking through the forest, assuming they find any tracks at all. Strange that, but ain¡¯t nothing I can do without all the facts, or even a lead to go on, so I head on over towards my next destination and pray that the girl, human or hog, makes it back home safe and sound.


    And if not? Well, then I suppose I¡¯ll have to do away with my live and let live attitude and figure out what¡¯s going on, because autonomy of action comes to an end when innocent lives are involved.


    ¡­


    I really hope it¡¯s a hog, because no matter which way you spin it, every alternate possibility I can think of just keeps getting worse and worse.

 Book Two - Chapter 69

    Nice.


    That¡¯s the kinda day it is, if you look past the Mindspire¡¯s effects. Weather¡¯s downright pleasant with the ruby red sun shining brightly overhead and a cool spring breeze coming off the lake, keeping the temperature comfortable whether you go with or without a jacket. The morning fog has come and gone to reveal the calm and tranquil waters, while it¡¯s clear, golden skies as far as the eye can see, treating me to the rare and never before seen spectacle of an empty, unoccupied lake. As I stare out over the waters, I am transfixed by the natural beauty before me. No ships, no sails, no foghorns, or shouts, just pristine, untravelled waters and shimmering white lights, all so still and perfect its like I¡¯m looking at a photo rather than the real thing.


    This is a big part of why I love to travel, seeing new sights even if they¡¯re of familiar places. Meeting new people? I could do without, because all it does is complicate things. Can¡¯t just enjoy this nice, peaceful ride along the lakeshore. No, I gotta go over everything I saw and heard over at Carter¡¯s compound, because I got a tendency to see the worst in folks. Let¡¯s be real. There could be a perfectly innocent explanation for why he wouldn¡¯t want my help looking for a missing girl. You know, besides the obvious conclusion to draw from all this, that they¡¯re human traffickers who¡¯ve lost some cargo and don¡¯t want no nosey kid poking around their horrible operation.


    I got no proof. Barely even any suspicion really, because Carter and his ilk have never given off any human trafficking vibes before today. Plus, if that is what they are, then they sure picked a terrible place to open up for business. Ain¡¯t a whole lot of foot traffic round these parts, or all that many people in general, not compared to some of the bigger cities out west and to the south. The compound¡¯s also out of the way and lacks easy access to popular smuggling routes. Sure, the lake¡¯s right there, but if you wanna go west, you gotta go past Riverrun, a high-traffic waterway where your boat can and probably will be inspected. The compound is also closer to town than they are to the Highway, meaning any wagon veering off the road might well be noticed by other vehicles or Ranger patrols, which you never want when dealing with illicit goods. I know for a fact that smugglers prefer to get off the Highway about fifty klicks north of New Hope, round about the bend where me, Errol, and Sarah Jay set camp on our first night out, giving them good access to the mines at Mount Rimepeak and all the surrounding communities.


    Now none of this is to say people don¡¯t disappear around these parts, but when they do, human trafficking is hardly the first concern that comes to mind. The truth is usually much simpler and sadder to boot, because it ain¡¯t just beasts, bandits, and Abby to watch out for here on the Frontier. Sometimes all it takes is a bad sense of direction and a couple hours of exposure during a rainstorm to do you in. Other times, it¡¯s a muddy incline where someone slips and breaks their leg, or a chitter rat burrow your horse steps into and throws you off its back. Rarely do we get to choose how we go out, but if there ever were a choice, I¡¯d wanna go down in a gun fight. A Bolt clean through the heart to take me out in the blink of an eye, while leaving enough of my face and body to be buried. Beats sitting around for hours and dying of hypothermia or getting stuck in the mud for days and done in by dehydration, but won¡¯t be many gun fights for me moving forward.


    Might be why my mind jumped straight to the worst-case scenario with Carter and his people. Because I wanted it to be something awful, something illegal, something ugly I can go in and clean up with gun in hand. Or die trying I suppose, because even though they don¡¯t carry any Aetherarms, they were holding those bows and staves like they knew how to use them. They¡¯ve made it seventeen years on the Frontier, and they ain¡¯t hiding in town, so I should give them the benefit of a doubt and assume they know their business well enough. Overall? With what little I know, I¡¯d give myself 50/50 odds on coming out alive if I tangle with Carter and his people, and I know good and well what my daddy would¡¯ve said about that. Any fair fight is a fool¡¯s fight, but I¡¯ll take anything I can get, any chance to relive the life lost to me when big Franky chopped off my hand.


    And there¡¯s the crux of the issue here, the real reason why I¡¯m spoiling for a fight. Been trying to stay optimistic, but the more I learn about the problems in front of me, the harder it is to see a way past them. Harped on enough about improving the Mage Hand Cantrip, a task even Immortal Monarchs would find daunting, but even making a proper prosthetic ain¡¯t half as easy as I thought. I¡¯m not talking about no skitterbot neither. I wanted to make something simple, some sorta clamp to hold a handgrip or foregrip so I can keep a rifle steady and help control recoil, but even that is more involved than I expected. A simple enough concept sure, but with a thousand minor details to account for and too many downsides to make it worth my while.


    Because no matter what, I¡¯d have to relearn how to shoot lefty, which is time I¡¯d rather use to study magic or Artificing instead. If I can Conjure or craft myself a replacement for my hand, then I can just pick up where I left off, which is so much better than relearning everything from scratch. And if I can¡¯t, then there¡¯s no point in relearning anyways, because why would I need to shoot a rifle if I¡¯m just gonna be Joe Schmoe with a regular day job? And that¡¯s assuming I survive my business with whoever ordered the hit on my daddy, an appointment I can only put off for so long. I got a year, maybe two tops to get back in tip-top condition, and if I can¡¯t do it by then, then I might as well flip that coin and be done with it.


    More of a roll of the dice really, because even with both hands to me, I¡¯d put my odds at far worse than 50/50.


    The shimmering lights over the lake grow brighter and shinier, and I find myself transfixed by the view, staring out over those open waters even as a voice in the back of mind utters a warning. I should be watching for Abby, wild beasts, outlaws, and other dangers, but it¡¯s such a beautiful and poignant sight to behold, one which dredges up all sorts of thoughts and emotions I done pushed deep down into my gut. Out there is everything I once aspired to, and everything that will be denied to me forever more unless I get my hand sorted. Which I don¡¯t think I can do. Forget the gunfights and Abby hunts. This is life now, working long hours every day at a job I could do half asleep, demanding work that don¡¯t demand nothing of me outside of physical effort. I¡¯m a townie in all but name, and I¡¯ll live out my days, months, and years doing the same damn thing just to put food on the table and clothes on my back. Days like today will be the highlights from here on out, when something goes wrong and they can¡¯t spare a real Ranger for a somewhat dangerous job. That¡¯s when they¡¯ll call on Howie Zhu, the best option you got when the going gets tough, but not tough enough for anyone important to take notice.


    Oh how far the mighty have fallen. I wanted to be the Firstborn of an entire generation, the best there is, the best there was, and the best there¡¯d ever be. Even if I earn my bronze triangle now, ain¡¯t no one gonna give two shits, because it¡¯s not like my efforts will matter much at all without any military licenses. Can lie all I want about Third Order Spells proving useful in everyday life, but those instances will be few and far between. Don¡¯t get no floods around these parts, because the lake is huge and deep, and ain¡¯t no one gonna wanna eat nothing scooped out of a granary that¡¯s been stink-bombed to hell and back. As for Fly? Where the hell am I gonna go with that? Out to the bar and back I suppose, where I¡¯ll probably get a citation soon as my feet are on the ground because you ain¡¯t supposed to Fly while drunk.


    All of which means my glory days are behind me. Imagine that, peaking at seventeen and change, a sad, sorry state of affairs if there ever was one. There gonna come a day when I turn sixty-five, look back on the last forty plus years, and find I got nothing to show for it, because the only times I ever mattered was when I thought of myself as the Firstborn of this here Frontier.


    What¡¯s the point of going on like this? I crawled, walked, and ran with the goal of one day soaring up into the skies, to heights unseen by most so I could stand at the forefront of an entire generation. Now? Now all I can do is crawl along on my belly and think back to better times. No, ain¡¯t much of a point at all really. Should¡¯ve stayed in the smoke a little bit longer back in Ron¡¯s loft apartment, let the low oxygen levels knock me out and go down in a literal blaze of glory. Now that there was an end I coulda been happy with, the Firstborn¡¯s first and final stand against Vanguard National.


    Missed my chance there, I did. Might as well put an end to it all here then. Find me a nice, high spot with a view and let the waters take me, dive into the shallows headfirst and hope the impact is enough to see me off. Would be easy enough with the Levitate Spell to bring me up to the top of a tree, a nice silverleaf beech overlooking the water preferably, since I¡¯ve always been partial to their smell. A sweet, woody, caramel scent that translates well to the incense that¡¯s so popular round these parts, one so good you almost want to take a bite out of them trees every time you see one.


    There¡¯s one right there. Growing right by the lakeside, with the trademark sparking leaves that gives the tree its name and branches stretching out over the water. Next thing I know, I got my hand resting up against the bark and Cowie struggling ever so gently in a polite but insistent effort to get free of my too-tight embrace. Glancing back to meet my eyes, Old Tux seems utterly unaffected as he lets out a quiet whicker of protest asking what this is all about, because the old piebald got more sense than Deputy Juan. Don¡¯t much like standing so close to the water¡¯s edge, and don¡¯t rightly understand why I¡¯ve brought him here, but he did it all the same even though he knows he¡¯s putting his life at risk.


    No. I¡¯m putting his life at risk, and for what?


    Snapping out of my thoughts with a sharp gasp, I heel Old Tux and have him bring us away from the shore and tree both. As we put it all behind us, I can¡¯t help but stare at the silverleaf and the lake beyond it while patting Cowie who calms down right quick. Gone are the shimmering lights I seen out over the lake, and I question if they were ever even there in the first place. A cold sweat breaks out across the back of my neck as I uncap my waterskin and wait to stop panting so I can take a sip and do something to change the situation. Feels like I just woke from a nightmare without having gotten so much as a single wink of sleep. Got no earthly idea what all that was about, or where any of it came from and how to avoid it happening again. Was the Mindspire to be sure, but it felt so real, so genuine, so natural that I can¡¯t help but second guess if that¡¯s really how I feel.


    Wasn¡¯t sadness driving me to romanticize my own death, nor was it anger or self-loathing. No, it was pure, unbridled desire that had me dreaming of taking the plunge, a yearning for glory and an appetite for death that I didn¡¯t know I had in me. Contrary to what the rumours might say, I ain¡¯t a man in love with bloodshed. Nor do I go out of my way to seek it out, not in the way an addict or psychopath would. No, I¡¯ll kill without blinking, and accept my own end whenever the time comes, but that don¡¯t mean I go looking for reasons to kill. Shooting Abby is a job, one in which I¡¯ll learn the skills to do what needs to be done to avenge my daddy¡¯s death. As for bounty hunting, that just seemed like the next obvious step in my career path, a job wherein I get paid for doing what I do best. Same as any other job really, and as for my stance on the subject of dead or alive, I default to dead because that¡¯s just good sense. Takes a whole lot of extra effort to bring an outlaw in alive, and if the Sheriff¡¯s office don¡¯t care either way, then why bother with the hassle? It¡¯s the same reason I don¡¯t care to bring bandits in alive, because the juice ain¡¯t worth the squeeze. It¡¯s not because I¡¯m using bounty hunting as an excuse to go killing. It¡¯s because I¡¯m here for a paycheck, and shooting outlaws with a big price on their heads is just good business.


    So why was I ready to climb that tree and dive down to my death? Wasn¡¯t resigned to it, but eager for it, like death was the best option moving forward rather than the end of the road as it is. Fool thing that, because even if there is a Heaven, suicide is a cardinal sin which¡¯ll get you turned away from the pearly gates. To make matters worse, I can¡¯t even blame it on the Magic, because no matter how much a Proggie finagles its Spells, there ain¡¯t no way to compel a man or animal to harm themselves directly. Don¡¯t matter if it¡¯s a First Order Command, a Fifth Order Dominate, a Ninth Order Enslave, or any Spell in between, there ain¡¯t no magic that can make a target harm themselves. Can drive them batty with Madness, turn them Paranoid enough to suspect friends and allies, or Modify Memory and make them think their loved ones are their enemies, but what happens after isn¡¯t under the Spellcaster¡¯s control. That¡¯s up to the target, and your mileage may vary, because while a hardened killer might not think twice about killing everyone who worked with them on a job, your average Joe with a cushy job might just grumble and drink a few more beers later on that night.


    Means it wasn¡¯t a Spell which got me ready to walk the plank. Or at least, it wasn¡¯t entirely the Spell that made me want to meet my maker, because between the sparkle over the water and the intense rush of desire for death, I think I figured out what happened. There¡¯s a Second Order Spell called Glowing Coin, which contrary to the name, don¡¯t got much of anything at all to do with coins and everything with desire. Makes anyone who looks at the target of the Spell see what they desire most, which is usually gold or wealth or something else material like that. That desire than grows so overwhelming most can¡¯t help but be drawn towards it, a Spell which is more of a distraction than a lure or compulsion.


    Guess things change when a Proggie casts the Spell with help from a Mindspire, and though I cannot see across to the other side or the docks in New Hope and Riverrun both, I get the feeling that there¡¯s a bit of a mess taking place all up and down these shores. Won¡¯t know what anyone else saw or did until I get back home to ask, but I¡¯m not entirely sure I want to know. What I wanted was glory and recognition, and when I realized I couldn¡¯t have it, what I yearned for was death. The first bit was the Spell, the second all me, and now I gotta deal with the fact that I¡¯m so wrong in the head just because I lost a single hand. Weak is what that is, disgraceful and deplorable to be so out of sorts despite having so much going for me. There are plenty of folks out there who got it so much worse, and they¡¯re still keeping on day in and day out. What am I so concerned about? Boo-fucking-hoo, I gotta live a normal life like everyone else, and that¡¯s all it takes to make me want to end things once and for all?


    Ain¡¯t like my life is even all that terrible. Even after ¡®loaning¡¯ Sarah Jay the money from the Mage Armour Spell Core, I still got plenty of cash in my bank account thanks to the Proggie hunt. Would¡¯ve been flush even without, since I keep most of my funds in precious materials like Aberrtin and crystal Aether, and guns keep their resale value pretty well if you don¡¯t mind accepting barter. Not to mention how I only got a slap on the wrist after what went down in Pleasant Dunes, which could¡¯ve ended so much worse if someone wanted to press the issue about Wayne, Conner, or that merchant I done killed and talked about on recording. Then there¡¯s the family I got, one that ain¡¯t mine by blood, but are kin all the same, a mother in Aunty Ray and sisters in Tina and Chrissy. Made a bunch of new friends too, and reconnected with old ones, not to mention how I got a couple prospects in my love life with Noora and maybe even Josie. Can¡¯t forget how I¡¯ll always have Cowie of course, who ain¡¯t go no idea about what went down and is looking to me for reassurance, with his head raised and clear grey eyes opened all wide and innocent, only to close them in comfort when I kiss his nose and stroke his chin.


    Yea, I got it pretty good, better than most I¡¯d say, and even then, I can¡¯t let go of what I done already lost and was ready to give all up for nothing. Seems Uncle Teddy was right once again. If this is all it takes to stop me from being the Firstborn, and it seems it is, then I never had it in me to make it at all. Don¡¯t matter what sort of Spell I come up with or prosthetic I build, I, Howie Zhu, was never gonna be the Firstborn my daddy wanted me to be, which makes me a failure in so many different ways.


    A tough pill to swallow, and one made more bitter by the constant droning in the back of my head that¡¯s driving me to despair. Or anger, to wash away the sadness in a fiery conflagration of rage, but there ain¡¯t nothing to direct that anger at but myself. Only brings me deeper to new depths of despair, a vicious downward spiral I cannot afford to indulge. Means I got no choice but to man up and rise above, because the alternative is too unthinkable to even consider. I ain¡¯t just talking about ending it all like I almost did; I¡¯m talking about wallowing in my own pity like a sorry sad-sack and has been, because ain¡¯t nothing more disgraceful than a man stuck living in the past. Seen it all too often to want that for myself, old worlders who drown themselves in drink and drugs while waxing on about the good old days, when they had planes, trains, and automobiles to get them to their cushy jobs in big office buildings, and stores with shelves packed with anything you could ever want or imagine. Paint¡¯s a lovely picture it does, and there ain¡¯t nothing wrong with yearning for what you done lost, not unless it keeps you from looking at the here and now and working towards improving tomorrow so you can eventually bring a bit of the old world out here to the Frontier.


    I won¡¯t let myself be like that, a man haunted by his own past. Even if the future I envision ain¡¯t as bright as the one I wanted for myself, it ain¡¯t nowhere near as bleak as no future at all.


    So lost in my thoughts and focused on resisting the constant call of the Mindspire dragging me down into despair, it takes a good half hour of riding to notice I done dropped my Detect Abby Spell. The realization has got me feeling right sheepish, but judging by the map, I can¡¯t be too far from my next destination, so I decide to stick it out and wait until I reach the next community to use another Ritual instead of casting it outright. Lord knows I¡¯ll need every little bit of help I can get, so I shouldn¡¯t go wasting effort on a Spell that likely won¡¯t give me much warning should Abby come barrelling out of the water again, or at least nothing more than what I¡¯d get by keeping my eyes and ears open. The trees grow much thicker out here, and if there¡¯s a trail through these woods that¡¯s easier to walk, me and Old Tux didn¡¯t find it. Still, this here horsie was my daddy¡¯s partner, and he knows a thing or two about travelling over rough ground, weaving in and around trees and thickets and up and down the uneven ground to bring us unerringly north alongside the lake.


    Does it quick and quiet too, which is how I spot the fool before he even know we there. A rotund boy of fifteen or sixteen it looks like, with tousled brown hair and a daft look on his plump, freckled face as he stands in dripping wet clothes at the edge of lake. Got a big branch in hand, on he picked up off the ground and is using to prop himself up so he can lean out and peer down along the shore. Seems he thinks it¡¯ll keep him from falling in again, though it wouldn¡¯t surprise me if he fell in the first time because he trusted the stick too much and it shifted underneath him. Foolish is what that is, but that¡¯s hardly surprising considering he¡¯s out here all on his own without so much as a knife while hanging by the lakeshore where Abby linger.


    So as not to startle the idiot and send him into the lake again, I put two fingers to my lips and let loose with a soft bird call, a quiet little warble that cuts through the forest¡¯s silence. True to my concerns, the boy almost falls headfirst into the water out of sheer surprise, only to straighten up, turn around, and nearly step back into the lake because he done already forgot where he standing. ¡°You¡¯re the Firstborn,¡± he says, much too loudly for a man standing at the precipice like he is, and I grimace as I wave him over before he get himself killed. Credit where it¡¯s due, he cottons on to his mistake right quick and scurries over while his cheeks turn red as a tangpear, almost as red as Danny. ¡°What are you doing here?¡±


    The kid voices the question in a breathy, awe-struck sort of fashion, rather than the pushy demanding tone I¡¯m more used to hearing, and I wait until he¡¯s standing front and centre before I respond. ¡°Could ask you the same thing,¡± I say, leaning down to offer him my left hand for a shake. ¡°Guess you know I¡¯m Howie Zhu, but you got me at a disadvantage.¡±


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    ¡°I¡¯m Kevin,¡± the kid says, sticking out the wrong hand to shake mine even though I was out there first. Corrects himself a beat later while the red spreads from his cheeks to his ears, and does a fair show of fumbling the stick from one hand to the next. No gunfighter this one, as he barely coordinated enough to be a farm boy, so I hope he got a proper trade to fall back on. Probably does, as he wearing a fitted collared tan shirt that don¡¯t look second or third hand, meaning he either got a parent who knows how to tailor clothes themselves or is rich enough to afford to pay someone else for it. Funny enough, the latter is more common than the former, which don¡¯t make a lick of sense at all, seeing how clothes is one of the first things them settlers would¡¯ve needed to make after stepping through the gate.


    As for Kevin, he¡¯s not only well dressed in a soggy, somewhat fashionable outfit, he also got that thick, heavy-set look about him, all big, soft, and flabby. Eats well and doesn¡¯t work all that hard, though he got a rough layer of callouses even on his left hand, meaning he works with both but don¡¯t need much coordination to do it. Don¡¯t narrow down the options much, as metal, wood, and leather work would all fit the bill, as would a dozen other possible professions off the top of my head.


    ¡°Well Kevin,¡± I say, getting back to his earlier question, ¡°I¡¯m here on behalf of the New Hope Sherrif¡¯s Office to spread word of what¡¯s been happening of late.¡± Pointing at the surprisingly large stone quay which I can just make out through the trees, I say, ¡°According to the map, that¡¯s the community of Mueller¡¯s Quay right there, which is where I assume you from?¡± The kid nods, so I ask, ¡°You mind bringing me in, so I can avoid stepping on anyone¡¯s toes and goin¡¯ where I shouldn¡¯t go?¡±


    The kid glances back at the lake, and don¡¯t look none too thrilled about being put to task, but I ain¡¯t about to let him skate. He needs to learn you get what you put in, because he¡¯s old enough to be putting a full day¡¯s work in, but would much rather idle his time away out in the woods. Even soaking wet, he don¡¯t want to go home, which tells me everything I need to know about his work ethic. That¡¯s why I don¡¯t wait for an answer, just heel Old Tux to get him moving and force the kid to run to catch up. ¡°It¡¯s faster this way,¡± he says, cutting in front to lead me more inland, and I gotta work right quick to keep Old Tux from giving the boy a chomp, because he don¡¯t suffer fools lightly.


    Neither do I, so soon as I got my horse soothed and in good humour, I ask, ¡°So Kevin, you often go swimming all alone while fully clothed?¡±


    ¡°Um¡­ no?¡±


    Don¡¯t see why he¡¯s so confused. I didn¡¯t even use a double negative there. ¡°Well, might be you want to stick with a buddy for the next little while, and stay away from the lakeshore while you at it.¡± Giving the kid a look, I ask, ¡°You didn¡¯t hear? A Deputy got eaten by Abby not three weeks past just a little south of here.¡±


    ¡°¡­Heard you was the one who directed them Abby there.¡± Kevin says it with a whisper, and looks mighty scared as he does it.


    ¡°Then all the more reason to stay away from the water now that I¡¯m here.¡±


    From red to pasty white, the boy¡¯s skin takes on a shade of alabaster so pale you can see his veins underneath. Can¡¯t be healthy for him, and he don¡¯t got nothing to say, so I leave him be before his heart gives out. Can¡¯t help but notice he glances back at the lake no less than a half-dozen times the next minute, and keeps doing it as we continue onwards into town. Probably got snared by the Mindspire¡¯s Glowing Coin Spell, though at least he managed to keep himself from diving right in. No idea why he was looking south though, as I seen the glimmer out over the centre of the lake, but who knows. Maybe the Spell affects everyone different, and soon enough, my curiosity gets the better of me. ¡°So what¡¯d you see, Kevin?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Huh?¡±


    ¡°Out on the lake. What¡¯d you see that¡¯s got you so unwillin¡¯ to walk away? You know what happened right? The Proggie done cast a widespread Spell that reflects your innermost desires. Me, I¡¯m guessing you seein¡¯¡­ scantily clad girlies swimming out in the waters, I bet. Or were they not wearin¡¯ much of anything at all?¡±


    ¡°No! Nothing. I mean, I didn¡¯t see anything.¡± Kid¡¯s ears go even brighter than before and tell me I¡¯m right, so at least he¡¯s got good blood flow.


    ¡°You play cards?¡± Kevin shakes his head, and I cackle to see it. ¡°Good,¡± I say, glancing back just to make sure there ain¡¯t actually anything to see, because I wouldn¡¯t say no to a gaggle of scantily clad ladies myself. ¡°You sit down at a card table, and those ears of yours¡¯ll cost you your whole bankroll and then some.¡±


    Kid don¡¯t got much of a poker face either, and I tell him as much, suggesting he stick to blackjack and betting ponies. The first one ain¡¯t a bad game, but the second is a roll of the dice as far as I can tell. Even Chrissy can¡¯t figure out which horse in the line up is gonna win and she can damn near talk to them. Problem is every horse is one of two ways, either assured of their own victory or just along for the ride, and neither attitude says a damn thing about how fast they be. A shame really, because the whole reason I brung Chrissy out to the race track was to see if she could pick out the winners. Didn¡¯t work out, but I didn¡¯t lose nothing but a day¡¯s time since there wasn¡¯t any bookie who¡¯d take my bets, and Chrissy still had lots of fun talking to the horsies as they trotted by. Would¡¯ve been good, clean fun too if them horses didn¡¯t grow so enamoured of Chrissy that half of them stopped running the race to greet her as they moseyed on by. That cost me dearly with Aunty Ray it did, because she knew exactly what I was planning to do even though I was only fifteen at the time.


    See, those are some good times that ain¡¯t got nothing to do with being the Firstborn, and there¡¯s nothing in the cards that says I won¡¯t have more of those waiting up ahead. Ain¡¯t no reason to be so down and out over my plight, so buck up, bear down, and get through this funk, because there ain¡¯t nothing else to be done.


    Takes about ten minutes for Kevin to bring us to the edge of town, and soon as we arrive, we¡¯re inundated with greetings from people who don¡¯t seem like they got much going on.


    ¡°That a new friend you got there, Kevin? Come on over and introduce him to the family.¡±


    ¡°Hello friend! Here to visit or need a place to stay?¡±


    ¡°Welcome to Mueller¡¯s Quay, friend. Couldn¡¯t have picked a better time to drop in!¡±


    It¡¯s a nightmare come true, as every person we come across feels the need to mosey on over and say something with a big smile. Unnerving is what that is, especially after the harrowing introspective episode I experienced out in the forest, but even then, all the good cheer and excessive enthusiasm is jarring to say the least. Not to mention how everyone is dressed in tan shirts, brown leather boots, and plain khaki pants. Men, women, and children alike mind you, without so much as a splash of colour to be found, though I suppose dye is a luxury out here.


    Try as I might to hurry things along, Kevin can¡¯t read the room and insists on introducing me to everyone and adding a little tidbit too. Donna bakes the best sour-dough bread, Mervyn grows the biggest caddishes, Becca once caught a fish the size of a full-grown man. The list goes on, and playing nice don¡¯t come easy, so I do what I can to push on through and keep us heading deeper into the settlement. We pick ourselves up a long trail of somewhat overfed stragglers who follow along to see what¡¯s what, all of them friendly, cordial, and pleasantly plump as can be. Which is the oddest thing of all, even stranger than the cold welcome I got from Carter, because even if these people are friendly and trusting as can be, they gotta be feeling something from the Mindspire right?


    Ain¡¯t a single question about it though, and not because they don¡¯t notice. No, they¡¯re all a little nervous, with that skittish sort of energy to them, but they all too timid to come out and ask about it. Saves me the trouble of telling them to wait until everyone present, but that don¡¯t mean they stay quiet. No, they wanna know my name, if I¡¯ve eaten, and if I know so and so from town or if I¡¯ve been around these parts before. Not a word about the silent forest or the lack of traffic out on the lake, just idle small talk to fill the silence as we move along the single cobbled path they got in this here village and they all pretend like its just another regular day.


    It¡¯s a quaint and quiet little place, not small, but far from packed with people, which may explain why they all seem so starved for social interaction. Got about thirty to forty houses far as I can tell, with a little central gathering area right around the main stone quay. The big house is our destination, a right sizable two-storey brick house that would look right at home in New Hope, making it a lavish piece of architecture out here in the sticks. Got a workshop right next to it, which is where the man in charge spends his days making crates and barrels as far as I can tell.


    Kevin ain¡¯t none too shy about barging right in neither, just opens up the front door and shouts, ¡°Da! Firstborn¡¯s here. Says he¡¯s got word from the Sherrif in New Hope about what¡¯s happening out on the lake.¡±


    Ha. Son of the dock owner who does woodwork on the side. Can I read people, or can I read ¡®em?


    ¡°Oh? Where¡¯d you put him?¡± A gruff, gravelly tenor sounds out in reply, and I can picture the man fairly well before even seeing him.


    ¡°He¡¯s sitting up on his horse right here behind me.¡±


    ¡°Boy!¡± The disappointment is palpable from that one word alone, and I almost wince in sympathy when I see Kevin do the same in the doorway. ¡°I taught you better than that. Firstborn rode here all the way from New Hope, and you leave him standing outside? Bring him to the bar, get some water and feed for his horse, and have Luisa fix him something to eat. On my tab mind you. Don¡¯t you let him pay for nothing.¡±


    There¡¯s really no need, but turning down food is frowned up when visiting new communities. Shows a lack of trust it does, so I call out a word of thanks as Kevin hustles me out and away towards the docks while the looky loos all get pressganged into gathering everyone up. Mueller¡¯s Quay is a fair shake bigger than Carter¡¯s unnamed community, and not just because it¡¯s built all spread out. They got the one cobbled road running parallel to the lake, separating the shore from the houses on the other side, all built in a neat little row. Got no walls or stockades to block Abby or nothing, only plenty of open ground to shoot across should they come a knocking. Not the best defense, but I suppose it works well enough for them else they¡¯d have done something about it. The houses are sparsely scattered, solid brick bungalows with reinforced glass windows and heavy doors set in iron or steel hinges. Hardly as durable as the buildings on the main thoroughfare, but not too far off neither, and I suspect the fees collected from the massive stone docks is the reason why this community of some hundred odd souls can afford the extra expense.


    Then again, they got a lot of cattle and hoggidillas of the non-magical variety, far more than what they need to feed themselves. Almost all the land east of their houses is earmarked for ranching, with big old beasties grazing away and getting nice and fat for the slaughter. Kevin is more than happy to speak on the subject, tell me all about the village and what they up to. Ain¡¯t just ranching that makes them rich. These here docks are the number one spot for the quarries and mines up by Mount Rime. Even though Irongate is physically closer to the mines, they got a nice, double wide trail from the mountain that leads right to docks, making it much easier to send stone and metal ore to Riverrun and New Hope rather than anywhere else. That¡¯s why the Rangers built these docks, and Mr. Mueller is in charge of maintaining them, meaning he collects the dock fees and uses the profits to improve the community as a whole. That¡¯s how they can afford roads, running water, private docks, and so many more amenities of life that Carter¡¯s folk are missing out on. Suppose that¡¯s why they¡¯re all so happy and friendly, with big, bright smiles all around, though it¡¯s a bit too much for me.


    Luisa¡¯s got a big smile too, as you¡¯d expect from a plump, matronly woman like herself, one dressed in the same drab tans and browns as everyone else. ¡°Aye, Kevin,¡± she says, sounding mighty concerned with just the hint of a South American accent which I can¡¯t place. ¡°You all wet and cold. Hurry home and change before you catch sick.¡± Turning to me, she clucks her tongue and says, ¡°You have no meat on your bones. Come. Sit. I feed.¡±


    This is before Kevin has a chance to say anything, and he runs off to change like Sergeant Begaye gave the order himself. Doesn¡¯t take Luisa more than ten minutes to whip up a mighty fine paisa platter, with a bowl of stewed beans, a side of crispy chicharr¨®n, a smattering of fried veggies, and cheesy arepas all laid out on a bed of bristle grains, which taste a lot better than they sound once they¡¯re properly husked. Like rice, my daddy would say, and we spent many an afternoon shelling the dried, prickly husks so we could cook up a couple big bowls to scarf down with our meat and veggies. Course, with all those extra steps in between farm and food bowl, it ain¡¯t a popular crop, and I say as much to Luisa when I call her an angel for sharing some with me.


    Can never go wrong, complimenting a chef for their work, and wonderful woman that she is, Luisa beams to hear it. ¡°Good that you like,¡± she says, bringing me a cold mug of some white, frothy milk-like drink. Tastes of oats and spices and has a rich and creamy kick, and that first sip is just divine.


    ¡°What is this and how do I make it?¡± I ask, and she laughs to hear it.


    ¡°Avena Colombiana,¡± she says, and I¡¯m not sure if that¡¯s the name of the drink or just a phrase or something. ¡°If you want more, then you must come again.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be here so often, you¡¯ll be sick of seeing me soon enough.¡±


    ¡°What a charmer.¡± Swatting me fondly on the head, she leaves me to eat my meal in peace, which is about the best thing she could¡¯ve done. With rich, fatty food this delicious, it¡¯s no wonder everyone in this village is slightly overweight, though I will say that you gotta work hard at not working to get out of shape round here. Farm work is simple, but it ain¡¯t easy, so you burn a lot of fat during harvest season. I suppose the dock fees and ranch animals keep these people flush enough to avoid working hard, which begs the question why they don¡¯t buy themselves some more colourful clothes. Or barrettes, hairpins, bracelets or other accessories, as the most I¡¯ve seen are simple gold or silver bands for wedding rings.


    Concerns aside, I¡¯m feeling much better by the time I¡¯m done with my meal, and I praise Luisa a few more times before heading out to greet the waiting crowd. The wonderful woman kept them from coming in to bother me too, so if she ain¡¯t married, then these fools are all missing out. I don¡¯t see no stragglers still making their way over, and Mr. Mueller is ready and waiting at the front of the crowd with Kevin. Man¡¯s a bit soft in the features and thick in the waist, but he seems friendly enough as he gives me a nod and gestures to say that the floor is mine. Putting a little extra oomph in my voice with a Thaumaturgy Cantrip, I introduce myself with a big smile and all the charm I can muster while covering all the information what needs covering. Takes a few minutes to get through it all, but don¡¯t no one interrupt even once, so I go ahead and add my speculation regarding the Glowing Coin Spell out over the lake. ¡°Might want to pair up to keep an eye on each other,¡± I say, ¡°And anyone standing guard alone at night might want to tie themselves off to something sturdy.¡±


    Giving Kevin a look, I notice he¡¯s changed into clothes that look exactly the same, right down to the colour and cut. Same goes for the rest of the crowd, though there are a few variations in styles of shirts.  Super weird, but I suppose they got the one tailor who makes all their clothes and might well be colourblind. Me, I feel downright colourful in my white pinstripe collared button-up and blue wrangler jeans, but I ain¡¯t about to bring it up. ¡°Also, keep an eye on your children especially,¡± I say, pushing the envelope just a bit to see how they react, because they got a whole lot of kids with them, all dressed the same and lined up in perfect order, which is about as creepy as creepy gets. ¡°Enchantment Spells typically can¡¯t harm you directly, but there have been cases in which a target was Enchanted to death because they didn¡¯t know the dangers involved. Can¡¯t compel you to drink poison, but they can compel a child to drink something they don¡¯t know is poisonous. Know what I mean?¡±


    Ain¡¯t a scowl or frown to be seen, nor the faintest hint of a furrowed brow. The crowd just keeps smiling and nodding along, like everything I say is perfectly pleasant and not at all telling them their business.


    That¡¯s about all I got to say, and much as I hate to do it, part of the job is taking questions. Strangely enough, they don¡¯t all come clamouring at once as soon as I open the floor up to them, and instead all turn to look at Mr. Mueller. ¡°Got any timeframe on when shipping will resume?¡± he asks, gesturing at a bunch of buildings over by the docks. ¡°We got wagons coming by every week, and those warehouses can¡¯t hold much.¡±


    ¡°Not a clue,¡± I say, as gentle and honest as can be. ¡°I know it¡¯s a top priority, getting boats back out there, but it could be a hot minute. Remember, the Proggie that built this Mindspire has stayed hidden for eighteen years, the one we couldn¡¯t uproot within 25 kilometres of the lake. Won¡¯t be easy finding it, but we got our best Rangers on the job and our best minds working up solutions to help tide us over in the meantime. Soon as we got something worth sharing, someone will be back with the news. Until then, you all welcome to take shelter in New Hope.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Mr. Mueller replies, shaking his head with a grimace. ¡°We won¡¯t run. This is our home. We¡¯ll weather this storm and come out stronger for it.¡±


    ¡°Adapt and thrive.¡± The whole crowd responds as one, which is unexpected to say the least. A mantra of sorts I suppose, and it makes sense, though I dunno how much adapting these folks have done out here. Unless it was adapting to the colour scheme I suppose, one to help them better blend in with the pale white grass and trees.


    ¡°Okay then,¡± I say, because I don¡¯t know what an appropriate response might be. ¡°So¡­ hate to eat and run, but daylight¡¯s burning and I got places to be. If there¡¯s no more questions, then I¡¯ll be on my way.¡±


    Again, the crowd looks to Mr. Mueller, who disperses the crowd with a few words of encouragement before waving me over with a smile. ¡°Thank you for bringing word to us Howie,¡± he says, clapping me on the shoulder as I approach. ¡°If only my boy had half your sense.¡± Pausing to look me up and down, Mr. Mueller¡¯s jowls quiver as he grins and shakes his head. ¡°You don¡¯t sound much like him, but you the spitting image of your father back in those early days.¡±


    My eyes light up to hear it, and I ask, ¡°You knew him?¡±


    Mr. Mueller nods with a far off look in his eyes. ¡°Ming found us close by before there was a quay or a house to live in. Rode in on that very horse you got there if I¡¯m not mistaken, firing the pistol you got on your hip at the mudkippers attacking our camp. Cleared them all out like a one-man army, then helped tend our wounded and cooked up all those corpses and gave us the proceeds. Brought us back to New Hope, me and my wife with baby Kevin back there, which was when we met you. Held you in my arms I did, when you were barely this big.¡± Grinning from ear to ear, he pats me on the back and answers my unspoken question. ¡°We didn¡¯t stay in town long. The Marshal, well he was still a Captain back then, and though I don¡¯t look it, I was once Army, so he sent me out with four Rangers and two dozen men to come build that dock down there. Your father was one of them, and he worked day and night to get the job done in just over a week, and it¡¯s a testament to his guidance and ability that the dock still stands today, more than fifteen years after we laid the first stone.¡±


    ¡°Well I¡¯ll be,¡± I say, marvelling at the docks once more. ¡°Small world.¡±


    ¡°That it is.¡± Switching tracks without warning, Mr. Mueller clears his throat and asks, ¡°I hear you¡¯re helping Carter¡¯s people put in a dock by their compound?¡±


    ¡°Much smaller than this one,¡± I say, reading his concern as worry about competition. ¡°And further from Mount Rime to boot. Won¡¯t be no companies loading and offloading there anytime soon.¡±


    ¡°Well, when you¡¯re finished with your work there,¡± Mr. Mueller says, holding out his left hand for a shake, ¡°You come see me with whatever papers Sherrif Patel needs signed. Don¡¯t matter how many hours you need finished, we got more than enough work for you here. Paid work too, once your stint of community service is done, and whatever else a man might need. This here is a quiet place, but safe and friendly as can be, so you¡¯re always welcome here.¡±


    Man don¡¯t make no mention of Deputy Juan, don¡¯t ask how I got myself into this mess or if any of the rumours are true. Just offers me a job and a place in his community if I want it, just like that. Don¡¯t know nothing about me other than who my daddy was, and that there is enough for him. ¡°Thank you sir,¡± I say, shaking his hand with genuine gratitude. ¡°I might do just that.¡±


    ¡°No thanks needed and I hope you do,¡± Mr. Mueller says. Looking me in the eyes, he hesitates, chokes back a sigh, then glances around to make sure we alone. ¡°I¡¯m gonna ask you something personal.¡± Nodding at the stump of my hand, which I got tucked away in a pocket, he asks, ¡°It still hurt?¡±


    ¡°¡­Yea.¡± That¡¯s why I got it hidden away. To keep myself from waving it about, as I do love to talk with my hands. Or I did.


    Mr. Mueller nods and says, ¡°I know how it is.¡± Lifting his left leg up out of his shoe, he shows me his prosthetic wooden foot. ¡°Aches the most when it¡¯s about to rain. Front half got chewed up in the same fight I met your daddy, and Doctor Harding had to lop the rest of the foot off after it got infected on our way back to town. There I was, a father of boy in a world that most certainly wasn¡¯t handicap accessible. How was I supposed to look after my family with only one foot left to me? Can¡¯t fight, can¡¯t farm, can¡¯t haul, can¡¯t build, sail, or pull nets. Those were all the paying jobs there were back then, so I spent countless nights worrying that my family would starve or have to live off the charity of strangers because I wasn¡¯t able to support them.¡±


    Heaving a sigh as he looks around at the village he helped build, Mr. Mueller¡¯s grim expression eases into one of simple satisfaction. ¡°Your daddy though, he saw my struggles and he came to me one night. Didn¡¯t speak much English then, but he made his point well enough. He told me I could mope and die, or adapt and thrive. Cling to the past and become a shell of a man, or look to the future and make something of myself. Said, and I¡¯m paraphrasing here, that it don¡¯t matter what I can¡¯t do. What matters is what I do, what I¡¯ve done, and what I will do, and that there is a lesson that¡¯s stuck with me ever since.¡± Grinning from ear to ear now, he finishes taking in the village around him and says, ¡°All worked out in the end, now didn¡¯t it? Took some doing, but I got there, and I didn¡¯t do it by myself. Your father was one of the men who helped me through it, got me this job and showed me the way forward, so if I can help you Howie, then please, let me.¡±


    There¡¯s a knowing look in his eye as he says it, an understanding that¡¯s got me laughing. ¡°That obvious huh?¡± Thought I was hiding my feelings better than that, but it¡¯s always strangers who see things most clearly.


    ¡°Only to those who¡¯ve been through that same struggle,¡± Mr. Mueller says, patting me on the shoulder as he slips his prosthetic foot back into his shoe. ¡°And there are more of us than you¡¯d think, many in this community here. All hope is not lost, so do not despair. Adapt and thrive, friend. That¡¯s what we do. Adapt and thrive. Focus on the first, and the second will come in time.¡±


    Got no words to express my gratitude. Everyone been acting like I¡¯ll pick myself back up no problem and its only a matter of time before I¡¯m good as whole, but Mr. Mueller is the first to face the darkness with me. That means a lot, and doubly so when he sharing words of wisdom from my daddy. Don¡¯t know how to express myself, but Mr. Mueller gets it. Doesn¡¯t say anything, just smiles, nods, and pats me on the back to send me on my way. As I ride off from the quay, I take a look at another one the marks my daddy left behind, one I didn¡¯t even know about until now.


    It¡¯s incredible really, and not just because of the sheer size of the quay or the quality of work which still holds up more than decade later. Even now, some fifteen years later, I still find myself getting outdone by my daddy, learning lessons he taught me all over again. These docks here helped Mr. Mueller make a life for himself, support his family and become the leader of his community in spite of his disability. Wasn¡¯t what he thought he¡¯d be doing with his life, but he overcame the obstacles before him and came out a winner, so why can¡¯t I do the same?


    My daddy grieved over my mama right up until the day he died, but I didn¡¯t ever hear him utter one word of complaint. Adapt and thrive, words he lived by, because he didn¡¯t have any other choice. I don¡¯t either, not really. Forget what I can¡¯t do, and focus on what I can. Forget about the Firstborn. That¡¯s done and gone. What can Howie Zhu do? Ain¡¯t about cheering up, looking at the bright side, making the most of what I got, or reclaiming what I lost. It¡¯s about doing whatever it is you need to do so you can survive, because that¡¯s the only way to weather through the storm and see sunny skies ahead. That¡¯s how life has always been out here on the Frontier. It¡¯ll chew you up and spit you out, but it¡¯ll only keep you down if you let it, something I knew well enough, but needed reminding of all the same.


    Simple is as simple does, same as most things are really. That don¡¯t make it easy though, because anything worth having never is.

 Book Two - Chapter 70

    Takes all sorts to make a life out here in the sticks.


    You hear stories about it from time to time, though I¡¯d take ¡®em with a grain of salt. Yea, it¡¯s true there are fisherfolk cultists who sacrifice animals and people to the Proggie of the lake, pyromaniac bootleggers who accidentally set the forest on fire one time, and a family of four reckless alchemists with less than thirty fingers to them, but that don¡¯t mean everyone out here is kooky as a clockwork squirrel in a pecan tree. Just look at Carter¡¯s compound and Mueller¡¯s Quay. The former is a closely knit group of asocial recluses dead set on remaining isolated and self sufficient despite living within a half-day¡¯s ride of town. Strange sure, but townie life ain¡¯t for everyone, and who wants to ride five hours on a bumpy wagon one-way just to pick up some basic necessities? As for the latter, that¡¯s a Ranger outpost with a dock turned into a full-fledged community, one that specializes in providing the outpost with everything they need to function. Everything else? They buy or trade, and seeing how Mr. Mueller got plans to expand, I¡¯m guessing business is booming.


    Two very different but functional communities living outside of town with nothing weird about them at all. Might seem strange by townie standards, but that¡¯s par for the course out here. Besides, while townies love to gossip about all the weirdos and troublemakers who don¡¯t mesh well with town life, the vast majority of people you come across outside of towns are just average, everyday folks. It¡¯s just that no one ever talks about those normies because there¡¯s nothing interesting to talk about when it comes to a functional, hum-drum little village out in the sticks. Way more fun gossiping about the crazies and laughing at their hijinks so you can forget all about your own dreary boring existence for a little bit. Besides, having experienced firsthand how the rumour mill presents lies as facts for the sake of entertainment, I bet half the things I hear ain¡¯t even true.


    Well, the cultists, pyromaniacs, and finger-deficient alchemists are all real, as I¡¯ve seen them all myself, but that¡¯s beside the point. What I¡¯m saying is that most folks living out here got their own reasons for doing so, and they ain¡¯t all perverse or nefarious. Yea, Carter and his ilk may be nudists or involved in the slave trade, but the first is harmless and the second is an unsubstantiated suspicion based on the fact that they don¡¯t want my help tracking down a missing pig or person. Hardly cause for alarm, nor should I be concerned about the eerily friendly folks of Mueller¡¯s Quay who dress like they waging war against colour and good taste.


    Course, this don¡¯t mean the people out here are friendly either, or even all that safe to be around, like I suspect this next community on the list might be. Won¡¯t be a home for hardened criminals, else Sherrif Patel would¡¯ve made a request to the Rangers and cleared them out right quick, but his map¡¯s got a caution sign warning me to tread lightly, and he ain¡¯t a man who spook easy. As such, I make sure my Hearing Protection, Mage Armour, and Eagle Eye are all refreshed and ready to go as soon as I leave Mueller¡¯s Quay. Keep my Mage Hands refreshed too, recasting every 10 minutes to refresh the duration instead of maintaining the Cantrip with Concentration, freeing up that mental real estate should I need it in a pinch. Got the Hands resting on my Doorknockers under my duster, and my bull¡¯s head medallion recording as Old Tux brings us away from the lakeshore and deeper into the untamed forest towards our next destination.


    Which tells me plenty about the people I¡¯m about to meet. They¡¯re living well off the beaten track, away from the waterways and the roads leading up into the mountains. Means these folks value their privacy and independence over their safety and convenience, a presumption reinforced by the fact that there ain¡¯t no trail for me to follow. My destination is less than ten kilometres from Mueller¡¯s Quay, so you¡¯d think their neighbours would be coming and going often enough, seeing how the quickest way into New Hope would be to catch a boat ride at the quay. Guess they ain¡¯t all that neighbourly then, and have no need for trade or transportation. Self-sufficient and good at it too, if they don¡¯t gotta trade or go into town all that often. This far out in the woods, that means hunters or trappers, which means rifles or bows, and my money is on the former. Why? Because if they was bow hunters, there would be much reason for the Sherrif to be in contact with them, much less often enough to be wary of them. Not that bows are less dangerous per se, as you can do a lot of damage if you know what you¡¯re doing, but rifles require permits which require documentation with the Sherrif¡¯s office, and familiarity do breed contempt.


    All guesswork, but that¡¯s all part of how to survive. Gotta assess the threat before you face it, know what you up against even if you going in mostly blind.


    To that end, I take an extra half-hour to circle around the settlement so I can approach from the north east, because I¡¯m least likely to be spotted coming from that direction. Got settlements in all other directions, but northeast is the only direction that is uphill of the settlement, letting me get a good look at the place before making my presence clear. Ain¡¯t nothing more than a sunlit collection of a dozen ramshackle log buildings scattered haphazardly about an overgrown clearing, a place these hunters stripped bare of trees and rocks over a decade ago to make room for their homes, but have since let nature take its course. Aside from the rough worn dirt trails going from house to house, the entire village is covered in all sorts of wild vegetation, maintained just well enough to give it a touch of civility and order. The pastel white grass is everywhere, most having grown tall enough to cover their windows and thick enough to hide a grown man, while the sides of their cabins are all covered in purple-branched loomshrubs. Lines of sandy yellow bush apple hedges encircle most of the cabins to form natural fences throughout the village, ones which naturally stop growing at about waist height and are wide enough to keep me from even trying to hop one. No trees in the village though, not once you move past the perimeter of forest growth, and its their absence which allows the foliage to thrive so well.


    There¡¯s a faint smell of rotten eggs in the air, masked with a tangy, pungent scent that I know too well. Yeast and vinegar almost, and a bit of extra sweetness too from fermenting bapples, which adds even more to the picture. These folks are moonshiners, making more than they need for personal consumption, else the woods wouldn¡¯t stink of it from a half-klick out. All the more reason to tread carefully then, though far as I can tell, these folks ain¡¯t all that vigilant or half as aware as they should be. No Alarm Wards, no tripwires, no sentry posts or patrols, just a bunch of men drinking and smoking out front of the biggest, most central house of the lot. All white and American as far as I can tell, with big hillbilly energy seeing how half of ¡®em are wearing overalls and nothing else. Ain¡¯t a one of them noticed me just yet, which I don¡¯t love seeing how all they all strapped for bear with rifles, Blastguns, and pistols aplenty. Bad idea surprising drunk idiots with guns, especially around children, because it ain¡¯t just my safety I gotta be concerned about.


    And they got so very many children. The older ones are off working over in a potate field on the far side of the clearing, while the younger ones run wild and free all throughout the village. Feels like the folks least suited to parenthood tend to pop out a kid every year while the competent and capable adults limit themselves to one to three. Bodes poorly for the future of the Frontier when 75% of the children are raised by the dumbest 25% of adults, because there¡¯s only so much natural selection can account for. Doesn¡¯t always mean only the best and brightest survive to procreate. Sometimes, it¡¯s just a numbers game, like how it is with bicorn bunnies. Ain¡¯t never met a dumber animal than them horned, floppy eared rodents, as they¡¯ll hop right up to a tuskwulf to take a look inside their mouths, but there ain¡¯t a place this side of the Divide that don¡¯t got them in spades.


    That said, them bunnies ain¡¯t walking around with Fireforge 22-10 bolt-action rifles and 870 pump action Blastguns. Cheap and mass-manufactured, but they¡¯ll get the job done, as Fireforge is a solid American brand that¡¯s been around for almost 200 years. Their blueprints ain¡¯t nothing fancy or pretty, but they¡¯ll put Bolts and Blasts downrange with enough precision and reliability to blame most missed shots on user error. And believe you me, these drunk fools can probably shoot straighter than most boots in Basic, seeing they rely heavily on their rifles to put food on the table. Them bapples and potates ain¡¯t for eating, but for mashing to turn into cider and moonshine, which they can sell on the cheap because they skimp on their taxes.


    Which means I really don¡¯t want to spook these rednecks and get myself into a firefight, especially not on their home turf. Even if I had Fireball prepped and more flashbangs and grenades to work with, I¡¯d still only give myself a slight edge over the seven men I can see, and that¡¯s assuming there ain¡¯t more men lingering about or women and kids who can shoot almost as well. To that end, I keep Old Tux from wandering into the village proper and put my arms out to the sides, same as I always do when approaching a place for the first time.


    Would love to ready an offensive Spell too, but I need to cast Thaumaturgy to amplify my voice so I can be heard. ¡°Howdy y¡¯all,¡± I shout by way of greeting as I ride into plain view, and I stifle a wince as two of them drunks fall out of their chairs with rifles in hand. Either they wasn¡¯t locked and loaded or they got lucky, because slam-fire malfunctions are part and parcel of the Fireforge brand, or at least it has been here on the Frontier. Has to do with quality control, and the factories putting out Fireforge Aetherarms have got little to none, or standards so low there might as well not exist. ¡°Name¡¯s Howie Zhu, here on behalf of the New Hope Sherrif¡¯s Office.¡± That gets the rest of them all riled up and alert, so I quickly reassure them I ain¡¯t here to audit or arrest them. ¡°Got word of what¡¯s been happening of late, with the birds fallin¡¯ out of the sky and whatnot. Do I have permission to come in and speak with y¡¯all?¡±


    Without getting shot is the implication there, and it¡¯s never a good sign when the other party needs to discuss it first. Or when women and children run for cover while their menfolk spread out in cover and draw a bead on my position. Ain¡¯t no barrels pointed right at me, but there a few wandering dangerously close. Would be simple enough to back up into the trees, except that¡¯d show me as a sheep, and while these hicks might not be full on feral wulves just yet, they still wild dogs at the very least. So I stand my ground and keep my cool, staying calm and unbothered as can be, meeting any and every gaze fixed upon me with a promise of steely retribution should they start something here and now.


    Unless they nail their first shot of course, so here¡¯s hoping they miss.


    It¡¯s a long five seconds before the man in charge emerges from the big house, barking orders I can¡¯t hear to get his boys in line. A lean and lanky gent with a bushy grey beard and long, poofy hair to match, he got a face that looks like ten miles of bad road and a hunch in his back from years of sitting in sitting in cramped blinds. Though he¡¯s wearing jean overalls like everyone else, he also got a plaid shirt on underneath and a straw hat that¡¯s seen better days. Once he got his people sorted, including all the women and kids who look ready to put a Bolt through my head a moment¡¯s notice, he waves me down and says, ¡°C¡¯mon down boy. Let¡¯s hear what you got to say.¡±


    His gravelly, smoke-damaged voice sounds out from close by, like he¡¯s standing front and centre only a few paces away. Tells me that he ain¡¯t using Thaumaturgy to amplify his voice, but Bardcraft to throw it. The first is Transmutation, taking a small sound and making it big, while the second is Enchantment, which allows him to deliver his message straight to my brain. Even if I was deaf, I¡¯d be able to hear him speak, though folks that are born deaf tend to have difficult parsing the results of the Bardcraft Cantrip. It¡¯s an interesting bit of Arcana that, the different ways Spells and Cantrips can do more or less the same thing, but it also gets my guard up because Enchanters are a tricksy bunch to deal with.


    The hillbillies all keep their guns at the ready and watch me as I approach, like I¡¯m here to steal their bapples and moonshine, or worse, collect their taxes. I make like Old Tux and cultivate an air of indifference about me as I make my way up to the big house. Dismounting with baby Cowie in my arms, I put him down and gesture for him to behave when I see him staring at the bush apple hedges, because the last thing I need is to be extorted for stealing their harvest.


    ¡°Tch.¡± Sucking his teeth, the big man in charge snorts and horks a lougie at my boots while leaning heavily on the uneven, overgrown banister of his creaky porch. Cowie don¡¯t like that much, but I signal for him to stand down and stay small, because that means he¡¯ll look grumpy and adorable as opposed to furious and terrifying. ¡°Bad enough we got a Guju fuck for Sherrif,¡± the silver-haired hillybilly begins, and his buddies all chime in a chorus of indistinct agreements. ¡°Now he hirin¡¯ Qink brats too? He got somethin¡¯ against employin¡¯ honest, hard-working Americans?¡±


    ¡°Not at all,¡± I say, letting an edge slip through my smile. ¡°You seen any about?¡± Letting my eyes drift over drunk, chain-smoking buddies, I let my amusement show. ¡°Don¡¯t suppose you have.¡±


    ¡°Ha!¡± The big man¡¯s weathered face cracks as he lets loose with big bellyful of laughter. ¡°Ain¡¯t that the truth?¡± Sucking his teeth, he gives me a nod of begrudging respect and says, ¡°Well, let¡¯s have it then.¡±


    So I lay out everything I know about the Mindspire in the space of a few minutes, and the tension in the air melts away as my audience stops worrying about the stranger in their midst and starts worrying about the Mindspire. Even though I know they won¡¯t accept it, I make them the same offer I made the others. ¡°If y¡¯all wanna ride this out in town, your food and lodgings will be taken care of. Let me know if you need help getting down there. No boats, but I¡¯m sure the Sherrif and Rangers can arrange something in a day or two.¡±


    ¡°Hmph. As if.¡± Thumping his chest with a fist, the silver haired hillbilly glares at me from behind his wild hair and bushy beard, his eyes opened wide and bulging. ¡°This here is our land, and if you think we gonna give it up so some uppity Pajeet can come ¡®reclaim¡¯ it as his own, then you got another thing comin¡¯.¡±


    ¡°I figured as much,¡± I say, drawing on my inner Aunty Ray as I add, ¡°Between you and me, they makin¡¯ a big fuss about nothin¡¯. Group of capable folks like yourselves can ride this out easy. Do be careful with the young¡¯uns though. Mindspire is mostly for Illusions and Enchantments, and they a suggestible bunch. Got anymore questions? If not, then I got places to be and people to warn, so I¡¯ll be on my way.¡±


    ¡°What you doin¡¯ this for?¡± he asks, looking me up and down like he studying some strange, exotic beast. ¡°You ain¡¯t no deputy, and I don¡¯t figure you for a concerned resident here to help the neighbours.¡±


    ¡°Community service,¡± I reply without pride or shame. I leave it at that too, though I can tell the old hillbilly is hoping for more, expecting it even. Rather than buckle and fold, I maintain my silence and let the Mage Hands slide the Doorknockers out a half-inch, a movement the old fella catches. He smiles to see it, but his boys don¡¯t notice, and fill in the silence of their own accord.


    ¡°Hear tell you took apart Vanguard National,¡± one says, burning with obvious desire to know if it¡¯s true.


    ¡°Bullshit is what that is,¡± a second man chimes in, his tone full of scorn for me and the first speaker both. ¡°Wasn¡¯t no kid who brung down Ronald Fucking Jackson. Was the Rangers whodunnit.¡±


    Most the other men chime in with a chorus of agreements, but the first man is a believer. ¡°Kid was there though. Two Rangers went down, but he walked away with Ronald Jackson¡¯s guns. Ain¡¯t that right?¡±


    ¡°I took his guns, yea,¡± I say, but that¡¯s all I give the peanut gallery. Still irks me to know people think Wayne went out a hero. Don¡¯t mind so much for Conner, because he deserved better than he got, but he brought it on himself.  ¡°Lovely pair of Ranger Nagas. Didn¡¯t look like he¡¯d be needin¡¯ ¡®em.¡±


    I don¡¯t pay much mind to the talk, but the silver-haired hillbilly reads something from the exchange. Man wasn¡¯t a believer before, but it looks like he¡¯s one now, and I¡¯ve no idea what it is that gave me away. ¡°Word to the wise? Vanguard National might be out of the picture, but they had friends with fingers in a whole lot of pies, friends who¡¯d like to know what really went down in Pleasant Dunes and have been asking around about you.¡±


    Funny that. I don¡¯t think the Sherrif even knew about Vanguard National, but the old man here is talking like he got firsthand experience. Then again, he probably does, since Independents would make great trading partners for all the booze and illegal drugs they likely grow out here. The Independents fake up a shipment of alcohol to sell, just empty bottles and barrels to show to customs, then come all the way out here to fill up at discounted price. Once that¡¯s done, all that¡¯s left to do is claim their buyer fell through, so they¡¯re bringing everything home at a significant loss, avoiding taxes on their purchase and using the loss to offset actual taxes they have to pay for the legitimate goods they sell. A short trip once a year to the outskirts of Irongate ain¡¯t much of a journey for capable woodsmen like these, and I know Ron had traders moving up and down the Blue Bulwark, seeing how I got myself into this mess because I done killed one of them. ¡°Appreciate the warning, friend,¡± I say, holding my hand out for a shake. ¡°Never caught your name.¡±


    He don¡¯t take my hand, just folds his arms and says, ¡°Clayton.¡±


    ¡°Good to meet¡¯cha Clayton.¡± Taking my hand back, I turn Old Tux away and add, ¡°Might be back if there¡¯s more news to share. Good news I hope, so sit tight and keep on keepin¡¯ on.¡±


    Clayton don¡¯t answer, and I can feel the man¡¯s eyes boring into the back of my head. Even though its risky, I can¡¯t help but turn in my seat, and I catch a good two-thirds of them flinching to see it. ¡°That cider y¡¯all cookin¡¯ for sale? Smells mighty fine, and I wouldn¡¯t mind a cask to bring home to the family.¡±


    Wouldn¡¯t you believe it, Clayton cotton¡¯s on to my game and smiles to see it. Knows I¡¯m trying to establish a connection between us, even one as simple as selling a single cask of cider, because then I go from stranger to customer and our next talk goes smoother. He don¡¯t mind it either, because even though he got a foul mouth and vile disposition, he don¡¯t got all that much hate in him, else he wouldn¡¯t have warned me about Vanguard National¡¯s friends. Man¡¯s just parroting what he done heard from others, losers who¡¯ll blame their failures on anyone or anything besides themselves. Clayton don¡¯t respect that anymore than I do, as he a self-made man who¡¯s carved out a decent little life out here in the sticks, one that sits in a legal gray area no doubt, but has been lucrative all the same. If it wasn¡¯t, this community of a dozen or so men and far too many kids wouldn¡¯t be able to afford to have eight slackers sitting around in the middle of the day. Nah, chances are every one of these men earns more than Mr. Mueller down at the Quay, though they probably also spend it all on drink, drugs, guns, and whatever else they can get their hands on all the way out here.


    ¡°Creasy,¡± Clayton shouts, directing his voice back into the house. ¡°Bring the boy a skin of cider. On the house,¡± he adds. ¡°We only sell in bulk.¡± He don¡¯t say nothing else until Creasy comes out with the cider, who turns out to be a well-worn matronly woman who¡¯s got more fire in her belly than most of the men on the porch. The prices she quotes are exceptionally reasonable, until she adds in the fact that if I mean to declare them in town, the prices double. To make up for the taxes they¡¯ll have to pay, and the hassle of declaring them most like. Yea, Clayton and his ilk ain¡¯t full on Independents, just anti-government types who learned how to be self-sufficient out here on the Frontier and see no reason why they should pay a bunch of fat cats in fancy suits for help they don¡¯t need. Which I get, but they benefit in ways they don¡¯t appreciate, like the Blue Bulwark and my presence here warning them about the Mindspire, details they either overlook or take for granted.


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    No one likes paying taxes, but ain¡¯t no escaping them either. Only two things that are certain in life are death and taxes after all.


    So I turn on the charm, take a small swig of cider, and praise it to the moon and back. Don¡¯t even got to pretend, because it¡¯s a fine drink, crisp, sweet, and bold as can be with solid, earthy base. Honestly, I¡¯m mostly surprised it ain¡¯t a hard cider, because Clayton and his ilk don¡¯t look like the type to peddle drinks for kids, but I suppose looks can be deceiving. Probably started out as something for their own children, then ballooned into something more when they realized there was a market for it. A big one too, because if I ain¡¯t mistaken, this is the same cider they serve at the saloon Tina and the boots visit so often, meaning Clayton and his boys are slumming it with their Fireforge Aetherarms. Could probably afford the best of the best with all the latest doodads and attachments, but don¡¯t bother because they ain¡¯t about that life. No, they simple, salt of the earth folk here, and they gonna stay that way regardless of how much they make.


    Leaving on a friendlier note than I arrived on, I head out to the next community which is another two hours away. To hammer home the point about not judging a book by its cover, the neat and tidy self-proclaimed Protestant farming village with all its well-dressed men and demure women are far less friendly. Forget offering me a drink, they don¡¯t even want to offer Old Tux any water, and while they don¡¯t brandish their guns about while we talk, they keep a couple shooters with rifles at the ready in dark, secretive corners throughout the village just in case I start to get frisky. Don¡¯t get so much as a peep of thanks once I¡¯m done, only a deluge of questions they can¡¯t possibly believe I can answer like how long this is gonna last, why haven¡¯t the Rangers dealt with it already, or how does the Federal Government intend to make them whole from their losses. Gets them right steaming when I keep reiterating that they working on it, and doubly so when I grow tired of their pushy demands for answers and draw a line in the sand before mounting up to leave.


    Given the choice, I¡¯ll take racist, gun-toting hillbillies over scared and entitled townies out of their element every time. Forget that ¡®concerned tax-paying citizen¡¯ bullshit. That¡¯s just code for some fool who don¡¯t know how to think themselves and need constant reassurance to carry on in the face of adversity. Dollars to donuts, them Protestants will be in New Hope or Irongate by the end of the week complaining about how the Government didn¡¯t get them there faster, and I shudder to think what they¡¯ll have to say about the accommodations. Those are the sort of folks Aunty Ray has to deal with, and I¡¯ve no earthly idea how she manages to stay so cheery and chipper in spite of it. One fifteen-minute meeting and I¡¯m ready to slap the next fool who asks me a stupid question, which bodes poorly for the last stop on my list.


    Luckily for them, I come across a familiar face about a half hour from my destination, a wizened and grubby woodsman who greets me with a smile while holding both hands out for me to see. Not because he¡¯s scared and doesn¡¯t want to get shot. No, he¡¯s holding his hands up as a brag. ¡°Check it out Howie!¡± the paunchy, older man shouts, grinning from ear to ear as he shows off his mangled hands which got four and three digits a piece, respectively. ¡°I got more fingers than you now!¡±


    Man¡¯s got a cackle that¡¯s infectious to hear, so I can¡¯t help but smile and hit back with, ¡°I still got more thumbs though.¡± Showing it off with the energy of a different extended finger, I dismount and clasp his bony forearm like I¡¯m shaking his wrist. ¡°Good to see you Gunnar. Didn¡¯t know you lived out this way.¡±


    ¡°Yea, I try to keep it on the down-low,¡± he replies, running the three fingers he got on his right hand through his dark, tangled beard and coming out with twigs and leaves aplenty. ¡°Keeps unhappy customers from tracking me down all that easily.¡±


    ¡°You try passing fool¡¯s gold off as the real deal again?¡± I shake my head. ¡°Figured you¡¯d¡¯ve learned your lesson by now.¡±


    ¡°That was one time,¡± Gunnar whines, even though he knows good and well it wasn¡¯t. ¡°And it was an honest mistake. I really thought I had the genuine article there.¡± Doubtful, seeing how he Alchemically enhanced his nugget to smooth its sharp edges and keep from flaking or crumbling under pressure. ¡°Times are tough you know,¡± he adds, which is his self-justification for his scamming ways. ¡°Materials are getting hard to come by and we¡¯ve had to tighten our belts to get by.¡±


    Gunnar means that literally too, and much as I sympathize, I also know his hardships are due to reckless spending more than anything else. Not because he likes to live large; the exact opposite in fact, as Gunnar got no airs about him at all. Man¡¯s coat is made of patchwork leather he treated and stitched together himself, which is a real accomplishment considering he ain¡¯t got no thumbs. Shows in his work it does, as evidenced by the simple tunic he got underneath which probably hasn¡¯t been washed in days, if not weeks. Got him a rope for a belt to hold his trousers up, which are thick, woolen winter pants to protect him from the barbs and nettles of all the various plants he finds himself puttering about. Add in a hairline so far back he needs two mirrors to find it and you get the picture, but he don¡¯t got no pretensions about his appearance. Just leaves his hair be and crops what little he has short, so I imagine the only reason he don¡¯t shave it all off is because that¡¯d take too much effort to maintain.


    All in all though, Gunnar¡¯s a decent enough fella so long as you don¡¯t ever buy nothing from him. Which is a real shame seeing how he¡¯s a damn fine alchemist, as is his wife Alice and both their kids, Harald and Astrid. Yea, that¡¯s right. Gunnar here is the patriarch of the infamous family of reckless alchemists who got less than thirty fingers between the four of them. Alice lost five on her left hand, but still the rest of the appendage, while Harald lost the last three fingers on his right. Astrid still got all of hers, on account of how she¡¯s the youngest and smartest, having learned from the mistakes of her parents and picked up my trick of splitting one Mage Hand into two to boot.


    Which is a big reason why Gunnar greets me so warmly. Came to town one day to ask my daddy what it would cost to teach him my trick, and we didn¡¯t charge him a penny. Mostly because it didn¡¯t feel right selling something that could help him so much, but Gunnar never did pick up the trick. Neither did his wife and son, but the training tips and exercises helped them develop their skills with the Cantrip, while Astrid is the real talent among the bunch. Not only can she Conjure two Mage Hands, she¡¯s able to a lot of finer work which I can¡¯t replicate, not without a couple weeks of practice at least. Stuff like picking out single grains or feeling heat or textures with the Spell, and Lord knows how she works all her delicate glassware with her Mage Hands, what with how careful and precise you gotta be when doing Alchemy.


    Not to say she¡¯s better with the Cantrip than I am; doubt Astrid could aim a Blastgun properly on her first try either, which ain¡¯t as easy as it looks.


    ¡°Sorry to hear about what happened,¡± Gunnar says, clapping me on the shoulder once were done with the niceties and heading back towards his village. ¡°Nasty crowd, them Vanguard National types, and that Ronald Jackson was a real piece of work. He don¡¯t mess around.¡± Glancing at my stump, Gunnar grins and adds, ¡°Guess he learned the hard way that the Firstborn don¡¯t mess around either, am I right?¡±


    Tilting my head in neither acceptance nor denial, I purse my lips and give Gunnar a look to reassess what I know about him. ¡°How come it seems like everyone knew about Vanguard National these days? Even the Marshal ain¡¯t ever heard of them until I brought it up a few weeks back.¡±


    Sheepishly scratching his bulbous nose, Gunnar coughs and says, ¡°It¡¯s because you don¡¯t hang with the right crowds. Or the wrong ones, I suppose. Until recently, we all thought you was the strait-laced superstar on track to become the Ranger¡¯s model recruit, so who in their right mind would talk to you about their¡­ uh¡­¡±


    ¡°Extra-legal associations?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡± Gunnar shrugs. ¡°As for Vanguard National, they popped up on my radar about five years back, when they sent a man to see if I¡¯d come work for them. Wanted me to make them a self-stable compound Impact Oil, among other things, and I told them to pound sand. Then I found out they recently took out three major players in the Coral Desert and went into hiding for a bit.¡± Seeing my lack of comprehension, he explains, ¡°Pound sand is a P.G way of saying fuck off.¡±


    ¡°Thanks Gunnar,¡± I say, with all the sarcasm I can muster. Then, because I know he won¡¯t explain unless I bring it up first, I ask, ¡°What¡¯s shelf-stable compound Impact Oil?¡±


    ¡°A pipe dream,¡± Gunnar replies, puffing up now that he has a chance to talk about what he loves. ¡°A modern myth akin to the Philosopher¡¯s Stone. A non-reactive explosive that won¡¯t detonate without a secondary trigger, making it easier to transport and utilize. An Alchemical C-4 pretty much, which is a chemical explosive that you could light on fire and all it¡¯d do was burn. Needs a shockwave from a blasting cap to make it explode, but ever since the Australian Sacrifice, people have been clamouring for an Alchemical alternative. Problem is, it¡¯s impossible to make, but everyone things chemistry and Alchemy are more or less the same thing.¡±


    ¡°They aren¡¯t?¡± I ask, mostly to pull his leg, and he knows it too.


    After he¡¯s done glaring like a sourpuss, he explains, ¡°No, they aren¡¯t. They¡¯re similar, but the basic premise of Alchemy is to distill Spells and Spell-like effects into a physical compound that is typically imbibed.¡±


    ¡°So why¡¯s Alchemical C-4 so impossible then? We got explosive Spells, like Elemental Orb, Shardburst, Fireball, and Bombard to name a few. Can¡¯t you distill one of those down into a potion?¡±


    ¡°Of course I can,¡± Gunnar replies, looking offended I would even question it. ¡°That¡¯s not the problem though. The problem is the compound trigger. A finished potion is a complete product, with the Spell effect suspended within a physical matrix. How do we typically trigger that effect?¡±


    ¡°With contact,¡± I supply, playing along in spite of his patronizing tone.


    ¡°Exactly. For most, it¡¯s specifically physical contact with a living organism, whether it be human, animal, or Aberration. There are edge case scenarios of course,¡± Gunnar hurries to add, before I can interrupt with a gotcha statement. ¡°Like with Impact Oil, which explodes in the presence of a significant physical shock, but those are the exception, not the rule. The reason for this is because those potions, or Spells suspended in a physical matrix, require a target, and the only way to denote a target is through touch.¡±


    ¡°Makes sense.¡± And it does. It¡¯s the same reason why some Spell Cores are finicky to work with, because targeting is an issue when you can¡¯t just point and think. That¡¯s why Fireball Spell Cores ain¡¯t worth much at all despite the Spell being so iconic, because you gotta put in a lot of work to set the target. Like the Shatter Tubes we used under dark in Pleasant Dunes, which needed four prongs attached to wires connected to the Spell Core itself to denote the Area of Effect for the Shatter Spell. A very specific area at that, because if you put them prongs too far away from one another, then you might get a misfire wherein the Spell Core sees that it can¡¯t put the Spell where you want it, so it just unloads it point blank instead.


    ¡°So the only way a compound explosive potion would work,¡± Gunnar continues, explaining it all out for me nice and slow, ¡°Is if you had an incomplete potion divided into two parts, which when combined create a complete potion.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± I say, stretching the word out over a second or three. ¡°So why not do that?¡±


    ¡°Because then it¡¯d be chemistry, not Alchemy,¡± Gunnar snaps, getting all huffy and upset. ¡°Alchemy isn¡¯t just mixing two things together. You need to infuse the mixture with a portion of your Spirit at the same time to keep the Aether within from dissipating or reacting. Take the Spell Storing matrix you keep in your boots for example. You can put a Spell in there, but they won¡¯t hold the Spell forever, right? You gotta refresh it every week or so, right?¡±


    ¡°Month.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± Looking mighty impressed, Gunnar scratches his chin and says, ¡°Trevor does some fine work then.¡±


    ¡°That he does.¡±


    Waving his hand about to clear the air, Gunnar says, ¡°You get the gist though, right? A stable Alchemical explosive is a paradox, because if it¡¯s stable, it¡¯s won¡¯t explode, and if it explodes, it can¡¯t be stable.¡±


    ¡°If you say so,¡± I reply with a shrug, mostly because I know it¡¯ll grind his gears. Man gets all huffy as we head back to his village, and we chit chat until we arrive, whereupon I¡¯m greeted with the typical type of place I¡¯ve come to expect. Houses and farms strewn haphazardly about with no real planning or forethought put into it, the natural evolution of a vagabond campsite into the permanent residence it¡¯s grown into. Ain¡¯t nothing wrong with that per se, but I¡¯d prefer my living space to be more defendable is all. They got themselves a big old palisade, which is where they take shelter whenever they got enough forewarning about a raid, and I¡¯ll bet my bottom dollar that every house here has a fortified cellar dug out underneath with a sturdy steel door to double as a panic room. Otherwise, it¡¯s just a normal, burgeoning village, albeit one larger than expected.


    Got more houses here than back at Mueller¡¯s Quay. More landmark buildings too, ones that shows they¡¯re doing well for themselves. A towering windmill to power a wood saw. A tannery with racks and racks of leather drying. A smithery with multiple forges and whole teams of smiths hammering away. A water tower providing pressure to all the pipes no doubt flowing beneath the village streets. All this and more tells me these folks are not only working together to reclaim the lifestyle they gave up in the old world, they¡¯re striving to do it while remaining self-sufficient. Every other community I¡¯ve visited today relies on their proximity to New Hope in some way, even Clayton and his hunters. Whether it be clothes, guns, tools, or whatever, they all had something they can¡¯t produce themselves and need to buy in New Hope, but not these folks here. They¡¯re looking to build their own little New Hope here, a place that can produce everything they need to survive on their lonesome.


    Which is a lot harder to accomplish than you might think. They got running water, powered lights, dyed clothes, artisanal furniture, and even a couple manicured lawns, which is like the ultimate sign of civilization. Means they got time enough to waste tending to a patch of land that don¡¯t provide nothing of value besides space. That¡¯s luxury right there, because even me and Aunty Ray gotta cheat by letting the wallies out every two weeks to keep our lawns presentable. Gunnar¡¯s fellow villagers, their lawns got that even cut which tells me someone took a scythe to that grass, which is a whole other level of dedication I could never match. If you gonna put that much effort into maintaining a patch of land, why not grow something on it instead?


    Putting my personal feelings on lawn maintenance aside, I take a moment to acknowledge that Gunnar¡¯s people have accomplished something incredible here. I don¡¯t say as much though, because I also know why they went so far when New Hope is only four hours away on horseback, and probably still less than a day even if you had to walk. One look at the people turning out to hear what I have to say, and you¡¯d know it too. There¡¯s a bald giant of man with mottled skin the colour and texture of ashy tree bark, a towering behemoth who¡¯d dwarf even Marcus¡¯ 7ft height and is about twice as thick to boot. Got two children, a boy and a girl I think, with pink skin, and I¡¯m not talking healthy pink. I¡¯m talking the shade Tina paints Chrissy¡¯s nails sometimes, which she calls hot pink and is horrendous to behold, but Chrissy likes it so I pretend I do too. There¡¯s a fella with dark chitinous lens¡¯ where his eyes should be, giving him a bug-eyed sort of look, and another with grey skin, pointed ears, a jutting brow, and fangs poking out of his fat, almost swollen lips. One lady has striped skin, except upon closer inspection, I notice the stripes ain¡¯t a colour, but indents in her flesh like gills on a fish, and I try not to look too closely because I don¡¯t want to know if you can see the meat inside.


    Bird feathers, oddly shaped pupils, droopy skin, scales, tusks, talons, and more. These are only a small subsection of extreme Innate Brands I see in the people of Gunnar¡¯s village, including those of his wife and two children. Appearance wise, they¡¯ve got it worse than most, but not because they¡¯re ugly. The opposite in fact, as their ruby-red skin is smooth and flawless as marble stone, save for the luminescent golden glow of their veins showing through all across their slender frames. Fits well with their thick, black hair which does little to hid the curved ebony horns poking out the sides of their heads. Add in their golden eyes and the faintest hint of fangs in the place of incisors, and you¡¯ve got three beautiful people who look very much like what some folks might call a demon or devil.


    Appearances can be deceiving though, because there¡¯s nothing but sadness and commiseration in miss Alice¡¯s eyes as she makes her way over to me. ¡°Oh Howie,¡± she says, taking up my right arm and gently tracing the air over the stump, like making sure my hand is really gone and not just invisible or something. ¡°I heard and didn¡¯t want to believe it. Does it still hurt?¡±


    ¡°Nah,¡± I reply, flashing a smile I know she don¡¯t believe. ¡°Don¡¯t you worry. I¡¯m alright. Well, all left now, but you know what I mean.¡±


    ¡°Humour is good,¡± she says, stroking my cheek this time, her golden eyes meeting mine with empathy and compassion a plenty. ¡°It gets easier with time.¡± Easier. Not better. Because she ain¡¯t one to lie. ¡°And who knows,¡± she continues, her big, round eyes getting that faraway look one gets when they lost in their thoughts. ¡°Maybe one day, we¡¯ll even have a permanent solution to make you whole again.¡±


    That¡¯s been their goal after all, to create a shapeshifting potion with a permanent effect so the altered Innates living here in this community can be normal again and live among other normal people. Not saying they ain¡¯t allowed in New Hope, or even encouraged to leave, but I imagine life can get real tiresome when everyone looks at you like you a member of a carnie freak show. Hence, Gunnar¡¯s efforts to research a potion to do something unheard of, a goal he and his entire family have sacrificed so much wealth and so many fingers for.


    While making little to no progress, far as I know. There¡¯s a Polymorph Spell that allows you to shapeshift yourself or another target into something else, and that something else could easily be your unBranded self, but that¡¯s Fourth Order Spell which requires Concentration and only lasts an hour. What¡¯s more, any changes made by that Spell aren¡¯t real. They¡¯re physical, sure, but underneath it all, you still the same person, just rearranged a bit by shifting parts of yourself over to the Immaterium and crafting new ones out of Ectoplasm. Doesn¡¯t do anything for those Innates who suffer from their changes, like say the bug-eyed fella who might have trouble seeing, or the tree-skin man who probably itches all the time. Maybe. I don¡¯t really know what it¡¯s like, because even though I live next door to three Innates, their Brands are not only minor cosmetic changes, they even make them look more elegant rather than¡­ different from the rest.


    What Gunnar and his family are trying to do is create something akin to a True Polymorph potion, which would do the same thing the Polymorph Spell would, only the changes would be real and permanent. Or a real Regeneration Spell, letting you grow back parts you lost like lizard. Course, those who passed basic Arcana will spot the problem, in that Magic ain¡¯t great at directly affecting the physical world in a permanent fashion. Destruction is easy enough, but even then, most Spells need a specific Metamagic attached to it to do decent damage to structures. Permanently changing the shape of a person, or how their body naturally heals? I¡¯d say that¡¯s downright impossible, but it¡¯s magic, so nothing is ever really impossible.


    Just highly improbably and unlikely to happen in this lifetime.


    Still, a person can dream, and Gunnar¡¯s family dreams together. Serious and studious as always, Harald doesn¡¯t look up from his book, which he¡¯s using a glowing red Mage Hand to carry, one that erupts into harmless flames every now and then. Doesn¡¯t so much as singe the book he¡¯s reading, some boring and complicated dissertation on Alchemy, which is fortunate, but it does show how unstable the Spell is. Even a basic Cantrip like Mage Hand ain¡¯t spared the aftereffects of his bloodline, one that focuses heavily on Evocation with Transmutation thrown into the mix. Quick and dirty plus temporary, widespread alterations. Doesn¡¯t make for the most stable of Spells, especially when the bloodline comes with a natural penchant for Fire.


    Hence why their Alchemy experiments explode so often. Gunnar don¡¯t got that excuse though, as he a plain, normal human. He just reckless is all, and losing both thumbs and an index finger hasn¡¯t changed him in the least.


    That said, Astrid ain¡¯t nothing like her daddy, or much like her mama and brother either. Walks right on up to me all bold as can be wearing a sneer on her pretty, pristine features. ¡°Must suck to lose a hand,¡± she says, and her mama gasps beside her, but my smile don¡¯t waver one bit. ¡°I mean, losing a few fingers is bad enough, but a whole hand?¡±


    ¡°What can I say?¡± I reply with a shrug. ¡°I asked if they could at least leave me a pinky to pick my nose with, but no dice.¡±


    Her golden veins glow brighter as she stifles a laugh, which makes me want to teach her to play poker then clear out her bankroll. ¡°Well, here,¡± she says, pulling out a notebook and casually tossing it over. I catch it, but don¡¯t open and read it right away in case it¡¯s something private, because you never know with girls Astrid¡¯s age. Fifteen going on sixteen same as Josie and Noora, meaning she might as well be a whole difference race. Because of her age and gender of course, not how she looks, though I note that she¡¯s also grown a fair bit too since I last saw her. Still short and slender as can be, but there¡¯s no mistaking her for her twin brother anymore, not from any angle I can see.


    ¡°My notes on the Mage Hand Cantrip,¡± Astrid says, in response to my unspoken question. ¡°You lent us all your mama¡¯s notes, and I¡¯ve been keeping track of my thoughts on the Cantrip since then. Nothing specific, just how it feels and what I think I could do to squeeze more out of it. Might be of some help if you¡¯re improving the Spell.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯d you know that¡¯s what I was trying to do?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s obvious.¡± Astrid rolls her eyes with all the attitude a teenage girl can muster. ¡°You¡¯re not one to roll over and quit, and improving the Mage Hand Cantrip is the simplest option in front of you.¡± Smirking, she adds, ¡°And you¡¯re nothing if not simple.¡±


    ¡°That I am,¡± I say, grinning from ear to ear as I flip through her neat and precise notes. Girl¡¯s a stand out Alchemist even if you ignore her age, and a careful, methodical one at that. A little prickly to be sure, with a hair-trigger of a temper and formidable selection of dangerous Spells to boot, but thoughtful underneath it all, else she wouldn¡¯t have thought to bring this out without so much as a whisper of my plans. ¡°Thanks Astrid. I¡¯ll get this back to you soon as I can.¡± If I could take Photos one-handed, that¡¯d be five minutes tops, but now I gotta get Aunty Ray to help.


    ¡°That¡¯s a copy. Keep it.¡± Though it seems like Astrid has more to say, miss Alice cuts in to bring her daughter away as Gunnar gives me the go ahead to begin my speech. Makes it the fifth time I¡¯ve given the same spiel today, but I give it my all because this is likely the settlement that will be affected the most by the Mindspire¡¯s effects given their heightened Aetheric Sensitivity. What¡¯s more, since so many of them are accomplished Spellslingers in their own right, they have a deeper understanding of magic than the other communities, so their questions are more detailed and on point. Their solutions are better too, like potions of Calm Emotion to suppress the effects of Spells like Madness and Glowing Coin, or even Bless and Heroism to help resist very specific conditions. There¡¯s more stuff to take note of, and I write them down to bring back to New Hope, but no matter how much they brainstorm, they can¡¯t come up with any comprehensive solution that¡¯s easier and cheaper than staying on consecrated ground.


    Except to no one¡¯s surprise, the town full of Innates don¡¯t got a church. Like I said, organized religion has a bad history with Innates and homosexuals. They¡¯re working on it, but some of their constituents aren¡¯t big on adapting to the times and would much rather go back to a simpler time when they segregated people by race, colour, and creed.


    ¡°You¡¯re all welcome in town,¡± I remind them, doing my damnedest not to look at anyone in particular. ¡°The churches are accepting of all and we got room for every last one of you.¡± No one outright scoffs at the idea, but I can tell they¡¯re reluctant to go back due to past experiences. Can¡¯t say I blame them either, and it¡¯s not like I can guarantee they¡¯ll be left to their own devices. Lord knows I get enough stares myself, being Qin and all, so I can only imagine how them townies would gawk at the likes of tree-skin man or miss Alice and her kids.


    In the end, the people of Gunnar¡¯s village don¡¯t even considering heading into town, so I let ¡®em know I¡¯ll be back with more news when I have some. Knowing I got a fair bit of travel ahead, miss Alice hands me a sandwich for the road, and I thank her with all my heart, because I really don¡¯t want to eat the last of my travel rations which I packed into Old Tux¡¯s saddlebags. Though evening is coming upon us, I let the old horse set his pace since we¡¯ve plenty of time to make it home before the gates close at ten, and I get to wondering if Carter and his ilk found their missing girl. I ain¡¯t one to snoop though, so I go against my gut and avoid dropping in on the compound unnoticed, mostly because it¡¯d take me a good hour out of my way.


    A good thing too, because as luck would have it, my Detect Aberration Spell pings about an hour away from town, and at the same time my ears pick up the sounds of a scuffle. No gunshots, but lots of clanging, shouting grunting, barking, and croaking, meaning some fools are in a melee scrap with a bunch of ranakin and other Abby.


    Can¡¯t walk away. Wouldn¡¯t be right, as it might be that the Catholics and Christians got it wrong, and it¡¯s the Buddhists and Hindus who got it right with Karma and whatnot. Today, I risk my hide helping someone in a tight spot, and maybe tomorrow, someone rides in to help me. That¡¯s how it is, ain¡¯t it? So best bank up all the good Karma I can, because with the way things have been going for me lately, I¡¯ll need all the help I can get.

 Book Two - Chapter 71

    Gotta take care of yourself before taking care of others.


    Told Errol as much in Meadowbrook after his slip up with the bramble elk and bandits, and I know the words went in one ear and out the other. Man thought I was being selfish and petty, that my jaded outlook was wrong and immoral, but it¡¯s just good sense to look before you leap. If he wants to dive in without checking first, that¡¯s on him, but I won¡¯t shed no crocodile tears when he lands headfirst in the shallows and breaks his fool neck.


    So I take it slow and steady as I move towards the sounds of fighting, because I don¡¯t know what I¡¯m getting myself into. That¡¯s step two of survival, threat assessment. Know what you¡¯re up against before you kick in the door, or at least get a good inkling before you go charging in. Kept me alive in Pleasant Dunes, and I mean to stay alive here, so I bring Old Tux around at an angle to skirt alongside the edge of the scuffle. Do it quick enough to get there in time to help out, but not so quick as to give my presence away so I can observe and strategize before committing to the fight. That¡¯s why I stick to cover and shadows as I go in case I have to beat a hasty retreat, and as we draw closer to the fray, Cowie sits up all alert and concerned. Looks mighty serious for such a cute little calf as he scents blood and Abby on the wind, and I hold him in place with the stump of my arm while keeping my eyes and ears open, watching and listening for any clues of what¡¯s going on only to wind up more confused than anything else.


    No gunshots, no yelling, no cries for help of screams of fear or defiance. All I hear are froggie croaks, merhound barks, mudkipper whistles, and a symphony of their collective grunts, growls, shrieks, and squeals as they fall to their silent and deadly foe. Only sounds that ain¡¯t from Abby is the hiss of an edge cutting through the air, followed by the thwacks and clangs of sharp metal striking Abby flesh and armour. Doesn¡¯t sound like there¡¯s more than one person fighting, but there could be two or three. Not likely, because the attacks are all happening one after the other, not simultaneously as you¡¯d expect from a group. All this and more I parse through in a matter of seconds, matching what I hear to what I sense from the Detect Aberration Spell I still got going, one which reveals to me the presence of a decent sized warband with no less than five ¨C four ranakin, now that another just died, and about thirty or so smaller mudkippers and merhounds.


    The fight is still a good fifty meters away when I finally spot it, a bunch of moving shadows through the tree trunks and shrubbery. Can¡¯t tell who them Abby are fighting, but whoever it is has gotta be hard pressed to be sure, with their backs to a massive whitewood while fending off a ring of Feral Abby. Can picture it now, the mudkippers hopping along on their pectoral fins that do double duty as jointed limbs on land, ones strong enough to hoist their 30lb torsos and tails up into the air and stagger about like drunks on two feet. Don¡¯t let their stumbles fool you though. Them fins still got strength enough to launch those mudkippers face first up to three metres in a single bound, whereupon they¡¯ll sink their mouthful of needle fangs into flesh and lock their jaws into place before grinding and shredding whatever it is they caught. Mr. Mueller¡¯s missing foot is a prime example of how dangerous them mudkippers can be, as they like to lurk in the shallows and mud for days waiting for a target to come into range, at which point they¡¯ll bite clean through a steel-toed boot to get at the toesies hidden within.


    Whoever¡¯s fighting will have to keep a keen eye on them kippers, who¡¯ll be hanging back and looking for an opportunity to strike. They can afford to do this because they¡¯ll have merhounds fighting front and centre, big old 150 lb scaled mongrels with a wulf¡¯s muscular body and a fish¡¯s head packing dagger-fangs that make a mudkipper¡¯s mouth look cute and dainty in comparison. Much like wulves, they¡¯ll pen you in and come at you from all sides, darting in for a nip and snap before dancing right back, looking to distract you just long enough for one of its pack to leap up and chop down on your neck.


    All while the ranakin deliver probing jabs and scything haymakers with their hooked hands from over their allies heads, a fearsome combination of foes to be sure. Skippers, doggies, and froggies, each fills a niche that doesn¡¯t conflict with the others, whether it be ambush predators, trackers and hunters, or brains and brawn respectively, while still working well in groups. That¡¯s the full-on Feral advantage, the ability for the Proggie to tailor their Aberrations to fit their needs and environment, which in this case is a group of stealthy, amphibious killers that excel underwater and do just fine up on land.


    Course there ain¡¯t no such thing as perfection. Ferals are almost always gonna be dumber than goblins, because all that higher order reasoning goes out the window for animal instincts and reflexes. Still smart enough to know when to fight and when to flee, lay in wait for ambush, or undermine your walls instead of going at them head on, but they won¡¯t be building no armour to wear or tossing no rocks to soften you up. There¡¯s always a trade-off when it comes to Abby too, as there ain¡¯t no one size fits all archetype. In this case, being good in water and passable on land means these particular Abby are at a disadvantage compared to most creatures who make their lives up here, not to mention lighter and less densely packed by necessity since they wouldn¡¯t be able to swim otherwise. That¡¯s why them ranakin had so much trouble dealing with my Warding Wind, because their froggie legs ain¡¯t built for sustained, overland movement, and their frames were light enough to be blown away mid hop. A tuskwulf would¡¯ve dug its paws into the dirt and been on me in seconds, but them ranakin just kept hopping into the wind getting taken for a ride. Would be even worse for the smaller, lighter mudkippers, and while merhounds might be able to get through, they¡¯re still slower than most real runners on account of their webbed, clawed flipper feet.


    Means whoever¡¯s fighting up there was surrounded before they knew what they was up against, else they could¡¯ve just cut and run and stood a decent chance of getting away. Course, that¡¯s in an ideal situation, on open, flat, easy terrain, not the thick forest growth around us, so I place a blade of grass between my lips to finish up my prep for the fight and bring Old Tux further around to the side. I move quick and quiet until stealth is no longer an option, then put it into high gear as we cross a stretch of open ground until I got the whitewood standing between me and whoever it is I¡¯ve come to save, so I don¡¯t have to worry about hitting them with a through and through shot.


    Then I start shooting with a big old battle cry of, ¡°Sueeeeeeee weeeeeeeee! Sue weee, sue weee, sue weeeee!¡±


    The hog call don¡¯t strike fear in the hearts of no one, but it grabs Abbys¡¯ attention well enough. Twenty metres is the range I opted to take this fight at, so I can see the whites of the bulging eyes in my target froggie. Last time around, I emptied six shots from the Rattlesnake into one point blank, and that ranakin shrugged it off like it was nothing. This time though, I got my little big gun, the armour penetrating Model 10 in hand, which got a mean bark to match its deadly bite. Bang goes the first shot, and the ranakin flinches in place, dead from the crater in the back of its head before its body hits the ground. Bang goes the second shot, catching the next froggie in one cheek and out the other, while carving out a good chunk of brain and meat and whatever else it got in between. Bang goes the third shot as I finish my call, but this froggie done got warning enough to leap out of the way, diving for cover alongside its last standing friend while the merhounds and mudkippers have yet to register my presence.


    The doggies get there first, backing off from whatever it is they was corralling in, only for glowing streak of blue light to carve clean through the air and set some mudkippers to screaming. A second glowing strike garners another kill, and though I have yet to see whoever it is I¡¯m saving, I got a good appreciation for their skills. Takes more courage than good sense to bring a sword to a gunfight, and this crazy swordslinger brought two. Curved swords from the look of it, and Augmented ones at that, or possibly just enhanced by the Second Order Magic Weapon. Makes them sharper and more durable among other things, but personally, I always figured if a whetstone can do 50% of what a Second Order Spell can, then you¡¯re better off not wasting the Spell or Concentration required to maintain it.


    Okay, so I may have a bias against folks who fight in melee combat. Part of it is the stupidity, because who in their right mind wants to go toe to toe with Abby? Course, there¡¯s also the fact that I¡¯m exceedingly intimidated by anyone who can trade blows with a bugbear and come out on top, like a certain gorgeous Nipponese girlie with golden brown hair, a fetching pout, and a piercing glare that makes me weak in the knees to see it. Intrigued too, but mostly intimidated, which I¡¯ll never admit out loud, though I won¡¯t lie and say it ain¡¯t hot as all hell too.


    Kacey ain¡¯t our mysterious stranger though, because her swords ain¡¯t that big. ¡°Sit tight friend,¡± I shout, and that¡¯s all the warning I can spare, because them merhounds are moving to cut me off, and I don¡¯t want to get surrounded while sitting up top of Old Tux. Knowing exactly what I want from him, the piebald horse gets moving with the lightest touch of my heel, surging away from the pack as I let my Model Ten hang loose on my finger and stretch my left arm out towards the bulk of the horde. Making a clutching motion like I¡¯m gathering them Abby in the palm of my hand, I push Aether through the Widen Metamagic bead on my wrist and Intone, ¡°Retineo ¨C Aestus,¡± around the blade of grass between my lips. ¡®Hold back the tide¡¯, which I personally don¡¯t feel like it fits the style of the Entangling Growth Spell, but I got no complaints about the results as spiraling vines burst out of the ground and latch onto every merhound and mudkipper within the Spell¡¯s 12m radius.


    A flick of the wrist brings the grip of my gun back into the palm of my hand, and I squeeze off the remaining shots at a trio of merhounds who escaped the Entangling Grasp. Tossing the Model 10 lightly into the air, I grin as the waiting Mage Hand catches it and smoothly flicks open the cylinder to pop out the spent brass, a maneuver I¡¯ve been practicing for a few weeks now. While my Mage Hands get to reloading the Model 10, I draw the Rattlesnake and take shots at the stragglers still looking for a fight, while simultaneously keeping an eye out for the froggies. Though I had to drop the Detect Aberration Spell in order to maintain Concentration on Entangling Growth, my eyes are sharp enough to catch sight of the bounding ranakin as they hip hop away back towards the lake ahead of their friends, always ready to cut and run whenever the fight don¡¯t go their way. Smart move that, even if it annoys me to no end, because mudkippers and merhounds ain¡¯t worth much more than gobbos, which is to say they¡¯re barely worth the Bolt used to kill ¡®em.


    So in the interest of saving a few bucks, I stop cradling Cowie in the saddle and give him a little nudge once I see that most them Abby are running, save for the ones stuck in my Entangle. ¡°Go on partner,¡± I say, as he hops down to the ground and gives himself a big shake. ¡°Time to earn your keep.¡±


    Always a trip watching Cowie go from small to big, as he moves with a little bounce in his step while gradually putting on about 1,975 kilos in weight over the course of two and a half seconds. One moment he¡¯s all small and cute, and the next he¡¯s a big old hunk of bovine muscle bellowing out a big old booming moo. Much more intimidating than my piggy call if I¡¯m being honest, though it felt right in the moment, and I regret doing it now after the fact. There¡¯s no changing the past thought, so I just gotta hope the person I saved is kind enough to forget I ever made that little mistake.


    Huffing and puffing as only a big burly bull can, Cowie casts a second Spell and snorts out a lungful of smoke before taking a big, deep breath. Brings his head right back he does, then whips it down and stretches it out to unleash a massive gout of flames on the Entangled Abby. One that¡¯s all too brief, just a burst of flame that putters out almost instantly without anything catching fire, but it¡¯s enough to elicit a chorus of shrieks and screams from the trapped mudkippers and merhounds who¡¯re still breathing. Not for long though, as Cowie snorts out some more smoke and draws another big breath so as to unleash another mouthful of flames, which he can do once every five seconds for a full minute at base thanks to the Second Order Dragon¡¯s Breath Spell he got prepped in his head. A great Spell for killing big groups of weak Abby, though you gotta get in nice and close to use it, 5m in a forty-five-degree cone starting at Cowie¡¯s lips. That¡¯s without familiarity mind you, as he can push his flames out to 10m now that he¡¯s gotten a whole bunch of practice, but I¡¯d feel a lot better if his bloodline gave him something like Ablative Armour, Barkskin, or even Gaseous Form to help keep him safe. Big, strong, and Magical though he might be, Cowie is still a bull after all, meaning one Bolt is all it takes to take him out of the fight.


    Ain¡¯t no Bolts flying around here though, none besides the ones I¡¯m shooting off to make sure ain¡¯t no Abby playing dead. Take my time going about it, popping every corpse from at least fifteen metres away and the froggie corpses twice from even further while we move around my Entangling Growth to meet up with our beleaguered traveller. Two frogs ain¡¯t a bad haul all things considered, alongside a smattering of mudkippers and merhounds, though I doubt any of them have any offensive Spell Cores else I figure there wouldn¡¯t be no fella to save as they¡¯d¡¯ve unloaded their Spells on him or her soon as they were cornered against the tree. Speaking of which, I call out, ¡°We clear out here. How you doin¡¯ over there?¡±


    There¡¯s no answer as Cowie spews some flames over the pile of dismembered corpses left by the mysterious stranger before trotting on over like he owns the place. ¡°Cowie. Stop,¡± I hiss, wondering what¡¯s gotten into his fool head. I don¡¯t usually gotta give him orders, as he knows better than to run off on his own, especially at strangers wielding massive curved glowing swords and muscle enough to cleave clean through Abby. This time though, my partner don¡¯t pay me no mind and scampers over with a bounce in his step. Ain¡¯t nothing sillier than a big bull who wants to play, and I can only watch as he rounds the massive whitewood to greet the stranger with a moo.


    And a play bow followed by a butt wiggle, which I only catch the back end of. All good signs, since he don¡¯t do that for just anyone, leading me to wonder if this is someone he already knows, like from Carter¡¯s compound of a Ranger from New Hope. In stark contrast to Cowie¡¯s playful demeanour, Old Tux shies away as we draw near, whickering in protest as he flicks his ears and stamps his feet in a display of nerves. ¡°Easy now, Old Tux,¡± I say, patting his next with my stump while raising my Rattlesnake to the ready instead of keeping it pointed down at the ground. ¡°Easy.¡±


    That¡¯s all it takes really, a bit of reassurance, and trooper that he is, Old Tux moves on around the whitewood like I ask him to. Takes a wider route around than I¡¯d like him to, but he does it without hesitation, which only goes to show his mettle as we round the corner and look death in the face.


    Death got a whole lot more fur than I thought it would, but then again, you never know how you gonna go. White fur, to help it blend into the forest, and a small round head with black markings around its eyes, snout, and lips. Thin ones, which are pulled back in a natural almost smile as it raises its head to meet my gaze without fear, revealing two big, green eyes with more curiosity than malice. It¡¯s got four, thick limbs and bulky torso that makes it about half as big as Cowie, and that¡¯s including its thick coat of white fur. One so dense it can wander around in a snowstorm and never feel the chill, ward off bites and pokes from merhounds and ranakin, and shake off Spells like water off a duck.


    How you ask? Well, my daddy heard from a hunter inland who heard it from a scientist who said there¡¯s something in the fur¡¯s natural oils which grants Spell Resistance. Not Aether Resistance mind you, or physical Resistance, or even Elemental Resistance, specific or varied. No, Spell Resistance is exactly what it sounds like, Resistance with a capital R against all things Spells. Force from a Bolt? Resisted. Fire from a Dragon¡¯s Breath? Resisted. Pulse of Electricity from a Lightning Beam? Resisted. Ain¡¯t just damage either, as Spell Resistance means stuff like Entangling Growth has a harder time taking hold of its body, Illusions never make it far enough to be perceived, and Enchantments melt away like ice on a hot summer day, an all-purpose defense that most governments would kill to mass-manufacture.


    None of that is what makes this creature death. No, that comes in the form of the three massive talons it got at the end of each arm. Natural weapons enhanced by magic attached to limbs longer than its torso which also got the full range of motion like a persons. Let¡¯s it climb with damn near impunity and spend most of its time up top a giant whitewood, using them big curved claws to grasp trunks and cut branches as it moves about the treetops. Got a powerful grip with strength enough to let it fall asleep while hanging in trees, and the creature shows off its power and dexterity by wrapping its paws around a living mudkipper¡¯s head, one still struggling to gnaw through its fur coat. The claws cleave the things clean off with laughable ease, like one of them cigar cutters them fancy pants Richie rich types would use. Grip, snip, and release, the creature slowly and methodically removes seven mudkippers embedded in its fur just like that, all without so much as a batting an eye or losing a single drop of blood in the process.


    And the scariest part of all? The fact that this particular specimen¡¯s claws are only as big as giant honking swords means it¡¯s still a freaking baby.


    ¡°Cowie,¡± I say, keeping my voice low and steady as can be while Old Tux shuffles back slowly, showing he the smartest one out of us three. ¡°Back. Away. From. The diamondclaw.¡±


    Giving me the mother of all side-eye glances, Cowie huffs and nuzzles the baby death machine¡¯s cheeks. The little beastie don¡¯t blink, but it do nuzzle him back while watching me closely, which is great that they¡¯ve made friends and all, but I was never all that concerned about this here baby. See, where there¡¯s a baby, there¡¯s a mama, and a full-grown mama diamondclaw will make Cowie look like a marty, which is to say they big. Real big. Gargantuan even, standing well over twelve feet at the shoulders, or round about three and a half metres for those enlightened souls who prefer metric. Don¡¯t matter what system you use though, that¡¯s still a whole lot of muscle, and a whole lot of talon to boot. Take a big, angry, hormonal, and Spell Resistant animal, then give it a pair of giant claws and natural Spellslinging to boot, and what do you get?


    An unstoppable mass of animalistic Aether-fuelled fury that can kill you and the army you brought with you without so much as taking a scratch.


    ¡°I ain¡¯t playin¡¯ Cowie,¡± I say, still trying to keep my cool while my eyes dart up, around, and all about in search of Mama Diamondclaw. ¡°We¡¯re leaving. Now.¡± Doubt I¡¯ll spot it though, seeing how they¡¯re natural Abjurers the same way Cowie¡¯s a Transmuter, with most coming loaded with Settle into Shadows. That¡¯s the Spell I used to keep me and the boots out of sight while the Rangers handled a horde of greenies on our way to Pleasant Dunes, meaning Big Mama could be hiding in any shadow I see, and there are a whole lot of shadows in the forest this close to dusk. Even if I spot it, there ain¡¯t much I can do, not with only a Model 10 in my hand. Hell, even if I hand four hands holding two Nagas and two Judges, I wouldn¡¯t rate my chances slim, because that Spell Resistance lets them shake off hits like you tossing eggs at rocks, and that¡¯s before factoring in any defensive Spells it might have up in its head.


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    Blowing out a huff of displeasure, Cowie trundles over to obey, only for the baby diamondclaws eyes to grow bigger and rounder as it tries to follow after. On only on good arm mind you, as it cradles the other close to its chest. Opening its tiny mouth at the end of a short snout, the creature lets out the cutest of sounds, like a soft sigh of a squeak that just tugs at the heartstrings. Not mine, which freezes in my throat at the sound of its distress, but Cowie is a big old softie who turns back to the baby and nuzzles it a few more times. Then he positions himself beside it and hunkers down to his belly, using his head to prod at its arms which slowly lift and wrap around his neck.


    ¡°No, no, no,¡± I say, pointing my gun at the diamondclaw then checking myself and putting it back up again. Even if I shoot it, I can¡¯t kill the beastie. I¡¯ll only make it upset. If it gets angry, then Cowie is good as dead already, and if I scare it something fierce, it¡¯ll call even louder for Big Mama and then we¡¯re all dead for sure. To my great relief, the baby diamondclaw is gentle as can be as it hoists itself up onto Cowie¡¯s back, seeming to understand that he¡¯s there to help. When my partner stands up again, the baby is all splayed out across his back, its fur blending with his coat and massive talons no longer glowing blue as they hang with points facing one another to make a big oval in front of Cowie¡¯s chest. Heaving a little sigh, the baby¡¯s sorta smiling expression is too damn adorable as it settles in for a good rest with its head nestled between Cowie¡¯s shoulders.


    Why in the Heavens would the good Lord make something so damn dangerous look so damn cute and fluffy? Don¡¯t make no sense is all I¡¯m saying.


    Dismounting from Old Tux and letting him back off a little ways, I stand in place as Cowie brings the baby murder machine over to me with his big grey eyes opened wide and innocent like he done no wrong at all. Craning its long neck from Cowie¡¯s back, the Diamondclaw gives me a similar look, studying me to see if I mean it any harm. It meets my eyes, which is rare for a wild animal, then looks away to peer at my gun, which is even rarer, because not only did it break eye contact and show weakness, it also recognizes the danger inherent to my weapon. It don¡¯t look all that concerned though, just intrigued as it watches the glowing pulse of purple Aether coursing through the Primed weapon. Now that it¡¯s closer, I can see its chest is heaving as it quietly pants in exertion, and its off-white fur is stained in the dark, greyish-green goop that passes for Abby blood. None of its own blood far as I can see, but its left arm is clearly hurting and its body is trembling ever so slightly, shaken from its ordeal and probably still in shock, else it¡¯d be screaming for its mama by now.


    And believe you me, I don¡¯t want to be here when Big Mama comes looking for whatever it is that done spooked her baby.


    Resisting the urge to coo and pet the beastie, I put my Model 10 away, look Cowie in the eyes and say, ¡°You put that thing down right now, mister.¡± Got me so shook I¡¯m channelling my inner Aunty Ray, with my head tilted and eyes opened wide as can be. The look hits Cowie hard and he shies away, but I ain¡¯t got mercy in me. ¡°I mean it. I ain¡¯t playin¡¯ around no more. You put it down now, and we gonna get gone.¡± Waggling my finger in front of his face, I say, ¡°Don¡¯t make me come over there and do it myself, because Lord knows you ain¡¯t gonna like the price you pay.¡±


    I must be doing something wrong, because Cowie don¡¯t hop to obey. Instead, he gets all huffy and stompy as he circles around kicking up a gentle fuss, and wouldn¡¯t you know it, the diamondclaw tightens its arms around Cowie¡¯s big ol¡¯ neck. Keeps its wrists crossed and talons together, but that¡¯s like saying you ain¡¯t gotta worry about a man¡¯s gun just because he got it held at parade rest. Still a loaded weapon after all, and don¡¯t take much to bring it to bear, same as the diamondclaws talons there. Ain¡¯t a threat, just a reaction to Cowie swinging his big head around in a tantrum because he refuses to leave his new friend behind, one who can lop his head off accidentally without even trying.


    Yea, I bet them Abby thought this baby diamondclaw was cute too, before it cleaved all them mudkippers, merhounds, and ranakin in two. The latter two of which are armoured Abby I might add, while Cowie just got a normal cowhide like any other cow or bull. Cattle hide. Bull hide? Whatever. What I¡¯m saying is that if that baby stretches the wrong way, I might end up having to mount my former partner¡¯s head up on my wall next to the guns my mama made. I sure hope not. That¡¯s the one thing that never clicked with me and American culture. The taxidermy. You shot it. It¡¯s already dead. Let the poor thing rest in peace, or turn it into something useful like a rug or hat.


    ¡°Look Cowie,¡± I say, which is never a good look, trying to speak logically to an animal that don¡¯t understand English. ¡°We can¡¯t bring it home. For one, it¡¯s already got a home. Out here. In this forest. With it¡¯s mama.¡± And papa maybe. Or brothers and sisters I suppose. Oh Lord¡­ How many babies diamondclaws in a litter? Do they live in packs? I don¡¯t know and I don¡¯t want to know, because I¡¯d much rather they stay in the treetops while me and mine live down here on the ground. ¡°Even if it didn¡¯t,¡± I continue, as Cowie continues to shake his head and stomp ever so gently in a hissy fit, ¡°We can¡¯t get it past the gate. Guards won¡¯t let us bring a baby Magical Beast into town. You gotta get papers and permits for that, and I doubt we¡¯ll get permission to keep somethin¡¯ as dangerous as a diamondclaw. Even if you overlook the Magical aspect, this little thing is gonna grow as big as an elephant moose.¡± Or elephant I guess, which is to say them mooses are called that because they big as elephants. Ain¡¯t an animal I ever seen in person. Elephants that is. They just big, bald mini-mammoths though, which always made me wonder why they aren¡¯t called mini-elephants instead. Or mammoth mooses? Meese?


    I hate English sometimes.


    While I¡¯m having an internal crisis in all the worst ways, Cowie gets himself a big idea. I know this because he stops swinging his head and stomping his feet to let out a big ol¡¯ huff. A happy huff this time around, as he lifts his head up high, so high the top of his head touches the forehead of the diamondclaw on his back. He don¡¯t gotta chant no Latin or waggle no hooves when he slings Spells, because I guess he just better like that. Don¡¯t know how he keeps his Spell Structures from accidentally firing off, but he ain¡¯t ever slung a Spell without meaning to, and it¡¯s clear he means to sling this one. Right then and there, the baby diamondclaw shrinks down until its small enough to fit in my duster pocket. Not entirely in there, as half of it would be hanging out, but it¡¯d fit and be a good place to keep it while we riding about. His Spell slung, Cowie straightens up, opens his big, grey eyes wide, and bats them all cute and innocent like as if to say, ¡°How about now? Can we keep the baby Diamondclaw? Can we?¡±


    And Lord help me, it¡¯s a real struggle coming up with reasons to say no.


    The baby diamondclaw don¡¯t seem none too fussed about being tiny, and in fact looks downright happy and excited. Though still lying flat on its belly up top of Cowie¡¯s back, it shifts its arms to make a little pillow for its chin, leaving its curved claws hovering just above my partner¡¯s hide while it looks this way and that. Still fearsome to behold, just in an adorably cute and tiny package as it blinks its round, green eyes and takes in its new perspective.


    ¡°Cowie,¡± I begin, reaching up to pat his cheeks before I cup his chin. ¡°When¡¯d you get so smart?¡± Holding his gaze as I peer into his eyes, I ask, ¡°Do you understand what I¡¯m saying? Did you hear me complain about getting the Diamondclaw into town, and come up with the idea to smuggle it in?¡± I talk to him a lot, because that¡¯s what partners do, but the great thing about this partnership is that one of us speaks something that barely passes as English, and the other is a bull. That¡¯s what makes this partnership work after all, because I¡¯m something of a neurotic control freak, someone who likes things done my way because that¡¯s how my daddy did it, which means it¡¯s the right way to go about it.


    So if Cowie really understands what I¡¯m telling him, I¡¯m gonna hafta start being more circumspect about what I share.


    He don¡¯t answer, just closes his eyes and enjoys the chin scritches while I debate what to do next. The blaring drone of the Mindspire ain¡¯t helping things none, which is probably why Cowie¡¯s acting so bratty today. The diamondclaw ought to be fine though, being Spell Resistant like it is, while Old Tux is only put off by the smell of an apex predator lurking about. As he should be, but me, I¡¯m not so smart, because now I¡¯m considering all the angles of having a pet Diamondclaw in my pocket. It¡¯ll take a few years for this one to grow, but if it¡¯s big enough to fight come the Watershed, then that¡¯ll be well worth the wait. It¡¯s a smart beastie too, putting it¡¯s back to a tree to cover its six, and offer it a path of retreat up into the treetops if need be. That¡¯s while it¡¯s still young too, so it stands to reason it¡¯ll get smarter as it ages. Add in how it seems friendly enough with Cowie, and you got all the makings of a tameable Magical beast, one that can take a hit on the chin better than most armoured tanks and look mighty cute and fearsome while doing it.


    So why shouldn¡¯t I bring a baby diamondclaw home to roost in New Hope?


    A question I mull over while cleaning up the battlefield and stacking Abby corpses onto my Floating Disc sleds. Ain¡¯t a huge haul by any measure, but the cutie patootie beastie accounted for four ranakin on its lonesome, and a whole slew of mudkippers and merhounds, more than I took care of at least. Add in my own kills and it¡¯s a decent day¡¯s work, least $25 from the froggies alone and maybe half that again in smaller Abby. What¡¯s more, I can revise my expectations of finding a Spell Core now, because I know Spells wouldn¡¯t have been of much use against a diamondclaw. Not to mention how bigger groups tend to have a Floating Disc Spell Core in the mix, otherwise the only way to bring biomass back to the Proggie is to eat everything and get ¡®recycled¡¯ when they go back home. Another downside of utilizing Ferals, in that they rarely become Spellslingers without the Spell Cores, which makes them much more profitable to hunt as opposed to greenies. Granted with gobbos and their ilk, you can usually make bank when hunting them in bulk, but as a one-man operation, I typically found myself running more often than fighting.


    Course the real trade off is how much stronger a single Feral is compared to a greenie. Not saying I would want to, but I could probably take on a lone gobbo unarmed without slinging a single Spell. All I¡¯d need are a good pair of boots and a solid kick to cave its chest in. Against a mudkipper though? Sure, I can stomp one dead all the same, but between their propensity to bury themselves in the mud and lie in wait for days, the speed of their lunge, and the force of their bite, I wouldn¡¯t want to fight one with anything less than a spear, and preferably a shield too.


    Also depends on the type of Feral you up against. Take harpies for example, who¡¯ve been a scourge New Hope going on six years now. The cost to produce one is probably twice that of a gobbo, if you going by Aberrtin and biomass content, but a harpy is more than twice as dangerous as a gobbo, and that scales too. I¡¯d rather take on a hundred gobbos than thirty harpies by my lonesome, because even though the gobbos are more likely to have Bolts and Blasts in their wheelhouse, I could easily run and gun my way to victory against them. Don¡¯t even need a horse or wagon, as I demonstrated for the boots and Rangers both on our way up to Pleasant Dunes. Gave those greenies a good run for their money, steering them back and forth along the sands for a good hour to buy the boots time enough to dig in for the fight, but if I tried that against harpies I¡¯d¡¯ve gotten got in five minutes flat.


    But with a diamondclaw to watch my back? A fully grown one could swat a whole flock out of the sky, just snicker-snack with the claws and watch them drop. Could shield me too, with Spells or even its body in a pinch, because I seen one shake off a fully powered Lance. That¡¯s the stuff of nightmares it is, to be sitting in a Ranger convey while they haul ass in a desperate effort to get away from an enraged, berserk diamondclaw. Watched three Rangers, my daddy included, spend a full half-minute charging up the most powerful single target Spell beneath Seventh Order, only for them Lances to bounce off the big, angry beastie with dozer-blades for hands.


    And if I train this baby beastie up right, then that could be me giving people nightmares soon enough. Now won¡¯t that be a treat?


    Despite all my lofty dreams, I still keep on the lookout for any Mama diamondclaws come calling to collect her baby while I tidy up the battlefield, but nothing happens. The baby don¡¯t mewl, cry, or even growl a single time, just lays there on Cowie¡¯s back looking all small and tiny until I¡¯m done gathering all the bodies onto the sleds and covering up our tracks. Don¡¯t normally bother with the second bit, but I¡¯d much rather not leave signs for a massive magical beast with swords for hands to follow right back to town. Ain¡¯t no more dawdling to be done though, so it¡¯s time I made a decision, but enticing as a pet monster might be, it¡¯s not as simple as bringing it home for the night.


    What if its Mama still tracks me all the way back to New Hope and takes a run at the town? Would probably kill a good number of people trying to get in, or worse, sneak in over the wall and kill a whole lot more trying to get out. Myself included, since I¡¯d be ground zero of that disaster, which is not how I want to go out. Even if all goes well and no Mama, Papa, Brother, or Sister diamondclaw shows up looking for little baby, then I gotta deal with all the red tape of owning a furry little murder machine. Already gotta walk a fine line with Cowie to keep him from being declared a dangerous beast, so how much harder will it be with a diamondclaw? There are folks who train scalebears and tuskwulves as guard animals, but they ain¡¯t allowed in town, and they¡¯re not even magical beasts.


    And most importantly of all, this little fellow won¡¯t stay little for long. How much is it gonna cost to feed the thing? What do diamondclaws even eat?


    All thoughts that go through my head as I mosey on over for a look, one that¡¯ll decide what I do with the beast. The thing ain¡¯t moved since I left it, just perched on Cowie¡¯s back like it trying to blend into his body, hiding right there in plain sight because it don¡¯t know any better. It meets my eyes as I approach, but not in a guarded or fearful way. More expectant really, just curious as to know what¡¯s gonna happen next. Reaching into my duster pocket, I pull out a bapple I was saving for Old Tux and ask, ¡°You hungry?¡±


    The little critter¡¯s mouth opens wide with delight as it slowly reaches out for the fruit, and I can¡¯t help but flinch as its claws draw near. It don¡¯t move quickly though, with a deliberate lack of haste almost, like it knows its claws are dangerous and doesn¡¯t want to accidentally kill anything in haste. Spearing the apple out of my hand, it brings it back to its mouth where I swear it marvels at the dark red fruit for a bit, utterly amazed to see a bapple so big. Then it closes its green eyes, opens its mouth, and takes a chomp out the bapple, and that right there seals the deal for me.


    It¡¯s so cute when it eats with its tiny little mouth, thoroughly chewing the singular bite for a good half minute before swallowing it down. All while smiling the whole way through mind you, which is just perfect on so many different levels. I can imagine it now, me rolling into a new town on the back of a smiling diamondclaw and giving the locals a big old grin. All I gotta do is teach Cowie to smile too, and we three amigos can go from town to town with damn near impunity.


    Forget hiring on a crew. Who¡¯s gonna mess with a man who got a diamondclaw watching his back.


    Grabbing the blanket I carried Cowie in for most of the day, I very carefully set it next to the baby beastie¡¯s belly while it continues munching away at the bapple. With my stump rather than my right hand, because if I¡¯m gonna lose something, it might as well be from there. The little critter cranes its neck to watch what I¡¯m doing, but it don¡¯t protest when I use my Mage Hands to gently slide it onto the blanket and wrap it up like a burrito. My heart pounds in my chest as I lift it off of Cowie¡¯s back, but the little fella is still chomping and chewing, holding the big bapple with both its little hands and all too happy to sink back and relax while I cradle it close to my chest. Even wiggles its butt and body to get comfy as I carry it over to Old Tux, who shies away just a bit before heaving a big old sigh to once again show that he¡¯s probably the smartest one here.


    He don¡¯t make a fuss as I mount up, though Cowie grumbles as he trundles alongside, unhappy to see me carrying an animal that ain¡¯t him. ¡°You hush,¡± I say, sticking out my tongue at the big fussy bull. ¡°This was your idea, remember? If you don¡¯t like it, then you just say the word and I¡¯ll stick this baby on a tree and leave it there.¡± That don¡¯t stop him from huffing and sighing, but the baby stops chomping on the apple to give me a wide-eyed look. My emotions tell me it¡¯s trying to look cute so I won¡¯t abandon it, and my heart breaks to see it, but logic says it¡¯s just scared by the tone I used when talking to Cowie. ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± I say, my voice all sickly and sweet as I set Old Tux on a course back home. ¡°I ain¡¯t gonna leave you here on all your lonesome. That said, if your mama or papa do come looking for you, you gotta put in a good word for me, okay?¡±


    Not that it¡¯d matter, but the little baby looks oh so thoughtful before giving me a soft little squeak, one so soft it¡¯s almost a sigh. Then it returns to its meal, chomping away at the bapple in tiny, dainty bites until there ain¡¯t nothing left. Smacking its lips, it glances up at me with its big round, green eyes on its tiny, soft head, so I feed it some grumble berries one at a time because it¡¯s too cute to deny. And scary too, if I¡¯m being honest, which is why I initially feed it with my Mage Hands, only to switch over to my real one once I see how gentle and careful it is when taking fruit from my fingers. It¡¯s a surreal experience, carrying a fearsome magical beast that¡¯s so tiny and darling, and I can¡¯t help but melt every time I look down at it¡¯s smiling face. It ain¡¯t actually smiling, that¡¯s just how its lips are, but it looks like a smile no matter how you slice it. Soon enough, I find myself scratching its head and rubbing its muzzle while coming up with names in my head, but I know Chrissy loves naming animals, so I¡¯ll leave it to her. The whole while back, I talk to it like it can understand me, tell it how I¡¯ll take good care of it, raise it up big and strong, and bring it out on adventures when its older. Though we still a good hour from town, it don¡¯t make a single peep the whole time, just lays in my arm and stares up at my face with its claws and paws tucked against its chest and curled up tight.


    It don¡¯t even squirm when I cover its head up and lay it down on the saddle in front of me, so we can get through the gate without anyone asking too many questions. The guards look mighty impressed by my haul, since they think I done it all myself, because I went out of my way to put the corpses that done been carved in half on the bottom so no one would be the wiser. When they ask if I got anything else to declare, I can¡¯t help but pretend to look around my packs while saying, ¡°Yea. I got a diamondclaw tucked away somewhere around here.¡± Which is the truth, but the guards think I¡¯m being flippant and roll their eyes before sending me on my way. Covers my behind though, should word get out about the little beastie before I got its papers good and ready, because then I can honestly say I declared it at the gates, and it ain¡¯t my fault no one took me serious.


    True to my suspicions, the day¡¯s trip took a whole lot more than ten hours, as I get in just before the gates are closed for the night. Tempting as it is to bring the beastie to the church for an inspection from Aunty Ray, there are too many people there, and I¡¯d like to keep my baby diamondclaw a secret for a little longer at least. Soon as we get back to the barn and I got all the Abby corpses locked away, I lift the little beastie out of the blankets to see it¡¯s still wide awake, so I gingerly unwrap it while doing my best to keep the other horses from panicking. ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± I say, staying far from their individual stables while letting them watch me handle the formidable beast, one that got its knees up against its belly and toesies all curled up too. A quick glance tells me it¡¯s actually a she, and she don¡¯t much like having her nether regions looked at. Or maybe it¡¯s how I was holding her, with only a handless forearm against her back and two Mage Hands to stabilize her, so I bring her in close for a cuddle. ¡°She ain¡¯t gonna hurt none of y¡¯all, ain¡¯t that right, girlie?¡±


    Using my one and only hand to tickle the belly of an animal that got swords attached to its hands ain¡¯t the smartest thing I ever done, but damn me if it ain¡¯t got the cutest little gurgle of a laugh.


    Annoyed by the lack of attention, Cowie gives my hand a couple nudges indicating I need to set the girlie down and give him scritches instead, so I oblige. Not just to pamper my spoiled partner, but also to see how the girlie behaves on her own. Like a curious baby, which shouldn¡¯t come as any surprise, slowly crawling around on all fours to explore the barn and look at the horses and kiccaws posted up inside. A couple of the braver kiccaws pop down from their perches to puff up and strut in front of her, and I move close to intercept in case she still feeling snacky, but she just gives them a sniff a nuzzle to de-escalate the situation, and soon enough has got a kiccaw to snuggle. The kiccaw is almost bigger than she is, but she still perches her chin on top of its head while wrapping her arms around it, the exact same way Tina, Chrissy, and Aunty Ray like to hold the rotund little birdies. Wanting to take a Photo for everyone to see, I grab my jadite from my component¡¯s pouch, frame up to snap a Photo off, and embed the scene into memory before remembering I only have the one hand.


    Photo¡¯s still there though, sitting pretty in my head, and it takes a moment for the gravity of what I just done to sink in. Furrowing my brow, I look my hand and my stump side by side, then frame up again. The somatic component for the Photo Cantrip is to make a rectangle with your thumbs and index fingers, so I figured I couldn¡¯t do it with only one hand, but as I hold a sideways L with my left hand and deliberately match them up with the phantom fingers of my missing right hand, I feel the Spell Structure activate inside my mind. Two and a half seconds to Prime, and then it¡¯s ready to unleash, and I snap another Photo of the baby Diamondclaw cuddling with the kiccaw.


    ¡°Holy shit,¡± I say, and the baby glances at me like I done spooked it even though I¡¯m speaking under my breath. ¡°Sorry. Pardon my French. Shouldn¡¯t be swearing in front of a lady.¡± Gotta be mindful of my tone around it, as it seems like a sensitive sort, though it accepts my apology with grace and aplomb before going back to its cuddles, grinding her chin into the birdie which seems to love the attention. As for me, I do my best not to laugh like a madman as I consider the implications of what I just done, because if I can do the finger waggles for a Spell with a hand that ain¡¯t there, then that¡¯s the silver lining of losing a hand, now ain¡¯t it?


    To test it out again, I pick out a Spell that only needs one hand to cast, and Water Sphere is the first to come to mind. To start, I ball my phantom hand up in a fist and wince as a lancing pain shoots up my forearm and down my spine. I push through it though, envisioning and feeling my fingers open up like a flower in bloom as I Intone the words to the Spell. ¡°Obtestor ¨C Aqua ¨C Sphaera.¡±


    And wouldn¡¯t you know it, the Spell Structure lights up in my mind¡¯s eye and the Spell takes shape above my phantom hand, one that ain¡¯t there no more, but still feels like it is all the same. The orb of water hovers just inches in front of my stump, and I can even flex my phantom wrist and angle it all about. Amazing is what that is, an incredible sight to behold, because even though a single Cantrip ain¡¯t all that much, it¡¯s more than I thought I had this morning.


    Now here¡¯s the million-dollar question. Are there any useful Spells that only require finger waggling and no vocal components? I¡¯ll have to look it up, but even if I gotta use Metamagic to eschew Vocal Components, that¡¯ll give me an advantage I¡¯d be a fool not to use and abuse, a secret edge that one will expect me to have. I could cast Mage Hand without anyone being the wiser, prep an Ice Knife with just a glass of water on the table in front of me, or place down glue with Adhesive Spray using a missing hand no one will be watching. That¡¯s just off the top of my head too, with so many more possibilities to explore, and I can¡¯t help but grin as I snap a couple more Photos and look forward to what my next lesson with Uncle Teddy will bring.


    Things are finally looking up. Got me a baby murder machine and an ace up my sleeve, turning my disability into an advantage no one could ever suspect I¡¯d have. Add in the decent haul I brought in from the hunt, as well as the connections made along the way, and today has been a very good day, no two ways about it.

 Book Two - Chapter 72

    So engrossed in the prospects of my phantom hand, I lose track of time slinging Spells while forgetting all about the wild murder machine I brought home and stuck in a barn full of potential meals.


    Luckily for me, the sweet diamondclaw is polite enough to let me know she¡¯s ready to eat by rummaging through my saddlebags rather than making a meal of any kiccaws, horse, or cattle. ¡°Oh I¡¯m sorry girlie,¡± I coo, running over to save my saddlebags as soon as I notice. ¡°You hungry? Lemme get you some food.¡± Gingerly lifting her into my arms, I can¡¯t help but give her nose a little kiss and laugh when she opens her eyes and mouth wide in surprise. Rummaging through the pack, I say, ¡°You done eaten everything ¡®cept the jerky. You eat meat?¡±


    A sniff and a sneeze from the little girlie proves inconclusive, because I wouldn¡¯t want to eat hard jerky either. ¡°Alright girlie,¡± I say, as she gives me the big ol¡¯ doe eyes. ¡°Let¡¯s head inside so I can fix us up some good eats.¡± I swear on my mama¡¯s grave, the little diamondclaw¡¯s smile gets bigger to hear it, so I carry her out cradled in my arms while giving her all the scritches she could want. It¡¯s almost a shame that she¡¯s gonna grow into a massive murder machine, because I would love it if she stayed this size forever. She¡¯s even cuter than a marty, and that¡¯s saying something, though I¡¯m sure Cowie would be upset if he ever found out he¡¯s the third cutest animal around.


    And that¡¯s only when he¡¯s a baby. He still cute when he normal sized, but not as cute as a wally or kiccaw.


    Since I been home for awhile now, I¡¯ve kept my Freeze-box stocked with some food, just enough to fix up a couple sandwiches when I¡¯m hungry at night. Got frozen flatbread, brisket, and veggies aplenty, which I lay out on the kitchen counter and let the sweet girlie sample. She¡¯s happy enough to munch on some grated sunspine tubers, but she seems much more interested in the brisket, which goes to show I was right not to leave her in the barn whilst hungry. And here I thought she might be an herbivore, but no such luck, because even if I had to feed her nothing but the choicest of fruits and grains, it¡¯d¡¯ve still been cheaper than feeding her meat.


    Though I give her free rein of the counter, she¡¯s a polite little gal for a wild beastie, hanging back and eating what I put in front of her instead of charging right in to take it. Gives me time to put a wrap for myself while feeding her bits and bobs, only to have her zero in on my creation as soon as it¡¯s complete. Taking a bite for myself and chuckling at her enraptured gaze, I prep a second one without any sauces or pickles and let her have it. To my surprise, she don¡¯t dig right in, and instead gives it a sniff before hitting me with them big green eyes again, looking all sad and mournful. Against my better judgment, I grab a knife and a dab of sauce to hold out for her to sniff, and use her reaction to gauge if I should add it to the wrap. Could¡¯ve saved myself some time and put all the fixings on there, because the little diamondclaw don¡¯t say no to nothing, not even the pickled veggies or hot sauce.


    Just to be sure, I tear a piece off of my wrap and feed it to her to make sure she¡¯ll actually eat it. Which she does, gobbling up the morsel with the daintiest little bites. Then and only then do I give her the whole wrap with all the fixings, which she carefully takes between her clawed hands and nibbles away at with relish. Might well be the cutest thing I done ever seen, and it¡¯s hard to resist the urge to make all manner of high-pitched noises. I keep it contained though, then make five more wraps with all the fixings I got left. Seeing all the food laid out for her to eat, the clever diamondclaw hops off the counter once her first wrap is finished, then gives her whole body a good shake like she just come out the water. Except rather than drops of water, she¡¯s shaking off Cowie¡¯s Minify Spell, and my heart jumps a bit in my chest as she goes back to her full size, which ain¡¯t much bigger than a wheelbarrow. I¡¯d wager she¡¯s a good hundred fifty pounds of muscle and maybe another fifteen in pure floof, which makes her look a lot bigger than she is. Still, them big honking claws are intimidating to behold, until she stands up on her hind feet and realizes they¡¯re too long for her to grab her wrap off the counter.


    Smart enough to realize it too, before even reaching for one at that, and she turns her big, round head towards me to let out the softest little squeal I done ever heard. All while she got her front paws folded neatly in front of her chest to tuck them big curved claws away, which makes her look so polite and cordial I can¡¯t help but melt at the sight.


    That does it. Seals the deal with no chance of repeal. I would sooner sell this house and the land it sits on than abandon this sweet baby diamondclaw to the wilds I stole her from.


    When we done eating, I give her a quick wipe down with a warm, wet cloth and marvel at how smart she is. She closes her eyes when I wipe her face, stretches out when I do her back, flips over to show her belly so I can wipe that too, and holds perfectly still as I clean her paws and get in between them toesies. Gives me a chance to get a good look at her front claws, which are right fearsome to behold, a trio of solid bone blades about a foot and a half long each that curve inwards towards the end. Using my Mage Hands to feed the cloth between each blade, I wipe them clean of Abby fluids as best I can, wishing I could just splash her repeatedly with Water Sphere instead. Her Spell Resistance don¡¯t let that happen though, melting the Conjured water away before it touches a hair on her body, and I imagine it¡¯d be the same for her claws too. Besides, this is a good chance to limit test and see how she reacts to being handled, and so far, she¡¯s passed every test with flying colours.


    Don¡¯t much like getting her behind wiped as she¡¯s shuffling out the bathroom door, but I can¡¯t say I blame her, now can I?


    As another test, I give her free roam of the house while I take a nice hot shower to rinse away the dirt, sweat, stress, and fatigue of the day. The travelling was easy enough, but the socializing is what done me in, all the questions and answers and polite talk that I had to endure instead of telling them the facts like it is. Them people was scared is why, because the Mindspire is new and unexpected, and we watching it develop in real time. The Fear was unpleasant, while Glowing Coin almost done me in, and I¡¯m pretty sure it hit me with a Discord at Mueller¡¯s Quay, making me all suspicious of their smiles. Hate to see what it does when it works its way up to Third Order Spells like Beguile, Paranoia, or Antagonize. Let¡¯s not forget about the constant Dissonant Whistle drilling a hole in the side of my head all day, which I could really do without, or the stress of seeing an armed stranger and wondering if the Proggie gonna whisper a Suggestion or Command in their ears to make them attack or even look like they about to attack.


    Yea, Command is just a First Order Spell, usually limited to one- or two-word phrases, but a properly worded and timed Command can do a whole lot of damage. ¡®Aim¡¯ is only one word after all, and someone in a tense situation with weapon already in hand would be inclined to obey since it¡¯s something they was ready to do in a pinch. Soon as they realize they been influenced though, they try to resist, at which point they stuck struggling against a Spell while pointing a weapon they got no intention of using, but the other fella don¡¯t know that, now does it? That¡¯s all it¡¯d take to drive two groups to bloodshed, a single First Order Spell, and I shudder to think what havoc the Proggie will wreak once it figures that one out.


    Ain¡¯t nothing I can do about the Mindspire though, which is really the worst part of all this. I hate feeling so helpless and incapable of protecting the people I love, of having to put their safety in someone else¡¯s hands. The Padre is a good enough sort, but he a man of God, not action, so can I really count on him to protect Chrissy, Tina, and Aunty Ray from a bloodthirsty crowd driven to action by the Proggie¡¯s mind manipulating magics? And that¡¯s before accounting for any Abby shenanigans. What if the Proggie throws a Suggestion at the guards to open the gates for a horde of Abby? That¡¯s like a Command on steroids, and I wouldn¡¯t put it past the Guards to follow a Command to jump off the walls, because they all a little lacking in the brains department. A proper Suggestion might well see an army of froggies, doggies, and kippers into the town, and if that happens, I¡¯d be more afraid of the townies than anything Abby might do. Abby I know how to fight, but you can¡¯t fight the townies, nor can you reason with them when they running screaming through the streets instead of playing it smart and taking shelter in the bunkers most of them have.


    Maybe I should bring Tina her Model 45¡¯s in the morning. She¡¯s got her 1911¡¯s, but if merhounds and ranakin make it into town, she¡¯ll need that extra Armour Penetrating oomph to punch through their scales. Maybe bring Aunty Ray a Whumper too. Ain¡¯t her favourite or most familiar weapon, but I got no faith in any Aetherarm that can¡¯t punch through armour no more, not after I watched that one froggie eat six shots from the Rattlesnake without even flinching. The Aether Concentration levels are fast approaching that critical level, with the Watershed drawing closer by the day, which means Proggies are getting more and more Aether to empower their Abby spawn, and we gotta adapt to keep up.


    Yes sir. The days might feel slow, but the months and years zoom by out here on the Frontier. World¡¯s quickly leaving me behind, so even if it ain¡¯t about being the Firstborn no more, I can¡¯t be slacking neither.


    The baby diamondclaw might well be my ticket back to the big leagues though, so I gotta make sure to treat her right. Dressed in my loose, saggy nightclothes, I step out of the bathroom and feel my heartrate spike when I see the house empty and devoid of life. A rustling in my bedroom leads me right to her though, as I find her splayed out on her belly atop my bedsheets. ¡°I see you made yourself at home,¡± I say, as she cranes her neck back and looks at me with her head almost upside down, which makes her look even sillier and more friendly than she already did. ¡°Least you didn¡¯t tear my sheets,¡± I say, resisting the urge to just jump into bed beside her, because I ain¡¯t looking to go out like that. Wasn¡¯t planning on letting her in my bed neither, but I ain¡¯t about to tell her to get, so I slowly take a seat beside her instead. She don¡¯t seem all that fussed about me being in her space, so I stroke her head for a solid minute and feel all my tension melting away just from seeing her stretch out and relax in front of me. Spent all day talking to people who were stressed themselves, and that emotional energy got reflected back to me, because that¡¯s just how people are. We empathize, and it sucks sometimes, because empathy and emotions are the enemy of logic, and you better served by logic than emotion in a firefight.


    Course, emotion has its place. Logic dictates it¡¯s a stupid idea to sleep next to a wild murder machine with giant swords for hands, but emotion tells me she¡¯s a cutie patootie who I wanna squeeze and cuddle all night. Putting my guns away in the safe, I crack open a window as an afterthought. Not because it¡¯s warm, though it¡¯s getting there now that it¡¯s May. No, I crack open a window because if a diamondclaw tears me apart in my sleep, I don¡¯t want people to wonder how the wild beastie got in. I¡¯d much rather they think it snuck in through the window than know the truth, that I brung that death on myself by snuggling with a dangerous animal, but if the good Lord didn¡¯t want his people snuggling with diamondclaws, then why¡¯d he go and make them so gosh-darned cute?


    So I lie down next to the furry murder machine and laugh when she promptly rolls over onto her back and into the crook of my arm. Nestling the top of her head into my shoulder, she looks up at me with her big green eyes almost glowing in the darkness. ¡°Good night,¡± I whisper, giving her nose a little smooch and her belly a rub for good measure, and I swear she chortles when I do it. Really hope that means she likes it, though it could be a gag reflex from resisting the urge to bite my face off. I¡¯ll blame that last thought on the Mindspire, which wavers in pitch and intensity as I lay there and watch the diamondclaw fall fast asleep. Only when I hear its soft, cadenced snores do I close my eyes too and drift off into lala land right quick.


    I can tell right away that it¡¯s gonna be a terrible night¡¯s sleep, as I got a chest burning with rage, a belly churning with indignation, and a heart saddled with regret. All my woes and grudges come welling up in my nightmares, dredging up all my shame and guilt along with. The latest and greatest hits of Howie¡¯s shitshow of a career, starting with how I got my daddy killed, earmarked by how I done the same for Marcus, and ending with how I shot Conner in the back of the head, without so much as giving him a chance. I see it all unfold again, the memories playing out like I¡¯m there in the moment, trying to save my daddy, to warn Marcus about the Proggie, to talk it out with Conner before I shoot him, but no matter how hard I try, it always ends the same way.


    In death.


    Then it gets worse, as my mind manifests new nightmares to behold. Me standing on the gallows with a hangman¡¯s noose around my neck. The price I pay for my sins, but I don¡¯t get to go easy. Up on the gallows, I got a front row seat to watch a puritanical mob burn down the church with Chrissy, Tina, and Aunty Ray still inside, while the Padre strums his guitar and sings Kumbaya. Uncle Teddy tries to ride in to my rescue, only to get gunned down by the very same Rangers he leads and the people he protects. Noora and Josie are implicated too, whipped in the streets for their dalliance with a criminal, while Deputy Juan flashes his hateful sneer and tells me this is what I deserve for being Qin. Sarah Jay wants to help, but Errol holds her back and watches it happen, acting all holier than thou because this is my just desserts, and the worst part is that he¡¯s right.


    None of it is real, I know it even as it all unfolds, but that don¡¯t stop me from getting swept away by it all. Then a weight settles on my chest and holds me in place, and suddenly the world is a whole lot warmer. Softer too, with herbal notes from the forest that I find calming as can be. Throughout it all, the piercing, pitchy drone of the Mindspire¡¯s Dissonant Whistle plays out in the back of my mind, but even that is muted by the weight pressing down upon me. Doesn¡¯t make it any quieter, only more distant, less pounding on my skull and more a faint suggestion of a sensation brushing across the fringes of my perception.


    An eternity in the blink of an eye, that¡¯s how it feels when someone tugs on my sleeve and startles me awake. Unwilling to open my eyes, I squeeze them shut and stretch in place, only to remember I got a diamondclaw on my arm pinning me in place. Cracking my neck as I turn away from the weight on my right arm, I run my hand over my face to hide from the morning light and rub my eyes before finally deigning to open them, where I find Chrissy kneeling at my bedside once again while still tugging on the elbow of my sleeve. ¡°Morning Princess,¡± I say, smiling to see her pale, violet eyes fixated on the diamondclaw beside me. Oddly enough though, she don¡¯t look all that happy or enchanted, her shoulders slumped and chin resting on her other hand as she glares daggers at the still sleeping beastie. Odd considering she loves animals and has issues with boundaries, meaning it wouldn¡¯t have come as any surprise if she¡¯d climbed into my bed and over me to get to the diamondclaw, but maybe this is a sign of her maturity.


    Then again, I woke up with Chrissy curled up on the armchair beside me not three days ago, so I wouldn¡¯t put money on that.


    ¡°No greeting for me today?¡± I ask, reaching out to move her long, white locks out of her eyes, only to find her jaw firmly set in a grimace that doesn¡¯t touch her lips.


    ¡°Morning Howie.¡± Though delivered in the same monotone as always, there¡¯s an underlying chill to the words that I ain¡¯t ever heard from her before. Lifting her chin off her hand so she can point at the diamondclaw, she hits me with a glare that ain¡¯t got nothing to do with her expression and everything to do with what¡¯s hidden behind her eyes. ¡°Not allowed.¡±


    ¡°Hmm? Oh, uh, well, you ain¡¯t wrong,¡± I say, marvelling at how she pieced it all together so quickly. How¡¯d she know I smuggled the diamondclaw in? Maybe because of all the red tape we went through with the kiccaws, which was mostly paperwork we did around the kitchen table. ¡°No worries though, Princess. We¡¯ll take this big girl to your mama and talk it through first. After we make a decision, then we can take her down to get her papers and ¨C ¡±


    The words freeze in my throat as I turn to glance at the diamondclaw, only to find a stranger in bed beside me. A stunning, copper-skinned beauty with a thick head of brown hair highlighted in green that goes all the way down past her curvy hips that is the only thing covering her supple, athletic frame. Takes me a moment to process it all, and another to drink it in, unable to tear my eyes away from her soft, angelic features, sensuous curves, and long, shapely legs pressed so closely against me as she snuggles up from atop my blankets and shivers in the cold morning air. Though her mouth is buried against my shoulder, her eyes pop open when I turn to face her, stunning emerald orbs that don¡¯t just drink in the light, but reflect it back all chock full of trust and innocence. Then she raises her head and smiles to reveal a mouth full of perfect teeth and three long, thin, triangular emerald markings on each cheek. Like whiskers almost, or maybe fangs painted on and pointed inwards, and it¡¯s rather fetching to behold, though not fetching enough to keep the panic at bay.


    ¡°What the fu ¨C ¡±


    Bolting away so quickly I fall off of the bed, I twist mid roll to avoid hitting Chrissy. Landing on the back of my head, I grunt, groan, and keep rolling until I¡¯m sitting on the ground. Looking aggrieved as can be, the copper-skinned beauty pouts and props herself up on my bed, unabashedly showing off her pert and shapely assets as she crawls on all fours towards me. ¡°Woah,¡± I shout, raising an arm to cover my eyes even though I¡¯d love nothing more than to drink in the sight, but not with Chrissy right beside me. ¡°Cover yourself up, lady.¡± My unconvincing demand does nothing to the stranger from sliding off the bed and into my chest, though I will admit I don¡¯t do much to stop her. Letting out another whimper, she hugs me tight and I can¡¯t help but hug her back as she seats her willowy frame on my lap, with her arms wrapped around my shoulders and knees curled up to her chest.


    ¡°No sleepovers,¡± Chrissy says, which is not at all helpful. ¡°Not allowed.¡±


    ¡°What in tarnation is all the fuss about?¡± Poking her head through the doorway, Tina¡¯s big blues go wide with alarm even as her cheeks flush with colour. ¡°Howie! You randy goat!¡± Stomping in and stepping over the corner of my bed, because that¡¯s the only way to get around my desk, Tina grabs Chrissy by the wrist and pulls her to her feet. ¡°For shame,¡± she says, hitting me with the angriest glare I done ever seen from her times ten. ¡°What are you thinking, behaving like that in front of Chrissy?¡±


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    ¡°Not allowed,¡± Chrissy says once more, to really hammer home the fact.


    ¡°This ain¡¯t what it looks like.¡± Why does that always sound like a lie when I say it, even though it¡¯s always the truth? The green-haired girlie in question don¡¯t seem none too fussed by all the yelling, just wiggles in my lap and buries her face deeper into my shoulder which doesn¡¯t help my argument. Seeing this, Tina huffs, harrumphs, and stomps out with Chrissy in tow, who glances back with pressed lips to really let me have it. ¡°Seriously,¡± I shout, hoping they can still hear me. ¡°Come back. How am I supposed to get her dressed?¡±


    The front door slams behind them, followed by the sound of a boot thumping against the door as Tina gives it a kick for good measure. Rude is what that is, but I let it slide, because I can hear her stomping off back home to spill the beans to Aunty Ray. No chance I can get ahead of this now, so I hoist the green-haired girlie up and unceremoniously dump her on the bed after I make sure there¡¯s no diamondclaw hiding under the sheets. Girl hits me with the most doleful and heart wrenching pout I done ever seen, but that might be because I¡¯ve never gotten one from a naked beauty before. Looks around my age, unless she¡¯s a real early bloomer seeing how she got all them¡­ feminine charms. And height, though she looks even taller being slender as she is, with a good amount of meat on her frame, just not a lot of fat. Gives her lithe and shapely look about her, like an elegant dancer as opposed to Sarah Jay¡¯s female linebacker build or Tina¡¯s hourglass figure.


    Both very lovely women, and exceedingly feminine to behold, but there¡¯s something about this green-haired girlie¡¯s tender, almost dainty appearance that makes me want to hug and hold her close.


    Resisting the urge for all I¡¯m worth, I help her wrap the blanket around her shoulders while fending off her surprisingly strong arms which she tries to wrap around my neck again. Not in an aggressive way; she just wants to cuddle again, and much as I would too, it¡¯d be unseemly to do that with a stranger who snuck into my bed. A very naked stranger without so much as a stitch of clothing, though she got a necklace with a couple carved animal figures strung around her neck. A horse, a bunny, and a diamondclaw too, as well as a few other animals I don¡¯t look at too closely.


    Speaking of which¡­ ¡°You seen a diamondclaw anywhere?¡± I ask, scurrying away to the bedroom door once I got the stranger mostly covered. No baby murder machine in the living room and kitchen area, and my daddy¡¯s bedroom door is still closed. Bathroom is empty too, which is when the adrenaline really starts spiking, because now I got a diamondclaw on the loose. ¡°About yay long, a buck fifty, white fur and honking big claws?¡± The girlie don¡¯t answer, just sits up and pouts with the blanket draped loosely around her shoulders, utterly unashamed of her nudity, and though I do my damnedest to mind my manners, I can¡¯t help but check if the carpet matches the drapes.


    They do, and a fine, well-kept, lovely carpet it is¡­


    Not much of a talker though, so I stop gawking and ask, ¡°Hello? Diamondclaw? Yes? No?¡± Rather than answer, she slumps down and gives me a little mewling whine instead, and only now does it click that something ain¡¯t right. Redirecting my attention away from the missing beastie, I take a beat to focus on my unexpected guest instead, who¡¯s sitting there looking sad, scared, and oh so miserable as can be. ¡°Can you understand me?¡± I ask, and finally, I get a response, a begrudging nod given as she curls up on the bed. ¡°Can you speak?¡± Again, she nods, but doesn¡¯t say a peep, so I ask, ¡°Will you? Say something that is. Anything. Anything at all.¡± Silence, but she do look thoughtful, so I try and help her out. ¡°Could be, ¡®Hello¡¯, or ¡®Good morning¡¯. Maybe state your name? What you doing here?¡±


    ¡°Bonjour Howie,¡± she says, giving me a shy little smile from inside her bundle of blanket. ¡°Je m''appelle Elodie.¡±


    French. Like Carter¡¯s people. Everything comes together as the pieces fall into place, and my mind whirls at all the implications. Seemingly outrageous ones that I can¡¯t wrap my head around, which is why I can¡¯t think of nothing else to say. Thankfully, a knock sounds at the door and I¡¯m saved from having to continue the conversation, so I head over in my jammies to see who it is and find Carter and a lovely, copper-skinned, green-haired woman standing at my doorstep. ¡°Hey boss,¡± I say, opening the door and stepping back to let them both in while gesturing at Elodie standing in my bedroom doorway. ¡°Uh¡­ I think I found your missin¡¯ hog.¡±


    Which is most certainly the wrong thing to say, but I don¡¯t figure that out until a few seconds later when I find myself staring at the ceiling. Then Carter¡¯s face appears before me, his jaw clenched and eyes all full of fury. ¡°You son of a bitch,¡± he growls, cocking his arm back for another punch, and it¡¯s all I can do to raise my arms and shield myself.


    ¡°Stop!¡± A pulse of Aether thrums through the air as Aunty Ray¡¯s Command hits Carter hard and freezes him in place. The woman beside him turns on Aunty Ray with a snarl, who hits back with an icy cold look that¡¯s got me quivering in my boots. For long seconds, neither woman gives ground though, because they both guarding their babies, Chrissy and Tina standing outside the door and Elodie who leaves the blanket behind as she bounds over to stand between me and her daddy. The man looks ready to rearrange the bones in my face, so I do my best to keep my eyes from wandering anywhere they shouldn¡¯t as Aunty Ray¡¯s Command wears off.


    Opting to protect his daughter¡¯s dignity rather than cave in my face, Carther brings her aside to fetch the blanket. ¡°Papa,¡± the girlie says, in a silky-smooth French accent. ¡°Ne sois pas en col¨¨re. Il m''a sauv¨¦ la vie.¡± Don¡¯t be angry, he saved my life pretty much, so good on her for getting the facts straight. ¡°Et je suis all¨¦e au lit avec lui volontairement.¡±


    Carter whips around like he ready to hit me again, and I can hardly blame him considering his daughter just told him she went to bed with me willingly. ¡°Hang on a tick!¡± I say, crab-walking my way back towards the door. ¡°You ain¡¯t telling it right girlie, so lemme explain. We slept together, but not in the biblical sense. Just caught some zees while lyin¡¯ side by side.¡±


    Credit where it¡¯s due, Carter doesn¡¯t let the hammer drop, but his neck do pulse as the veins popout to say hello. ¡°And you think that makes this alright? That is my daughter!¡±


    ¡°In my defense, you the one who called her a hog first, remember?¡± Can¡¯t help but be flippant, because my head is still spinning from the hit. Carter¡¯s got one hell of a right hook on him. Surprised all my teeth are still intact.


    ¡°You knew though,¡± he says, all but snarling as the words come out, but he backs off just enough to give me room to breathe and goes back to wrapping Elodie in the blanket. ¡°You knew I wasn¡¯t telling the truth, knew we we¡¯re looking for her, and stole her away for what? A laugh?¡±


    ¡°What are you goin¡¯ on about?¡± Pushing myself back up onto my feet, I brush myself off and say, ¡°Boss, I ain¡¯t as smart as you think I am. I didn¡¯t know you was lookin¡¯ for her until I pieced it all together some five seconds before you knocked on my door.¡±


    That gets his gears going, and Carter steps forward to poke me in the chest, with a finger that feels like solid steel at that. ¡°You covered your tracks! You tried to hide her from us, and we only found her because¡­ How do you explain that, huh?¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± I drawl, rubbing the soon to be bruise on my chest and gesturing for Aunty Ray to back down, ¡°I thought I was bringing home a baby diamondclaw, and didn¡¯t want no mama diamondclaw comin¡¯ after me.¡±


    There it is, the hammer drop, as Carter blinks before glancing at his shapeshifting daughter, who¡¯s still naked as the day she was born and none too concerned about who sees it as she exchanges whispers with her mama and makes eyes at me. Retreating to stand beside her, Carter pulls the blanket around his daughter to cover her better as the anger melts off him like a discarded cloak. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ reasonable,¡± he says, having pieced things together in a way that makes sense. Heaving a sigh, he slips his arm around his daughter and wife, while we stand there and let the silence speak volumes for our current mood.


    That¡¯s what I like about Carter. Now that he gets what happened, he¡¯s just glad his daughter is safe, so ain¡¯t nothing more that needs to be said. I¡¯m of the same mind, ready to see him off with a nod and a shrug before putting everything behind us. Ain¡¯t enough for Aunty Ray though, who stands at the doorway with her fists on her hips and says, ¡°Well? Best one of you start singing, else I¡¯m gonna start asking questions.¡±


    Takes a little convincing, but Aunty Ray allows me a stay of execution so me and Elodie can get decent. Lend her some clothes from my dresser which look like they¡¯d fit, and I come out a minute later fully dressed for the day. She looks much better in my clothes than I do, which are a little snug on her lithe and shapely frame, and got a bright smile for me when she catches me looking. Gives back the socks I lent her to wear and strides out the front door all barefoot and cheery as can be. Neither one of her parents care to coddle her much, and seem content to let her run free, and free run the green-haired beauty does as she bounds over the ranch to see what all the wallies and kiccaws are about. There¡¯s a light-hearted liveliness to which Elodie approaches things, a blissful innocence and casual indifference about her that makes her seem younger than her years. Got no sense of shame or impropriety about her as she lays on her belly to greet the kiccaws and pops up into a squat to greet the wallies eye to eye. Mirrors their posture even, with her head tilted to the side and arms bent like a bunny as she bounces about for a bit, hippity hopping back and forth along the fence while the wallies swarm over to say hi and stretch their little paws out through the slat in a desperate effort to clasps hands.


    And she¡¯s happy to oblige, shaking the paws of each and every wally one by one while Aunty Ray marches us over to her place, where she¡¯s got a hot pot of coffee ready to pour. Once we all got a seat at the table and a mug to cradle, I tell it like it is from start to finish, while Elodie chimes in to fill in the blanks. I get the feeling she¡¯s a little simple same as Chrissy. Elodie¡¯s well spoken, in a direct and forthright manner, but she leaves out details along the way, so we gotta all stop and ask her very specific questions to figure it all out.


    Far as I can tell, Elodie got spooked by the Fear Spell from the Mindspire sent out just before I arrived at the compound, then took off into the lake and swam away to safety as a sea lion, whatever that is. Went out into the deep waters, then came back to the coast where she found a nice, calm shallow area of water to rest in, whereupon she fell asleep after her harrowing ordeal which really took a lot out of her. When she woke up, there was a nice round boy standing over by the shore, who offered her some candies to eat which she accepted. While stark naked and human mind you, which is funny to hear, since that means I had Kevin dead to rights. No wonder he looked so forlorn when I arrived, because I scared off the pretty naked girlie, albeit one who wasn¡¯t a figment of his imagination like I suspected it might be.


    That little tidbit gets Carter real heated, and I refrain from cackling and saying he done punched the wrong man, which only goes to show I do know how to be circumspect.


    I just choose not to most of the time.


    So after I spooked Elodie away the second time, she swam back out into the lake again, because I guess she feels safe out there. Wasn¡¯t ready to go home yet though, because she was just having too much fun, so she swam around a little longer until her head started hurting, at which point she went back to land and shifted into a diamondclaw. Couldn¡¯t explain why she did it when asked, even though I already know the answer, because the natural Spell Resistance blocks out the Mindspire, which I suppose she knew on instinct, but not fact. Once she was back on land again, she went shuffling off into the forest in search of some food since she hadn¡¯t eaten anything besides candy all day, and eventually ran into a pack of Abby and was subsequently saved by yours truly.


    Or you know. Not. I¡¯m pretty sure she could¡¯ve torn that whole band of Abby apart without taking a scratch, but then again, you never know with Abby.


    From there, I pick up the slack to tell the rest of the story, because Elodie¡¯s statements are none too helpful. She¡¯s prone to saying things that are factually true yet sound wholly reprehensible without context, like how I kissed her nose, wiped her down, rubbed her belly, and hugged her tightly all night long. Which is why I find myself having to state that she was a diamondclaw multiple times, an important point of contention that everyone else seems to accept with little more than a shrug.


    When all¡¯s said and done, I got an empty mug in front of me while Aunty Ray¡¯s got her head in her hands and fingers pinching the sapphire teardrop in her forehead without even noticing. ¡°So,¡± she begins, heaving a long and tired sigh, ¡°You found what you thought was a young and wild diamondclaw, smuggled it into the city, brought it home to your bed, fell asleep next to it, then woke up with that girlie laid out beside you. That about the long and short of it?¡±


    Sounds real stupid when you lay it all out like that, but the truth ain¡¯t much better, so I shrug, nod, and say, ¡°Yea, but wasn¡¯t like I jumped straight to ¡®snuggle the murder beastie¡¯ from the get go. I was gonna leave her out in the forest, but Cowie wouldn¡¯t have it. Besides, you didn¡¯t see how cute she was. Look.¡±


    Grabbing Chrissy¡¯s music/picture box which she left sitting on the table, I touch the storage crystal and upload the Photos I took before displaying them for everyone to look at. Stifling a little cry, Aunty Ray¡¯s hands go to her mouth as her eyes fill with tears, and for a second, I¡¯m stuck wondering how a mini diamondclaw hugging a kiccaw could ever be so frightening. ¡°Oh she¡¯s so cute,¡± Aunty Ray says, crying her heart out as she looks at the darling image. ¡°What you calling that a diamondclaw for? That there is a sloth!¡±


    Sloth? That¡¯s a stupid name for an animal. Be like calling a bunny lust, or marties pride. ¡°Well, that¡¯s after it¡¯s been minified, and even then, it¡¯s still a baby.¡±


    ¡°Elodie is not a baby,¡± she declares, showing she can both speak and understand English. ¡°Elodie is seventeen!¡±


    Thank the Lord for that, because things would be so much worse if she were younger. Aunty Ray don¡¯t miss a beat though, sending Elodie out with Chrissy and Tina out to play with the wallies, while insisting I start calling diamondclaws ¡®megasloths¡¯ instead, but I ain¡¯t about that. They¡¯re diamondclaws, and that¡¯s that.


    Soon as she ready to move on, Aunty Ray turns to Carter and Amelie and says, ¡°Well, I apologize for the mix up. Seems clear to me our Howie done some things he shouldn¡¯t have, and should¡¯ve known things he didn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°It is not entirely his fault,¡± Carter generously says, while his wife gives a little huff from the side. ¡°Cowie and Elodie have become fast friends these last few weeks, and I intentionally hid the fact that my daughter was missing, for reasons you might understand.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll say.¡± Scoffing as I reach for more coffee, I add, ¡°I gotta ask though. How does she turn into a diamondclaw? Polymorph? That¡¯s a Fourth Order Spell though, so I don¡¯t get how that¡¯s even possible.¡±


    Carter looks to his wife, who gives him a shrug and leaves everything up to him. The strong, silent type, this miss Amelie, so much so she makes Carter seem like a chatty Cathy in comparison. Heaving a sigh, Carter takes a moment to gather his thoughts and explains, ¡°She¡¯s not using a Fourth Order Spell. It¡¯s a It¡¯s a Second Order Spell called Wildshape.¡±


    ¡°Conjuration, instead of Transmutation,¡± Aunty Ray supplies, showing she done cottoned on to whatever is going on here.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Carter says, nodding along. ¡°There are a few significant differences between the two Spells, the first of which being that Polymorph can be cast on other targets to take whatever shape the caster desires, whereas Wildshape can only be cast on yourself with a specific form. Secondly, you are not transforming yourself into the beast, so much as summoning it out into the world from within.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    After a bit more back and forth, I think I finally got the gist of the Spell, which sounds fascinating to be sure. Polymorph is all about shapeshifting, but no matter what you turn into, it¡¯s still just you in a fancy new Ecto suit. Say I turn myself into a bird, I still gotta learn how to fly, which ain¡¯t as simple a task as just flapping your wings, no matter how easy them birdies make it look. Same for knowing how to move, jump, run, or climb, which really limits how useful the Polymorph Spell can be, since it don¡¯t really matter if you can turn into a diamondclaw if you don¡¯t know how to scratch your butt without carving off a piece of your hide.


    Wildshape fixes that lack of knowledge by introducing a Bestial Spirit into the mix, one which allows the caster to¡­ be more in tune with the shape they take. The Spirit is similar to what you¡¯d need to Conjure up a Summon. You take a totem, like the carved totems in Elodie¡¯s necklace, and imbue it with the Spirit of the creature you intend to summon, except instead of giving it a fresh new body separate from your own, you Summon it up within you. Or sort of, as there are some metaphysical hijinks going on there wherein your body gets shunted off to the Immaterium while the summoned creature¡¯s body replaces it, but that¡¯s beyond my ken for now. The important thing is that once the Spell is done and dusted, you got yourself an animal body with an animal spirit who knows all the ins and outs of its body, meaning it understands how to be a diamondclaw without the caster having to learn those things fresh.


    Which sounds great, except that the caster¡¯s mind and the bestial Spirit are inhabiting that same vessel, which can lead to a bit of a mental conflict. While the Spell is in effect, the caster is essential both human and animal in one mind, with all the logic and reasoning of a person, but also the ingrained instincts and desires of an animal. Most deal with it well enough, but inexperienced casters can lose themselves in the animalistic nature of the beast and end up forgetting they¡¯re a person, or worse, allow the beast to bleed through even after the Spell ends and they¡¯re human again.


    ¡°Elodie was too young when she came into the Spell,¡± Carter continues, explaining why his daughter didn¡¯t just shift back into a person the second she knew she was safe. ¡°So she never learned how to separate herself from the beast. She gives herself wholly over to the Spirit, becomes a combination of human and animal that is both more and less at the same time.¡±


    ¡°Sounds¡­ dangerous,¡± I say, treading lightly because this seems like shaky ground.


    ¡°It can be,¡± miss Amelie says, her sultry, French accent sounding so cool and aloof. ¡°Without harmony of the spirits, there is risk of the animal taking control and turning the caster¡­ feral. Our ancestors had names for these fallen shifters, names I will not speak, but the most common one loosely translates to ¡®that which goes on all fours¡¯.¡±


    ¡°Most folks back home called ¡®em skin-walkers,¡± Aunty Ray supplies, and while Carter and his wife wince to hear it, they both subtly nod to acknowledge the term. Which is good, because ¡®that which goes on all fours¡¯ is too much of a mouthful to say.


    ¡°That is not my Elodie,¡± Carter interjects, before any of us can ask. ¡°When she shifts into her new skin, she becomes what she is, and forgets that others cannot see her true self.¡± Giving me a glare, he explains, ¡°Though you interacted with her as though she was a beast, she saw it as a normal exchange between a man and woman, so I will ask that you work with me to¡­ smooth over any misunderstandings.¡±


    ¡°Sure thing boss.¡±


    While I sweat over how I kissed his daughter and wiped her butt, Carter says, ¡°That is why we claimed a homestead so close to New Hope. It is a struggle to maintain harmony between man and beast, so it was our hope that by interacting with other people more often, we could then become more grounded in our humanity.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± Carter¡¯s here busy trying to explain away his reasoning, but I don¡¯t need no selling on the Spell. Much easier to keep yourself warm and fed when you got animal senses, instincts, and a warm coat of fur to boot, or a belly strong enough to eat almost any sort of vegetation you might find. As for me, I¡¯m already exploring the implications of the Spell, because Wildshape sounds like a real doozy. ¡°Is it possible to Wildshape into another person?¡± I ask, eager to hear the answer. ¡°Or you know, myself, only with both hands?¡±


    Though the question seems innocuous enough, miss Amelie hisses and makes some motions like she¡¯s warding off evil. Carter is more helpful, as he responds with actual words. ¡°Possible, yes, but forbidden with good reason. Wildshaping requires the Caster to possess an in depth understanding of the form it wishes to take, as well as a Spirit Totem of the beast to guide your actions.¡± Giving me a look that says he knows where this is going, he continues, ¡°Though human-like summons are possible, it is forbidden to Wildshape into one, for the same reasons why caution is required of any caster who Wildshapes. An animal Spirit is difficult enough to co-exist with. A human Spirit will drive the caster to madness without fail. They are the worst of the Skin-walkers, the truly depraved monsters in human flesh.¡±


    ¡°Was a famous cannibal serial killer back in the old world who¡¯d wear the faces of his kills,¡± Aunty Ray interjects, shuddering as she hugs her arms close. ¡°Came back from the war and went on a cross-country killing spree. Would kill someone, eat most of their bodies, then pose as them for the next leg of the trip. Managed to fool at least three of the victim¡¯s spouses and continue on like nothing happened until they up and left to kill some more.¡± Eyeing Carter and Amelie with a wary gaze, Aunty Ray adds, ¡°That¡¯s why the Spell¡¯s been banned by the Geneva Convention since shortly after the Second World War.¡±


    ¡°Which makes it illegal to use in warfare, not every day life,¡± Carter says, defending his use of the Spell. ¡°And while Federal Law lists Wildshape as a restricted Spell, as descendants of the Din¨¦, we are exempt from the restrictions since the Spell is a part of our heritage. Even then, we do our best not to flaunt our abilities, though Elodie has yet to understand why.¡±


    I don¡¯t make no mention of the other members of his community who are clearly not of the Din¨¦, or any other Native American tribe for that matter. Ain¡¯t my place to uphold the law, and I ain¡¯t the biggest fan of Spell restrictions to begin with. ¡°Well, we won¡¯t say nothing about your Wildshaping,¡± I say, after checking with Aunty Ray. ¡°So long as there ain¡¯t nothin¡¯ that needs to be said. Get me?¡± Carter nods and smiles, while his beautiful wife beams to hear it. ¡°Stay for a meal,¡± I add, getting up to go help with the cooking since I made the offer. ¡°And maybe think about bringing your people in to take shelter at the church.¡±


    ¡°No, we should get going.¡±


    Never one to waste time on social niceties, Carter heads for the front door without so much as a good bye. While he¡¯s putting on his shoes though, a thought strikes me, and I can¡¯t help but ask, ¡°Say¡­ that ugly horse. He wouldn¡¯t happen to be one of your people, would he?¡±


    Carter¡¯s ghost of a smile is all the answer I need, and I groan to see it. ¡°Raya was most displeased to hear you call him ugly,¡± the man says, and I don¡¯t have it in me to ask about any other animals. Not here and now at least, so we all file out to say goodbye. Elodie looks right sad to hear it, and asks something in French, which I don¡¯t entirely understand. Aunty Ray does though, because she speaks perfect French, but she don¡¯t translate for me and just stands there with a forced smile.


    ¡°She asked if she will be leaving with us, or staying here with¡­ her husband,¡± Carter says, clearly kicking the ball over into my court, and my heart aches to see Elodie making eyes at me from beside him. The sweet, guileless girl thinks sleeping together is something only husbands and wives do, and she means it in the literal sense, so the fact that we fell asleep in the same bed must mean we married now. It¡¯d almost be endearing if it wasn¡¯t so sad, for a girl of seventeen to still be so sheltered and childish, so I step forward and play the villain while explaining why we ain¡¯t actually married and how she can¡¯t stay.


    All while I¡¯m feeling a little heartbroken myself, having done lost my pet diamondclaw. Cruel is what that is, to have my dreams shattered mere hours after I got the notion to have them, and I might never love another fluffy murder machine ever again. No, I¡¯mma stick with Cowie from here on out, my tried-and-true partner who ain¡¯t never let me down. Howie and Cowie against the world, that¡¯s how it¡¯s always been, and from here on out, I ain¡¯t ever gonna forget that ever again.

 Book Two - Chapter 73

    ¡°Bonjour Howie!¡±


    Jumping off of the bridge built into the tree with arms outstretched, Elodie spurred the magic to life within as the ground rushed towards her. The air thickened and wrapped her in a soft and cozy embrace, slowing her plummeting fall to a warm and lazy descent, and she smiled to see Howie¡¯s alarm as he straightened up then played it cool as Featherfall gently dropped her in front of him. The magic fell away the moment her toes touched the dirt, and she skipped over to pat Old Tux on the nose, letting the brave horse take in her scent while her hands assured him she meant no harm. A wise and sensible creature, one experienced in the ways of the world, he stood guarded against her not for his safety, but for the safety of the man he carried.


    ¡°And a good day to you too, Elodie.¡± Smiling his false smiles while looking around for threats, Howie continued to pretend he was calm and relaxed, when the truth was anything but. If Old Tux was guarded, then Howie was cagey and wary, a creature who scented blood and danger in every shadow and treetop. It showed in how his head was always turning and eyes never still, while he kept his hand resting in front of his belly to show his claws were still sheathed upon his belt. Ever vigilant even in his own den, so much so that he tossed and turned in his sleep at night because he found no solace or safety sleeping alone.


    Poor man. Few were strong enough to make a life of it alone. Though Howie was plenty strong, even the fierce tuskwulf needed a pack to watch over him as he slept, while the lone wulf spent his solitary nights howling at his reflections in the moons.


    ¡°You come for visit?¡± Elodie asked, hoping he¡¯d have plenty of time to play.


    ¡°Fraid not,¡± Howie replied, and she pouted to hear it. ¡°Here on business.¡± Cocking his head, he studied Elodie as she cradled Old Tux¡¯s head and rubbed her cheek against his. ¡°Look at you two, already the best of friends.¡±


    ¡°He is very brave and very understanding,¡± Elodie explained. ¡°I show him I mean no danger, so even though he smells danger, he is not afraid.¡±


    ¡°That so.¡± Dismounting from his saddle, Howie patted Old Tux¡¯s neck to reinforce Elodie¡¯s message, and the wise horse finally fully relaxed in her embrace. ¡°You¡¯re awful chatty today. English too. Wasn¡¯t sure you spoke it.¡±


    ¡°Oui-Oui.¡± A wise horse for a silly man, even though Howie knew many things. ¡°Mama, she explain it to me yesterday after we leave.¡± Pausing to think of the correct translation, Elodie greeted baby Cowie and lifted him into her arms before finding the right English. ¡°Bonjour, ma petite veau. Mm, Mama say Howie speak English, so Elodie should do the same. Is polite.¡±


    It did not make sense, because if it was polite, then why did Howie not respond in French instead? Then again, Elodie had trouble enough understanding his English, so maybe he had troubles with words. Howie just nodded though, saying, ¡°I see. Didn¡¯t think your mama liked me much.¡±


    She didn¡¯t, though Elodie knew better than to say as much. ¡°Mama says Howie is not enemy, not tribe, and not Elodie¡¯s husband, but fierce and dangerous friend.¡±


    The words made him smile, a real one this time, with his eyes flattening into slits and his teeth showing from between his lips. Fangs bared even in joy, Mama¡¯s description was right as always. ¡°Fierce and dangerous, huh? I like that.¡±


    Elodie did not know why, for danger was nothing to be proud of. She would accept him as he was, but he would have to prove himself to Mama and Papa as well as the rest of the tribe. Unlike sweet Cowie who¡¯d already been accepted, and he gave her a kiss while nestled in her arms before directing her attention to Howie¡¯s saddlebags draped over Old Tux¡¯s back. ¡°What is this?¡± Elodie asked, drawing closer to inspect them with her eyes and her nose. There was something in the bag that Cowie yearned for, except he knew it was not for him, so he wanted her to ask for it and share it with him. As she drew closer, she caught an enticing scent that was not a scent and hints of a song that was not a song. It was the sound of the lakeshore on a calm summer day, or the smell of the forest after a light spring rain, and whatever else it might be, it called to her in so very many ways.


    Lifting the flap of the saddlebag to see what was inside, Elodie yelped when Howie swatted the back of her hand and drew her arm back. ¡°Pour-quoi?¡± She asked, cradling her arm and Cowie both as the sweet calf flicked his ears and nuzzled her in sympathy. It wasn¡¯t that the hit hurt, but Howie delivered it so quickly and without warning. ¡°That was not nice.¡±


    ¡°Ain¡¯t nice to go rummagin¡¯ through bags that ain¡¯t yours either,¡± Howie replied, giving Elodie¡¯s cheek a little pinch in apology. Baring her teeth, Elodie snapped at his fingers to give him a light nibble in warning. Her teeth cut through empty air before clacking together, then a flash of motion and a light touch gave her another scare as Howie flicked her nose ever so gently. A show of strength, speed, and mercy all in one, followed by a finger pressed against her forehead to keep her at bay as soon as she moved in for a hug.


    ¡°But you are friend,¡± Elodie proclaimed with a pout, not understanding why he was so against letting her see his things or share his warmth. He was husband too, even though Mama and Papa did not like to hear it, and Howie kept denying it. Pushing past his finger, Elodie rested her head against Howie¡¯s chest, or at least she tried to as he back pedaled away while she continued to give chase. So bashful, her husband, a ferocious hunter and able guardian who turned timid when faced with intimacy. She thought him so bold and forward to hug and kiss her without warning, and she loved how he rubbed his cheek and chin against her head to mark her in his scent. The food he cooked was delicious as could be, and his touch was warm and tender when he washed her fur with a wet cloth. A brief but effective courtship that won her over in a single night, so even though he only had one hand and much too bony and angular for her tastes, she accepted his affections and went to share his bed as a proper couple would.


    Like man and wife, they slept together, her head nestled in the crook of his shoulder until his restless actions woke her, which is when she hugged him tight until he settled down for the rest of the night


    So why would he not hug her now? Only a day and a night had passed since they shared a bed, and she announced her desires clearly by repeatedly stepping in close with her head lowered towards his chest, but he kept turning and retreating to avoid her touch every time, a game that was most frustrating to play. ¡°Stop,¡± Elodie said, planting her feet with a growl to show she didn¡¯t want to play anymore, but he wasn¡¯t listening, so she stomped her feet and stood still to glare at him in challenge. He met her eyes and smiled, but kept his distance all the same, so casual and relaxed she knew he¡¯d never submit, not even when he was clearly in the wrong. Too much time spent as the lone wulf separated from the pack, so long he¡¯d forgotten how to become a part of the whole.


    Then Elodie would teach him, as was her duty as his wife and mate. With her words, like Mama would say. ¡°Howie,¡± Elodie began, as stern and seriously as she could, but Howie was struggling to contain his mirth. ¡°I want a hug. You scare me when you strike my hand, yes? Now you must comfort me.¡± Still cradling Cowie with one arm, she threw out her other arm in invitation for an embrace. ¡°Come now.¡±


    ¡°How about a pat on the head instead?¡±


    ¡°Non!¡± Stomping her foot again, she dug her toes in the dirt out of sheer frustration. ¡°I tell you what I want and why, so you come give me hug now!¡±


    ¡°Well, you can¡¯t always get what you want,¡± Howie replied, his tone calm and patient as he reached out to poke her nose. Only to retract his hand when she pressed forward to nuzzle, a strange, silly, contrary man. ¡°So now we negotiating. If a pat on the head ain¡¯t enough, how about this then?¡± Reaching into his saddlebags, he pulled out a jar of pink candies and tossed it high into the air, and she gasped to see him treat such a prize so rudely. It was not what sang to her and drew her in, but it was a pleasant gift all the same, unless it was not a gift and he was teasing again. Catching the jar with a grin, he held it out to the side, then up over his head, then hid it behind his back, only to laugh as he watched Elodie track it. When he was finally finished with his mean-spirited games, he offered the jar and she accepted with gusto before leaning forward to present her head. A little slow sometimes, Howie could be, as it took him a long second to remember he still had yet to pat her head, even though he was the one who offered. A light and all too brief touch later and he was done, touching her shoulder ever so gently to turn her around as they headed back to the compound. ¡°Your daddy in?¡±


    ¡°Non.¡± Holding the jar out in her one free hand, Elodie watched him unscrew the lid before opening her mouth. Howie chuckled, then summoned his glowing blue hands with a flick of his fingers and a word under his breath, then used one of them to retrieve a candy from the jar and drop it in her mouth, denying her the chance to nip his fingers in retaliation for his teasing. Clever man. She nipped at the Mage Hand anyways in a fit of pique, tearing through the delicate flows holding it together and dismissing it back into nothingness. ¡°Papa is running with Raja, Monsieur Burguet, and Duwa,¡± she explained, speaking around the sweet candy while Howie screwed the lid back on. ¡°Papa has been very busy lately with helping you work, and could not go running or swimming often.¡± Poor Papa. He must have been so stressed, unable to go thundering down the trail alongside his herd or padding through the forest at night, all because Howie worked too hard without rest. Now that would change though, and maybe Howie would go running with them, along with Old Tux and Cowie.


    Sensing her quiet invitation, the horse flicked his ears to say he would see, because he would not do anything Howie did not allow. A firm hand, Elodie¡¯s husband had, or future husband since Mama said they weren¡¯t really married even though they¡¯d already lain with one another like only a husband and wife should. Mama claimed there was more to it, but Elodie figured they¡¯d done the most important bits, so all that was left was for Howie to move in, or for her to leave and join Howie¡¯s tribe with Chrissy, Tina, and Aunty Ray.


    The big town was so exciting, all full of new sights, scents, and sensations. Though Elodie would be very sad to leave Mama and Papa, she would be lying if she said she wasn¡¯t excited to see what life would be like in New Hope. Bumping her shoulder against Howie¡¯s as they walked side by side, she studied the man who would be her husband. The world would call him Yellow, but his face was as pale as any White albeit with a warmer tint, while his slender forearms were tanned darker to almost match her copper skin. Though he wasn¡¯t a tall man, he wasn¡¯t short either, of a similar height in his boots compared to her without. His fine black hair was in the same middle ground, hanging just past his neck and perfectly straight save for the permanent crimp from his big cowboy hat, one which hid the long, silken bangs he kept swept back and out of his face. He had no hair on his lip or chin, which Elodie rather liked, and a pleasing enough appearance that was both youthful and wise, while his scent was a pleasant mix of Aether, woodsmoke, and steel that never stank of sour sweat.


    Clean and neat, but not overly tidy, and constantly on the move whether it be with his hands, feet, or head. That¡¯s how he was now, always glancing about here, there, and everywhere except back at her. More of his vigilance, even though she was here to safeguard him from threat, but he had little trust in anyone besides himself. Perhaps that was how he lost his hand, to a threat he did not guard against, and now he worked hard to stay guarded against all, but that was no life. There would come a time when he had to trust the people around him, if only so he could relax and enjoy life. That¡¯s why they went running in groups no less than four and swimming in packs of six, so half could stand guard while the rest lost themselves in the thrill of motion.


    Howie would learn in time, and Elodie would care for him while he did. She would have to hunt more often and bring back larger game so he could grow fatter and softer. Then he would be more comfortable to hug, instead of too bony and hard. ¡°Thank you for the candies,¡± she said, soon as she remembered to, cradling the jar and Cowie both. ¡°They are very yummy.¡±


    ¡°Glad you like them,¡± he said, patting Old Tux on the neck. ¡°I got more for you in the pack, but only if you promise not to accept candy from strangers no more. That ain¡¯t safe, girlie, so no more risking your neck for sweets, got it.¡±


    ¡°Oui Howie.¡± Elodie giggled, all too pleased by his attention. He did not want her to go see the tall round boy again, and this was how he showed it, by providing her with more than what her other suitor presented. Howie was so silly, because Elodie had already chosen him, but it was good that he continued to court her. ¡°You come to bring candies?¡±


    ¡°And your share of the haul,¡± Howie replied, catching onto her confusion a moment later because he wasn¡¯t wholly attentive of her while they conversed. ¡°The Abby you killed. Forgot to mention it before y¡¯all lit out yesterday, and I figured I might as well get back to work on the dock now since there ain¡¯t nothin¡¯ for me to do back home besides twiddle my fingers.¡±


    ¡°No work,¡± Elodie declared, meeting his dubious gaze in challenge. ¡°Papa says, Abby, they are too active, so it is too dangerous to swim.¡±


    ¡°Is that what y¡¯all do all the livelong day? Swim out in the lake?¡±


    Elodie nodded. ¡°Many yummy fish and clams to fill our bellies, and we know the currents to avoid running into Abby. Too many now though. Very frightening.¡± She shook her head and shuddered to remember how scared she¡¯d been the other night, when all those Abby chased her through the forest and surrounded her by the big tree. They would not let her climb to escape, striking her with their hooks and dragging her back down to the ground until she sliced them apart with her claws, and even then they would not leave her be. The mudkippers burrowed through her fur in search of her soft belly, while the merhounds nipped at her heels and kept her turning this way and that. The big froggies? They hit her so many times and so very hard with the big, hooked hands, and one sprayed her with projectiles every so often which hurt something awful. Only the beast within kept her from cowering against the tree, all fury and rage at the audacity of those intruders who dared to strike at her.


    Howie¡¯s shoulder pressed against hers and didn¡¯t pull away like before, and she accepted his comfort with warmth and gratitude, leaning heavily upon his wounded arm and resting her head on his shoulder too. There it was, the warmth and kindness he exuded once he lowered his guard, a man of tender affection and heartfelt care like he showed her their first night together. He was strong too, fighting off all those Abby on the lakeshore by his lonesome several weeks ago, and again when he came riding in to save Elodie from Abby after she got so very lost and confused.


    ¡°Well,¡± Howie drawled, and Elodie could tell he was struggling to think of something to say, even though he didn¡¯t have to say anything at all. His actions already showed his concern for her, and his words only soured the message. ¡°Least that explains the terrible cooking.¡± There it was again, that mean-spirited humour of his. Mama worked very hard to make stew for so many men, and again to see Howie fed every day he was here. Having tasted his brisket wraps though, Elodie could also see why he thought Mama¡¯s cooking was poor, but they didn¡¯t have all the sauces and spices he kept stored on his kitchen counter.


    No matter though. She would teach him to be kind, or others would learn to see past his hurtful words and judge him by his actions instead. Linking her arm in his like she¡¯d seen Chrissy do to keep him from running away, Elodie dragged him through the side door while ignoring all his efforts to get away, mumbling about not wanting to impose and whatnot. ¡°Look Mama,¡± Elodie called, kicking the door closed behind them so he could not run away. ¡°It is Howie. He come visit with candy.¡±


    Howie laughed. ¡°Suppose I did. Good to see you miss Amelie.¡±


    ¡°Bonjour,¡± Mama replied, her smile warm and inviting, but directed at Cowie. For Howie, she only had a cool look, as she was not yet ready to see Elodie married off. They¡¯d talked of it for many months, of how there might eventually come a day when she would leave, but the day was too soon according to Mama and Papa both, even though Elodie believed she was as ready as she would ever be. ¡°You did not bring Tina, Chrissy, or mademoiselle Rachelle?¡±


    ¡°Afraid they¡¯re all busy back home, unlike my slacker self.¡± Shrugging, Howie fought to free his arm from Elodie¡¯s grasp, but she clung tighter and threatened to bite down on his shoulder until he stopped. ¡°Tina¡¯s gearing up to escort a convoy down south to Summerbloom next week, while Aunty Ray is organizing things to make sure there are enough seats for everyone who wants out.¡±


    ¡°What about Chrissy?¡± Elodie asked, so eager to see her new friend again, one who was so funny and lively. There were no other children the same age as her, with the closest being Jadienne a full five years younger who couldn¡¯t even Wildshape yet.


    ¡°Oh, Chrissy don¡¯t leave town often,¡± Howie said, which was about the saddest thing Elodie had ever heard. The town was new and exciting, but to only rarely go beyond the walls seemed so very restricting. Most days, Elodie would follow Mama and Papa out into the lake and swim from shore to shore in search of food, or take to the forest on hooves or paws and range far and wide in search of prey. To deny such things to Chrissy, the chance to see new sights or familiar ones in a different light, it was too sad to even think about, so Elodie gave Mama a look that said she wanted to go back with Howie when he left to visit Chrissy and cheer her up.


    Mama didn¡¯t agree, but she didn¡¯t shake her head either, which meant she would think about it for now. Taking advantage of Elodie¡¯s distraction to slip free, Howie pulled a small wooden chest out of his saddlebags and presented it to Mama. While she held it up, he opened it for her and said, ¡°Didn¡¯t just come here to deliver candy. Y¡¯all left so quickly yesterday, I forgot to tell you about Elodie¡¯s split from our take.¡± Pointing at a solid bar of matte-green metal, Howie explained, ¡°Cooked just over ninety grams of Aberrtin in total, and that¡¯s sixty-two grams there, or $18.60 worth. Figured that¡¯d be a fair split, two to one, seeing how Elodie handled most of it and I just cleaned up.¡± A humble and honest man, Howie was, but neither his words nor his Aberrtin was what caught her attention. No, she was fixated on the source of the scent that was not a scent and the song that was not a song, one emanating from the two purple crystals that sent a pulse of desire coursing through her blood and drew in her close until Mama snapped the box lid shut.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Mama said nothing else, just stared at Elodie until she back away, which she did because Mama was most fierce. ¡°The Spell Cores,¡± Mama began.


    Only for Howie to interrupt, which Mama hated. ¡°Yep, got lucky with two,¡± he said, missing all the cues written plainly on Mama¡¯s expression and body language that said she wanted them gone. ¡°One¡¯s a Floating Disc, the other Blast, so I¡¯m guessing the girlie soaked up a fair few hits before I arrived.¡± Elodie nodded emphatically, and Mama¡¯s anger subsided at the reminder of Elodie¡¯s ordeal and Howie¡¯s ignorance. ¡°I figure y¡¯all can pick which of the Cores to keep, then I¡¯ll tell you what it is, and that¡¯s fair. The Floating Disc is more valuable, but that¡¯s a fat Blast Core, so it might be good for an overpacked or upcasted Blastgun if someone¡¯s looking to make one.¡±


    ¡°Keep both Cores and lock them away while you are here,¡± Mama said, not giving Howie a chance to interrupt again. ¡°You have a warded gun case, yes? That will suffice.¡± Elodie opened her mouth to complain, only to shut it when Mama gave her a look, one that said she knew best and this was how things would be. There would be no explanation if not for Howie here, so at least there was that. ¡°Elodie,¡± Mama began, saying her name the right way, ¡®elle-la-dee¡¯, though Howie¡¯s ¡®Ee-lo-dee¡¯ wasn¡¯t too terrible on the ear. ¡°She cannot be trusted with Spell Cores. She has, how you say, a fixation? A compulsion, one that drives her to consume them. She has already eaten one, and I will not risk another, much less two more.¡±


    Though surprised, Howie didn¡¯t seem scared or appalled by the news, just gave Elodie an appraising look. ¡°So she was born Innate and consumed a Spell Core after the fact?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Mama said, heaving a small sigh. ¡°She was twelve when she first shifted, much too young to understand, and she let the spirit take hold of her mind. She does not think like you and I, is more likely to act on instinct than reason, which is why she swallowed a Spell Core without thinking. It gives her power, yes, but at great risk, and I will not have her taken from me for being too dangerous to go free.¡±


    Cuddling in close to Mama, Elodie silently apologized for past mistakes, but all was forgiven with a smile. As for Howie, he gave her a smile and said, ¡°I know how it is. Cowie¡¯s the same way.¡± That made Mama smile too, even though she rarely did when speaking of such a serious topic, and Howie¡¯s quick actions in locking the Spell Cores away helped too. ¡°Well, in that case, I can give you cash value. Same for the Aberrtin too if you¡¯ve no need for it, but unless you got pressing need for cash, I suggest holding onto the Aberrtin instead. It¡¯ll hold value better, and I¡¯m betting things are gonna get real expensive around here real quick once half the town¡¯s population gets shuttled off to Summerbloom or Irongate.¡±


    ¡°Cash will be fine. New Hope is being abandoned? You mentioned a convoy, but did not say it would be so large.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t just Mama that was concerned, as everyone else was listening in even if they didn¡¯t look it. Howie noticed it too, and raised his voice to explain, ¡°No, not abandoning. Just givin¡¯ non-essential personnel the option to temporarily relocate outside the Mindspire¡¯s range.¡± Howie shrugged. ¡°I imagine we¡¯ll lose most white-collar workers, as they usually the first to get out of dodge soon as they see trouble brewin¡¯ over the horizon. Clerks, accountants, notaries, bookkeepers, those sorts of people. Bunch of paper shuffling pencil pushers we could all do without, but they keep things running on a bigger scale, I suppose.¡± Giving everyone an encouraging look, he added, ¡°Means there¡¯ll be more room in the churches soon enough, so if any of y¡¯all are feeling the pressure from the constant droning, then I encourage you to come in and seek shelter. World of difference soon as you step through them church doors, bringin¡¯ that loud, fluctuating pitchy hum down to a low buzz that you barely even notice.¡±


    Everyone traded glances at that, because Elodie and Mama were the only ones so drastically affected by the Mindspire. Howie¡¯s description fit her experiences perfectly though, meaning even though he wasn¡¯t an Innate, he was still highly sensitive to the magic. Good. Their children would be that much stronger for it, which Elodie had sensed the first time she saw him a few weeks past. For all his vigilance, he didn¡¯t see her, or maybe he did and ignored her since she was Wildshaped into a rabbit and hidden inside a bush. There was something about him that drew her to him, same as the Spell Cores he carried, though the ones in his guns were shielded well enough thanks to all the lead and metal surrounding them. Elodie just wanted to hold one, to feel its warm pulse against her skin, but Mama and Papa wouldn¡¯t even risk letting her hold one under supervision, which was why the whole community made do without any Spell Cores at all.


    And were worse off for it. Elodie was sad that they all had to suffer for her, but they never once took issue with her because of it. They were tribe, and they looked out for one another, a bond she would miss if she left with Howie.


    ¡°We will consider it,¡± Mama said, while her tone and posture said, ¡®never¡¯. A town was no different from a prison in her eyes, for hers was a spirit more wild and free than any other, always first to greet the moons each night and race out over the hilltops to see what lay over the horizon. Starting this community and staying in one place for so many years was hardest on her, even with yearly trips up north to the plains, but everyone agreed that they couldn¡¯t keep up their nomadic lifestyle for much longer. Mostly because Elodie was coming of age, but the other children wouldn¡¯t be far behind, and they needed to be socialized in ways the community couldn¡¯t offer, not without reining their other halves in.


    Elodie saw no need to do any reining in though. Better to let the animal and human become one, for that was who she was meant to be. Why strive for dominance and control from one side when you could let both live in harmony instead? Whether it was the animal or human in control, they were all Elodie in the end, so why work so hard at keeping them separate?


    As for Howie? Everything she learned about him told her he was a kindred spirit, a wanderer who tolerated town life more than he embraced it, but he was not so fortunate as to have a tribe to wander with. Perhaps that would change soon enough, so long as he allowed himself to trust, and Elodie yearned to see it happen. The town was necessary, an anchor to their humanity that reminded them of what they could accomplish, but the wilds were what spoke to their hearts and souls.


    A voice Howie seemed intent on ignoring as he convinced Mama to let him resume work on the dock. Said he would be fine by himself, but Elodie wasn¡¯t the only one who saw that Howie needed help acclimating to the tribe. That¡¯s why when Mama asked for volunteers, Monsieur Nowak, Monsieur McKay, and Monsieur Bird didn¡¯t hesitate to step forward, even though they had supported Papa¡¯s decision to delay construction. While boats were not allowed on the lake, there would come a time when the restrictions were lifted, and a stone dock would make things safer and more convenient for everyone involved.


    And now that Howie knew about their Wildshaping, they would no longer have to hide their activities by bringing boats out every morning and stashing them in blinds for the day.


    Before heading out to work, Howie handed Mama another chest full of jarred spices and pickled vegetables, along with a big bushel of cloves he said would grow fast and really add flavour to their meals. All from his Aunty Ray, he clarified, as if he were afraid the others would think he was trying to buy their favour with gifts, like that would be so horrible a thing. As for Elodie, she stood to the side and pouted, watching all the promised candy go to Mama which she shared with all the other children too. It was heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time, to lose out on all those new and exciting sweets, but the children were happy, which was good too. Better still was seeing Howie drop his guard around the kids, smiling as he pinched cheeks and ruffling heads whenever they came close while answering questions about this and that without so much as a word of truth.


    How could one lose a hand in a shaving accident? Or find a baby calf growing in their caddish patch one morning? It was all silly nonsense meant to bring smiles to faces, with Howie acting as if he was entirely serious to play it up for the kids.


    Not for too long though, as he soon left to put Old Tux away in the stables, but Elodie convinced him to let the old horse roam around with her and Cowie instead. Without his tack and bridle, Old Tux didn¡¯t seem to know what to do outside of a stall or paddock, so Elodie stayed closed with one hand on his shoulder so he would know she was there with him. That¡¯s all he needed, a herd to be with, a group to face whatever may come because they were stronger together. Howie was the leader of Old Tux¡¯s herd, but he didn¡¯t not understand his role, so more often than not, he did the horse a disservice by leaving him alone and without companionship.


    The big piebald beast was happier now, glad to have purpose once more, and she could see it in his bright eyes and light steps as he eagerly awaited his next command. Now was not time for work though, at least not for Old Tux, so Elodie stood and watched Howie from afar with a mind to teach Old Tux how to play.


    It didn¡¯t take long for the horse to grow fretful, for they were creatures of habit and routine. What¡¯s more, the wise horse knew the dangers of the lake and worried to see his leader working so closely to it. Howie didn¡¯t mind one bit, directing Monsieur Nowak, Monsieur McKay, and Monsieur Bird to spread out a few metres away from the shore while he himself stood even closer. Made no sense for his guards to be further back from the water than him, but no one questioned him since he radiated confidence in a manner which demanded their trust.


    From lone wulf to leader of the pack, what a transformation it would be, and Elodie¡¯s heart skipped a beat as Howie stripped down to his shorts, revealing a thin frame covered in lean muscle and more scars than she cared to count. Many were unmistakably from gunfire, others from fang, claw, or beak, and one patch of mottled skin by his lower left hip was clearly Acid burns. A seasoned hunter this one, one who thrived from hunting dangerous prey. A menacing predator, one without fur, scales, fang, or horn, but armed with magic enough to contend against Mama, who was the most experienced Spellcaster of the tribe by far.


    It was fascinating to watch him at work as he settled in for his Ritual, one he identified as Water Breathing after the fact. Only then did she realize he meant to work underwater, while the others stood on shore to watch him, which seemed silly considering everyone here could shift into an aquatic animal to help keep watch from within. Before she could suggest it, Howie finished his brief explanation and stepped off the shore to sink into the depths, where he stayed for long, suspenseful minutes while his glowing blue hands floated above the water to mark his position. A thumbs up meant be ready to fight, and thumbs down to run as quick as they could, that was all the communication Howie shared before diving right in. Too long minutes for him to come back up, and when he finally did, Elodie let out the breath she¡¯d been holding all this while and sagged against Old Tux in relief.


    More used to Howie¡¯s antics, the horse flicked its ears and laughed at her plight, to which Elodie responded with a pat on the nose and scratches on the chin to encourage his good mood. All while watching Howie pull himself up out of the water and walk over to fetch a plank of wood. One taller and wider than he was, yet he had no trouble heaving it up onto one shoulder and depositing it upright into the lake. Jumping into the water again, he dove down and wrestled the plank into position until it sank into a crevice he must have dug out. Then, the water stilled for several minutes more, until he emerged a second time and repeated his actions with a second plank.


    Section by section, Howie slowly and surely built himself a wooden plank wall, one that would soon encircle the area where the docks were to be built. Interesting as the work was in concept, it was not enough to hold her attention for a full hour much less the entire day, so she wandered off to play and explore with Cowie while Old Tux continued to watch Howie work. Between bouts of play time, she brought the horse plenty of berries and roots to nibble on all throughout the day, all while Howie built a wooden dam, sealed it up, and then set to draining the water with a flexible hollow tube and a single application of the Shape Water Cantrip which set the water to flowing out nonstop. By then, it was time for lunch, so Howie dried off and ate as quickly as he could before getting right back to work mixing mortar and building scaffolding to build with one the dam was drained and ready.


    Never an idle moment. That¡¯s how Howie was, working until dinner non stop even after his guards swapped out once Papa returned home from his run. After inhaling his dinner without so much as a word of praise for Mama who cooked using the spices he¡¯d brought, Howie cracked open a small book and sat there waggling his fingers while looking at numbers and letters for the next few hours. Didn¡¯t pay Elodie any attention at all, even though she stayed close by, while Cowie wouldn¡¯t even dare to wander over and beg for attention because he knew it would be futile. When it came time for bed, Howie shooed Elodie away and said she wasn¡¯t allowed inside the bunkhouse. Pouting up a storm, she complained to Papa who just smiled and shrugged as if there was nothing he could do, so she took Old Tux and Cowie into the compound to sleep and let Howie spend the whole night alone.


    The next morning, he looked well-rested and refreshed, which came as surprise seeing how he slept alone. Claimed it was all the hard work when asked, which of course made sense, as everyone slept better after a gruelling day¡¯s effort, and she pouted some more because now he¡¯d never come asking to cuddle so he could get a good night¡¯s sleep. The second day progressed the same as the first, except instead of diving and building scaffolding, Howie carried stone bricks and mortar down to begin building the docks from the ground up, with Papa and Raja down there with him. Raja didn¡¯t like Howie much because he kept calling him an ugly horse, but by lunch time, the outline was more than halfway built and Raja¡¯s fake smiles had turned real thanks to Howie¡¯s charms. She could hear them chatting away while they worked, small snippets of conversation coming out of the waterless pit every hour or so, but he barely said more than a few handful of sentences to her over the course of both days.


    So that night, she let Cowie go free to follow Howie into the bunkhouse, then reached up to clasp the bunny totem on her necklace. A thought, a chant, and a stretch was all it took to Wildshape into a bunny, with no pain, no tension, no real sense of change even. One moment she was human, the next, a bunny, and after a quick wiggle to acclimate to her new form, she hopped on into the bunkhouse too. The world was so much larger and scarier as a bunny, so it took plenty of courage to hop out into the open and stand up to get Howie¡¯s attention. He smiled when he saw her, and squatted down so as not too loom. ¡°That you Elodie?¡± he asked, and she feigned like she didn¡¯t understand. She was just a bunny here to make friends, something cute and furry for him to cuddle, so she shook her head and felt her ears flop from side to side as she did. ¡°Guess you couldn¡¯t answer even if you were, huh.  Let¡¯s do it this way. If you are Elodie look right. If you aren¡¯t, look left.¡±


    She looked left of course, because she needed to trick him else he wouldn¡¯t bring her to bed. ¡°I guess you¡¯re not Elodie then,¡± he said, having been completely fooled by her act, and he even extended his arms for her to hop into his embrace. ¡°Just a sweet, adorable bunny.¡± Hugging her close to his chest, he stroked her chin and said, ¡°Well a good thing you showed up when you did. I was feeling a bit peckish, and rabbit skewers are sure to fill me up. Now where¡¯d I put my knife?¡±


    Heart leaping up into her throat, Elodie shook herself out of his arms and released her Wildshape to turn back into a person. ¡°Non-non. Please do not eat me, Howie. I lied, it is me, Elodie.¡±


    Her teary exclamation was cut short by Howie¡¯s laughter as he wrapped his duster around her. ¡°Easy now,¡± he said, setting his Mage Hands to help her with the buttons which felt oh so confining. ¡°Easy. I was just joking. I ain¡¯t gonna eat ye.¡± Elodie pouted to hear it, but he knew he¡¯d done wrong and patted her shoulder to soothe her.


    ¡°You knew!¡± Balling her fists up, she hammered his chest lightly to display displeasure. ¡°You tricked me and scared me.¡±


    ¡°Yep.¡± Gently patting her hair with too light a touch, he gave her an unrepentant smile and said, ¡°Sorry for scaring you Elodie, but it¡¯s for your own good. That could really happen if you try to be cute and make friends with the wrong person, so don¡¯t be showing yourself to no one as an animal okay?¡± Suitably chastened, Elodie nodded, then slid forward and tried to climb into his bed, only for his patting hand to turn into a barring palm that pushed her back and away. ¡°Go back to your own room Elodie,¡± he said, shooing her off. ¡°Else I¡¯ll string you up outside for the night.¡±


    There was something in his tone and his delivery that made her believe him, so she stomped her way out of the bunkhouse and back to the compound where Papa was stood waiting at the side door. He didn¡¯t say anything, just wrapped his arm around her shoulder and walked her back to bed, where she hugged Howie¡¯s jacket tight and grumbled into it until she fell asleep. The next morning, she brought it out to breakfast, but didn¡¯t return it to him. He didn¡¯t ask for it either though. Instead, he went right to work once more, while Elodie sulked in his duster and played with Cowie and Old Tux. That was the only progress she¡¯d made these last few days, convincing the old horse to relax while his leader worked, and now the piebald was happily rolling around in the dirt and trotting about in search of ripe berries and fresh tubers. Cowie had a spectacular nose which he used to lead them to the most delicious fruits and vegetables, so while Howie was putting the finishing touches on the docks, Elodie, Old Tux, and Cowie were getting fat on the forest¡¯s bounty.


    They wandered further and further from the compound, and Elodie kept her eyes on the forest floor, having made a game of it to see if she could beat Cowie to the next closest treat. She lost more than she won, and suspected she only won at all because Cowie let her, but it was all in good fun. Right up until she heard a branch snap to her right, and she looked up to see three mounted strangers riding up with unkind smiles stretched across their faces. They wore fine white wing-collared shirts and black silk vests under long leather overcoats, with the only differences being in their ties and hats. Blue tie was the leader, an ugly, older man with a clean-shaven face and matching scars on both cheeks, scars he gestured at with a meaty hand that displayed a fat gold ring on his pinky finger. ¡°Hey, look at us,¡± he said, eyeing Elodie like the gryphikin eyes a chitter rat stood out on an open clearing. ¡°We match.¡±


    They most certainly did not. Elodie¡¯s whiskers were green, three on each side that went sideways. The ugly man only had one scar a side and they went straight down. She didn¡¯t say as much though, just backed away with Old Tux while Cowie¡¯s chest rumbled in warning. They paid his warnings no mind, as he was still tiny and cute, and the scarred man waved her closer while slowly approaching. ¡°No need to be scared,¡± he lied, ¡°I ain¡¯t gonna hurt ya. Why don¡¯t I give you a lift into the compound?¡± Soon as they drew too close for comfort, Cowie trotted forward in a bluff charge. ¡°Easy there big guy,¡± the scarred man said, pointing at Cowie like he was shooting a gun. ¡°Don¡¯t make me have to put you down.¡± A warning delivered in an almost joking manner, but Elodie believed the man would hurt Cowie without blinking, as would the other two, who already had their rifles out and resting against their shoulders.


    ¡°You even try,¡± Howie began, his illusory voice booming from behind the three strangers, and they all turned to look for the source with guns at the ready. ¡°And me and my boys here will see to it you all live long enough to regret it.¡±


    ¡°Woah, now. Woah.¡± Gone was the casual, almost joking demeanour as the scarred man raised his hands in surrender. Before, he was the gryphikin, and now he was the chitter rat, glancing all about in search of the hidden Howie. ¡°This is all a misunderstanding.¡±


    ¡°Which is what we¡¯ll tell the Sherrif after we shoot you dead,¡± Howie replied, his voice still coming from the other side. ¡°That is unless you set your guns down in the dirt. Got three seconds. Three. Two.¡±


    ¡°Okay! We¡¯re dropping our guns. You¡¯re making a mistake though.¡± Despite his bluster, the scarred man followed orders and slowly dropped his weapons to the ground, while the other two followed his lead. It took some time to get through their arsenal, as they were carrying four or five a piece, while Elodie backed away with Old Tux and Cowie. ¡°There?¡± the scarred man said, still looking around in search of Howie. ¡°Happy? We¡¯re unarmed now, but we got business here with Carter. Just so you know, I¡¯m Mikey D''Ippolito, a made man of the Pugliano Family. I go down, and there¡¯ll be hell to pay.¡±


    ¡°Never heard of you or them.¡± Sauntering out of the forest and appearing next to Elodie, Howie kept his eyes on the three men and asked, ¡°They say or do anything untowards, girlie?¡±


    She shook her head, then realized he couldn¡¯t see her, his predator¡¯s gaze fixed on his prey. ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°All I said is we match. ¡®Cuz of our cheeks. That¡¯s it.¡±


    ¡°All right. You say you got business with Carter?¡±


    Michael nodded, his eyes studying Howie for a long second before shaking his head with a heated chuckle as he slowly lowered his hands. ¡°You ain¡¯t got no boys, do you? You¡¯re that hotshot Qink kid everyone talkin¡¯ about. The Firstborn, right?¡±


    ¡°Name¡¯s Howie Zhu.¡±


    ¡°Good for you. So what now? That slope fuck hire you to take me out?¡±


    Howie¡¯s gun clicked, and the sound sent a chill down Elodie¡¯s spine. The two men in the back flinched, but Michael didn¡¯t so much as blink. ¡°No. Might do the job for free if you don¡¯t watch your mouth though.¡±


    Michael laughed, his expression genuinely bright and cheery. ¡°Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I didn¡¯t believe the stories, but damn if you didn¡¯t make me a believer right there.¡±


    ¡°Hallelujah. Now what sort of business you got with Carter?¡±


    ¡°The personal kind. So if you don¡¯t mind?¡±


    Howie paused, then moved Elodie, Old Tux, and Cowie to one side before gesturing for Michael to continue on towards the compound. ¡°Go on ahead then. Don¡¯t worry about your guns. We good, honest folk out here, so they¡¯ll be there when you get back. In the interest of safety though, I¡¯m gonna keep my gun out. Gotta admit, I¡¯m a bit of nervous nelly, so if I hear a chant or see so much as a finger waggle, then I¡¯ll drop all three of you, hunt down the feathered fedora wearing fools watching us to the northeast, and feed you all to Abby.¡±


    ¡°No chantin¡¯. No finger wagglin¡¯. Teach my idiot crew to hide better. Anything else? No? Mind if ask a few questions on the way then? Have us an open dialogue?¡± Michael had already moved past, with the other two close behind, and Howie followed them closely with his gun out. Elodie followed too, wanting to hold Howie¡¯s arm for comfort, but Cowie nudged her aside to let her know he needed to be left alone.


    ¡°Long as you don¡¯t mind if I don¡¯t answer,¡± Howie said, unaware of the exchange behind him, ¡°Then go right ahead.¡±


    ¡°I heard you walked out of Pleasant Dunes with that Soviet spook¡¯s fancy rifle. That true?¡±


    ¡°Yep.¡±


    ¡°And Ronald Jackson¡¯s Nagas too?¡±


    ¡°He didn¡¯t need ¡®em no more.¡±


    Michael whistled, a skill Elodie envied. ¡°Hear the whole underground bunker went up in flames, and the building on top of it too. Crazy stuff.¡± Howie didn¡¯t answer, just kept following the three men with his head scanning this way and that as he walked. All without making a sound, Elodie noticed, his boots always finding their way between branches and leaves to land on firm dirt or exposed stone instead. ¡°Whole cache of explosives light up all at once and bring the bunker right down on everyone in it. You made it out in one piece though. Even had time to stop and pick up some trophies along the way.¡±


    ¡°Just lucky I guess.¡± There was an edge of steel to Howie¡¯s voice, an anger in the set of his shoulders as he said, ¡°That plus some help from the Rangers.¡±


    ¡°Yea that¡¯s what I heard too.¡± Turning in his seat with his arms still raised, Michael smiled at Howie and said, ¡°I don¡¯t believe though. See I¡¯m thinkin¡¯ it was someone else that done Ron in, because I know for a fact Wayne Marlon would never turn on his old school yard friend Ronald Jackson like that. They went back a long ways, and Ron helped Wayne more than once these last few years. Good man, Ron. Knew how to look after his friends. Mutual friends who might be inclined to even the score, so to speak.¡±


    ¡°That so?¡± Now it was Howie¡¯s turn to chuckle. ¡°Odd that. I heard Ron was suspect number one in the deaths of some big shot mafioso family back in the old world. Didn¡¯t think he¡¯d still have friends among them.¡±


    ¡°Hey, look at you. And here I thought you didn¡¯t know nothing about nothing.¡± Shaking his head, Michael said, ¡°That stuff? Ancient history. Water under the bridge. New world, new start, am I right?¡±


    ¡°If you say so. You come across any of those mutual friends though, make sure you tell them not to make the same mistake Ron did.¡±


    There was a long pause, and Elodie sensed there was more to their discussion, something she didn¡¯t entirely understand. ¡°And what mistake was that?¡± Michael asked, his tone serious as the grave.


    ¡°He never married the love of his life,¡± Howie said, his voice cold and cutting. ¡°So best be sure you got no regrets before taking a run at the man who done Ronald Jackson in.¡±


    Elodie shuddered to hear it. There was a savage fury in Howie¡¯s declaration, but that was not what shook her so. No, it was the eager impatience bubbling underneath, and the sadistic glee contained within, a yearning for battle and bloodshed that no tuskwulf could ever match. Howie lived for the hunt, only he was no animal hunting for survival. No, he hunted for sport, and now he had a target in sight, one who revealed himself without knowing what he was in for. Dangerous as this made man Michael might be, Howie was the more dangerous of the two by far, and Elodie wasn¡¯t sure what to make of it just yet.


    Mama and Papa would know. She would ask them, but no matter what they said, Elodie had chosen her mate, and she would not abandon him so easily like this.

 Book Two - Chapter 74

    I¡¯m all for due process and innocent until proven guilty, but there ought to be exceptions for extenuating circumstances.


    Like say when a man rides up and introduces himself as a card-carrying member of a known criminal organization. That ought to count as a confession, and as such, I should be allowed to treat him as a criminal. Especially when induction into said criminal organization requires you kill someone on their behalf. It¡¯s guilt by association. You gotta make you bones to become a made man in the Sicilian Mafia, which ain¡¯t possible without committing murder, ergo, being a made man ought to carry the same penalty, which under Federal law is death. Fair is fair. Would do wonders for the crime rate up and down the Blue Bulwark, and probably inland and on the West Coast too. Law enforcement¡¯s gotta step it up, and if they gotta outsource to make it happen, then I say let ¡®em. In fact, put an open bounty on all known associates of organized crime today, and I bet those criminal enterprises will be out of business by year end, or at least operating from the shadows instead of out in the open and bold as can be like Michael Dipolio here.


    ¡­That wasn¡¯t his name, was it? Dippiolio? Nope, that don¡¯t sound right either. Dip-pip-pip-ty-do-li-oo?


    Whatever. The point is, if a man identifies himself as a murderous criminal, then I should be allowed to shoot him without repercussion. That ain¡¯t how the law works though, because in the eyes of the law, all this slick skeeze bag has done is drop a name and ask for money. To help solve a problem they themselves create mind you, which is where the illegality comes in. Don¡¯t pay your dues? Then maybe your boats get trashed, your stables burn down, or a sawblade goes missing, and there ain¡¯t nothing the local lawmen can do about it, since most can¡¯t find their ass with both hands and a map. Forget them old world detective stories where law enforcement chases down leads and arrests bad guys. Here on the Frontier, if a crime happens outside of town, you¡¯re pretty much on your own unless it¡¯s something big like murder, and even then, most go unsolved. Especially if there¡¯s no body, because then it¡¯s not a murder investigation, only missing persons, and believe you me, there are plenty of missing people and countless ways to make a body disappear.


    Like feeding bodies to Abby, which I myself am guilty of, and it might well be where them cultist rumours started. I ain¡¯t saying there ain¡¯t any crazies out there who sacrifice animals and people to Abby and Proggies, but there probably aren¡¯t as many as the rumours would have you think. Dollars to donuts, when you see someone feeding the local Abby, it¡¯s likely a criminal like Michael getting rid of the bodies. Unlike cultists however, mafiosos will come and cut your throat while you sleep if they hear you¡¯ve been talking about one of their nocturnal boat rides, so those stories don¡¯t get shared.


    Hence why Michael claims there¡¯s an extra tax on the docks now that they ain¡¯t floating, then offers a discount if they¡¯re allowed to use the dock and the boats whenever they like, no questions asked. Easiest way to dump bodies around here is to fill their shoes with rocks and drop them off in the middle of the lake, and having multiple docks to choose from makes you less likely to get caught. Carter politely declines the discount, citing that they¡¯re private people unaccustomed to visitors, and all of a sudden the extra tax balloons into something ridiculous. ¡°It¡¯s the stonework,¡± Michael says, shrugging like he can¡¯t do nothing about it when he¡¯s the one making rules up as he goes. ¡°Costs extra. Forgot all about it. An extra grand for the year. Math ain¡¯t my strong suit though, so let¡¯s call it three bills a season. Nice round number.¡±


    This parasitic son of a gun wants $1200 a year just because Carter¡¯s got a dock he won¡¯t let the Mafia use. That¡¯s a basic working man¡¯s yearly salary these days, the going rate for what some call unskilled labour. Not to mention how this is on top of what Michael¡¯s already extorting from them, an undisclosed amount Carter handed over in a thick paper envelop as soon as he saw who the visitor was. He don¡¯t argue the math on these new demands either, or try to haggle down the price. He just gives me a stern look telling me to play nice before heading back inside the compound to get another $300, leaving me to keep an eye on the unwanted visitors.


    Not that he asked me to. The opposite in fact, as he wanted me inside with everyone else, but I told him I was more comfortable out here. Even put my gun away when he asked, though I¡¯m still standing ready to shoot if needed. A fact Michael don¡¯t pay no mind to, though his goons got glares for days. Both Innates, which is how I know they ain¡¯t made men, because you gotta be pure of blood to make it in the Mafia. No idea why that is or what purity of blood brings to the table, because Innates get Spells and Brands which can be pretty cool. Not these ones though, as the first is tall, fat, and got shiny blue crystallized growths covering his scalp instead of hair. Like pointy spiked nubs slicked back which puts me in mind of a quill shrew, all short, sharp, and prickly. Wouldn¡¯t want to get headbutted by the fella, but otherwise, ain¡¯t nothing special to see. The other is short, stout, and somehow has too much and too little hair at the same time. Got a bald spot the size of the sun, and thick tufts of white wizened hair growing out of his ears to go with the salt-and-peppered wispy facial hair he got going on. None of which have got a thing to do with his Brand, a set of knobbly, arthritic fingers ending in sharp, curved talons, all yellow and sickly looking but dangerous all the same. Whatever magic these Innates got don¡¯t make up for their lack of guns though, so at end of the day, these two goons and their boss are no more dangerous than any other Spellslinger around.


    And believe you me, made man-child Mikey over there is most certainly a Spellslinger.


    There are a lot of ways to identify a Spellslinger, and the easiest is by their pouch. Or pouches as it were with Michael, at least three a side sewn into the inner lining of his sharp leather trench coat for all the Spell Components he keeps. Spotted a wand tucked in there too, so he uses enough magic on the daily to make Rituals worthwhile. Add in the frosty blue Aberration Cold Stone embedded into his pinky ring, as well as the Orichalcum brooch shaped like a kite shield over his left lapel pocket, and all signs point to Michael being a serious Abjurer with a penchant for Frost Spells.


    And showing off. His Abjurer¡¯s sigil is a brooch the size of a fist instead a simple pin the size of a fingertip, one cast in a metal flashier and more expensive than traditional bronze, silver, or gold to denote mastery of Third, Sixth, or Ninth Order Spells respectively. Immortal Monarchs get the clear purple crystal Aether for their pins, or at least they did during the short period of time when it was fashionable to flout one¡¯s status, which really only made them targets. As for Orichalcum? That¡¯s just showing you got more money than sense, and doubly so since Michael don¡¯t keep it polished. What should be shiny, bright and golden is tarnished green and ugly, which is just sad seeing how the cost of metal alone could pay a year¡¯s worth of fees on Carter¡¯s new dock and still have change left over for next spring and summer. A tempting sum that¡¯s got my trigger finger itching, but lucky for Michael, I ain¡¯t no thief or bandit. I¡¯ll take it off him when I kill him legit, so all I gotta do is wait until he makes the first move.


    And he will make a move at some point. He¡¯s been playing it cool so far, acting all friendly like he ain¡¯t cheesed about getting drawn on, but I see right through him. This is a man whose pride is brittle as eggshells, because you don¡¯t drop that much cash on an Abjurer¡¯s sigil unless it¡¯s all you got to be proud of. Don¡¯t see no pins or brooches representing other Schools of Magic, nor any triangles, hexagons, or nonagons around to say he a Magus, Grandmagus, or Archmagus. He didn¡¯t call himself a Capo, Consigliere, or Underboss either, though I already knew as much. Doubt the big cheese rides out to collect the dues himself, so Michael ain¡¯t nothin¡¯ but a soldato, a soldier and hatchet man sitting low on the totem pole. Can¡¯t be all that then, so I doubt he¡¯s got a Third Order Spell. Might wear the brooch because he¡¯s gotten good with one particular First or Second Order Abjuration Spell. The lack of polish on the expensive sigil says he catches flak for it too, but he spent too much on the piece to let it go. Arrogant and stubborn, while mafiosos are hardly known for their calm tempers or self-control, all of which tells me Michael ain¡¯t a man to forgive or forget.


    And if that ain¡¯t enough to convince me? His two Innate goons are giving away the game with their bloodthirsty glares, telling me this ain¡¯t over just yet. They won¡¯t come at me today though. No, I already got the jump on them once, and Michael knows he won¡¯t get away with grabbing his guns and doubling back. Too predictable, so he¡¯ll leave and come find me another time, one of his choosing because he¡¯s a thug who don¡¯t got the stomach for a fair fight. That¡¯s why he¡¯s got a shield sigil rather than any other symbol, because his Abjuration Spells make him feel safe, and he probably walks around buffed to the gills in Abjuration Spells every minute of the day, which is why he needs Rituals to help fill in the gaps.


    I know, I know. I¡¯m making a lot of assumptions about the man¡¯s character, and I could be completely wrong. Don¡¯t think I am, but I¡¯ll stay guarded all the same, ready to drop him and his goons should they so much as twitch funny.


    ¡°So what¡¯s your deal, kid?¡± Michael asks, gesture at me and then all around us. ¡°They run you out of town or something? You live here now?¡±


    ¡°Nah. Just work here.¡±


    ¡°You do that dock? Nice job. Must¡¯ve cost Carter a pretty penny. What¡¯s your going rate?¡±


    ¡°Zero.¡± I shrug. ¡°Hard labour for conduct unbecoming. Don¡¯t get paid.¡±


    That seems to be a touchy subject, as Michael goes off on a bit about how hard labour is just modern slavery and the justice system is stacked against guys like him. I don¡¯t let myself get drawn in and stay vigilant just in case. If we do throw down here and now, it¡¯ll be a tough fight. Got a dozen different ways to deal with enemy Spellslingers, most of which start and end with a Bolt to the head before they know the fight¡¯s started. Gets trickier when you gotta let the other side make the first move. Still feel confident I can take ¡®em considering I got more guns than they got people, but Spells are one hell of an equalizer. Can never account for them all, so all you can do is be ready to act when the Spells start flying, or preferably before. Most important of all though, if a fight does break out, then I need to be sure I get every last mafioso around. There¡¯s three here and the two chuckleheads I spotted further back, but there could be more. Can¡¯t afford to let a single witness get away and spread word of what happened, because Carter and his people will be the ones taking heat. Doesn¡¯t matter that I¡¯m unaffiliated, because criminals don¡¯t care about the facts. All they¡¯ll care about is the fact that their people got hit, and that means they gotta hit back.


    Me, I can handle myself well enough, but Carter and his people? Their Wildshaping don¡¯t change the fact that they might as well be sitting ducks out here. No guards, no law enforcement, no friendly neighbours to bear witness, meaning there¡¯s nothing stopping the Mafia from showing up one night with a dozen men and molotovs aplenty.


    Which is why I gotta make sure don¡¯t none of this blow back on no innocents, on top of letting Michael make the first move. Sucks having to play by the rules when your enemies never do, while also being held to a higher standard than normal. Not just because of Uncle Teddy¡¯s expectations, but everyone else¡¯s too, because now that I got a rep for stepping outside the lines, everything I do will be seen in that same light. If word gets out that I took out a mafioso, I wouldn¡¯t put it past the rumor mill to paint me as a wannabe criminal mastermind looking to muscle in on the Mafia or something.


    All that is putting the horse before the cart though, so I focus on the here and now. I keep an eye on Michael and pretend to ignore the goons, because that bothers all three of ¡®em which suits me just fine. Carter comes out after a couple tense minutes looking mighty put out, and it¡¯s easy to guess why when he beelines over towards me. ¡°Elodie¡¯s got my wallet,¡± I say, before he can open his mouth, and Carter nods as he holds it up, having already anticipated as much. Rather than accept it, I simply shake my head and say, ¡°Take what I owe you.¡± Ain¡¯t gonna make him ask for a loan, not to pay off some skeezy mobster. As an alternative, I meet Carter¡¯s eyes in a wordless offer to make this all go away. He doesn¡¯t nod or shake his head, just presses his lips together in silent rejection as he takes what he needs and gives the wallet back to my waiting Mage Hand.


    Which tucks it away in my back pocket before settling on the handle of my Doorknocker without trying to hide it. Makes both goons shift on their feet, as they none too happy to see it, while Michael gives a little chuff and a shake of his head to act all amused. I don¡¯t buy it though. Doubt he¡¯s used to dealing with people ready to fight back, because the mere mention of his status and backing is usually enough to rattle most folks. In his mind, he the big bad wulf, and the rest of us are all Red Riding Hoods who exist to bring him tribute, so he don¡¯t like being reminded that there are huntsman around who kill wulves for a living.


    Michael accepts the cash from Carter and counts it all out then and there, which takes a bit seeing how there so many ones and fives. ¡°Saw your girl out there,¡± he says, by way of idle conversation, and Carter tenses up to hear it. ¡°Didn¡¯t know you had a daughter. You kept her hidden good.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s Aether-touched,¡± Carter replies.


    ¡°Yea I figured,¡± Michael replies. Gesturing back at the spiky headed goon, he says, ¡°Cold Cuts there has a kid the same way. Fifteen and tough as nails, but ain¡¯t all there in the head.¡± The spike-headed Innate grunts in affirmation, and for a brief, infinitesimal moment I wonder if I read Michael wrong regarding his interest in Elodie. Then he opens his mouth again, and the moment passes. ¡°Could get her work, if you want. Good lookin¡¯ girl like her would make decent money, even with all that shit on her face. Pay your yearly dues and then some.¡±


    Only need one guess to figure out what sort of work Michael got in mind, and it takes every iota of self-control not to shoot him dead here and now. Carter though, he cool as a cucumber as he shakes his head and lies through his teeth. ¡°I appreciate the offer, but no thank you.¡±


    ¡°Well, you ever change your mind about the dock or the girl, you let me know.¡± Waving the envelope of cash he extorted from Carter, Michael adds, ¡°Her signing bonus would make this look like chump change.¡± As he turns to mount his horse, he shoots me a smile. ¡°Be seeing you around, kid.¡±


    ¡°Not if I see you first.¡± That wipes the smile off the mobster¡¯s smarmy face, and he turns away without another word. While they¡¯re all distracted, I activate a Spell Structure in my mind and Intone, ¡°Effugere ¨C Non ¨C Poteso¡±, or ¡°You cannot escape.¡± The Vocal Component to Hunter¡¯s Mark muttered under my breath, a First Order Spell I sling at the talon-handed goon¡¯s horse. The beast feels the Spell take effect and side steps away, its ears flicking and hooves pawing as the goon tries to get it under control. The goons don¡¯t think nothing of it, and I don¡¯t think Michael does either. Clocked how Talon there was the worst rider of the bunch, which is why I went for his horse instead of someone else¡¯s, but the beast calms soon enough since the Spell don¡¯t do any actual damage.


    It''s something of an upgrade to the True Strike Cantrip, which intuitively helps to guide the Caster¡¯s aim. Hunter¡¯s Mark does the same thing against one specific target, but also has the added benefit of making said target easier to track and follow. As the horse and rider disappears into the forest, I can feel a mental tug moving in that direction, one that will guide me to the location of my marked target without fail until the Spell ends. Without a range limit mind you, so long as the target started within range of the Spell. Lasts a full hour and requires Concentration, but should my target die, I can move the mark to another target within range with little more than a thought.


    It¡¯s mostly there to make sure they don¡¯t double back with their guns and their friends. Handy little utility First Order Spell that¡¯s the bread and butter of the Scout¡¯s kit, one I need a whole lot of practice with. Would love to run off and follow Michael into the woods, maybe track him back to their base camp even, but that might take days and I don¡¯t got the supplies for a trip. A shame we didn¡¯t get into a scuffle. With a bit of blood, hair, or even a torn piece of cloth from his fancy trench coat, I¡¯d have a Spell focus for Locate Creature or Locate Object that¡¯d be good for three days. Those Spells do exactly what you think they do, but you need a link to whatever it is you looking to locate, like the blood, hair, or cloth. After three days though, those are all no good, because they¡¯ve been separated from their original host for too long and lose that magical connection the Spells rely on to track their target.


    More importantly though, Hunter¡¯s Mark could¡¯ve saved Marcus¡¯ life back in Pleasant Dunes. Already knew a Mind Spike would¡¯ve told me that the Proggie was playing dead, but I recently learned during one of Uncle Teddy¡¯s lessons that Hunter¡¯s Mark would¡¯ve done the same. Which hurts because I had it prepped for the delve and had juice to sling it too, but I didn¡¯t because I didn¡¯t know how useful the Spell really was. I just had it prepped because it was a staple of my daddy¡¯s everyday Spell list, and I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll ever forgive myself for screw up like that.


    Told Simone I was to blame for Marcus¡¯ death, but she didn¡¯t believe it. Them¡¯s the facts though, the ugly, unvarnished truth, and a burden I¡¯ll have to live with for the rest of my days. Got no cure for regret, so the best I can do is make sure I never make the same mistake again.


    As for Carter, he doesn¡¯t say anything once the Mafioso¡¯s are gone. Doesn¡¯t punch no walls, kick no rocks, or so much as snarl and stamp his feet. Just takes a deep breath, holds it, and exhales over the course of a couple seconds, then waves me in for lunch. There¡¯s a lot I want to say, but for once, I keep my mouth shut, because calm and collected though he may appear, I can sense his anger bubbling away just underneath the surface. Same with the other members of the community, whose emotions run the gamut from sulky to despondent as we all eat in silence, our moods sombre and gloomy not just because of Michael, but the droning Mindspire too, which hits us with Bane about halfway through our meal. We¡¯re all more or less used to it by now, but Elodie seems real put off by the whole encounter, sticking close to her mama the whole time in search of comfort. Not sure she entirely understands what happened, but she knows a predator when she sees one, and don¡¯t much like being seen as prey.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    Soon as we¡¯re done eating, I head back to work with Carter and Raja, the non-distinct South-East Asian with the fake smiles. No one says much of anything at all, though I¡¯m not sure if Raja even speaks English, as I ain¡¯t heard him say anything besides yes, no, and ah. Least he¡¯s stopped glaring every time I look away, so that¡¯s something, though he¡¯s got his eyes narrowed, lip curled, and nose wrinkled in obvious resentment as he toils away laying stone bricks and mortar beside me. As for me, I play it cool and maintain my hold on Hunter¡¯s Mark for the next hour and a half, sensing the horse moving further and further north until I can¡¯t hold my Concentration any longer. A poor showing to be sure, since my daddy could hold Hunter¡¯s Mark for eight hours easy, and go a full day if he upcasted it to Third Order. Got to a point where he could cast it without effort like it was a Cantrip rather than a First Order Spell, which is one of many signature skills that the United Federation Rangers are known for.


    Got a long ways to go before I catch up, and even longer before I surpass him. Longer still if I don¡¯t keep practicing, but the Mindspire¡¯s got all the birds and marties in hiding, so I haven¡¯t had many targets to work with. Maybe I should start using Hunter¡¯s Mark in fights and throwing it on Abby as they run away. Could give me a general idea of where they¡¯re scampering off to, but seeing how they¡¯ll know they¡¯ve been marked, I doubt they¡¯ll lead me straight to their Proggie.


    Although¡­


    ¡°Hey boss?¡± I say, after a solid two hours of silence while hanging out on the scaffolding. ¡°You guys spend a lot of time swimming out in the lake, right? Been doing that for years, probably.¡± Carter nods, and acts like that¡¯s the end of it, but I push on and ask, ¡°You ever spot any Abby tunnels down there?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Giving me a look that says he knows what I¡¯m thinking, Carter gives me a look from across the near finished dock. ¡°We avoid Aberrations wherever we can. A simple enough task since they are not built for speed.¡± Makes sense seeing how mudkippers and ranakin are ambush hunters, while merhounds are pack hunters that work in groups to wear their quarry down. Guess sea lions are pretty fast swimmers then, though I still don¡¯t know what they look like.


    Undeterred by Carter¡¯s curt replies, I ask, ¡°Well, you got an inkling of any Abby hotspots then? General locations would be good enough.¡± As if on cue, the Mindspire fluctuates and the pitch sharpens enough to make me wince. ¡°Could help narrow down where the Proggie¡¯s hiding, or reveal an opening down under dark for the Rangers to delve into.¡± Carter doesn¡¯t say anything, but Raja glances at him to see if he¡¯ll say anything, which is telling because it means there¡¯s something worth saying. ¡°If you¡¯re worried about folks finding out,¡± I say, keeping it vague because you never know who might be listening, ¡°Then I could say I was the one who noticed it. Claim I marked a froggie or tagged a fish and came across a point of interest. Anything comes of it, I¡¯ll make sure the reward gets to you and yours.¡±


    Carter spends a long time pondering over his answer, and I don¡¯t push him for one. I just continue laying stones and marking out where the Etches will go when we have the materials needed to lay a ward. Materials they could¡¯ve afforded if they didn¡¯t have to save up to pay their protection fees, a reminder which puts me in a foul mood. All I can think about is drawing a bead on Michael¡¯s greasy face and putting a Bolt clean through it, or tracking down his base of operations so I can set fire to the whole thing and laugh as them mobsters die screaming inside. Would be too merciful an end if I¡¯m being honest, because mobsters are no different from scavs, a burden on society who offer no benefit whatsoever while being a drain on resources like food and fresh air.


    Got plenty of the latter. Just don¡¯t believe mobsters and scavs deserve any is all, and you can¡¯t tell me different. Maybe Michael¡¯s right and hard labour is just modern-day slavery, but if I¡¯m being honest, I got no real issues with that. Least then we can put criminals to work, instead of paying for their room and board in a jail cell somewhere, or worse, leaving them to be a drain out in the world like they are.


    With the three of us working in silence, we manage to put the finishing touches on the dock by late-afternoon, and all that¡¯s left is to let it dry before removing the cofferdam keeping all the water at bay. A full day at minimum, at least two to be safe, so I tell Carter to let it to sit for the weekend, and that I¡¯ll come back Monday morning to finish up. ¡°No need,¡± he says. ¡°That¡¯s less than an hours worth of work, which doesn¡¯t meet the minimum requirements for hard labour. We can take it down ourselves.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± I say, feeling a little awkward as I glance around in search of something else to do. ¡°Don¡¯t suppose you got any more work for me to do? Would love to end today with a full ten to put me at two-thirty.¡± Leaving me with only 250 hours of hard labour to go.


    ¡°I¡¯ll mark it down as ten,¡± Carter says, waving my concerns away. ¡°You worked overtime most days you were here, so it¡¯s only fair.¡±


    Makes sense, but I don¡¯t feel right shirking my hours, even if it¡¯s only by a few. This here a punishment set by Uncle Teddy, so I gotta be able to look him in the eye and honestly tell him I done all 480 hours to make things right. I don¡¯t argue though, just keep the facts in mind as Carter fills out my time sheet hands it over before asking if I got a map of the lake. I do, and he sends the next half hour marking areas on it and telling me what to look for, details I commit to memory while asking relevant questions the Rangers might want to know about. There are three areas of interests he thinks needs checking out, while he¡¯s got a half-dozen other locations that are only slightly promising. Still more than what I had before, and I thank him for the help. Offer to waive the money borrowed too, because even if the info doesn¡¯t lead us to the Proggie, I could make bank setting up ambushes for Abby. He tries to refuse, but I¡¯m more stubborn than he is, so he got no choice but to accept it soon enough.


    At which point we hit a lull in our conversation as I wait around in hopes of an invitation to come back, and he stands there in a firm but polite manner that tells me he got no work for me, and that I should be on my way. It¡¯s an incredibly articulate stance he¡¯s got there, one I read well enough, but even though I got more prospects for work up in Mueller¡¯s Quay, I¡¯d much rather finish all my hours here. They don¡¯t expect much in the way of social interaction, leave me be without pestering me with questions, and mortifying as some of my exchanges with Elodie might have been, she¡¯s got this straightforward, guileless, child-like nature that makes me want to protect her from all the ugliness out here on the Frontier.


    So of course I feel compelled to explains things to Carter. ¡°So about Elodie,¡± I begin, before I¡¯ve had time think of what I¡¯m going to say.


    Luckily, Carter understands. ¡°No need,¡± he says, with a little half smile and shake of his head. ¡°I know you have no ill-intent towards her. No romantic interest either, which is a relief, though I can¡¯t say I understand.¡± The half-smile turns into a full one as he looks me up and down. ¡°Most boys your age are drawn to pretty girls like moths to a flame, but you seemed upset to learn that Elodie was a girl instead of a wild, ferocious beast.¡±


    ¡°Because I got my priorities straight.¡± Grinning, I explain, ¡°I know plenty of pretty girls, but how many prospects for unstoppable, magical beasts do I have? Only Cowie, and he plenty stoppable so far, making a diamondclaw a most welcome addition to the family.¡± Which is a real bummer. Here I am, a one-handed man without a diamondclaw to my name. Which is the same place this time last week, but it¡¯s all a matter of perspective. Thought I found a shortcut, a springboard to launch me far enough ahead to make up for lost time and then some, but alas, it was all just a dream, and now I¡¯m mourning a fluffy friend I never had in the first place.


    Doesn¡¯t help that Elodie was so cute as a diamondclaw, with them big, round eyes and that adorable, permanent smile. And those human-like mannerisms like how she tucked her hands, held her food, or fell back into my arms and looked up at my face. All actions which were just animalistic enough to make it seem like a real smart creature, rather than a person masquerading as an animal, though as far as I can tell, that¡¯s just how she is when she Wildshapes. She¡¯s not Elodie in a diamondclaw body; she¡¯s a diamondclaw with Elodie¡¯s memories and maybe even cognitive abilities, but not necessarily the same thought processes.


    ¡°You only think this way because you¡¯ve never met a diamondclaw in the wild,¡± Carter says. Seeing my wince, he continues, ¡°Or perhaps I¡¯ve misspoken.¡± Which would be a great launching point for my story, if Carter wasn¡¯t such a terrible conversationalist. ¡°Either way, raising a pet diamondclaw is a recipe for disaster, so I would strongly advise against even trying.¡± Glancing back at the compound, Carter heaves a long sigh before turning around again, all serious as the grave once more. ¡°As for Elodie¡­ Don¡¯t take this the wrong way Howie, but I would ask that you keep your distance and not contact her again after today.¡±


    Now there¡¯s a sucker punch I wasn¡¯t expecting, because I though Carter liked me well enough, and I was hoping to stay friends with the girl at least. ¡°Mind if I ask why?¡± I begin, more sad than angry to hear it. ¡°You said it yourself. I got no romantic interest in her, or professional ones either if that¡¯s what you¡¯re concerned about. Don¡¯t matter if she can turn into a diamondclaw, I would never think to bring her out on a hunt now that I know how she is.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± Carter says, giving me a look that¡¯s almost pity. ¡°I also know you mean well Howie, but I fear what might come from association with you. You live a life steeped in violence, one that will remain so even if you live out the rest of your days in New Hope.¡± I don¡¯t understand, and my expression gives it away, so Carter places a hand on my shoulder and explains, ¡°You see your actions as normal and logical, and most of the time, you are right, except for those all-too-common occasions when they are anything but. How many people would make ready to draw down against a deputy over something as minor as mucking the stables? Or consider hunting down a known member of the Mafia over no real grievance at all?¡± Shaking his head, Carter says, ¡°You look down on us for submitting to their demands, for paying their fees instead of fighting back, and perhaps you are right to. Yes, we could refuse, and yes, we have strength enough to fight back, but it would not end with a single skirmish. No, we would have to wage war against the Pugliano Family and their allies, and for what? So we don¡¯t have to pay their fees? Fighting them would cost more, leave us destitute in the long run, and then where would we be? Even if we won, that would not be the end of it. A new group of criminals would emerge in their place, and then what? We fight again, and again, until we cannot fight any longer, because there will always be someone to fight.¡±


    Got a lot on my chest that I want to say, to explain how I see things and why he¡¯s wrong about it, but Carter just shakes his head again. ¡°You are a good man, Howie,¡± he says, giving me no chance to say my piece. ¡°You see the wrongs and mean to right them, and the world needs men and women like you, but yours is a thankless and impossible task. Chances are, your life will end in spectacular violence, and when it does, I will not have my daughter anywhere near you.¡±


    Which I suppose is his right, and I can¡¯t even argue against it. Lost my hand because I was too stubborn to even pretend to submit, and almost got shot by Deputy Juan for the same stupid reason. Can¡¯t help it though, because it¡¯s how my daddy raised me, to stand up for what I believe in and fight back against injustice. Still gotta get the last word in though, because while Carter ain¡¯t wrong, he ain¡¯t entirely right either. ¡°And what happens when you can¡¯t back down no more?¡± I ask, keeping the heat out of my tone like it¡¯s just a normal conversation. ¡°What happens when Michael raises the price beyond what you can afford or is no longer willing to take no for an answer?¡±


    ¡°Then we fight,¡± Carter replies, all matter of fact like it¡¯s the most normal thing in the world. Seeing that I don¡¯t get it, he explains, ¡°The difference is that I will only fight when I have no other option.¡±


    Whereas I wake up spoiling for one. Which is the crux of the issue, now ain¡¯t it? ¡°Fair enough,¡± I say. I don¡¯t like it, but I get it, so I can¡¯t hold it against him. ¡°No hard feelings. I¡¯ll get my things and head on out then.¡± Extending my hand for a shake, I add, ¡°Was good working with you.¡±


    ¡°It was,¡± Carter replies as he clasp my hand firmly. ¡°A shame you could not love the work. I think you would be much happier if you did.¡± Pointing at the dock we¡¯ve built, he says, ¡°The world places too little pride in this.¡± Pointing at the gun on my hip, he continues, ¡°And too much in that, when it should be the other way around. As Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote, ¡®the real and lasting victories are those of peace, and not of war¡¯.¡±


    Wise words to reflect on as he leaves me to gaze at my work. It¡¯s a good, solid stone brick dock, nowhere near as big or sturdy as the one my daddy helped build up in Mueller¡¯s Quay, but one I finished in three days when most mundane crews working by hand would take at least two weeks. Mostly thanks to using Mould Earth to level the foundation and liberal application of the First Order Evaporate Water Spell to dry the mortar and cement which Carter¡¯s people mixed up themselves. Filled the whole interior with cement and rubble, and then took turns slinging the Spell to dry it up right quick, allowing us to lay brick and build nonstop without having to wait. A lavish expense when you think about it, because what construction crew can afford to have so many accomplished Spellslingers on payroll?


    It''s an accomplishment to be sure, one I played no small part because I seen these construction methods used by the Rangers, and showed Carter¡¯s people how it¡¯s done. I don¡¯t mind doing it either, as hard labour lets me focus on the job in front of me and shut out everything else, to the point where even the droning Mindspire doesn¡¯t bother me too much. Thing is, there ain¡¯t nothing to love about the work, because end of the day, it¡¯s a dock. Or it¡¯s a pipeline. A water tower. A cobbled path. An irrigation system. All marks on the Frontier that I¡¯ve made here in this community, but who¡¯s gonna care besides Carter and his people? A lot of people can do what I did here, even if it takes them longer to do it, so what¡¯s there to take pride in?


    Sure, the lasting victories are made in peace, but don¡¯t no one remember what the date was when New Hope got hot water, when we broke ground on the Highway, or the day the first watermill in town went operational. No, we remember the days that battles were won, and to win, you gotta fight, which is a job not everyone can do. Me, I do it damn well, and it¡¯s work I love to boot. What¡¯s the saying? Do what you love and never work a day in your life, and I know what I love.


    Stressful as my job for the Sherrif might¡¯ve been, it made me feel happier than I have in weeks. Not because of the excitement you get from putting everything on the line and walking into a village full of armed strangers, or even the fact that I did some good getting the information out there. Wasn¡¯t the fight with Abby that made me happy neither, or the profits reaped from their corpses. It¡¯s the thrill of the unknown, of never knowing what¡¯s going to happen next, whether I¡¯m gonna have a sleepy, boring ride through the forest or stumble across a fluffy baby murder machine who you instantly fall in love with and want to cuddle and spoil for the rest of your life.


    Except it wasn¡¯t a fluffy baby murder machine, just a lovely, innocent, green-eyed, green haired girlie whose daddy don¡¯t want nothing to do with me.


    ¡°Howie,¡± Elodie proclaims, running over carrying Cowie in her arms with Old Tux and her mama trailing close behind. ¡°You are leaving so soon?¡±


    ¡°Yep,¡± I say, smiling to see her reluctant expression because it¡¯s so rare to meet someone who finds genuine comfort in my presence. She doesn¡¯t pester me to tell her stories or drag me away to play games, puts no demands on my attention, and just wants to be near me. That¡¯s all it takes to make her happy, offering her unconditional affection for no real reason as far as I can tell, and as uncomfortable as her fixation on making me her husband might be, I¡¯ve grown real fond of her in our short time together. Patting her head one last time, I say, ¡°Works all done, so it¡¯s time to head home.¡±


    Leaning into the touch until I¡¯m all but pushing her away, Elodie fixes her big, green eyes on mine and asks, ¡°You will come back Monday, yes?¡±


    ¡°Afraid not.¡± Breaks my heart to see her pout, but I power through it and explain while I set to saddling Old Tux. ¡°There¡¯s no more work to be done, so I¡¯ll probably keep Chrissy company for the week. Tina¡¯s headed off to escort a caravan down south, the first of many heading out to Summerbloom. Soon as that¡¯s done, I guess I¡¯ll be off to Mueller¡¯s Quay to find work enough to finish off the rest of my hours, so I¡¯ll be busy for a good, long while.¡± Though she looks so very sad to hear it, I push onwards before she can ask when I¡¯ll visit next. ¡°You be good now, okay? No more running away from home and taking candy from strangers.¡±


    ¡°Yes Howie, but I did not run away. I was scared, so I swim to safety.¡± Elodie explains her very simplistic thought process about how she ended up swimming halfway across the lake and bypassing her home because it¡¯s safest out in the middle of the lake. Which don¡¯t make much sense at all to me, but she¡¯s very matter of fact about it. Then she goes on to talk about how she¡¯ll come to visit me and Chrissy and show us all her favourite spots out there, though I doubt it¡¯ll actually happen. By the time I¡¯m done and ready to leave, she¡¯s halfway ready to cry because she don¡¯t want me to go, but being the good girl that she is, she hasn¡¯t asked me to stay even once. She knows I got things to do, so she don¡¯t want to be selfish and bother me, which is just the sweetest thing I done ever seen.


    ¡°Alright then,¡± I say, holding my arms open and gesturing for her to hand Cowie over, but Elodie mistakes it for an invitation to hug. I don¡¯t back away this time though, which is a mistake, because she came in fast and hard expecting me to. Giving her a tight, but brief hug so her mama don¡¯t go feral and rip my face off, I collect Cowie and say, ¡°Time for me to hit the road then. Bye Elodie.¡±


    ¡°Bye bye.¡±


    Again, she don¡¯t complain, just stands there and watches me go while waving goodbye. Is still watching and waving when I turn around to look a minute later, standing there on her tippy toes to see me through the trees. I wave back, then disappear around the bend as Old Tux brings me back home for the night. A bittersweet parting, because the girl is too pure, and I can¡¯t help but feel like I¡¯m abandoning her by the wayside never to see her again. Bit of a whirlwind appearance, showing up in my life like that only to disappear again, and I doubt I¡¯ll forget her anytime soon.


    Life goes on though, so I put the past behind me and focus on what comes next. Some time off at home doesn¡¯t sound too bad, especially since the Mindspire¡¯s been making Chrissy downright miserable. Can barely stand to spend more than an hour or two outside the Church everyday, even with a Mental Fortress helping her along. Aunty Ray and Tina have got it even worse, spending most their days outside without any protection whatsoever. Might be I could help out by putting some more hours into studying the Mental Fortress Spell. Then I could cast it on one of them for a few hours of solace each day, but the Spell Formula is one heck of a doozy. Lots of repetitive functions that differ ever so slightly, making it really easy to slip up and miss a changed figure or variable. There¡¯s also the matter of building the Structure itself, which is confusing to say the least. Dense and layered flows, which make it difficult to track and visualize, so much so that I wouldn¡¯t even be close to ready to prep it if it wasn¡¯t for Uncle Teddy taking an hour out of his busy schedule on Tuesday to walk me through it right quick.


    Having a proper teacher makes a world of difference. Took me the better part of half a year getting the Fireball Spell Structure embedded into memory, because I had to go through line by line and value by value to figure out which numbers were nodes on the Spell Structure and which were just variables meant to plug into another section of the Formula. Then I had to figure out how all them nodes matched up in real time, because a plot of coordinates ain¡¯t the same thing as a moving model of the Spell Structure itself. In the end, I succeeded in the dumbest way possible, brute forcing the math and working things out through trial and error rather than any actual insight or understanding. It¡¯d be like writing out the multiplication table up to nine digits in no particular order, then looking up each entry every time you gotta do math instead of just learning how to do long multiplication in your head. It works, but it¡¯s slow and agonizing, and downright impossible without a good feel for the Spell itself. Don¡¯t know how else to describe it, but Uncle Teddy says not everyone¡¯s got it, and that I¡¯m particularly gifted in this aspect, so there¡¯s that.


    In contrast? With a little guidance, I might well have Mental Fortress prepped and ready by this time next week. Probably even sooner, since I got two hours with Uncle Teddy this Sunday, which might well be all I need to iron out the last few kinks blocking me from success.


    All of which has me real eager to get home and get studying so I ask all the right questions to get me what I need. Don¡¯t let myself get too distracted though, as I remain ever vigilant throughout my travels. The forest is still eerily quiet, and the journey thus far utterly uneventful. Detect Abby gives me nothing and my Divination Cantrips give all the usual information every time I cast one. North is still behind me, the shore about twenty-two metres away, the saddle is still elk leather, the buckles 70/30 brass, and no matter how many times I cast Detect Heartbeat, the only ones that register are mine, Cowie¡¯s, and Old Tux¡¯s.


    Or at least that¡¯s how it is until it isn¡¯t.


    Soon as that fourth, fifth, and sixth heartbeat registers in my perception, my heart skips a beat as I heel Old Tux and spur him to action. Spry and alert as ever, he responds in an instant to get off the trail, leaping over a thicket of dense brush and around a big whitewood tree. A half-second later, two gunshots sound with a loud crack and bang, but lacking the sharp whistles to denote a Bolt flying by close to my head, but it¡¯s got my blood boiling all the same. The crystalline chime of fast freezing ice is difficult to mistake too, and I glance back to see a patch of frozen dirt and cloud of freezing vapours that would have hit me if not for the massive tree trunk blocking the caster¡¯s line of sight.


    A close call, but this is far from over just yet. Hooves thundering on the forest floor, Old Tux zigs and zags through the trees on a course of his choosing while I look for the people who shot at me. They would¡¯ve been better off holding their shots, because then I wouldn¡¯t know where to look. Detect Heartbeat is designed to be used on a single target, so when you cast a wider net, you lose out on a whole lot of details like distance and direction. Not so with tracking gunfire, and doubly so when your assailants are dressed in black trench coats and fedoras in a forest full of pastel whites.


    So for the second time today, I Intone, ¡°Effugere ¨C Non ¨C Poteso,¡± to sling a Hunter¡¯s Mark at a target, the tall, fat fellow with the quill shrew hair if I¡¯m not mistaken. I ain¡¯t, which I only know as soon as the Spell takes effect, showing me nothing my eyes can¡¯t already see while helping my brain fill in the missing pieces. It¡¯s almost like he¡¯s outlined in glowing purple, and his expression appears clear as day from well over thirty metres away and growing as Old Tux puts distance between us. There¡¯s anger there, but consternation too, utterly confused as to what gave him away and thoroughly dreading the fight to come.


    Because he¡¯s got orders to take me out, and was laying in wait to do just that, but now that my Hunter¡¯s Mark has taken effect, he knows our roles have reversed. Told Michael he best have no regrets before taking a run at me, and now it¡¯s time to practice what I preach.


    Yeah¡­ Maybe Carter was right to want nothing to do with me. This here is the life I live, and I wouldn¡¯t have it any other way.

 Book Two - Chapter 75

    Ride towards New Hope, lie in wait for the Qink, then bring him in for questioning.


    A simple snatch and grab, a job Joey ¡®Cold Cut¡¯ Morelli could do in his sleep. Eighteen years he¡¯d been breaking legs on the Frontier, and five more back home in Boston, mostly as an associate but sometimes for the love of the game. Enforcer, bodyguard, bag man, and bookmarker, Joey had done it all, and if it wasn¡¯t for the fact that the books were permanently closed to an Innate mezza like him, then he would¡¯ve made his bones a dozen times over. Short, neat blue crystal spikes in place of hair, all slicked back like he¡¯d just come back from the barber¡¯s, that¡¯s all it was, but it kept him from getting a seat at the table. Why? Because of a bunch of outdated traditions that said Innates were less than human. Load of garbage is what that was. If Joey hadn¡¯t come to the Frontier, he would¡¯ve made Capo by now, running crews outta an office and living large because he knew how to get shit done.


    So how much trouble could one runty stronzo really be?


    Mikey being Mikey though, he had to get all stressed about the job, telling them not to do this and be sure to do that, yadda yadda whatever. Had to be clean, had to be perfect, had to go off without a hitch, and most importantly of all, had to happen without him. A Mikey Snow Show classic, delegate the work and claim the credit. The miserable fuck. Only reason he called the shots was because both his parents were Sicilian. Claimed they were islanders even, but the name gave the lie away. D''Ippolito was a mainlander name, a fact every real Sicilian knew, and only a cake-eating American import Guido like Mikey would believe he could ever get away with a lie like that. That¡¯s why he¡¯d been a made man for so many years without moving up, because the bosses knew you couldn¡¯t trust half the words coming outta his fat greasy mouth.


    But Mikey was still a full-blooded Sicilian and more importantly, a made man who paid his dues, which meant this was his show. Man was an earner, but not a great one, not after what went down in Pleasant Dunes. Why else would Mikey have to slog it out into the sticks, risking attack from animals and Abby both, just to shakedown a bunch of yokels and hillbillies? Because he needed the money to kick up to the bosses, that¡¯s why. Job paid peanuts compared to what other goombahs earned shaking down businesses in town, and you were more likely to get shot or killed too. People out here don¡¯t mess around when it comes to strangers, and took a lot more convincing before they were willing pay up. Didn¡¯t have much in the way of cash either, which meant taking payment in crops, hides, hogs, and whatever else these backwater hayseeds might have.


    All while this fucking Mindspire was droning on too, giving Joey a headache like you wouldn¡¯t believe.


    What he wouldn¡¯t give to have this same job in town, any town at all, making collections once a month by walking down the street instead of spending three weeks riding through rough terrain once a season. Be even better if he could get in good with one of the lucky chucklefucks running games, girls, or numbers, all cushy jobs that raked in money hand over fist. Didn¡¯t no one want the extra heat from bringing on a mezza Innate though, because his appearance was enough to make most coppers take notice. Couldn¡¯t even get in good with a smuggling crew because he was too easy to pick out in a lineup, so he was stuck playing muscle for a loudmouth peacock like Mikey.


    Which is why he just spent the last six fucking hours laying in a fucking bush next to Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb with a blaring migraine while waiting on some punk kid to pass by. Because two weeks into the Advent, Joey cut a Spell Core out of some twisted pillbug looking Aberration and ate it to get the edge he needed to survive. A stupid move he¡¯d regretted ever since. Didn¡¯t just turn him into a freak of nature, an abomination no one would look twice at, but it also kept him from making his bones and moving on up in the world. How was he supposed to earn if no one would take him on? Had a kid to feed too, one dumber than a bag of rocks that he never wanted. No helping it though. The kid¡¯s blue spiked head meant there was no doubting the kid was his, and the brat tore his working girl of a mother apart on the way out, so what else was Joey supposed to do?


    Nothing, that¡¯s what, nothing besides follow orders and hope to get in good with someone higher up the food chain. Was getting too old to be the muscle anymore, so it¡¯d be best if he got permission from one of the Capos to start his own crew. One with his kid and all those idiot friends of his, but they all had to start somewhere, right?


    That¡¯s why this loud-mouthed Qink was gonna be Joey¡¯s ticket to the big leagues. The Firstborn, people called him, the oldest kid on the Frontier who happened to be some hotshot Spellslinger too. Had a bit of a rep as a gunfighter too, taking out a couple chumps here and there, but Joey knew it was all talk. People didn¡¯t have nothing to do out here besides swap stories, and wasn¡¯t none of them true. How¡¯s he supposed to believe that some kid who just turned seventeen was one of the best trackers this side of the Divide? A professional Abby Hunter too apparently, one who made his living out in the badlands which even the Rangers avoided unless they had no other choice.


    And they were supposed to believe this kid had a house out there? Bullshit is what that was. Even someone trained by the fucking Marshal himself couldn¡¯t be that good, meaning it was all just a story the papers wrote up because they didn¡¯t have nothing better to report that day. If the Firstborn was such a big deal, then why¡¯d he Mark a horse in front of two Innates? Kid thought they wouldn¡¯t notice? Joey clocked it right away and told Mikey soon as they were out of earshot, said they oughtta grab their guns and go back to teach the kid some manners, but Snow Show was too much of a pussy to even consider it. The idiot believed all the stories about the Firstborn, like how he walked into the Sherrif¡¯s Office at Pleasant Dunes and gunned down that sick fuck Gil and four of his boys without breaking a sweat, or how he hung a man out the window of a saloon and stood on the street with a single revolver in hand ready to take on an entire town.


    While the man struggled for dear life no less, long minutes with his legs propped up against the wall until the Firstborn shot those out from under him. A fucking joke is what that was. If the kid was that cold, then they¡¯ve locked him up in a labour camp somewhere far away from civilized folk.


    Joey even heard someone say the kid was a full on Magus, as if anyone could believe that. Mikey did though, which was why he rode off with Fingers as a ¡®distraction¡¯ while sending Joey and these two knuckledraggers around the long way to lie in wait. A waste of time and effort is what that was. If they¡¯d¡¯ve turned around and rode in heavy, that smart-mouthed kid with the big hat would¡¯ve shit his pants as soon as he saw them coming. The bosses were gonna have a big laugh when they heard all about how Mikey Snow Show was afraid of the big bad Qink, all 5¡¯8 and a hundred pounds of him. If he really was such a big shot, then how come wasn¡¯t no one talking about him until about a month back, when Vanguard National went up in flames and he showed up smelling like smoke? The official story was a load of horse shit too, some line about a drunken brawl that ended in their explosives stockpile going up, but didn¡¯t no one buy that. Ronald Jackson was a careful man, one who knew his way around chemicals. If he wasn¡¯t, he would¡¯ve blown his whole operation sky high years ago, instead of leaving the bosses scratching their heads and wondering how a single Independent mine could match all of Mount Rimepeak¡¯s output with less than a tenth of the workforce.


    Well now the bosses knew how, and they¡¯d pay good money for a firsthand account. Only problem was all their usual sources were coming up dry. Mikey knew plenty of scumbags up in the desert, but they didn¡¯t agree on nothing besides the fact that two crooked Rangers died down there, and this Qink kid walked away with Ronald Jackson¡¯s Nagas while leaving his right hand behind. Mikey only wanted revenge, because he was all buddy buddy with Ron, but Joey knew the bosses would want to talk to the kid, and they¡¯d remember the man who brought him in. That¡¯d be Joey, not that lazy fuck Mikey, not this time. It was Joey¡¯s time to move up now, show the bosses that their rules were on the outs and he deserved a seat at the table, which he¡¯d do by not only bringing them the kid, but all the answers they were looking for too.


    Like if any of Ronald Jackson¡¯s explosive caches might¡¯ve survived, and who might know about them¡­


    Least that was the plan, one that seemed perfect on paper. Was only one trail from Carter¡¯s compound back to New Hope, so Joey found the perfect spot to lie in wait. A big hedge of bushes up top a dirt mound which the trail went around. They¡¯d see the kid coming from a good while away, shoot his horse and his bull when he got in close, then work him over until he was singing like a canary.


    And it all went according to plan too, right up until the kid spooked and ran just as they were about to shoot.


    Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb only made things worse, firing off shots they didn¡¯t have. Explained why they were rolling with Snow Show, because wouldn¡¯t no one else want them with aim like that. Left Joey no choice but to sling the Spell he¡¯d been holding, his signature Ice Knife modified with Mercy Metamagic. Flick a drop of water, freeze it into an icicle, and send it hurtling out to punch through skin and bone before exploding into a mist of freezing air. Was the Spell Core he swallowed way back when, a safe enough bet since it was only Conjuration. A School of Magic which was dangerous enough, but not so dangerous to get you on a list or conscripted into service.


    The Ice Knife Spell was a good one too, or at least it was in Joey¡¯s hands. Problem was, the aim wasn¡¯t all that great, which was why he wanted Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb to wait until the kid was in good and close. One of them must¡¯ve spooked him though, made some noise the kid¡¯s big goofy ears picked up from at least twenty-five fucking metres away. Wasn¡¯t Joey who gave them away, and it wasn¡¯t his fault his Ice Knife missed either, clipping the big fucking tree that was their marker for when to open up on the kid¡¯s horse. Soon as he got past the tree, that was the plan, but someone just had to fuck it up.


    Pushing himself up to his feet while his meal ticket galloped away, Joey kicked Tweedle Dee or Tweedle Dumb. Wasn¡¯t sure which. ¡°Mount up,¡± he said, but before he could say anything else, he felt the Spell close in around him. A Hunter¡¯s Mark, same as what the kid used on Finger¡¯s horse, and Joey felt his stomach drop. ¡°Fuck,¡± he growled. ¡°I¡¯m Marked.¡± Glaring at the two boneheads who were still laid out flat, he took cover and kicked the other one for good measure. ¡°Get after him you idiots.¡± The hoofbeats were dwindling away as he peeked over the saddle to see if the Qink was still in sight. ¡°Kid knows where I am, so I¡¯ll head inland and he¡¯ll stick to the shoreline. He¡¯ll be running full speed for New Hope, which means we gotta get him before ¨C ¡±


    A sharp crack followed by a piercing whistle cut through the air, and for a second, Joey thought Tweedle Dee slipped and fell off his horse while getting up into the saddle. Even then, a slow fall shouldn¡¯t have cratered his head like that, with bright red blood and and dark bits of brain spilling out onto the dirt. Time stopped for a moment, then sped up as Joey¡¯s heart seized in his chest and he hopped down off his horse, keeping the big dumb animal between him and whoever was shooting.


    ¡°What the f ¨C ¡±


    Those were Tweedle Dumb¡¯s last words, spoken as two shots whizzed by only for the third to explode his head, leaving the rest of him to fall down and join Tweedle Dee in the dirt. Both had their rifles still in hand without firing off a second shot, but Joey wasn¡¯t about to risk moving out into the open to get them. He had no idea where the shots were coming from, so he hit the ground and crawled for cover while the stupid horses screamed and ran from the smell of blood. ¡°Fuck,¡± he muttered, wondering how his luck could be so bad. First the kid rabbits off only moments before they were supposed to shoot his horse, and now there was some hotshot shooter with a bead on him. Had to be a hunter or something, someone out for a stroll who happened to spot Joey and his boys settling in to wait. Same hunter might¡¯ve even warned the kid off, but Joey wasn¡¯t about to go down like this. ¡°You¡¯re dead!¡± He yelled, once he was back in the safety of his bushes again. ¡°You¡¯re dead, you hear me? You know who you¡¯re fucking with?¡±


    ¡°Cold Cut, right? That¡¯s what he called you.¡± The voice boomed from his right, that thick, American drawl so many of these hicks had, and Joey pointed his Bashere 1915 towards the source. Pivoting around on his belly, he got into place and reached down to grab his waterskin off his hip. Giving it a squeeze to spray out a stream of water, he spurred the magic to action and pushed everything he could into the Spell. Ice Knife, same as before, but he smoothed out the flows and supported the Spell from all sides until a blade of Ice materialized in his left hand. Not one of those little pig-stickers hunters carried around to gut their game, but a real, proper falcata like what the Romans used, all blue, crystal clear, and frosty. Didn¡¯t feel cold to the touch, at least not to him, and the handle fit in his hand like a dream. Didn¡¯t have to worry about blood making it slick, because any blood around it froze before making it to the hilt, and while it cut real good, he could also send it flying towards his target with only a thought.


    ¡°Yea,¡± Joey replied, staring down the ironsights of his semi-automatic while trying to see through the brush and trees. ¡°So you must stupid then, because you knew who we work for and shot at us anyways.¡±


    ¡°Well, I never claimed to be smart.¡± The voice sounded like it came from his left now, but even as Joey pivoted towards it, the next sentence sounded from his right. ¡°Though I will say that you shot first, so I call that fair game. Tick for tack, am I right? Good luck now. You gonna need it.¡±


    Holy shit. It was the Firstborn, only his voice sounded off somehow, like he was speaking into a cup or something. ¡°That you kid?¡± No answer, but Joey knew he was right on the money. ¡°You¡¯re making a mistake, but you ain¡¯t done nuttin¡¯ you can¡¯t come back from yet.¡± Again, silence, and Joey licked his lips while looking left and right through the sea of white hoping to spot a patch of brown. ¡°These two you killed? They¡¯re nobodies, but me? I got connections. You kill me, and my friends come looking. You let me go and all this? Water under the bridge.¡±


    ¡°Bad move, Cold Cut,¡± the Firstborn said, his voice so close to Joey¡¯s right ear that he almost jumped to his feet, but there wasn¡¯t anyone around him. ¡°Should¡¯ve stuck to threats instead of bargaining.¡± The voice shifted to his other ear then back around again, like the kid was circling around the inside of Joey¡¯s head. Bardcraft to throw his voice then, though that didn¡¯t explain the almost tinny timbre to it. ¡°That¡¯s how the Mafia works after all. Fear. People are too scared to report them, too scared to cross them, too scared to even defend themselves, and you prey on that, take advantage of it.¡± Kid sounded so calm throughout it all, like he was giving a lecture in school or something. ¡°Now though? Now I know you¡¯re scared, which gives me the advantage, now don¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Fuck you!¡± A flash of movement caught Joey¡¯s eye, and he unloaded on it, sending out his Ice Knife and pulling the trigger to his semi-automatic 1915 again and again until it clicked empty and the slide locked open. For long seconds, he kept pulling the trigger though, and kept hearing the click, until he calmed down enough to see that nothing was moving. ¡°I get him?¡± he muttered, under his breath, pushing his upper body up like a snake to peer out through the brush. Wasn¡¯t no sound, no movement, no smart ass remark, just a puff of shiny, frosty mist that blew away in the breeeze. He held his breath for a hot minute, just watching and listening, but wasn¡¯t nothing out there besides the wind and the leaves. Heaving a sigh of relief, he reached down for a clip to reload his pistol only to freeze in place at the sound of a click-clack behind him.


    A sound he heard before, only a couple hours ago when the Firstborn thumbed his hammer and threatened to shoot Joey, Fingers, and Mikey on the count of three.


    ¡°Toss that peashooter to the side,¡± Howie said, his voice coming in clear and crisp with the tone of a man who meant business. Didn¡¯t need to say what would happen if Joey didn¡¯t listen, but he knew well enough how this was gonna go.


    ¡°Alright. Easy.¡± Flicking his wrist, he sent his Bashere deep into the bush.


    ¡°Keep your eyes forward and interlace your fingers behind your head.¡±


    ¡°That really neccesssary?¡±


    The kid didn¡¯t answer, but Joey felt the Mark surge through him as the Firstborn took aim, even though the Spell¡¯s course correction probably wasn¡¯t needed. ¡°Okay! Okay!¡± Joey did as he was asked, feeling the strain in his neck as he resisted the urge to turn around for a look. ¡°See? There. Now go on. Cuff me.¡±


    The kid chuckled. A full on snort of laughter. ¡°You think I¡¯m here to arrest you? You see me sportin¡¯ a badge?¡±


    ¡°Well what the fuck you want then?¡± Joey asked. Kid¡¯s gun was probably pointed right at the back of his head, and he didn¡¯t want no part of it. ¡°You got my word, you walk away and we wipe the slate clean.¡± Personally at least. The bosses would still want to talk to the kid, but Joey didn¡¯t want nothing to do with the Firstborn no more.


    ¡°Don¡¯t want your word,¡± the Firstborn drawled. ¡°I want answers. Why¡¯d you take a run at me? Seems a big of an overreaction for what went down at Carter¡¯s.¡±


    ¡°Mikey wanted us to rough you up a bit is all.¡± Seeing a lifeline, Joey grabbed it and talked himself up as best he could. ¡°We¡¯re businessmen see? If we went gunning after every yokel who greeted us with a weapon in hand, we have no business left, am I right? This is a misunderstanding is all. We wasn¡¯t here to kill youse.¡±


    ¡°Sure seemed like you tried.¡±


    ¡°Was aiming at your horse and bull. Keep you from riding off. Spell was Merciful too, got the rod wrapped around my wrist. Would¡¯ve cut you a bit and cooled you down, but wasn¡¯t no threat to your life.¡± The kid didn¡¯t answer, just let the silence hang as sweat dripped down from Joey¡¯s scalp and ran into his eyes. ¡°I swear on my mother¡¯s grave, that¡¯s the honest truth.¡± Well, he didn¡¯t actually know if Ma was dead, but the way things were going when he left for the Frontier, he¡¯d put big money on yes. ¡°We was just gonna rough you up and ask youse some questions.¡±Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    The Firstborn exhaled, all slow and calm from right behind Joey. ¡°Questions?¡± The Firstborn asked, sounding more amused than anything else. ¡°What questions?¡±


    ¡°Nothing serious you know,¡± Joey said, his mind racing for a right answer. ¡°About Carter and his people, whether they¡¯re stiffing us on the dues. Done a lot of work since we were last here, what with the dock, water tower, and path, so Mikey was curious how they could afford it.¡±


    ¡°Plausible.¡± The Firstborn¡¯s boots shifted, moving closer as he talked. ¡°Don¡¯t believe you though.¡±


    Shit. ¡°It¡¯s the truth.¡± Silence. Then a step as the Firstborn drew closer. ¡°I¡¯m t-telling you,¡± Joey stammered, ¡°T-that¡¯s a-all we wanted to ask, t-t-then you would¡¯ve been home free.¡±


    ¡°I may have been born at night,¡± the Firstborn said, sounding like he was holding back a laugh. ¡°But not last night. You wanna know why I don¡¯t believe you, Cold Cuts?¡± Sucking his teeth, the Firstborn didn¡¯t give him time to answer and said, ¡°That¡¯s a stupid nickname, by the way. I get it, Ice Knife, Cold Cuts, but still. Makes you sound like sandwich meat.¡±


    That¡¯s how it was though. No one gets to pick their name. ¡°Name¡¯s Joey. Joey Morelli¡±


    ¡°Bull-shit it is. You a grown ass man of forty. Your name is Joseph.¡± Big talk coming from a guy named Howie, but Joey knew better than to say as much. ¡°I know what you thinking,¡± the Firstborn said. ¡°But you gotta ask yourself: do I look like a Howard? No. I got a Qin name that sounds like Howie, so that¡¯s what I go with. Ain¡¯t the same.¡± The Firstborn scoffed and his voice went low as he muttered, ¡°Bunch of geriatrics runnin¡¯ around callin¡¯ each other Mikey and Joey and Cold Cuts. Embarrassing is what that is. Have some dignity why don¡¯t you?¡±


    The Firstborn had a real mouth on him, but he also had Joey dead to rights, so he kept his lip buttoned up tight. ¡°Anyway Joseph,¡± the Firstborn said, once he got all the muttering out of his system. ¡°Where were we? Right. You know why I don¡¯t believe you? Because you gave it up too easy. Me, I grew up hearing all about how the Mafia was all big and bad, with a whole code of silence or whatever.¡±


    ¡°The Omert¨¤,¡± Joey supplied.


    ¡°Sure. That.¡± The Firstborn was pacing now, his voice moving left, then right, then left again. ¡°So here we are, in my first real run-in with the Mafia, and the mobbed up tough guy gives it up that easy? Nah, you want me to believe a lie, you gotta make me earn it, Joseph. Tough guy like you, I thought I¡¯d have to take your foot off before you¡¯d say anything, and wouldn¡¯t get the truth until it was at least half-cooked.¡±


    Joey¡¯s breath caught in his throat as he fought down his panic. That¡¯s what the Qinks were known for, chopping off feet and force feeding them to prisoners, for no real reason besides the fact that they were a bunch of sick, slant-eyed fucks. ¡°B-B-Bullshit,¡± he stammered. ¡°You¡¯re the Marshal¡¯s Apprentice. No chance you¡¯re dirty like that. No fucking chance.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a philosophical thought experiment that I¡¯m sure you heard of.¡± The Firstborn drew closer to Joey¡¯s left, leaning in close to yap. ¡°If a tree falls in a forest, and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? What you think?¡±


    ¡°I dunno?¡± Joey was sweating bullets now, wondering if he could twist, reach his waterskin, and unleash an Ice Knife before getting shot. Not a snowball¡¯s chance in hell. If only he could use sweat as the Spell¡¯s Material Component, but anything produced by the human body was no good. Too contaminated for the Aether to affect, though no one could ever explain to Joey what in the hell that meant.


    Cold metal touched the back of Joey¡¯s neck, and he whimpered to feel it. The Firstborn was a sneaky fuck, moving right up beside him without making a peep. ¡°It¡¯s a yes or no question, Joseph,¡± the Firstborn said, all calm and cold as can be. ¡°I want an answer. Yes or no?¡±


    ¡°¡­No?¡±


    There was a pause, then the Firstborn slapped his knee. ¡°See, that¡¯s what I¡¯m saying. No ears, no noise. Some say yes, that sound is vibration, and that vibration will be created regardless of whether there¡¯s someone to hear it. Thing is, sound ain¡¯t the vibration. Sound is our ears picking up on that vibration, so no ears, no noise.¡± The Firstborn¡¯s breathing grew louder, like he was leaning right down with his mouth next to Joey¡¯s ear. ¡°So following that same logic, if I break a law, and don¡¯t no one ever notice, was a law really broken?¡±


    Holy fuck. ¡°I tell you anything you want to hear,¡± Joey said, trembling from head to toe. ¡°Anything. You ask, I¡¯ll answer.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the square root of 1,293?¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Wrong answer.¡± The cold metal barrel pressed down hard and Joey let out a whimper, only for the Firstborn to laugh. ¡°I¡¯m just playin¡¯, Joseph. It¡¯s 35.958, just so you know.¡± Joey heaved a sigh and pressed his forehead into the cool dirt, wondering what in the nine hells did he ever do to deserve this. The Firstborn was a fucking psycho, and Joey had seen some shit in his days. There were some guys like this, who got off on the fear and suffering, but they was usually drunk, high, or fucked in the head. Firstborn was stone cold sober and steady as a rock, which made him a special kinda twisted, now didn¡¯t it?


    ¡°So Joey,¡± the Firstborn asked, sounding playful as can be. ¡°Why you really here?¡±


    ¡°To capture you,¡± Joey said, holding nothing back. ¡°Mikey wanted to ask you about what happened up in Pleasant Dunes, and maybe tune you up a bit. Had him a connection with Vanguard National, moving product up into the Emerald Plains. Was good money, and he even made friends with Ron, but that¡¯s gone now, so he¡¯s pissed.¡±


    ¡°See? Now we getting somewhere,¡± the Firstborn said. Wasn¡¯t done with his questions though, and Joey answered every one the little psycho had. Told him all about the Family¡¯s interest in Vanguard National¡¯s methods and how they were looking to learn more about what went down in Pleasant Dunes. Wasn¡¯t enough, so he sang about how the Pugliano Family ran the girls and games up in Mount Rimepeak, and how they controlled the output to keep the prices of stone and ore high. Shared how they ran the girls and games too, and ran the alcohol licensing too, making sure every bar, inn, and restaurant in every mining district bought booze from the family. Labour racketeering, freight theft, fencing stolen goods, and more, Joey knew a little bit about everything and shared it all with the Firstborn, but not enough to get anyone pinched. The bosses would understand, because Joey wasn¡¯t saying anything people didn¡¯t already know, aside from the bit about why the bosses might want a word with the Firstborn.


    ¡°You got a bounty, Joseph Morelli?¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Joey¡¯s heart skipped a beat. ¡°No, no, no. I got a rap sheet, but no bounty. No open warrants. Did a nickel in the mines for aggravated assault a decade back, but that¡¯s it.¡±


    ¡°Damn. What about them other two?¡±


    ¡°I dunno. Ain¡¯t somethin¡¯ you talk about, you know? Might give people ideas, knowing you got a bounty on your head.¡±


    ¡°Shame.¡± Heaving a sigh, the Firstborn backed off and brought his gun away with him. ¡°Well¡­ Now it¡¯s my turn to make a decision then. Let you go, or kill you here?¡±


    Finally. A light at the end of the tunnel. ¡°You let me go and we¡¯re all square,¡± Joey said, lying through his teeth so well even he believed it. ¡°I¡¯ll tell Mikey you didn¡¯t know nothin¡¯ about nothin¡¯, that you was just talkin¡¯ big is all.¡±


    ¡°Now why don¡¯t I believe you?¡± Joey¡¯s gut twisted as the Firstborn chuckled and said, ¡°Probably because you a born liar. Bet you don¡¯t listen so good either, so can¡¯t really trust you to follow instructions either.¡±


    ¡°I will!¡± Joey exclaimed, seizing onto his last ray of hope. ¡°Whatever you tell me to do, I¡¯ll do it. Pass a message, warn them off, whatever.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ tell you what. Answer me this, and you can go free.¡± The Firstborn leaned in, and Joey could almost feel the kid¡¯s breath on his cheek. ¡°What¡¯s the square root of 1,293?¡±


    Fuck, fuck, fuck. ¡°Uh¡­ Fuck. Oh god, please don¡¯t kill me.¡±


    ¡°Sorry Joey.¡± The Firstborn¡¯s tone wasn¡¯t playful no more, as his mind was made up. ¡°You can¡¯t be trusted to keep your word or to listen to instructions, so it¡¯s cleaner if I just take care of you here and now.¡± After a short pause, he asked, ¡°You smoke?¡±


    Fuck. This was it. Do or die. ¡°Y-Yeah,¡± Joey said. ¡°Left jacket pocket.¡±


    The footsteps moved away, then the Firstborn said, ¡°Do not turn. Remain facing forward, and push yourself up and onto your knees. Then and only then can you reach for your cigs with one hand and one hand only. You understand?¡±


    ¡°Yea.¡± Joey did as instructed, pulling out his cig tin and lighting up with his shaky hands. Took a long first pull, filling both lungs and praying the next breath would not be his last, but the Firstborn wasn¡¯t in any rush. That was a relief, so after a second drag, Joey faked a cough, and kept coughing until it was played out. ¡°Can I take a drink?¡± he asked, his voice all hoarse and eyes still forward. ¡°It¡¯s just there on my hip.¡±


    ¡°Go ahead.¡±


    Good. The Firstborn didn¡¯t know about Ice Knife¡¯s material component. Better still, he sounded like he was standing directly behind Joey, or close enough to it. Slowly reaching for his waterskin, he gingerly brought it up to his mouth and lifted his head for a drink. Kept his lips shut though, and let most of the water dribble down his chin. Did that for a full second, then let out a sigh of satisfaction, like you do when you have a cold, refreshing drink.


    And thinking the Firstborn would¡¯ve relaxed along with him, he dove aside and twisted around to unleash his Ice Knife at ¨C


    At nothing. Wasn¡¯t no one behind or beside him, no Firstborn to be seen anywhere around, not close by at least. A sharp crack sounded once more, but there was no whistle to follow, no sound for him to hear because Joey¡¯s ears had stopped working the moment the Bolt punched through his face.


    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


    I¡¯ve been called paranoid plenty of times before, but that just ain¡¯t true.


    See, the definition of paranoia is the unjustified suspicion and mistrust of other people, and I got plenty of reason to be suspicious of strangers. Especially mobbed up strangers who by their own admission just tried to shoot my horse and bull, and may well have tried to kill me too. Or at least bring me to someone who would later have me killed, which seems like the more likely option. Fact is, anyone who did trust someone like that is closer to crazy than I¡¯ll ever be, because that level of blind faith borders on the religious. So yea, I got trust issues, because I seen enough to know that people ain¡¯t worth trusting without any assurances whatsoever. Ain¡¯t no one out there deserving of trust, not right from the get go, a lesson Errol had to learn the hard way once, and will probably have to learn again soon enough. Trust is earned, slowly built over time, so you can¡¯t go giving it out for free, because that there is a surefire way to get got while trying to do the right thing.


    Stepping out from behind my cover, I mosey on over to Joey¡¯s dead body some fifteen metres away with one eye on the surroundings. Had him dead to rights the whole time, and used Minor Illusion to make him think I was standing right there with him. A real versatile bag of tricks that Cantrip is, one I used to great effect in Pleasant Dunes and have been playing with ever since. I can¡¯t draw worth a damn, so my visual illusions ain¡¯t great, but I can throw my voice and fake foot steps well enough, while Prestidigitation lets me fake the sensation of a cold barrel pressed up against your neck and other sensory hallucinations.


    Logically, the gun should¡¯ve been a least a little warm, seeing how I shot four times before bringing it to bear against Joey, but logic don¡¯t count for much when you think you got a gun to your head.


    Arriving at the mobster¡¯s corpse, I check my work to see a clean hit to the temple, one that would¡¯ve killed him quick. Feel a little bad leaving him to stew for so long, but I had to keep him talking while I looked for a second group of shooters. Stupid for all three of them to sit in the same place, so stupid I was sure Michael and the other Innate were lurking somewhere nearby. Then again, it was even dumber still for them to mount up in plain sight without cover, but I suppose Old Tux¡¯s fading hoofbeats had them worried they¡¯d lose me. Never occurred to them in a million years that I¡¯d slip off my horse and circle back on foot. Saw a clear shot and nailed it with a little help from True Strike, then had to free eye the other target. Took three tries, but that¡¯s none too shabby for some left-handed shooting at some thirty-five metres.


    I really should get to the shooting range and practice my aim. My quick draw too. Been putting it off for so long because I was hoping I¡¯d fix things right up and go back to using my right hand again, but I¡¯m thinking it¡¯s time I faced facts and accepted the hard truths.


    Things could¡¯ve gone bad if I missed all my shots, and I¡¯m really feeling the lack of a primary Aetherarm. A carbine or rifle would¡¯ve given me much more options, and I could¡¯ve handle this much easier. There¡¯s also the fact that Joey would¡¯ve been far better off riding away instead of hiding behind his horse like a fool. Lot harder to hit a moving target, even with help from True Strike and Hunter¡¯s Mark, so he should¡¯ve gotten moving right quick. Acted like a fool townie instead, which goes to show that even though Joey¡¯s all mobbed up, he ain¡¯t worth much. Man was just a street tough coasting on the rep of his crew, because that¡¯s all he ever needed. He wasn¡¯t no soldier, not even a properly trained shooter, just some smuck with a gun, some Spells, and a desire to use both.


    That¡¯s all that really separates law-abiding citizens from criminals really. The willingness and determination to inflict violence on another person. That¡¯s what Carter don¡¯t get. He sees me square up against Juan and Michael and thinks I¡¯m crazy for picking a fight over nothing at all. What he don¡¯t understand though is that if more people were willing to square up like me, there¡¯d be a whole lot less Juan¡¯s and Michaels out there in the world. Crooked cops and criminals do what they do because it¡¯s easy money, and they get away with it because don¡¯t nobody stand up to them.


    Not on my watch though. No sir-ree. You see something, you do something, simple is as simple does.


    Besides Joey¡¯s Merciful Metamagic rod, which is really a bracelet, the three mobsters don¡¯t got much of anything worth taking, but I pick them over all the same. Keep my recording going while I do, just in case I find anything that can incriminate someone else, like a signed note or something the Sheriff can use to arrest someone up by Mount Rimepeak. I knew there was plenty of criminal activity up by the mines, but the sheer scale of operations is something of a surprise. Didn¡¯t think the Mafia was dug in so deep, and so close to New Hope too. I know they were a big deal back in the old world, and that plenty of known criminals from all walks of life were sent over in their first wave of Settlers, but it wasn¡¯t like they was sending their best and brightest. Why would they? Wasn¡¯t like the crews over on this side could kick back to their bosses in the old world, so there wasn¡¯t any short-term profit to be had, and criminals ain¡¯t known for long-term planning.


    Their Bashere 1915¡¯s are an interesting Aetherarm though. A semi-automatic Aetherarm of Sicilian design chambered for 9mm 10 Grain rounds. Not the hardest hitting pistol around, nor is it all that reliable, but it puts a lot of decently powered Bolts downrange right quick with a middling amount of precision. That¡¯s why the Spell Cores are cut bigger than your standard 22-10 Aetherarm, so it can sustain the high fire-rate with minimal risk of a Core cracking or exploding. Only takes eight rounds in the standard magazine, which ain¡¯t much, and the 1911 has it outclassed on all fronts besides ease of manufacturing. Makes the 1915 a cheap, fast firing sidearm that is reliable enough for what it does, though I¡¯m still of the opinion that a revolver is superior in every which way.


    Folks get too hung up on rate of fire, which is important when you talking about rifles and heavy weapons, but for a sidearm? Precision and reliability above all else, because when you pull a sidearm, you in a position where you absolutely need it to hit and kill whatever it is you shooting at.


    Their rifles ain¡¯t much to look at either, Bashere 1918 semi-automatic carbines also chambered in 9mm 10 Grain. Boring and sub-optimal all around, but the Cores are worth something at the very least, so I strip them out, put the guns aside, and sit back to make another big decision. I got three options. One, I bring these bodies in and report what happened. Two I leave these bodies here to rot and pretend I don¡¯t know nothing. Three, I get rid of the guns and bodies both, and save myself a whole lot of headache.


    Option one and two run the risk of getting me into trouble, because I don¡¯t got footage of Joey and his buddies shooting first, which means in the eyes of the law, these are not clean kills. I didn¡¯t start recording until after they shot, and while Joey did do a whole lot of shouting about chasing me down, there ain¡¯t nothing illegal about that per se. At face value, it¡¯ll look like I shot two men dead as they mounted up, then interrogated a third before executing him. Which most certainly is illegal and will land me in hot water if the Sherrif chooses to make it so. Sure, my side of the conversation ain¡¯t on recording, since I said everything through Minor Illusion which don¡¯t get recorded, and yea, Joey tried to hit me with a Spell at the end of it, but he didn¡¯t come nowhere close to hitting me, and it could be argued his actions were done in self defense, since he thought I was about kill him.


    So I suppose it¡¯s option three then. Disappearing mobsters will send Michael a message, though not the one I¡¯d like to send, and gives me plausible deniability at the same time. Were it up to me, I¡¯d scalp all three of these mobsters and deliver them back to their boss in a box, but I¡¯m pretty sure there are laws against mailing dead bodies. Doesn¡¯t solve the crux of the issue though, namely how the Mafia might want a word about Pleasant Dunes, and I¡¯m rightly worried Carter and his people will take heat for this. Where else is Michael gonna go for answers when his people up and disappear?


    The decision made, I use a Ritual to cast Floating Disc and load the bodies and guns up onto it while waiting to see if all the noise didn¡¯t draw anyone in. Funny thing is, if I get caught covering up this kill, then I¡¯ll go down for it either way, even if I got evidence to show it was clean. Ish. Catch-22, but thanks to the Mindspire, I don¡¯t think we got any looky-loos hanging about. Soon as I¡¯m sure we in the clear, I Conjure up a Simple Servant and have him walk the Floating Disc out into lake. The Disc don¡¯t float on water, so with the bodies weighed down with their guns and strapped to the disc, they¡¯ll stay on the lake floor, but not for long. Sure enough, less than fifteen minutes into cleaning the crime scene, I feel my Simple Servant come apart from a blow, meaning Abby done found him and the bodies he brought them, which I suppose makes me the cultist tonight.


    By the time I¡¯m done cleaning, it¡¯s well past nine and there¡¯s no chance I make it back into New Hope before the gates close at ten. Cowie brought Old Tux back long ago, so I mount up and head on back to Carter¡¯s. Understandably, they¡¯re all locked up tight when I arrive, but I pound on the side door all the same and say, ¡°It¡¯s me. Gotta talk.¡±


    Less than a minute later, Elodie appears up top of the wall, waving down at me with a big smile on her green-whiskered face. ¡°Bonjour Howie,¡± she exclaims, and I can¡¯t help but smile at the way she says my name with a French twist. ¡°Papa is opening the door, but he says it is too late for us to play now.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s right,¡± I say, trying to respect Carter¡¯s wishes without breaking Elodie¡¯s heart. ¡°Sorry for waking you.¡±


    ¡°I was not sleeping,¡± she says, before turning to look at someone out of view. Probably her mama, because when Elodie leans over the wall again, she¡¯s wearing a big pout. ¡°But, I have to go sleep now. Bonne Nuit!¡±


    As I wave goodbye, the side door creaks open and Carter peers out at me through a crack. ¡°What¡¯s this about then?¡±


    ¡°Michael¡¯s goons tried to grab me on my way back to New Hope.¡± I don¡¯t share the details of the fight, or even admit I killed anyone, I just lay out the relevant facts that he needs to hear. ¡°Man¡¯s under the impression I got something to say about a Ranger operation I took part in up in Pleasant Dunes a few weeks back.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re worried they¡¯ll come here looking for answers.¡± Carter don¡¯t look none too pleased, but he don¡¯t get all fired up at me neither. More than anything, he looks lost and a little sad, because I think it¡¯s dawning on him that the time to fight is coming sooner rather than later. Opening the door, he says, ¡°Come on in. It won¡¯t be safe for you to sleep outside.¡±


    ¡°Ain¡¯t my safety I¡¯m concerned about,¡± I say. ¡°Would appreciate it if you looked after Cowie and Old Tux though.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± Cowie darts right in to find his new best friend Elodie, but the side door is a tight fit for the big horse with all his saddlebags. He wiggles his way in soon enough though, and once he¡¯s home free, he trots on in and leaves me and Carter standing face to face in the doorway. ¡°So what happens tomorrow then?¡± he asks, showing he understands the real issue here.


    ¡°You and yours got a decision to make.¡± Gesturing around at the compound, I say, ¡°Stay here, feign ignorance, and hope for the best, or take shelter in New Hope. Me, I have to head home either way, let them know I¡¯m safe and see if there¡¯s anything else that can be done, but other than that¡­ I got no real answers.¡± I ain¡¯t about to have a sit down with no mafia don, not after how my last meeting with a criminal went, and I¡¯m not sure if it would change anything if I did. I don¡¯t got nothing of value to say, as I¡¯m sure they know most of what happened anyways. ¡°Sorry.¡±


    That said, I leave Carter to share the bad news and figure out his next step. Me, I go for a quick walk around the compound and double check the Alarm Wards I recently installed. Along the shore, the Wards take the form of metal fence posts, without the slats connecting them. Each post got runes Etched into them, and any Abby passing between two posts will trigger the Alarm. Simple is as simple does, and so long as you don¡¯t move the posts around too often and top them off with Aether after they¡¯re triggered, then you¡¯re good to go. Got a few more Alarm Wards out in the forest too, hidden ones buried underground with their counterparts lashed to a tree, Wards that¡¯ll warn Carter¡¯s people of more than Abby, but given the limitations, the coverage ain¡¯t great. For the sake of my peace of mind, I throw down a few Alarm Spells with a Ritual to cover even more ground. Takes only a minute for each, though it costs me a tiny bell and 20cm of fine silver wire each time. Not exactly cheap, but a quarter or fifty cents here and there won¡¯t break the bank either. Plus, the Spell¡¯s good for 8 hours, which is just enough for me to get me a good night¡¯s sleep in the bunkhouse. Before I call it a night though, I pull out my Spell book and copy down the Fireball Spell Formula by memory, then settle in to embed the Spell Structure into memory.


    Ain¡¯t technically illegal out here, though the rules get a little iffy if the Sherrif wants to press the issue. I¡¯ll get rid of it before going back into town of course, as it¡¯s only a precaution. Probably an unnecessary one at that, as I don¡¯t see Michael coming back tonight with just one minion in tow, but better safe than sorry. Besides, if Michael was so eager about bringing me in, he would¡¯ve been there to help Joey. No, Michael is a careful mobster, a bully and a coward, which means he¡¯s headed home for reinforcements. Why? Because I all but admitted I was the one who done Ronald Jackson in, and Michael wants to settle the account, and maybe see if I got anything else to say about Vanguard National operations.


    So really, this is on me. Shouldn¡¯t have copped to killing Ron, or just killed Mikey outright and settled things clean and simple. I admit my fault, and got no defense against it. Wish I could¡¯ve done something without getting Carter involved, but it ain¡¯t my fault criminals do what they do, because they do it regardless of my actions. What was I supposed to do instead? Run like a bunny without fighting back? No, now that¡¯s it¡¯s all done and dusted, I can only take responsibility for my actions, which means figuring out how to fight the mob without getting myself killed or arrested.


    Or any innocents killed in the process.


    Sometimes, I feel like things are stacked against me. Outlaws have it so much easier without having to follow all these stuffy rules. Can¡¯t even defend myself legally without worrying about getting in trouble. Maybe I should start recording myself 24/7 then, which is just all sorts of twisted. Ain¡¯t fair is what that is, but ain¡¯t nothing to be done about it. Just gotta keep on keeping on and hope I don¡¯t mess up. Only time will tell how all this plays out, but one thing¡¯s for certain. If they hurt one hair on an innocent¡¯s head, I¡¯ll go scorched earth and kill every last mobster in and around Mount Rimepeak. If the law can¡¯t protect the people I care about, then I won¡¯t let the law stop me from getting even.


    That there is a promise, no two ways about it, one I¡¯ll sign, seal and deliver to the Pugly-Annie Family¡¯s doorstep myself should the need arise.

 Book Two - Chapter 76

    No one likes waking to an Alarm.


    It¡¯s a jarring, unpleasant experience, going from deep sleep to wide awake in an instant. Best way to describe is like when you having a dream and you just walking somewhere, but you move your feet in real life and find no ground beneath you. Now your brain now thinks you¡¯re falling, and you jolt awake in a moment of panic while your body is flooded with adrenaline, all because your mind is playing tricks on you.


    An Alarm¡¯s the same way with one major caveat: the danger is very real.


    The response is automatic by now, drilled into me from years of training with my daddy. By the time my brain catches up to my body, my feet are already in my boots and I¡¯m bent over to lace them up, which is difficult to do with only one hand. The unexpected hitch in the familiar routine rips away the last vestiges of sleep as I take control of the situation and cast Mage Hand, a Cantrip which requires a little bit of extra attention to get right. Within my mind¡¯s eye, the Spell Structure surges forward in a flurry of motion, a motion I¡¯ve recently come to associate with a grasping hand reach out into the cosmos, a radiant Astral Hand with palm facing down and fingers splayed like its about to pick something up off a desk.


    It¡¯s the left hand, though I¡¯m not sure if it¡¯s always been that way or if my real life circumstances caused me to perceive it as such, since perspective plays such a huge role in Spellslinging. Now¡¯s not the time for study though, so I intone, ¡°Per ¨C Auxilium ¨C Manus¡±, under my breath and flick my fingers twice like I¡¯m gesturing for someone to come hither. Fitting since the Latin means, ¡®a helping hand¡¯, but I gotta do a little more to make the Spell my own. In between the first and second flick, I envision the Spell Structure splitting into two, the hands moving out from underneath me until I¡¯m standing upon the mirror line dividing the two. From there, the Spell Structure surges out of my mind and into reality, a pair of glowing blue spectral hands emerging from my mind¡¯s eye to a point my real eyes are focused upon.


    Which in this case is right above my boots, so they can lace them up right quick. In the meantime, I give my gun case sitting on the bedside table some percussive maintenance. A light tap with the base of my fist is all, and it opens up right quick with an audible knock that echoes out into the empty cabin. My guns go into their holsters as quick as I can, and then all I can do is wait for my Mage Hands to finish tying my laces. Economy of motion is the key to making the Mage Hands work quick, because they most certainly don¡¯t move with any haste, floating up from my shoes to latch onto the dubsies so they¡¯re available when needed.


    All in all, the whole process from Spell to tied laces takes about five seconds at most, but it feels like a damn near eternity in an emergency. And this most certainly is an emergency, because the Alarm Ward what woke me with an alert for Abby is still making my stomach drop as more and more emerge from the water to step onto shore which sits less than two-hundred and fifty metres away.


    There¡¯s no croaking, no barking, no flopping or splashing to be heard, which tells me they¡¯re still trying to be stealthy. That¡¯s the beauty of Alarm Wards though. Set them up right like I have, and intruders won¡¯t know one¡¯s been triggered. Not unless you want them to know, which you can finagle while setting it up, though an experienced and highly sensitive Spellslinger might sense it. I¡¯m guessing there isn¡¯t one in this group of Abby, or if there is one, it¡¯s hanging back to let the others test the waters, so to speak. Since that¡¯s the case, I allow myself a few more seconds to prepare as I head for the door, wishing I had my duster to hide the light from my Mage Hands. Detect Aberration is the first port of call, which offers a chilling reminder of how I should never rely solely on the Spell, because it reads no Aberrations present even though the Alarm Spell has pinged more than a dozen times already. Sliding my Darkvision goggles on, the darkness fades into grayscale as I make my way towards the door. All the while, my phantom right hand moves through the motions of the Mage Armour Spell, one I channel through the Defensive Metamagic bead on my bracelet. Gives it a little bit of extra oomph, not a whole lot in the grand scheme of things, but still better than none. Hearing Protection comes next, and that¡¯s really all the defensive magics I got, which is just sad really.


    Should really work on that, especially seeing how I done gave Tina my Shield Spell Core, but I¡¯ve been more focused on making up for my missing hand than anything else. Well, Mental Fortress has been at the top of my list this last week for obvious reasons, but like I¡¯ve said before, Abjuration is one of my weaker Schools of Magic and I prefer to focus on my strengths. I¡¯ve got Protection From Aberration prepared though, and I take a split second to consider the pros and cons of casting it on myself before the fight. On the one hand, it¡¯d make Abby reluctant to approach me and offer protection against certain Spells like Charm, Fear, or Bane. On the other hand, there are times when I want Abby to come after me instead of say the women and children taking shelter in the compound, not to mention how it¡¯s requires Concentration which I would much rather save for Warding Wind to actually protect me or Levitate to get me up and over the walls in a pinch if needed.


    To that end, I hold off on Protection From Aberration and ready the Material Components I might need. A blade of grass goes between my lips and a length of gold wire looped around my thumb as I take inventory of the rest of the Spells I got prepped so I don¡¯t have to think about it in the heat of the moment. Hunter¡¯s Mark and Conjure Weapon won¡¯t be worth much, while Spiritual Weapon still feels like a massive waste in terms of effectiveness. Besides that, all I got is Misty Step to reposition quickly and the Spell I love so very much and prepped just before going to sleep, the highly effective and most certainly illegal Fireball.


    Tempting as it is to ready a Maximized or Widened Fireball before I head out, I keep an old adage in mind. To a hammer, every problem looks like a nail, but thing is, I ain¡¯t no hammer. I don¡¯t got the right Spells prepped to deal with all my problems head on, nor the endurance to keep up against waves and waves of Abby. I¡¯m no Evoker. I¡¯m a Diviner, and my role is to scout, distract, and prep, so I sneak out the door and head out into the forest to do just that. Soon as I step outside, the Detect Aberration Spell pings to alert me to the presence of Abby, but only a narrow band of eight positive contacts down by the new dock. Too far and too faint to say anymore, but I refrain from getting any closer because the Alarm Wards tell me there¡¯s many more Abby spread out all along shore. Damn trees are an obstruction in more ways than one, same with the various buildings scattered about, leaving me with a narrow cobblestone pathway as the only clear ground outside of Carter¡¯s compound.


    Which sits strangely silent and unlit even thought Carter and a couple others are also synched to the Alarm Wards, so they should know about the impending attack. Could be they¡¯re still confused as to what¡¯s going on, because there was no way to do a test run without recalibrating the wards, and I didn¡¯t think it¡¯d be necessary. Supposed I ought to rethink that moving forward, but if wishes were fishes, then we¡¯d all be fed, now wouldn¡¯t we? Walls won¡¯t do much to stop ranakin from hopping right over without defenders standing up top of them, which tells me everything I need to know about what I gotta do.


    First, I need to create a commotion loud enough to wake everyone in the compound. Then, I¡¯ll have to buy time for them to get up and at ¡®em. Lastly, it would be really nice if I survived through to the end without losing any body parts. All while fighting off a sizable horde of at least three dozen Abby by now, with more coming out the water with each passing moment, in heavily forested terrain that makes for less-than-ideal circumstances for gunfighting or Spellslinging.


    Sounds like a walk in the park. One packed with pitfalls and hazards as far as the eye can see, but still a park nonetheless.


    Slowly and silently weaving through the trees and shrubbery, I make my way towards the docks for a better look at what I¡¯m up against. Ain¡¯t a huge risk, as mudkippers are damn near blind, and while merhounds and ranakin have great eyesight, they don¡¯t have Darkvision because that would up the cost of production for minimal returns. Truth is, the local Abby don¡¯t got great senses when they out of water, whether it be sight, smell, or hearing. In water, they can feel the churning of a swimmer from 500 metres away and sense blood in the water from at least twice that distance. That¡¯s how they found those bodies so quickly after all, though they likely sensed it within the first minute and spent the next fourteen making sure it wasn¡¯t a trap.


    We ain¡¯t in the water though, so I make it close enough to see some fifty odd merhounds pacing along shore and maybe a dozen ranakin hang out around the docks, while a horde of mudskippers flop about all around them. They¡¯re rallying here rather than further inland because mudkippers and ranakin ain¡¯t exactly stealthy when they bound around. Merhounds are capable of moving quietly, but not as quietly as the tuskwulves they¡¯re sorta modelled after, nor are they anywhere near as fast. Clever though, so I keep an eye on my surroundings so I¡¯m not caught unawares by the scouts they¡¯ve sent ranging out. Merhound sentries checking out the lay of the land, finding the best routes through the forest to encircle their target, the compound sitting a quarter kilometre away from the shoreline.


    Could be Abby is here because of all the work we¡¯ve been doing on the dock. Eying the strung-up bells I set up over head, ones attached to woven nets out in the shallows, I spot them shaking in the trees, but hear no jingle jangling to alert me. A Silence Spell then, meaning they think they¡¯re being extra sneaky while the near constat pings from the Alarm Wards notifying me of more and more Abby making their way onto shore. They¡¯ve put a lot of thought into this attack, which is odd considering they sent seven ranakin here some five or six weeks back and lost more than half. That¡¯s not a small hunting party, and this one is a full on warband, a combined arms attack against a minor settlement that quite honestly doesn¡¯t offer much.


    There¡¯s what? Ten men, twelve women, and nine children in the compound, Elodie included. Not a whole lot of biomass to bring back, not compared to the fifty or so houses just a little north of here at Mueller¡¯s Quay. Especially considering how Carter¡¯s people ain¡¯t big on farming, possessing only a single plot of crops smaller than what most single households got up at the Quay. Don¡¯t gotta farm for much when you can Wildshape into a critter to hunt and forage all winter long.


    All told, it don¡¯t make sense for Abby to attack this place in strength, not when they stand to benefit so much more by attacking a much larger settlement so close by. And make no mistake, they got the numbers to take Mueller¡¯s Quay. The minutes pass in tense silence as I sort out what signals I can while taking in everything I see, and the number of merhounds alone is enough to give the Quay a good run for their money. Seventy plus and counting, with more than twice that in mudkippers and twenty big froggies to top it all off. Don¡¯t see warbands like this all that often around these parts, as they typically stick to smaller groups so they can move about in stealth.


    As if that ain¡¯t enough, there¡¯s a couple big boys who got that evolved look about them, the hobbs to them gobs as it were. I count five hulking hounds with extra thick torsos waddling about, their fishy forms at least half again the size of their counterparts to make them big as a pony. Each one is bulging at the seams from too much muscle packed onto their frames, and they got a couple extra long hooked spines sticking out from their cranial fins. As for the ranakin, there are three who tower head and shoulders over all the rest, who already stand tall at 7 feet easy, but they ain¡¯t the ones I¡¯m concerned with. No, it¡¯s the smallest, leanest, rangiest, ranakin that got me sweating, a stick-thin, dark-green noodle of a froggie that puts me more in mind of a slimy lizard with bulging eyes and runty, withered hooks for arms.


    Abby are a simple lot, and Ferals simpler still. The bigger they be, they dumber they usually are, so when a big ranakin evolves in the opposite direction and slims down a fair bit, then you can bet your bottom dollar that you up against one smart cookie. Odds are it¡¯s running this show too, which means priority number one is to take it out of the fight. Clever thing that it is, it ain¡¯t standing on the shoreline proper with the rest of its kin. Instead, has its hooks stuck fast to the cofferdam with only half its torso sticking out of the water. There it sits, studying the lay of the land and ready to submerge and swim away at a moment¡¯s notice if things should go wrong.


    Now don¡¯t get it twisted. Smaller doesn¡¯t necessarily mean weaker, as there¡¯s a good chance that rangy ranakin is still physically stronger and tougher than its normal sized kin, though most likely outstripped by its larger peers. It a difference in future paths of progression. Given time, those bigger ranakin will turn into Behemoths, massive Ferals who can grow ten, fifteen, twenty feet tall even, though that¡¯s in the old world which has a much higher Aetheric concentration. Pound for pound, Behemoths are physically the strongest Abby around, and tend to be tough as nails too, with the bigger ones requiring air support in the form of air to ground missiles to bring one down. As for the leaner ranakin, it¡¯ll eschew its Feral traits in favour of humanoid features and intelligence, gaining the ability to use tools, higher-level thinking, and natural Spellslinging at the expense of raw physical attributes. Both types are dangerous for different reasons, but me, I¡¯d much rather fight brawns than brains any day of the week.


    Mostly because I don¡¯t got much in the way of brains myself, and my pride couldn¡¯t take it if I got outsmarted by an Abby.


    So the short, skinny ranakin is priority one. Problem is, I¡¯m a little lacking in the tools to do it. My pistols have an effective range of 40m, but I rarely shoot at anything over 25m because the accuracy and precision ain¡¯t there. Needed 3 shots to down that second mafioso, and he wasn¡¯t even moving all that much. Ain¡¯t because I can¡¯t shoot, as I¡¯m a better than average shot even with my left. No, the problem is in the design of the pistol itself. Can¡¯t brace it easily, the iron sights ain¡¯t zeroed for range, you only got a short distance between front and rear sights, a two-hand grip don¡¯t offer that much more stability, the list goes on. Most importantly of all though, the Etched barrel of the pistol is too short for the Distant and Extend Duration Metamagics to have much effect on the Spell, so even though it¡¯s there, the Bolt itself won¡¯t be as stable and unwavering as a Bolt that¡¯s been through a 20¡¯ barrel. That¡¯s the big reason why a Bolt from a rifle can travel farther than one from a pistol, though not the only reason.


    The other option? Hit the slim-jim froggie with a Distant Fireball. Would give me double the regular range of 50m, plus the radius of the Fireball itself, but given how it¡¯s hanging out in the water so far away from its kin, it¡¯d meaning wasting a Third Order Spell on one singular target, or 16 out of 50 plus total Aether I can spend. Keep in mind, that¡¯s assuming I got a full eight hours of sleep, which may not be true, since I don¡¯t got a watch and can¡¯t see the moons through the trees. On the flip side, there¡¯s a good chance my limits have increased in recent weeks, seeing how I¡¯ve been going hard in the paint since losing my hand, but I¡¯ll count on what I know and anything extra can be a pleasant surprise.


    So get in far closer than I¡¯d like to a massive horde of Abby, or waste a little less than one-third of my effective Spellslinging abilities killing a single evolved ranakin? Neither option seems all that appealing, so I go with option C.


    Slowly moving closer through the thick brush, I find myself a good vantage point with decent line of sight and multiple escape routes within range of the shore. Most them merhounds stay close to shore, letting mudkippers latch onto their scaled flesh so they can carry them off into the forest, while the ranakin split into three groups led by one hulking froggie each. Glancing back at the compound, I still see no sign of activity from Carter¡¯s people, but it¡¯s now or never. I gotta hit Abby while the bulk of them are still in front of me, because if I leave it too long and they spread out into the forest, I could be surrounded without even noticing. To that end, I hunker down onto one knee in a cluster of purple loomshrubs, wrap a length of rope around my right arm, then use the stump to brace my left arm as I settle in to take aim at the closest big froggie I see.


    Thirty-six metres, according to Rangefinder. Not ideal. With a Model 10, that¡¯s about a three-inch Bolt drop. Seven and a half centimetres, a full finger-length almost. Gotta aim high to hit the headshot and guarantee a kill. Windage is minimal in the forest, but the froggie bobs side to side even when standing still, and up and down when it breathes. I take all this in and more as I line up my shot unassisted, and only when I¡¯ve picked my mark do I breathe in and activate the True Strike Cantrip. Only requires a Somatic component, which I trained long and hard to be the subtle movement of my thumb working the hammer of a gun. Doesn¡¯t have to actually cock it, just go through the motions while focused on the Spell Structure in my mind. My perspective narrows on my target and nothing else, my gun shifting almost imperceptibly to a more optimal position to land a hit. Exhaling slowly, I wait until the air is all but emptied out of my lungs, and in that brief moment between breaths, when my body is as still as a rock, I gently squeeze the trigger and fire off a shot.


    The booming bark of the Model 10 echoes out into the silent night, and the big froggie is dead before the sound reaches him. As for me, I¡¯m already up and moving by the time the Bolt hits, activating the Longstrider Spell stored in my right boot, a must have for when the going gets good. My legs don¡¯t grow longer like the name implies, nor do they move any faster, but each stride eats up more ground than it did before as I dash through the trees and across the cobbled path while whooping all the way. The froggies issue a bellowing croak while merhounds join their voices in a gurgling warcry that sounds more like gargling than anything else, only louder and more forceful than I could ever manage.


    And so the game begins as I take off into the trees while the Abby horde gives chase, my boots pounding in the dirt and heart pounding in my chest as the merhounds gain ground right quick. I spot their forms flashing through the trees, but I hold my shoots and Spells both, because no point wasting them just yet. I just keep running and whooping to lead them on and get them focused on the chase. This here is option C, what my daddy called the run around and I think of as the Howie Special as it¡¯s become something of a favourite of mine. Show up unannounced, make a lot of noise, and get Abby chasing you down while you lead them into a trap or pick them off piecemeal.


    It¡¯s real effective when you riding solo since you don¡¯t gotta worry about silly things like lanes of fire or collateral damage. Which are something of a concern in the here and now, but that¡¯s why I¡¯m running off into the trees. There a small clearing around a giant whitewood tree only a short ways away from the compound, far enough from the buildings and shore both to make for a great battleground tonight. Dipping between trees and leaping over hedges, I hurtle headlong towards my destination as quick as I can, my teeth clenched around a blade of grass as I huff and puff away. The slap of merhound flippers on dirt and twigs sounds out from all too many directions, many of which seem much too close for comfort, but I keep my eyes forward and my body in motion because that¡¯s the only way I¡¯ll make it out of this alive.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    The towering whitewood tree comes into sight as I burst into the clearing, one littered with shrubs, bushes, and wild grasses a plenty, but no trees within six or seven metres of the thick, gnarled trunk. Putting on one last burst of speed, I make ready to sling my Spell only for my heart to freeze in my chest as I spot a massive merhound barrelling towards me from the left. The chonky fishdog¡¯s eyes light-up in delight, because it sees where I¡¯m going and knows it can cut me off. It¡¯s right too, but I¡¯m fully committed to the plan, because there are more merhounds behind me that I can¡¯t shake off. With nothing else for it, I push my mind and body to its limits as I Intone, ¡°Gravitas ¨C Cessat.¡± Halfway through the chant, I raise my Model Ten and squeeze off a shot at the oncoming merhound, hitting its shoulder which barely inconveniences it. I keep pulling the trigger though, while finishing the chant, all the while moving my phantom fingers through the Somatic Component of the Spell. ¡°Surgo ¨C Sine ¨C Pondere!¡±


    The fact that it works is almost a miracle considering how divided my focus is. Less miraculous is how my second, third, and fourth shots all prove ineffective against the thick fishdoggy¡¯s scaled hide. The beast lunges at me from several meters away, with power, speed, and momentum enough to pulp me on contact. Leaving it all up to fate, I jump too, squeezing off my last and final shot as I do, and the Bolt hammers home into the merhound¡¯s fanged, unhinged jaw, one moments away from tearing me to shreds.


    The dead Abby torso misses me by mere inches as I launch myself through the air, pulling my knees up to my chest to get over the beast before slamming them down again in mid-air. Both boots catches the corpse as it passes and pushes me even further up into the air, a double jump unlike made possible by the Levitation Spell. Does what the Chant says, namely, ¡°Gravity ceases, I rise without weight¡±, boosting me higher than I¡¯ve ever jumped before. My forward momentum brings me crashing into the tree trunk, and my arms and legs protest at having to absorb so much force, but there¡¯s no time to rest just yet with the Abby horde behind me. Handing my empty Model 10 over to my Mage Hands for reloading, I grab my belt knife and stab it lightly into the tree, pulling myself up along with the Spell for an extra little burst of speed. Doesn¡¯t take more than a few seconds to reach the Spell¡¯s height limit of 6 metres, which ain¡¯t hardly enough to keep me safe, so I use the knife to climb further and further until the weight of gravity is too much to keep going any further.


    Which puts me at 10 metres, give or take, and is hopefully out of range of any froggie leaps, though I dare say some of them look like they getting close. Hanging off the side of the tree with my knife jammed into the bark, I allow myself a brief moment of regret as I stare down at the Abby horde gathering around the base of the tree, a seething mass of fangs, fins, and fury. Too late to change my mind now, so I hop to getting myself out of this pinch, moving my phantom fingers like I¡¯m working a whip and muttering the chant that goes along with the Living Whip Cantrip. Not ¡®wah pah¡¯, making stupid whip sounds like Errol do, but, ¡°Vide ¨C Vivam¡±, or ¡®look lively¡¯.


    The rope wrapped around my arm jumps into motion, shooting out and up a good five metres in height before latching onto the side of the trunk. Doesn¡¯t wrap all the way around it, but sticks tightly to the bark instead, which gives me enough tension to pull my knife out of the tree and pull myself up another foot higher. Soon as I can, I cast Living Whip again, and send the rope higher up and further around the tree trunk, gaining myself a bit more height as I do. In between casts, I scoot around the trunk looking to break line of sight on any Abby readying to shoot Bolts or other Spells. Aren¡¯t many of those though, because unlike with greenies, Ferals have a shockingly low number of natural Spellslingers. Too stupid to figure it out, which makes them heavily reliant on Spell Cores, and the local Proggie is too cheap to shell out on something simple like Bolt, not when it¡¯s more focused on the survival of its progeny more than anything else.


    Of course, Silence is an Evocation Spell, so there might be a heavy hitter somewhere in the crowd. My money is on it being the rangy Froggie still hiding in the lake though, and my hunch proves true as the merhounds gargle and froggies croak below me instead of launching projectiles my way. Leaves me free and clear to pay them no mind and continue my upwards ascent. Right up until my rope makes it all the way around the thick tree trunk, which at least 10m in diametre, if not more. Looping the rope around my right arm so I can brace myself against the tree and free my left hand, I glance down at the frenzied mass of merhounds scrambling about the base of the tree, a good 25, maybe 30 metres away. They¡¯d love nothing more than to topple this big old whitewood, but it¡¯ll take some doing at least. Showing they a smarter bunch though, the ranakin have backed off, while the skinny froggie is nowhere to be found, possibly still hiding in the water at the dock or maybe even gone home in defeat already, because while there are old Abby and there are bold Abby, there are no old, bold Abby lingering round these parts.


    So with nothing more to it, I raise my left hand like I¡¯m reaching for the stars, grab me a fistful of air and light before bringing it down and cocking it in place, then point centre mass at the thickest pack of merhounds I see, all while chanting, ¡°Incendo ¨C Magna ¨C Invoko!¡±


    The forest floor lights up in a blinding glare as I shut my eyes behind my Darkvision goggles, and open them again a moment later to find a carpet of charred corpses strewn about the base of the tree. There are a lucky few who only got clipped and are high-tailing it away with burns and injuries, while still more were out of the blast area entirely and spreading out right quick. Yea, Ferals are a dumb bunch, but they still got that animal cunning, enough to know they shouldn¡¯t clump up in the presence of a Spellslinger with Fireball. ¡°WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!¡± Comes the yell, a spirited cheer of jubilation that slips out from between my lips as I bask in the glory of the most iconic Third Order Spell there is. ¡°That¡¯s what you get, little doggies! You want a piece of me, then you best be prepared to burn and bleed!¡±


    The Model 10 comes out again, all loaded and ready, so I squeeze off a couple shots in celebration, tagging four hounds and dropping two more as I stand perched in perfect safety. ¡°Y¡¯all wait right there,¡± I shout as my Mage Hands get to reloading again. ¡°I got Bolts enough for all of ya! Don¡¯t you worry ¨C ¡±


    It strikes like lightning, a sudden flash of agony tearing through my mind. The pain radiates from within and instantly spreads throughout my head and body both. Everything turns on its head and I can¡¯t tell up from down, left from right, darkness from light, because even when I close my eyes, all I see is suffering. My suffering, my pain, my personal torment taking place within the confines of my own mind. An inhuman presence fixes its attention upon me, shrieking incomprehensible noises that I read well enough as the alien mind unleashes a torrent of anguish and suffering upon me in a fit of unchecked rage. There is no logic to it, only red-hot agony as my mind is set ablaze, and the world turns to suffering for a brief but prolonged instant.


    A second. Maybe two. In retrospect, that¡¯s all the time it takes to go through this ordeal, one that leaves me dizzy, nauseous, and blinking in confusion as I try to make sense of what I¡¯m seeing. It¡¯s the tree trunk, pressed too close and too hard against my face, and the rest of my body too. Got the taste of blood in my mouth, and it hurts to even try and lift my head, but through the haze of excruciating agony within my mind, I become all too aware of more suffering outside it as my right arm threatens to pop out of its shoulder if I don¡¯t do something about all this weight. My weight, all of which is back in full force after I lost Concentration and dropped the Levitation Spell and hanging off of a handless arm. Ordinarily, the Spell would¡¯ve gently lowered me back down to the ground, or slowed my falling for about a minute before gravity re-exerts itself upon me, but the rope wrapped around the tree had too much tension to let me fall, not while it was wrapped around my arm too.


    Blinking the lights out of my eyes, I reach up, grab the rope with my hand and hoist myself up just a bit, enough to get my feet under me and against the tree trunk proper. With so many points of contact, my weight is more evenly distributed, putting less strain on my strained arm and giving me room enough to glance around. A quick look down sends me into a panic as I spot eight merhounds gamely climbing their way up the tree trunk, digging their webbed claws into the bark and hoisting themselves up ever so slowly. ¡°Hold up,¡± I slur, sounding like a man who¡¯s had five too many drinks. ¡°When¡¯d you doggies learn to climb?¡±


    Feels like I¡¯m wearing too thick gloves as I fumble for my Model 10 presented by my Mage Hands, but as my fingers close around the grip, my grit and resolve come flooding back. The loud bark of the gun is music to my ears as I pop all six shots right quick, killing four merhounds and knocking two more off of the tree trunk. All six bodies go crashing back down to the dirt, knocking even more merhounds off the tree as they sail on by to the ground. While my Mage Hands reload once more, I use the rope to climb higher and circle around the trunk to make sure none of them doggies catch me unaware. Shoot and scoot, a tried-and-true tactic, albeit under very difference circumstances from normal, but the name of the game ain¡¯t changed one bit. The best part is, them merhounds are terrible climbers, so even if I didn¡¯t do nothing but sit here and wait, the chances of them getting close enough to grab me are slim to none, which is what I like in a good fight. Forget fighting fair. The best time to hit your opponent is when they got no chance of hitting back, and ain¡¯t nothing anyone can say to change my mind.


    Sixteen merhounds. That¡¯s how many I shoot down before they give up the ghost, slinking away into the forest to make for the shoreline. Never one to take anything for granted, I cast Levitate on myself again and give myself a moment to breathe and check on my injuries. Everything hurts, but I think most of the pain is in my head. I¡¯m bleeding out of my nose too, as I think I smacked face first into the tree after my first Levitation fell off. My right arm is killing me, probably having pulled a muscle, but it¡¯s still usable for the most part. With all that in mind, I gather up my nerve, hunker down on the tree, then push myself off the trunk into empty air towards the compound, leaving my length of rope behind. Soaring out into the night¡¯s sky, I slowly drift down towards Levitate¡¯s natural height of six metres, but I make it to the next tree long before I dip down that low.


    From there, it¡¯s a simple matter of climbing a few metres and jumping off again, moving from tree to tree and making my way back towards the compound. Every now and then I stop to shoot at the merhounds keeping an eye on my progress, and soon enough, I make it to the edge of the road where I¡¯m greeted by the closing scene of a slaughter so complete I need a moment to take it all in. The grounds out front of the compound are covered in the corpses of merhounds and mudkippers, several of which have arrows embedded in their pristine Abby flesh to show that their shots were the killing blow. Most of the others weren¡¯t so lucky, their bodies torn, pierced, and shredded apart in all too many different ways by the various beasts roaming about the battlefield.


    The most eye-catching beast of all is a beast I don¡¯t recognize, one built thick like a bull but with feet like a mammoth. It got a small, stunted horn on its nose and a rough, hairless grey hide that looks mighty thick and tough. Its big, heavy head has got two tiny eyes sitting deep in its tough, ugly wrinkled face, one that looks like it belongs on a lizard more than anything else. That¡¯s all I can really see of it, as most of its massive torso is covered in what I can only assume is Conjured Armour, though I suppose someone could¡¯ve made a set of shiny steel plate for this creature to wear as it ploughs through the horde of Abby unchecked with its pounding gallop and thundering growl, waving its heavy head left and right to strike at any Abby who try to get away.


    While most of the warband tries to avoid getting trampled by the giant armoured beast, they¡¯re left vulnerable to arrows and other beasts roaming about the fringes. There¡¯s a massive bear, all dark brown and bellowing in fury as it brings a big paw down on a ranakin mid-jump, pulping it through sheer force of the blow before the body even hits the ground. Another creature moves too quickly to be seen, running headfirst down a tree to pounce on a ranakin before darting away in the blink of an eye, leaving nothing but an Abby corpse behind. At least six Tuskwulves can be seen roaming about the forest, working in groups to encircle and kill merhounds one by one as they spread out to flee. The cohesion of a true wulf pack proving superior to the makeshift instincts bestowed upon Abby by their Proggie, as expected from the silent, ferocious predators who can bring down prey more than thrice their size.


    Most of Carter¡¯s people stand in human form up top the walls, maintaining Concentration on two patches of Entangling Growth holding Abby in place for the scintillating Flaming Cloud that¡¯s roaming the battlefield and igniting everything that draws near. Carter himself is one of those who haven¡¯t Wildshaped, but not from the safety of the walls. No, he¡¯s out on the battlefield proper in nothing but a tunic and loose pants with a giant glowing staff in hand, one that looks like a still living tree you could plant into the dirt and pick fruit from after a few years of growth. Which seems crazy to me, except the man makes it work, taking long, bounding leaps as he moves to and fro while sweeping away any and all Abby that draw near with powerful, domineering blows. One smack sends a merhound flying through the air, the next pulps a ranakin lunging at him from the side as he twirls his weapon all about without pause, his hands and feet moving round and round as his staff spins from end over end while he leaps all across the battlefield until it''s impossible to tell where one attack ends and the next begins.


    Blowing out a mouthful of flames, Cowie trots about the field immolating whole swathes of mudkippers as they flop and flail about in a futile effort to escape, while Elodie in her baby diamondclaw form tears apart any Abby that get too close. Watching over her is an even bigger diamondclaw, a full-sized, majestic creature that stands at least six metres tall at the shoulders as it faces off against a massive merhound that¡¯s only half its size, an evolved Aberration that used Gigantify and still can¡¯t measure up. A single swipe of the mama diamondclaw¡¯s arm takes the Aberration¡¯s front legs off, and she follows through to bring her claw around and down before punching clean through its thick head. The corpse shrinks in death back to its normal size, the Spell effects fading now that its dead, and the diamondclaw moves on without having so much as breaking a sweat.


    Which of course makes me feel all sorts of silly, seeing how ready and effective Carter¡¯s people can be. Things might be different if these Abby were slinging Bolts or spewing Dragon¡¯s Breath, but in melee combat, they¡¯re absolutely unmatched. Especially Carter, who fights like one of them Battle Monks my daddy sometimes talked about, doing all sorts of fancy flips and jumps as he moves about the battlefield like a one-man army. As for me, I pop off a few more shots at the fleeing Abby from the treetops once I shake off my surprise, but the battle was won before I got here, and now it¡¯s all a matter of clean up.


    Takes a few minutes for the action to wind down, and soon as it does, I push my way over towards Cowie with my Levitation Spell still going. Mostly because I want the Mama Diamondclaw who I assume is Amelie to see me instead of accidentally stomping me flat. She spots me right quick, her big green eyes tracking me the moment I¡¯m in sight and warily watching my approach. Elodie sees me soon after, abandoning the Abby corpse she was so happily rending apart with her claws to come bounding over in glee. Mouth opened wide and eyes fixed on me in the air, she stands so adorably beneath me while politely tucking her claws in front of her chest.


    It¡¯s uncanny is what it is, because everything she does looks so natural and animal-like, while the others exhibit at least some human characteristics. The bear is treading lightly, looking all squeamish as it avoids stepping on corpses, while the armoured tank of a horned animal is using a bush to scrape the gunk off its face. As for Elodie¡¯s mama, she got a very human expression of disapproval pasted across her diamondclaw features as she watches her daughter hop about on her hind legs in an adorable display of animal curiosity, something I¡¯ve seen in marties when they chase butterflies of bits of ribbon dangling from strings.


    And seeing how I¡¯m about the perfect size for a snack and hovering at mouth height, I would very much like it if miss Amelie wasn¡¯t upset at me. ¡°Elodie,¡± I say, and she tilts her head at the sound of her name. ¡°I¡¯d like to come down now, so I would appreciate it if you gave me some room.¡± Dropping down to all fours, Elodie circles around and away while I drop the Levitation Spell and float back down, but soon as my feet hit the dirt, she charges forward to smother me in animal affection. ¡°Okay now,¡± I say, unsure how to proceed as she latches her arms around my waist and rubs her face in my chest. Patting her head ever so gingerly while doing my darndest not to look up at her mama, I say, ¡°Watch the claws.¡± Head still pressed against my chest, Elodie gives me a big, teary-eyed look and lets out a soft, mournful little squeak, one that breaks my heart to hear and see. ¡°Okay girlie,¡± I say, unable to resist giving her chin a little rub, because the fur down there is all short, soft, and bristly. ¡°I get it. Nothin¡¯ to worry about though. I¡¯m fine. Tried to lure most of the warband away, but I don¡¯t think it worked all that well.¡± Got maybe a third of the merhounds dead around the tree, including the ones I shot down, so it was a bit lacklustre of a Fireball. Then again, we can¡¯t compare against perfect conditions, so getting fifteen to twenty Ferals in a single go ain¡¯t half bad.


    Unhappy over being ignored, Cowie trots on over to give a headbutt and a nuzzle too. Rubbing his cheek with a grin, I say, ¡°I know, I know. You weren¡¯t worried, because you know better, right?¡± He doesn¡¯t answer, because he a bull and can¡¯t talk, but Elodie lets out another soft squeak that melts my heart.


    Before I give into temptation and sit down for a cuddle with the girlie in floof form, Carter arrives to sort us out. Chest heaving with exertion, he looks otherwise none the worse for wear besides the Abby gore splattered all about his clothes. ¡°Hey,¡± I say, pointing at his now normal looking quarterstaff. ¡°Your stick shrunk.¡± Grinning, I add, ¡°Must be the cold.¡±


    ¡°Give us some space Elodie,¡± Carter says, ignoring my hilarious joke. Turning to me, he says, ¡°I¡¯m going to take off your goggles.¡± He fends off my attempts to do it myself and ever so gently removes them, but even then I feel a bit of a pinch as they come free. I wince, but he doesn¡¯t let me pull away. A Dancing Light springs forth into existence as he studies my face, and I¡¯ve no idea what it is he¡¯s looking for. ¡°How were you hurt?¡±


    ¡°Uhh¡­?¡± Takes some thinking, because aside from being a little sore and the Mindspire pounding at the back of my head, there ain¡¯t much to complain about. ¡°Went face first into a tree a touch too quickly. Might¡¯ve also bit my tongue a bit? I got blood on my face or something?¡±


    Carter blinks. That¡¯s all it is, but I can see how taken aback he is. ¡°Howie,¡± he says, studying me closely like one studies a madmen to try and guess what he gonna do next. ¡°You¡¯re bleeding out of your eyes, ears, and nose. Mouth too it seems, if you say you bit your tongue.¡±


    Fool that I am, I gotta check to make sure he¡¯s right, and my hand comes away sticky with blood. ¡°Oh shoot,¡± I say, blinking repeatedly and feeling my eyelids stick as I Conjure up a Water Sphere to wash the blood off. ¡°That ain¡¯t good.¡± Then it hits me. ¡°Oh. I know. Must¡¯ve been whatever hit me while I was up in the tree.¡± I give him a brief overview of the fight, and how I almost got knocked out of my first Levitation Spell, though I leave out the bit about my Fireball. They probably saw the flare of fire and light, but how many people can recognize a Fireball? Not that many, so here¡¯s hoping they missed it. ¡°Mind Spike maybe? Or Mind Whip, the Enchantment version of the same Spell more or less, though I¡¯ve heard it really takes you out of it. Granted I ain¡¯t ever felt that one first hand. Until now I guess. Hits a lot harder than Mind Whip though, I¡¯ll say that much.¡±


    Was nothing like what the Hobgoblin Illusionist hit me with out in the Coral Desert. That was like a pat on the cheek, while what I felt today was more like a punch to the jaw, one that left me seeing stars for a good little bit. Carter nods along with my explanation and says, ¡°We thought the worst when we saw the Fireball go off.¡± Damn, so he actually knows what he saw. ¡°Wanted to fight our way over towards you, since the Abby warband looked ready to retreat, but they pivoted on us as soon as we came out.¡±


    ¡°You came out to help me? You shouldn¡¯t have.¡± Carter doesn¡¯t respond, so I double down and say, ¡°Seriously. You shouldn¡¯t have. You should¡¯ve stayed safe in your compound and weathered it out. If anyone gets hit by a Fireball, chances of them making it out alive are slim to none, so no sense risking it all to save someone who likely already dead.¡±


    ¡°Did you get a good look at the Evolved Aberrations?¡± Wholly ignoring my advice, Carter says, ¡°Best if you did to get descriptions to the Rangers. A possible Illusionist or Enchanter is bad enough, but an Evoker too? One with Fireball¡­¡±


    Oh right. Most people would assume it was Abby slinging Third Order Spells, not the seventeen-year-old kid. ¡°Uh,¡± I begin, not sure how to go about reassuring him. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t worry too much about it.¡± Which is just a terrible response, but I can¡¯t think of anything better.


    ¡°Did you kill it?¡±


    ¡°Sure?¡± No, terrible lie for so many reasons, least of which is how easy it¡¯d be to see through. ¡°Well no, but uhh¡­ consider it good as dead.¡± Doing my best to change the subject, I say, ¡°So¡­ who¡¯re the tuskwulves? So I know to step lightly around them.¡±


    ¡°They were Conjured Summons.¡± Giving me a measured look, Carter asks, ¡°Howie, what am I going to find when I go down to the docks?¡±


    ¡°Bunch of dead Abby.¡± Pausing to dab my wet face with a sleeve, I grimace and say, ¡°Some shot, most burnt.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± He pieces it together and doesn¡¯t recoil away as most would, since it¡¯s unnerving standing so close to a man who¡¯s got Fireball prepped. Glancing around at the battlefield, he says, ¡°We¡¯ll clean things up quickly. Shouldn¡¯t be anyone coming by, but you never know.¡± There it is again, Carter¡¯s big heart showing itself, as he concerned about keeping my secret even though I never asked. ¡°If anyone asks, we¡¯ll say you worked late and never left,¡± he continues, though it takes me a moment to figure out why. So we can blame Joey¡¯s death on the Abby attack, or at least feign ignorance and leave room for doubt. ¡°Come. I will bring you inside so Ines can take a look at you.¡±


    ¡°No need,¡± I say, though my feet stay planted where they are. ¡°I still got plenty of Aether in the tank. Plus, I wanna ride up to Mueller¡¯s Quay and a couple other settlements round here, see if they were attacked too.¡± Still don¡¯t understand why Carter¡¯s place was attacked, by such a large force of Abby no less. Like I said before, this ain¡¯t the Coral deserts, which is the hunting grounds of multiple Proggies working in concert. Had to be a hundred plus merhounds and ranakin all told, and at least twice that in mudkippers, which is a significant investment for a lone Proggie. There¡¯s gotta be something ¨C


    My feet give out from under me as I try to step away, but Carter catches me before I go far. ¡°Howie,¡± he says, once he¡¯s got my full attention. ¡°You¡¯re bleeding out of every hole in your head, which is never a good sign. I don¡¯t think you¡¯ve got brain damage, but you should still let Ines look you over. Even if she gives you a clean bill of health, you¡¯re not going anywhere on your own.¡±


    He ain¡¯t making a suggestion. It¡¯s a statement, one I can hardly argue against now that I can barely keep my head up straight. ¡°Well, on the bright side,¡± I say, leaning heavily against him as he leads me away with Cowie, Elodie, and her giant diamondclaw of a mama Amelie trailing behind us. ¡°If it turns out I do got brain damage, then at least ain¡¯t no one hardly gonna notice.¡±


    Finally, I get a laugh out of the man. Not a chuckle, chortle, snort, or snicker, but a full blown belly laugh from the taciturn man, a feat I can be proud of.

 Book Two - Chapter 77

    Walk up to an amassing horde of Abby to take a pot shot and run away? I¡¯ll do that any day of the week.


    Step into a closed room with five dangerous outlaws wanted for murder and worse? Not ideal, but if it happens, then I¡¯ll deal with whatever may come.


    Present myself to Aunty Ray while all bruised, battered, and bloodshot without so much as a shower first? I¡¯d sooner eat a Bolt than willingly walk into that landmine.


    So after Carter and his people escort me back to New Hope and we make our report to the Sherrif, my first port of call is home for a shower and a fresh change of clothes. Unfortunately, Carter got other ideas and frogmarches me over to the hospital for a check up, even though the matronly, no-nonsense Ines already laid her rough mitts all over me. Uncle Art¡¯s got a lot to say about how I keep landing myself in trouble, and I can¡¯t really argue, not with Carter right there. Ain¡¯t no one¡¯s fault that his home is an Abby hotspot, something I brung up with the Sherrif when we was there, and he said he¡¯d kick it over to the Rangers to investigate while they do a wellness check on the settlements around Carter¡¯s.


    Got nothing to do with me though, as Uncle Art hits me with a forty-eight-hour observation period. Wants me to stay overnight at the hospital of all places, but I convince him to let me handle it myself. Takes some doing, but the nail in the coffin is the picture I paint of Aunty Ray, Tina, and Chrissy leaving the comfort of the church to keep me company throughout my stay, and he knows how miserable they¡¯d be. To spare them the hardship, Uncle Art¡¯s more than willing to risk my hide, so he sends me on my way with a laundry list of symptoms to watch for and express orders to come back if I exhibit even a single one.


    Then and only then am I allowed to return home, escorted by Carter of course. Makes me stop off to pick up Danny along the way, so I got someone looking after me once our business is concluded. Carter is good people, but eager to get home, and I can¡¯t rightly blame him, seeing how they just warded off a massive Abby attack this morning. The fact that they spared three powerful Wildshapers to see me home safely shows that even though he seems frosty on the outside, Carter¡¯s a big ol¡¯ softie underneath it all. Raja the Malaysian and Bodvar the Nord are my other two escorts, or the armoured rhino and grizzly bear respectively. Neither one speaks much English, though they understand it well enough, and the same goes for Nhial the tall, dark beanpole who apparently turns into the big old black panther which I never actually saw. Lot of folks like that in Carter¡¯s community, but they get along well enough, and work together even better.


    They ain¡¯t Magi, or so Carter says. Claims they¡¯re all just really, really good with the Wildshape Spell, and some of them picked up a few tricks along the way. Bullshit is what that is, because Carter is most certainly Special Forces of some flavour or another. Same with Raja and Nhial, though I¡¯m not so sure about Bodvar, as the big bear of a man strikes me more as the naturally talented leg-breaking type. Lacks the discipline and self-control you get from proper training, which makes his prowess all the more impressive. Either way, I¡¯m pretty sure most of Carter¡¯s people got at least some military training, or have learned enough since the Advent to pass for former military. It¡¯s in how the compound is laid out, how there are no dissenting voices ever, their battlefield tactics, and the way they follow orders even in battle without flinching before the Abby warband.


    Then again, I wouldn¡¯t have flinched either if I¡¯d known miss Amelie¡¯s diamondclaw form would be on our side. Wasn¡¯t no baby there, but a full-sized beastie, which really got me thinking about the Wildshape Spell. I don¡¯t know much about it, but I know enough to know that if you want to Summon a horse, that¡¯s a Third Order Spell. Has to do with the mass and magical abilities of the creature, as a horse got one hell of a lot of mass. Now since Wildshaping is supposedly similar to Summoning, then I gotta assume the same mass limits apply. This tells me a few things. First, that Raja, Nhial, Bodvar, and anyone else who can Wildshape into a horsie are at the very least capable of casting Third Order Spells. They might not be Magi, and might not even have any Third Order Spell Structures prepped in memory, but they got enough metaphysical muscle to sling a Third Order Spell, or more specifically a Second Order Spell at Third Order power.


    The next thing to take note of is how powerful miss Amelie is. Didn¡¯t really register until I had time to mull over the battle and realize how much stronger she was compared to everyone else. If she opened up the gates and turned into a diamondclaw, I¡¯m pretty sure she could¡¯ve killed the entire Abby warband all by her lonesome as they filed into the compound. Her fur gives her Aetheric Resistance to Spells and Spell-like-effects, while the diamondclaw¡¯s Innate Abjuration Spells offers her protection from fangs, claws, and other mundane attacks. It wouldn¡¯t have been easy, and I¡¯m guessing she wouldn¡¯t have walked away unscathed, but if you run that fight a hundred times, she wins ninety-five out of a hundred, easily. And that¡¯s being conservative, as I¡¯m not sure there was anything those Abby could¡¯ve done to actually kill miss Amelie.


    The thing is, if a regular horse, bear, or rhino already requires a Third Order Spell, how is it possible to use that same amount of juice to Wildshape into a full-grown diamondclaw, a creature more than three times the size of them other animals with Innate Magical abilities to boot?


    It¡¯s not, or at least logic dictates it shouldn¡¯t be possible. It clearly is, as I seen it happen, and it¡¯s not because miss Amelie can cast it at Fourth Order. Mostly because it¡¯s downright impossible for the Frontier to support a Fourth Order Spell. It just can¡¯t happen, as the concentration of ambient Aether ain¡¯t thick or fast enough to support the flows of a Spell Structure higher than Third Order. So take away the impossible, and the only explanation left is that miss Amelie has figured out how to squeeze more juice out of the same Wildshape Spell that everyone can use. Which is exactly what I¡¯m trying to do with Mage Hand, except I imagine far more complex considering I would put a diamondclaw Wildshape at a Fourth Order power level, if not Fifth.


    Which makes Elodie a damn prodigy, since she takes things another step further. When she Wildshapes into a diamondclaw, she isn¡¯t specifying a ¡®baby diamondclaw¡¯, because that¡¯s not how the Spell works. Instead, she¡¯s exerting enough control on the Spell to not only take on the form of a powerful Magical Beast, but also reducing the mass and power of her chosen form to fit within her Aetheric limits, which I imagine is Second Order. It¡¯d be like me casting Fireball at the First Order power level. You can upcast a Spell all you want, put more power into it to get more out of it, but going the other direction requires genius intellect and Aetheric understanding comparable to an Immortal Monarch. You can¡¯t just reduce the Grainage willy nilly. Third Order Spells require 16 Grain of Aether to Prime and activate. That is the cost. Any less, and the Spell Structure doesn¡¯t reach full saturation and the Spell comes apart before ever making it into reality. To put it in physical terms? If you can¡¯t push the rock hard enough, then it don¡¯t move, simple as that. So for Elodie to go against that basic principle is like the first person who invented the lever, allowing her to do more work with less effort.


    Seems like Chrissy ain¡¯t the only gifted Innate out there, as Elodie¡¯s talented in her own unique way too.


    The worst part is? I nearly got myself killed trying to save them, but they didn¡¯t need no saving. See, I was following Ranger S.O.P, in that you never want to surrender the initiative unless you can¡¯t help it. All Abby got that murderous cunning, even Ferals who tend to be the dumbest of the bunch, and their logic is as alien as their D.N.A. If I fell back to the compound to wait for the attack, we might well have been left waiting for hours, or even days. They could¡¯ve dug in and tried to starve us out while launching probing attacks to keep us tired and on our toes, or started burrowing under the compound from out of sight. I¡¯ve seen Abby encircle a fortified position and throw themselves at the wall without thinking, but I¡¯ve also seen them work together to form ramps from fallen trees for their brethren to get up over the walls. They could have suicidal exploders, Spellslingers with siege Spells, or access to group Rituals that defy classic Spell Order classification and are capable of unleashing the power of a dozen Fireballs in a single go.


    All of which is to say you can never be sure what Abby got hidden up their sleeves. That¡¯s why you gotta strike first whenever you can, and that¡¯s what I did. I kicked the viper¡¯s nest and got them all worked up and angry, which overrode their murderous cunning and made their animal instincts kick in. No planning, no tactics, no feints or probing strikes, just man against Abby in a head on clash. Truth is, I played my hand poorly there, as they would¡¯ve stuck around at the base of my tree for as long as it took to topple it if I didn¡¯t bring out the big guns so quick.


    Even then, once they realized I was no small fish, what did they do? They went at the compound piecemeal, in drips and drabs as they slunk off in search of a softer target, instead of en masse like they¡¯d probably been planning. That¡¯s because when Abby gets hard of thinking, they go at you direct, narrowing down the lane of fire and massing together in numbers big enough to make Area of Effect Spells well worth it. Yea, everything went exactly as planned, aside from the bit where I was bleeding out my ears and almost lost a foot to climbing doggies, but like they say, man proposes and God disposes.


    In hindsight however, my actions were unnecessary, as Carter and his people had it all handled. They had their summoned tuskwulves ready to play the part of bait, while the rest of them sat quiet in the darkness while waiting for me to come in, except I made a big mess of things because I underestimated their abilities.


    Which to be fair, I had no real way of knowing about, not when they¡¯ve been keeping their cards so close to their vest. Still feel conflicted when I count out the cash to pay Carter for the Aberrtin and Spell Cores. We settled on a 30-70 split in his favour, and even then I think he¡¯s getting robbed, but he wanted to do 50-50 and took a whole lot of convincing to even get this far. Ain¡¯t that he don¡¯t value money, as he knows he¡¯s got bills to pay. Ain¡¯t a lack of ambition neither, else he wouldn¡¯t be so gung-ho about improving the standard of living for his people and making sure they don¡¯t completely lose the social skills they¡¯d largely given up on in favour of Wildshaping into beasts. Takes foresight and planning to think so far ahead, because while they¡¯re doing fine in the here and now, things will change come the Watershed and we get manpower enough to launch ourselves into the 21<sup>st</sup> Century in terms of technology and development.


    All of which leaves me wondering why Carter would let himself be extorted by the likes of ¡®Mikey¡¯ from the Mafia. I get not wanting to risk the lives of his family and his people, I really do, but he got strength enough to run roughshod over anything the Mafia throws at him. Look at Joseph for example. Man was also an Innate, but his lacklustre Ice Knife was worlds apart from what miss Amelie and Elodie can do. Swallowing a Spell Core is the easiest path to Aetheric power, but you still gotta work at it all the same, and criminals ain¡¯t known for their great work ethics, else they¡¯d have better options than turning criminal in the first place.


    To that end, I add a bit extra into the envelope without mentioning it, and Carter doesn¡¯t count as expected. It¡¯s only fair since he¡¯s taking his share in cash while I get to hold onto all the Aberrtin and Spell Cores. He don¡¯t say much after I hand over the envelope, just nods in farewell and turns to leave, waving away my offer of lunch or even a drink as he heads off with Raja and Bodvar. Eager to get home, they are, so I shout a thanks as they leave and share a shrug with Danny, who is similarly put off by their taciturn nature. ¡°They good people,¡± I say, and Danny gets that much at least, because he knows I got high standards when it comes to good people. Most ain¡¯t. Good that is. They can be decent, or downright friendly, but good is a whole other level, one reserved for the likes of Uncle Teddy, Uncle Art, Tim, Marcus, and others like them, the true heroes of the Frontier.


    After getting Old Tux and Cowie settled in, I leave Danny with a soda and a snack while I hop into the shower to scrub all the blood and grime off of me. Always a treat, that first hot shower back, but this one is marred by the pain. The Mindspire drone is bad as ever, but now I¡¯m battered, bruised, and exhausted to boot, the last of which is one of the symptoms on Uncle Art¡¯s list. I told him as much, but he said I shouldn¡¯t worry unless I get a good eight or twelve hours of sleep and wake up still feeling tired. Which is why he prescribed a nap, but I ain¡¯t got time for that, so I finish up in the shower and head over to the mirror to see how I look.


    Bad. That¡¯s how, and I ain¡¯t talking about my features. I got the makings of a bruise under my right eye, where I face planted into the tree after my first Levitation Spell dropped off. Also got a line of bruises along my right shoulder and forearm, from when I had the rope wrapped around me while hanging all my weight off of it. Wiping the steam off the mirror for a closer look, I wince at sight of my bloodshot eyes, because there¡¯s absolutely no way to hide them. Calling them bloodshot is underselling the issue, as it ain¡¯t just a bit of redness like I been smoking the wacky tobacky. My eyes are so red it¡¯s like my brown iris¡¯ are sitting in pools of bright red blood, on account of something Uncle Art called a subconjunctival hemorrhage. Burst capillaries in the eyes, as well as my nose, ears, and mouth, which is why I was bleeding out of all them orifices.


    No major damage to my brain though, far as he could tell, but it¡¯s hard to be sure. Hence why I¡¯ll need someone to mind me for the next couple days.


    So I stifle my sighs, get dressed, pack a little go bag of clothes, and head on out to the church with Danny in tow. Don¡¯t go straight for the kitchen, where I suspect Aunty Ray will be, as she¡¯s always been one to work off her nerves with cooking, and ain¡¯t nothing make her more nervous than when I send a runner to tell her I¡¯m back, but need to stop off at the Sherrif¡¯s office first. Luckily for me, I don¡¯t gotta do any sneaking around as the person I¡¯m looking for is in the church proper, busy doing whatever it is priests do outside of mass. Which don¡¯t seem to be much, as the Padre greets me and Danny with a big smile. ¡°Howie, Danny, good to see you both. You¡¯re just in time for lunch, and Mrs. Walker-Bradshaw has been cooking up a feast. I¡¯ve been eating better this last week than I have been in years.¡± Soon as he¡¯s close enough, the dim candlelight reveals my newfangled condition and the Padre¡¯s smile fades to concern. ¡°Are you hurt?¡±


    ¡°Nah, I¡¯m fine,¡± I say, pulling out the list Uncle Art wrote up and explain how I need someone to keep an eye on me. ¡°I¡¯d ask Aunty Ray, but you know how she is,¡± I continue, while the Padre looks over the exhaustive list. ¡°I show her that, and she¡¯ll twist herself into knots seeing issues where there ain¡¯t none. She¡¯ll think every wince is a headache, every sigh some shortness of breath, and Lord help me if I don¡¯t eat every scrap of food she puts in front of me because that¡¯ll be nausea for sure.¡±


    ¡°Well, the good news is, if you do have brain damage, then we¡¯ll hardly even notice.¡± The Padre flashes me a boyish grin, one I can¡¯t help but match until I realize we got the same sense of humour. ¡°No, I get it Howie,¡± the Padre says, looking all happy and relaxed again. ¡°You don¡¯t want her to worry, so you came to me. Thank you for trusting me man, and I¡¯m more than happy to help, but I do have two conditions.¡± Even when he tries to lay down the law, he looks like friendly marty, his eyes all soft and wide while his tone is almost playful. ¡°One, you¡¯re sleeping here. No arguments. The room next to theirs is still available. Two, if you leave the church, you need to have someone else with you who knows what to watch out for.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s me,¡± Danny says, even though I haven¡¯t asked, and he rolls his eyes at my grateful expression. ¡°Oh please. If you¡¯re homebound, then you¡¯re gonna park yourself in my workshop anyways, so I might as well volunteer to babysit.¡±


    ¡°Great.¡± Taking a Photo of the list one handed, the Padre hands the paper back, then makes like he¡¯s about to grab my head in both hands. At the last moment, he stops to ask, ¡°Do you mind if I take a look?¡±


    I¡¯ve already recoiled away, which was what prompted him to ask, but I ain¡¯t about to say yes just to be polite. ¡°Didn¡¯t know you had a medical license, Padre.¡±


    ¡°Oh I don¡¯t.¡± Making a face like he been told to eat all his mushrooms, the Padre says, ¡°I never was any good at studying.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t say.¡±


    Unfazed by my lacking enthusiasm, the Padre flashes his warm but sleepy smile and taps the side of his head. ¡°It¡¯s just that while I was looking over the list of symptoms there, it occurred to me that this sounds like what a doctor would call ¡®psychic¡¯, ¡®psionic¡¯, or ¡®mental¡¯ damage. Like say from a Mind Spike, Mind Whip, or Psionic Blast.¡±


    Which I never mentioned, but I guess he knows something about something after all. ¡°Yeah. And?¡±


    ¡°And if it is, then I might have a way to help you,¡± the Padre says, smiling all the while.


    I¡¯ll be the first to admit that I got trust issues, but that don¡¯t mean it¡¯s wrong to want to know more before giving someone the okay to root around in my head. ¡°How so?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a little difficult to explain.¡± Bobbing his head side to side in thought, the Padre lights up and says, ¡°Okay, so you know how those terms for mental damage are fairly new right?¡±


    ¡°Yea. Came into popular use to reference the lasting psychological trauma inflicted on prisoners inside Nazi death camps, then spread to any Spells that do damage outside the standard eight.¡± Namely Force, Fire, Acid, Electric, Cold, Necrotic, Radiant, and Corruption.


    ¡°Exactly. So do you know what it was called before then?¡± There¡¯s no hint of reproach in the Padre¡¯s tone, no dismissive air to his attitude, as he¡¯s just speaking his mind in his usual friendly and non-confrontational manner.


    This time he¡¯s got me stumped though, so Danny swoops in to pick up the spare. ¡°Spiritual,¡± he supplies, and the Padre gives him a big grin.


    ¡°Right you are, Danny.¡± Waving his hand to dismiss my waiting argument, the Padre says, ¡°Look, I don¡¯t know about which term is right or wrong or whatever. That¡¯s for smarter minds than mine to debate. All I¡¯m saying is that the science behind ¡®mental¡¯ damage is fairly new, whereas the Church has been studying the concept of Spirituality for as long as it¡¯s been around, and humanity has been studying it even longer. I¡¯m not saying we do things better than doctors either, but in the thousands of years we¡¯ve been around, the Church has learned a thing or two about magic. We might not understand it enough to explain them the way Science would like us to, but that doesn¡¯t mean our knowledge isn¡¯t useful.¡±You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    ¡°Not for nothin¡¯ Padre,¡± I say, trying to let him down easy. ¡°I appreciate the offer, I do, but I feel perfectly fine. Doc checked me out and I got no loss of memory, no trouble speaking, no sudden headaches, dizziness, or weakness.¡± Only a constant one, and that bout of infirmity right after the fight wasn¡¯t a big deal. ¡°No chest pains, shortness of breath, swelling in my head or inability to control my face either. Gave me a clean bill of health, and the observation period is just to be extra sure, so no need to waste your Spell on me.¡±


    ¡°Do you want to know why the church is sticking with the old classification and disagrees with the new?¡± Gotta say, the Padre really knows his crowd, because if he wanted to talk theology, both me and Danny would¡¯ve noped right out. This is magic adjacent though, and personally relevant, so I stick it out and listen to the Padre as he says, ¡°The scientific argument for calling it mental, psionic, or psychic damage is because it¡¯s targeted towards the brain.¡± Smiling when me and Danny both nod because that makes sense, the Padre continues, ¡°But have you ever wondered how those Spells are able to target the mind?¡±


    I have actually, and I say as much. ¡°Not just with Mental Damage Spells neither,¡± I add. ¡°Never understood how Enchantments and Illusions could trick the brain and make you think you see, smell, hear, feel, or taste something that ain¡¯t actually there.¡± If it was, then Record Video and Record Audio would pick up illusions in recording, but they don¡¯t, which means them illusions ain¡¯t based on actual light and sound, or whatever.


    Rather than answer, the Padre looks to Danny with a smile, who pipes up to say, ¡°It has to do with Aetheric Entanglement.¡± Which is only the second time I done heard the term, so I ain¡¯t all that familiar with it, and Danny can see as much, so he explains, ¡°It¡¯s a concept that describes the metaphysical connection between an individual and the Immaterium, like say when you have a prepped Spell Structure in memory. There¡¯s more to it, because technically, every time you Actuate a Spell Core with your will, you¡¯re briefly touching upon the Immaterium through the Core. There are other ways to promote Entanglement in a more permanent fashion, but there¡¯s a whole lot of complexity to it, and not a lot of understanding.¡±


    ¡°¡­And that connection acts like a radio antenna leading back down into the brain, which is how them Spells target our minds.¡± Makes sense, because like I said, carving out a Spell Structure in memory changes a man, connects them to the Immaterium in some way, so it stands to reason those connections can be used against us.


    Danny nods in agreement, but it¡¯s the Padre who speaks up first. ¡°Wow.¡± Looking at the both of us one after the other, the Padre is all soft smiles again. ¡°It still amazes me every time I see how far the two of you have come along.¡± Turning around to point at a little area at the front of the church to the right of the altar, he says, ¡°I remember the first mass we held in here, when the two of you, Chrissy, Tina, Marijke, and the other kids were all playing over there while I gave my sermon.¡± Shaking his head with a chuckle, he turns back to us and smiles proudly. ¡°Now look at you two. When did you get so smart?¡± Putting his hands on our shoulders, he gives us a look and says, ¡°This feels like a group hug moment. Can we get a group hug?¡±


    Course, neither Danny nor I am all that enthusiastic about it, but neither of us got it in us to deny the friendly, chummy Padre a hug. Long as he don¡¯t make a habit of it, I¡¯m good, so I give him a brief hug before pulling away. ¡°Where were we again?¡± the Padre asks, before finally finding his way back on track. ¡°Right. Aetheric Entanglement. Another big science word that¡¯s only recently come into use. What the church believes is a little different. We believe that it¡¯s all Spiritual, that the magic we use is our Spirits or Souls reaching out into the cosmos, or the heavens, or whatever you want to call it, in order to connect with our Lord in Heaven. Through this connection, He speaks to us, grants us the strength, courage, and conviction to overcome the trials and tribulations meant to test our faith and refine it, so that we can become better people and lift ourselves up to the kingdom of Heaven.¡± Pursing his lips and bobbing his head like he don¡¯t wholly buy what he¡¯s selling, the Padre adds, ¡°Or you know. Whatever.¡±


    Which is hardly the kind of dismissive attitude you¡¯d expect from a priest, and me and Danny¡¯s expressions convey as much. ¡°Oh come on guys,¡± the Padre says, all smiles and good cheer. ¡°You know what I mean. Even I think some of that stuff is a bit heavy handed, but you guys are old and smart enough to know that bible study and proselytizing aren¡¯t the most important part of being Christian.¡±


    ¡°¡­Then what is?¡± I ask, more out of curiosity than anything else, because I know Preacher Rigsby of the Catholic Knight¡¯s Templar most certainly wouldn¡¯t agree.


    ¡°Having a kind and charitable heart.¡± Grinning from ear to ear, the Padre adds, ¡°So how about you offer up your brain in the name of science and let me poke around in there for a bit?¡± Tilting his head as he stares at me a bit, he adds, ¡°I sense something off about you, and I think I can help. Really.¡±


    Which don¡¯t sound all that convincing, at least not on paper, but it does sell it for me. The Padre got some rustling jimmies of his own, but not of the Portent kind, so I suppose I ought to trust him this once. Then again, my daddy always said trust, but verify, so I ask, ¡°What¡¯s this Spell you want to cast called?¡±


    ¡°Dunno,¡± the Padre says, laid back and relaxed as ever, which really gets my guard up. Rolling his eyes, he explains, ¡°It¡¯s not a Spell like you know it, a structure prepared in my head, because I¡¯m not much of a Spellcaster to begin with. What I want to do is something you might call a Ritual, and you wouldn¡¯t be far off, but this is more of a faith thing that¡¯s difficult to explain.¡± Which again, doesn¡¯t sound all that convincing, but is somehow reassuring, because when a man of faith says he¡¯s doing something by it, then you know he stands behind his actions. ¡°It¡¯s just to see if there¡¯s anything actionable, and if there is, then it¡¯ll take care of it.¡±


    So I give him the go ahead, and immediately regret it as he cups my head in his hands and forces me to look him in the eyes. ¡°This little light of mine,¡± he begins, singing under his breath while studying me with all the intensity of a curious marty. ¡°I¡¯m gonna let it shine. Stop that.¡±


    The last bit isn¡¯t sung and is directed at me. ¡°Stop what?¡±


    ¡°Doubting. Just relax man. Let the music take you away.¡± Which I try to do, but it¡¯s difficult to unwind when a man¡¯s got his hands clamped around your head while singing terrible church tunes. He goes through four other songs while we stand there across from one another, and halfway through the fifth, I¡¯m ready to call it quits, but then the magic stirs within and I get swept up in it. There¡¯s no words to describe it other than cleansing, like my mind has been stripped apart, soaked in a sterilizing solution, then put back together in an instant. A warmth radiates inwards from the Padre¡¯s hands and sinks deep into my mind and body, bringing a lightness and clarity alongside a release of pressure that I didn¡¯t know was there. This isn¡¯t me feeling better, but rather me feeling normal again, no longer carrying a burden which I¡¯ve had for less than a day but was already weighing heavily upon me.


    One that was unseen, unheard, unfelt even, wholly imperceptible, but its absence is sorely telling. There was something off about me, something even I didn¡¯t notice, but the Padre saw it and ripped it away.


    ¡°Wow,¡± the Padre says, supporting me by the shoulders as he stands back a little bit, his brow soaked in sweat and legs a little wobbly. ¡°Told you there was something off and that I could fix it.¡±


    Though I can¡¯t put a name to what it was, I can¡¯t argue that I feel better. Like I been seeing things through dirty glass and it¡¯s all just been wiped clean. ¡°What was it?¡±


    ¡°An injury to your Spirit,¡± the Padre replies, and I help him take a seat on the pews. Then I join him in the row behind, while Danny watches us both in confusion. ¡°Modern science is still debating whether the Spirit can be injured, alongside the existence of Curses, Astral Projection, Necromancy, and a whole bunch of other issues the Church has known of for some time.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s a Spiritual injury entail?¡± I ask, making note of all those other things he mentioned to ask about some other time.


    ¡°Usually nothing,¡± the Padre replies, dabbing at his forehead with a kerchief and leaning back to settle in. ¡°Or it¡¯s something so minor you don¡¯t really notice. They¡¯re typically incurred in battles against the Soulless, but certain Spells targeting the mind or Spirit can inflict injuries too. You might think slower. Be less responsive. Have bouts of lost focus, or become strange and reclusive. Could make you physically weaker, sicker or even feeble-minded. Oftentimes a Spiritual injury gets worse over time and could even develop into delusions or psychosis, which often is mistaken for post traumatic stress. The most obvious indicator of an injury to the Spirit though is a reduced ability to cast Spells.¡±


    ¡°What you mean? Like dropping a whole Order in Spells?¡± Now there¡¯s a nightmare I never thought possible.


    ¡°Rarely,¡± the Padre says, smiling at my alarm. ¡°There¡¯ve been few examples of so drastic a change, mostly because the amount of Spiritual Damage necessary to affect you so severely would usually kill you first. Mostly, we see a reduction in the number of Spells the injured can cast each day, or possibly even a loss of Spell Structures embedded into memory or a decrease in the maximum you can prepare.¡± Seeing the wide-eyed look of alarm etched across my face as I take inventory of my Spell Structures, the Padre chuckles and says, ¡°Even if you lost a Spell Structure, you should be able to memorize it anew now. No need to check your Cantrips either, as those won¡¯t be affected. I¡¯ll want to check on you again in a few days though, because the fact that you took this sort of damage from a single Spell means you ran into a very powerful Aberration.¡±


    Probably the lean, lanky Froggie would be my guess. Though I feel better than before, I wasn¡¯t feeling all that terrible to start with, just tired and beat up as expected. Still, I don¡¯t doubt that something happened, because I felt it firsthand, but my lack of understanding makes it all the more terrifying. ¡°Well¡­ thanks Padre.¡± Feeling a little awkward, I ask, ¡°Uh¡­ I owe you anything for the¡­?¡±


    ¡°Restoration is what we call it, and no need for any payment.¡± Waving a hand in dismissal, the Padre grins and says, ¡°You¡¯ve been a part of my congregation for all your life, so first one is free.¡± Having recovered his strength, the Padre stands up, stretches, and declares, ¡°Wow. I¡¯m starving. How about we go see if we can help in the kitchen?¡±


    Danny doesn¡¯t join us, as he¡¯s gotta run home for lunch with his family, so I bid him farewell and tell him there ain¡¯t no need to come fetch me after he done. I figure a nice afternoon with the family would do me some good, especially after Aunty Ray overreacts as expected, getting all teary and sad at the sight of my blood-filled eyes. ¡°I swear Howie,¡± she says, after abandoning her post in front of the stove to run over and greet me with a hug. ¡°One of these days, I¡¯m gonna fit you for a collar and tie you to a post in the backyard to keep you from getting hurt.¡±


    ¡°Looks bad, but really isn¡¯t,¡± I say, ready to pull out the excuse I done made up to explain my eyes, but Aunty Ray ain¡¯t having none of it.


    ¡°Hand it over,¡± she says, not even waiting for me to ask what she means before she gets to rummaging through my pockets. Finds the list Uncle Art wrote out right quick, while the Padre just smiles from the side and offers no help whatsoever. ¡°I knew it,¡± she says, as she skims through the list. ¡°Possible brain damage ain¡¯t bad now? That what you trying to say? Or were you about to stand there and lie to my face in church of all places?¡±


    ¡°This is really none of my business,¡± a dowdy older lady begins, sticking her nose right in the thick of it despite what she¡¯s saying. ¡°But you really shouldn¡¯t leave the stove unattended.¡±


    ¡°You right Martha. It ain¡¯t your business,¡± Aunty Ray retorts, much to my surprise and amusement. ¡°I¡¯m standing two feet away from the stove in a room full of busybodies who got nothing better to do than hurry me along, so if you think the stove needs mindin¡¯, how ¡®bout you go mind it then?¡±


    ¡°Well I never!¡± Martha exclaims, but Aunty Ray¡¯s petulant glare sends her waddling away to her friends all gathered up in the corner and acting like a harsh tone is the most scandalous thing ever. Thing is, it ain¡¯t like Aunty Ray to be so snappy like that, and she realizes it too, so she sheepishly heads back to the stove. I follow after to help while giving her the broad strokes of what went down, and she none too happy to hear it. Ain¡¯t that I did anything wrong. She just worries about me is all, and now she¡¯s worried about Tina too, who got called away to conduct a patrol, which means she¡¯s part of the team doing that wellness check I suggested.


    Needs doing, and that¡¯s the life a Ranger leads, so Aunty Ray gonna have to get used to it. Doesn¡¯t like it much though, especially when it¡¯s her baby girl. She¡¯s had years to get used to me being out and about, but now Tina¡¯s gonna be riding off with the Rangers too, leaving Aunty Ray feeling all out of sorts. So I spend the rest of the afternoon keeping her and Chrissy company, singing songs, playing games, and talking things out, which I can tell Aunty Ray really appreciates. She ain¡¯t ever been one to ask anything of me, always leaving me to make my own decisions no matter what it might be. Even asking for a nice afternoon together feels too much like an imposition to her, which is why she been cooking and cleaning for the whole church these last few days. I only realize this when I walk past the kitchen again to find the sink still full of dishes, so I quietly approach the various groups of people taking shelter in the church and politely make my argument clear. My Aunty Ray done the cooking, and I imagine she¡¯s been cooking all week, so the least these lazy deadbeats can do is help clean up.


    The townies I talk to are all apologetic. The folks from the Protestant community like Martha and her murder of crones act all offended, like doing dishes is somehow beneath them. There are also a few families with Innates who¡¯ve come to seek shelter, and I give them the same spiel, because if Aunty Ray can pull herself together and cook food for twenty plus people every day, then I don¡¯t see why them other Innates can¡¯t wipe a table or put away a chair.


    I swear, Aunty Ray is too nice for her own good, so the fact that she even snapped at Martha tells me that bitch had it coming.


    Tina don¡¯t get back until long after dinner, squeaking in just before the gates close. Got nothing much to report, save for tracks of scouting Abby around several other communities, but no actual attacks besides the one on Carter¡¯s. Their best guess is that Abby figured their warband would be strong enough to clear out the compound before moving on to the next community, and then the next one after that, but we done ruined that plan. Still strange for Abby to attack Carter¡¯s so often, especially with the prize that is Mueller¡¯s Quay sitting so close by. No point trying to understand Abby logic though, so we call it an early night and head off to bed.


    The next morning, the four of us head off to church all together for the first time in what feels like forever. After a hearty breakfast of pancakes and fruit I whipped up for the family. And only the family, with an extra portion for the Padre too, but them other visitors staying in the church can make their own batter and cut their own fruit because I¡¯m petty like that. Was almost tempted to take back my jar of honey too, but that¡¯d be taking things a touch too far, and wouldn¡¯t you know it, Aunty Ray don¡¯t even act scandalized to see it, which is pretty much tacit approval of my actions.


    In her eyes, being rude is second only to skipping meals, adultery, and blasphemy, so if she¡¯s so fed up to the point of agreeing with my behaviour, then that¡¯s all you really need to know, now ain¡¯t it?


    Thoughtful man that he is, Uncle Teddy got four seats saved for all us, and we filter in to sit on either side of him. Tina and Chrissy right next to him, while I take the aisle next to Tina since she¡¯s still looking out of sorts. Giving her hand a squeeze, I make a silent promise to figure out Mental Fortress as quick as I can, though last night¡¯s studying yielded no fruit. My lesson with Uncle Teddy is most compelling though, as he knows me better than myself and jumps right into explaining the Third Order Spell without needing to be asked. Has our lesson in my borrowed room at the Church too, so Tina and Chrissy can listen in, as the Spell ain¡¯t in Aunty Ray¡¯s or Uncle Raleigh¡¯s Innate wheelhouse, so both my sorta sisters will have to learn the Spell the Orthodox way.


    In two short hours, I make more progress with the Mental Fortress Spell Formula than I have all week, showing well the value of a proper Mentor. Not only does Uncle Teddy provide a wealth of information regarding the math, he also shows me how to visualize the Structure and which ways the flows need to go, information I had to work out by trial and error myself when I was learning Fireball on my own. By the time our lesson is done, I got confidence enough to believe I¡¯ll have the Spell prepped by this time next week, though I don¡¯t say as much to avoid sounding overconfident or looking like a fool if I should fail. Tina ain¡¯t as far along, and squeezes a promise out of me to tutor her more later tonight, but I got plans to see Danny after lunch so he can help me with my Artificer studies.


    Knowing I need a minder still, Uncle Teddy offers to walk me over, and he has me fill him in on the Abby attack. He already knows most of the broad strokes, but he wants an A.A.R from me personal. Which I give as best I can without revealing Carter¡¯s secret, because he specifically asked me not to. I get the feeling Uncle Teddy knows something though, because he doesn¡¯t poke at the obvious holes in my story, just nods along and laughs when I tell him about my run in with the tree-climbing doggies. Since he don¡¯t got any notes to add, I finish up my report right quick and tell him about the places Carter told me to have checked out, with plenty of time yet to go before we arrive at Danny¡¯s.


    So, on a whim, I ask, ¡°Mind if I ask a question unofficial like? Meaning you don¡¯t ask why I¡¯m asking, or act on it?¡±


    ¡°Depends,¡± he replies, giving me a wary look. ¡°What¡¯s the question?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ what can you tell me about the Mafia?¡±


    Uncle Teddy sucks in a breath and hits me with his best stern glare. ¡°What are you mixed up in now, son?¡±


    So much for an unofficial discussion then. ¡°Off the record?¡± Uncle Teddy begrudgingly nods, so I tell him about how Carter¡¯s people are being squeezed by the Mafia. ¡°Said he was a made man of the Pugly-anny Family, one Michael Dipolio or something like that.¡±


    ¡°The Pugliano Family,¡± Uncle Teddy begins, and I have no earthly idea how my mouth is supposed to string those syllables together like that. ¡°Are led by one Ignazio ¡®Firebrand¡¯ Pugliano, and his cousin Francis ¡®the Phantom¡¯ Pugliano.¡±


    ¡°Real blood cousins out here on the Frontier?¡± I whistle while we walk, because that ain¡¯t something you see every day.


    ¡°Shows how heavily their families invested in the Frontier,¡± Uncle Teddy says, sounding grim and dour as can be. ¡°The Five Families didn¡¯t care much about it, because they were well entrenched in the old world, but to their underlings, it was a once in a lifetime opportunity to establish their own criminal dynasties here on the Frontier. Some sent over every male of fighting age, and plenty of women to ensure they¡¯d be able to carry on the bloodline, and the Pugliano Family emerged as the premier criminal gang in our neck of the woods. They established a power base in Mount Rime early on by remaining low key while we focused on more prominent threats, and even went so far as to offer information regarding their rival operations. For ten years, they had the Rangers sweep away all their competition until they had money, influence, and manpower enough to seize control of all mining operations in the area.¡±


    ¡°How though?¡± I ask. ¡°I thought those mines were Ranger owned and operated.¡±


    ¡°They are,¡± Uncle Teddy says, stifling as sigh as he looks for the right way to phrase it. ¡°But the people overseeing operations aren¡¯t Rangers, nor are the miners, the labourers, the smelters, or the shippers, and that¡¯s where the Pugliano Family focused their efforts. They own all the companies we need to work the mines and ship the products, while simultaneously shutting out any new competitors who try to move in. They use a mixture of legal and illegal tactics to hold the mines hostage, making the cost of removing them far higher than simply doing business.¡± He don¡¯t elaborate, but I can guess at the rest. Someone higher up in Ranger Command is probably also getting paid well to look the other way too, so Uncle Teddy got no choice but to turn a blind eye, because he¡¯s got bigger fish to fry. Even if he ignores those orders and goes after the Pugliano Family, chances are they¡¯ll shut down operations and starve New Hope of resources, which we need to produce weapons, ammunition, building materials, and more.


    Or worse, they¡¯ll fade into the shadows and put a bounty out on Ranger families until no one wants to fight them anymore. Even if we wiped them out in one fell swoop, we¡¯d have to deal with the power vacuum left in their wake to keep the cycle from repeating itself with new players into the same roles. Didn¡¯t think about it like that until now. The Rangers could wipe out the Pugliano Family for sure, but they¡¯d lose more in the process than it costs to look the other way. Better the evil we know, I suppose. Don¡¯t much care for that, having to overlook criminal scum like they just another facet of life and there ain¡¯t nothing we can do about them.


    ¡°So the mining operations can¡¯t be helped,¡± I say, though I don¡¯t really believe it, ¡°But now they expanding operations to squeeze independent communities. We supposed to just sit by and let it happen?¡±


    ¡°More likely it¡¯s this Michael acting independently,¡± Uncle Teddy explains, sounding none too pleased about it either. ¡°Every member of the Mafia has to kick up to the bosses, and this Michael sounds like he sits very low on the totem pole, so he has no choice but to expand outwards to secure revenue.¡±


    ¡°Secure revenue? Nah, Uncle Teddy, that¡¯s too neat and tidy. They¡¯re shaking down farmers and fisherfolk for cash,¡± I say, not even sure what I¡¯m trying to get at. ¡°Demanded $300 extra a season just because Carter put in a new dock. Said he could find work for the man¡¯s daughter too, and you know what kind of work he talkin¡¯ about. No idea how Carter could stomach it, because that¡¯d been Chrissy, I¡¯d¡¯ve put that mobster six feet under.¡±


    ¡°And bought yourself a world of pain in doing so.¡± There¡¯s a note of warning in his tone, one telling me I¡¯m too close to the edge. Not because he¡¯s afraid of the Mafia. No, he wants me to tread lightly because he expects me to live up to the standards he set for himself, the standard that earned him his reputation as The Marshal around these parts. ¡°The Mafia might not care about a two-bit player like Michael, but they cannot let the death of a made man go unanswered. It would make them look weak to their rivals, so they would have to strike back, and they will keep striking until they get their man.¡± Pursing his lips as he meets my eyes, he adds, ¡°It¡¯s never the bosses who come after you. It¡¯ll always be some desperate person who thinks they have no other choice. You¡¯re good Howie, but no matter how many times you come out ahead, they¡¯ll keep sending desperate people to the slaughter until you slip up.¡±


    It''s my turn to stifle a sigh, because like I said, I don¡¯t like giving up the initiative, and my battle with Mikey has already begun. ¡°So there ain¡¯t nothing to be done about them then?¡± I ask, even though I know I¡¯m not gonna like the answer.


    ¡°Not in the short term,¡± Uncle Teddy says. ¡°We could plant a bug to listen in on their next exchange and arrest this Michael on extortion or racketeering charges, but even if we send him away to prison, chances are the Mafia would make an example of Carter whether he was a willing participant or not.¡± Having arrived at Danny¡¯s doorstep, Uncle Teddy stops to look me in the eyes, and he does something I almost never seen him do. He hesitates, then looks away and says, ¡°Truth is Howie, the Pugliano Family are not the worst criminals to have around. At the very least, they steer clear of heavy drugs and human trafficking for the most part, and play a role in fighting off their less scrupulous rivals.¡±


    Ain¡¯t much I can say about that, and he knows it too, but I give him a hug all the same to tell him I get it. That¡¯s just the world we live in, one he thinks I¡¯m old enough to understand, even if he is ashamed of how it gotta be. It ain¡¯t pretty, but it is what it is, so I bid him farewell and head inside while thinking about my next move. Carter¡¯s idea about putting the blame on Joseph¡¯s death on Abby is a decent one if I wanna escape blame, but now I¡¯m wondering if I made a mistake. Maybe I should¡¯ve let Joseph live to spread word of what I done, warn Michael off a little bit. Or better yet, I should¡¯ve brought their bodies in and owned up to the kills, to show people they don¡¯t gotta be afraid of the Puglianos. Too late to do anything about it now, so it¡¯s all food for thought really, because now the ball is in Michael¡¯s court, and ain¡¯t nothing for me to do but sit and wait.


    Well, that and prepare of course, which is step one of surviving, and if there¡¯s one thing my daddy taught me to do, it¡¯s how to survive.

 Book Two - Chapter 78

    27 bones. 19 intrinsic muscles. 20 extrinsic. 34 tendons. 120 ligaments.


    That¡¯s most of what you¡¯ll find in a human hand aside from the skin, and everything you need to keep it fully functional. Considering the human body only has 206 bones in total, having more than 10% packed into each hand really sells how important they are to our continued existence. From an Artificing standpoint, the human hand is an actual marvel of engineering, and a challenging design to replicate given the complexity and precision involved. Danny warned me about this on day one, but I didn¡¯t understand the sheer scale of it all until we sat down and charted out what I had to do to even stand a chance of success.


    See, the first step when building something is to determine what you expect it to do, and the human hand does a whole lot of things in many different ways. Even something as simple and mundane as picking up a pencil to hold in hand can become exceedingly convoluted when you get right down to brass tacks, because there are just so many moving parts to it all, and so many different ways to go about it. Do you twist your hand to pick up the pencil between your thumb and index finger so you can start writing as soon as it¡¯s in hand? Or do you grab it in hand then give it a bit of a twirl until you¡¯ve got it where you want it? You could also pinch the midsection, then hold it loosely and let gravity bring the point down, then tap it against your desk or paper until it¡¯s in the familiar writing position.


    That¡¯s not the end of it either. Do you hold your pencil properly, between thumb and index finger while braced against your middle finger? Or do you clutch the tip between all three fingers instead? I seen people grip the pencil in a fist too and write like they drawing with chalk, while my daddy would hold it like a brush, with his index finger at the back end of the pencil and his pinky down near the tip, while the other three fingers held the pencil around the middle. All of which is not only possible, but also perfectly natural for the human hand to execute, without too much strain or effort. Even more intriguing is how the various grips differ in the amount of control and precision they offer, but it¡¯s still possible to write or draw beautifully no matter how you hold it.


    All this just to hold a pencil. How many other things do you use your hands for? Eat your food. Tie your shoes. Buckle your belt. Button your shirt. Wipe your ass. Pick your nose. Wash your face. Preferably not in that order, but that¡¯s what you use your hands for, and it¡¯s that level of function I¡¯ll need to build into my prosthetic automaton. It¡¯s a replacement for my hand after all, so if it can¡¯t do it all, then what am I putting all this effort into it for? I might as well just go with a plain old metal clamp and call it a day. Course, there¡¯s also the middle ground to consider, crafting an automaton hand that¡¯s only good for shooting, which in and of itself is complex enough unless I limit it to using one gun and one gun only. Or modify the guns I do use so the grip, trigger, and stock work with whatever I make, but the degree of precision, articulation, and fine control I¡¯d need is still a tall order to be sure.


    One step at a time though. Don¡¯t focus on what I can¡¯t do, but what I can, and what I can do is learn how to build me an articulated model of a hand. From there, I¡¯ll build me a mechanical model that functions identically, and then figure out where all the extra bits will go, like the dynamo, storage tank, and other stuff like that. Then and only then can I begin planning out the Etch, one that will allow me to Imbue the mechanical prosthesis with Spirit so that it can animate semi-autonomously thanks to the power of Arcana Technology.


    Which¡¯ll happen eventually. Sometime way down the line, because right now, I¡¯m still stuck on stringing the metacarpal bones together. Palm bones pretty much, five of them which connect to the wrist and allow for that wide range of motion. Stifling a groan when the pieces don¡¯t align properly for the umpteenth time, I lean back from the desk to stretch it out and reset. ¡°I should just get an actual human hand to work with,¡± I say, drawing a shocked look from Danny. ¡°Oh don¡¯t give me that. How you think Uncle Art got that model skeleton in his classroom? He didn¡¯t carve all them bones out by hand, I¡¯ll tell you that much.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a real skeleton?¡± Danny¡¯s face blanches to hear it, and I can¡¯t help but smile to see it. ¡°We used to play with it like a prop and make it dance!¡±


    ¡°Yea, that¡¯s how I know. Got me chewed out for disrespecting the dead.¡± I shrug. ¡°Way I hear it, someone donated their body to science, so after they died, Uncle Art stripped the meat clean off the body, took the bones apart, then individually plastered each one before stringing them back together.¡± Creepy is what that is, and from Danny¡¯s expression, I can tell he agrees, but he¡¯s also a little intrigued because he loves him a good puzzle.


    Me, I prefer card games, which is why I¡¯m having so much difficulty here. Could¡¯ve been so much easier though, because I had me three donors for hands just two days past, except I fed them all to Abby like a fool. Then again, I would¡¯ve had a hell of a time trying to explain why I got me a human hand in my saddlebag should the fellas at the gate choose to search me. Which they do more often of late I¡¯ve noticed. Maybe because Sherrif Patel is keeping a closer eye on me, or maybe they didn¡¯t appreciate my joke about smuggling in a diamondclaw, even though that wasn¡¯t no joke and I was telling them the truth. Either way, it wouldn¡¯t do my reputation any good, getting caught smuggling human body parts even if I got good reason, but I¡¯ve no idea how to go about procuring hands in a legal and aboveboard manner.


    Can¡¯t just go down the thoroughfare and find yourself a shop that sells them. Well, maybe the second-hand store. Ha. I should go in and ask. I bet Mr. McDermotty would get a real laugh out of that one. Wish I¡¯d¡¯ve thought of it first, but Noora beat me to it. Wonder what she¡¯s up to?


    Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Danny pushes past the idea of reassembling a whole human skeleton, probably because he got dreams of building himself a man-shaped golem one of these days. ¡°Whatever,¡± he says. ¡°Having a human hand wouldn¡¯t help. The learning process is a part of the automaton creation procedure. You have to understand how it works mechanically in an intimate fashion, because it¡¯s your Spirit that will be guiding it. The better you understand the mechanical model, whether that be intellectually or intuitively, the more control your automaton will have when it comes into being.¡±


    ¡°It can¡¯t figure out how to move on its own?¡±


    ¡°No Howie.¡± Ain¡¯t a hint of exasperation or frustration in his tone, only patience and understanding as Danny sets his tools aside and comes over with his four-legged skitterbots scurrying alongside him. Kneeling at the side of the desk, he waits until his three automatons are sitting front and centre on the desk to continue. ¡°They¡¯re not golems. They have no brains to think and learn with,¡± he says, letting them sit up, roll over, and turn about to show me how simple and barebones the mechanisms are. ¡°Structurally, they¡¯re four triple jointed legs attached to a frame that houses the dynamo and Aether tank. Add in a few servos, pressure and position sensors, and traction pads, and that¡¯s pretty much the basic design I went with.¡±


    ¡°You know, aside from all them extra gadgets and gizmos you packed into those legs there,¡± I say, pointing out the internal compartments housing all manner of tools stuffed into Danny¡¯s skitterbots. Each of which is unique mind you, meaning he came up with at least three different designs and Etches. I¡¯m pretty sure he¡¯s made dozens though, having redesigned and re-Imbued his skitterbots multiple times since the day he made them some three years ago. To prove my theory, I give one of the skitterbots a pointed shove, and watch as it stumbles, rights itself, and moves back into position to continue its posing, all without so much as a thought from Danny.


    Who gives me a look, one that says I¡¯m playing the fool. ¡°Yea, sure,¡± he says, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. ¡°But you¡¯re looking at the final product that took me years of studying and tinkering to accomplish and wondering why you haven¡¯t made something several times more complex in less than two months time.¡±


    ¡°Fair point,¡± I concede, heaving a long sigh at the long road ahead. ¡°Patience never was my strong suit though.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re telling me.¡± Gesturing at his posing skitter bots, Danny goes back to the point he was trying to make. ¡°What I¡¯m saying is that they¡¯re able to move like that because I built and programmed them to move like that. I didn¡¯t just put them together. I envisioned how they were going to move, how¡¯d they¡¯d run, crouch, jump, or climb, and I did that by playing around with the articulating models and seeing what was and wasn¡¯t possible. That knowledge was then passed on to each skitterbot when I Etched in the Aetheric circuits, ones that do more than just dictate the flow of Aether, but the flow of Spirit as well.¡±


    ¡°See, that¡¯s where you lose me Danny. Everything makes some sorta sense until we get there.¡± Pointing at the skitterbot that¡¯s standing upright with its front legs raised to the roof, I run my finger along the glowing purple Etches and say, ¡°See, these runes I understand. Besides directing Aether to all the bits and bobs, you got all sorts of stuff going on. Like this Etch here? Adds resistance so you can move past this section without activating what¡¯s behind it, unless the Aetheric charge exceeds a certain threshold. Here? Directs the flow of Aether left or right depending on which direction you need the leg to go, and when it¡¯s not flowing, also locks the joint in place, but not so tightly that it¡¯ll snap under too much weight.¡± I point out the functions of a few more Etches I¡¯ve identified over the past few weeks, ones I read about in all them books he gave me to read. ¡°Thing is,¡± I say, having proven my point many times over, that I understand the Etches through and through, ¡°What I don¡¯t see is any Etches for storing information of any kind, so where¡¯s it keeping all that Spirit that lets it know how to do what it does?¡±


    ¡°Everywhere,¡± Danny replies, which throws me for a loop. Gesturing at the Etches, he says, ¡°When you Etch out a circuit, you¡¯re not just leaving marks on or in a medium. You¡¯re utilizing your Spirit to carve out the Aetheric channels to direct the flow of energy. Metaphysical channels, in a metaphysical medium that is fixed to a physical object. Don¡¯t ask about the physics, because I have no idea how that works. No one does, but that¡¯s what¡¯s happening.¡±


    Which I already knew, but Danny knows that. Doesn¡¯t stop him from explaining things in whole, because that¡¯s just how he is. Thorough. Meticulous. A perfectionist even. Whereas me, I¡¯m hasty and impatient, and I¡¯ll stick with what works until it doesn¡¯t anymore, which is why I need convincing that this is all worth the extra effort. Danny knows this too, so the fact that he¡¯s put up with me for so long instead of telling me to pound sand shows how much he cares. ¡°The difference between these Etches,¡± he says, pointing at his skitterbot, before pointing at whatever it is he¡¯s working on, which far as I can tell is a dreamcatcher like what you find in M¨¦tis kitsch shops. ¡°And these ones, is subtle. Structurally, they serve the same function, directing Aether to where it needs to go, but conceptually, they¡¯re about as different as a newspaper article versus a script for a play. One reports facts and opinions in a structured form, whereas the other shows what the actors are supposed to say, but also notes regarding what they should do or how they should sound and whatever.¡±


    ¡°Same letters, same words, but different purposes.¡±


    ¡°Exactly,¡± Danny says, his eyes lighting up to see that I get it, because he¡¯s having trouble explaining it. ¡°It¡¯s a matter of Intent. When you Etch an Artifact, there¡¯s no Intent. Everything you need will be in the circuit itself, whether that be in the Runes like the stuff you pointed out, or the technology present, like servos, signal diodes, valves, and capacitors.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡± With him so far, but I expect to lose him soon enough.


    ¡°With an Automaton, there¡¯s more to it than meets the eye,¡± Danny begins, still trying to figure out the best way to say it. ¡°You¡¯re not just building an Artifact, you¡¯re casting a Spell of sorts, going through a Ritual to Imbue the Automaton with your Spirit so that it can act in a semi-independent fashion. That¡¯s why every piece has to be built by you, not just put together, but smelted, moulded, carved, and polished all by yourself, because it¡¯s all a part of the creation process.¡±


    And now I¡¯m lost, because that there was one giant leap that don¡¯t seem possible. First off, what sort of Spell gives life to a puppet? Second, how can you have a Ritual if the steps are never the same? Thirdly, if Danny is right, then it means every action I take while building my automaton becomes a part of the Ritual, a process which could take days, weeks, months, or even years, so how is it possible for the Spell to maintain cohesion in all that time?


    Yea, magic is equal parts science and faith, but the problem with faith is that it don¡¯t always come easy.


    I don¡¯t say as much right away though, give myself a bit of time to mull it over. While I do, I can¡¯t help but push another skitterbot just a bit, because it¡¯s fun to watch them stagger and right themselves. This time though, I really study how it arrests its momentum and rights itself before scooting back into line. Natural wouldn¡¯t be the word I¡¯d use for it, nor can you really call it smooth, as it stops, straightens, then moves back into place, one step after another. A real, thinking creature would do all three steps simultaneously, or at least have them meld together into single action that makes it impossible to say where one step ends and the next begins.


    That¡¯s what I want, the smooth, natural movement, not stiff, pre-programmed processes. Thing is, it ain¡¯t about what I want. It¡¯s about what I can do. Adapt and thrive, and for now, that means taking whatever I can get, because even though an automaton prosthetic would be far from perfect, it trumps almost every other idea I can think of while also remaining within the realm of possibilities. Modifying Mage Hands through familiarity or creating a brand-new Spell Structure to suit my needs sounds great in theory, but I could work the problem for decades without any guarantee of success. Won¡¯t stop me from trying, but I¡¯d be a fool to put all my eggs in that basket when I could invest a year into Artificer studies and come out with something more useful than a metal clamp fixed to the end of my stump.


    So I give Danny a nod of thanks and go back to fiddling with my wooden hand bones, trying to get them to fit together without bunching together or falling apart as soon as I let go. He goes back to working on his dreamcatcher, which looks more like an arts and crafts project than any Artificing work I seen, but I haven¡¯t asked because I know it¡¯s way beyond my pay grade and he¡¯d only waste his time explaining things to me. Which is doubly precious since he also playing the role of coach and cheerleader too, so I do what I can to keep out of his way as we putter about on our projects in silence.


    Danny¡¯s workshop is also the backroom of his storefront, so every now and then the front door will open and a customer walks in. There¡¯s a bell hanging in front of the door to let us know, so when the bell rings later that afternoon, Danny heads on over to see who it is. ¡°Oh, uh. Um. Hi,¡± he says, with only one foot out of the workshop before freezing in place. I know exactly what¡¯s happening here, so I stand up to go help him, because I¡¯m worried extended exposure to Tina will melt his brain. I can watch his face turn red in real time as he stammers and struggles to find the words, all tongue tied and twisted in knots over seeing a pretty face.


    ¡°Hey Danny,¡± Tina says, waving at the both of us as I poke my head through the doorframe. ¡°Hey Howie.¡± Chrissy¡¯s there too, resting her head on her sister¡¯s shoulder with the faintest hint of a pout and frown etched on her porcelain features. The fact that she¡¯s even doing that much means she¡¯s feeling downright miserable, so I give Danny a little nudge to get him through the doorway and out front for a proper conversation. As for Chrissy, she perks up about a second after she hears my name. Suppose it takes that long for the words to register, but she finds me soon enough as I step out from behind the counter to greet her with a hug.


    ¡°Hi Howie,¡± she says, burying her head in my chest while clutching me tight.


    ¡°Hi.¡± Squeezing her hard and swaying side to side, I give Tina a raised eyebrow, and she just shrugs in reply to my silent question. ¡°You gonna say hi to Danny, Chrissy?¡±


    ¡°Hi Danny.¡±


    Danny stammers out a reply, while shooting shy glances at Tina and trying out different poses in the doorway. Not because he trying to show off, but because he done forgotten how to stand like a regular human being. It¡¯s all the blood rushing to his head that does it, because his face is already red as a tangpear and growing redder by the moment, which can¡¯t be healthy. ¡°So you come out to stretch your legs?¡± I ask, and Chrissy nods, still frowning and pouting ever so slightly with her arms latched around my torso. Patting her head ever so gently, I commiserate with poor Chrissy for a moment over how she been stuck in the church all week. An hour or two is the most she can manage before the persistent Dissonant Whistle gets too much to bear, and there¡¯s nothing we can really do about it.


    Despite the name, Protection from Aberration doesn¡¯t actually do much protecting, just deters Abby from coming close. It¡¯s like spraying tuskwulf urine to scare chitter rats away. It¡¯ll do the trick well enough, but it won¡¯t stop them if they¡¯ve got a mind to go a certain way. That¡¯s why it ain¡¯t so popular a Spell, because end of the day, all you¡¯re doing is magically shouting ¡®go away¡¯, similar to the signal I found down the mine shaft in Pleasant Dunes. The only other benefit of the Protection Spell is increased resistance against mental or Spiritual afflictions, like the aforementioned Dissonant Whistle. Sure, it seems nice in the moment, but like the Padre said, you usually only see those sorts of Spiritual attacks from the Soulless, and the only confirmed bunch are currently confined to the northwest corner of the coast. Otherwise, it¡¯s all gobbos and Ferals, which is why most places don¡¯t bother putting up Protection Against Abby. It ain¡¯t cheap, and you can only fit so many wards in and around your house before they start interfering with one another, so why waste the real estate on a niche Ward when you can have magical Force Barriers to block Bolts or Sanctified Thresholds to strip Spells off of Abby and render them unable to register Aetheric signals?


    Or just cheap out and set up Alarms, because chances are, if you got Abby troubles around the homestead, a Protection from Abby Ward ain¡¯t gonna cut it.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    Since Chrissy found it in her to get up and out of the church, I figure study time is over for today. ¡°Why don¡¯t we go pick up some pastries from Otis and bring them up to share with¡­ Nikky and Manda.¡± Can never remember their names right off the bat. Or which one is which. Gremlins the both of them.


    ¡°Uh,¡± Danny stammers, and I catch a note of alarm in his tone, so I turn to see what¡¯s up. One look at his anxious expression tells me everything I need to know, because I¡¯d forgotten his mama wasn¡¯t one of my biggest fans no more.


    ¡°Or we can eat outside at the bakery?¡± I ask, much to Danny¡¯s relief, and I glance up to see if he wants to go invite his sisters anyway, without letting his mama know who he¡¯s having them with. Being the good big brother that he is, he sees us off like we parting ways, then heads up to coincidentally see if his sisters want to go for a stroll. A shame we gotta tiptoe around like that, but I ain¡¯t gonna hold it against Danny. Or his mama for that matter, because she got a right not to like me, same as Carter got a right to not want me around Elodie.


    Even if they both wrong, but that¡¯s a whole other thing.


    Coincidentally, we run into Josie and Noora on the way over to the bakery, and they sashay on over to say hello. Noora¡¯s got the walk down pat, strutting her stuff with effortless ease, while Josie¡¯s a quick study who¡¯s doing her best and making a good show of it. They both such slim, itty-bitty gals, so even though the effect is subtle, the sway of their hips still draws the eyes. Noora¡¯s got that cool confidence with her long, dark locks all brushed over her right shoulder as her hazel eyes drift here, there, and anywhere except to meet mine, while Josie bites her lips and shoots me sheepish glances to see if I¡¯m paying attention. ¡°Hey there handsome,¡± Noora says with a wink while slipping her arm into mine. ¡°Fancy seeing you here.¡±


    Noora¡¯s got a way of capturing your attention. When I first spotted her across the way, she was all slouched and withdrawn, one hand stuffed in her too small pant¡¯s pocket and the other holding a cigarette between two fingers. That all changed soon as she saw me, as she straightened up and arched her back while her free hand went up to fix her hair. Which was perfect to start with, and has subtle purple highlights in it today, ones she put in herself using Prestidigitation. Got the makeup to match, with purple eyeliner and lipstick that really catches the eye and blends in well with her caramel skin, and it¡¯s got my eyes tracing the outline of her lips as she flashes her slight, almost teasing smile while pressed up against my arm.


    My right arm, which she takes without shying away, unlike most people who work real hard to pretend it don¡¯t exist.


    Though not bold enough to come in for a hug, Josie unconsciously strikes a little pose when she greets me with a cheery, ¡°Hey Howie¡±, with her hands folded behind her back while leaning ever so slightly forward. Her eyelashes are all aflutter too, and I can¡¯t help but notice the half-Latina brunette has picked up Noora¡¯s manner of dress. Or undress as it were, with a too-small button up and her shirttails tied up above her midriff, over a hip-hugging set of low-waist jeans. She¡¯s wearing more makeup too, a touch of black eyeliner and peach pink lipstick that pairs so well with her warm, honey skin tone. Top it off with a pair of bronze hoop earrings and a bright red ribbon in her hair tied in a bunny ear bow, and it¡¯s all a stark reminder that little Josie Ramirez ain¡¯t so little any more.


    ¡°Hey you two,¡± I say, drinking in the sight without being too obvious or appreciative about it since my sorta-sisters are right here. They all trade greetings too, especially Josie and Chrissy, who have the same exchange every time they meet where they fix up each other¡¯s ribbons. Birds of a feather they are, each one thinking the other is absolutely adorable, and they love to hug it out too. As for Noora and Tina, they ain¡¯t as close, but they do that thing girls do where they pretend they¡¯re the best of friends whenever they see each other. Confusing is what that is, because you can still be polite and cordial without going overboard, and leaves me doubting if Josie and Noora are actually interested or if they just being friendly.


    Course I invite them to the bakery with us, because why ever would I not, and the five of us head off all arm in arm in arm. Draw a few stares on the way there, but I¡¯m used to it, and Noora weathers the attention like water off a duck, asking me what I been up too since we saw each other last week. I outline the broad strokes, tell her about my trip up to the quay and surrounding communities, as well as my run-in with Abby at Carter¡¯s compound. Don¡¯t say word one about Elodie or their shapeshifting abilities, but it¡¯s still gossip enough to keep the conversation flowing.


    ¡°Only been a week since the Mindspire went up and Abby activity is already rising like crazy,¡± Noora says, taking one last drag from her cigarette before putting it out against the side of a trashcan and tossing it inside. That¡¯s a plus in my books, and doubly so because it don¡¯t come natural to her. Grew up in Pleasant Dunes where everyone flung their cigarette butts on the floor willy nilly, but she uses the trash cans here. You¡¯d think that¡¯d be a normal thing to do, respect the cleanliness of our streets, but I know people who live here and can¡¯t be bothered to throw away their cigarette butts into the trash, so it¡¯s nice to know Noora ain¡¯t like that. ¡°How bad you think it¡¯s gonna get?¡±


    ¡°Not bad enough to threaten New Hope,¡± I say with a shake of my head. ¡°Ain¡¯t like the Coral Desert, where you got a swarm of Proggies working together. No, my daddy uprooted every Proggie within twenty-five klicks, and we ain¡¯t see any attempts to help this one out, so that means it¡¯s likely a loner.¡±


    ¡°A swarm?¡± Josie asks. ¡°Like multiple Proggies in a group?¡±


    ¡°Yea more or less.¡± Giving a little bob of my head to let her know it ain¡¯t all cut and dry, I explain, ¡°Best we can tell, Proggies got a hierarchy. Swarm, hive, herd, whatever you want to call it, it¡¯s clear they got some sort of pecking order, with lower-ranked Proggies taking after higher-ranked ones and spawning all the same Abby. One theory is they got familial lines, working and learning from the Proggie that spawned them, while others think its some sort of cloning thing, where spawned baby Proggies ain¡¯t actual full-blown Proggies, and are just relays for the main Proggie no different from a Synapse. Could also be a debt thing, where baby Proggies gotta pay back their momma¡¯s for all the biomass that went into birthing them plus interest.¡±


    ¡°Whatever the reason,¡± Tina interjects, stopping me before I can get to the real juicy theories, ¡°This one has been kept isolated and underfed for the most part, since it¡¯s been kept contained to the lake or thereabouts.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t say underfed per se.¡± Stopping at the bakery door, I slip my arm out of Noora¡¯s so I can open the door before remembering once again, I don¡¯t got a hand. And things were looking so good up until now. She don¡¯t miss a beat and opens the door instead, slipping in first so I can hold it open for everyone else. Even gives me a wink on her way in, which earns me a glare from Tina like I done something wrong. Me, I ignore it all and head in last with Chrissy, saying, ¡°Whole lot of biomass in the lake alone, much less the forests, hills, and mountain around it. We¡¯re pretty sure it gets enough to get by and has been building up an army for years, but the thing about Abby is they ain¡¯t as patient as Proggies. They get restless and antsy always foraging without a fight, so every now and then, they break ranks to go out on a raid, which is why we get harpies every half year or so, instead of one big aerial raid all at once.¡±


    That gets everyone in the bakery looking anxious and alarmed, everyone except Chrissy and Tina. Doesn¡¯t stop the latter from giving me a look like I should¡¯ve known better, and truth is, I probably should. Keep forgetting folks prefer living with their heads in the sand, so I change the subject and give Otis my best and brightest grin. ¡°Mr. Gibson, how you doin¡¯ this fine day?¡±


    He responds with warmth and good cheer, telling me all about his cheesy brisket and potate pies, which we all get a slice of. Danny and his sisters show up soon after and I get them the same, and we spend the next little bit chatting and eating various baked goods outside on the sidewalk. No more talk of Abby, Proggies, and Mindspires, which leaves me with little to no material to talk about, so I occupy myself with stuffing my face and nodding along like I agree with everything everyone saying. It¡¯s always awkward when folks talk about stuff like school and homework and other stuff I didn¡¯t ever do, or gossip about their teachers who I¡¯ve only met tangentially. Mrs. Peterson the disciplinarian, Mr. Kilgore the Killjoy, or kindly Mrs. Benett who goes the extra mile to help Noora catch up. It¡¯s stuff I never went through, and truth is I¡¯m glad I didn¡¯t, because most of it seemed like a waste of time considering the lackluster educations they come out with.


    Let¡¯s be honest here. Reciting the names of the presidents in the order they were elected ain¡¯t ever gonna be relevant in the real world, whereas multiplying two-digit numbers in their head is pretty useful. I can¡¯t do the first, and people look at me like I¡¯m an idiot, but when I do the second, they think I¡¯m weird. Bass ackward is what that is, no two ways about it.


    After her third pastry, Noora steps aside to light another cigarette, and I glance over in amusement. ¡°Mind me asking how you get those?¡± Raising an eyebrow in mock disapproval, I say, ¡°Law says you gotta be eighteen to smoke.¡±


    Noora don¡¯t miss a beat and snaps back with, ¡°But only sixteen to fight or fuck. That doesn¡¯t seem strange to you? Government won¡¯t let you smoke or drink because it¡¯s bad for you, but go on out and fight Abby or stay at home to pump out kids.¡±


    ¡°Noora¡­¡± Embarrassed by her forthrightness, Josie tries to get Noora to back down, but girl¡¯s got a point.


    ¡°Never considered that angle,¡± I reply. Then to drop the subject, I glance at Danny and ask, ¡°You make up your mind about Basic?¡±


    Danny shakes his head, not wanting to get into it, but Tina latches onto the subject like I knew she would. ¡°No you haven¡¯t made up your mind, or no you ain¡¯t gonna join?¡± Mumbling something barely comprehensible, Danny somehow gets his point across to Tina, who asks, ¡°Well, I think you should. Teaches you a lot of good information I think everyone ought to know, like basic Aetherarm safety and what to do in an emergency.¡± Then she gets to the fun part, which is why I brung it up in the first place. ¡°They making us stay on for an extra six months too, but they said part of our duties will be teaching the new boots, so if you do sign on for the next class, I can show you the ropes.¡±


    Now Tina, bless her heart, doesn¡¯t understand how Danny is head over heels in love with her, so she don¡¯t know the effect of what she¡¯s saying. I do though, so I know Danny is probably gonna sign on first thing tomorrow. Glancing at Noora and Josie, I say, ¡°You two should think about it too. You¡¯ll be sixteen by year¡¯s end, so you¡¯re both old enough for the course. Nothing says you gotta be Rangers when it¡¯s done, but I guarantee the training will prove useful no matter what you choose to do.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve never even fired a gun,¡± Josie says, looking scared and mousey as can be.


    ¡°I have.¡± Pursing her lips and scrunching her nose, Noora exhales a mouthful of smoke and wryly adds, ¡°Not sure if I hit anything though. Could barely keep the gun straight.¡±


    ¡°Well if that¡¯s your only concern regarding signing on for Basic, I could bring you out to the gun range for a bit of a lesson. Same with you Danny, if you wanna come.¡± I could use some practice myself, and don¡¯t think nothing of it, but somehow the offer gets Josie and Noora to exchanging glances while Tina glares at me from the side. Got no earthly idea why though, so I wipe some crumbs off of Chrissy¡¯s mouth and pretend not to notice anything going on around me. ¡°How about you Chrissy? You feeling up for a trip to the gun range? Not today, but sometime this week maybe?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Chrissy replies, taking another dainty nibble of her honey cake. ¡°Too far. Home?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡± No doubt to see how the animals are doing, because she misses being around them for most of the day. A shame I couldn¡¯t take her to visit Elodie. They would¡¯ve had so much fun together, because they both have this pure and innocent perspective on all things in life, able to find joy and happiness in the simple things. They also both love animals and prefer non-verbal communication, so while I was hoping Elodie¡¯s liveliness and spirit of adventure would rub off on Chrissy, Elodie could¡¯ve also learned a thing or two from Chrissy¡¯s calm, tranquil demeanour and grooming habits.


    Wouldn¡¯t surprise me to find a whole bird¡¯s nest in that girl¡¯s thick, untamed hair, looking like it ain¡¯t ever known the touch of a brush.


    Noora and Josie run off to finish whatever errand they was supposed to be running, while Danny brings his sisters back home too. Both groups get a paper bag full of pastries, and Tina¡¯s got two to share with Aunty Ray and the folks at the Church. Catch more flies with honey after all, so now they know what¡¯s what after I denied them breakfast this morning, I make a peace offering in the form of delicious baked goods. Feeling right proud of myself for even thinking of mending fences with those awful, awful people, I lead the way home and greet Cowie with a smile, while Tina continues to scowl off to the side. ¡°What are you so sour about?¡± I ask, only to get the darkest of looks in reply.


    ¡°I been invitin¡¯ you out to the range for weeks now,¡± Tina says, her arms crossed and cheeks puffed. ¡°Me and Sarah Jay both, and you keep blowin¡¯ us off, but now you up and offer to take Noora and Josie on a lark? You were all, ¡®oh, I love the purple hair girlie¡¯, and ¡®that shade of peach pink lipsticks suits you so well¡¯.¡± The voice she makes sounds nothing at all like me, because we already sound similar enough when we speak normally, but that doesn¡¯t stop Tina from sounding all exaggerated and mocking. Rolling her eyes with a scoff, she asks, ¡°Seriously Howie, Noora is one thing, but now you got your sights set on Josie too? After that whole fiasco with Elodie, I¡¯m starting to think you really are a randy goat. We need to hose you down with cold water to keep you from getting all ornery and upset?¡±


    ¡°Said it before, and I¡¯ll say it again. What happened with Elodie was a misunderstanding.¡± One I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll ever live down, especially since Chrissy thinks she¡¯s owed a sleepover now. ¡°Secondly, I was just acknowledging the hard work them girls put into their Cantrips. Noora been working on Prestidigitation ever since Pleasant Dunes, and I don¡¯t think I ever seen Josie in Makeup before. That sorta thing deserves a little ¡®atta girl¡¯, you know? Encourage them to learn more Cantrips and Spells.¡±


    Fists on her hips and baby blues at full strength, Tina hits me with, ¡°Then how come you don¡¯t ever compliment me, huh? I could use some encouragement too.¡±


    ¡°You ain¡¯t wearing any Makeup and I¡¯m the one who did your hair. What you want me to say?¡±


    Don¡¯t think the truth has ever once made a woman less angry, not when they rip snorting mad. ¡°Anything,¡± Tina declares, and hand to God, she stands there and waits for my compliment like she¡¯s owed one. ¡°A woman ain¡¯t just her hair and makeup.¡±


    The easy thing to do would be compliment her, but I¡¯m contrary like that. ¡°You dressed in Ranger tans and work boots, plus you got no jewellery to speak of besides the necklace I done gave you.¡± Eyeing her up and down in search of something to say, I stifle a grin say, ¡°Honestly Tina, you ain¡¯t giving me much to work with.¡±


    Which is a mistake, because if I thought she was angry before, that one really sets her off. ¡°What about last week, huh?¡± she asks, advancing on me with her brows furrowed in rage. ¡°You didn¡¯t say word one about the dress I wore for my birthday, but praised Chrissy¡¯s to high heaven.¡±


    ¡°You was both wearing the same dress, so the compliment applies to you too.¡± Rolling my eyes when she seemingly disagrees, I gently pop her puffed cheeks with one hand. ¡°You looked very lovely in your dress Tina.¡±


    ¡°What colour was it?¡±


    Shit. ¡°Blue.¡±


    Tina scoffs. ¡°Lucky guess.¡±


    It was, but I ain¡¯t about to admit it. Instead, I open my arms in offer of a hug, one she takes right quick. Despite the big huff, she melts right into my chest same as Chrissy did, which Tina hasn¡¯t done in years, and it¡¯s a stark reminder of how she¡¯s also afflicted by the Mindspire same as her sister. So I hold her tight and squeeze her shoulder three times to let her know how I feel, and she squeezes right back with a vengeance. ¡°Well, at least you¡¯ll be away from the Mindspire come tomorrow,¡± I say, wishing I could go along just to be sure she¡¯s safe, but Songbird¡¯s gonna have to learn to fly on her own soon enough. ¡°A day¡¯s riding with the convoy should see you out of range, and then its three days free and clear of the Dissonant Whistle.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t hardly wait,¡± Tina says, though she keeps her face buried against me while she talks. ¡°Even if it¡¯s just routine guard duty making sure all them townies get to Summerbloom safe without getting lost along the way. Should be a walk in the park.¡±


    Here¡¯s hoping. ¡°Oh right. That reminds me.¡± Breaking off the hug and ignoring Tina¡¯s pout, I pull out a piece of paper I scrawled out last night and hand it over. ¡°That¡¯s for you.¡±


    Narrowing her eyes, Tina reads off the text in the first few boxes. ¡°I want to speak to your superior. Where are the facilities. When can we see a menu. Do you know who I am. What is this, Howie?¡±


    ¡°Townie bingo,¡± I say with a grin. ¡°Every time one of them says something on that chart, you cross it off. See how long it takes to get five in a row. I¡¯m betting you¡¯ll have bingo within the first few hours, and get every box ticked off by the end of the week.¡±


    ¡°Oh come on,¡± she says. ¡°It can¡¯t be that bad.¡± Smiling as she reads off a few more, she glances up and sees my grin, one that is equal parts pity and relief. ¡°Right?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll learn soon enough,¡± is all I say, and she pouts to hear it. Ain¡¯t no job worse than babysitting townies, so I¡¯m glad she¡¯s ready to ride out without me. Won¡¯t lie and say I ain¡¯t worried, but she gonna have to learn to do the job without me looking over her shoulder, and this here is a fine job to start with. Small chance Abby attack a large, well guarded convoy, because even if they do some damage, they¡¯ll have a hell of a time getting any biomass back to their Proggie. That¡¯s the name of the game after all, Feed the Proggie, so I suspect the satellite communities around the lake are gonna get hammered hard these next coming weeks. The attack on Carter¡¯s compound failed horrendously, but there are plenty more communities all along the shore, and I wager most ain¡¯t half as well defended. Then again, I¡¯m pretty sure Carter¡¯s compound is about as safe as New Hope, considering they got miss Amelie there to guard them, a veritable living, breathing tank of a diamondclaw that can kill anything within reach.


    Here''s hoping they don¡¯t get attacked a third time, and that Mueller¡¯s Quay is still standing at the end of the week so I have somewhere to go for the rest of my hours.


    Chrissy spends a good hour cuddling with the animals before I call an audible and carry her home. Poor girl is so starved for animal attention that she stayed out far past her limits, so I tell her I¡¯ll bring her by every morning when I do my chores if she¡¯s feeling up to it. She holds me to it too, up bright and early the next morning to knock at my door, which I had to keep locked so she wouldn¡¯t slip in unnoticed. Tina¡¯s already gone by then, having woken up before the sun was up to get a head start on the convoy, leaving me to keep Chrissy company for the week. We fall into an easy routine, with me bringing her back home every morning so I can do my chores, then out for a stroll before heading back to the church. Ain¡¯t much to do there, but I keep her company all the same, because if I leave her to her own devices, she just gets lost inside her head. Long as I¡¯m around though, she¡¯s happy to draw, play music, tease the kids with Illusions, and more, so I do what I can to keep her engaged. In the afternoon, when Aunty Ray is mostly done with her work, I bring them both out for another stroll and find us something to eat. On Monday, we have ice cream at Miss Dawsons. Tuesday we stop in at Anita¡¯s for bapple chips. Wednesday, I bring them both to the saloon for a fizzy soda and some fries, and Chrissy seems to really enjoy herself even though the Mindspire is only getting worse, not better.


    Every night is dedicated to studying Mental Fortress, trying to piece together the wooden hand now that I got all the pieces carved and made, and some dry-fire drills so I don¡¯t make a fool of myself when I try to teach. Progress is slow, but evident as the idle days fly by. Blink and its already Thursday, which is when I agreed to take Noora and Josie out to the gun range, so I leave Chrissy with her mama and a promise to make this up to her before picking up my students from school in my wagon. They both looking lovely as usual, and they¡¯re all smiles and sunshine as we head out, though I do stop off at the Ramirez¡¯s household to make sure Josie¡¯s parents are in the know. Not that I think they¡¯d lie and sneak out, but it¡¯s always good to be sure. Trust, but verify after all, and Noora makes a few snide comments about me being a goody two shoes, while I hit back by calling her a delinquent and bad seed.


    Feels good to be back on the wagon again, even if Cowie is less than thrilled to be put to work, but he got his pride and wouldn¡¯t stand to see no horses hitched to his wagon. He ambles on gamely while Josie and Noora both shame me for dragging him out like this, as if I had any other choice. Cowie drinks it all up, playing the role of poor, pitiful bull to get more coos and promise of treats from the girls who adore him so. No idea when he won over Noora, but he¡¯s got the cool, calm beauty fawning over him with hearts in her eyes, ones that only got fire for me. Not a bad fire, but a dangerous one, as I ain¡¯t so sure if I can handle the heat for all that much longer.


    I get a brief reprieve when I drop in at the office to see Rudy, who¡¯s all smiles and good cheer after so many weeks apart. He¡¯s also less than subtle when he sees my companions, winking and chortling as he sends me off to the most isolated pistol range, the ¡®tactical¡¯ shooting range which is just a regular shooting range covered in urban clutter. Not the best choice for a beginner lesson, but not so bad that I care to switch out, so I hand them each an unloaded Sturm and Kitiara Squire while going over the basics. Josie is too scared of the weapon to focus much on the lesson, but Noora absorbs everything I say, a quick learner who avoids the most common mistakes because she actually listened to the whole spiel I gave.


    So fixated on the lesson, I almost yelp when I go to show her how to hold the weapon and Noora leans right back into me. I ain¡¯t talking about shoulders against my chest neither, as she¡¯s got her whole self plastered against me, melting into my body like she made of water or something. Gives me a grin too when she sees that the cat¡¯s got my tongue, and pouts a little when I get back on track and straighten her out.


    Then Josie does the same, though without the same bold confidence. She just sorta falls into me and gives me a scared little smile, and I find myself short of breath. Gotta clear my throat a fair few times before I can speak again, and even back off for a drink of water shortly after. Don¡¯t know what they playing at, competing for my affections in such an open and forthright manner, and I got no earthly idea what I¡¯m supposed to do. Sit them down for a stern talk I guess, but then that¡¯d mean an end to their games. So I keep mum and try not to let things get out of hand, while also enjoying the attention and affection. I know it¡¯s wrong to play games with their hearts, but it¡¯s nice to know I¡¯m wanted. Especially after everything that¡¯s been going on, what with folks in town talking about exiling me, and Danny¡¯s mama not liking me no more. Can¡¯t forget Carter warning me away from his daughter, so a bit of harmless flirting and mildly inappropriate contact is just¡­ wonderful, really. No other way to describe it.


    Of course, me being me, my conscience won¡¯t let me go on like this, so after a half hour or so of this back-and-forth dalliance, I clear my throat and gesture for them to put their guns aside for a tick. ¡°Look,¡± I begin, not entirely sure what I¡¯m about to say, but absolutely certain I¡¯m going to regret it. ¡°You are both lovely and wonderful young ladies, and I very much am flattered by the¡­ attention.¡± Getting lost in the memories for all of a moment, it takes me a bit to find the strength to carry on. ¡°But uh¡­ well¡­ it ain¡¯t proper, and among many other uncertainties, I don¡¯t want to be a point of contention between the two of you.¡± Would make for a really awkward ride home for one, if I picked one and rejected the other here and now.


    ¡°Oh?¡± Noora asks, grinning like a cat. ¡°Look at you with your big ego. Why would you ever be a point of contention?¡±


    My stomach drops and throat closes as I panic at the thought of having grossly misread the situation, but it¡¯s too late to back out now. ¡°Um¡­ because¡­ all this¡­ and you know¡­ gotta choose one of you to pursue¡­ and whatnot.¡±


    Josie¡¯s cheeks go bright red as she stares down at her feet, while Noora hits me with a smug and confident shake of her head. ¡°Josie is mi hermana, my ride or die, and I would never let anything come between us.¡± Gently lifting Josie¡¯s chin with a single finger, Noora looks the other girl in the eyes and leans in for a light and all too provocative kiss before both turning to me with a hungry, predatory gaze. ¡°Besides,¡± Noora says, slipping her arm around Josie¡¯s slim waist while the lovely Latina responds in kind. ¡°Why you gotta be so serious? We¡¯re all just having fun here, and what fun would it be if only two of us could play?¡±


    And as she crooks her finger at me and Josie shyly bats her eyes, I realize that Tina¡¯s right. I am a randy goat after all, and I will make no apologies for it. Not today at least. Maybe tomorrow, but even if I do, I won''t have no regrets.

 Book Two - Chapter 79

    I can¡¯t live, if living is without you.


    We¡¯ve all heard the song</a>. Starts off with a soft and emotional rendition of a sorry soul who¡¯s chock full of desperation and devastating heartbreak. The lyrics are cheesy, the melody uninteresting, and the song as a whole is mostly forgettable until you hit that killer orchestral hook in the chorus. From there, it comes down to the singer¡¯s delivery of the aforementioned tag-line, and I ain¡¯t ever heard anyone do it better than Aunty Ray. She¡¯s got a beautiful voice, clear and dramatic without so much as a touch of her accent, and the passion and raw emotion she puts into her performance of the song always leaves me in a stupor. It¡¯s a bold and forthright declaration of vulnerability and co-dependence that can¡¯t be all that healthy, and yet her delivery of the lines makes me want something like that for myself.


    Love songs are full of cheesy lines like that. All out of love</a>, I''m so lost without you. Every time</a> you go away, you take a piece of me with you. I''m never gonna dance</a> again, guilty feet have got no rhythm. Aunty Ray¡¯s performance is always mesmerizing, but when Chrissy plays the melodies without anyone singing along, it¡¯s clear how terrible some of those songs really are. Course, the words only make it worse when you read them without the music, and I¡¯ve spent many an hour out on the road listening to melodies and making fun of those songs, because it all seemed so dramatic and silly.


    Not anymore. I can see clearly now</a>, because I¡¯m walking on sunshine</a> up on top of the world</a>. I got not one, but two beautiful brown eyed girls</a> who¡¯ve got me singing Sha-la-la, la-la, la-la, la-la, la-la tee-da. Thought all them love songs were exaggerated and over dramatic, but I get it now, because with highs this high, I can¡¯t even imagine the lows, and I hope I¡¯ll never have to experience them firsthand.


    Ain¡¯t all sunshine and rainbows of course, because soon as I drop the girls off back home, the Catholic in me starts piling on the guilt. Not only is lust a cardinal sin, I done gone and lusted with two different women. That¡¯s like double the sin, which while double the fun, is also double the trouble. Don¡¯t even know how it happened. It all started as fun and games with a bit of hip holding, skin touching, and tongue kissing, then just escalated out of nowhere and next thing I knew the deed was done. Don¡¯t get it twisted, I enjoyed myself immensely, only now I don¡¯t know where this leads or how I go about keeping things proper and it¡¯s got me running circles inside my head.


    I know, I know. Noora told me not to be so serious and Josie was most certainly an eager and willing participant to all the fun and games. Problem is, the pragmatist in me can¡¯t help but consider all the angles. Sure, we¡¯re all having fun in the sun down at the range, but where do we go from here? Polygamy is illegal in the United Federation of American States, while polyamory is seen as deviant and downright heretical even. There are whole settlements here on the Frontier started by Mormons and other polygamists just so they can live in peace, and people still whisper about them like they worse than outlaws. Also, how am I supposed to bring not one, but two girls home to meet Aunty Ray? Never mind how she done already met the both of them. It¡¯s one thing to have a barbeque where Noora and Josie are present, and another altogether to have my girlfriends, Noora and Josie, over for dinner.


    Should I be swapping their names around every now and then, so Noora don¡¯t always come first? Hang on. Are they even my girlfriends? I mean we done things only married couples are supposed to do, but among three people instead of two, so I don¡¯t know where that leaves us. With a m¨¦nage ¨¤ trois, as the French would say, or a house of three, so does that mean I gotta go M¨¦tis to make this work? Or worse, to New Paris? Ugh, I hope not, because if I had to choose an old world Nation to be a part of, it¡¯d be the good old U.F. of A. Not to cast aspersions on our bilingual northern neighbours or our croissant baking friends from across the ocean, but I spent the first fourteen years of my life thinking of myself as an American, and even though they wronged my daddy, it wasn¡¯t all of America whodunnit. Was just policy from a bunch of politicos, and wasn¡¯t much of anything we could do to fight it, so I don¡¯t really have a grudge against Americans or nothing. I just didn¡¯t want to be one no more, because only then could I show them what they missed out on by disrespecting my daddy so.


    Hasn¡¯t worked out all that well so far, and truth is, I don¡¯t ever see it paying off. I¡¯m stubborn though, so unless I¡¯m forced to get my citizenship, I¡¯ll stay Frontier born thank you very much.


    Fun fact, Noora¡¯s got the same designation, because she lost her papers when her parents died, so she had to get new ones here in town. Problem is, wasn¡¯t no one who could vouch for her nation of origin or the nationality of her parents, so she¡¯s Frontier born too. Not Josie though. She¡¯s Mexican American, meaning she gets dual citizenship. I wonder if Mexico got laws against polygamy. I should find out, though Lord knows how I¡¯d go about it. Maybe ask around down in New Sonora?


    What am I doing? One romp in the grass with two lovely, enthusiastic young ladies and I¡¯m already sizing them both for wedding rings. Noora¡¯s right. I am too serious.


    Then again, this is serious business. What if one of them gets pregnant? The Contraception Cantrip is only 99% effective, which still leaves a chance. Not a large chance, but a chance all the same. Am I ready to be a daddy? Dunno. Would love to have a kid though. A daughter preferably, because even though I¡¯ll never admit it out loud, Aunty Ray ain¡¯t wrong to say I was a handful. And that¡¯s putting it nicely, because the Padre had me dead to rights when he called me the terror of these streets. Only when my daddy wasn¡¯t around though, because he was a stickler for discipline and kept me in line. Yea, a daughter first would be best, then a son after, because then he wouldn¡¯t be the oldest as well as the man of the house when I ain¡¯t around. Lot less weight on his shoulders, more room to breathe, and it¡¯d let my daughter learn how to be strong and independent while looking after her little brother.


    ¡­ I keep at this any longer and I¡¯ll be picking out names soon enough. Should at least settle on a wedding venue first. The Catholic Church is nice and all, but we could always have a destination wedding down in the beautiful basilica of Redeemer¡¯s Keep, or maybe even a Lakeside wedding if we want to keep things close to home¡­


    After dropping Josie and Noora off at their place, I got plenty of time before I¡¯m expected at the church, so I stop off at the jewellery store on my way home. Just for a quick look-see through the window is all, because even if it¡¯s too early to be buying wedding rings, I don¡¯t feel right having skipped over so much of the courtship process. Haven¡¯t even bought them dinner, so jewellery seems a bit much, but I¡¯m thinking a threesome deserves something nicer than flowers. Then again, if I do buy them something expensive, are they gonna think I saw our dalliance as transactional? Because I don¡¯t, and even though I don¡¯t know where any of this is gonna go, I very much want to pursue¡­ whatever this is.


    Life is complicated.


    Still don¡¯t hurt to take a look and think about it, but the problem with Aberrtin reinforced glass is it¡¯s tinted, which makes it difficult to see the goods. Taking off my hat, I lean in close to the window to try and see what they got on offer, but even though I can make out the rings, necklaces, bracelets and other jewellery sitting in the window, they lack that sparkle to really draw you in. Me, I never understood why some gemstones are more expensive than others, even though only a few are useful in Spellslinging. Who wants a sapphire set in a ring when you can get an Aberration Cold Stone instead? The sapphire just looks shiny, while the Cold Stone lets you cast Spells which need the Stone as a Spell Focus. I been meaning to get me one for a while now, preferably one for each Element, but seeing Michael¡¯s pinky ring kinda threw me off. Man had the right idea, but why wear it on his pinky? Just comes across as a little feminine is all. Not that there¡¯s anything wrong with that, but still. I figured a man in the mob would be more conscientious about his masculinity is all.


    ¡°You Howie?¡±


    Speak of the Devil and he appears. Well, not Michael exactly, but men who I assume are associates of Michael, seeing how they all dressed the part, with fine wing-collared shirts and black silk vests under long leather overcoats. Topped with a fedora of all hats, worn with a rakish tilt I envy, though the white feathers in their hatbands sort of ruin the whole thing. There are five in total, mobsters and feathers both, with three to my left and two to my right, showing they know which side is more dangerous. What they don¡¯t understand is how Cowie is the real threat here, as the men to my left all got their backs to him, which is really just a terrible idea.


    ¡°Huh?¡± I say, looking at the man who spoke for a good long second as I start recording with my bull¡¯s head medallion, then put my hat back on. ¡°Ask me again.¡±


    The speaker is the most adorable mobster I done ever seen, an itty-bitty gangster standing at all of 5¡¯3. 5¡¯5 with the lifts in his heels, which are plenty noticeable given how he wears spurs too. He don¡¯t much like me telling him to repeat himself, but he does it all the same. ¡°You deaf or sumthin¡¯? I axed if youse was Howie?¡±


    ¡°Hmm.¡± Scratching my chin, I point at the guy to get my hand in frame, so the recording clearly sees I ain¡¯t about to go for my weapon. Fat lot of good that¡¯ll do me if they choose to gun me down in the street, but the recording could be enough to keep Cowie from getting put down for avenging my death. ¡°You know you the first person who ever asked me that?¡± It¡¯s true too, or at least I think it is. ¡°Most either ask if I¡¯m the Firstborn, because they heard stories about me before, or they ask for a name ¡®cause they don¡¯t know me at all. Ain¡¯t ever actually been asked if I¡¯m Howie. Ain¡¯t that a lark?¡±


    ¡°Good for you,¡± the mini mafioso growls. ¡°Let¡¯s have a word.¡±


    ¡°Cattywampus.¡± Takes him a moment to figure the joke out, and he don¡¯t find it amusing, but that¡¯s fine by me, because I¡¯m tickled pink. Man¡¯s got a square jaw to end all square jaws, one made more prominent by the grizzled scruff of a permanent five o clock shadow he got going on. Gives him a right mean scowl, but I keep talking because that throws him for a loop, since it makes me look far too relaxed for a man surrounded. ¡°Truth is, I think it¡¯s a little odd that people ask at all,¡± I continue, picking up where I left off like he never said a thing. ¡°I mean look at me. Don¡¯t really need much of a description to pick me out from a crowd. How hard is it to spot the one Qink within a-hundred klicks of New Hope?¡±


    Turning about to face the pair as I carry on this one-sided conversation, I ignore to the square-jawed leader entirely, which he really don¡¯t like at all. Thing is, now I got the pair on my left, as they¡¯re my responsibility, while Cowie can over the three on my right. ¡°Then again, there¡¯s a Nip boy who lives here in town,¡± I drawl, still talking just for the sake of talking. ¡°Only 14 but looks twenty 23. Tall as sin and got facial hair and everything, so I could see some folks mistaking him for the Firstborn. Still, that gives you what, 50-50 odds of getting it right on the first oriental you see, so if you know that much, then do you really need to ask?¡±


    Course, I could also bring up the two-tonnes of Transmuting bull standing not three metres away who¡¯s another dead giveaway of my identity, but I¡¯d much rather they continued to ignore him. The big guy is real cranky and tired after our trip out to the range, so he¡¯s quietly asked if he can stomp these fools three times already. Not because he knows they Mafia. All he knows is they¡¯ve stopped me on the street and I¡¯m making ready to fight, so my partner is ready to break skulls and go home for a nap.


    ¡°All right wise guy,¡± the mini mafioso snaps, injecting some real threat into his tone. ¡°You know who we are?¡± I give a noncommittal shrug, which he accepts as a yes. ¡°Good. We need to talk. Somewhere private. Let¡¯s go.¡±


    ¡°Fraid you caught me at a bad time.¡± Giving a little shrug while looking left and right, I say, ¡°Got dinner plans, so I¡¯ll have to take a raincheck.¡±


    ¡°It ain¡¯t up to you.¡± Channeling all the rage and violence of a career criminal out of his dark, beady eyes, the mini mafioso cracks his neck and plants his feet while keeping his hands folded in front of his stomach. ¡°We can do this the easy way, or the not so easy way, but either way, you coming with us.¡±


    Spoken like a man who¡¯s had everything go his way, and seeing how he¡¯s still drawing breath, there¡¯s probably good reason why. Man¡¯s got a proper quick draw stance going, and judging by how his shoulders are turned ever so slightly to his left, I¡¯m guessing it¡¯s a cross draw for a gun on the left side of his waistband. Left hand sweeps the jacket out the way, right hand grabs the gun, bang bang done. Not the speediest draw, but allowances gotta be made for the fact that he probably don¡¯t got a license to carry and had to pick one up from a contact in town. Means he can¡¯t be showing his piece off while walking around town, because the Sherrif do be stickler for proper registration.


    Course, I give the signal to Cowie and the mini mafioso will never get his gun clear of his holster. Same goes for the two goons standing with him, while I¡¯m fairly confident I can gun down the pair on my left before they draw on me. Problem is, that¡¯s quite the escalation, and while I ain¡¯t afraid of the Mafia, I ain¡¯t exactly looking to wage war against them either. Too much risk with no reward, especially if they got ties to Ranger High Command keeping them entrenched in Mount Rimes mining industry.


    So I do something I rarely do, because it smacks of weakness. I negotiate. ¡°How about we talk things through,¡± I begin, shifting my stance to match his, though I don¡¯t turn my back on the pair to my left since they¡¯re my first targets. Don¡¯t want them to know that though, so a little misdirection can¡¯t hurt. ¡°Let¡¯s say, hypothetically, I tell you I¡¯m good with not so easy. Then what huh? We gonna have a shootout here in these streets? Because if you pull that pistol you got hidden in your jacket there, that¡¯s what¡¯s gonna happen. I play for keeps friend, and here on these streets, there ain¡¯t no winning for you.¡±


    I give him a smile and a shrug, all calm and relaxed as can be. He sees it too, knows I ain¡¯t making no bluff, and he don¡¯t like that because I done called him on his. Him and his were just trying to scare me into compliance, because that¡¯s how the Mafia works, but ain¡¯t no way they can hope to getaway from a shoot out on the main thoroughfare of New Hope. Soon as the first shot is fired, someone will sound the alarm, most likely the manager of the jewellery store whose got front row seats to the fight. Once that happens, every gate out of town gets locked down tight, while every off-duty Ranger in the area will pop on over to see what all the fuss is about. Even if these mafiosos can drop me and walk away, there¡¯s no getting out, not here in the heart of the town so far from any gate.


    And that¡¯s if they¡¯re dealing with an everyday average joe. They ain¡¯t, and they know it, so even if they ain¡¯t afraid of what I can do, they¡¯re understandably concerned about my connections. The Marshal is a good man who¡¯s well respected by all, criminals and law-abiding citizens alike, so if he puts out a call for blood, then this mini mafioso¡¯s bosses will likely give him and his friends up just to avoid all out war. Yeah, the Pugliano Family might have ties to Ranger High Command, but they all the way over on the West Coast. The Marshal though? He runs New Hope and the Blue Bulwark both, and while he¡¯d never abuse his authority for a personal matter, he won¡¯t stop at nothing to apprehend the criminals responsible for my death.


    Like I said, the world is ruled by fear. Everyone does it, governments and criminals alike. The only difference is how they handle things, in which a government will typically only act with legal justification, and killing me will give Uncle Teddy all that he needs to uproot the Mafia from our borders. That¡¯s my edge here, the fact that the Mafia fears the Rangers more then I fear the Mafia, and the mini mafioso knows it now.


    So all that¡¯s left to do is give him a good reason to back down, one that doesn¡¯t make him look weak and afraid. ¡°So how bout we talk out here then?¡± I ask, once it¡¯s clear no one actually wants a fight. ¡°This cuz I done spooked Michael? When armed strangers approach my work site, you can¡¯t rightly blame me for showing up ready to fight. It¡¯s a dangerous world out there, and I weren¡¯t to know he had business with Carter. Thought we left things off cordial enough, but what? I hurt his feelings or something?¡±


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    ¡°Some funny business went down after youse met,¡± the mini mafioso says, watching me close for my reaction. Ain¡¯t him I¡¯m concerned about though. It¡¯s the beanpole to his left, the one who done just cast a Detect Heartbeat Cantrip to see how I¡¯d react, but my heart is beating slow and steady as always. ¡°We¡¯re thinking youse maybe might¡¯ve seen something on your way back to town.¡±


    ¡°Last Saturday?¡± I shake my head and grimace. ¡°I was bleeding from every which way out of my face the whole trip home, so I didn¡¯t see much of anything that morning.¡± That takes them by surprise, and me too, because I would¡¯ve thought they¡¯d¡¯ve done their homework.


    ¡°What you mean bleeding?¡±


    I shrug. ¡°Got hit with a Mind Whip during the Abby attack. Doc called it a subconjunctival hemorrhage, I call it bleeding out my eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. Carter and two of his boys brought me home after the big fight, and we got in just before lunch, but we didn¡¯t see hide nor hair of nothing the whole way back.¡±


    ¡°Start from the top,¡± the mini mafioso says, still projecting aggression, but well on the back foot. ¡°After you and Michael part ways at the compound Friday, what¡¯d you do then?¡±


    So I tell the story like me and Carter rehearsed it. I ate lunch and worked late, then stayed over at the compound to sleep only to be attacked by Abby a few hours before sunrise. By now, I¡¯ve complete confidence Joseph and his two pals carried out the attack by themselves, with no fourth or fifth person who got away clean. I didn¡¯t make no secret of my injuries neither, so it won¡¯t take much for them mafiosos to confirm it. Wouldn¡¯t put it past them to have a source in the town guards either to confirm my time of return and the extra Aberrtin I brung in, and so as long as mental or Spiritual attacks ain¡¯t in Joseph¡¯s wheelhouse, then I should be in the clear.


    Carter too hopefully, but is it terrible of me to hope the Mafia tries something stupid with them? Though our interaction was limited, I get the feeling miss Amelie ain¡¯t as tolerant as her husband, and I would love to see the look on Michael¡¯s face when she transforms into a diamondclaw and rips him to shreds.


    As expected, the mini mafioso checks with the beanpole to confirm I¡¯m on the up and up, but it takes a bit more than a conversation to get my heart pounding. Far as they know, I¡¯m telling the truth, and if they dig a little further, they¡¯ll see that I usually spent Friday nights at the compound anyways. Only came back home early once for Tina and Chrissy¡¯s birthday, but the Mafia ain¡¯t interested in the nitty gritty details, only the facts, and they got none to finger me as whodunnit. To really hammer home the point, I tell them, ¡°Look, I don¡¯t know what you looking for, but I ain¡¯t running or hiding neither. I live here in town, and if I ain¡¯t here, then I¡¯ll be in Mueller¡¯s Quay working off the rest of my hours. If you still got questions, you know where I¡¯ll be, and I¡¯ll even give you answers so long as you ask nicely.¡±


    That¡¯s enough to satisfy the mini mafioso¡¯s ego, because now they can say I crumbled and answered, even if I didn¡¯t go with them. ¡°The quay huh? Alright kid.¡± Turning to leave, he pauses and comes back to push his luck just to show he¡¯s in charge. ¡°One more question. What happened in Pleasant Dunes, huh?¡±


    I give him a glare and take a deep breath, letting the anger leak out from where I got it locked up tight, and they all go alert to see it. After leaving the tension to hang in the air for a good half minute, I say, ¡°Man had a bunker full of chemical explosives. What you think happened?¡±


    ¡°Nah, not about that.¡± Gesturing at the stump of my right hand, he asks, ¡°Why¡¯d he take your hand?¡±


    ¡°Because his pet Ranger on payroll done robbed him,¡± I snarl, having long since committed to the lie. ¡°Then pinned the blame on me.¡± All of which sounds feasible enough, because while it¡¯s true I had the skills to cover up a murder like that, so did Wayne, and without Ronald Jackson¡¯s trust of his hometown buddy, most would suspect the Ranger, not the kid. Wayne knew about the precious cargo after all, so he¡¯d have reason to go after the merchant, whereas I was just a bystander who happened to be riding by.


    Course the truth ain¡¯t so cut and dry, but so long as you give folks a reasonable story, they¡¯re more than happy to believe it. Shows in the faces of the mafiosos around me, and their little leader even gives me a nod of sympathy. ¡°Tough break, but you got a mouth on you kid,¡± he says, flashing a fearsome grin that don¡¯t make him look friendly in the least. ¡°Bet that didn¡¯t help you none with Ron now, did it? Big stickler for respect that one.¡± I don¡¯t say nothing, just scowl and glare, and the mini mafioso smiles to see it. ¡°We¡¯ll be in touch.¡±


    And that¡¯s it, as the five of them saunter off leaving me and Cowie in peace. Turning back to glance through the window, I give the manager of the jewellery store a little wave to say I¡¯m alright before heading over to soothe Cowie¡¯s nerves. His blood gets hot, and he needs time to cool down, and truth is, I do too, so I take the scenic route home while considering my options. I¡¯ll probably tell the Sherrif the Mafia done come in to check on me for unknown reasons, and that they seemed curious about what happened in Pleasant Dunes. Makes sense seeing how they were competitors in the mining industry, and I suppose Vanguard National could afford to undercut the Pugliano Family because the use of chemical explosives meant lower costs for higher yields when it came to raw, unrefined ore.


    Whatever. I¡¯ll check in with the Sherrif tomorrow and fill the Marshal in when I see him Sunday. A quick shower and a short jog later, I make it back to the church just in time for dinner, which to Aunty Ray is about ten minutes too late. Rude to walk in right as everyone is about to eat, but she lets me off with a single stern look. Probably because of the company I was with, as she suspects there something going on between Noora and me. That¡¯s Tina¡¯s fault for telling Aunty Ray everything that went down in Pleasant Dunes, though I will say Noora ain¡¯t been none too shy about showing her intentions. Course, Aunty Ray would have a conniption if she knew what was really going on, and I ain¡¯t exactly ready to share. Not until I know more about what¡¯s going on between me, Noora, and Josie, though how I¡¯ll go about broaching the subject is still a mystery.


    Can¡¯t really just come out and ask them, ¡°So where¡¯s all of this goin¡¯ then?¡± Well I could, but then it might ruin a good thing, and I would really rather not do that just yet.


    After dinner, I bring Chrissy and Aunty Ray out for some starmelon cobbler. The fruits ain¡¯t ripe just yet, but they still got enough of that peachy fragrance to lend a fresh and fruity taste the pie, and the scoop of ice cream makes up for the lacking natural sugars. We don¡¯t stay out for long, because Chrissy¡¯s fast approaching her limits for the day, so we head back to the church where Aunty Ray reads her a story out in the pews, one complete with animated Illusions to hold her attention. Easier than interrupting the story every few paragraphs to make sure she ain¡¯t lost in her thoughts, which ain¡¯t the worst thing in the world, but Chrissy spends enough time locked away in her head as it is. The more time she spends engaged out here, the better, because the last thing we need is for her to drift away completely and never emerge from her thoughts again.


    Yea, it would¡¯ve been really nice if Chrissy and Elodie could¡¯ve been friends. I get the feeling Elodie would know how to bring Chrissy out of her head and keep her anchored out in the real world. Only took three days for the green haired girlie to get Old Tux acting like a year-old colt again, which got me hoping she could do something similar for Chrissy. Time was she was every bit as happy and expressive as Tina, and while that started slowly changing round about the time she turned six, it wasn¡¯t until after Uncle Raleigh passed that she really shut down, and she¡¯s only been getting worse ever since.


    As for me, I sling a few Spells for practice and stick around for story time too, making sure none of the kids get too rowdy or out of hand while they watch the show. Aunty Ray ain¡¯t much for discipline, so they tend to walk all over her, and ain¡¯t nothing their parents are doing to keep them in check. I figured most would¡¯ve hitched a ride with the convoys to safer pastures in Summerbloom or Irongate, but them Protestants stuck around. Guess they figured one berth was good as any other since they ain¡¯t all that bothered by the Mindspire, and Aunty Ray¡¯s cooking is good enough to risk life and limb for. A perfect example of how no good deed gone unpunished, so I play the part of tyrant and shoo the children off to bed after an hour of stories and illusions.


    Unfortunately for me, Chrissy is immune to my heavy-handed ways, and latches onto my arm before I can make my escape. ¡°Sleepover,¡± she demands, burying her face in my shoulder in a fit of pique since she expects me to say no. Thinks she¡¯s owed a sleepover because I had one with Elodie, and since we¡¯re staying at the church, I can¡¯t really argue it out in front of her where anyone might overhear.


    Instead, I look to Aunty Ray for help, who takes one look at Chrissy¡¯s spoiled and petulant behaviour and immediately gives in. ¡°How about you do your studying in our room, just until she falls asleep,¡± Aunty whispers, after pulling me away far enough so no one can overhead. ¡°Then you can head out back to your room, simple is as simple does.¡±


    I didn¡¯t expect her to fold so quickly, and though my first instinct is to reject her suggestion outright, there¡¯s something in her expression that makes me think twice. A weight to her smile, a slump in her shoulders, a glint of pleading in her eyes which all comes together to make her look so very tired and resigned. Still lovely as an autumn rose at the tender age of 37, as she¡¯s a December baby just like me, but she¡¯s been carrying a heavy burden these last few years and its starting to take a toll. She¡¯s also loved and lost, and while they say it¡¯s better than never having loved at all, I can¡¯t imagine it¡¯s all that great either. Besides, looking after Chrissy is hard enough without having to worry about Tina and me while we off doing Lord knows what sort of dangerous work, all while running around putting out social fires wherever she can and promoting a spirit of community as best she can.


    And now she got the Mindspire to deal with on top of all that, while maintaining Concentration all day on Mental Fortress so Chrissy don¡¯t spend the whole day in catatonic misery. Hasn¡¯t even been two weeks yet, and Aunty Ray¡¯s already feeling the strain, so if keeping Chrissy company until she falls asleep will would make things a little more manageable, then why wouldn¡¯t she want to try it?


    Now my daddy would¡¯ve stuck to his guns and said it wasn¡¯t proper, but me, I can¡¯t deny Aunty Ray anything. Difficult to deny Chrissy either, and it warms my heart to see her prance off with her mama so they can get ready for bed. When I knock on their door a few minutes later, she¡¯s opens it up wearing her oversized jammies while positively glowing with good cheer. Doesn¡¯t mind when I tell her I ain¡¯t ready for bed just yet, as I got some studying to do, which she accepts with stoic aplomb as she slips under the covers with her mama. The two of them curl up and snuggle while I sit at the desk, poring over the Mental Fortress Spell Formula and all the various permutations the numbers experience during their transition from static coordinates to fully functional Spell Structure.


    The funny thing is, this is hardly even a sleepover, because if they was on the couch in front of the fireplace back home, it¡¯d be just another quiet evening in. Still, this here is good enough for Chrissy, because she just wants to be around the people she loves. Seems Tina¡¯s absence has been harder on Chrissy than I thought it¡¯d be, and the distance I keep between us weighs heavier on her now that her sister isn¡¯t around to help offset it. Might be that not even Chrissy understands why she¡¯s been so insistent on this sleepover, but I know for a fact that she¡¯s been having trouble falling asleep ever since the Mindspire went up, yet it doesn¡¯t take her more than ten minutes to nod off in my presence. That¡¯s in spite of the bright light and my constant page turning while I calculate variables on the fly and go over the formula for the umpteenth time.


    The next little break I get, I make ready to head off to the other room, but Aunty Ray waves at me to keep her company, because she ain¡¯t ready to sleep just yet either. Pretty sure she just wants to maintain the Mental Fortress Spell for as long as she can, because it¡¯ll fade away as soon as she falls asleep and leave Chrissy more or less exposed to the Mindspire¡¯s effect. Unfortunately, we¡¯re still no closer to a proper solution than we were on day one, or at least I haven¡¯t heard of any big developments. All we¡¯ve done is rule out what doesn¡¯t work, which I suppose is progress of a sorts, even if it ain¡¯t the kind of progress we need.


    The only thing we know that can 100% shut out the Mindspire is a fully encased lead box. Problem is, people need this thing called air to survive, so you gotta come out at some point. Even a ventilation system is enough for the effect to squeak on through, since unlike a Detection Spell, the Mindspire doesn¡¯t require it¡¯s Aetheric signal to bounce back and return to sender. It just needs to reach the target, and it don¡¯t matter how many times that signal is reduced beforehand by bouncing off of lead, it¡¯ll still hit you just as hard as ever.


    Nor will Aunty Ray even entertain the idea of leaving for a few weeks. This is her home, one she fought and bled for, a place where she¡¯s made all her best memories here on the Frontier and also where she experienced the worst. She¡¯s been here since day one, before even I got here, and I¡¯m pretty sure she was the one who done named the place, even though she claims it was a group effort. This here is her town in so many different ways, and she ain¡¯t about to let no Proggie swan song send her away.


    So I bear down and study the Mental Fortress Spell Formula with everything I got, until all the twist and turns of the honey-combed structure become second nature to me, with little to no time to think in the moment as I calculate variable after variable and plug them into the next line of the formula to get the values I¡¯ll need. It¡¯s just practice really, rote repetition until the calculations become second nature, so the moment of success doesn¡¯t even register right away as I turn back to page one and get ready to go again, only to realize the scintillating trails of shifting patterns have been embedded into my minds eye, sitting there in memory and ready to access with little more than a word and a thought.


    No Somatic or Material component necessary, so I look up and meet Aunty Ray¡¯s eyes before reaching out to take her hand. Though she¡¯s been sitting there holding Chrissy for who knows how long, she don¡¯t bat an eye at my actions, just takes my hand in hers like it¡¯s the most natural thing in the world. Takes me a moment to find the right place to start, and when I Intone the first word, it comes out in a drawl. ¡°Cogito,¡± I whisper, and Aunty Ray¡¯s eyes go wide with surprise, but I focus on the Spell Structure and nothing else, matching the rhythm of my voice to the flow of Aether within. ¡°Ergo ¨C Sum.¡±


    I think, therefore I am.


    The Spell takes effect in an instant, wrapping Aunty Ray¡¯s mind in Aetheric bubble wrap to protect the Entanglements connecting her physical mind to the metaphysical Immaterium. Or at least that¡¯s what I assume it does, because all I really feel is the transmission of Aether moving from my hand into Aunty Ray¡¯s. Then, all that¡¯s left is a faint inkling of a sensation of something there, something floating at the edges of my consciousness that feels ready to fly away in the blink of an eye. I hold fast to that sensation, a weight lighter than air yet more substantial all the same, a bastion of the mind that I cannot see or touch but is most certainly there. The sensation floats here and there about the edges of my consciousness, and it takes an effort to put it not out of mind, but in the back of it, like a gentle spring breeze whispering through the trees, an ever-present and unobtrusive melody that becomes a part of your existence.


    Aunty Ray on the other hand experiences the effects of the Spell directly, and she gasps in both relief and delight. Tears spring to her big blue eyes and she presses her lips together in an effort to restrain her joy and jubilation, because for the first time in close to two weeks, the pervasive and vexatious droning of the Mindspire¡¯s Dissonant Whistle has been cut down to a whisper. Whenever I step into the church, it feels like my ears have popped and my sinuses have cleared, except it¡¯s my brain, so I can¡¯t imagine how Aunty Ray feels now. Trails of tears stream out from her eyes as she clutches my hand ever so tightly, I hold her hand just as tight to let her know I¡¯m here.


    Yea, she¡¯s had it hard the last couple years, maybe even the whole decade, but I¡¯m old enough to help share the load, so she can lean on me a bit more now.


    ¡°He¡¯d be so proud of you,¡± she whispers, and my heart aches to hear it, because I ain¡¯t sure if it¡¯s true. Sure, it¡¯s two Big Spells under my belt, but my daddy never put too much stock in Spellslinging. ¡°I¡¯m proud of you,¡± she adds, and that¡¯s enough to soothe away the angst, so I smile, squeeze her hand, and stay silent. Sweet woman that she is, she¡¯s already thinking of her babies and says, ¡°Tina¡¯s gonna be back tomorrow afternoon, so maybe save a Spell for her? She¡¯s been having trouble sleeping too, and she¡¯s had to make do without. I know it¡¯ll be awkward, but talk to her and make sure she¡¯s got coverage while she¡¯s doing time trials and anything competitive moving forward. The Mindspire¡¯s got her off her game, and she¡¯s in danger of losing her spot as top boot, which means so very much to her.¡±


    Aunty Ray has so much more to say, but I¡¯m already shaking my head. ¡°Tina will do fine without,¡± I whisper. ¡°From now on, you should keep your Mental Fortress for yourself while I cover Chrissy, then you go back to lookin¡¯ after her once that¡¯s done. I can cast it three times, so that¡¯s 3 hours base, but 6 with Extend Duration Metamagic. I¡¯ll work on pushing that even further, but I doubt I¡¯ll make much headway any time soon.¡± Spells that require Concentration to begin with are much more difficult to maintain once their base duration runs out, because then you have to Concentrate on the Spell itself while simultaneously Concentrating on maintain it. For most, that¡¯s a difficult ask, though I can do it for a little bit. Take Entangle for example, which requires Concentration and has a base duration of one single minute. I can almost hold it for three, which don¡¯t seem like much time, but it takes a phenomenal effort of will to maintain it even for that long.


    Which I suppose is why Josie and Noora both seemed so pleased by my efforts. Who would¡¯ve thunk my Spellslinging skills would¡¯ve come in handy like that?


    ¡°I know what you doin¡¯,¡± Aunty Ray whispers, giving me a look that is half proud and half pout. ¡°You tryin¡¯ to toughen Tina up, get her ready for the world, but you going about it all wrong.¡±


    ¡°How so?¡± Could be I¡¯m pulling my punches too much, but after snapping at her in Pleasant Dunes, I¡¯ve been real worried about shaking her confidence. Sergeant Begaye knows his work, and he ain¡¯t wrong to say she needs more building up rather than tearing down.


    ¡°You¡¯re treating her like she¡¯s you,¡± Aunty Ray whispers, shaking her head ever so slightly. ¡°But she¡¯s not you. She¡¯s Tina, and whether you like to admit it or not, she¡¯s more like Chrissy than anyone else.¡± Patting the bed to tell me to sit, Aunty Ray leans in and I can¡¯t help but lean in too until our temples are touching. ¡°Before she left, she was all up in arms about how you offered to take Noora and Josie to the gun range, when she been inviting you to go for weeks now.¡± Seeing my sour expression, Aunty Ray giggles and gives me a hard little nudge with her head. ¡°I know why you don¡¯t want to go to the range,¡± she says, her eyes a mixture of sorrow and mirth. ¡°I also know why you invited Noora and Josie out.¡±


    Bet she doesn¡¯t know how it turned out, because even I didn¡¯t think that was an option, but Aunty Ray don¡¯t ask about my date and I don¡¯t volunteer no information. ¡°The thing is,¡± she says, giving me a look to make sure I¡¯m paying attention, ¡°Tina don¡¯t understand why you¡¯d want to spend time with other girls instead of her. She knows why, but it don¡¯t make sense to her, because she don¡¯t understand the difference between familial and romantic love. I know this because when I was her age, I was boy crazy and mooning over every pretty face I see, but she don¡¯t seem to care or even notice how every boy in town gets whenever she¡¯s around.¡±


    I frown, because only now do I understand what Aunty Ray meant when she said Tina¡¯s more like Chrissy. ¡°You think Tina¡¯s Aether touched too?¡±


    ¡°Oh I know it,¡± Aunty Ray replies, shaking her head with a smile. ¡°It¡¯s not always a terrible thing. If it wasn¡¯t for your lack of Branding, I¡¯d think you was Aether touched too. You been keeping up with Chrissy¡¯s Spellslinging abilities, and she¡¯s one of the most talented young Spellslingers anyone has ever seen. As for Tina, she ain¡¯t as far along, but she ain¡¯t all that far behind either. That ain¡¯t important though. What is important is that you remember this: Tina ain¡¯t all that different from Chrissy when it comes to how they process emotions. Chrissy don¡¯t understand why boys and girls gotta separate, and while Tina accepts that this is how it¡¯s gotta be, she don¡¯t understand it either, not when it comes to you. That¡¯s why she gets all upset when you won¡¯t hug her, but let Noora slip her arms around you without so much as a twitch. She don¡¯t see why you don¡¯t want to hug her, but will go off and hug other women, because romance don¡¯t make no sense to her. All she knows is love, and she most certainly loves you.¡±


    That¡¯s a big revelation to chew on this late in the night, and Aunty Ray lets me sit with my thoughts for a good long minute before speaking again. ¡°I ain¡¯t saying you shouldn¡¯t date other girls,¡± she whispers, giving my hand a squeeze that is just a touch too hard to tell me she wants to hear about my date, but the thing is, she really doesn¡¯t. Or at least she wouldn¡¯t if she knew what went down, which is a bit of a paradox, now isn¡¯t it. ¡°I ain¡¯t sayin¡¯ you should date Tina neither,¡± she adds, ¡°Because that ain¡¯t gonna solve nothing. I¡¯m just lettin¡¯ you know so you¡¯ll be more patient and understanding with her. You¡¯ve always been her big brother, the closest man to her since her daddy and uncle Ming passed, so she don¡¯t understand why you¡¯re pushin¡¯ her away all of a sudden.¡±


    I sit and think about it for another minute, then ask, ¡°She really don¡¯t understand why Danny gets all red and moon-eyed around her?¡± Aunty Ray nods, and I heave a small sigh for my best buddy. ¡°I thought she was just pretending not to notice so they could stay friends.¡± Another pause, then, ¡°Should I tell her?¡±


    Aunty Ray lights up to hear it. ¡°Ooh, maybe. I like Danny. He a right proper gentleman, and he works hard as you. Better than those wulves lurking around Tina in Basic. She don¡¯t get how most are only acting friendly in hopes of getting close and becoming more. Ain¡¯t so terrible a thing, but I¡¯m worried they¡¯ll mistake her friendliness for leading them on and react poorly if she rejects them.¡± Now it¡¯s Aunty Ray¡¯s turn to sigh as she hugs the sleeping Chrissy that much tighter. ¡°Ain¡¯t saying all men are monsters, but those closest to you are the ones who can hurt you the most. That¡¯s the nature of betrayal after all, and I¡¯m scared Tina won¡¯t see none of it coming.¡±


    Though Aunty Ray don¡¯t say it, I know she would feel a lot better if I were there with Tina in Basic. And in the Rangers too after the fact, but that ship has long since sailed and there ain¡¯t no getting back on. As for me and my life, it¡¯s looking more complicated than ever. Knew the woman I eventually ended up with was gonna have to accept my bond with Chrissy, but now, not only do I have two paramours in Josie and Noora, I¡¯ve gotta let them know that Tina might be a part of the package too.


    Don¡¯t think there are any songs about a love like that, but I suppose I could always write one.

 Book Two - Chapter 80

    ¡°Wrong.¡±


    So taken aback by the uncharacteristically forceful criticism, I stop mid-cast to see what Chrissy is going on about. Wrapped in her blanket with her hair looking all scruffy from a good night¡¯s sleep, she¡¯s got the same neutral expression she always wears, only with a tired cast to her pale violet eyes as she watches me with hopeful expectation from her perch on the bed. ¡°Wrong,¡± she says again, with a little shake of her head, looking extra sad and vulnerable as she hugs her knees to her chest. She can tell I don¡¯t understand what she means, I can see the frustration bubbling up inside her as she struggles to find the words to explain it and comes up short. ¡°Wrong.¡±


    Soft and defeated, accompanied by a slump of her shoulders as she drops her head in discouragement, that¡¯s how her third utterance of the same word goes. Kneeling down to meet her eyes, I give her a moment to decompress before taking her hand. Clutching my fingers ever so tightly, she tries to pull me in for a hug, but all she gets is my arm, so she switches tack and leans in to rest her forehead on my shoulder instead. Ain¡¯t much for me to do besides hold her close and pat her back as she sulks, though I lack the hand to do it proper. This is the first time I¡¯ve seen her without Mental Fortress since the Mindspire went up, because Aunty Ray always cast it on Chrissy first thing every morning and kept it up until she fell asleep at night.


    Quite the feat all things considered, especially since Aunty Ray can only hold the Spell for two hours each cast with the help of Extend Duration Metamagic. That¡¯s 8 or 9 Third Order Spells slung each day while maintaining Concentration the whole time. Which takes some real chops, the sort of Spellslinging you expect from a professional Magus and nothing less. This sort of skill don¡¯t come from her Innate blood neither. No, this is the result of hard work and copious effort, with natural talent playing only a small part. Truth is, if it wasn¡¯t for the fact that she settled down to raise her kids, myself included, Rachel Walker-Bradshaw would¡¯ve long since made Captain in the Rangers by virtue of her Spellslinging prowess alone, and might well have risen even higher in the ranks thanks to her accomplished interpersonal skills and general can-do attitude.


    Which makes Chrissy¡¯s lacking social aptitude that much more tragic as she sits there all miserable as a hog in a hailstorm. The church¡¯s Consecration helps ward off the persistent Dissonant Whistle of course, but it¡¯s not enough on its own. Mental Fortress isn¡¯t either, though she¡¯s able to tough it out for a few hours at a time when she really wants to. Needs a combination of both to get her through the day, except now as I¡¯m about to cast the Spell on her, she¡¯s telling me there¡¯s something wrong, and I¡¯m not sure if it¡¯s Spell itself or something about the way I¡¯m doing it that she doesn¡¯t like. She can be real particular about things sometimes, like how she eats her sandwiches or which seat at the table people sit at, and I¡¯m not sure what it is she wants from me.


    So the only thing left to do is ask her, but I gotta wait until she stops moping to do it. ¡°I¡¯m sorry Chrissy,¡± I say, soon as she heaves a sigh and tries to slide off the bed and into my lap. Not the first time she¡¯s tried in recent days, ever since she saw Elodie do it that first unfortunate day. Denied her chance to cuddle in close, she falls over sideways on the bed like she ready to go back to sleep. ¡°I¡¯m doing something wrong?¡± Chrissy nods, but I can¡¯t ask her what it is, because she already tried to tell me but couldn¡¯t come up with the words, so now we gotta play 20 questions and narrow things down with yes or no answers.


    ¡°Is it the Latin?¡± I¡¯ll be the first to admit I got a terrible accent, but Aunty Ray don¡¯t even use the same Vocal Component. Fact is, she rarely uses any Latin or language at all and prefers to hum a few bars for most her Spells. Not from any particular song, just a few notes that fits the magic, as she would say, though I¡¯ve no earthly idea what that means. It not always the same notes either, so I¡¯m pretty sure Aunty Ray¡¯s just gotten proficient enough with her Spells to eschew Vocal Components through raw familiarity. Said it before and I¡¯ll say it again, but there ain¡¯t nothing magical about the words or finger waggles themselves. Those are just a prop, a key for your mind to keep you from accidentally firing off Spells willy nilly. In theory, if you work hard enough at it, you can sling Spells without Somatic or Vocal components once you familiar enough, though there are plenty of drawbacks to going without.


    The last two World Wars showed us that much. Was a big push to teach soldiers how to sling Bolts and Blasts without Vocal or Somatic Components, because then you could throw them out without warning. Like when you pretend to surrender and throw out a Blast instead, or when you deep in the trenches and come across an enemy you want dead without the noise from a proper Aetherarm. Metamagics put a whole lot more oomph in the Spell and push their projectile speed past the sound barrier, but a base Bolt or Blast don¡¯t move fast enough to make no sonic booms. Problem was, them soldiers that made it back stateside became a liability when they started slinging Bolts every time they was surprised or firing off Blasts when they got steamed up, which made for a real mess on the home front.


    Imagine that, your own government shaping you into a weapon of war, then declaring you a danger to society after the war¡¯s end. Best case scenario was getting clapped in anti-magic manacles and mandatory check-ins, while worst case meant getting thrown into a ¡®home¡¯ that was no different from a prison camp.


    Unfortunately, Chrissy shakes her head no in response to the question, and I realize it was a dumb one to start with. Since words and waggles don¡¯t mean nothing to the magic, then there¡¯s no reason for her to get all worked up about them. Doubt she even notices the Vocal or Somatic Components most of the time, because Lord knows Chrissy rarely uses them. With her, keeping Spells contained or letting them flow is no different from breathing, which is why she¡¯ll sometimes accidentally throw out Commands when she¡¯s feeling particularly emotional, like when the queenie bee died some weeks back before the boots set off for Pleasant Dunes.


    After a few more questions, I stop to consider what I know, and I¡¯m left with only one possibility that doesn¡¯t seem possible. ¡°Am I doing something different from your Mama?¡± A nod, and my heart skips a beat. ¡°Something physical?¡± A pause, then a shake of her head as expected, but I had to ask to be sure. ¡°Something with the magic?¡± Chrissy perks up and nods like a chicken pecking grains, because I¡¯ve finally hit the nail on the head. Aunty Ray is just plain better with the Spell than I am, meaning she¡¯s able to squeeze more out the Spell than I can even though we using the same Structure and flows. Which is only to be expected, given all her hard work and natural talent, but the real surprise is how Chrissy can tell that I¡¯m not doing the same things. I didn¡¯t think that was even possible, to perceive the flows of Aether while the Spell Structure is still Priming and know that I¡¯m not doing whatever it is Aunty Ray does to make her version of Mental Fortress better than the default option.


    And yet it clearly is possible, because Chrissy can tell I¡¯m doing something wrong. That¡¯s all she can convey though, because it¡¯s difficult to explain how one finagles the flows of Aether to better do your bidding, and I¡¯m not sure Chrissy even understands it herself. Like I said, she does it as naturally as breathing, so she doesn¡¯t understand why everyone doesn''t do it too. More impressive is how she can recognize the flows to a Spell she herself doesn¡¯t know, since Mental Fortress don¡¯t come naturally from either of the bloodlines she inherited. Uncle Raleigh was an Enchanter, pure and simple, and while Aunty Ray is no slouch in that particular school of Magic, her bloodline leans more towards Illusion than anything else. As for Mental Fortress, that¡¯s an Abjuration Spell Aunty Ray learned the old-fashioned way, because no one knows the dangers of Enchantments better than a natural born Enchanter.


    Maybe that¡¯s why Chrissy understands the Spell so well though. Mental Fortress was tailor made by a Proggie to defend against Enchantments, so it stands to reason an Enchanter would understand how it works best, and Chrissy takes after her daddy in more than colouring. A natural born Enchanter she is, while Tina favours Illusion more much like her mama, but truth is they both go it in them to be top-tier talents in either school like their Mama, who¡¯s so good at Enchantment they gave her the callsign Siren.


    As for me? Enchantment is my worst School of Magic, followed by Illusion, with Abjuration coming in as a close third. While talent don¡¯t mean much in the long run, there¡¯s no arguing the facts that I¡¯m ill-suited for the Mental Fortress Spell, what with it being linked with two of my worst schools. That said, my ineptitude only affects how well I can finagle the Spell. I can still cast it at base values, but I suppose Chrissy needs more protection than most due to her high Aetheric Sensitivity. A concept I still don¡¯t entirely understand, nor have I found anyone who can explain it. Stronger Spellslingers tend to have higher Aetheric Sensitivity, but it¡¯s not a given, while low Aetheric Sensitivity doesn¡¯t mean you¡¯re no good at slinging Spells. Now though, now I¡¯m thinking it might have something to do with how well one is able to perceive them Aetheric Flows, with Chrissy here being so sensitive she can feel the flows through other people.


    All of which takes some doing to confirm through yes or no questions. Far as I can glean, she¡¯s always been able to perceive flows this way, and she doesn¡¯t understand why I can¡¯t do the same, because if I could, then I¡¯d obviously see what was wrong and fix it. It¡¯s an obvious and simple thing, like if there was an open door sitting in plain sight, but I keep leaving through the window instead. Wrong, like she says, and she don¡¯t know how to explain what¡¯s right, because it¡¯d be like explaining why up is up instead of left, or why down isn¡¯t backwards. Try as I might to sense the flows whenever she stops me, I¡¯ve no idea what it is that I¡¯m doing wrong, not even after a good few minutes of aborted attempts.


    ¡°Wrong,¡± Chrissy says, sounding so small and frustrated over not being understood, and it breaks my heart to disappoint her so. Fact that I¡¯ve no idea how to manipulate the flows to a Spell I just learned yesterday and cast the one time ain¡¯t helping matters much. I¡¯ve barely got an idea of how they¡¯re supposed to look, so how am I supposed to know how to change what I barely understand? The mute leading the blind, that¡¯s what¡¯s happening here, and we¡¯re still trying to figure out how to get it done right when Aunty Ray drops in to see what¡¯s taking us so long.


    Rather than tackle the issue head on like I would, Aunty Ray tries to solve our problem in a roundabout way. ¡°How about this then?¡± She say, taking a seat on the bed and stroking Chrissy¡¯s hair while giving me a consoling look. ¡°Why don¡¯t we switch things up. I¡¯ll cast the Spell on Chrissy, and Howie can cast the Spell on me. Then we¡¯ll keep doing what we been doing and meet up every two hours at the church. Sound good?¡±


    Which is inconvenient for Aunty Ray, because she¡¯s got things to do and places to be. Me and Chrissy, not so much, but while I don¡¯t see no other option, Chrissy sits up to study her mama¡¯s expression. ¡°Howie cast on Mama?¡± she asks, which is a rare bit of articulation. ¡°Mama needs Spell?¡± Blinking tears out of her eyes, Chrissy reaches up and touches her mama¡¯s face, who¡¯s all smiles until her daughter¡¯s fingers brush up against her cheek. ¡°Hurts?¡±


    ¡°Just a little, Princess,¡± Aunty Ray replies, nuzzling Chrissy¡¯s hand and leaning in to touch their foreheads together. ¡°It¡¯s okay though. Howie knows the Spell now too, and he learns quick, so Mama¡¯s gonna be alright.¡±


    Chrissy frowns, just a slight one that puts a small wrinkle in her brow. Glancing at me, then back at her mama, then back at me again, she wrinkles her nose like when one of the wallies just made a mess of her dress and heaves a little sigh. ¡°Howie,¡± she says, sitting up straight and reaching out to take my hand. ¡°Spell please.¡±


    ¡°No honey, I¡¯ll cast it on you,¡± Aunty Ray says, but Chrissy shakes her head.


    ¡°Howie,¡± she says, holding my hand tight with her jaw set in grim determination. Which is lovely and all, seeing her make this big sacrifice so Aunty Ray can keep the better Mental Fortress for herself, but leaves me feeling lower than a snake¡¯s belly seeing how I¡¯m the option of last resort.


    So I give Aunty Ray a little shrug, then Intone the words of the Spell once more while picturing the flows in my mind¡¯s eye. A hive-like hexagonal structure that wraps around the target¡¯s mind, that¡¯s my perspective of Mental Fortress, but Chrissy sits there with a glower and a pout like I just served up a heaping portion of plain porridge for the tenth day in a row or something. Sure takes the wind out of my sails over learning my second Third Order Spell ever, but Chrissy don¡¯t spare my feelings none as she turns to her mama and says, ¡°Your turn, Mama. Slow please.¡± Then she glances at me to make sure I¡¯m paying attention, and says, ¡°Slow slow.¡±


    This is why I say Chrissy and Tina kept me humble growing up. Me, I¡¯d spend hours and hours over the course of weeks and months to learn something, over for the both of them to pick it up like it was nothing. Can¡¯t help but smile to see it, because if I¡¯m gonna be upstaged, better by my sorta-sisters than anyone else. ¡°Howie,¡± Chrissy says, when she sees me kneeling there with a wry grin on my face. ¡°Watch Mama.¡±


    ¡°Yes ma¡¯am.¡± The humour is lost on Chrissy, but Aunty Ray chortles to hear it before launching into her slow, Spellslinging process. Ain¡¯t much to see as she sits there, hums a few notes with little to no melodic sense to it all, then gives a little flourish to say, ¡®that¡¯s all¡¯. As for Chrissy, she nods in a matter-of-fact fashion before turning to me with a tilt of her head to see if I understand. I don¡¯t, and I ain¡¯t got no shame in admitting as much, which puts another micro-glower across Chrissy¡¯s porcelain features, one I think is just darling to see. Not that I¡¯m aggravating her intentionally or nothing. I¡¯m just happy to see her being so lively and emotive for once, driven by an issue out in the real world instead of just drifting along in between bouts of daydreams lost inside her head.


    Don¡¯t love that it¡¯s the pain of the Mindspire compelling her to act, but it shows that Chrissy is capable of coming out of her shell. All she needs is the right motivation, so that¡¯s something for the rest of us to work on.


    Though Chrissy seems adamant to get me learning right then and there, Aunty Ray coaxes her out of her big mood and gets me started on brushing her hair. To make up for my magical failings, I plait her silver locks in an elegant French braid, which is something I¡¯ve been practicing for weeks now. My Mage Hands start work up top the crown of Chrissy¡¯s head and weave strands of her hair into a long, singular braid while keeping it snug enough to stay together, but not so snug she can¡¯t throw the braid over her shoulder and fiddle with the pink ribbon I use to tie the bottom end off. As an added bonus, I throw a smattering of subtle pink highlights into the mix using Prestidigitation, a trick I picked up from Noora. Get¡¯s Chrissy sitting in front of the mirror to admire my work when I¡¯m done, running her fingers over the interwoven strands of silver hair while staring at it something fierce, like she can see something in the patterns that draws her in.


    Cheers Chrissy right up to see it, because it¡¯s been a while since I¡¯ve done more than a plain ponytail. Ain¡¯t enough to make up for my lacking Mental Fortress, but it puts a little bounce in her step as we head off for breakfast. Soon as we¡¯re done eating our biscuits, gravy, and sausages though, she grabs my arm, pulls me aside, and says, ¡°Howie. Spell please.¡±


    ¡°You want me to cast Mental Fortress again?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Tilting her head, Chrissy then says, ¡°Show.¡±


    Which is enough for me to piece together what it is she wants. ¡°You want me to start casting the Spell, then stop before it goes off?¡±


    ¡°Yes please.¡±


    So I go ahead, moving through the flows as slowly as possible and waiting for Chrissy to tell me what¡¯s wrong. I stretch the Spell out long as I can, visualizing the Structure in my mind¡¯s eye as a mass of moving lights working together to create this intricate framework of trails arranged in all manner of various shapes, a complex network of moving parts that form something greater than the whole of it would suggest. The trails are static, the pathways set, but the flows themselves twist, turn, and tumble while moving through the structure itself, and it is here where most of my attention lays while waiting a word, a motion, any indication from Chrissy regarding what to watch for.


    Only for me to reach the end of the Structure and have to let go of the flows before they take form in the physical world and waste a whole third of what I got in the tank. Cutting the Spell short with a focused effort of will, I meet Chrissy¡¯s guileless eyes with a quizzical look, one raised brow to ask if she got any notes. She don¡¯t pay it no mind though, just sits there with her eyes locked on mine while seeing nothing of anything before her. Her thoughts are adrift in the magic, her focus turned inwards to what only she can see, so I stand there in awkward silence unsure what to do next. Leave her to her thoughts, or ask if she can explain what¡¯s happening here? I thought she wanted to teach me how to sling the Spell better, so it seems a little strange for her to drift off like this.


    Less than a minute later, Chrissy furrows her brow in thought, then blinks and comes back to reality. Needs a moment to figure out where she is, but she gets right back on track soon enough. ¡°Howie,¡± she says, in the same cadence and intonation as before. ¡°Spell please.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡± After going through the motions a few more times without any change, it finally occurs to me that this practice might not be for me. From there, it only takes a couple questions and a few short leaps of logic to figure out what¡¯s going on. ¡°Chrissy,¡± I ask, keeping my voice low and tone neutral even though I¡¯m both excited and incredulous. ¡°Are you trying to learn the Spell from watching me drive the flows?¡±


    She takes a beat to consider the question, and even longer before she responds. ¡°Yes.¡±


    Which is to say she¡¯s trying to learn the Spell the way an Intuitive would. That¡¯s all sorts of amazing, because I didn¡¯t know she could do that. Still don¡¯t if I¡¯m being honest, because no matter how many different ways I word the question, I can¡¯t get her to tell me if she¡¯s ever learned a Spell in this manner before. I¡¯m thinking it¡¯s because she doesn¡¯t know the answer either, because regardless of whether it happens Innately or Intuitively, new Spell Structures just sorta pop into her head, so who¡¯s to say if it came from her bloodline or from her own Intuition? Chrissy ain¡¯t ever learned a Spell the Orthodox way, not with the math and numbers at least. We all helped her form Cantrip Spell Structures by showing her the flows one step at a time, but that only works with Cantrips because they¡¯re three-dimensional constructs. Complicated ones with plenty of moving parts, but still three-dimensional in the end, meaning you can go at your own pace without any concern for the passage of time changing all the variables in the mix.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    That¡¯s the whole idea of Cantrips after all. Spell Structures that work independent of the great big universal metronome in the sky, the drumbeat to which the metaphysical world marches and the heartbeat of all magic in the universe. That¡¯s what we need all the math for, to set up the right timing for every twist and turn of the Aetheric flows, because only then can they bring forth the Magic those Structures entail. Not so with Cantrips. So long as you got the physical aspects of the Structure down pat, then the Cantrip will take form, simple as that, and while most learn through mathematics, there¡¯s no reason you can¡¯t learn the Cantrip Structures with visual aids.


    Like using the Silent Image Spell, or Minor Illusion if you know the trick of turning still images into moving ones. That¡¯s how Chrissy learned all her Cantrips, but I guess now she¡¯s trying something different with a Third Order Spell, by not just visualizing the flow, but sensing the timings in a pattern so long and complicated a 3-D model of the Structure would take months to put together, if not years. That¡¯s without accounting for all the minute changes in the Spell Structure that take place with each passing second, all so subtle and profound we hardly even notice them, but that don¡¯t mean those changes ain¡¯t there. We navigate those imperceptible changes using math to predict how the Structure should flow as we build it out in our mind¡¯s eye, a feat made possible because everything is a number. That¡¯s what Pythagoras said at least, and Galileo went on to say that the book of nature is written in the language of mathematics, and sensational as magic might be, it can also be described as science we have yet to wholly comprehend.


    Which makes sense to me, or as much sense as magic can make at least. What Chrissy is trying here though? Or what Errol does without appreciating the grandeur of it all? Picking up Spell Structures through informational osmosis like some sort of Aether sponge, that¡¯s some real magic there, and I envy him for his ability. Chrissy too if she¡¯s got it, though I¡¯m also happy for her, because it means she¡¯s got even more talent than any of us thought before. Assuming she¡¯s actually capable of Intuitively learning Spells, which ain¡¯t certain just yet, though I am a little miffed she thinks learning the Spell herself is easier than teaching me how to do it right.


    ¡°You know Chrissy,¡± I say, after praising her to high Heaven about her Intuitive ways. ¡°A lot of people think I¡¯m real smart and talented when it comes to magic.¡±


    My wry statement is lost on Chrissy as she pats me on the head, as if to say ¡®good for you¡¯ without really putting much heart into it. ¡°Spell please,¡± she says, in the same monotone intonation as usual, and I¡¯ve no choice but to oblige the Princess as I go about my day.


    Getting the chores done back at the house is a must, and Chrissy tags along to say hi to the animals and give them all the love and attention they so desperately crave. Not from me of course, because I¡¯m just the guy who makes sure they got food and water and a warm dry place to sleep. Least Cowie is still sweet as honey, trotting over for a good hug and a scritch, while his lady cows Dumpling, Momo, and Samosa all crowd in around Chrissy for their fair share of attention. The horses are getting used to the Mindspire¡¯s Dissonant Whistle, but if not for Old Tux, Sunshine and Winnie would stay cooped up in the barn all day instead of following him out for a trot. Ivory and Fifi are out with Tina, so here¡¯s hoping they enjoyed their time away from the Mindspire, but seeing how it¡¯s been a while since I brung them out, I fit Sunshine and Winnie with bridles so we can take a ride out into town.


    No saddles, if only to reassure Cowie I ain¡¯t gonna go far, but he is not a trusting bull. Ain¡¯t no keeping him in the barn neither, not if he really wants out, so might as well save me the work of patching up the door and bring him with us to the Sherrif¡¯s office after a stop at Anita¡¯s for some snacks. Figure it¡¯s time to let the law know about my run-in with the Mafia, the parts I care to share at least. Judging by Uncle Teddy¡¯s lacking response to Carter¡¯s predicament though, I¡¯m guessing Sherrif Patel won¡¯t be raring to take on the Mafia, which is honestly kind of disappointing. I get that crime can never be completely eliminated, and better the devil you know, but it really grinds my gears to watch good, hardworking folks get taken advantage of just because they want to live their lives in peace. I can¡¯t really blame Carter for giving in to the Mafia¡¯s demands and not wanting the law mixed up in all this, because there¡¯s no real way for the law to guarantee his safety, or more importantly, the safety of his family and community. As for Uncle Teddy, the Rangers can¡¯t act in matters of domestic law without a request from the Sheriff¡¯s Office, and Sherrif Patel can¡¯t open up an investigation without a crime being reported, which Carter expressly asked me not to. It¡¯s all very circular, in that no one can or wants to do anything about it, because soon as someone steps out of line, some thug like Joseph or Michael shows ups to set you straight.


    Hate to admit it, but even I¡¯m feeling a bit leery of going too far with the Mafia after my talk with Uncle Teddy. A straight up fight? I¡¯ll take that any day of the week, but you can¡¯t guard against all comers every minute of every day for weeks without end. They ain¡¯t all gonna come at me out in the open the way short-stack and his buddies did either, fully dressed for the part and obvious as all heck. What happens when they send some poor schlub who¡¯s in deep with the mob and got no choice but to take a run at me to clear his debts? Or worse, a professional hitter who blends in with the crowd and takes me out before I even clock their existence? How many strangers do I walk past each day? Dozens at the very least, and I can¡¯t stay guarded against them all, not here in New Hope. Not even out in a homestead really, so there¡¯s no winning, not when they won¡¯t fight you fair and square.


    Which makes me glad I covered up my killing of Joseph and his buddies, and all the more appreciative of Carter¡¯s willingness to keep my secret. With how cut and dry my conversation with the short-stack went yesterday, it seems like the Mafia don¡¯t care much about Joseph, not really. They just want to be sure there ain¡¯t no one taking out mobsters, because like Uncle Teddy said, they can¡¯t let a death go unanswered. Would make them look weak, which you can¡¯t have when you rule by fear.


    So here¡¯s hoping the Mafia buys my story about staying over at Carter¡¯s, but I¡¯ll still feel better if the Sherrif knows about the encounter too. That way, it don¡¯t come as a complete surprise if I happen to gun down a few mafiosos in town one day soon, only a rude and unpleasant one.


    Striding into the Sherrif¡¯s Office, I¡¯m greeted by the familiar sight of the security desk, manned by none other than the cowardly Deputy Walt seated behind the tinted security glass. The burly fella¡¯s eyes go wide to see me, but he recovers right quick and scowls instead. ¡°What you want?¡± he asks, feeling safe and sound behind the Bolt proof barrier since the only way in is through the locked gate to the right.


    ¡°A good morning to you too, Deputy Walt,¡± I say, stepping up to the wooden counter and resting my arms up top. Got me an urge to try and reach through the slot to spook him a bit, but that¡¯s just an intrusive thought. ¡°Was hopin¡¯ to get a word with the Sherrif if he¡¯s in.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s busy.¡±


    That¡¯s all Deputy Walt says while glaring at me to get gone, but I ain¡¯t so easy to get rid of. ¡°But he¡¯s in, right? Any idea when he¡¯ll be free?¡± I ask, doing what I can to squint and see past the Deputy into the bullpen behind him. That¡¯s where they got all their desks to do their paperwork, while the armoury is off to the right, sharing a wall with the morgue next door. Way at the back is where the jail cells sit, though I can¡¯t see much of anything through the double thick panes of Aberrtin reinforced glass, which I suppose is the point of all of it then.


    Well, that and to stop folks from coming in and shooting the place up for whatever reason.


    ¡°Ain¡¯t a personal visit,¡± I add, seeing how Deputy Walt was about to tell me to pound sand. ¡°I seen something in town he gonna want to hear about.¡±


    ¡°Takes as long as it takes,¡± Deputy Walt replies with a huff, looking all smug and self-satisfied now that he can get one over on me.


    ¡°Well, I got time,¡± I say, striding off to take a seat at the side. Ain¡¯t got nowhere to be since Chrissy is happy studying Magic beside me while Noora and Josie got classes at the school. As for Tina, the earliest she¡¯ll be back is late afternoon, because even though it¡¯s 3-day trip to Summerbloom by wagon, it¡¯s only 2 days by horse meaning the boots should be back before the gates close tonight. That¡¯s assuming no wagons broke down and they didn¡¯t run into trouble neither, though if something had happened out on the road, I presume we would¡¯ve heard about it already.


    Walt don¡¯t look none too happy to have me sitting in wait, but I pay him no mind and flip through Astrid¡¯s notebook for lack of anything better to read while Chrissy cuddles Cowie and pokes me every now and then to say she wants to see the flows once more. Not the most relaxed reading environment I¡¯ve ever had, but the ambiance more than makes up for it every time some townie comes in with a complaint. A farmer claiming his neighbours have intruded on his grazing lands, a storeowner in to file a report about petty theft, a lady with a complaint about the public health hazard that is the pub/diner. These are the sorts that file in over the next hour or so, without hide nor hair of Sherrif Patel to be seen, but to be fair, if I were him, I¡¯d steer clear of all this too. I get that it¡¯s all part of the job and all, but they all seem like non-issues really. There more grass out there than we got animals to graze it, while petty theft is hardly worth the effort to prosecute, and if you got issues with how the pub/diner handles their food, then don¡¯t eat there.


    Simple is as simple does, though I suppose my way of thinking won¡¯t ever win me no elections.


    This the first time I¡¯ve gone through Astrid¡¯s notes, as I been too busy with Mental Fortress. For the first little bit, it¡¯s mostly questions and thoughts regarding the Mage Hand Cantrip, as well as frustrations regarding how my mama¡¯s trick worked. As I get past the initial growing pains though, I see that Astrid got a good head on her shoulders and understands how to get at the root of the issue. Asks a lot of insightful questions too, like, ¡°Why can¡¯t Mage Hand be upcasted?¡±, or, ¡°How do they move at a fixed speed without any acceleration or deceleration?¡±. My answer would be, ¡°Because it¡¯s magic,¡±, but then again, I never really gave it all that much thought.


    Now though? Now she got me wondering the same thing. Why can¡¯t I upcast Mage Hand to make it stronger and more durable? Take Bolt for example. I don¡¯t have a First Order Bolt Spell Structure memorized, but I can upcast the Bolt Cantrip at First Order to hit just as hard. Or Blast, a First Order Spell I cast at Third Order to make sure I put them harpies down all those weeks back when Errol ran headlong into the fray without thinking about the consequences. Upcasting is rarely worth it from an efficiency standpoint, as a proper Third Order Spell typically does the job better than an upcasted one, but sometimes, you gotta work with what you have.


    All food for thought, and Astrid¡¯s notes provide few answers, only more questions to pore through and perspectives to consider. While I¡¯m studying away, I keep an eye on Chrissy¡¯s mood to make sure she¡¯s not suffering too much from the Mindspire. I¡¯ve long since stopped keeping track of the various ways in which the Proggie of the Lake tries to mess with our heads, because they all pale in comparison to the constant Dissonant Whistle which varies in pitch and frequency just enough to keep you from ever tuning it out. When Chrissy¡¯s head dips low and finds its way to my shoulder after an hour of sitting around, I figure it¡¯s time to head back to the church, so I do what I can to coax her to her feet and wave at Walt, saying, ¡°Let the Sherrif know I came by? It¡¯s important.¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± Deputy Walt says, with a sly look about him that says I¡¯ll probably have to come back later. Petty man, Walt is, still sour about Juan¡¯s death and how I recorded the whole thing, like the video of his racist rant is what paints him in a bad light, and not the rant itself.


    Silly that, but Carter might be right about how I need to pick my fights, so I leave Walt be. Chrissy takes some coaxing to get out of her chair, mostly because she¡¯s still carrying Cowie and neither one wants to move. While I¡¯m doing that though, the front door opens with a chime and a couple men in town guard uniforms walk in, all grey polo shirts and khaki pants with skinny red ties that I hate and ugly baseball caps to top it all off. ¡°Prisoner transport,¡± the lead guy says, in a voice that sounds strangely familiar.


    ¡°I don¡¯t got no transfer on the schedule,¡± Walt says, shuffling around some things on what sounds like a real mess of a desk.


    ¡°Well I got the paperwork right here. One Jeremy Fulton, nickname Tank.¡± Takes a moment for the name to sink in, but when it do, the realization hits like a truck. Tank is Sasquatch, the Vanguard National biker I done shot in the leg after he accidentally shot Sarah Jay in the knee. Funny thing about that is getting arrested might well have saved his life, else Tank would¡¯ve probably been part of the crowd I done hit with Fireball, gotten blown up in the bunker, or shot dead on my way up to see Ron. Never bothered following up on what happened with Sasquatch, but I always assumed he would¡¯ve been charged and sentenced in a court of law by now, not sitting around in a jail cell for the better part of seven weeks.


    Glancing up at Walt, I open my mouth to ask why it took so long to process Tank, only for the words to get caught in my throat as I lock eyes with the guard. Man wasn¡¯t looking at me exactly, just throwing a casual glance around, but the second our eyes meet, we both freeze up, because we recognize one another all too well. It¡¯s the mini mafioso with the square jaw, looking all spic and span in his fresh guard uniform and clean-shaven chin while carrying a clipboard under his arm. Seems just as surprised to see me as I am to see him, and we stand there staring at one another without a clue on how to proceed, until I glance away and keep my hand clear of my gun without turning to show I ain¡¯t looking to jam them up. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the mini mafioso deflate just a bit, and for a moment, all is well in New Hope and ain¡¯t no one gonna get shot.


    Right up until the mini mafioso¡¯s buddy senses something up with his leader and turns to give me a gander too. The man¡¯s eyes go wide as his hand goes for his sidearm, and time stops as I¡¯m forced to decide. Do I take my chances and hope he don¡¯t shoot me outright, or do I respond in kind?


    Ain¡¯t much of a question really, the answer already given as my Rattlesnake clears the holster and spits hot death at the offending gangster. The Bolt hits centre mass, and the Toppling Metamagic sends his corpse hurtling into his two buddies behind him. All of them are armed, and with Chrissy behind me, I take no chances, but I can¡¯t just fire willy nilly into the crowd. Nor can I risk watching and waiting for them gangsters to act, so I fall back on my tried-and-true intuition. My jimmies are a-jangling as I trust my gut and pick my targets, letting my Portent do all the heavy lifting as I fire two more Bolts on pure instinct. A second mafioso goes down hard with a grunt, then a third takes a shot to the chest and joins the first alongside the far wall. From there, my training and experience kicks in as I squeeze off a fourth shot at the thug standing just behind the mini-mafioso. Obscured by his boss, I clip the final flunky in the shoulder who spins dramatically in place, only to stumble into clear view as I take aim and squeeze off a fifth shot that takes him in the head.


    Two seconds tops. That¡¯s all it takes, and now four men are dead or dying while their leader, the mini-mafioso stands untouched and utterly still. Man saw this coming from a mile away and didn¡¯t even try to stop his friends or go for his own weapon because he knew he was beat. Instead, he slowly raises both arms as his dark, beady eyes fill with rage and the promise of violence for spoiling his plans by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. ¡°Youse gonna pay for this kid,¡± the mini mafioso says, sounding as threatening as a man can with his hands in the air. ¡°You messed with the wrong people, you hear? You¡¯re dead. Done for. You, the girl behind you, your little cow there. All dead.¡±


    I don¡¯t say a word, just narrow my eyes and keep my gun trained on him while my Mage Hands disarm him. Not because I¡¯m the tough and silent type. Truth is, I¡¯m still reeling from the encounter and processing it all after the fact, realizing that I done shot four men dead only after they went for their sidearms. Only had to beat the first one to the draw, as I already had my weapon in hand when the other three went for their guns, but it was still some impressive shooting if I don¡¯t say so myself. More to the point, I realize how bad it could¡¯ve been if I¡¯d¡¯ve missed, because in addition to the standard guard sidearm, the mini-mafioso has three more guns and a half dozen knives concealed about his person.


    I miss one shot, flub one kill, and then I¡¯m stuck in a shoot out in a closed room with Chrissy and Cowie behind me and our only way out on the other side of a group of armed thugs. A terrible fight to take, but my hand was forced, so all I can do is thank my rustling jimmies for giving me the edge I needed to hit all my shots without fail.


    As the last knife hits the floor and slides off into the corner, Deputy Walt finally finds his nerve and peeks up over the counter, his knuckles pure white and eyes opened up wide. ¡°You¡¯re crazy,¡± he says, shaking like a leaf with no care at all to draw his weapon, which is good because it''s much easier for him to shoot me through that slot than it would be for me to shoot him. Not that I¡¯d want to, and doubly so considering I got Chrissy and Cowie stuck in here with me and only one round in the chamber, so I thank the Lord for small mercies and cowardly deputies. ¡°You just gunned down four guards in broad daylight!¡±


    ¡°They ain¡¯t guards,¡± I say, really hoping that¡¯s true, because I didn¡¯t get that great of a look at the four men I just mowed down. ¡°Mobsters.¡± Gesturing at short and square, I explain, ¡°This one came at me yesterday afternoon, asking about a run in I had with another mafioso last Friday. That¡¯s what I came in to talk to the Sherrif about,¡± I add, giving the mini mafioso a small tilt of my head to apologize for the awkward circumstances. If the man had business in town, then he shouldn¡¯t have approached me like that, because that¡¯s just sloppy work. He sees it too now, but he don¡¯t blame himself. Doesn¡¯t entirely blame me neither, as I can sense that most of his anger is directed elsewhere, because he doesn¡¯t bother threatening me again.


    Chrissy¡¯s slender finger pokes me in the small of my back, but I pay her no mind. A second poke comes almost immediately, then a third before she opens her mouth to speak. ¡°Howie. Spell please.¡±


    ¡°Not now Princess,¡± I say, still with my gun trained on the mafioso while waiting on some other deputy to unlock the gate into the waiting room. ¡°Little busy. Gonna need a couple minutes okay?¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡± Completely unaware of the danger around her, Chrissy takes a seat with Cowie and starts humming a merry tune, and keeps humming while I explain what happened to the Deputy, and again to the Sherrif soon after. Thankfully, no one tries to shoot me, which is a nice change for once. Still gotta hand over my weapons like I¡¯m a criminal, but this time I get it. Luckily, my little shootout was caught on Recording and none of them are actual guards, while my recording of yesterday¡¯s little chat with the mobsters in question is enough to clear my name.


    The Sherrif still makes me sit down in an interrogation room to sweat me a bit too, long enough so that Aunty Ray has to come pick Chrissy up. As for me, Sherrif Patel rolls out the red carpet and makes me tell the story three different ways and ekes out every detail he can about my meeting with Michael at Carter¡¯s. When all is said and done some three hours later, he still don¡¯t look none too pleased as he sits across the table from me, joined by the Marshal who looks serious as the grave. ¡°So,¡± the Marshal begins, shuffling a few papers in front of him before folding his hands over the desk. ¡°Our friend in the other room is one Sandro ¡®the Jaw¡¯ Bonelli, enforcer and button man for the Pugliano family.¡±


    ¡°The Jaw?¡± I chuckle. ¡°Michael had an Innate with him named Cold Cuts.¡± Shouldn¡¯t have mentioned that, but too late now. ¡°Who comes up with these terrible nicknames? They¡¯re worse than Ranger callsigns.¡±


    ¡°Terrible nicknames not withstanding,¡± the Marshal says, fighting to hold back a smile, ¡°He¡¯s another made man in the Pugliano Family, so it¡¯s good thing you didn¡¯t kill him. The others are all affiliates, thugs with records but no outstanding warrants.¡± Shame. Means I won¡¯t be getting paid for all the trouble I¡¯ve gotten myself into, but in my defense, this is really Sandro¡¯s fault, not mine. ¡°The Mafia won¡¯t pay much mind to their deaths,¡± the Marshal continues, ¡°But you have gone and ruined their plans. Seems the Pugliano Family wanted to break Jeremy Fulton out of custody, and you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.¡±


    ¡°What they want Sasquatch for?¡± I ask. ¡°And why hasn¡¯t he been processed yet? Man shot a boot, so I figured him for a work camp by now, instead of sittin¡¯ pretty doin¡¯ nothin¡¯ and gettin¡¯ three squares a day for it.¡±


    Rather than answer, the Marshal looks to the Sherrif, who¡¯s sitting with his bare foot up on his chair again. ¡°We make deal with Jeremy,¡± Sherrif Patel says, refusing to call him Tank or Sasquatch, because he¡¯s far too serious a man to use a silly nickname like that. ¡°In return for a commuted sentence, Jeremy has agreed to help Federal Government uncover Vanguard National¡¯s explosive caches to be ¡®safely disposed¡¯ of.¡± Or commandeered more like, which the Sherrif is clearly unhappy about.


    Uncle Teddy don¡¯t like it much either, but he hides it better while wearing his mantle of the Marshal. ¡°We were in the process of putting a team together when the Mindspire went up, and that¡¯s delayed our plans long enough for the Pugliano Family to catch wind of things. Seems they want those explosives for themselves. To use or to reverse engineer, which is why they sent a team out here. If they hadn¡¯t revealed themselves to you yesterday, and you hadn¡¯t come in to report them, they might well have walked right on out of town with Jeremy Fulton in their custody. They had all the proper papers and authorizations, including a permit to get them through the gates even in the event of a lockdown.¡±


    Meaning the town guards, the Sherrif¡¯s Office, and maybe even the Rangers are compromised, because you can¡¯t just forge papers and permits like that willy nilly. ¡°Least now y¡¯all can clean house,¡± I say, and neither man looks happy at that, because don¡¯t no one like being told there¡¯s a rat infestation afoot. ¡°So what now then?¡±


    ¡°You are free to go,¡± the Sherrif says, waving me off like he trying to shoo a chitter rat out the door. ¡°Clean kills, all shot after they drew their weapons. Very impressive, but very risky Howie. Very risky. I know I tell you to follow the law, but first Bolt sets the precedent, so commit or keep your weapon holstered.¡±


    ¡°Wasn¡¯t sure if they was all gangsters,¡± I admit. ¡°Only really remembered the one face, so I was worried they might¡¯ve had a hostage or something.¡±


    Earns me a proud nod from the Marshal, because he got high standards that go beyond ¡®justified¡¯, and I done met them here today. The Sherrif though, he looks at me like I¡¯m a fool, then heaves a sigh and glance over towards the other room. ¡°This is not over, Howie. Sandro in there is telling his lawyer everything that happened, and the Mafia will seek retribution.¡±


    Uncle Teddy¡¯s gaze is also concerned, but there¡¯s plenty of pride in there too. ¡°You¡¯ll have to stay in town and lie low for a bit,¡± he says. ¡°Give us time to sort things out with the Pugliano¡¯s. We will not take Sandro¡¯s threats lightly, but I¡¯ll reach out and let them know in no uncertain terms what the consequences will be if they escalate the matter any further. They won¡¯t risk all out war so long as the official story does not cause the Pugliano Family to lose face, so chances are they won¡¯t retaliate once we let them know the price they¡¯ll have to pay.¡±


    ¡°And if they come at me regardless?¡± I ask, my stomach sinking at the thought of Chrissy, Tina, Aunty Ray, or Cowie getting hurt because of me. I hate having to sit on my heels like this, because my gut is telling me things are already too far gone and it¡¯s time to go to war, to strike first and get the Mafia bleeding before that lawyer there has time to send word back to Mount Rimepeak. Fat chance of that happening though, which means the ball¡¯s in their court again, but them¡¯s the breaks when you playing the part of law-abiding citizen.


    ¡°Then we¡¯ll be ready and waiting,¡± Uncle Teddy says, letting the mantle slip just a bit as his slate grey eyes go cold and hard, reminding me that I ain¡¯t the only one he thinks of as family. Aunty Ray, Chrissy, and Tina are all family to him too, so the Pugly-Annies got another thing coming to them if they think my family is easy game. Which is the bright side of paying taxes and obeying the law I suppose, knowing the Rangers got my back. Still don¡¯t keep me from wishing I¡¯d left a note with Walt or something, or better yet, just gave him the crystal and told him the Sherrif would want to see it right quick. Even if it means Sasquatch getting sprung by the Mafia, that¡¯s better than the passive situation I got myself stuck in here.


    Don¡¯t get me wrong. I ain¡¯t scared of the Mafia. If they come at me hard, then they best be prepared to bleed, but what I don¡¯t like is the fact that I gotta sit here and wait, as that exposes my people to danger. Better to go at them on their home turf and make them bleed there, but they got their hands in too many pockets for the Rangers to go whole hog on them without cause. A backwards way of upholding the law, only enforcing them when it¡¯s convenient and profitable to do so, but seeing how everyone says this is how it¡¯s gotta be, I suppose there ain¡¯t no other way to go about it.


    Guess there ain¡¯t nothing to do now besides hope for the best and prepare for the worst, a job my daddy trained me to do right.

 Book Two - Chapter 81

    Mikey hated going to church.


    Bunch of fucking hypocrites is what they were, churchy types that is. Always judging him for who he was and what he¡¯d done, acting all holier than thou like they were better than him just because they got down on their knees to pray once a week. Thing is, when shit went wrong and they needed a hand, who did they reach out to? The Family, that¡¯s who. A loan to keep the bank off their backs, a favour to get them out of prison time, protection from the gypsies, ragheads, mongos, and all them other foreign heavies running security for the caravans stopping in every other week. Whenever the locals had troubles, they didn¡¯t go praying for help. No, they came to the Family to sort their issues out, because the Family got shit done.


    Even the clergy themselves weren¡¯t above coming to the Family for help. When them rivalling rabbis got themselves a stained-glass window and the Church wanted to keep up appearances, who did they turn to? How about that time they found out Father Haversham liked the kids a little too much and the Church wanted to handle things in-house? Then of course there was that nasty bit of business with Sister Jolana¡¯s pilgrimage and those burrheads who snatched her up right off the Highway. Sheriff and Rangers didn¡¯t do shit, said there wasn¡¯t enough evidence to condemn those animals, so the Church came to the Family, and the Family sorted those Umber savages right out.


    Nasty business that, stringing folks up and gutting them while they still breathing, but Don Pugliano believed in all that bible thumping nonsense. He didn¡¯t want no one touching the Church¡¯s people around these parts, and what the Don wants, the Don gets.


    Those sorts of results were just one of many reasons why folks turned a blind eye to the Family¡¯s business, and the Church even let them hold their meetings here in the Basilica of Mount Rime. A fucking gilded castle is what it was, a massive stone building with tall towers, wide windows, and a big dome of an atrium where they held Sunday Mass. Bleak and depressing is what it was, with all them candlelit marble statues of Jesus on the cross and Saints suffering in all sorts of different ways. Had them an artist on payroll whose job was just to churn out statues¡¯ day after day, of people bleeding from the head or arrows sticking out of their guts, a real nutjob if there ever was one. Once finished, his statues were then hoisted up onto the walls to fill one of the vacant spots they¡¯d built into the Basilica from day one, a niche all dressed up in marble columns and gilded fittings.


    Now there was a real grift, selling salvation of the soul for a weekly donation, except the only way to find out if it was money well spent is to eat a Bolt first. Wasn¡¯t no coming back from that, so won¡¯t be no one asking for no refunds, now was there?


    Much as he hated the Church and all it stood for, Mikey still had to play the part of a good Catholic, because that¡¯s how it was in the Family. If the Don wants you in Church every Sunday, then you show up for Church, and while Mikey didn¡¯t much like having to make that weekly donation, he wasn¡¯t stupid enough to short on it either. Or worse, take from the collections, because that was worse than stealing from the Don¡¯s own pocket. Least that¡¯s how the big guy saw it, so that¡¯s how it was, but at least today, he wouldn¡¯t be expected to make no donation, since this wasn¡¯t no Sunday Mass. Just a Family meeting, one he''d been told not to miss, so he made sure to show up at the courtyard entrance good and early, a full five minutes before 6 p.m. Didn¡¯t want to show up too early and get in the way, while being fashionably on time might make the Don think Mikey didn¡¯t take the warning serious enough. He took it serious, that¡¯s for sure, because these meetings weren¡¯t for everybody. Usually just the Capos, while made men like Mikey served as security at best. This time though, even Franky, the Don¡¯s own cousin and Consiglieri, was stuck greeting guests at the door, with a big fake smile and a cigar between his lips.


    ¡°Buono Serra, Mikey,¡± Franky said in the thickest Boston accent Mikey ever heard while pulling him in for that euro hug, kiss-kiss crap. ¡°Good to see you made it on time.¡±


    ¡°Boss says jump, I jump.¡± Giving Bernie and Vito a curtesy nod, Mikey opened up his jacket to show his piece before slowly taking it out with two fingers. Vito took it and tossed it into the open chest, one which had plenty of hardware all stacked up nice and neat. Expensive hardware, nothing like Mikey¡¯s cheapo Bashere 1915. There was an Aerie Falcon in there, a Savannah Jaguar, and even the Don¡¯s Desert Vulture, an Orichalcum plated, 50 calibre, semi-automatic hand cannon that cost more than what Mikey made in five years. All quality, Italian-made Bashere handguns stacked nice and neat on the shelves, while Mikey¡¯s trash 1915 just went into the box as is.


    Truth was, he didn¡¯t blame Vito one bit. With their roles reversed, Mikey would¡¯ve done the same. Embarrassing is what that was.


    ¡°Remember the rules.¡± Cradling Mikey¡¯s head and looking him in the eyes all serious as the grave, Franky said, ¡°No violence. No bloodshed. No hats. You got another weapon, you throw it into the chest now, because if they find something on you, then that¡¯s a long, slow death, you hear?¡± Sticking his bony finger in Mikey¡¯s face, Franky made it clear he wasn¡¯t joking around. ¡°I mean it Mikey. You on thin ice as it is, and I already stuck my neck out for you. Don¡¯t make me look the fool.¡±


    ¡°Okay, I got it,¡± Mikey said, sweating bullets while doing his best to play it cool as he handed over his boot and belt knives. ¡°What¡¯d I do?¡±


    The question earned him a slap to the back of the head. ¡°You¡¯ll find out soon enough,¡± Franky said, waving him on in. ¡°Just keep your mouth shut unless someone addresses you directly.¡±


    On that ominous note, Franky waved him inside, and soon as Mikey stepped through the doors, he felt a weight come off his shoulders and head. Like walking into a breath of fresh air it was, or dropping the mother of all deuces with a lit cig in hand. Refreshing and relaxing, these Consecrated grounds were, shutting out the constant buzz of the Mindspire that the Rangers still couldn¡¯t lock down. Fat lot of good they were, which was why he was glad he didn¡¯t pay no taxes, because if he did, he¡¯d be real steamed over their lack of progress. Wasn¡¯t nothing else to do besides wait though. Even the Don didn¡¯t have enough juice to bring in a certified Warder, not one good enough to do his whole house, and the Church didn¡¯t Consecrate any ground which wasn¡¯t a church, not even for a donation fat enough to choke a moose.


    Mikey¡¯s hat went onto the rack, and he wiped his boots on the mat too just to be sure. After taking a few test steps onto the marble floor to make sure he wasn¡¯t tracking nothing in, he set off into the chapel turned dining room to glad hand the bigwigs in the room. The Don wasn¡¯t in yet, and Franky was out front, so Mikey started with Underboss Gio and his two flunkies, Dom and Matty. Capos the both of them, but there were Capos and then there were Capos, and Dom and Matty were the real deal. They didn¡¯t run the girls, booze, or the docks. They ran the whole fucking mines along with Gio, and the three of them got fat doing it, looking like a trio of calzones with legs while smoking their fancy gold-foil cigars. A real preemo gig that was, one they all earned by being loyal to the Don and sticking it out with him from the start. Smart move, divvying up the mines into three and giving the smallest portion to Gio. Kept him honest, because even though he was the underboss, Dom and Matty controlled 70% of the mines between the two of them and could easily edge him out on the Don¡¯s say so.


    Not for Mikey, who made his bones only some 7 years back after doing 6 for manslaughter. Some drunk spic started talking wise, then wanted to throw hands, so Mikey put the beaner in his place good. Wasn¡¯t his fault the burro fucker couldn¡¯t take a hit and cracked his head open on the bar, but the law didn¡¯t see it that way. Sent him upriver to a lumber camp to serve his time, which is where Mikey met his current Capo Louie P, and the rest, like they say, is history. Back in the camps, Louie P had Mikey¡¯s back all the way, but in the present day, the big man looked damn near ready to serve him up on a platter himself. ¡°What¡¯d I tell you, Mikey?¡± Louie P said, lumbering on over like he wanted to lay a smackdown on Mikey before remembering the rules and fixing his tie instead. ¡°Juice ain¡¯t worth the squeeze, goin¡¯ after homesteaders like that. Ain¡¯t worth the squeeze one bit.¡±


    Funny that, considering how happy Louie P had been not two weeks back when Mikey came back from collections with an extra G. All of which went to line Louie P¡¯s own pockets mind you, except he wasn¡¯t remembering none of that now. Didn¡¯t give Mikey a chance to say nothing either, just gave him a look warning him to keep quiet before throwing a meaty arm around his shoulders and guiding him over to the end of the room. ¡°Whatever the Don says, you just smile and nod, understood?¡± Louie P didn¡¯t wait for no answers, and Mikey didn¡¯t have none, as he kept quiet and let the other man go on. ¡°Don¡¯t whine, don¡¯t complain, don¡¯t try to explain your side, because didn¡¯t nobody ask. If someone does, then you tell them the truth, straight up, no lies, no half-truths, no evasions, nothing. Then and only then do you stand a chance of making it back home alive, and you best thank the Lord and the Don both for their mercy.¡±


    ¡°Got it boss.¡± Now Mikey was really starting to sweat, and he still didn¡¯t know why.


    Couldn¡¯t ask either, because Louie P brought him to the corner of the room and said, ¡°Now stand here, keep your head down, and your mouth shut.¡± Mikey nodded, which was exactly what Louie P was looking for, but he didn¡¯t move off either. Instead, he stood an arm¡¯s length away like he was screening for him in a game of football or something. Gave Mikey time to collect his thoughts and study the crowd as people filtered in over the next half hour. Was a real who¡¯s who of the Mafia, and not just the Puglianos either. All the Family¡¯s heavy hitters were here of course, but there were also several guests he¡¯d never met yet recognized on sight all the same.


    There was Renato ''Revolvers'' Rossi, the Cattaneo Family¡¯s fixer, looking like a snake with arms as he leaned against a column on the other side of the room. Was wearing his shoulder harness, but his four holsters were empty and missing his 4 signature revolvers, Ranger Issue sidearms he took off his kills. A Rattlesnake, an Arbiter, a Longsword, and a 44 Special, choice weapons one and all which Revolvers Rossi bought with blood and used to clean up any mess the Cattaneo Family might need cleaning.


    On the other side of the room was Paolo ¡®Admiral¡¯ Vigliotti, a bullheaded Capo who oversaw the river runners for the Zampano Family. A cold man who carried himself with steely confidence and strict discipline, his back straight and shoulders square as he stood there with a wine glass in hand, acting like he owned the joint when truth was he was more like a fish out of water in hostile territory. Wouldn¡¯t nothing happen to him in this room here, but the Zampanos and the Puglianos had been feuding for the better part of a decade now. The Puglianos had the mines, while the Zampanos had the rivers, so even though they worked closely together to net themselves a nice profit, neither side was happy with the current arrangement.


    Even John Lanzetta was here, the fucking Watchman himself, with a suit that fit like a second skin with how it flowed along every line and angle as he moved through the crowd. Had a mug that gals would call pretty and guys would call fruity, but never to his face, and a big smile pasted over it as he gladhanded everyone in the room like he was at the bottom of the pyramid instead of damn near the top. Had his signature Mithril wristwatch on too, a real work of mechanical art with its sapphire crystal face and diamond studded dials. Precise too, which is what the Watchman valued above all else, or so it was said, since it let him follow Don Manfredi¡¯s orders to a tee, orders which earned him the title of the Mastermind. The Manfredi Family was big out west, but didn¡¯t have much going on round here by the Bulwark, so Mikey wasn¡¯t really sure why the Watchman was in town.


    Wasn¡¯t about to ask either, because questions like that made you look like a rat, and didn¡¯t no one like rats in their house.


    There were a few other Families represented here today, but no one Mikey recognized at a glance, nor did anyone come over to see him. The Watchman gave him a look like he thought about coming over, but Louie P¡¯s presence was clear indication that the Don didn¡¯t want no one talking to Mikey. That wasn¡¯t good, but if they wanted him dead, a chapel was the last place they¡¯d bring him. A murder on Consecrated ground would ¡®profane¡¯ the area and dispel the Abjuration, leaving the clergy with plenty of questions about what happened here, and no way to re-sanctify the grounds without first reconciling their faith. Bunch of bullshit is what that was. The faith bit, not the dispelled Abjuration, but it was enough to keep a priest from re-sanctifying the grounds and a believer like the Don from willingly profaning holy ground. Wouldn¡¯t stop him from having someone drag Mikey out into the courtyard to shoot him, but it was something at least.


    Soon enough, the Don made his appearance, the grand calzone to end them all. Time was Ignazio Pugliano was a hulking bear of a man, a fiery presence to match his prowess on the battlefield. Wasn¡¯t even all that long ago. When Louie P put Mikey¡¯s name up for the books, Iggy was the one who straightened him out. Brought him out to make his bones on a raid against some backwater skinheads looking to muscle in on the Family business. Now there was a fight to remember, bursting into the building where all them Nazis were sleeping and unloading on them with everything the Family had. Bolts and Blasts from their Bashere 1915¡¯s and Black Eagles, with Iggy leading the way like the warrior he was. Wasn¡¯t just muscle either, but brains too, a bonafide Magus whose Spell of choice was a Scorching Beam, a radiant shaft of searing sunlight that shot out of his hands and zigzagged around the room to strike his targets, setting them aflame and turning them into a screaming, burning mess. That was Iggy¡¯s trademark see, how he got the name ¡®Firebrand¡¯ to start with, and it was a sight to behold, one that struck fear into the hearts of every gang and Family still vying for power over the operations in Mount Rime.


    A war the Pugliano Family won soon after a series of gruelling and merciless strikes, ones Mikey played no small part in. Lost a lot of friends and ate no less than a dozen Bolts in those fights, but he was the Snow Show after all, an Abjurer with Elemental Armour in his back pocket to eat up all those shots without batting an eye. Even saved Franky¡¯s life once by diving in front of a double barrelled Blastgun to take the brunt of the shot, a favour that didn¡¯t go unnoticed. The Don gave Mikey his choice of operations to run after the fact, outside of the mines of course, but Mikey was too dumb to pick something safe and boring like running books or girls. No, he wanted to make up for lost time spent hacking at trees, get out and see the Frontier, so he asked to head up outside operations, run the shipments and caravans going out of the mines.


    Only for the Don to start sub-contracting schmucks outside the company to handle shipping not two years later, because the Family earned more that way.


    Which might even be true, but Mikey wasn¡¯t seeing none of that extra cash. While everyone else was earning fat stacks sitting around at home, he was legging it up and down the Highway just to scrape by. Too many Rangers and checkpoints along the road to make bank smuggling like that, and Mikey¡¯s stomach couldn¡¯t handle travelling by boat, so he was shit out of luck there. If he hadn¡¯t run into that Soviet spook Gunin and made a connection with Ron, Mikey might well have been relegated to working as muscle or protection for one of the Capos, a shit gig for a made man who¡¯d been around for as long as he had. Course, the Family didn¡¯t want nothing to do with the drugs Ron pushed, so Mikey had to step outside the lines and sell in markets far from home without using his regular connections, but the Family turned a blind eye so long as they got their cut in a fat fucking envelope every quarter.


    That choice gig was gone now, and Mikey didn¡¯t have no luck making a play for Ron¡¯s suppliers, because he couldn¡¯t get no backing from the Family to do it. It was one thing to smuggle a couple bricks or bags from point A to point B, but the Don didn¡¯t want no one involved in the production side of things. Was leaving a lot of money on the table, but the fat greasy fuck had long since lost his appetite for risk. Too much of the finer things in life to gorge on instead, like the rich meats, aged vinegar, fine cheeses, and expensive wines he brought out for his guests. And only his guests, meaning the wise guys from out of town who got a seat at the table, while the Don¡¯s own people stood around with glasses of the cheap stuff and their thumbs up their asses.


    Gone was the warrior Mikey followed into battle all those years ago, and in his place was a grand poobah of pudge with more rolls than a bakery. Man wheezed coming down the stairs alongside his fat fuck of a son, the heir apparent to it all, Antonio Pugliano. The oldest of Iggy¡¯s brats and the worst off for it, but the favoured son nonetheless. Both were dressed to impress in the finest furs and silks this side of the Divide, with jewels aplenty wherever they could fit them. The Don even had a fat ruby egg nestled into the handle of his cane, one done up in Mithril because why the fuck not? Most telling of all though was the ring on the Don¡¯s pinky finger, one which once held an ugly, mottled red and brown Aberrant Fire Stone so he could sling his trademark Spell at a moment¡¯s notice, and now had a diamond the size of a walnut sitting on that fat sausage of a finger. Was almost grotesque how he flashed his wealth around, but Mikey couldn¡¯t blame the man for it. If you got it, flaunt it, only while Don Ignazio and his choice pals were living it large here in Brightpick, his people were scrambling for whatever crumbs they could get that¡¯d fallen out of his cavernous mouth.


    Wasn¡¯t right is all. Wasn¡¯t right to keep so much for himself and leave nothing for the people who helped get him there.


    And Antonio? Little Lord Fuckwad had all of his daddy¡¯s worst traits and none of his best. Kid was sharp as a cue ball and about the same shade of pasty white. Had a beak so long he could smoke in the rain, and an attitude that was straight cunty. Never worked a day in his sixteen years and expected everyone in the Family to treat him like fucking royalty, and the Don played along because Antonio was his heir apparent. Punk-ass little shit wasn¡¯t even a made man and got himself a seat at the table at Daddy¡¯s left, kicking Underboss Gio down a seat and showing everyone where the future of the Family lay. Wasn¡¯t subtle about it either, cracking wise about cutting in and laughing at his own stupid jokes. Chump that he was, lardass Gio donkey-laughed along, and so did Dom and Matty standing behind him. Four calzones all gathered to one side looking all greased up like hogs at a county fair. Wouldn¡¯t take much to run those four fat piggies down, but much as Mikey would love to share the joke, Louie P wasn¡¯t having none of it, keeping him squirreled away in the corner like the ugly daughter at the debutante ball.


    Heavy breathing was the Don¡¯s way of signalling for silence, that plus a raised glass once everyone important was seated. Man looked like a gorilla in a silk suit, having to turn his whole body to get his arm up front and in the air. Had tits bigger than Franky¡¯s wife, which was really saying something, and you could see the Don struggling to hold his cup up for that long. How far the mighty have fallen, and it was almost enough to bring a tear to Mikey¡¯s eye if it didn¡¯t turn his stomach so much. The Don had a few things to say in his thick Sicilian accent to welcome the guests, but Mikey let it all wash over him as he stood in his corner unnoticed, watching the Don sweat and heave from the sheer exertion of walking a few meters and saying a few words.


    Ron had it right. Discipline and shared profits, that was the key to continued growth and success. The Don got in early here at Mount Rime, bided his time and struck at the opportune moment, but had since squandered everything he¡¯d gained. Wasn¡¯t no money going into the Family, only flowing out into the Don¡¯s pocket. Forget fancy silk suits and expensive jewellery, most associates in the gang were still using cheap 1915¡¯s same as Mikey, while the better, more expensive weapons were mostly decorative like what he saw in the weapons locker earlier.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    This wasn¡¯t the place to get into it though, not in front of outsiders, nor was it Mikey¡¯s place to speak out. Soon as the formalities were all out of the way, the Don sank back into his chair with a meaty thump that had Mikey praying the wood would snap and break. Someone had thought ahead though, likely Franky since that was his job as Consigliere, and the Don was seated in a real sturdy, steel-framed monster of a cushioned throne, one he¡¯d see as ¡®befitting¡¯ his status rather than a necessity given his massive tumour of a lard ass. ¡°As you may-a know,¡± he said, in that soft, almost lyrical way them Sicilians spoke, ¡°We are-a here today to speak on the matter of our joint-a venture, and the set backs encountered in New Hope, yes?¡±


    ¡°Set backs you encountered.¡± The Admiral was a tried and true American, and not one to mince words even in hostile territory. Laid the blame square at the Don¡¯s feet, and you could tell by his deafening breathing that the Don didn¡¯t like that much. Didn¡¯t stop Paolo though, as he sat upright in his chair, spine several inches from the back of his seat and palms laid out flat atop the table. ¡°Am I wrong?¡± he asked, in response to the Don¡¯s heated glare and heavy breathing. ¡°We had everything set up, got you all the papers and passes your people would need to see them free and clear of town, only for them to fumble it off the snap. Four dead not two minutes into the op, just after setting foot inside the Sheriff¡¯s Office, and here we are two weeks later with nothing to show for it.¡±


    ¡°There were¡­ extenuating circumstances.¡± No denial, no rage, just pure, unbridled frustration from the Don in response to the Admiral¡¯s accusations, which meant there really wasn¡¯t anything else the Don could say. More terrifying was how the big man¡¯s eyes darted over to Mikey, but only for a moment. ¡°Sherrif Barone was kind enough to procure us the crystal, so that we might all see what happened, yes?¡± Waving a fat, meaty hand, the Don had Antonio start the show, but Little Lord Fuckwad couldn¡¯t even get that right. After fiddling with the projector disc for all of a minute, Franky stepped in to get the show rolling, only for Antonio to throw a little hissy fit and claim he almost had it, but don¡¯t no one pay him no mind.


    Mostly out of habit, but also because every eye was watching the show, one shot from multiple security cameras in the New Hope Sherrif¡¯s Office. One pointed at the front door, two at the security desk, and the fourth and final one showing the waiting room. Only people on screen was the Deputy at the desk and a couple sitting in the corner, a cowboy and a silver-haired girl in a sundress cuddling a baby calf of all things. Mikey couldn¡¯t help but gasp, and the noise earned him the back of Louie P¡¯s hand across the chest. It was the kid, the fucking Firstborn, standing up and saying something to the Deputy like he was making ready to leave. Crystal didn¡¯t capture no audio though, only video, so they could only guess at what was said. Finished with the conversation, the Firstborn turned to face the girlie who was still sitting with the calf, just as Sando strolled right through the door without so much as batting an eye. Didn¡¯t glance at the cameras or check the exits, didn¡¯t stumble, waffle, or waver, just walked in like it was a regular day on the job as a trusted Civil Guard of New Hope.


    That¡¯s probably why they sent him after all. Nerves of fucking steel. The Firstborn though? He glances over two or three times while Sandro¡¯s talking it out with the Deputy, though about what, Mikey could only guess at. Then Sandro turns his head in a casual glance, and catches sight of the Firstborn looking over their way, and the both of them freeze in obvious recognition. They both take a beat before all hell breaks loose as the kid guns down all four mooks backing Sandro up, quick as a blink. Sandro, he don¡¯t shift a single inch, just stands there and slowly raises his hands, all tense and full of rage that Mikey could only imagine as the Firstborn¡¯s Mage Hands pat him down. Then the recording cut off and the disc went dark, leaving Mikey full on sweating bullets because he finally figured out why he was here.


    Because before Sandro left for New Hope, Mikey told the man the Firstborn killed three of his people and wanted him to rattle the kid¡¯s cage just a bit.


    ¡°Fascinating,¡± the Watchman said, leaning in over the table like a kid at the diner watching the waitress make his milkshake. ¡°May I?¡± In response to his gesturing, Franky looked to the Don before sliding the disc over to the Watchman, who rewound the video back to just before the shooting starts. ¡°Look here,¡± he said, eyes fixed on the image before him, with the Firstborn standing sideways with his left to Sandro as they made eye contact for the first time. ¡°See how they both freeze? They recognize each other.¡± Clapping his hands with a laugh, the Watchman paused and rewound the recording again before playing it in slow motion. ¡°And the kid tries to let it pass! He glances away, right there, and your man sees it and deflates. How fascinating. Too bad about the other guys though. If they¡¯d kept their cool, we might be having this sit down with our target in hand and new information to discuss.¡±


    ¡°A joke is what this is.¡± Making no effort to hide his disdain, the Admiral snarled, ¡°You let one brat still stinking of his mama¡¯s milk ruin not just weeks of preparation, but years of groundwork making connections and establishing contacts all over town. The uniforms, the guns, the paper work, the bribes, everyone who was in on this operation got swept up these last two weeks, including the fixer who arranged it all inside.¡±


    ¡°Might be a kid, but a damned good one.¡± Revolvers Rossi had a deep, smooth voice that belonged on a man twice his size, like an aged whisky served in a shot glass. Didn¡¯t seem right, but worked all the same as he watched the shooting play back in slow motion. ¡°Capitulates to your man, but stays ready. Draws second, shoots first. Doesn¡¯t unload all six shots in a panic. Picks his targets with care, hitting them only after they go for their guns. One, two-three, four, pause, double tap to finish the job. Five shots, four kills, all without moving from his spot in front of the girl. From a side pose too, which limits his speed and stability, but he gets the job done all the same.¡± Taking a long drag of his cigarette, Revolvers Rossi leaned back in his chair and gave a little nod of appreciation. ¡°Kid knows that gun good as any, and has the confidence to play it cool when stakes are high. Extenuating circumstances. I get it.¡±


    High praise considering the Firstborn had a Rattlesnake, same as Revolvers Rossi. A 22-10 instead of 44-40, but otherwise their guns were the same, so if the Firstborn knew it as good as any, that was the same as saying he was as good as Revolvers Rossi.


    ¡°I see the problem now.¡± Picking up where the other man left off, the Watchman said, ¡°Our inopportune gunman must be the Firstborn, the Marshal¡¯s own Disciple as it were.¡±


    A fat, meaty hand slammed into the solid wood dining table and all the glasses jumped. Mikey did too, just a bit, but he¡¯d never admit it, not out loud at least, showing Iggy the Firebrand still had a good bit of heat left to him. ¡°S¨¬,¡± the Don growled, ¡°And the Marshal, that brazen bastardo, he send me message. Tells me it ends here. My men dead. My operation failed. My contacts ruined. And he think he can tell me, it is over?!¡±


    ¡°Oooh, a threat from the Marshal. How exhilerating.¡± The Watchman was damn near giddy at the news, while everyone else shifted in discomfort. That¡¯s because the Manfredis were the only ones who didn¡¯t have skin in the game out here along the Highway, so he didn¡¯t know who he was dealing with. Other men you can bribe, threaten, or even talk sense into, but the Marshal? Only thing keeping him from sweeping the Highway clean of all criminal activity was the collateral damage. In civilian casualties, not economic concerns, which was the reason the Marshal¡¯s higher ups used to keep him in check, but everyone knew that if you pushed the Marshal too far, he¡¯d push back, and he wouldn¡¯t go at it alone. Couldn¡¯t even if he wanted to, because once word spread that he was the warpath, there¡¯d be an army of Rangers nipping at his heels and ready to clear the Pugliano family out by next week.


    Only for another outfit to move in, because that¡¯s how it was, which was why didn¡¯t nobody do nothing about the Puglianos. So long as they toed the line, then the Rangers looked the other way, because wasn¡¯t their job to enforce the law. Only keep the peace, and so long as too many bodies weren¡¯t dropping at their feet and the ore kept flowing, they were content to leave things be.


    ¡°So what you mean to say is that the operation is a complete failure with no hope of salvage,¡± the Admiral said, looking like he¡¯d just eaten a bowlful of lemons. ¡°Don Zampano will not be pleased.¡±


    ¡°I do not give a fuck if that insignificant cunt Alexandro is displeased.¡± A chorus of chuckles sounded out in support of the Don, as there was no love lost between the Puglianos and the Zampanos, but the Don wasn¡¯t finished. ¡°But we cannot stop-a here. We must know where Vanguard National kept their explosives or learn how they were made.¡±


    Only after all this could Mikey breathe again, because it looked like they were glossing over the Firstborn. Or it did until Little Lord Fuckwad decided to chime in with, ¡°Hang on. We just gonna move on like that? What about him?¡± Gesturing at the video, which was paused on the Firstborn holding his gun on Sandro, Antonio growled, ¡°We need to send a message, show people what happens when they fuck with the Puglianos.¡±


    ¡°Kid¡¯s untouchable as they come.¡± It was finally time for Franky to speak up, and Mikey perked up to hear the man¡¯s voice. Always the voice of reason, which was why he was Consigliere, and he always knew what¡¯s what. ¡°The Marshal already warned us off, but that alone isn¡¯t enough to put us off.¡± It should¡¯ve been, but Mikey figured Franky was fronting. ¡°Once we started asking around though, our contacts in the church came back with bad news. Said that if we go after the Firstborn, then the Knights Templar will come after us, plain and simple. Or at least one chapter will, because Knight Captain James Rigsby down in Redeemer¡¯s Keep christened the Firstborn and will unleash hell if put a hit on the kid. So will Sam Horne, Storm Caller in the Pathfinders and head of operations up in Nakoda, while Edward Elton, the Protectorate¡¯s current generation Jack the Ripper, has a sweet spot for the Firstborn. No telling what that psycho will do, but a few other big names came up, like the Revenant, the Warden, the Sentinel, and more. Still, scary as they are, they¡¯re all individual players who don¡¯t got the juice those first three have, to say nothing of the Marshal himself, who like you said is the boy¡¯s mentor.¡±


    The Don didn¡¯t much like hearing it all laid out like that, and he was very vocal about how he wouldn¡¯t be cowed, but if you read between the lines, you could tell it was all posturing. The fat man didn¡¯t want nothing to do with anything outside of Mount Rime, not directly. Why? Because he had everything he needed right here. All the money, booze, food, and women he could ever want, so why risk it all by stepping out? So long as he kept his head down and the ore flowing, then the profits would keep coming and the Rangers would look the other way, so the last thing Iggy wanted was to fuck with the Firstborn and ruin a good thing.


    ¡°Tell me more about the Firstborn,¡± the Watchman said, rewinding back to the start to watch it all over again. ¡°The boy has a pedigree that reads like Ranger royalty, yet by all indications, he seemed ready to leave sleeping dogs lie. Why? With skills like his, it can¡¯t be lack of confidence. Could have gunned down all five of your men with time to spare, yet he went about it like a vagrant rather than a soldier or lawman. You go your way, and he¡¯ll go his, a child of the Frontier through and through. How did they recognize one another?¡±


    The Don gave a grunt of pure disgust, and Mikey¡¯s guts churned to hear it, but didn¡¯t no one so much as glance in his direction. The silence hung for a long, torturous second before Franky spoke up to fill it. ¡°According to Sandro, he questioned the Firstborn regarding an incident in which we lost three men and he might have been involved in, and to learn more about his part in Pleasant Dunes. As far as Sandro can tell, the boy is clear on both fronts, but that don¡¯t matter much now, do it?¡±


    Bullshit is what that was. The kid copped to killing Ron himself, not in so many words, but the message was clear enough. Mikey kept his lip buttoned though, because now wasn¡¯t the time to argue facts.


    ¡°It was my understanding that your man was chosen for his clean background and lack of notoriety in the area.¡± Looming in his seat, the Admiral faced down against the Don with a steely gaze to ask, ¡°And you¡¯re now telling me your man compromised this critical operation so he could obtain information regarding three missing men?¡±


    And only because Mikey asked him to, but how was he supposed to know Sandro had such a big job lined up? All Sandro said was that he was going into town, so Mikey asked if he could have a word with the kid. No wonder Franky had to stick his neck out for Mikey, because if this was the Don Ignazio of old, he¡¯d have lit Mikey up like a firework already. Small favours that, especially as the meeting turned into a shouting match with the Admiral demanding the Puglianos make up for all their losses while the representatives from the other families supported him. The Don shouted back of course, with Franky and Gio chiming in whenever they had to, but ultimately, Mikey knew the Don would pay.


    And even though the Don was paying for Mikey¡¯s mistake, he couldn¡¯t help but loathe the man for it. Watching out for your boys, that was a given. Time was though, Iggy Firebrand would¡¯ve told every last one of these punks to shut the fuck up and get the fuck out, then gone to war with each and every one of them. Now? The Don could barely go two minutes in a shouting match, much less a full-on fight, and it hurt to see it happen. As for Antoni? Judging by his dark glares, Little Lord Fuckwad was wondering why his daddy didn¡¯t just hand Mikey over. If the Pugliano Family fell to him, Antoni would be dead within the day, killed either by Franky, Gio, or some other contender to the throne, depending on when this all went down.


    Like Mikey expected, the meeting ended with promise of reparations and empty talk of finding those chemical explosives or an expert on Ron¡¯s payroll. Fat chance of that, as Ron played his cards close to the vest, and as far as Mikey could tell, the man had broken up his process across five different manufacturing depots to make his Composition B, which put the bang in all his grenades and charges. Weren¡¯t many people who knew that sort of chemistry here on the Frontier, and truth is, it was a dying profession back in the old world too. Didn¡¯t no one want the Feds coming down hard on you for using chemical explosives, not after they were banned worldwide. Wasn¡¯t like anyone wanted a repeat of Australia either, what with all the suicide-bombing Abby, so even wise guys stepped lightly around them. Fact was, didn¡¯t no one know anything about Ron¡¯s operation, not until word got out after his death so the Rangers could warn others from making the same mistake.


    Would¡¯ve been better off keeping quiet about it all though, because now that Don Ignazio knew there was a way to mine more ore with less workers for bigger profits, it looked like he was all for getting into the explosives business. Terrible idea seeing how the Rangers would come down hard on them for it, but so long as it was kept inside the mountain, there was a pretty good chance the Family could keep things on the down low. As for Mikey, he stayed alongside the rest of the Puglianos while the outsiders filed out, at which point he followed Franky¡¯s signal and gave thanks to the Don for sparing his life. ¡°I remember you,¡± the Don said, patting Mikey on the cheek as he did. ¡°You save my cousin¡¯s life, and for this, I spare yours.¡± Gripping his chin with surprising strength and focused intensity, the Don growled, ¡°Do not expect me to do so again.¡±


    ¡°Understood, Don Ignazio. Sorry Don. Thank you Don.¡± Cold sweat dripped down Mikey¡¯s back as he kissed the man¡¯s ring and stepped away, but the Don didn¡¯t have much else to say. A few cursory business matters were dealt with, like how the cultists were clamouring for more bodies, or their gun connection running into trouble with shipping shut down, and how the Mindspire was driving everyone nuts, but it was all half-hearted at best. Soon enough, the Don called for the meeting to end and sent everyone away, with Franky walking Mikey out to show the others he was still in the Family¡¯s good graces. ¡°Thanks Franky,¡± Mikey said, but the other man just nodded and motioned for quiet as they stepped out of the chapel and into the courtyard. He kept his hand on Mikey¡¯s shoulder though, walked him right up to his carriage and gestured for him to get in. Been awhile since he¡¯d warranted a ride back home, but Mikey didn¡¯t say nothing about nothing, just moved up the steps and sat down on the cushioned seats while waiting for Franky to get in. Took him a few seconds, as he was turned away to look at something else, but Mikey felt something brush against his knees in the meantime. Kept his mouth shut though, since he figured it out right quick, then spent the next few seconds doing his damnedest to keep his eyes steady in preparation for what came next.


    Because as soon as Franky was inside the carriage and the door closed behind him, the air shimmered to reveal not-so-little Mia Pugliano sitting right next to her father Franky. The girl took after her mother in two very big ways, and inherited her father¡¯s dark hair and piercing eyes, but Franky had a thing about guys ogling his little girl, and Mikey wasn¡¯t about to be the next example. He kept his gaze locked onto the back of the carriage no matter how tempting it was to glance down at Mia¡¯s ample curves, ones belonging to a full-blooded and full-bodied Sicilian woman who¡¯d just turned seventeen. A little young for Mikey¡¯s tastes, or so he would¡¯ve thought, but then he¡¯d spent the last eighteen years on the Frontier seeing only women his age or older. Now with all these flowers in bloom, he was quickly reconsidering his stance, especially with that mezza Innate of Carter¡¯s.


    Or Mia, in a world where Franky wouldn¡¯t castrate Mikey for even thinking about it. Girl also had her mama¡¯s long legs and plump lips, and worst of all, she was in that phase girls get where they¡¯re starving for male attention. Mia knew the guys liked what they saw, and she liked showing it too, but liked it even more when her daddy laid down the law. Even the Don had to step in and say something to stop the bloodshed, telling Franky that maybe he ought to buy her some shirts that had a neckline in any other letter than V or send her off to a nunnery. Girl was dressed to impress today, despite spending most of it Invisible, with a black trench coat same as Mikey¡¯s, and a vest too, one that kept her barely decent since she couldn¡¯t be bothered to button up the red silk blouse underneath. Wore a pencil skirt instead of pants, one that rode well above her knees, and God help him, Mikey regretted letting his eyes stray that far because he almost couldn¡¯t look away.


    Where in the Frontier had she gotten pantyhose from? Didn¡¯t know you could make those by hand out here¡­


    Mia saw Mikey¡¯s glance, liked it even, smiling as she snapped her wrist to open up a hand-held paper fan, which was all the rage with the kids these days. ¡°Was a close call there, Uncle Mikey,¡± she said, batting her big brown eyes from over her fan and his heart lurched to hear the double-entendre. ¡°In the meeting I mean,¡± she added, brushing her dark bangs aside to hide her sneaky little smile from her father. ¡°I thought Uncle Iggy was gonna throw you to the wolves when the Watchman started doing the math.¡±


    ¡°You and me both, kiddo.¡± Mia hated being called kiddo, but Mikey needed the reminder, and it didn¡¯t hurt to have Franky think Mikey only saw the girl as a kid. ¡°Thanks again, Franky. I mean it. I saw the gears turning in the Don¡¯s head, same as Mia, and I know I got you to thank for the scales coming out the way they did.¡±


    ¡°Bah.¡± Waving the thanks aside, Franky made a face. ¡°It should be a given. Family above all else. You a made man, same as Sandro, Dom, Matty, and the others. The Pugliano name wouldn¡¯t be worth shit if we gave you up over nothing. Bad luck is all. Kid was at the wrong place at the wrong time. You saw it too. If Sandro showed up a minute or two later, the Firstborn would¡¯ve been long gone with that girlie of his, and we¡¯d all be poppin¡¯ bottles of bubbly to celebrate.¡± Heaving a sigh, Franky slumped in his seat and shook his head, giving Mikey the chance to glance at Mia just as her fan turned to revealed what was underneath, all pale skin, smooth curves, and a devilish smile that might well get him killed. ¡°Fact that I had to even argue for your life at all shows how far gone Iggy is,¡± Franky said, just as Mikey found the clarity of thought to tear his eyes away again. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t matter if you made a mistake. If your name is on the books, then the Family stands behind you. Simple as that.¡±


    Whatever game Mia was playing at, she wasn¡¯t ready to see Mikey dead yet. Instead, she turned to her father and said, ¡°And that Antonio. Ugh. Always leering with his greasy face every time we meet. Glad I didn¡¯t have to deal with that today. The last time we talked, he said we¡¯re only second cousins, which means there¡¯s nothing wrong with the two of us getting married. Ew.¡±


    Mikey didn¡¯t say nothing, because it wasn¡¯t his place to speak, but it¡¯d probably be the only way Antonio could ever make it as Don of the Family, if he had Franky behind him 100%. Mia herself was sharp as a tack, and no slouch at the Spells neither it seemed, but the Family would never stand for a woman in charge, not in a million years. Thing is, Mia could probably run the family with Antonio as a figurehead, though to be fair, with her father¡¯s backing, she could probably have her pick of the litter and still come out a winner. If she was sneaking into meetings where she wasn¡¯t supposed to be, then there was a good chance that¡¯s what she meant to do, and she wouldn¡¯t have ever gotten in without Franky the Phantom letting her pass by.


    Which meant Franky was making a play for the title. Or considering it at least, because the future of the family in Antonio¡¯s fat, sausage finger hands was a nightmare to be sure.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you worry kiddo,¡± Mikey said, after a short moment to think. ¡°Anyone tries to marry you without your or your dad¡¯s say so has gotta go through me first.¡± Giving Franky a look, Mikey nodded in unspoken allegiance, because there were some things you couldn¡¯t come out and say. Franky caught the meaning though, and just smiled and nodded back, because he knew the Americans had to stick together. The world might call them the Sicilian Mafia, but this here was American Territory, so why should the Sicilians be calling the shots?


    Change was coming. Change for the better, because a few more years of Iggy at the helm would be the death of the Puglianos. Money could only buy so much goodwill, and if the other families knew how weak they were, they¡¯d pounce on them in a heartbeat.


    ¡°For now though,¡± Franky said, bringing them back on track, ¡°You should tamp down on your collections. The cultists are kicking up a fuss, saying the time is rife for a sacrifice and all, but them bloodthirsty kooks are the least of our problems. Your three boys?¡±


    ¡°Joey, Ricky, and Tommy,¡± Mikey supplied.


    ¡°Yea them. Chances are, Abby got ¡®em. Firstborn stayed the night at that compound, and they were attacked by a huge swarm. Brought home a big haul the next morning, with eyes filled with blood even. Got tax forms, medical records, and everything.¡±


    ¡°A shame,¡± Mia purred, fanning herself oh so slowly in an effort to tempt Mikey into stealing a glance, but he kept his eyes firmly on her father¡¯s side of the carriage. ¡°If we had reason enough to go after the Firstborn, it might¡¯ve forced Uncle Iggy out of his comfort zone, and we could¡¯ve had some fun out here.¡±


    ¡°From everything I¡¯ve heard, we should be thanking the Firstborn, not antagonizing him.¡± Shaking his head, Franky said, ¡°Kid¡¯s connected in ways you wouldn¡¯t believe, and far as I can tell, he¡¯s a big reason why Vanguard National is out of the picture. Brought the mission to the Rangers and everything.¡±


    ¡°Tell me about him, Uncle Mikey,¡± Mia said, leaning forward to tug on Mikey¡¯s sleeve, and it took all of his willpower not to stare at her bared flesh. ¡°He seems like such a character.¡±


    ¡°Kid¡¯s got mouth,¡± Mikey said. ¡°Balls the size of my head too. Pretty sure he killed Ron, and I¡¯d bet good money on him killing Joey and the others too.¡± He told the father-daughter pair what he knew, with little bit of embellishment on top of it, but truth was, the kid didn¡¯t need no gassing up. That video spoke for itself, four men shot dead where they stood, killed only after they drew, but before they fired off a single shot. If Mikey, Joey, or Fingers had tried anything during their meet, that¡¯d be them dead in the dirt too, because the Firstborn certainly didn¡¯t fuck around.


    ¡°Hmm.¡± Snapping her fan closed, Mia turned to her father while placing her hands on her knees, holding Franky¡¯s attention and giving Mikey an opening for a peek, but he didn¡¯t dare ogle her openly. Not when he knew there could be bugs anywhere in the carriage, maybe even a camera installed by Franky himself to make sure his passengers weren¡¯t getting an eyeful while he was distracted. ¡°Perhaps we can use the Firstborn to our advantage then. He¡¯s connected, but he acts of his own volition, a wildcard who cannot be touched yet is not afraid to touch others. Guided properly, he can be a weapon in hand, a shield to guard us, or perhaps even the spark we need to ignite a fire from which we might all profit. Tell me about your missing men again, Uncle Mikey. Did any of them have children?¡±


    ¡°Yea, the little Hulk. Joey¡¯s kid.¡± Whose real name Mikey couldn¡¯t remember. The others might have kids too, but fuck if he knew. ¡°I been looking after him a bit. Why?¡±


    Mia smiled, one so cold and calculating Mikey vowed never to steal another glance again. Forget Franky¡¯s ire. It was Mia¡¯s wrath he wasn¡¯t willing to risk, because she was the future of the Family, and even though she thought it was all fun and games for now, who knew when she might get sick and tired of her Uncle Mikey¡¯s leers?


    For the first time ever, Mikey said a little prayer for Antonio, because if Little Lord Fuckwad ever got what he wanted and married Mia, there was every chance he wouldn¡¯t live long enough to enjoy the wedding night.

 Book Two - Chapter 82

    Author¡¯s Note: Trigger warning regarding suicide and self harm.


    Stamina and fortitude.


    That¡¯s what you need when dating a woman, and you¡¯ll need double when dating two. For those with their minds stuck in the gutter, I ain¡¯t talking about no bedroom activities. Yeah, that¡¯s a part of it, but there¡¯s more to dating than mating. Going on picnics at the gun range sounds easy breezy, until you realize I gotta be the one to plan, prep, and pack everything since Josie and Noora are at school all day. Also gotta be sure to listen when they talk, because if the subject ever comes up again and you gotta ask, then they know you wasn¡¯t listening the first time. Once they figure that out, they start wondering what else wasn¡¯t you listening to, and things just go downhill from there. Shopping is another ordeal, because not only do I have to deal with pushy salespeople, I also gotta weigh in on every decision there is. You¡¯d think that with two women, they can decide what they want to wear together without needing my opinion at all, only for them to turn it into a guessing game where I¡¯m supposed to pick the right answer or else they can¡¯t buy what they want and don¡¯t want what I picked.


    See, they already done made their decision. They just want me to make the same one for reasons unknown, but they ain¡¯t giving no hints now are they?


    There¡¯s a lot more to complain about, but the thing is, tiresome as all this sounds on paper, it don¡¯t play out that way with the right woman. Or women, in my case. Ain¡¯t nothing more invigorating than seeing Josie¡¯s eyes light up as I roll up in the wagon, or how Noora bites her lip when she sees something she wants, even if it¡¯s something simple as a sweet tart. Social interaction is draining sure, but with Noora and Josie, a smile¡¯s all I need to keep me in the game, and everything else is just gravy.


    Least that¡¯s how it feels this fine Saturday evening as I haul two armloads of bags back home with both my dates in tow. Ain¡¯t all gifts for them, as I got plenty of groceries and daily supplies too, since they wanted to spend the day with me without interfering with what I had to do. Seemed a little silly cramming all four of us into Danny¡¯s backroom workshop, but Noora¡¯s got a fierce hunger to learn and a keen interest in Artificing that exceeds even mine. She found Danny¡¯s books a while back and devoured them cover to cover in little more than a week, and now she¡¯s picking my brain here and there whenever she can. Got a mind to start building her own Automaton too, though she¡¯s thinking more skitterbot than hand. Makes sense too, since she still got both of hers, and Danny didn¡¯t seem put off by all her questions. Was a little hard to tell though, as he deathly shy of women and develops a stutter every time he sees a pretty face.


    And my gals do be awful pretty¡­


    He''ll get over it eventually, and ain¡¯t a bad thing to have Josie and Noora help him build up an immunity. Josie ain¡¯t as inquisitive when it comes to Artificing, but she seemed happy enough keeping me company while I built me another model hand. Got the first one down pat a week ago, and this second one has more points of articulation, which makes for some tricky work getting all the parts to fit. It¡¯s still done in wood for the most part, with a bit of wire to hold things together, and while there¡¯s still a ways to go yet before I get a fully working Automaton, trees that are slow to grow bear the best fruit.


    That¡¯s what Josie told me this morning at least, able to sense my growing frustration despite my best efforts to hide it, and I can¡¯t help but give her a smile to remember it. Beaming brightly as she putters about the kitchen, she scrunches her button nose in a show of faux-pique as she helps unpack the groceries we done just picked up and spots me looking at her the way I do. ¡°Not now,¡± she says, warning me off even as I lean in for a kiss, and she even holds her finger up for good measure. ¡°Later.¡±


    ¡°Just one kiss?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Though soft as cotton and sweet as molasses, Josie got some real steel in her as she shoos me out of the kitchen. Which is only about two steps back really, since my place ain¡¯t exactly spacious, but she¡¯s adamant I get out of her way. ¡°One kiss will turn into two, then lead to other pleasant and distracting things, things I have no time for now if we want to eat anytime soon.¡±


    ¡°How about me then?¡± Sneaking up from behind to slip her arms around Josie¡¯s waist, Noora rests her chin on the other woman¡¯s shoulder and nuzzles her softly. ¡°You got time for me, hermana?¡±


    Slapping Noora¡¯s roving hands lightly, Josie carries on with her act of being fed up with the both of us. ¡°You are worse than Howie.¡± Still gives Noora a kiss though, a slow and sensual meshing of lips that gets Josie blushing. Glancing at me when she¡¯s done, she crooks her finger and reels me in like a fish on the hook. Gives me a hard kiss too, pulling on the strings of my bolo tie all the while to let me know this is what she wants, rather than an afterthought to keep me from getting jealous. Leaves me breathless when she breaks away, flashing her impish smile that¡¯s got me yearning for more. ¡°There,¡± Josie declares, waving me off and slipping out of Noora¡¯s embrace. ¡°That¡¯s all either of you¡¯ll get until after dinner. Go sit down and relax Howie. Help me chop the chile verdes, mija. Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ll make some that¡¯s less spicy for you.¡±


    Noora steals another kiss from Josie as they set to work in the kitchen and I head out to put the wagon away. Been a wild couple of weeks since we started our little m¨¦nage ¨¤ trois, which is about the best description I got for whatever we have going on. Again, the meaning goes beyond the bedroom, as the literal translation of the term is ¡®household of three¡¯. One that seems to centre around Josie rather than myself, because I¡¯m thinking Noora¡¯s a little more in love with Josie than she is with me. She still throws those smoky eyes and teasing looks my way, but I seen how she looks at Josie and know when I¡¯m beat. Can¡¯t really blame her either, because Josie¡¯s got me wrapped around her finger too, a sweet, gentle, and loving person who is so warm and caring you can¡¯t help but want to see her smile.


    Now, I ain¡¯t gonna lie. We been getting a fair few number of looks galivanting about as a trio these last few weeks, but aside from a bit of arm linking and hand holding, we keep things clean enough to avoid suspicion. At least I hope we have. While I would never call Aunty Ray a gossipy busybody, she do tend to learn the choicest bits of news right quick. If she knew I was two-timing with Noora and Josie, she¡¯d twist my ear clean off the side of my head wringing all the facts outta me, and I¡¯d be tasting nothing but soap for weeks. So far though, all she¡¯s done is try to pry out the name of which one I¡¯m pursuing, while I do my best to maintain that we all just friends. Ain¡¯t working though, because Aunty Ray can read me like a picture book, so she knows I¡¯m sweet on someone.


    Two someone¡¯s to be precise. Ain¡¯t a fact to be proud of, but the heart wants what it wants, and mine wants it all.


    Thing is, fond as I am of Noora and her adventurous ways, I find myself growing more and more enamoured of Josie¡¯s snaggletoothed smile as the days and weeks go by. I love how she blushes, not because she¡¯s shy, but because she gets all passionate and heated. I love the little Spanish flair she throws into the mix, like the way she pronounces it ¡®sal-sa¡¯, or how she¡¯ll grab my butt and shout, ¡°Pompis!¡± I love the little growl she gives when she thinks she¡¯s been neglected, and the strong, confidant way she asserts herself in every situation. She wants to do something, and she does it, plain as that, and won¡¯t brook no argument about it, as she shows firsthand when I come back in and try to lend a hand. ¡°Wash up and settle down,¡± she says, shooing me out of the kitchen again. ¡°You spent all morning working hard, and all afternoon keeping us company and buying us things. Now it¡¯s our turn to take care of you.¡± The last is said after taking a firm hold of my chin and making it clear in no uncertain terms that she means to spoil me well, and Lord help me if I try to step in and do something again.


    Like I said, girl¡¯s got some steel in her, and a whole lot of fire to boot. Add in Noora¡¯s encouragement making her more daring and audacious of late, and we got ourselves a real firebrand in Josie.


    ¡°So what?¡± I ask, flipping a chair around so I can sit facing the girls while they work. ¡°I¡¯m supposed to sit here and do nothing?¡±


    ¡°I did tell you to wash up.¡± Sticking her tongue out at me as she works a mortar and pestle, Josie adds, ¡°But if you¡¯ve forgotten how to relax and do nothing, then you can talk to us.¡± Seeing my perplexed expression, Josie rolls her eyes. ¡°You know? Have a conversation? Maybe even about something besides guns, Artificing, or the Mindspire for once.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ how¡¯s school?¡±


    ¡°Wrong!¡± Giving me a wry glance, Josie says, ¡°Try again, guapo.¡± Trading a look with Noora, Josie adds, ¡°All looks and no brains, this one.¡±


    <u> </u>


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t say that.¡± Giving me a sidelong look that¡¯s got me lost in her hazel eyes, Noora says, ¡°Doesn¡¯t mean it¡¯s not true. I just wouldn¡¯t say it. His ego¡¯s big enough as it is, and I like them dumb.¡± After their fit of giggles at my expense, Noora lights up and says, ¡°Tell us about your travels. You ever seen the ocean?¡±


    ¡°Yep,¡± I drawl, thinking back to the good times when my daddy was still around. ¡°By way of the Muskari Steppes up north, where the grass is green same as the old world, and herds of them shaggy behemoths graze all the livelong day.¡± Still weirds me out to head north to the Emerald Plains and see green fields of grass stretching out in all directions, instead of pastel whites like we got here by the Wayfayer river. Beats the red soils and multi-coloured plants they got down south though, which makes the higher temps feel even hotter than they already are. Good growing soil though, with plenty of yields so long as your plants don¡¯t need too much water, making it a popular area for most folks just looking to get by.


    Seeing Noora¡¯s pout due to my extended silence while she chops some sneezeweed, I get myself back on track and tell her about my time spent along the Serpent Coast, with all them ocean-side cliffs and churning blue and white ocean swells hiding them titular titan serpents and leviathan Abby spawned to fight them. Never got to see one in the wild, but I leaned out over them cliffs and peered down into the ocean. Also saw the start of a massive shipyard some mariners were putting together, where they were hoping to build a giant ocean-faring vessel strong enough to survive the trip up the coast and beyond the Snake Fang Mountain Range to connect with the rest of the continent.


    ¡°They want to ride boats out into the ocean?¡± There¡¯s a rare hint of wonder and whimsy in Noora¡¯s voice, one made all the sweeter by how cool and jaded she usually plays it. Josie spots it too and smiles to hear it, but Noora is too busy concentrating on putting together an image of the ocean to notice. ¡°The same ocean filled with giant sea snakes and tentacled Abby?¡±


    ¡°Huge ships made of Darksteel and Adamantine manned by hundreds of sailors and technicians,¡± I retort, smiling at the sight of Noora¡¯s wide-eyed fascination. ¡°Gotta be tough and strong to survive the waves and whatever else might come tappin¡¯ on their hulls. If you want to make the trip though, I suggest we try a few ferry rides here first, or maybe even a weekend getaway trip down the Wayfarer if you feeling adventurous.¡±


    ¡°No thank you.¡± Noora shudders before going back to her work, slicing up an assortment of veggies set aside by Josie. ¡°I still want to see the ocean, but I¡¯ll stick to horseback thank you very much. Sitting pretty in your wagon would be best though, long as you put in some padded seats.¡±


    ¡°And a very pretty picture you¡¯ll be,¡± Josie interjects, planting a kiss on Noora¡¯s cheek. ¡°You¡¯re getting much better at riding though, hermana.¡±


    Thanks to our many, many trips to the gun range these last few weeks, alongside a few rides around town to see the sights and get frisky in the shadows. Good times, but now I¡¯m paying for them in tales of the Frontier, so I regale the gals with what I got. Start with the various villages all along the Wayfarer, which runs all the way to the west coast and comes out at Thunder Bay. Got plenty of tributaries along it too, ones I travelled alongside my daddy. Find all sorts of people out there, ones of every creed and colour there be, though I also saw all manner of atrocities committed in the name of race, religion, and general public safety. I keep mum on those though, because that don¡¯t make for good conversation.


    ¡°What about down south?¡± Josie asks, pulling something that smells divine out of the oven and giving it a few pokes with a fork before deciding it needs a bit more time. ¡°I know you go up to the desert a lot, and out into the badlands at least once a year, but I never here about you going south.¡±


    ¡°I been to New Sonora, but not for a hot minute,¡± I say with a shrug. Mostly because the last time me and my daddy went that way, my mother¡¯s brother caught us out and had us dead to rights. ¡°Got a mind to go see more of the Fuchsia Flatlands soon though, maybe the next year or two.¡±


    So I can take care of some family business, but Josie don¡¯t know nothing about that. ¡°I¡¯ve heard it¡¯s dangerous down there,¡± she says, meeting my eyes with concern and affection both as she plays with her hair and chews on her luscious lips. ¡°Lots of crime and conflict.¡±


    ¡°Which makes it my kinda place.¡± My bravado falls flat as Josie¡¯s worries grow, so I do my best to do some damage control. ¡°It¡¯s a bit of a hotspot yea. The issue is mostly cultural really. Aint no single nation or alliance strong or united enough to claim sole sovereignty of the area, like how the Federation has all along the Wayfarer or the M¨¦tis up on the Emerald Plains. Instead, there¡¯s dozens of minor nations and a couple different intergovernmental organizations vying for control, so there¡¯s lots of contested territory and plenty of shoot-outs over resources.¡±


    ¡°Latino nations,¡± Josie says, with a surly look I know all too well. Though there are plenty of Mexicans here in New Hope, and other South Americans too, she¡¯s got the same disconnect with her culture that I do. Maybe more in fact, seeing how she embraces her Latina roots while I do everything in my power to distance myself from mine. Must be hard to hear about how her people are faring, even if they¡¯re people she¡¯s got no real connection to. Might make her wonder if she¡¯s the same as them, just like I wonder if I¡¯m too Qin to really ever fit in here, a shared inner conflict that makes me feel even closer to her than I already did.


    ¡°There plenty Asian Nations there too,¡± I say, just to cheer her up. ¡°Fact is, the main contenders in the area are UNASUR and ASEAN. Don¡¯t ask me what those names mean, but they¡¯re pretty much most of South America, minus their surviving Indigenous nations, and South-East Asia without Bharath and Nippon. Don¡¯t ever say that to an old worlder who¡¯s from one of those places though. They¡¯ll have a conniption and spend the next few hours trying to tell you why that¡¯s wrong without listing any real good reasons.¡±


    ¡°Oh that¡¯d be terrible,¡± Noora says, giving me an amused smile that¡¯s got me all twisted up inside. ¡°Almost as terrible as listening to your rant on gun calibre standardization.¡±


    ¡°Would make things easier when it comes to ammo and barrels is all,¡± I grumble. ¡°Don¡¯t see why 9mm or 7.62 by 25mm is even a thing.¡± To keep me from getting all worked up, Josie grabs a bottle of fizzy sarsaparilla from the Freeze-box and places it in my hand, like an adult placating a child with a treat. Works though, as I pop it open and take a nice, long swig before telling them more about the nations down south. ¡°The real cause for all that strife is the major players backing each side. Namely the Latin American Catholic Church and the Qin Republic. Nine times out of ten, anyone you run into will have ties to one or the other.¡±


    ¡°Latin American Catholic Church? What? The Roman Catholics do something to piss them off?¡± Noora asks, her tone breezy and light-hearted as always.


    Picked a terrible subject for levity though, so I stick to the facts as best I can. ¡°The opposite actually. South American Catholics were more open to incorporating their heritage into their religion, which the North Americans and Europeans didn¡¯t much like, so they split up a good while back.¡± That¡¯s how you get folks like Vicente back in Pleasant Dunes venerating Santa Muerte, or more formally, Our Lady of Holy Death. Rubs some religious types the wrong way, but I don¡¯t see why folks gotta get up in arms about that sort of thing. Far as I can tell, all the rules to religion are made up anyways, so who cares if some folks follow a different set from the ones you use? Seems reasonable to live and let live, yet it feels like I¡¯d be in the minority if it came down to a vote.


    I don¡¯t say as much though, because I noticed Josie getting real quiet once the subject was brought up, and I move on right quick. ¡°Ain¡¯t all that bad though,¡± I say. ¡°Long as you find a local guide who¡¯s up on current events, you can avoid most the hotspots pretty easily. Ain¡¯t like up in the Northmoor over on the other side of Deadlock Bay, where you can get shot just for showing up at the wrong time of day.¡± Which is any time, far as I can tell, because them sheepherders don¡¯t mess around.


    ¡°Why¡¯s it so dangerous up there?¡± Noora asks, always eager to learn more about the outside world.


    ¡°Same reason as why it¡¯s bad down south,¡± I say with a shrug. ¡°Similar song and dance with different musicians and dancers is all. More than two sides too, with plenty of Euro-centric nations feuding with African and Middle Eastern states over who settled the Northmoor first, and none of them happy to see the others stick around. It¡¯s all made worse by the limited space, since the Northmoor is the only place where their durasheep can graze.¡±


    ¡°Durasheep?¡±


    ¡°Big Magical ungulates that graze on the mineral dense shrubbery,¡± I say, having never really seen one for myself. ¡°Something in the plants let¡¯s them durasheep grow thick coats of razor-sharp wiry wool, which is then spun into a tough and protective fibre that can block Bolts, resist Fire, and won¡¯t be melted by Acid. Ain¡¯t much for insulation, whether it be temperature or Electric, but it¡¯s a prized material to be sure, one made all the more valuable thanks to how slow them durasheep produce wool and lambs both.¡±


    Hence why no one is willing to give up on the Northmoor and the wealth it represents. So far, the conflict has been contained to peninsula itself with only the Africans and Middle Easterners doing the fighting, but there are plenty of other nations are all watching closely to see who comes out on top, including the M¨¦tis and United Federation.


    What I don¡¯t mention is my plans to head even further south to the Knife¡¯s Edge mountain range, which runs from the southern edge of the Divide all the way to the coastline. That there is home base for the Qin round these parts, and you¡¯d be hard pressed to find one outside their well-guarded borders. If I hadn¡¯t lost my hand, I might well have spent this summer and autumn ranging south to prep for when I¡¯m ready to put paid to past debts. Without the hand though, I figure it¡¯d be better to wait until I¡¯m strong enough to survive the trip and make it back. Day¡¯s coming soon though, because time¡¯s a wasting, with the Watershed growing closer and closer with each passing day.


    Don¡¯t no one really know what¡¯ll happen when the Watershed hits, other than the surplus of Abby and Proggies running around that is. Could be nothing, could be Aether Storms and natural disasters the world over, or something somewhere in between. What I do know is that before the Watershed, my enemies will be limited to Third Order Spells same as me, but they¡¯ll only grow stronger after the fact. Can¡¯t be playing catch up my whole entire life, so my window of opportunity is soon to close. If I can¡¯t get good soon enough to match up against most Magi, then it might be time to face facts and roll the dice on whether I make it back out alive. Either way, I owe it to my daddy to at least try. He might not care about getting even, but I can¡¯t rest easy knowing that somewhere out there, there¡¯s a man or a woman who greenlit my daddy¡¯s death and ain¡¯t caught a Bolt between the eyes just yet.


    A man who will most likely be my mother¡¯s brother, but who knows. Maybe it¡¯ll be some other bigwig instead. Can¡¯t rightly say I understand how the Qin think, so I got my work cut out for me figuring out what¡¯s what.


    It¡¯s only a brief moment of quiet introspection, maybe a full second spent buckling under the heavy weight of the burdens I¡¯ve taken on, but it¡¯s enough for Josie to notice. Gently depositing herself in my lap, she slips her arms around my neck and leans in for a nuzzle, which I take as an opportunity to steal a kiss. She kisses back with more passion and hunger than I was raised to expect from a proper young lady, more than you¡¯d think a sweet and innocent girl like her can contain. When she finally breaks it off, we¡¯re both a little short of breath, and she looks into my eyes like she can see right through me and don¡¯t see nothing she don¡¯t like. ¡°Whatever it is that¡¯s got you down,¡± she begins, resting her dainty little head on my shoulder and curling in for a cuddle, ¡°We can talk about it, or we can leave it be, but don¡¯t ever think you gotta hide your pain from us.¡±This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    ¡°Just worried about the future is all,¡± I say, wrapping my arms around her slender body and hugging her oh so tight. ¡°Lots to be concerned about, and I like to be prepared.¡±


    It¡¯s an evasion, and Josie knows it, so she gives me a look to tell me she knows it before planting a kiss on my cheek followed by a love bite. Wiggling out of my embrace, she hops back to her feet and gets to cooking again, only for Noora to take her empty seat. Funny thing is that while Josie likes sitting with her right side towards me, Noora prefers to show me her left, which is pretty standard to how we arrange ourselves whenever we out and about. Probably has something to do with Josie being shy about her snaggletooth, and Noora brushing her hair over her right side. I been told girls have a preferred angle, and this here is proof positive that they work hard to show their best side off at all times. ¡°Josie might like to spoil you,¡± Noora says, tracing my jawline with her finger, ¡°But don¡¯t expect me to wait on you hand and foot every day and night.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t dare,¡± I say, leaning in for a kiss, one she shorts me on with an impish smile because she does so love to lead me on. ¡°Me, I¡¯d rather spoil the both of you.¡± Because even after so many days together, it still doesn¡¯t feel real, like this is all some illusion that¡¯ll crumble away, or a dream I¡¯ll soon awake from.


    Wiggling in my lap as if to get comfortable, Noora bites her lip to further stoke the flames of my ardour before glancing away to watch Josie work. I¡¯m content to do the same, wrapping my arms around Noora¡¯s bared midsection and digging my fingers into her flesh. Though still slim and petite, she¡¯s packed a good bit of meat on her bones and really filled out in her time here, a change for the better in all aspects. While we snuggle and watch, she asks me more questions about the Frontier and I tell her everything I know, all too eager to bring them both out to see what the world has to offer. They gotta both finish Basic of course, as they¡¯ve already signed on for the next class which will run for 6 months same as before, with an additional 6 if you want to join the Rangers. Half a year puts us at January, which gives us a month or two to make sure they can take care of themselves before I bring them out into the Frontier proper come spring. Worst comes to worst, I can always hire on some extra hands to help protect them, maybe even some adventurous souls who finished Basic but ain¡¯t looking to join the Rangers. Won¡¯t be the Firstborn¡¯s Frontier-born, not for a bit, but we can make a fair living running trade routes, delivering supplies, and maybe even the odd hunt or two. It¡¯ll be fun travelling with them, a girl on each arm as we explore the Frontier together before maybe settling down to start a family here in New Hope.


    Assuming I survive my run in with the Qin of course.


    My mood takes a turn for the worse as I consider what the future might hold, a bleak contrast compared to the delightfully sinful scene I find myself mixed in. Maybe they¡¯d both be better off saving their romance for someone else, someone whose got a real future instead of a one-handed man with what¡¯s almost certain to be a death wish. Chances of me making it back from my trip to the Knife¡¯s Edge mountain range are slim to none, especially with how guarded the Qin are against outsiders. Only thing they hate more than a foreigner is a home-grown traitor of the Republic, which is what I am in their eyes. Time was, I thought I¡¯d made my peace with it, knowing that there will come a day when I ride south to avenge my daddy, and how I might never return home again. Might being the keyword there, because I always figured I¡¯d get good enough before the Watershed to run circles around most. Problem is, that ain¡¯t true no more. Without a right hand, I don¡¯t got that same confidence no more, as it¡¯s been the better part of two months and I still ain¡¯t made much progress to speak of. It¡¯s all fine and dandy to hope for the best, but the flip side of the coin is to prepare for the worst.


    And I¡¯ve been doing anything but.


    Hope is great and all, but you gotta be reasonable about it. What are my chances really? Slim to none, that¡¯s what, because it¡¯s going to be at least another ten months before I got my Automaton hand ready to go, and even then it¡¯ll be months of debugging, fine-tuning, and learning pains to get through. As for my efforts to create a new Spell or improve the Mage Hand Cantrip through familiarity? That¡¯s going nowhere fast. I got no real direction when it comes to creating a Spell, and while Astrid notes have proved most enlightening, it always feels like I¡¯m on the cusp of something without ever getting anywhere as I run circles around in my head asking questions and coming up empty on answers. Not to mention how May is almost done and I¡¯ve yet to work a single hour, with still a full 250 to go to clear out my back log.


    Sure, you could say the threat of the Mafia coming to get me has put a pin in my plans, but I can¡¯t live out the rest of my life in fear, now can I? Even then, it¡¯s not like I¡¯m 100% safe even here in New Hope, as it¡¯s been shown they can get their people in as easy as turning a hand. What¡¯s more, I¡¯m wasting all my time lately with Noora and Josie. Which has been great, don¡¯t get me wrong, amazing in fact, but what am I doing getting mixed up with not one, but two lovely ladies? Forget marriage, that¡¯d only leave them as widows, and then where¡¯d they be? Even worse off than without me, that¡¯s where, because terrible as it is to say, ain¡¯t no man¡¯s dream to wed a widow. If I truly love them, I should leave them be, because they¡¯re better off that way. I can¡¯t do that though, because they mean so much to me, bring so much light to my otherwise dark and gloomy existence. I don¡¯t want to break out into song again, but each day spent with them is better than the last, meaning every day is the best day I¡¯ve ever had.


    So why not go out on a high note? End things with a bang and settle this on my terms instead of leaving it up to chance? It¡¯d be so easy. Two shots with the Rattlesnake while they¡¯re not paying attention, and they¡¯ll be dead before they even know what hit them. Then it¡¯s a moment of pain for me, the few seconds it takes to turn the Rattlesnake around on myself and end my misery. A perfect day capped off with a perfect night for a perfect ending for our story.


    My fingers close around the polished wood grip of my daddy¡¯s gun, and I lift it an inch out of the holster before slamming it back down with a gasp. Or at least I try to, and the world spins around me as I struggle for breath, fighting for air that will not come, and it takes all the focus I can bring to bear to see the world as it is. Noora¡¯s hazel eyes are opened wide in fury and her caramel skin flushed with exertion as she wraps her slender fingers around my neck and squeezes for all she¡¯s worth. Behind her, Josie¡¯s screaming and shouting, trying to pull Noora off of me in her panic, but the dainty girl is no match for Noora¡¯s maddened strength. And Maddened she is, caught in the throes of a Spell most insidious, one I almost succumbed to myself. Now ain¡¯t the time for self-recrimination though, not with Noora trying to choke the life out of me. Luckily, she don¡¯t know how to properly do it, as there¡¯s more to choking someone out than applying pressure to the windpipe. Even if I can¡¯t breathe, I can still hold my breath for a good minute even without any preparation. It ain¡¯t a lack of air that makes you pass out right quick, but a lack of blood going to the brain, and Noora lacks the grip strength or hand positioning to do anything about that.


    Which is what I tell myself to keep me calm, because the last thing I want to do is hurt her. Reaching up with my one good hand, I grab her by the meat of her palm and pry her hand away with a wince. The blood on her pretty purple fingernails tells me it ain¡¯t sweat dripping down my neck, so I hold Noora¡¯s arm out for Josie to take. Once she got it in both hands, I pry Noora¡¯s other hand off of my neck, then turn her around so I can pin her arms against her and hold her by myself. ¡°No!¡± she screams, kicking and thrashing about, but I keep my head next to hers so she can¡¯t headbutt me easily. ¡°No! I won¡¯t let you! I won¡¯t!¡±


    ¡°Josie,¡± I say, keeping my voice calm and controlled while speaking over Noora¡¯s screams. ¡°There¡¯s a bottle of high proof vodka in the top left cupboard. Be a dear and pour me a dram, will you?¡±


    Even though this is hardly the time or place for a shot, Josie does as she¡¯s asked without question. Got a generous pour too, and she hands the shot glass over to my Mage Hand which brings it over to hover beside me. Still struggling to hold a squirming Noora in place, I waggle my phantom fingers and Intone, ¡°In ¨C Vino ¨C Veritas.¡± In wine is truth, a simple enough saying that flows well with the Spell Structure fixed in my mind. The Aether flows through the pattern and dissolves the foul drink within the glass, then renders its effect onto Noora who slumps down in a daze. Which is also the name of the Cantrip, a rather effective one that I don¡¯t use much because it seems like a waste of good alcohol. Well worth it here though, as it helped debilitate Noora without injury, but it¡¯ll only last about five seconds so there¡¯s no time to waste.


    Setting her on the chair, I grab a length of rope provided by my other Mage Hand and loop it around the slim, dark-skinned girlie and the chair both. Don¡¯t bother tying it off since I¡¯m only buying myself time to sling another Cantrip, and just as Noora¡¯s coming out of her Daze, I hit her with a Console. ¡°I¡¯m here for you,¡± I say, filling my words with the power of the Cantrip as I look Noora in her eyes, so bright and beautiful despite the Daze and Madness dampening their lustre. Enchantment is my worst School of Magic, but I use this Cantrip on Cowie every morning, and the other animals too when I¡¯m feeling generous, so I got a good amount of practice making this Cantrip feel sincere. Which is needed, because all it does is reassure the recipient and calm their thoughts and emotions. A metaphysical pat on the back or squeeze of the hand, that¡¯s all it really is, but it¡¯s enough to give Noora just the boost she needs to shake off the Madness that¡¯s taken over her.


    The effects are a sight to behold, as she goes from Dazed, to barking mad, then tamps down to fear and sorrow. ¡°Oh Howie,¡± Noora whispers, her eyes filling with tears as she leans in towards me, and I lean in too to touch heads. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry.¡±


    ¡°Nothing to be sorry about,¡± I say, though my voice comes out raspy and strained. ¡°Wasn¡¯t you after all. Was the Spell.¡±


    ¡°I thought¡­I had to¡­ I couldn¡¯t¡­¡±


    Taking a deep breath, I let the Aether flow through the Console Spell Structure again and Intone, ¡°No need to worry.¡± That¡¯s the odd thing about the Console Cantrip. It¡¯s technically got a Vocal Component, only it ain¡¯t a key and lock like it is on most other Spells. It¡¯s more of a vehicle, the vector through which the Enchantment works, and the reassurance hits Noora hard. Strong and tough though she might be, she¡¯s shaken to the core right now by what she just witnessed, and I ain¡¯t doing much better either. I was ready to kill them both and myself just so we¡¯d never have to part ways, a twisted sort of possessive love that I will always know is lurking within me. That¡¯s something for future Howie to deal with though, because there are more pressing matters at hand, like freeing Noora from her bindings and making sure Josie ain¡¯t hurt in all this.


    Then again, she might well be the strongest willed one here, seeing how she shook off the Madness right quick. ¡°You¡¯re bleeding,¡± Josie says, pulling a handkerchief out of her purse and moving to tie it around my neck.


    Stopping her before the kerchief touches my skin, I take a moment to study the white embroidered piece. Silk if I ain¡¯t mistaken, which would¡¯ve cost a pretty penny even for a square like this, and the needlework is fine as any I¡¯ve seen. Got green stemmed pink flowers stitched all around the border, with a wreath in the corner encircling a couple letters stitched in pink too. HZ & JR it reads, in big old fancy, swooping cursive, and my heart skips a beat to see it as I gently run my fingers across them just to make sure I ain¡¯t seeing things. ¡°Howie Zhu and Josie Ramirez,¡± I say, and she blushes to hear it, even as we both got an arm around Noora who¡¯s still shaken up something fierce. ¡°You made this? I can¡¯t be getting my blood on a piece as fine as this.¡±


    Rather than melt at the sentiment, Josie gets all fired up. ¡°Ay, idiota,¡± she snaps. ¡°Just wash it when you¡¯re done bleeding.¡± Finished with me, she gestures for me to do as she says and finishes freeing Noora, who¡¯s half laughing and half crying in the chair. Me, I ain¡¯t about to risk Josie¡¯s ire looking for another clean handkerchief, so reluctant as I am, I give the kerchief a couple twirls before tying it around my neck like compress.


    ¡°Here¡¯s the gameplan,¡± I say, once my wounds are tended and Noora¡¯s back on her feet. ¡°We gather up some things and make for the church. No idea if the Madness is one and done or if the Mindspire can hit us again, but either way, chances of the Spell taking effect on Consecrated ground are low at best.¡± Also gives me a chance to check in on Aunty Ray and the twins, because even though the Padre assured me they¡¯re in good hands, I¡¯m always one to verify. Luckily, we¡¯ve known this day would come sooner rather than later, so I¡¯ve been stocking up on non-lethal defenses, including three cattle prods I done made myself that deliver a Merciful jolt of Electric damage similar to Shocking Grasp. Don¡¯t mean it can¡¯t kill a man, but they¡¯d have to be real unlucky to die from just one zap, or have pre-existing conditions like a bad heart. Josie and Noora get one each, while I loop a long coil of rope around my arm and stuff a bunch of pre-tied rope cuffs into my jacket pockets.


    As for my guns, I hesitate a moment before heading into my room and tossing the Rattlesnake and Model 10 into the safe. Don¡¯t want to shoot no one under the throes of Madness, and I¡¯d hate to get into a scuffle with someone who got the presence of mind to go for my gun. Better to carry around the bottle of Vodka and use Daze when I can, plus I¡¯ll always have the Bolt Cantrip if I needs it, and even a Merciful Metamagic bead on my bracelet for good measure.


    Which don¡¯t mean much of anything with Big Spells if I¡¯m being honest. Sure, a Merciful Fireball probably won¡¯t kill you, but it¡¯ll leave you burnt crispy and wishing it did soon enough.


    ¡°Stay close,¡± I say, as we step foot outside the house and into the chaos I hear breaking out all over town. Sensing Josie¡¯s concern as she glances towards her house, I add, ¡°Soon as the two of you are safe and sound, I¡¯ll go get your parents. I move faster alone.¡± There¡¯s no argument from either of them anymore as I step lively out into the moonlight, where my heart breaks to see the wallies slapping away at each other in their ranch. Drawing in a deep breath, I give a wordless bark made deafeningly loud by the Thaumaturgy Cantrip. The booming sound echoes out into the night and scares the wallies something fierce as they all scamper back to their hidey holes, which is just a bunch of hide pouches I hung up under a roof so they could catch some z¡¯s in comfort.


    Making my way over to the stable, I stop at the barn door for a listen just to make sure it ain¡¯t all out war inside. Only thing I hear is a bit of stamping and whinnying, but things seem more or less under control. Even then, I gesture for the girls to hang back a tick before cracking open the door, where I find myself face to face with a full-sized Cowie.


    My heart leaps in my chest as my partner bodies his way through the door, and my life flashes before my eyes as he stuffs he head in my chest, but that¡¯s all he does. He don¡¯t headbutt me out of this life and into the next, just comes in close for a cuddle because he¡¯s scared and wants a hug, which is what he gets because he¡¯s two tonnes of bull I wouldn¡¯t want to ever mess with. ¡°It¡¯s okay partner,¡± I say, using Console once again before planting a kiss on his big head. ¡°You¡¯re all good here.¡± Inside, I spot Dumpling, Momo, and Samosa all huddled up in the corner, while on the other side of the barn we got Old Tux laying down the law with a couple whinnies and stomps. Don¡¯t matter how angry them other horses get, he¡¯s the boss round these parts, so unless they willing to lay down a challenge, them other horses will fall in line and like it. As for the kiccaws, they look like they all fast asleep in the rafters, huddled up in groups of threes and fives with their eyes closed and wings tucked.


    Which is all good and well, but we got things to do and places to be. Leaving Old Tux where he is to keep the other horses in check, I reassure the cow gals with a few pats and Consoles before heading out with Cowie in tow. Got both girls up on his back too as he trots along side me, moving at a brisk pace to cover ground quick without taking too much wind outta my sails. The neighbours seem quiet, and intent on keeping things that way, which is one way to go about it, but I dunno how powerful the Madness is or how far it will spread, so better to gather up at the Church where everyone can look out for one another.


    As we draw closer to the church and the more populated areas of town, the hubbub of conflict grows louder and louder until there¡¯s no longer denying the Spell¡¯s effect. Madness has descended upon New Hope, with screams and shouts and gunshots aplenty sounding out in the empty night. Been telling people for weeks that they ought to sleep alone in a room with a locked door just in case of this Spell, but that don¡¯t really help when the Spell hits you at dinnertime. I shudder to think what the pub/diner looks like, one which would¡¯ve been packed in tight on a Saturday night like tonight, and I push the thought out of mind since there ain¡¯t nothing I can do about it.


    There are other groups headed straight for the church, and most look at us askew, either moving off to put more distance between us or slowing down so we ain¡¯t moving side by side for long. Can¡¯t say I blame them for their abundance of caution, and I¡¯m just glad I didn¡¯t have to hurt no fools to put some sense into them. Aside from a few tense stare downs, the trip to the church goes by without incident. I¡¯m even relieved to see the Padre for once, as he stands outside his open front doors with his guitar in hand, strumming away at some tune and singing a church song that fills me with hope and assurance as soon as I hear it. It¡¯s like the Console Cantrip, only better and more widespread, an area of effect Spell meant to disrupt and disperse mind-influencing Spells like Madness. He¡¯s even smiling as he sings and gives me a little nod as I pass by, like this here is just one of his little church meets and I¡¯m here for the sweet treats.


    Say what you will about the Padre, but it takes more than a little Madness to shake his faith.


    Inside the church, Aunty Ray¡¯s got everyone grouped up in front of the altar, ready to run or fight should they come under attack. A born leader she is, not in the same way Uncle Teddy is, but a leader all the same as she takes charge and reassures the crowd that everything will be okay. That said, her fa?ade cracks just a bit when she sees me come in with a bloodied kerchief around my neck, and she runs over to hug me tight and make sure I¡¯m okay. Takes some convincing, but I manage to avoid the antiseptic for now by redirecting her attention to Noora, who¡¯s plenty shook up by the night¡¯s events and has gone more or less catatonic in Josie¡¯s embrace while Chrissy hugs them both as moral support. ¡°I¡¯m gonna head out and check on her parents,¡± I whisper, which earns me a wide-eyed glare all full of ire from Aunty Ray who¡¯d much rather I stayed here, but I don¡¯t back down one bit.


    ¡°Well,¡± she says, struggling to come up with a reasonable argument. ¡°At least I got an answer now, don¡¯t I?¡± She runs her finger over the kerchief, no doubt thumbing the HZ & JR. ¡°I¡¯d¡¯ve lost money on that. Could¡¯ve sworn it was Noora you fancied.¡±


    She ain¡¯t exactly wrong, but I ain¡¯t about to tell her as much, so I give her a wink and turn to reassure Cowie before heading back out again.


    Only to find I got a tail now, with Tina following close behind, holding her own cattle prod and a couple rope cuffs of her own. ¡°Get back inside,¡± I hiss, while the Padre hits those high notes beside us while doing his Christian rock thing and looking all too handsome in the process. ¡°You keep your mama and Chrissy safe.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ll be safe in the Church,¡± Tina retorts, blowing her hair out of her eyes because she done already let it down for the night. ¡°And you got no guns and no Spells left to you.¡±


    Because I¡¯ve already blown them all on Mental Fortress today, keeping her head clear for the morning at least. Chrissy picked it up for herself a few days ago, and keeps trying to show me how to do it proper, so Tina¡¯s been getting my Spell since then. ¡°Got one or two,¡± I mumble, knowing it ain¡¯t much of an argument, and she knows it too.


    ¡°Well I got most of mine.¡± Because she hasn¡¯t learned the Spell herself yet, as she¡¯s having trouble with the math. Can¡¯t everyone just Intuit it like Chrissy can, now can she?


    ¡°Illusions ain¡¯t always the best Spells to use against enthralled targets.¡± Which while true, is mostly just said for the sake of my ego. ¡°What Spells you got?¡±


    We talk on the go, because Josie¡¯s place ain¡¯t all that close. Normally, we¡¯d go down the main thoroughfare and turn onto her street, but I¡¯d much rather avoid people wherever I can. That¡¯s why I left Cowie behind too, as we clamber over a wall and move along it until we reach the next street where we run into a brawl breaking out. There a trio of fellas carrying a pipe, a bat, and a plank, and they each do their damnedest to brain one another in the streets with no real care or concern for what happens to them. Before I can tell Tina to leave them be though, she rushes on over while waggling her fingers and chanting along the way. Soon as she¡¯s in range, she throws her arm out towards the combatants and shoots rainbows out of her palm, a light show so bright it leaves me seeing spots and her targets flailing about in blindness.


    Color Spray, which grants temporary blindness that won¡¯t last more than a minute, but still blind all the same.


    ¡°Good Slinging,¡± I say, before using Living Whip to lasso one blind fella out of reach of another, then taze the second who¡¯s still swinging wildly at the air. Man goes down convulsing like he done been possessed, which is really not what I was expecting. ¡°Holy heck,¡± I say, as Tina zaps the last fella who goes down just as hard as this one here. ¡°People use these things on cattle?¡±


    ¡°Poor things,¡± Tina murmurs, and I can¡¯t tell if she¡¯s talking about the cattle or these two unfortunate souls here, who are both weak and spasming yet still trying to get back up and fight. Tina gets right to tying her prisoner up, and I do the same, with the both of us sharing a soft little smile in the midst of all this chaos. Her bright eyes and cheery smile sets my heart to fluttering, and I can¡¯t help but think about what Aunty Ray said. That conversation has been rattling around in my head for some weeks now, about how Tina don¡¯t really understand romance, but I ain¡¯t done nothing about it because I don¡¯t know what there is to do. She¡¯s my sorta-sister, and I love her to bits, but I¡¯ve no idea how to be brotherly about my affection, not when she gets my heart racing with a smile. So do Noora and Josie, but it¡¯s different with them, because it¡¯s wrong and new and exciting, while with Tina, it just¡­ is. I love her dearly, will hurt anyone who ever makes her cry, and while Aunty Ray says Tina don¡¯t understand the difference between familial and romantic love, I¡¯m not so sure I do either. Love is love, and I don¡¯t know how to separate that warmth and affection from the hunger and passion.


    Best learn quick though, because while Josie and Noora might be happy to share me between them, I¡¯m not so sure they¡¯ll be thrilled to include another woman in the mix.


    Once we got all three men hog-tied and harmless, we haul them onto a Floating Disc I conjure up with a Ritual. Can¡¯t leave them be, not while they struggle against their bindings in a frenzied rage, because who knows who might come across them while we gone? No amount of Dazing, water splashing, or face slapping can shake them out of it, and I thank the Lord Noora¡¯s made of sterner stuff. Don¡¯t know what it is she saw, but she snapped out of it right quick, even if she¡¯s still reeling from the aftereffects. I would be too if I didn¡¯t have a mission at hand, namely find Josie¡¯s parents and bring them back safe. Wouldn¡¯t hurt to get into their good books considering all the sinning I¡¯ve been doing with their daughter, though here¡¯s hoping they don¡¯t find out anytime soon.


    With the Floating Disc behind us, we can¡¯t climb no more walls, but I know this town like the back of my hand and Tina knows it even better. There are plenty of small footpaths in between the major streets, ones too small for a full-sized wagon but good enough for a wheelbarrow at least. Bad for defense when the plan is to cordon Abby along main streets, but people will sacrifice a lot for the sake of convenience. Either way, me and Tina got our work cut out for us getting to the Ramirez¡¯s place. We stop three more fights by doling out a few Colour Sprays and Dazes, though we¡¯re forced to put four more men down with zaps when they come running at us. Hear more than a few gunfights in the process too, but those we steer clear of, and do our best not to look too closely at the aftermath of too many encounters which I¡¯d really rather not parse out.


    Not too many dead just yet, but plenty bloodied, broken, and injured, while those few who did bite the bullet didn¡¯t go in a pretty way. Once Madness takes hold, there¡¯s no stopping your rage, and the unchecked consequences are unsightly to behold.


    Good news is we find a band of holdouts who seem well off enough to hold our prisoners and free us up to be about our way, but our progress is slow going indeed. By the time we get to the Ramirez house, almost a full hour has passed instead of the normal fifteen-minute jaunt or five-minute ride, and my stomach is twisted up in knots from everything I seen. The house is lit up upon our arrival, the kitchen light shining through the window and the porch light on so Noora and Josie can make it back safe and sound. Ain¡¯t no movement inside though, and nothing I can hear from the front door neither. I try it, find it locked, then pull out Josie¡¯s key and slip it into the lock. There¡¯s no keeping quiet about this, at least not when the whole street seems empty and desolate, so I let the clack of the tumblers sound out as I unlock and open the door. ¡°Hello?¡± I call, sticking to cover as I peer inside the dark mudroom and the house beyond it. Only light on is in the kitchen, and I spot a ray shining out from the left side of the door. ¡°Mr. and Mrs. Ramirez? It¡¯s Howie Zhu. Just coming back to check in.¡± No answer, so I give Tina a look before stepping inside, one that says cover my six. ¡°I¡¯m unarmed and I¡¯m coming inside.¡±


    Which ain¡¯t entirely true, as I got my non-lethal cattle prod, but ain¡¯t no mincing facts. This here is to protect me and Tina, because you gotta look after yourself before you look after others. As I step into the hallway and shut out the noise behind me, I hear a faint sound that¡¯s difficult to parse at first, because it ain¡¯t what I expected. When I finally I.D it, my stomach drops out from under me, a sensation redoubled once the sharp, metallic tang wafts through the air and hits my senses hard. Gesturing for Tina to stay back, I come up alongside the kitchen doorway, and take a moment to steel my nerves before looking.


    Because when you take everything I seen tonight, then add in the smell of blood and sound of a grown man sobbing softly, you know it ain¡¯t gonna be pretty.


    The blood is always the first thing you notice, a shade of crimson bright and vibrant it almost assaults the senses. Not all of it is that brilliant hue, as time enough has passed for some of the blood to pool and coagulate, darkening to a somber shade of red that is so far removed from the first. It¡¯s everywhere, all across the kitchen floor, streaks and sprays that paints a picture I¡¯d rather not see and tells a tale I¡¯d really rather forget. The long and short of it all is that Josie probably got her grit from her mama, seeing how her daddy succumbed to the Madness and hacked the love of his life apart. With a fruit knife of all things, chasing her round and round the kitchen to get at her, and now the poor man¡¯s covered in his dead wife¡¯s blood while cradling her torn and mangled body in his arms.


    That¡¯s the worst part of Madness you see. In the moment, you think that¡¯s what you want, that it makes sense to do what you doing, only for the Madness to fade and the guilt remain.


    Then and only then does Mr. Ramirez notice my presence, glancing up with puffy, tear-stained eyes and blood smeared across his face. ¡°I don¡¯t know what came over me,¡± he whispers, and my heart shatters to hear it. ¡°Mi reina, mi sol, mi alma¡­ What have I done?¡± Though looking right at me, I can tell he ain¡¯t seeing me for who I am, just someone he can confess his sins to. That is right up until his eyes focus and his stare fixates on me. Not my eyes, not my expression, but on my neck, where Josie¡¯s kerchief sits plain as day and reads, ¡°HZ & JR¡±.


    And wouldn¡¯t you know it, the man, this poor, tortured, guilt-ridden man, smiles and sighs to see it. ¡°Good good, he says,¡± he says, nodding in approval as he holds his dead wife up to see it too. ¡°You will look after mi chiquita. You tell Josie that we love her. Noora too. Though our time was short together we were a family. Do not let them see this.¡± That¡¯s all he¡¯s got for me, as he looks down at the love of his life lying dead in his arms. ¡°Do not let them see me.¡±


    His arm comes up to reveal a pistol in hand, and I shout, ¡°No,¡± as I run in just in time to get hit by the splatter, as Mr. Ramirez punches his own ticket so he can follow after the love of his life.


    Because like the song goes, he can¡¯t live, if living is without her.

 Book Two - Chapter 83

    I never understood why suicide was considered a cardinal sin.


    The way Catholics tell it, life down here in the real world is a punishment for original sin, seeing how Adam and Eve were kicked out of the Garden of Eden for eating some forbidden apple. I know, I know. The story isn¡¯t supposed to be taken at face value. It¡¯s an allegory for accepting or rejecting divine authority, and the consequences we all face due to free will, temptation, and our inborn desire for autonomy. Or something like that. I never paid much attention in church or prayer study, but the general gist I got was that life is a test of faith. A trial, a pilgrimage, a gift from God, yet a test all the same to see if we follow the rules by our own free will, and then and only then will we be allowed into Heaven.


    Which don¡¯t make no sense at all. If God gave us free will, then why, in His infinite wisdom, does He expect us all to follow the rules, when he the one who gave us free will in first place? Seems counter intuitive don¡¯t it? You can¡¯t give someone the option to do something, then get mad when they do it. It¡¯d be like inviting guests over for dinner and getting upset when they show up, because you only made the invitation to be polite.


    What I¡¯m getting at is that if God wanted us all to act a certain way, then giving us free will is not how you go about making it happen. Tests of faith are one thing, but if we have free will, then why aren¡¯t we allowed to opt out? Seems petty is all, which is why I always thought making suicide a cardinal sin a mite harsh. I seen a lot in my days and had to cut more than my fair share of dead danglers down from the rafters, but I ain¡¯t never had anything for them except pity. Don¡¯t no one want to die. They just do it because they believe the alternative is worse. Takes a lot to push someone that far, and while I can¡¯t say I understand it, I ain¡¯t ever blamed no one for it. When it¡¯s the dead of winter and you got no food left, or the building is on fire and you six stories up, the only choice you got left is a slow and painful death or a quick and painless one. Life is hard, and for some, the easy way out is much preferable to the alternative, and I don¡¯t think it¡¯s fair to deny those poor souls the Kingdom of Heaven just because they couldn¡¯t hack it.


    I¡¯m not saying you should let them all in neither. It¡¯s just sometimes in life, you get dealt a bad hand, and there ain¡¯t nothing you can do except fold.


    Like poor Mr. Ramirez who not only lost someone near and dear to his heart, but felt wholly responsible for it. Man thought he couldn¡¯t live with that, which is the sort passion and romance that loves songs are literally written about. This the first time I seen someone punch their own ticket though, instead of stumbling into the aftermath, and I gotta say, none of the songs, poems, and stories I ever heard mentioned how gruesome a self-inflicted gunshot can be. Ain¡¯t no songs about how a Bolt to the chin at point blank range will pop your head from the inside out like a meat balloon. It¡¯s all that pressure you see, as the Force of the Bolt drives it upwards through your skull to displace blood, bone, and brain matter, driving it all aside to burrow a channel through you head until the pressure builds to a point where your skull simply explodes at the other end. The entry wound won¡¯t be more than a small hole you could barely fit your pinky through, and maybe some burn marks too. The exit though? Ain¡¯t nothing there but a crater, one which blew clumps of gore and hair out in a conical spray to paint the walls and cabinets of the Ramirez kitchen in a bloody and visceral mess.


    Even popped his eyes, burst them from the inside to leak liquified brain out from those now sightless orbs, which you most certainly ain¡¯t gonna hear about in no song.


    They don¡¯t talk about the twitching either, though I¡¯ve grown accustomed to the sight, and the stench too as the spasms come to an end and the body wholly relaxes in death. Tina ain¡¯t used to it though, and with all the other horrors she¡¯s witnessed tonight, it¡¯s enough to push her right over the edge. I hear her turn and vomit behind me, and I can only hope she was far enough back to miss out on the moment of truth. Despite the loving couple laid out together in death, there¡¯s no warm sentiment here, no glamourous end or entwining love, as all the romance and passion has been superseded by the cold finality of ugly death, one I will spare Josie from having to see no matter the cost. Ain¡¯t right of Mr. Ramirez to go out like that, to just die alongside his wife and leave his daughter to someone else, abandoning her in a time when she needs her family, her father, the most.


    Can¡¯t help but think about how my daddy felt, having to watch my mama die then work himself to the bone keeping her killer alive. He must have been hurting just as bad, but he pushed through and kept going because it was the right thing to do, and it fills me with a cold rage to know Mr. Ramirez couldn¡¯t do the same for Josie.


    So I get it now. Suicide is a sin. There is no romance or passion here, no glamour or glory to be found. Only apathic disregard and utter selfishness for those you leave behind, the friends and family closest to you and everyone else who has to deal with the fallout, which in this case is me. Tina¡¯s sobbing kicks me out of my stupor and into high gear as I turn around and herd her out and away from the kitchen. ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± I say, pulling out a clean kerchief and Intoning, ¡°Obtestor ¨C Aqua ¨C Sphaera,¡± to Conjure up a Water Sphere. ¡°You¡¯re okay.¡±


    This is the first time I¡¯ve waggled my phantom fingers in front of someone that wasn¡¯t transformed into a cute critter, but Tina don¡¯t notice. Now ain¡¯t the time to mention it though, as she stands there all distraught and devastated with tears streaming down her cheeks. ¡°Why did he do that?¡± she asks, her voice no louder than a whisper as I rinse vomit out of her hair and wipe her eyes and mouth. ¡°He didn¡¯t have to do that¡­¡±


    ¡°Wasn¡¯t him,¡± I say, tending to her with a gentle touch and wishing I had a second hand to hold hers tight. ¡°Was the Madness, understand? It got up in his head, so he wasn¡¯t in his right mind. The Madness done him in, and that¡¯s that.¡±


    Tina doesn¡¯t reply, just puts her head down and cries. I got no other words of comfort for her, but when all is said and done, I give a hug that we both need dearly and a light kiss to the temple before directing her to stay by the front door. Ostensibly to watch for looters or crazed killers while I clean up, but we both know that ain¡¯t why she¡¯s posted at the door. She¡¯s there so she don¡¯t have to go back into the kitchen, an out she¡¯s more than grateful to take as I head back in to deal with the corpses.


    Done it once, done it a thousand times. Don¡¯t matter how horrific it is or how bad it smells, and makes no difference if it¡¯s someone I know and the parents of a girl I¡¯m more than sweet on. A body is a body, dead meat and empty flesh, no more, no less. Clean up is clean up. The tablecloths come out, which I use to wrap the bodies so nothing shows. Mark which one is which, though it takes some doing to remember their full names. Guillermo and Amy Ramirez, a love story for the ages maybe, but here and now, they¡¯re two corpses I haul up onto the Floating Disc and keep parked in the kitchen to spare Tina from having to see them. Job ain¡¯t done though, not by a long shot, because I can¡¯t let Noora and Josie come back to a blood-stained, gore spattered kitchen, now can I? So I waggle my phantom fingers and Intone the chant to Conjure up another Water Sphere which I toss at the walls before Conjuring up another. The Conjured Water flows down to the hardwood floor alongside most of the mess, which I get to by splashing a bucket of real water out and using Shape Water swirl it around before jumping back into the bucket and emptying it into the side hedges with no one the wiser.


    Takes some doing, and once most the gore is dealt with, I have another go at the kitchen with rags, a mop, and elbow grease. Add in some liberal use of Prestidigitation to get those tough spots and Gust to clear out the smells, and the kitchen is clean as it¡¯ll ever be, minus a few scuffs, chips, and knife marks in the floor, walls, and cabinets. Even then, I don¡¯t think I could ever look at this kitchen again without seeing what I just cleaned, not for many, many years yet. That said, even I gotta admit I¡¯m stalling now, because I told Josie I¡¯d see her parents safe back to the church, and now I don¡¯t know what I¡¯m gonna say. How do I tell her I failed and her parents are dead, both by her own father¡¯s hand?


    I don¡¯t know, but there¡¯s nothing I can do except saddle up and get at it. Feels like a dream, a nightmare really, as I lead Tina back through the quiet, empty streets, moving from globe to illuminated globe as the street lights hold back the pitch blackness of empty night. I do everything by the book, keeping careful vigil and an ear out for danger, but it¡¯s all autopilot really. Feels like I blink and I¡¯m back in front of the church, where the singing Padre greets me with a look of pained grief when he sees the wrapped bodies on the Floating Disc behind me. His music is meant to counter charms and Enchantments, so it don¡¯t do nothing to lift my spirits, nor does it do anything for his. The Ramirez¡¯s weren¡¯t among the first families here, but they been here longer than most, and some of the Padre¡¯s most devout worshippers. Without missing a beat in his song, he gestures for me to place the bodies to one side, where he¡¯ll stand watch over them until he can give them their last rites.


    Say what you will about the Padre, but he¡¯s more than earned my respect tonight. Man made himself a target standing out here and opened up the doors to his church because it was the right thing to do, and as I head on in with Tina at my side, I see that he¡¯s saved more lives tonight than a dozen of me ever could. The pews are packed with townsfolk all huddled together for comfort, while Aunty Ray oversees things to make sure they all good food, blankets, and healthcare if they need it. Busy as a bee she is, but not so busy that she don¡¯t spot her daughter in the crowd and sense that Tina needs her. That¡¯s how mothers are after all, she¡¯s the best around. Opens up her arms and Tina shoots right into her embrace with a sob, and Aunty Ray still got time to spare me a glance too. Me, I give her a nod to let her know I¡¯m all right, then go back to scanning the crowd for Josie and Noora. They ain¡¯t hard to find, one with a big red ribbon tied in bunny ears, the other with long, luxurious locks highlighted in glowing purple, both working side by side to deliver food and blankets to those in need. I spot them before they spot me, and make my way over unseen, right up until I can¡¯t hide no more and open my mouth to speak.


    ¡°Josie,¡± I say, catching her by surprise, and she starts to smile at the sight of me until she sees the expression on my face. ¡°I have terrible news. Take a seat. You too Noora.¡± She does, guided into a pew with Noora sitting next to her, and I give it to them straight without mincing words after taking a knee. ¡°Your parents are dead. The Madness got them both. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    Hurts to say, and hurts to see how it devastates them both. Noora shrinks back from the news, looking so small and vulnerable as she mourns the loss of her new family, while Josie sits there in dazed bewilderment, still yet to process the words that I¡¯ve said. Take her long seconds to get through it, to push past the denial and face the facts, and it kills me to watch her go through it. Doesn¡¯t matter that she¡¯s got Noora on her arm or me right here in front of her, holding her hand and squeezing it just to remind her she ain¡¯t alone. She is though, because no matter how many people we might have around us, we all go through this alone, alone and afraid and angry as all heck. There ain¡¯t no way around it. The struggle is a solitary one, a misery we all must confront on our own as we bid farewell to someone we love, because your first instinct is always to deny it. To reject the facts and cling to hope, forsaken hope that this is all some dream, some cruel joke, or horrible mistake. That maybe I went to the wrong house, mistook two strangers for her parents, or some other grand, cosmic error took place and her parents are still alive and well.


    I get it. I watched my daddy draw his last breath and kept doing CPR for hours hoping he¡¯d just wake up and open his eyes despite the three Bolt wounds in his chest. Grief makes fools of us all.


    Not Josie though, who sits there with lips aquiver blinking her big doe eyes until they¡¯re full of tears. Breaks me to see it, and I¡¯m not sure if she pulls me in for a hug because she needs it, or I lean in because I do. Either way, I wrap my arms around her and Noora both and hold them tight, wishing I could¡¯ve done something, anything to spare them from this pain. If only I¡¯d acted faster, or said something to her father, done something to make him understand his daughter still needs him. Daughters, in fact, because Noora was a part of their family too, meaning the poor girl¡¯s been orphaned twice now.


    Kills me to know I failed them, but this ain¡¯t about me. It¡¯s about them and their loss, so I stay strong and stoic as can be and wish things were otherwise.


    I do all that I can to get them over this initial bump, answering questions when they¡¯re ready to ask them and bringing them out to see the bodies. I don¡¯t unwrap them then and there of course, but I let them see their mama and hold their papa¡¯s hand. Ain¡¯t no denying it then, and the absence of hope is sorely felt as it is drowned in a deluge of facts. The Madness took them both, I make this very clear, to Noora and Josie as well as the Padre singing nearby, who¡¯s giving us our space to grieve in solitude but keeping an ear and an eye on us should he be needed. Suicide may be a cardinal sin, but I¡¯m calling this exigent circumstances because any merciful God would. Still can¡¯t forgive the man for what he done, taking the cowards way out like that, because he should¡¯ve stuck it out. I get it, man couldn¡¯t handle the harsh new reality and went out on his own terms, but he needed to man up and be here for his daughters, regardless of how he felt. I see this now, because a romantic death does nothing for Josie and Noora, the daughter he raised and the other accepted, girls who more than anything need their daddy to stand strong beside them and shoulder the tragedies of today.


    They¡¯ll get through this eventually though. I know they will. When the girls are all cried out, I bring them back to my room in the church, which I¡¯ve been staying in all this while. Still don¡¯t got a roommate, so I set the girls up inside and bid them goodnight. They don¡¯t argue, because neither of them ready to go home just yet, and they feel safer and more secure here in the church, because Lord knows how long before the Proggie hits us with another round of Madness or maybe even something worse. Once they¡¯re settled in, I check in on Chrissy, who¡¯s been closed off in her room all night with Cowie, being a good girl and staying out of the way so her mama and sister can help out. Cowie¡¯s fast asleep in her arms, snoring the night away, while Chrissy sits there on her bed with her back straight as she cradles his tiny, furry form and stares out into nothing while lost inside her head. Hate leaving her to her own devices like this, but sometimes there ain¡¯t no other way, so I take a knee, tap her hand, and settle in to wait for her to come out of her shell.


    Takes a minute, maybe two. Could be more if I¡¯m being honest, as I kinda zoned out, and I come to when she leans forward to cup my cheeks with her pale violet eyes never quite meeting mine. ¡°Howie okay?¡± She asks, tilting her head in question.


    Imagine that. I come in to check on her, and now she¡¯s checking up on me. ¡°Yeah,¡± I say, doing my best to muster up a smile and failing horrifically. ¡°I¡¯m okay.¡±


    Chrissy tilts her head the other way, which sets the big pink bow-tip atop her hair to bouncing. ¡°Liar,¡± she declares, and she ain¡¯t wrong.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say again, agreeing with her statement. ¡°I will be though. I will be.¡± Chrissy seems to understand, and even pats my head to comfort me. ¡°How are you doin¡¯? The Madness scare you?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Shaking her head, she points at her bow, or at least that¡¯s what it looks like. ¡°Mama¡¯s Spell. See?¡±


    Meaning Aunty Ray¡¯s Mental Fortress kept Chrissy safe and sound. Talented as she is, even Chrissy can¡¯t cast enough Third Order Spells to maintain it the whole day, as she can only cast it 3 times same as me. That¡¯s 6 hours, and Aunty Ray handles the rest of the day, but from what I hear, the Padre and the Consecrated grounds of the church was enough to keep everyone sane and safe. ¡°That¡¯s good,¡± I reply, without answering her question, because if I say no, Chrissy will keep trying to show me. She¡¯s still miffed I can¡¯t sling the Spell right, as it¡¯s been weeks and she thinks I should¡¯ve gotten it by now, but whatever it is she¡¯s trying to show me, I got no earthly idea what it is.


    Nor does Tina or Aunty Ray, so there¡¯s that at least. I ain¡¯t the only one who don¡¯t get it, as whatever it is, it¡¯s something only Chrissy can see.


    After waking Cowie so he¡¯ll keep her engaged, I bring her dinner plates out to the kitchen sink, then head out to see what I can do to help. Plenty, as there are still people streaming in to seek refuge and assistance, so I keep myself busy doing first aid, handing out blankets, setting up cots, and doling out cups of soup wherever I can. Right up until Aunty Ray finds me again and sits me down to treat my own wounds, which I¡¯d forgotten all about. The sting of the antiseptic on the marks Noora¡¯s nails left in my neck ain¡¯t nothing compared to the hammer to the chest the embroidered kerchief delivers me, as I look upon the neatly stitched ¡®HZ & JR¡¯ and wonder if things might¡¯ve turned out different if Mr. Ramirez hadn¡¯t seen them there.


    It''s such a pretty piece of work, and I can tell Josie was the one whodunnit. A token of her affections, one covered in lively green stems, pretty pink flowers, and dried brown blood set into the bright white fabric. Most of it mine, but there¡¯s a streak of gore that couldn¡¯t have come from me, a splash that could only have come from Mr. Ramirez during my failed bid to stop him. Soon as Aunty Ray gives me the all clear, I find a bucket of water and bring it outside to a bench in front of the church, where I get to scrubbing and slinging so I can get the stain right out. A bit of soap and Prestidigitation is usually enough to get things done, but even after cleaning the kerchief a handful of times, it still don¡¯t feel clean to me.


    And I need it to be, need to remove that stain of failure from this wonderful, heartfelt gift, a symbol of Josie¡¯s feelings which I¡¯ve defiled with disappointment. So I use Shape Water to draw out all the water without wrinkling the fabric, then wet it again and use Prestidigitation to remove the blemish that only I can see. Then I do it again, and again, and again, all the while taking the utmost care not to wrinkle or wear out this kerchief which means so very much to me.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    ¡°Never easy getting bloodstains out of silk.¡± Uncle Teddy¡¯s shadow should¡¯ve given him away, but I been lost in my business out here. Takes me a tick to register his presence, and another to parse through his words, which up until now were just empty sounds that startled me out of my stupor. Uncle Teddy uses the time to take a seat beside me, before beckoning at the handkerchief. ¡°Mind if I give it a try?¡±


    The discipline is so ingrained in me, I move to obey before even considering the question, handing the kerchief over without so much as a thought. Immediately regret it of course, but Uncle Teddy treats it like a delicate piece of work as he lays it out across the palm of his hand. Rather than Prestidigitation though, he Casts a Spell I don¡¯t recognize, one which takes some chanting and brings about some lights across the surface of the cloth, ones which permeate into the cloth over the course of the next minute. Then he casts Prestidigitation a few times before folding the kerchief into a two-peak square. ¡°There we go,¡± he says, tucking it into my breast pocket with a sad little smile. ¡°All clean.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± I say, knowing he didn¡¯t do nothing but show off some Dancing Lights with a fake chant and finger waggle, but it¡¯s nice to know he cares enough to pretend. And hearing him say it somehow makes it true too, because the Marshal don¡¯t lie. Can¡¯t help but lean in towards him, and he slips his arm around my shoulder like I¡¯m a kid again, and we sitting at the docks to do some fishing or out on the thoroughfare having an ice cream. All by our lonesome, as the Padre went back inside at some point, and brought the Ramirez¡¯s along with him to the mortuary out back.


    ¡°Heard you had a rough night.¡± There¡¯s no demand in Uncle Teddy¡¯s tone, no unspoken request to make a report, just a statement plain and simple.


    Still bears answering, so I go with, ¡°Haven¡¯t we all?¡±


    ¡°True enough.¡± Squeezing my shoulder, Uncle Teddy adds, ¡°Still doesn¡¯t take away from what you went through.¡±


    ¡°¡­Guess you talked to Tina. How¡¯s she holding up?¡±


    ¡°About as well as anyone can after a night like tonight. How about you?¡±


    ¡°Well enough.¡± Heaving a sigh, I fiddle with the pocket square for lack of anything better to do. ¡°Just keep wondering if I could¡¯ve done anything different is all. If there was some way I could¡¯ve done better.¡±


    ¡°Always possible,¡± Uncle Teddy says, which ain¡¯t what I want to hear. ¡°But hindsight is 20/20, and from what I can tell, you¡¯ve done a phenomenal job. To hear Tina tell it, the two of you saved more than a dozen people on the way over to the Ramirez house, snapped them out of their Madness or kept them from hurting themselves and anyone else. That counts for something, son. Learn from failure, but cling fast to your successes too, so that you do not become buried beneath a mountain of regrets.¡±


    There¡¯s something in his tone that makes me glance up at him, at the man my daddy idolized so and see what all the years have done to him. Time was Uncle Teddy was the sternest, most stalwart and heroic man there was, but age has worn him down some. Not much, as he¡¯s still a vital and striking man with a solemn, somber dignity that most lack. Without the military jacket and pins, he could pass for anyone really, from stoic farmer to high-priced lawyer and anything in between, except none of those versions could ever be called meek or weak. Me, I¡¯m out here scrubbing away at a kerchief because I failed to save one man. Uncle Teddy, he¡¯s feeling the weight of every death and injury here in town tonight, and knows there will be more for him to bear once we learn how everyone else fared. From the small communities like Carter¡¯s compound and Mueller¡¯s Quay, to Riverrun and Brightpick across the lake, I can only imagine how they all fared and things ain¡¯t looking bright. Knowing Uncle Teddy like I do, I¡¯m sure he holds himself responsible, because he swore to safeguard and protect the people of this here Frontier, and tonight, he was unable to do so.


    Yet in spite of all that, he¡¯s out here to see how I¡¯m doing, when he¡¯s the one who needs help the most.


    ¡°How about you?¡± I ask, just to hear what he¡¯ll say and see how I should be handling things. ¡°You holding up alright?¡±


    ¡°Well enough to get through this.¡± The facts and nothing else. Uncle Teddy feels the hurt and soldiers through it, which goes to show how far I still have yet to go. ¡°Reports are still trickling in and my Rangers are checking on every household and shop, but suffice it to say the worst is behind us now. No massed shootings, no explosions, no unhinged Spellslingers lobbing Fireballs into crowds, so while I hesitate to call the losses we suffered ¡®minor¡¯, tonight had the potential to be so much worse.¡± Grimacing as he stares up into the night, Uncle Teddy heaves a long, soft sigh, and for a moment, I can almost feel the heavy burden pressing down upon him as he shares the weight of the world upon his shoulders. ¡°The silver lining to all this is that this attack was not unprovoked.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡±


    ¡°Between us?¡± I nod, and Uncle Teddy lower¡¯s his voice to a whisper. ¡°We found it,¡± he says with a rare twinkle in his slate grey eyes. ¡°The Progenitor and Mindspire both, after exploring an underwater tunnel your information led us to. I¡¯ve had Rangers scouring the depths since you brought that map to us, and not two hours ago, a Strike Team returned with confirmation of our target in a flooded cavern far beneath the centre of the lake.¡±


    His words spark no joy, only keen bloodlust at the thought of finally being able to strike back. All these years, this Proggie has been a thorn in our sides, keeping us from making full use of the lake and living our lives carefree, and now we¡¯ve finally got a lock on its location and a means to get down there. ¡°Flooded cavern is tricky,¡± I say, analyzing the operation like I been taught. ¡°Renders most conventional Aetherarms useless.¡± Even though a revolver and most semi-automatics will still fire underwater, the Bolt won¡¯t get far before its Force is spent. All the magic in the world can¡¯t do nothing against physics, not for long at least, meaning a Bolt will get about 5m out the barrel before dissipating into nothingness. A far cry from the standard 40m on dry land, with Distant and Extend Duration Metamagics doing nothing to change the facts. A lance won¡¯t get much farther, maybe 15m at most, and I¡¯m pretty sure you can imagine what¡¯d happen if you tried to use a Fire or Lightning Spell like Fireball or Arc underwater.


    Not nothing, but water is a phenomenal heatsink and conductor of electricity, which makes both Spells less that ideal.


    ¡°That it does,¡± Uncle Teddy agrees. ¡°Takes some learning to Intone underwater too, because the acoustics or lack thereof tends to throw you off. Problem is, even though the Rangers are trained to do it all, we¡¯ve only a few specialists when it comes to underwater warfare.¡±


    ¡°Like Captain Jung, right?¡± I ask, remembering she used to be a Marine.


    ¡°Top of the list,¡± he replies, nodding in approval at the suggestion. ¡°I see she left a lasting impression.¡± I¡¯ll say, though she didn¡¯t seem none too pleased by what I done, as she didn¡¯t say word one to me the whole trip back. ¡°What other issues do you foresee?¡±


    ¡°Resource management,¡± I say right off the bat. ¡°Water Breathing is a Ritual and will last eight hours, but if the op runs long, your Rangers will need to keep enough in reserve to sling the Spell manually, or have backups in place, like potions or Spell Storage. You¡¯ll also want Mental Fortress on everyone now that the Proggie is slinging Madness, so that¡¯s another Third Order Spell on every member of the team, which only lasts an hour at base. Might also want a Spell for mobility under water, assuming there is one?¡±


    Uncle Teddy winces. ¡°Alter self can let you grow fins or flippers, but it¡¯d be easier just to make a set and wear them. There¡¯s also a few other gadgets and gizmos we could rig up for use, like propulsion rings and buoyant anklets, but in terms of raw Spells, there isn¡¯t much besides the Fourth Order Freedom of Movement. What about our offensive options?¡±


    ¡°Frost Spells and Melee would be king I guess,¡± I say with a shrug. ¡°What¡¯s Drex Durden up to?¡±


    ¡°On his way back as we speak,¡± Uncle Teddy replies, and we both share a little smile to hear it. The Marshal is the heart and soul of the Eastern Front, but Drex Durden and his Corridor Companions are part of the backbone that supports it. The prickly Memphis Ranger is difficult to work with, a loner and perfectionist by nature, but his Joint Task Force Special Operations Unit has cleared out more Proggies than any team this side of the Divide. Done it with less ammo than any team too most like, seeing how they¡¯re a bunch of crazy melee enthusiasts from all manner of nationalities. Drex often leads the charge with twin curved kukris each measuring a foot and a half long, weapons crafted with an Adamantine core and a Mithril edge to hold some top tier Imbuements, one of Frost and the other Shielding. Man can shoot as well as any, but given his propensity to go delving under dark for weeks at a time, him and his prefer to carve Abby up close and personal. Only exception to the rule is their team Sharpshooter and Controller, Caitlin Ballybrie. Even then, I hear the stout Scottish import can outbox most Rangers on any given day, though I¡¯m of the opinion that most let her win on account of having to face Wolfgang if they win, the Corridor Companion¡¯s hulking seven-foot Prussian brawler who carries around a giant battle hammer as part of his kit.


    And they¡¯re the normal ones out of their group of five, which really says something about the last two nutjobs.


    Me and Uncle Teddy chit chat a bit more about options and Rangers who might be a good fit, mostly to keep our minds off the crisis unfolding around us. It¡¯s a ray of hope in an otherwise dark and dismal night, one we both cling to because we need that to get through today. It¡¯ll still be weeks before they¡¯re ready to take on the Proggie, weeks of much needed training and preparation. Not just learning how to fight and sling Spells underwater, but how to communicate without Illusions since those can be ¡®overheard¡¯ by Abby, and how to use all the gadgets and gizmos the Ranger Artificers are no doubt hard at work producing and fine tuning even as we speak. Mariner¡¯s armour, anti-Enchantment medallions, rings of Spell Storing in place of boot sole inserts, and more, there¡¯s an endless list of things we could use or ideally would have before launching an underwater attack.


    Which means it¡¯ll be some time yet before the Mindspire is taken care of, but it¡¯s only a matter of time before the Proggie is finally uprooted from the lake, removing the one and only blemish on my daddy¡¯s record in fourteen long years of loyal service.


    Doing my best to stay upbeat and avoid thinking about how they done my daddy wrong, I say, ¡°Well, if you need an extra Scout, you know where I¡¯ll be.¡± Here sitting in town twiddling the one thumb, because I done upset the Mafia and don¡¯t no one want me running around on my own.


    ¡°I think Drex has it covered,¡± Uncle Teddy retorts, patting my shoulder to show he understands. ¡°If not, we¡¯ll have plenty of Rangers to pick up the slack. No shortage of them here in New Hope.¡± Unlike how it was back in Pleasant Dunes, where I was an option of last resort. Besides, from everything I heard about the man, Drex might take issue with having a rookie like me on board with the plan. Don¡¯t matter if I¡¯m only one of twenty, thirty, or even forty Rangers and in a minor support role, as he only works with the best of the best of the best.


    And Howie Zhu is far from it. Cream of the new crop maybe, but green is green all the same.


    ¡°Besides,¡± Uncle Teddy continues, giving me a firm couple pats on the back. ¡°I¡¯d say you¡¯ve done more than enough.¡± All I got for him on that account is a blank stare, as I¡¯ve no idea what he¡¯s talking about, and he seems taken aback by my surprise. ¡°You might not have been the one to find the Progenitor under Last Chance Lake,¡± he explains, all proud smiles and warm approval, ¡°But you showed us where to look.¡±


    ¡°Asked around is all,¡± I say with a shrug. ¡°Anyone could¡¯ve done it.¡± Was Carter who done all the leg work, or fin work I suppose, and I just passed the message along.


    ¡°Anyone could have,¡± Uncle Teddy agrees, with that tone that says he ain¡¯t actually in agreeance. ¡°Was you that did it though, and your information which led us to the Progenitor and Mindspire both. Even Quartermaster Lacey sees it that way, so he¡¯ll have a check for you to pick up soon enough. Take the win, son, and know that your father would be proud.¡±


    Words I¡¯d normally glow to hear, but they ring hollow in the here and now. Don¡¯t feel like I done anything to deserve it, nothing besides pass a single map along, and I can¡¯t muster up much of an effort to play along. Hate to bring down Uncle Teddy¡¯s mood like this, because I can tell he needs the win as much as I do, because the whole reason the Proggie unleashed Madness in the first place was probably to drive the Strike Team away. He don¡¯t blame me though, just sits with me a little longer before saying, ¡°You¡¯re so much like him, you know?¡±


    Which is a different tune from what he was singing before, a sentiment he reads right off my face. ¡°In temperament, if not ability just yet,¡± Uncle Teddy clarifies, adding in that extra bit to say he ain¡¯t given up on me. That¡¯s good to know, because he ain¡¯t asked why I ain¡¯t signed on to Basic, since we both know why. I wouldn¡¯t make the cut, simple as that. Need two hands to soldier, simple is as simple does, and not even the Marshal can make an exception for me there. Pushing past the difficult subject, he gets that look in his grey eyes when he¡¯s looking back in time, reminiscing of days past when things were simpler, if not easier. ¡°He paid no mind to his accomplishments, and was always fixated on what there was still yet to do. That¡¯s why he was always out and about on the road, because he knew how much good he could do out there, how many lives he could change and people he could save.¡±


    ¡°Duty and obligation above all else,¡± I say, resisting the urge to scowl at what all his hard work and dedication got him.


    ¡°You¡¯re the same way,¡± Uncle Teddy says, which throws me for a loop, and he chuckles to see it. ¡°You never noticed? Anything you do, you give a hundred and ten percent, and then blame yourself for not doing more. You saved lives tonight, helped a good number of people, and you¡¯ve helped even more by guiding us towards the Progenitor¡¯s lair. Eighteen years it¡¯s remained hidden in the lake, undetected by the greatest Scouts this side of the Divide, your father included, and in a few short weeks, it will be dead and gone because of what you¡¯ve done.¡± Patting my head, Uncle Teddy says, ¡°You¡¯re making your own marks on the Frontier now, and though you must embark upon a path neither of us much like, know that I am proud of you, son.¡±


    ¡°Thanks Uncle Teddy,¡± I say, giving him the best smile I got, one that¡¯s half genuine even, and all I can muster under the circumstances. ¡°Means a lot to hear it.¡±


    ¡°Another week, maybe two,¡± Uncle Teddy says, changing the subject after a long moment of silence. ¡°Then maybe you can get back to work, because by then we¡¯ll have confirmation if the Mafia put a hit out on you. I doubt they will though. Ignazio Pugliano is content with his lot in life and won¡¯t do anything to jeopardize what he has. He understands his place in the grand scheme of things, knows that his continued existence depends on being a small enough nuisance to make dislodging him more trouble than it¡¯s worth.¡±


    Puts me in mind of what Carter said, how it¡¯s easier to pay the Mafia off than it is to fight them, which makes a whole lot more sense now that I know how the Government sees all this. Man¡¯s been hung out to dry more or less, alongside all the other small communities and people suffering under the Mafia¡¯s thumb, so I can¡¯t blame Carter for erring on the side of caution and fearing for the lives of his loved ones. Still burns me to leave Michael be, because the man¡¯s a leech, him and his whole organization, so I say burn ¡®em out and salt their graves, simple as that. Criminal organizations are able to rule by fear because the American Government has proven themselves ineffective at combating them, so maybe it¡¯s high time we changed the rules so they work here on the Frontier.


    That said, I got no complaints about it, not this time around, a change Uncle Teddy notes with a raised eyebrow. ¡°I get it,¡± I say with another shrug. ¡°You¡¯re worried for my safety, so I¡¯ll sit tight and do as you say. Doesn¡¯t mean I don¡¯t think it¡¯s silly I have to live in fear of criminal reprisal instead of doin¡¯ somethin¡¯ about them, but it is what it is.¡±


    Uncle Teddy takes a good long second to study me closely, no doubt to ascertain why I done a quick 180 on the subject, or at least stopped complaining about it every time it¡¯s brought up. He looks me in the eyes, then down at the pocket square he done folded for me, then back up at me with a sad smile. ¡°Ah,¡± he says, in a tone I¡¯d call smug on anyone else, but the Marshal don¡¯t do smug. Certain sure, confident yes, but never smug. ¡°I see. HZ and JR. You and Josie?¡±


    I nod even as my cheeks colour, for more reasons than one. ¡°Recent thing, just happened these last few weeks.¡± Glancing up at the sky, I heave a sigh and say, ¡°Might be done and dusted though, seeing how I let her down tonight.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think she¡¯s the type to blame you for things outside your control,¡± Uncle Teddy says, which is reassuring because it¡¯s true. ¡°Still, if she does, then know that it just wasn¡¯t meant to be.¡± A pause, while he lets me digest that tidbit, then, ¡°You care about her?¡±


    ¡°Very much so.¡±


    ¡°So seeing what happened to the Ramirez¡¯s must have shook you something fierce.¡±


    I don¡¯t deny it, because I¡¯m still reeling from it and can¡¯t make heads or tails of what I think. ¡°It was the Madness,¡± I say, just to be clear, because I know there are rules about who gets to be buried on Consecrated ground, and suicide is a sure way to get yourself 86¡¯ed. ¡°It made him do something horrible, so terrible he couldn¡¯t bear it. Real Romeo and Juliet type stuff, you know?¡± Uncle Teddy doesn¡¯t say anything, so I keep talking to fill the silence. ¡°But then they were both gone, leaving Noora and Josie all alone, and¡­ I dunno. I just thought¡­ it¡¯d be better if he fought on you know? Kept struggling against the Madness instead of giving in.¡±


    Because that¡¯s what happened, no two ways about it. Man didn¡¯t kill himself. The Madness made him do it, full stop.


    ¡°A hard thing to watch happen,¡± Uncle Teddy says, and there¡¯s something in his tone that tells me he¡¯s speaking from experience. ¡°Love drives us to great heights, but the higher you climb, the harder the fall.¡± Looking at me like he can see right through me, he adds, ¡°And now you¡¯re conflicted, because much as you understand the sentiment, you¡¯ve also seen the pain his death has caused, so now, for the first time ever, you¡¯re worried about what you¡¯ll be leaving behind once you go off on your hare-brained scheme of a revenge plan you know you have no chance of coming back from.¡±


    Well¡­ this is awkward. Much as I want to play dumb and pretend like I don¡¯t know what he getting at, I think he deserves more honesty than that. ¡°Guess I wasn¡¯t being sneaky as I thought I was,¡± I say, by way of admitting he¡¯s right. ¡°But it¡¯s not like I got no chance.¡±


    ¡°Oh? And odds did you give yourself? I might have to see the math on that one.¡±


    ¡°50/50. I either make it back alive, or I don¡¯t, one or the other.¡±


    Uncle Teddy laughs, then cuts himself off sharply, because he doesn¡¯t want to encourage that sort of risk-taking behaviour. Soon as he got things back under control, he pulls me in close for a one-armed hug. ¡°I¡¯m glad to see you¡¯re maturing, son.¡±


    ¡°Never said I gave up on it all,¡± I say, if only to be contrary.


    ¡°I know.¡± Still smiling his sad smile, Uncle Teddy says, ¡°But at least you¡¯re considering the consequences now. Maybe because you¡¯ve got more to lose than ever?¡± Adjusting my pocket square ever so slightly, Uncle Teddy says, ¡°Ah¡­ to be young and in love again.¡± He gets real quiet after that, and I know he¡¯s thinking about his lady love, someone he¡¯s never talked about to anyone far as I know. Wasn¡¯t a love here on the Frontier, but back in the Old World, a wife he lost or left behind judging by how he sometimes reaches for a wedding band that ain¡¯t there no more. Don¡¯t think many people even know about it, and I only do because my daddy pointed it out when I asked why Uncle Teddy don¡¯t marry Miss Dawson so we can get free sweets and ice cream.


    ¡°I won¡¯t tell you to give up on your plans,¡± Uncle Teddy says, some long minutes later. ¡°Won¡¯t do anything to stop you either. Couldn¡¯t even if I wanted to, because you¡¯d find a way out. Either way, you¡¯re old enough to make your own decisions. All I¡¯ll say is this. You got a family who loves you Howie, and we would all much rather have you around than mourn your loss once a year on the anniversary of your death.¡±


    Takes more strength to stick it out than it does to throw it all away. Mr. Ramirez showed me that tonight, a lesson I won¡¯t soon forget, though I still ain¡¯t decided about what I¡¯m gonna do about my daddy¡¯s killer. Either way, I got a lot to think about, and the hour¡¯s grown late, so I stand up and stop monopolizing all of the Marshal¡¯s time. ¡°Food for thought,¡± I say, which is the best answer I can give, and he nods in acceptance, if not understanding. ¡°Thanks for the pep talk, Uncle Teddy.¡±


    ¡°My pleasure, son. One more thing.¡± Reaching into his jacket, he pulls out one of them velvet boxes, like what you¡¯d carry a pendant or ring in. ¡°Was going to give this to you tomorrow, but I¡¯m thinking our lesson will have to be delayed.¡± Because there are gonna be a whole lot of funerals to attend, and a whole lot of work to do. ¡°Open it


    I do, and find two collar pins inside, stylized bronze triangles meant to denote me as a proper Magus. ¡°Oh wow,¡± I say, taking a second to let the moment sink it, because this is has been a really roller coaster of emotions. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t thank me,¡± he says, standing up so he can put the pins in himself. ¡°You earned it. Three Third Order Spells, that¡¯s the requirement, and you qualified for it a few days back. Your certification is in the mail, signed, sealed, and notarized, making you an official Magus in the eyes of the United Federation of American States.¡± Stepping back for a look, he looks me up and down as I snap to attention, and we share a smile that is bittersweet because this ain¡¯t how either one of us saw this going down. We both figured it for some big military event where he¡¯d pin them on my collar in front of the troops, to show how I would literally lead the next generation in taming the wild Frontier. Man proposes and Heaven disposes though, that¡¯s how it is, so we celebrate this for what it is while mourning what it could have been.


    ¡°At ease,¡± he whispers, and I comply as he steps forward again to remove them. ¡°Better off keeping this under wraps for now,¡± he adds, which is exactly how I figure it. ¡°Especially since you aren¡¯t legally allowed to prepare one of your three Third Order Spells.¡±


    ¡°Should¡¯ve waited to commission the collar pins along with the breast pins,¡± I say with a smile, referring to the pins that represent the various schools of Magic. ¡°Could¡¯ve gotten a discount ordering four at once.¡±


    ¡°I bought the full set in bronze,¡± Uncle Teddy replies, catching me off guard. ¡°It¡¯s only three Spells a School, or twenty-one Third Order Spells total, so I expect you to qualify for all seven pins before the Watershed.¡± Which shows he¡¯s got high expectations for me, but he ain¡¯t done yet. ¡°Soon as I find time to make up for tomorrow¡¯s lesson, we¡¯ll talk about your future direction. You know as well as I do that knowing and prepping the Spell Structure isn¡¯t enough, so you¡¯ll want to start focusing your efforts on familiarizing yourself with one Third Order Spell to start. Think on which one you¡¯d prefer, and come up with a few backups too.¡±


    ¡°Won¡¯t be Mental Fortress, I¡¯ll say that much.¡± Cracking a smile, I gesture at the Church and say, ¡°Pretty sure Chrissy thinks I¡¯m a lost cause, but she still trying to show me how it¡¯s done, bless her heart.¡±


    ¡°The curse of genius,¡± Uncle Teddy says with a smile, patting my cheek before sending me on my way. With a lot to think about, because now I see how selfish it would¡¯ve been to ride off into the sunset one day without letting Aunty Ray and everyone else know what I was up to. That was gonna be the plan, because if I somehow made it out alive and the Qin Republic pressed the issue, everyone could then truthfully claim ignorance regarding my deeds. Might¡¯ve ended with me branded as an international criminal, executed by the Qin, or worse, but I figured I¡¯d burn that bridge when I get there.


    Now? Now I ain¡¯t so sure. I still want the man who ordered my daddy¡¯s death to pay, but I also got a lot more to lose than I thought I did. Easy enough to lay it all on the line when you¡¯re all there is, but now I know it ain¡¯t so simple, so I suppose it¡¯s high time I stopped to consider my future. On the surface, it don¡¯t look like much has changed, because I still want to get back into fighting form, except I¡¯m not so sure why anymore.


    Can¡¯t be the Firstborn. Gave up on the Yellow Devil. Being an avenger or vigilante don¡¯t seem like the right choice either anymore, so what¡¯s in the cards for old Howie? No idea just yet, but here¡¯s hoping it¡¯s something good.

 Book Two - Chapter 84

    There are those who wallow in tragedy, and those who rise above it.


    Always a crapshoot to see who¡¯s who in the aftermath, and it breaks my heart to watch Josie fall into the former category. A once bright, cheery, and vivacious young woman has been left crippled by grief, and as the days go by, there ain¡¯t nothing me or Noora can do to bring her out of it. We¡¯re both patient though, as time heals all wounds, or so they say. I ain¡¯t so sure since even if you ignore the part where how a wound could fester and kill you, there are some things time can¡¯t fix. Like how I still got only the one hand and still get weepy every time I visit my daddy¡¯s grave. Here¡¯s hoping time does better for Josie though, so I do what I can to just be there for her when she needs me.


    Which ain¡¯t as much time as I¡¯d like, seeing how there¡¯s so much to do in the wake the Madness. The day after is the simplest, as most folks are still in shock and disbelief, taking shelter in the churches and crying over their losses while the Padre carries out funeral after funeral for the dearly departed. I help out where needed, mostly as a pall bearer, grave digger, and a shoulder to cry on as groundskeeper Larry lowers Mr. and Mrs. Ramirez into their freshly dug plots in the cemetery just next to the church. They got a shared tombstone for the both of them, one they had carved and ready as so many folks out here do, and even their plots were picked out beforehand. The Padre didn¡¯t ask too many questions about what went down, accepting my version of events wherein the Madness got them both, but somehow, I get the feeling he knows and holds out the same hope I do that Mr. Ramirez makes it up to Heaven to be with his beloved wife.


    As for Josie, she don¡¯t say much throughout the whole process, just cries into a kerchief while all dressed in black mourning clothes. Noora stands strong beside her, saving her tears for later when she¡¯s alone with Josie, because she¡¯s learned to never show weakness in public. The Padre says some nice things, then steps aside to start the next funeral a few plots over, while the three of us stand and watch as friends of the Ramirez¡¯s take turns tossing soil over the coffins just once. A final farewell I¡¯m much rather skip when it comes my turn to be put 6 feet under, as I¡¯d hardly want the last interaction my family has with me to be throwing dirt at my face. Ain¡¯t much of a reception after the fact either, because almost everyone¡¯s lost someone and got other places to be, so I sit with the girls until groundskeeper Larry comes by to ask for more help. Can¡¯t say I blame him either, as he¡¯s got plenty of it, what with the other two who normally share his duties being laid up with injuries. Besides given how he gets paid by the plot and is splitting his fees with me, I can hardly turn down the easy work and money.


    Josie and Noora both understand, as they know me well enough. They need time to sit around and grieve, because they¡¯re feeling like they got the weight of the world pressing down on them and making it hard to breathe. Me, I need to work off my grief, alongside any nerves, anxiety, rage, or other emotions I might have, because that¡¯s just how I am. Gotta always be doing something, which really puts a damper on people who grieve in different ways. Can¡¯t be processing no emotions while I¡¯m puttering about offering drinks and snacks or changing out kerchiefs or what not. Lots of folks in the church gather to talk about the dearly departed too, which I hate because it almost always feels like a game of one-up where everyone¡¯s trying to be the most miserable one out of the lot.


    That¡¯s how Sunday goes, but Monday is the first real hurdle after the tragedy, the real test that¡¯ll show how long it takes to recover. Everyone tries to get back to business as usual, except there are too many glaring absences to even feign normality. Every time you think you got your feet under you, something throws you for a loop. Like arriving at the bakery to find it closed on account of how Otis Gibson done got pushed out the second story window by the missus while he trying to club her with a chair. Can¡¯t get no back bacon today neither, not unless I care to butcher it myself, because Hamish done killed two men in a street brawl and the Sherrif¡¯s got him locked in a cell. The pub/diner is closed too, because poor Mrs. Peterson was brutally beaten to death by a mob inside, and Shirley the chef broke a few ribs trying to stop the fight. Roy the bartender, Olav the drunk, and a handful of lucid patrons eventually subdued the Maddened mob, but not before two others died in the process, and all that¡¯s just the tip of the iceberg.


    Ain¡¯t pleasant in the least, because it ain¡¯t just about their deaths no more, but the void they left behind. See, I didn¡¯t know Otis all that well, but I loved his baked treats, and them cheesy brisket and potate pies were a real smash hit. Mrs. Peterson was a busybody gossip, but never meant no harm by it, and taught almost every kid in New Hope at one point or another. Even me, though I didn¡¯t last a week in her class because I was too far ahead of the curriculum, a concept she could never really wrap her head around.


    As for the perpetrators of these offenses, I dunno how I feel about the law holding folks accountable for what they done in the throes of Madness. Hamish is a surly sort, with a face meaner than mean, and while he makes a living killing and chopping up delicious animals for good eats, he wouldn¡¯t hurt a fly unless someone wanted to make a meal out of it. No idea how all the legalities of it are gonna work out, but even if him and them other Maddened folks get off scot-free, I dunno how the community is gonna treat them moving forward. Would make for a real awkward reunion, going back to the restaurant where you done stomped a kindly teacher to death, and I¡¯d hate to have to be there for it.


    Then again, those folks got it easy compared to the ones that done killed their husbands, wives, children, or friends, because now their hands are stained with the blood of their loved ones. A hard burden to bear, and anyone who makes it past this has more than earned my respect.


    Was a whole lot of death that happened here in New Hope, and there¡¯s no glossing over it. The morning paper even got a list of names all printed out, casualties of the ¡®Mindspire¡¯s Madness Massacre¡¯. Surprised they didn¡¯t try and squeeze the month of May in there too for extra alliteration, but I suppose Mr. Haj, the editor in chief of the New Hope Herald, thought any more would be too garish even for him. Feels almost unreal to read that list, to put faces to names and know I ain¡¯t ever gonna see them again, which is why I take some time to grieve in my own way, traipsing through town with Chrissy to take in the sights and see what¡¯s changed.


    Quite a bit, which shouldn¡¯t come as a surprise since most people still in town were here because they were deemed essential. Food for example, which makes buying supplies a mite tricksy, or sanitation meaning we got our garbage piling up instead of getting hauled off to the burning pits or Condenser station. Lots of construction crews are a man or three down, and while most old worlders think construction work is unskilled labour, they be dead wrong. Might only be one or two men on a crew who know how to do one specific thing, or at the very least, they do it quick, fast, and really well, which slows down the rebuilding efforts as they all gotta adapt.


    And there are plenty of efforts underway, though so far no one¡¯s put in a world with the Sherrif looking to bring me on and work some hours off.


    By Wednesday, it¡¯s less about grief and more about fatigue, because we as a collective are all tired of it all. We¡¯ve been working round the clock trying to fill in all the gaps we¡¯ve got and make good on what was lost, because only then can we move on from this loss. Problem is, we can¡¯t move on just yet because there¡¯s still so much more we need to fix, including how we ain¡¯t even buried all the bodies just yet. There¡¯s also all the minutia to deal with, like damaged property, lost supplies, or finding a new baker to replace the one we lost, because ain¡¯t no way poor Mrs. Gibson can do the job on her lonesome. Add in how we got traumatized survivors just starting to process what they went through, and we got more drunks at the saloon than ever. That¡¯s with less than half the normal population too, and I hate to think what¡¯d happen if we ever ran out of booze. Ain¡¯t yet time to harvest honey though, so I can¡¯t be making any mead just yet, but I¡¯m sure Clayton¡¯s due to make a real killing the next time his customers come calling.


    On Thursday, Josie finally feels ready to head home for a look-see instead of hiding in the church every minute she can, aside from going to school and back. The Madness scared her something fierce, showed her that the threat of the Mindspire was something real and tangible instead of a theoretical possibility. Can¡¯t say I blame her for her reluctance, as I¡¯d have a hard time going home too if I knew everyone who lived there was dead and gone. I do what I can to be there and support her as we walk through the house, talking her through all the stuff she¡¯ll need to do, like papers to sign and taxes to pay and whatnot, but I¡¯m pretty sure it all goes in one ear and out the other. Thankfully I got Noora there to help as she gives me a look that says, ¡°Shut Up¡±, and a gesture beckoning me closer. I do as I¡¯m told, slipping my arm around Josie while Noora hugs her from the other side, and that¡¯s all we do as we stand about for a good, long while.


    We don¡¯t stay there for the night. Instead, I bring them back to the church to sleep, only to find them both with their bags packed and ready come Friday morning. In response to my unvoiced question, Josie musters up a small, sad little smile and says, ¡°There are others who need the room more. I¡¯ll be fine at home.¡± Turning to Noora, she reaches out and takes the other girl¡¯s hand, whose smile and gaze are so full of tender love and affection I¡¯m almost jealous to see it. ¡°We¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    Doesn¡¯t stop Josie from crying herself to sleep that night, so I hold her close while Noora hugs her from behind. Just like that, a full week goes by as Saturday rolls around again, and on the surface, it¡¯s almost like everything is back to normal. Well, not everything, but close enough that the new normal ain¡¯t all that different from the old. The cracks are there if you know where to look, like how the new baker¡¯s meat pies are called ¡®tourtieres¡¯ and don¡¯t got nearly enough butter, or how there ain¡¯t a line at Hamish¡¯s anymore as people take their business elsewhere. The mood is darker overall too, with most staying home as much as they can in case a second bout of Madness comes around. In that same vein, almost everyone¡¯s going around strapped heavy these days, even Noora and Josie who¡¯ve taken to carrying around the cattle prods on my advice. Guns would be better, but those ain¡¯t allowed at school and there¡¯s still the ever-present danger of a weapon ending up in a Maddened person¡¯s hands.


    Hope is a rarity these days here in New Hope, as the Marshal has yet to announce that they¡¯ve found the Proggie. I get why, since you don¡¯t want to rush into a complicated and challenging operation like this one just because folks are getting antsy. That¡¯s how you lose soldiers, and every Ranger on the Frontier is a valued resource, one we¡¯re still years away from being able to replace. I seen them heading out for training in the lake every day, but otherwise, I¡¯m just as clueless as the rest.


    More so in some ways, as Danny reveals one of those cracks I missed during our Saturday morning tinkering session. ¡°I signed on for Basic,¡± he says, right out of the blue about an hour and a half after I showed up to get some practice in at the workshop.


    Which we spent in near complete silence mind you, since that¡¯s how we both work best and he got his own projects to finish. Like a backorder of cattle prods from all the customers I sent his way, but lately he¡¯s been real fixated on his dreamcatcher or whatever it is. Lead hoops the size of a dinner plate strung up with copper wire patterns, that¡¯s all I see. Some patterns are pleasing, symmetrical, flower-like patters, while others are more like irregular nets, and still more look like geometric spiderwebs, all of which screams dreamcatchers to me. As for his abrupt admission, my first reaction is to say ¡®great¡¯ and go on and on about how he made the right decision. Thing is, I been pushing Danny to sign on for almost two years now, and he ain¡¯t ever budged an inch. It¡¯s always been a hard maybe with him, and even though he¡¯s head over heels in love with Tina, something tells me her offer to show him the ropes ain¡¯t what moved him. He¡¯s trying to be casual about it, but I can tell it been eating away at him seeing how he brung the subject up out of nowhere in the middle of work. That¡¯s sacred time to him, because me and him are birds of a feather who put our noses to the grindstone and tune out everything else.


    So the only reason for him to bring it up like this is because he wants to talk about it, and Danny don¡¯t ever want to talk about Basic.


    Still tinkering with the index finger of my latest wooden model hand, I try to keep things casual so Danny don¡¯t shrink away from the attention. ¡°Sound decision,¡± I say, testing the waters to see how he reacts. ¡°Didn¡¯t know you were leaning that way.¡±


    ¡°Mhm,¡± he grunts, a confirmation as clear as any. He stays quiet for a bit, and so do I, giving him the room to speak if he should so choose to, and soon enough, he says, ¡°Never thought I¡¯d need it, working back here like I do. Then the Madness struck and Ma¡­¡±


    He just trails off there, and I turn to look at him, though he still got his back to me. ¡°Wasn¡¯t her,¡± I say, skirting over whatever it is that might¡¯ve happened, because the details ain¡¯t important. ¡°Whatever she did, whatever she said, it wasn¡¯t her Danny. It was the Spell driving her to Madness, just like the Spell¡¯s supposed to.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± he says, though unconvincingly at that. ¡°I know. It¡¯s just¡­ she tackled Manda, tried to strangle her then and there, and I couldn¡¯t pull her off. Didn¡¯t know how to stop her, restrain her, keep her from hurting Manda, Nikki, or herself. Not in the moment at least. After the fact? I came up with a dozen different things I could¡¯ve done different. There¡¯s a bottle of cooking wine I could¡¯ve used to cast Daze. Sleep Spell Cores go for a dollar fifty each, and installing one onto my skitterbots would¡¯ve done wonders to help. Hold Person potions, Hypnotic Pattern projectors, even a simple Living Whip to hold her still without hurting her¡­¡±


    Which means he had to hurt his mama, and now he can¡¯t forgive himself. Didn¡¯t know things got so bad here. I dropped by once things settled down to see if everything was alright the night off, but he told me he all was well and to get home safe. Figured his mama was worried about me going Mad in the house, but I guess he was just hiding how bad it was. Ain¡¯t much I can say about that, because I can¡¯t even imagine how I¡¯d feel if I were in his shoes and I had to take a cattle prod to Aunty Ray. So I keep quiet and head over to sit with him instead, putting my hand on his shoulder while he keeps his head down and works. Soon as enough time has passed for him to get his emotions back under control, I say, ¡°You did what you had to do, and everyone walked away alive. That¡¯s about as good as it gets considering what went down. Least you know your shortcomings and are taking steps to fix them.¡±


    ¡°Ma wants to move,¡± he says, gesturing off into the distance. ¡°Not to Irongate or Summerbloom, and not just until this all blows over. She¡¯s talking about going upriver, all the way to the West Coast maybe. Somewhere close to Ranger HQ, but less expensive.¡±


    Much as I¡¯d hate to lose my best friend, I gotta consider it from his shoes, so after a moment¡¯s thought, I say, ¡°Might not be so terrible. You can still do your work elsewhere, and it won¡¯t affect you much. Dunno how much safer it is on the West Coast though, as they get incursions from the oceans instead of the Divide.¡± Lots of dangerous Abby come from deep waters, and the west coast got a lot of shock resistant ones with a penchant for Lightning Spells, which is why they named it Thunder Bay.


    ¡°This is my home,¡± Danny retorts, with more frustration than heat, and I can tell there¡¯s more to it than that. This here is also his daddy¡¯s workshop we¡¯re in, where he taught Danny almost everything he knows. These here streets are the ones he done grew up on, and unlike me, he was in town to watch it all go up day by day, instead of coming back every few weeks or months to experience a jarring change. That¡¯s why I ain¡¯t as invested in the town as he is, because it¡¯s no longer the place I grew up in, but that ain¡¯t the same for Danny. New Hope is his home. Always has been and in his mind, always will be, so he ain¡¯t ready to just up and leave like that. His emotions come to a boil as he tosses his tools aside and slumps at his desk, but even then, his skitterbots scamper over to pick up his tools and tidy things up as they¡¯re no doubt programmed to.


    Easy to see he¡¯s having a hard time with all this, and I can¡¯t say I blame him. I¡¯m still reeling from Mr. Ramirez¡¯s death, though I do a better job of hiding it. ¡°How they feel about moving?¡± I ask, gesturing upstairs to indicate his sisters.


    ¡°They¡¯re scared,¡± Danny replies, which is a loaded statement, because again, he feels like it¡¯s his fault. If he was stronger or more competent, then they¡¯d have nothing to be afraid of, so he¡¯s failed them too.


    ¡°And you?¡± I ask, catching him off guard. ¡°You scared too?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he replies, before tilting his head and admitting, ¡°Yes, but I¡¯ve taken steps to make sure the next time around will go different. The skitterbots got Sleep Cores and protocols to use them if we get into a fight. I¡¯ve got a couple potions stashed around the house, and I started carrying a couple vials of alcohol for Daze. Got other plans too, though I¡¯m waiting on materials to move forward, or still working out the kinks.¡±


    The last is said with a frustrated gesture towards his desk, but there ain¡¯t nothing I can do about those. Instead, I think about what he said, and figure it sounds reasonable, then realize why his ma and sisters are still scared. ¡°You tell them as much?¡± I ask, and wouldn¡¯t you know it, Danny¡¯s poleaxed expression tells me the answer in so many worries. ¡°Can¡¯t just tell them not to worry. Let them know what you¡¯ve done and what you¡¯re planning. Maybe even talk about them moving into the church for a bit, or ask the Padre to talk to your ma.¡± That¡¯s the thing about Danny. He knows machines and Artifacts like no one else, but people? He don¡¯t know squat. And that¡¯s coming from me, a man who¡¯s put in a lot of effort into studying the human condition and still don¡¯t understand much of anything at all. Course, I know enough to know it ain¡¯t advice that he needs, which is good because I don¡¯t have any more to offer. Instead, what he¡¯s looking for is support, which I offer in spades, even hinting that maybe the Mindspire won¡¯t be around for much longer.


    Which he reads as my typical faith in Ranger competence, rather than a hint at how the Proggie¡¯s been found, but I don¡¯t feel right spelling it right out. Don¡¯t want to give him too much false hope either, because an underwater battle is gonna be tricky to pull off. Even with Drex Durden leading the way and plenty of Rangers to draw on, there¡¯s a good chance it could take multiple attempts to bring down the Proggie once and for all. Can¡¯t even imagine going into a battle where I can¡¯t rely on Aetherarms or Fireball. I suppose I could always Metamagic Fireball to Frost damage, which feels almost blasphemous to even think, but even then, that¡¯s hardly gonna be enough.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    If anyone can do it though, it¡¯d be the Rangers, and that there is a fact.


    Ain¡¯t much else to be done about Danny¡¯s problems, nothing except be here for him to vent at, and I play my part as best I can. ¡°Whatever might happen,¡± I say, just to cover all my bases, ¡°You need any help at all, you let me know and I¡¯ll be there.¡± Clapping him on the shoulder once more to keep him from having to feel bashful, I add, ¡°Besides, I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll have a blast in Basic. Go out, meet some girls, shoot some guns, what more can you ask for?¡±


    We joke around for a bit before getting back to work, and I finish up putting together my model wood hand lickety split. I¡¯ve come a long way from the first skeletal hand, and now it looks like something you might see on a medical model. Hand¡¯s got a proper shell and everything to hide most the inner workings, while retaining the full range of motion. Which is harder to accomplish than you might think, especially when it comes to your palm and how it can fold in on itself and pick things up with just your thumb or even with no fingers at all if the object is the right size and shape.


    Course the hand don¡¯t move on its own, nor would anyone ever look at it and mistake it for a real human hand. It¡¯s also rife with splinters in the making despite me smoothing every surface as much as I can, but functionally, it¡¯s about as close as you can get to a working hand. For a bit of a laugh, I use a Mage Hand to hold it against the stump of my wrist just to see how it looks, and it hits me hard as I gaze upon what I lost. I know it ain¡¯t a real hand, that it can¡¯t move of its own volition, but that don¡¯t stop me from curling my phantom fingers into a fist and spiralling down into despair when the model doesn¡¯t move one bit.


    The jingle jangle of the shop bell snaps me out of my fugue, and I watch as Danny moves to the door to see who came in. ¡°Oh hey,¡± he begins, sounding casual as can be only to freeze up like a chitter rat that done just heard something move. Tells me Tina¡¯s here, but she wasn¡¯t the first one through the door, which is enough to get me off my feet as I guess at who it might be. As expected, it¡¯s Josie and Noora leading the way while Tina and Chrissy trail behind as the latter stops to glance at every gadget, gizmo, and component there is on all of Danny¡¯s shelves.


    Coming out from behind the front desk, I greet Josie with a chaste hug and a quick kiss on the cheek once I see that Chrissy ain¡¯t watching. As for Noora, all I can do is give her a look saying I¡¯ll make it up to her later. She ain¡¯t all that put off though, happy to play at being the close friend now that everyone ¡®knows¡¯ I¡¯m dating Josie. I ought to practice what I preach and talk to the girls about our relationship and where it¡¯s going, but I got no earthly idea where to even start.


    Not to mention how worried I am I¡¯m gonna screw it all up by saying the wrong thing at the wrong time¡­


    Curling her arms around my neck, Josie squeezes me tight in a big warm hug before backing away with a smile. ¡°Tina said she was coming over for a refresh on her Spell,¡± Josie says, her soft smile and big eyes still missing that spirited mirth which made me fall head over heels for her. ¡°So we figured we¡¯d tag along and see what you were up to.¡±


    Following her gaze, I¡¯m mortified to realize I still got the wooden hand affixed to my wrist, with the Mage Hand clinging gamely on since I ain¡¯t told it to do anything different. ¡°Making wooden hands like always,¡± I say, sheepishly hiding it away, but Noora reaches out for it and I can¡¯t bring myself to deny her. Instead, I pass it over and head over to Tina to hide my embarrassment. ¡°Hey Chrissy,¡± I say, after giving Tina a nod. ¡°I¡¯m gonna cast Mental Fortress now.¡±


    That¡¯s enough to capture Chrissy¡¯s attention as she fixates on me with an almost unnatural focus, straightening up and turning towards me to watch me sling my Spell. Gone are the days when she tells me to stop every time I do something wrong, and instead, she just points at the air above my head as I slowly and carefully Intone, ¡°Cogito ¨C Ergo ¨C Sum.¡±


    I¡¯m fairly sure she¡¯s pointing out flows of Aether to be aware of, but I can¡¯t see them the way she can, so there ain¡¯t nothing I can do about them. Chrissy also gestures a bit, making like a bricklayer smoothing out mortar before waving her arms like she making a snow angel in the air among various other things. All of which is endearing to watch, but makes no sense to me whatsoever. In the end, I cast the Spell through my Extend Duration Metamagic bead and tap Tina on the nose to denote my target. Though well used to it, she still wrinkles her nose every time I do it, which puts a smile on my face as I watch her shoulders relax as the Spell takes effect.


    ¡°Wrong,¡± Chrissy whispers as her shoulder slump in an almost petulant manner, like she suspects I¡¯m making mistakes just to infuriate her.


    ¡°Sorry Princess,¡± I say, more out of reflex than anything else as I reach out to pat her head. ¡°I¡¯ll figure it out eventually. Probably.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong about it?¡± Danny asks, glancing between me and Chrissy. ¡°That¡¯s the Spell, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡± I shrug. ¡°I think she can see the flows as I cast it though, and knows how to squeeze it to make it better, so she trying to show me how it¡¯s done.¡± Chrissy takes a moment to parse through what I said, then nods in a matter-of-fact manner. Then she goes back to inspecting Danny¡¯s wares, poking at this and that with an air of wonder and amazement that I do so love to see.


    As for Danny, he stands there blinking a few times like we just broke out in French and don¡¯t understand what was said. ¡°She can see Aetheric Flows in Spell Structures?¡± he asks, and I give a little shrug in reply, because I can¡¯t really say that¡¯s what she sees. ¡°What about in Wards?¡±


    ¡°Probably,¡± I say, gesturing at Chrissy who¡¯s still snooping through his stuff. ¡°I¡¯m pretty sure she can see flows in general, or at least something akin to them. Could be the effect the flows have on the world around us, like ripples in the water, or the displacement of natural Aetheric flows as new ones are introduced into the mix.¡±


    I watch the gears turning in Danny¡¯s head as he looks at Chrissy in a new light. It¡¯s not like we been hiding how she is, but we don¡¯t go announcing it either. Most just think she¡¯s simple, except she¡¯s anything but. My daddy thought her lack of engagement was due to sensory overload, which is why he taught us to tap her hand to get her attention and squeeze three times to say ¡®I love you¡¯. He said it was because touch is the most decentralized of our senses and therefore the least likely to get overwhelmed, which makes it the best way to get through to Chrissy.


    Hence why it takes Danny three tries to get her attention while calling her name. Even then, it takes a little help from Tina to direct Chrissy¡¯s attention his way, but Danny ain¡¯t as practiced with talking to Chrissy as we are. ¡°Could you tell me more about how Mental Fortress works? No, wait, yes or no questions. Uh¡­ Can you explains the flows for me?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Chrissy replies, before going back to browsing.


    Looking to me for help, I raise an eyebrow in question before arriving at the answer myself. ¡°You been working on a Mental Fortress Ward? Is that what all your dreamcatchers are about?¡±


    ¡°Yea,¡± Danny replies, waving at me, and more specifically Chrissy, to head on into the workshop. ¡°I read in a few places that the Native American tribes used them as protective charms, and they worked like Wards before we even knew what Wards were.¡± Which may or may not be true. Established Wards like the ones I set up for Carter or got on my wagon and lockbox are fairly new tech, around 2 or 3 hundred years old at most. Same with Alchemy and Artisanal Craftsmanship, as they only came into being after Sir Issac Newton laid down the foundation for Cantrips and Newtonian or Orthodox Spellcasting. Arcana Technology is even newer, or at least the part where we create Artifacts without Spell Cores is, since that didn¡¯t come into effect until the 1800s when the Aetheric Revolution caused demand to spike. Since we couldn¡¯t supply enough Spell Cores, we had to improvise, and now we got full on Artifacts powered by Aether without any Cores to speak of, albeit with effects typically limited to Cantrips.


    Which is really impressive when you stop to think about it. I mean a set of speakers is using physics and magnets to replicate what we do with Thaumaturgy, that is project a sound to be louder or quieter than it otherwise would be. A Freeze-box keeps things cold using the Freeze Cantrip, while a television projects Illusions using multiple Minor Illusions, with all that tech controlled by a Central Nexus Unit where everything is wired up to it. As for a Ward, it¡¯s pretty much a physical replication of a Metaphysical Spell, or at least, it¡¯s close enough. If you want to argue that description, you need a university education just to get all the facts straight, so for all intents and purposes, that¡¯s what they are. As for Danny, wanting Chrissy¡¯s help with coming up with a new ward makes perfect sense, as there¡¯s a good chance she¡¯ll be able to spot what¡¯s wrong with the project he¡¯s been working on for almost an entire month now.


    So I ask Chrissy if she wants to look at Danny¡¯s latest and greatest project, something only a few people have ever seen, and she brightens right up at the prospect. Tina follows close behind, because she can see some of those flows too and is just as curious as Chrissy, while I stay outside with Noora and Josie. The former is still poring over my model hand, fascinated by all the moving parts and how it comes together, while Josie is less interested in those sorts of things and just here to keep her company. And see me too, of course, as she offers up a shy little smile that¡¯s got my heart pounding like a rattle drum.


    Slipping my arms around her slim, itty-bitty waist, I pull her in close for a hug and proper kiss. A quick one I don¡¯t want to break away from, but Chrissy and Tina are too close for comfort. ¡°How you doing today, beautiful?¡± I ask. She likes to sleep in alongside Noora on the weekends, and it wouldn¡¯t surprise me to learn she only just woke up a half hour ago even though it¡¯s almost time for lunch.


    ¡°I visited Mama and Papa at the church today,¡± Josie replies, with an air of forced indifference about her as she tries to stay strong, and I tighten my arms around her to let her know I¡¯m here. Nestling into my shoulder, she heaves a soft little sigh and melts right into me. ¡°Still seems so unreal, to know I won¡¯t even see or hear them again.¡±


    ¡°I wish I knew what to say to make all the pain go away.¡± I hold her a bit longer, and ask, ¡°You wanna hear what I do when I miss my daddy?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± Leaning back so she can get a good look at my face, Josie¡¯s expression is one of empathy and intrigue, like it never occurred to her that I might miss my daddy too. I get it, because she buys into the whole ¡®Firstborn¡¯ thing and thinks I¡¯m like some hero come out of a story sometimes.


    Which I don¡¯t argue against too often, because it¡¯s nice to be admired sometimes. She don¡¯t need the Firstborn right now though. What she needs is her boyfriend, and apparently, that¡¯s me, Howie Zhu. How¡¯d I get here? No idea, but sure would like things to stay this way. ¡°Well,¡± I drawl, using my chin to gesture out at the main thoroughfare. ¡°I go around reminiscing of stuff we did. Like that time I accidentally lured three harpies into Anita¡¯s grocery store, and my daddy made me help replace all her broken windows and doors with ones made outta Aberrtin reinforced glass.¡±


    Josie¡¯s heard the story before, as she was in town when it happened, but this is the first Noora¡¯s hearing of it. ¡°You did what now?¡± she asks, holding my model hand in hers like she¡¯s sizing it for a glove.


    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you the full story some other time.¡± Much as I love to tell the tale, this here is about Josie, not me, so I get back on track. ¡°How about you think on that, and come up with some places we can go after lunch? I¡¯ll pack us a basket of cheese and crackers and we can reminisce on the good memories for a change?¡±


    Already teary eyed at the mere thought of it, Josie shakes her head in a quiet refusal. ¡°Sorry,¡± she whispers, burying her face in my chest. ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯m ready for that just yet.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s alright,¡± I say, holding her close and making room for Noora to come in too. ¡°Grief don¡¯t got an expiration date. You take as long as you need, and I¡¯ll be here when you need me.¡± Though that ain¡¯t necessarily true, so while it is probably the wrong time to bring it up, I can¡¯t help but correct myself right here and now. ¡°Uh¡­ well, until tomorrow. I was thinking that long as the Marshal gives me the all clear, I¡¯mma head up to Mueller¡¯s Quay for the week to put a dent in my hours.¡± The look of shock and reluctance in Josie¡¯s big doe eyes is enough to melt me where I stand, and I almost backpedal on my decision then and there, but I been idle for too long and them hours have been weighing heavy on my head. ¡°I¡¯ll be back Friday night,¡± I promise, which don¡¯t change her expression none, so I try and explain it best I can. ¡°Gotta finish all my hours before settling down to find real work here in town, and Tina told me Mr. Mueller asked about me when she was last up there.¡± Only a few days prior, having gone out on patrol to check up on the surrounding communities, like Carter¡¯s, Mueller¡¯s, and Clayton¡¯s. The Sherrif asked me to do it Sunday, but I declined so I could keep Josie company, as she was still reeling from the loss.


    I suppose a week wasn¡¯t long enough then, but I can¡¯t straight up ask how much longer she need me around, now can I?


    ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± Josie says, in a sad sort of tone punctuated by a forced smile that leaves me feeling lower than a snake¡¯s belly. ¡°You do what you have to do, then come back to us Friday.¡±


    I want to explain that I¡¯m doing this for us, so I can get my hours behind me and look for a real job while the two of them are off in Basic. While I¡¯m still flush from my payment for the Proggie, I been spending fairly freely here in town of late, and I¡¯m getting anxious looking at the numbers in my bank account go down without every jumping back up. Now though, now I¡¯m almost hoping Uncle Teddy tells me to sit tight a little longer so I got an excuse to stay home another week. Instead, I say, ¡°250 hours. I get those done and then I¡¯ll be here in town full-time until you sick of seeing me around.¡±


    Josie nods and fakes another smile, leaving me at a loss on what else to say, but thankfully I got Noora here to swoop in for the save. ¡°Tell me about this, guapo,¡± Noora says, holding up my model hand. ¡°You¡¯ve got an articulating wooden hand. What comes next?¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± I say, breaking away from our group hug and taking the model from Noora with a Mage Hand so I can open it up and show her the innards. ¡°Next I start figuring out how I¡¯ll move the parts. In a human hand, we use muscles and tendons, but that¡¯s a little difficult to replicate with machinery. Motors and cables would get the fingers moving, but that would make things like fine control tricky to pull off.¡± Or maybe even downright impossible, as me and Danny haven¡¯t come up with an idea that seems plausible.


    Pursing her lips in a gorgeous pout, Noora huffs and says, ¡°Motors and cables. That¡¯s a lot less magical than I was expecting. I thought you were carving a Totem or something, so you could use it to Conjure up a magical hand.¡±


    My first instinct is to laugh and dismiss the idea, but then a thought strikes me and I give it a second to percolate. As silly as it might sound, that¡¯s not all that far from my idea of creating a new Spell with parts from Mage Hand and Conjure Weapon. Only difference is that instead of straight up Conjuring the hand, the inclusion of a Totem would imply I¡¯m summoning a hand instead. Which is also kinda silly, except that I recently learned Totems are also used in Wildshaping. The bound Spirit in the Totem not only helps the Caster Conjure up a new form to take, it also helps with the control aspect of the final product. When Elodie Wildshapes into a baby diamondclaw, she don¡¯t become Elodie in a diamondclaw body, or even a diamondclaw in a diamondclaw body, but a mixture of both minds that come together as one.


    That¡¯s how she knows how to run, climb, or even walk on her wrists so her claws don¡¯t tear up the floorboards or bedsheets. Because for all intents and purposes, she is a diamondclaw and always has been, only she¡¯s something more with the inclusion of her own mind. Then when the Spell fades, she¡¯s just Elodie again, and got no trouble walking or running about on her own two feet.


    That¡¯s how the Wildshape Spell works after all, or at least that¡¯s the gist of it as far as I know. When I asked if I could Wildshape into myself only with two hands, everyone got up in arms about Skin-walkers and homicidal maniacs, but what Noora said got me thinking. What if instead of Mage Hand and Conjure Weapon, I looked into a Spell taking elements from Wildshape and Conjure Weapon instead? Without knowing the Spell Structure for Wildshape, they seem like they¡¯re more closely connected than my initial pairing, and Uncle Teddy did say it¡¯s easier to go from a higher Order Spell to a lower one, which is what I¡¯d be doing in this case. Taking Wildshape, a Second Order Spell, and paring it down to something First Order to not shape my entire body, but just a singular missing part of me that I could probably provide the Spirit for already.


    Because what are my phantom fingers if not the Spirit of my missing hand?


    ¡°Hello?¡± A caramel skinned hand with painted purple nails snaps two fingers in front of my face. ¡°Mission Control to Howie?¡± Noora says, meeting my eyes in a fit of pique over being ignored for so long. ¡°You there? Or did we finally lose you to your inner monologue?¡±


    Rather than apologize, I snatch her up in my arms and twirl her about, eliciting a small shriek of surprise from the gorgeous girlie. ¡°You just gave me a great idea,¡± I say, stopping myself short of kissing her as I register movement from the workshop doorway. Putting Noora down before I give the game away, I casually glance back to see Tina glaring from behind the counter, no doubt calling me a randy goat in her head once again. How right she is, but I ain¡¯t about to admit that, so I pretend not to notice and explain my newfangled revelation.


    When I¡¯m done spelling it all out, both Josie and Noora look a little lost, and while they both try to appear supportive, it¡¯s clear they don¡¯t really understand the implications. ¡°I dunno how successful it¡¯ll be,¡± I say, being as frank and forthright as I can, ¡°But it¡¯s another avenue of research to go down, which is nice to have. Been banging my head against the wall trying to improve Mage Hand into a proper Spell, so least now I got an alternative to consider when I¡¯ve worn all the other ideas down, even if it don¡¯t amount to anything in the end.¡± Plus it¡¯s an excuse to talk to Carter and maybe see how Elodie is doing, so win-win for me.


    The girls trade a little look, then titter away into a chorus of giggles for some strange reason or another, and nothing I say will convince them to explain what the joke was. Soon as I give up on understanding their inside joke, I head back into the workshop to save Chrissy from her mounting frustrations as Danny shows her different configurations of his dreamcatchers and asks, ¡°Can you tell if any of these will work?¡±


    Chrissy shakes her head, and Danny turns the page, but I spot the problem right quick. ¡°Chrissy,¡± I say, and she turns to me with a doleful little pout that¡¯s almost begging me to bring her away. ¡°Are you saying no, they don¡¯t work?¡± She shakes her head. ¡°So you¡¯re saying no, you can¡¯t tell if they work?¡± She nods, and Danny freezes up to see it. Gotta be real careful with what you ask Chrissy, as she ain¡¯t one for nuance, so I try and help Danny a bit. Moving over to the table where he¡¯s got his dreamcatchers laid out, I point at them and ask, ¡°Do you know how the wires should look to make it work properly?¡± She shakes her head almost immediately, which makes perfect sense. Chrissy¡¯s ability allows her to see the flows of Aether. Doesn¡¯t mean she knows how Aether will flow in certain configurations. Just because we can see the wind blowing leaves about doesn¡¯t mean we know which way it¡¯s gonna go, a concept Danny¡¯s overlooked in his rush for success.


    Crestfallen though he may be, Danny still musters up a smile for Chrissy and says, ¡°Thanks for trying. Sorry if I upset you.¡±


    ¡°Is okay,¡± Chrissy says, reaching out to pat Danny¡¯s head. Giving the dreamcatchers another look, her brow wrinkles ever so slightly like when she sees mushrooms on her plate. ¡°Wrong,¡± she declares, poking at the lead hoop without actually touching it, because she hates how the material absorbs and contains Aether.


    On a whim, I ask, ¡°Can you show us what it would look like if it was right?¡±


    Chrissy thinks about it for a bit, then nods, and waggles her fingers to create a Minor Illusion of a shiny hexagonal ring. There are no wires strung up inside, meaning Chrissy don¡¯t know the pattern it should look like, but it¡¯s clear her issue is with the lead hoops Danny is using, and not copper wire patterns themselves. ¡°Flow,¡± she says, pointing at one side of the hexagon then another, though not the direct opposite, only to move onto a third. She moves her finger back and forth a few more times until she feels her point is made, then dismisses the illusion and asks, ¡°Lunchtime?¡±


    ¡°Of course!¡± Smacking his head, Danny runs over to one of his shelves and rummages through it for whatever it is he needs. ¡°I was trying to make the weaves contain any incoming Aetheric waves, when instead I should be rebounding them. No, catching them?¡±


    ¡°Absorb and filter,¡± I say, catching on to what he¡¯s going on about, and he whips about in wide-eyed glee. ¡°That¡¯s how the Spell works.¡±


    ¡°Yes! You¡¯re right! How¡¯d you know?¡±


    I shrug. ¡°Just got a feel for it is all.¡± That gets Danny to scowling, because he don¡¯t like to put Faith in magic, would rather have it all nice and neat and explained. Which would be great and all, but I think humanity is a long ways away from unravelling all the mysteries of magic, so we gotta put a bit of stock into faith a while longer yet. ¡°You feel like coming out for lunch Danny? Might do the family some good to head out to the church. We having a design-your-own pizza party.¡± Which is mostly to help save Aunty Ray some effort from having to feed so many mouths. They put their own toppings and sauces on, then into the oven the pizza goes for a few minutes to cook, which is fun and engaging for everyone.


    Plus it gets them out of the church proper, which is starting to smell something fierce.


    Danny being Danny can¡¯t step away from his work, not after an epiphany like this one, so I send Noora and Josie upstairs to talk to Nikky and Manda instead. Nikky¡¯s in their class after all, having been merged with the older kids after Mrs. Peterson¡¯s passing, so I¡¯m sure Danny¡¯s mama will warm up to the both of them right quick. While they¡¯re upstairs playing nice, I take a moment with Tina to see how she¡¯s doing, but she ain¡¯t having none of it. ¡°When was you gonna tell me and Mama about heading out to Mueller¡¯s Quay?¡± She asks, hitting me with a glare her mama would be proud of.


    ¡°Soon as I heard back from Uncle Teddy,¡± I reply, feeling a mite sheepish about it. ¡°No sense having either of you fret until I know for certain I¡¯ll be going.¡±


    Though I¡¯m ready to list out all my arguments again, Tina throws me a curve ball as she huffs and asks, ¡°Why¡¯s it gotta be there then? They¡¯re a curious sort, ain¡¯t they?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re a bit strange, I¡¯ll give you that,¡± I say, remembering their whole schtick with their matching beige clothes and big, vacant, but friendly smiles. ¡°They¡¯re the only ones who got work for me at the moment though, and they¡¯re mostly harmless.¡±


    ¡°Unnerving more like,¡± Tina says, repressing a little shudder which I think is a bit much. ¡°They was all asking after you like you was best friends instead of only having been up there once. How¡¯s Howie doin¡¯, did Howie make it home alright, when¡¯s Howie coming up again? It all felt like a bit much, if I¡¯m bein¡¯ honest.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± I ask. ¡°Because people want me around for a change?¡±


    ¡°Well yeah,¡± Tina replies, playing it cool for all of a second before cracking a smile. It fades fast though, as she thinks back on her visit to the Quay and grimaces just a bit. ¡°And that Kevin. He stares. I don¡¯t much like that.¡±


    ¡°Them¡¯s the breaks of bein¡¯ a pretty young thing,¡± I say, giving her a pinch on the cheeks and scheduling a talk with Kevin first think Monday morning. Tina beams to hear it, and I quickly change the conversation to what they want on their pizza, while feeling mildly conflicted about my work ethic for the first time ever.


    Much as I¡¯d love to stay home and while the days away with Tina and Chrissy and my nights with Josie and Noora, I got hard labour to finish and a career to begin, even if I don¡¯t know what sort of career that might be. Can¡¯t make enough to support myself doing cargo runs for suppliers, and the military contracts paying for shipping down south pay peanuts for what it is. Construction companies might be hiring, but while I don¡¯t mind the job, Carter read me right and knows it ain¡¯t one I¡¯d choose for myself. A few weeks here and there is one thing, but every day for years without end will age a man right quick. There are other jobs out there, but it don¡¯t matter one whit, because even now, my heart is still set on one job and only one.


    Can¡¯t be a Ranger though, and it was silly to think I could be a Ranger-trained freelancer even when I had both hands, so that dream is dead. I¡¯ll figure it out soon enough though. Got no choice but to after all, as I only got 250 hours to go before a decision needs to be made. Five weeks and counting, that¡¯s all the time I got left, assuming Uncle Teddy gives me the go ahead tomorrow. Said it before and I¡¯ll say it again, but life moves fast out here on the Frontier, and even if I can¡¯t stay ahead of the curve, I can¡¯t hardly let myself fall too far behind, now can I?

 Chapter 85

    The trick to waking up early without an alarm is to drink water before bed.


    Not too much, because then you wake up halfway through the night, but enough so that when you do wake, you really gotta go. It¡¯s an old Native American trick for when they had to get up early for raids, or at least that¡¯s what I been told. Despite his moniker, Native American Frank is not the authority figure he pretends to be on matters of his people¡¯s heritage. Fact is, he didn¡¯t even know about his ancestry until after he signed on to settle the Frontier and the standard blood tests revealed he was 33.5% Native American. Fun guy, Native American Frank, but he wouldn¡¯t know a dreamcatcher from a lacrosse stick if one smacked him across the head.


    Thing is, waking up is only half the battle, because the temptation to slide back under the covers is powerful indeed. Triply so when you got two gorgeous girlies there waiting for you, as I do here tonight in Josie and Noora¡¯s room. They¡¯re still staying in the smaller bedroom, as neither one is ready to move into the master bedroom, and I don¡¯t blame them. Plus, I kinda like sharing a double bed with the both of them, because even though it¡¯s a bit of a cozy fit for three, getting in close is kinda the whole point of cozying up under the covers, now ain¡¯t it?


    Ain¡¯t much light in the pre-dawn gloom, but I can still make out their lovely features, with Josie lying on her back while Noora sleeps on her stomach so she can throw an arm and a leg over the other girl. The thin cotton comforter don¡¯t leave much to the imagination and it takes every ounce of self-control not to lay down beside Josie and pincer between me and Noora. Doesn¡¯t help when Josie reaches up to take my hand and gently tries to pull me back in, but I kiss her fingers and hold fast because I got a busy day ahead. ¡°Go back to sleep, my beauty,¡± I whisper, nuzzling her soft and silky hand as I do. ¡°I¡¯ll be back before you know it.¡±


    ¡°Or you could stay,¡± Josie whispers, her big doe eyes all sad and soulful. ¡°Get back into bed and hold me until the sun rises.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t tempt me,¡± I reply, matching her same sleepy intensity as I kneel and lean in for a kiss. One that starts at her cheek, then moves to her lips, lasting far longer than it should and is all too difficult to break off. Still, break it off I do, pulling back from her hungry lips and intense stare that promises so much more. ¡°I gotta go though. I wanna finish my hours quick as I can, then go looking for real work to put money on the table.¡±


    ¡°Is it because you keep buying us stuff?¡± Josie¡¯s voice is so soft and hesitant, it makes me weak in the knees as I hold back from wrapping her in a big bear hug. ¡°You don¡¯t have to, you know? I just want you.¡±


    That earns her another kiss and cuts into my limited window of opportunity to get out of here unseen. ¡°Sweet as sugar you are,¡± I whisper. ¡°I ain¡¯t worried about my financials though. I just want my hours done so I can start work on our future.¡±


    ¡°Our future?¡± Josie¡¯s smile is a sight to behold as she tests the words on her tongue. ¡°How responsible of you.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t have me any other way,¡± I quip, though there¡¯s more truth in that than I care to admit. If something needs doing, I like getting it done right quick, like having my taxes all done and paid for by the end of January instead of waiting until end of April like most folks. That¡¯s why all the paperwork stacked up on her desk is driving me insane, but I ain¡¯t been pushing her because she¡¯s still grieving. ¡°Plus, I want to start planning that trip of ours, and find a job with flexible enough hours that I can take time off if the Rangers take you boots out on a field trip before winter.¡± Doubt they will since we due for an Abby attack out the Divide sometime soon. Then again, the Rangers might bring them up to Meadowbrook for some field experience, and I wouldn¡¯t mind checking in on Simone to see how she¡¯s doing. ¡°Believe you me,¡± I continue with a bit of a growl, ¡°I¡¯d love nothing more than to spend all day in bed with you, but we both got things to do and places to be. You need anything, anything at all, you ask Aunty Ray and she¡¯ll handle whatever it is. Otherwise, just go to classes, eat well, and sit pretty until I get back.¡±


    ¡°What if I want another kiss?¡± Josie asks, her voice matching my husky hunger.


    ¡°Well, you can still ask Aunty Ray,¡± I say with a smile, which earns me a playful slap on the arm. ¡°Would be a little odd, but the heart wants what the heart wants, and I¡¯m sure she¡¯d be happy to oblige.¡± Now that I got her laughing, I give Josie a third and final kiss, before leaning over her to kiss Noora too. Who¡¯s awake, but not awake enough to do more than purse her lips and pat my cheek before going back to hugging Josie with a sensual purr. ¡°I¡¯ll see you both Friday night.¡±


    With that, I head out the door before I get drawn into that tangle of limbs and never find my way out again. I slip out the back door so I can check the front and make sure there¡¯s no looky-loos hanging about. Mostly for the sake of the girls¡¯ reputations, though I admit I don¡¯t want to get caught looking like I¡¯m taking advantage of a girl in grief either. Poor Josie does her best to hide it, but she¡¯s hurting real bad and wants to keep me close. Part of me says I should stay here, except there ain¡¯t nothing I can do to help her. It''s usually Noora who comforts her, while I sit there like a lot and pat Josie¡¯s back and pass her kerchiefs whenever she needs them. Ain¡¯t much of a call to sit around all week, especially since she spends her days in school and her afternoons doing homework.


    Which I see as mostly pointless, but they are about to graduate after all, or at least Josie is. Teachers want to keep Noora around another year at least to help her catch up on everything she missed, but if you ask me, she don¡¯t need it. She¡¯s a smart girl, so aside from some help with math and science, Noora knows about as much as she¡¯ll ever need and then some for most any sort of career. Maybe something related to Arcana Tech or Artificing, as she seems interested in that sort of stuff. Or sales if she don¡¯t want to study, as Noora can read most folks like a book and be mighty convincing when she wants to.


    As for Josie, I¡¯ve no idea what she wants to do, and now hardly seems like the time to ask. Does great embroidery though, and fancy pieces like the kerchief she made me fetch a premium, since not just anyone has the time and effort to spare on frivolous decorative pieces. If she can do lacework, then she got a crazy lucrative career ahead, because rich folks love that stuff and will throw money at anyone who knows how to do it even remotely well. Josie¡¯s a smart cookie too, so any sort of office work is right up her alley, or she could work logistics or communications for the Rangers and make a decent pay doing that. Even if both would prefer to be homemakers and look after our children, I can earn enough for all three of us to get by so long as I get back to hunting Abby again. Could¡¯ve made a killing these past few weeks laying ambushes for kippers, doggies, and froggies all along the shore, but with only one hand and no rifle, the juice didn¡¯t seem worth the squeeze for risking my neck like that.


    That¡¯s all I can think of as I bring Cowie and Old Tux out onto the open road, of my future with the two lovely ladies who¡¯ve stolen my heart. The irony don¡¯t escape me neither. Two months ago I was wondering how Errol and Sarah Jay could have ever fallen in love so quickly, and now here I am planning out the rest of my life with Noora and Josie after a four-week dalliance.


    My biggest worry is about how this gonna go over with the family. Atypical relationships ain¡¯t exactly out of pocket for me, what with how close I am with Chrissy and Tina. It¡¯s the latter that worries me more, because I don¡¯t know how she gonna react. Aunty Ray will disapprove, but she ain¡¯t ever stopped me from going my own way, while Chrissy won¡¯t think much of it at all. As for Tina? Who knows. Time was when we was two peas in a pod and knew everything about the other, but nowadays, I can¡¯t fathom what¡¯s going on in her head most days.


    The great thing about Josie is that she loves Chrissy too. Taught me how to braid her hair after all, when most girls her age would¡¯ve told me to get lost. She¡¯s been around enough to know Chrissy will always be a big part of my life and accepts it. Noora sorta gets it too, but I still catch those strange glances of hers when I take Chrissy¡¯s hand or talk about how cute she looks with her hair done in ribbons. Ain¡¯t an issue, not yet, but Noora don¡¯t understand how a man can love a woman without wanting to bed her. That¡¯d partially why we¡¯re in our current situation in fact, because she knew she liked me, and Josie liked me too, and Noora figured the only way to keep the both of us was¡­ well, you get the gist.


    So yea. Things are going great, but I ain¡¯t under no illusions that it¡¯ll be smooth sailing from here on out. Even if the town don¡¯t get up in arms about our polygamous relationship, there will be plenty of speedbumps to smooth over along the way. Right now, we pretending Josie is my girlfriend and Noora is just a friend, but I dunno how long the sultry, caramel skinned beauty will willingly play second-fiddle for. Ideally, I¡¯d find a way to marry them both, but I¡¯ve no idea who to ask or how to go about finding out about that sort of thing. Could always go up to M¨¦tis territory and have Josie marry Noora instead, seeing how they recently announced the legalization of same-sex marriages. Not sure if a M¨¦tis marriage license would be recognized down here in Federation territory, but it¡¯s worth looking into for the benefits if nothing else. Taxes and stuff, though I¡¯m not sure if a same-sex marriage is better or worse than a polygamous relationship in the eyes of the puritanical Christian majority that makes up the U.F.A, and New Hope in particular.


    It¡¯s funny. Americans love to talk about how the original pilgrims were fleeing from Great Britain due to religious persecution, but that¡¯s only half the story. I ain¡¯t saying they was lying, as the truth is, it was illegal to worship any church aside from the church of England at the time. Thing is, them pilgrims weren¡¯t fleeing because they thought the Church of England was too restrictive, but because it wasn¡¯t restrictive enough. They felt that the Church of England retained too many practices from the Roman Catholics and wanted to ¡®purify¡¯ their worship and return to simpler times, when they could stone a man for praying to the wrong god or a drown a woman for being a witch. There¡¯s more to it of course, but that¡¯s the general gist of why they was called Puritans. Driven too, seeing how they left Europe and went to the Americas, where they laid down a deeply religious foundation that still persists some two-hundred plus years later on a whole different world.


    Which is a little conflicting with the American tagline, but ¡®Land of the Free, provided you abide by our numerous religious restrictions¡¯ don¡¯t really roll off the tongue now, do it?


    Course, not all Americans are so uptight about religion, but those who are certainly speak the loudest. Means I¡¯ll have to find a way to navigate through those treacherous waters sooner or later, though I¡¯ve no idea where to start. I hear about polygamous religious sorts all the time, and they usually live outside of town with 10 or 20 wives, so I suppose that¡¯s always an option. Problem is, I only want the two, and I don¡¯t want my kids growing up isolated and alone, because that¡¯s how you end up with a socially starved child like Elodie. Who I spot a couple hours later hiding behind a tree just outside of Carter¡¯s compound and watching as I approach. I wave at the green haired girlie expecting her to run up for a hug, but she ducks behind the tree to hide, so I make my way over towards her. She don¡¯t run, just stays out of sight until Old Tux circles around with a happy little whinny to greet his new favourite friend.


    ¡°Hi Elodie,¡± I say, with a big warm smile stretched across my face, one I don¡¯t even have to work at as she wraps her arms around Old Tux¡¯s face. Got her emerald-marked cheek pressed against his temple as she rubs her face against his, but she ain¡¯t smiling all that much today in spite of our long separation. Or maybe because of it, I realize, as she finishes greeting Old Tux and stretches her arms out for Cowie, who squirms out of his blanket sling in his rush for more nuzzles. Undeterred, I let the two of them get reacquainted while Elodie does her best not to look at me, and wait until she puts Cowie down so he can run off his excess energy to ask, ¡°So¡­ how you been?¡±


    She doesn¡¯t answer, just sorta pouts and turns away. Old Tux takes it upon himself to comfort her, giving her a few nuzzles to the arm before resting his head on her shoulder. Though still silent, Elodie can¡¯t resist tickling his chin and patting his cheeks, so she can¡¯t be all that upset. ¡°You don¡¯t say?¡± I ask, carrying on our conversation all by my lonesome, which gets her to frowning. ¡°Interesting times we live in. Well, pleasant as this has been, I can¡¯t be sittin¡¯ here chit-chattin¡¯ the day away. Got things to do and places to be, so I¡¯mma head on up for a word with your daddy and be on my way.¡±


    Which really puts a burr in her saddle as she meets my eyes for the first time today with the mother of all puffed cheek pouts. ¡°You say you only stay home for a week,¡± Elodie says, stomping her bare foot in an adorable fit of pique, and I wince to see it. I get it, she goes barefoot and wears a loose tunic so she can shift at a moments notice without having to go through all the rigamarole of kicking off boots and unbuttoning a shirt, but a pair of slip-on moccasins would go a long way to protecting her feet. ¡°You say you go find work up in Muller¡¯s Quay and pass by here twice a week, but I wait many days and still you do not appear.¡±


    It''s both adorable and alarming that she¡¯s gotten so attached so quickly, and it hurts to know it¡¯s only because she¡¯s starved for social attention. ¡°Well ¨C ¡± I begin, in an effort to explain, only to get cut off right quick.


    ¡°Now you are here,¡± Elodie continues, turning on me to cross her arms and give me a glare. She¡¯s got a real expressive face she does, and part of it is her full, thick eyebrows which shimmer with a hint of green as they twist and contort with her every smile and glower. ¡°But not for visit. You do not bring Chrissy or Tina or Mademoiselle Rachel. You only stay for a word, and then you go.¡± Filling her cheeks with air once more, Elodie turns her back on me again to show how upset she is, only to spoil it all by glancing back to see my reaction. Which is a smile, because she¡¯s too cute not to, and of course, it gets her all fired up some more. ¡°I am not happy,¡± she declares, all frowny and pouty and upset that she has to even say as much, so I do my best to put on an appropriately contrite expression. Then and only then does she nod in approval, only to go back to ¡®ignoring¡¯ me while Tux and Cowie do what they can to entice her to play.


    Reaching out to pat her long, voluminous hair, I resist the urge to break out my brush then and there to straighten out all them tangles. ¡°Sorry Elodie,¡± I say, my heart warming as she leans into the touch and even smiles because she thinks I¡¯m learning since I gave her the pat without her having to spell things out. ¡°That was the plan when I told it to you, but you know what they say. Even the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.¡±


    All bright-eyed and cheery smiles again, Elodie hugs Old Tux¡¯s head as he lifts her up off her feet, though I suspect she¡¯s lightly jumping to make it much easier for the horse to lift her. ¡°I do not know this saying,¡± she says, as direct and forthright as always. ¡°It is a strange one, yes? Are mice not good at planning?¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t know,¡± I say with a shrug. ¡°That¡¯s just how the saying goes.¡±


    ¡°If you do not know,¡± Elodie begins, as she takes a second leap into the air propelled by Old Tux¡¯s neck, ¡°Then why do you say it?¡±


    ¡°Because repetition is the mother of learning,¡± I say, pulling a quote out of nowhere to end the conversation. ¡°Either way, something came up and I had to stay home. Like when bunny comes across a predator and has to hide in its burrow for bit.¡±


    ¡°Bunnies do not hide,¡± Elodie retorts, acting like it¡¯s the most ridiculous thing in the world as she leaps a third time while hugging Old Tux¡¯s head. ¡°Bunnies attack. They do not do it very well, but they never hide.¡±


    Which is why it¡¯s a miracle there¡¯s as many bunnies as there are. To be fair though, my first instinct was to go on the attack too and wipe out the Mafia right quick, so what¡¯s that say about me? ¡°Well you get the idea,¡± I say, shooing her off of my horse. ¡°Now quit gettin¡¯ Old Tux all riled up. He still on the clock and gotta carry me for another hour yet.¡±


    ¡°And then it is playtime?¡± she asks, so very concerned about his schedule as she pats his nose to calm him down. ¡°He has not played for a very long time, else he would not be so eager.¡±


    Which is true and leaves me feeling all sorts of put out, because I really ought to be putting more effort into enriching Old Tux¡¯s life. A quick jaunt out in the ranch and a handful of short walks throughout the week ain¡¯t hardly enough to keep him happy, but I ain¡¯t been around enough to feel comfortable leaving the horses to free range. Patting his neck in silent apology, I say, ¡°I¡¯ll make sure to set some play time aside today. Promise.¡±


    Not to say Elodie doubts me, but she takes a moment to think it over before lighting up in delight. ¡°I know,¡± she says, hugging Old Tux again. ¡°I will go with you to Mueller¡¯s Quay, and play with Tux and Cowie there.¡±This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    I don¡¯t know about that, but I don¡¯t want to be the one to break her heart. Still, I ain¡¯t about to give her any false hope either, so I lean forward to pat her head again and say, ¡°I¡¯m not sure that¡¯s a good idea. It¡¯s still very dangerous out, what with the Madness that went down last week, and I¡¯m thinking your parents won¡¯t want you wandering so far from home. Maybe another time.¡±


    ¡°I will ask Papa,¡± Elodie says, skipping away with Old Tux at her heels and bringing me along for the ride. ¡°Come come.¡± The man himself is working the whipsaw with Raja, but they both stop short as they see Elodie and me approach. I wave in greeting from atop Old Tux, unable to get a word in edgewise as Elodie hugs her papa and lays out her whole plan, much to his chagrin. Yea, the man don¡¯t look none too pleased to hear it, though to be fair, he don¡¯t look less pleased than usual, which is to say he got a surly sorta-neutral expression pasted across his face as he takes it all in.


    Rather than answer in the negative as expected, he meets my eyes and asks, ¡°Would you be open to leaving your horse here with us for the week? I will go with you to the Quay and bring your horse back here, then return Friday afternoon when it is time for you to leave.¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ Sure,¡± I say, though I can¡¯t tell if Carter wanted me to say no and be the bad guy here. Not the most expressive sort, and I¡¯m left trying to read between the lines as he nods and waves another person over to help Raja with the whipsaw. From there, Carter sends Elodie inside to tell her mama, leaving just me and him to wait at the gates. Unable to stand the empty silence, I ask, ¡°So how¡¯d the Madness go for y¡¯all? I know Tina came by to check in, but she said y¡¯all pretty much waved her on by and said y¡¯all were fine.¡±


    ¡°We had a minor scuffle,¡± Carter replies, which is about as good as saying nothing at all. ¡°A few bruises and scratches, nothing more. My Amelie, she protected the children and kept things from getting out of hand.¡±


    ¡°A formidable woman,¡± I say, and wouldn¡¯t you know it, the man puffs up to hear it. ¡°Glad nothing came of it. Was bad in New Hope, worse in Riverrun, and I been hearing horror stories this last week as tales trickle in from the homesteads. Then there¡¯s all the increased Abby activity, though I know y¡¯all are covered there.¡± Carter grunts, and in his mind, that¡¯s the end of the conversation, because he don¡¯t want to hear any more. Or maybe he does and he¡¯s just a terrible conversationalist, but I ain¡¯t about to trauma dump on the man. ¡°Oh right,¡± I say, in order to keep the one-sided conversation going as I reach into my duster and pull out an envelope. ¡°That info you gave me bore fruit, so there¡¯s the payment. That¡¯s just for the actionable intel, so once they bring the Proggie down, there will be another, bigger payment, since fruit of the tree and all that. Paperwork¡¯s in there, so look it over.¡±


    Carter nods and tucks the envelope into the mailbox by the door without so much as a second glance. ¡°I¡¯d stay out of the waters for a few more weeks too,¡± I continue, because I can¡¯t help myself. ¡°Rangers are gonna be runnin¡¯ trainin¡¯ drills for underwater combat, so they¡¯ll probably have questions if they see some old world sea lion swimming about. They have manes? Sea lions that is. I know regular lions do, but I figure a mane would really slow you down in the water.¡± Aquatic cats. Strange that, seeing how I¡¯m told they¡¯re like meaner marties with longer legs and a hatred for water. Scary stuff.


    Carter don¡¯t answer, just gives me a look, so with nothing else to talk about, and no way to gently segue into it, I go for broke and ask, ¡°By the by, and I¡¯m just asking here, so feel free to say no, but I was kinda hopin¡¯ you could maybe share the Spell Formula for Wildshape.¡± Carter just looks at me with the same neutral expression as always, and I can¡¯t help but keep talking. ¡°Can¡¯t really ask the Marshal about it, as it¡¯s a Restricted Spell, meaning even if he does know it, he won¡¯t teach me. Problem is, I was thinking I could use the Spell to fix what ails me.¡± I wave my missing hand for extra emphasis. ¡°Not by Wildshaping into a person, but by paring down the Spell, or incorporating parts of it into Conjure Weapon or Mage Hand to¡­ you know. Work up something to replace what I lost.¡±


    Carter continues to stare, which is unnerving as all heck as I explain my whole thought process on the matter in excruciating detail, and even bring out my articulated wooden model for him to look at. ¡°I can Conjure up a hand just fine already,¡± I say, deciding against doing it here and now if only because I¡¯ve no idea what sort of work is waiting for me up in Mueller¡¯s Quay and how much Spellslinging I¡¯ll need. ¡°Problem is getting it to move. Conjure Weapon ain¡¯t all that suited for making an articulating hand, just a metal one that stays as an open palm or closed fist. Doesn¡¯t move around on its own either, which is why I wanted to merge it with Mage Hand to start with, but now I¡¯m thinking Wildshape might be the better way to do it. Got the ¡®hand Spirit¡¯ ready and everything too.¡± Waggling my phantom fingers as I Intone the chant, I Conjure up a Water Sphere to show him what I mean. ¡°Fingers are long gone, but that don¡¯t stop me from waggling them for my Spells, which is interesting to say the least.¡±


    Not that Carter would agree, or maybe he does. Man¡¯s a closed book, an enigma wrapped in a mystery that I cannot even begin to unravel, especially when he comes back with, ¡°Interesting. I will think on it.¡±


    ¡°Okay then,¡± I say, not entirely sure how to feel about his answer. A little hopeful, since he¡¯s the type to tell me no outright if that¡¯s what he¡¯s planning, but I have no idea what it is he gotta think about before telling me yes or no. Much as I want to ask, I¡¯m worried that might annoy him into just coming back with no, which is something I¡¯d do if I was feeling petty. To make matters worse, I still got more to say, but now I¡¯m worried I¡¯ll overstep and ruin my chances to learn Wildshape. I take a half minute to think it over, which is about a half minute more than usual, and since I can¡¯t convince myself to keep quiet, I open my mouth once more.


    ¡°So about Elodie,¡± I say, which sure gets Carter heated right quick as he watches me with a wary and guarded expression. More guarded than usual at least, which I overlook as I plough on through and hope I don¡¯t end up with my foot in my mouth. Or his foot up my ass, as it were, since I¡¯m pretty sure Carter could beat me like a red-headed stepchild. ¡°You said y¡¯all moved out here and started this community to help socialize your kids, which is great and all, but uh, and this is just my two cents, it ain¡¯t enough. Not for Elodie at least.¡± Carter sighs, and I take that as permission to keep talking. ¡°I been here all of two minutes and I can already tell she¡¯s spent the last few weeks just watching and waiting for me to come by. Ain¡¯t because she¡¯s all that fond of me either, regardless of what she might say. Pretty sure it¡¯s just because I¡¯m the only person she really knows. She didn¡¯t even come out to say hi to Tina now, did she?¡±


    I know for a fact Elodie didn¡¯t, because I asked Tina point blank, and she said she didn¡¯t see hide nor hair of the green-haired girlie. Carter sighs again and nods. ¡°She said she was scared of the other girl, the one with the white fox familiar. And the other boy, who had shoulders broad as a horse.¡±


    That¡¯d be Kacey and Big Alfred respectively, though I don¡¯t see what¡¯s so scary about either one of them. ¡°Well,¡± I say, getting to the point I been trying to make, ¡°Maybe you could bring her into town for a few days. I won¡¯t be around the next few weeks, so spending two or three days in town to make new friends might not be the worst thing in the world. She¡¯s a bit old for schooling, but the teachers might have some suggestions to help enrich Elodie¡¯s life out here.¡± Glancing at the hoggidilla pen, I add, ¡°Or you know¡­ maybe get some more animals around, cleaner, friendlier, and cuddlier ones for her to play with.¡± Sitting upright in alarm, I study the hoggidillas a little longer before asking, ¡°Those ain¡¯t Wildshaped people, are they?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re just hogs,¡± Carter replies, and I can hear a ghost of a smile in his tone even if his lips don¡¯t twitch. ¡°They¡¯re near blind enough that they can¡¯t make out shapes, and our scents don¡¯t change as much as you¡¯d think when we Wildshape. They mostly look after themselves and make us look more legitimate when we bring them out to root for truffles to eat or sell.¡± Gross, but I ain¡¯t one to yuck on someone else¡¯s yum so long as they ain¡¯t hurting no one besides themselves. If they wanna eat Abby food, then they welcome to it. ¡°Most other animals don¡¯t take well to people who Wildshape into massive predators on a whim.¡± Patting Old Tux on the neck, Carter adds, ¡°Which is what makes your horse so special. He knows what we can do, but doesn¡¯t mind it much.¡±


    Meaning they shifted around him without my notice before I knew what they could do. Interesting. Don¡¯t much like knowing I was the slowest of the bunch, behind a bull and horse to pick up on the clues, but them¡¯s the breaks I guess.


    I don¡¯t push Carter any more about his daughter, because I can tell he loves her and only wants to protect her. I get it, wanting to shelter her from the ugliness of the world and keep her safe from the Michael Dipolio¡¯s of the world, but doing things this way shuts out the good with the bad. Plus, if Elodie makes some new friends, then maybe she¡¯ll see that I ain¡¯t so great and find another boy to fixate on and free me from that burden. As an added bonus, she¡¯d be a great friend for Chrissy, able to understand her without having to talk to her and maybe even teach her how to come out of her head like Elodie taught Old Tux how to play.


    And is still teaching, or so it would seem, as we set out soon after once Elodie gets back and Carter transforms into a hulking blood bay stallion. Had to turn around once he got to dropping trou, and I don¡¯t much like knowing he going around nekkid as the day he was born, even if he is a horse. Elodie don¡¯t mind though, nor does she ride on her daddy¡¯s back like you¡¯d think, and instead hoists her arm over his shoulder and does the same with Old Tux. My ornery old mount don¡¯t much like standing so close to another horse, but he don¡¯t nip at Carter the way he would if it was Fifi, Ivory, or any other horse. Instead, he tolerates the intrusion upon his personal space and lets Carter take the lead as they canter across the trails carrying Elodie in between them. Who¡¯s still not wearing shoes mind you as she gracefully skips across the ground like a skater moving across ice, with her feet touching down but never for long as we make record time up to the quay.


    It¡¯s some mighty fine horsemanship there, and doubly so when she hops up onto her daddy¡¯s broad back without missing a beat. Then and only then do we slow to a stop, once her feet are out of harms way from getting chewed up by the rough ground. There¡¯s still a short walk before I get into the quay proper, which I suppose means Carter don¡¯t want them seeing his daughter. Having met Kevin, I can understand why, as even though he don¡¯t seem all that bad, don¡¯t no one like a man who gawks at their womenfolk. Hopping off of Old Tux, I pat his neck to say goodbye and grin to see him hot-stepping about, prancing on his hooves and ready to go another round.


    Maybe he¡¯d be happier retired with Elodie, though I¡¯d sure hate to see him go, as he a part of my family same as Cowie, Chrissy, Tina, and Aunty Ray.


    Bidding my daddy¡¯s horse a fond farewell, I leave him to Elodie and Carter, except Elodie ain¡¯t so ready to leave just yet. Sitting up top her horse daddy¡¯s back, she gives me an expectant look, then glowers when all I do is wave goodbye. ¡°Hug or headpat,¡± she says, leaning dangerously low in her seat for one or the other, and I¡¯ve no idea how she does it without a saddle. So I quickly pat her head while standing ready to catch her, but she sits right back up all too easily showing off her core strength. She ain¡¯t even breathing hard after propping herself up between two horses for so long, and while I can do something similar and hang off the side of the saddle while Old Tux is at full gallop, it takes a lot out of me to do it without breaking my neck.


    ¡°I¡¯ll see you again Friday,¡± I say, waving goodbye once I got all my saddlebags off of Old Tux. Give him another pat on the nose too, and stop myself short from doing the same to Carter. ¡°Sorry,¡± I say, rescinding my hand from the blood bay stallion who looks like he ready to trample me good. ¡°Habit. Bye now.¡±


    ¡°Bye bye Howie!¡±


    Only now realizing that we¡¯re parting ways, Cowie leaps out of his sling a second time and trots off after Elodie, which is both adorable and infuriating to behold. The furry little traitor ain¡¯t ever wanted to separate from me, not even to stay with Chrissy while I go out to work, but now it seems he¡¯s ready to shack up with Elodie. He looks awful sad about it, giving me a big, wide-eyed look of innocent even as he circles around beside Old Tux, and Elodie¡¯s expectant gaze is just the nail in the coffin for any objections I might make. Least now I won¡¯t have to worry about him getting any cow gal¡¯s pregnant, because he a real Casanova when it comes to the girlies. Whatever. It¡¯s only five days without my partner, in a safe community that knows how to handle their own considering I ain¡¯t heard nothing about casualties from out this way. Even Gunnar lost a few people, and I hear they were well-prepared for the Madness, with wards laid down and potions readily available among so many other things.


    Probably because they get along so well, farfetched as it sounds. Can¡¯t think of any other reason why the Madness wouldn¡¯t affect them, as I show up on the outskirts only to be greeted by warm cheer and open arms. ¡°Hey there Howie!¡± Mervyn says, all too enthusiastic for a portly, balding man dressed in all beige who¡¯ve I¡¯ve only met in passing before. ¡°Good to see you again! C¡¯mere you!¡±


    Despite my obvious reluctance and upraised hand, Mervyn throws his big flabby arms around me and hugs me close. Doesn¡¯t squeeze super tight or nothing, just gets right in there and rubs my biceps while his arms are wrapped around mine. I don¡¯t much enjoy being hugged by people I don¡¯t know, but he don¡¯t mean nothing by it, so I do my best to fake a smile as he breaks away and gestures for me to follow. ¡°You¡¯re much too thin for a growing boy,¡± he says, giving my bicep another squeeze. ¡°Strong as an ox I bet, all tough and wiry underneath that jacket, but you bulk up a bit and you¡¯ll be that much stronger. My wife Lauren, she¡¯s got a wonderful beef brisket and caddish stew on the stove, and it goes great with one of Donna¡¯s world-famous sourdough bread bowls. The stew is actually based on a Qinese recipe you know, because the caddishes we grow here are closer to white Qin radishes or Nipponese Daikons as opposed to the red radishes most Americans are used to.¡±


    ¡°Interesting,¡± I say, because it kinda is, as I do love learning little tidbits and facts like that.


    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you all about it over a bowl of stew,¡± Mervyn says, grinning from ear to ear as he escorts me arm in hand to his house, like he afraid I¡¯m gonna run away.


    To be fair, that¡¯s exactly what I¡¯m fixing to do. ¡°Sounds wonderful Mervyn, but I¡¯m gonna have to take a raincheck,¡± I say, much to his disappointment. ¡°I need to talk to Mr. Mueller, get some papers signed and start the work day. Was hoping to get a solid 10 hours in today, or 8 at the very least and do 12 tomorrow.¡±


    ¡°Oh don¡¯t worry about that,¡± Mervyn says, waving my concerns away. ¡°I¡¯ll send my boy Lynn in to tell Mr. Mueller you¡¯re here, and he¡¯ll make sure you get your 50 with time to spare.¡± He gives me a wink, though I¡¯ve no idea why, as I¡¯m still coming to terms with how he gave his boy a girl¡¯s name. ¡°Lynn!¡± he calls, as he bursts through his front door. ¡°Run on down to Mr. Mueller¡¯s and tell him the Firstborn¡¯s here.¡±


    A shriek of what I hope is excitement sounds out, followed by a thundering stampede as the fattest kid I done ever seen trundles on down the overworked staircase. I ain¡¯t talking about someone who just hefty either. I¡¯m talking full on meatball of a teenager in a beige shirt and shorts that are straining to contain his bulging frame. ¡°OmygoditstheFIRSTBORN!¡± Lynn shrieks, all in one go without any room between words, and he tippy taps same as Old Tux only a lot slower and harder. I¡¯d fear for the hardwood floors if not for young Lynn¡¯s lacking stamina, which he more than makes up for in raw, unbridled enthusiasm. ¡°You have so much magic,¡± he gasps, all wide-eyed and amazed as he looks me up and down like a movie star. ¡°How¡¯d you get so good?¡±


    ¡°Magic?¡± I ask, blinking a fair bit since that¡¯s hardly what most folks comment on first. ¡°Uh¡­ You can see that?¡±


    Lynn nods, and his proud daddy Mervyn claps his back with a grin. ¡°Lynn here is a Diviner same as you,¡± he says, swelling with pride as he does. ¡°14 years young, but he¡¯s been practicing Detect Magic for a full year now and keeps it going for most hours of the day.¡±


    Which is a rude awakening indeed, because I only ever use the Spell to check for magical traps, signs, or signals. Didn¡¯t know you could use it to see how powerful a Spellslinger is, so I stifle a sigh while adding the Spell to my ever-growing list of things to practice. ¡°That¡¯s mighty impressive,¡± I say, without even having to fake it, because at his age, I doubt he can sling more then 3 or 4 First Order Spells a day. Either he¡¯s very good at keeping Detect Magic going, or he knows how to use the Ritual instead, both of which are remarkable achievements for a kid so young. ¡°Give it a couple years, and maybe you gonna run into someone who¡¯s excited to see you too.¡±


    Lynn blushes to hear it, and Mervyn¡¯s grin grows even wider. ¡°You¡¯re gonna give the kid a big head,¡± he says, mussing Lynn¡¯s hair and sending him on his way out the door. ¡°Have a seat,¡± he continues, pulling me inside and leaving me no time to take off my boots, making this household about as American as can be. I can¡¯t fathom why people would do it, trek around in their boots inside their own house, but apparently I¡¯m the weird one for taking them off and leaving them by the door.


    Ain¡¯t my roof though, so I¡¯m happy to play by Mervyn¡¯s rules as he introduces me to his wife Lauren, who is just as enthusiastic as her son is only in a different way. The heavyset woman takes one look at me and clucks her tongue before switching out the big bread bowl she was cutting into for an even bigger one. Like salad bowl big, which she hollows out with some expert knife work before setting the excised bread onto a plate. From there, she fills the whole bowl up with a hearty helping of thick, aromatic stew, with giant clumps of fatty brisket and browned chunks of caddish cooked so soft that they come apart with a touch. Won¡¯t take no for an answer either as she sets the bread bowl in front of me alongside the excised bread and a plate of mashed potates with the most delectable gravy I done ever tasted.


    ¡°It¡¯s the butter,¡± Lauren says, when I praise her gravy to the high heavens. ¡°Lots and lots of butter.¡±


    Said it before and I¡¯ll say it again, with cooking like this, it¡¯s no wonder everyone here is fat. Can¡¯t say I blame them either, because even though the massive and surprisingly delicious sourdough bread bowl of stew seems like it¡¯s too much for me to finish, it¡¯s so delicious I can¡¯t stop myself from bringing spoonful after spoonful to my mouth. After eating nonstop for the better part of fifteen minutes, I¡¯ve barely made a dent in the thing, though I long since polished off the mashed potates and even started on the second serving I never asked for, but didn¡¯t have the heart to refuse. We make small talk as I stuff my face, and according to Mervyn, they ain¡¯t been attacked by Abby for months now. While the Madness caused a fair few bruises and plenty more hurt feelings, didn¡¯t no one die from it neither. Which I suppose makes sense considering how out of shape most of these folks are, and I might soon be after this behemoth of a meal.


    ¡°Oh, Donna¡¯s sourdough bread with Lauren¡¯s beef brisket and Mervyn¡¯s sweet caddishes.¡± Rubbing his hands as he limps in on his one good foot, Mr. Mueller shakes his head in visible envy. ¡°You lucky dog you. That there is a meal fit for kings.¡±


    ¡°Emperors would be so lucky,¡± I reply, because like always, it never hurts to compliment the chef. ¡°Good to see you Mr. Mueller. Sorry to make you come up all this way.¡±


    ¡°Nonsense,¡± he replies, grinning from ear to ear as he accepts a bread bowl of stew of his own. ¡°Couldn¡¯t hoof it up here fast enough as soon as little Lynn told me what his mama was cooking.¡±


    ¡°Amen to that.¡± There¡¯s no fear of not leaving enough for Mervyn, Lauren, and Lynn either, as there¡¯s a whole cauldron of stew sitting up top the stove, and enough mashed potates to drown a man in. We eat our meal and make small talk until there ain¡¯t no more left to eat, leaving me feeling fuller than a well-fed tick and no earthly idea how I¡¯m gonna work a full day now. Or even half a day, as I could use a good long nap after a meal like that, one that¡¯ll tide me over for at least a day or two until I¡¯m ready to eat again. Don¡¯t take Lauren much effort to twist a promise outta me to come back later for dessert though, as I showed up too early for it to be ready. A good thing too, because if I ate any more, it¡¯d come right back up post haste, which is still a real risk as I waddle my way down the cobbled street with Mr. Mueller in tow.


    ¡°We¡¯re putting in a new warehouse to store all the extra stone,¡± he says, pointing out where the foundations are all marked out and ready to dig way off on the edge of town. ¡°Won¡¯t be as much use once we got boats on the lake, but we all figured it was better to future proof while we can. This here is as close a port as you can get to the mines, as it gets real marshy up on the northern side of the lake, so we¡¯ll be set to handle anything that comes out of Mount Rimepeak and is destined for the West Coast.¡±


    Man¡¯s got vision, I¡¯ll give him that, more so than most. Mr. Mueller ain¡¯t just concerned about today and tomorrow, he¡¯s thinking ahead to 5, 10, 15 years from today and laying a foundation that will pay off in spades. He mentions a few more things, and I ask questions about the dimensions we¡¯re working with, a right proper colossal warehouse larger than the town hall even. Seeing my wide-eyed surprise, Mr. Mueller chuckles and shakes his head. ¡°A warehouse this size would be nothing back home,¡± he says with a grin. ¡°Could fit four, maybe five big rig trailers at once, which isn¡¯t much when you¡¯re talking warehouses.¡±


    I¡¯ll have to take his word for it, because try as I might, I can¡¯t really a vehicle so large you could only fit four or five in so massive a space. To hear Mr. Mueller tell it, my wagon wouldn¡¯t even be half the size of the cab, which is where the engine and driver go, while the trailer itself would be ten metres long and almost two metres wide. Big enough to fit a herd of 20, 25 horses at least if they don¡¯t mind squeezing in, or a dozen if you wanna give them enough room to turn around during the trip. Which is absolutely crazy to me that there can be a vehicle that huge, and I can¡¯t help but wonder what it¡¯d be like to drive one of them big rigs around.


    Forget the talking convertible. I¡¯d much rather drive a massive truck. Think of all the Abby corpses I could fit in that thing¡­


    ¡°First things first though,¡± Mr. Mueller says, as we arrive at his home. ¡°Let me show you your room so you can get your things unpacked and into your uniform.¡±


    ¡°Uniform?¡±


    Mr. Mueller chuckles. ¡°It¡¯s a little joke of ours. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve noticed we all dress in beige or tan. Very drab and boring. Helps keep the cattle and hogs calm though, so we bear with it. Those ranch fences? They¡¯re just wood and nails. Won¡¯t stop any bull or boar that wants out, but they mostly keep to the boundaries because they¡¯re polite, so I figure the least we could do is dress in simple colours to keep them from getting all riled up.¡±


    Which actually explains a lot, and I do my best to pretend like I wasn¡¯t all weirded out by it to begin with. After heading upstairs in my boots and changing into my beige uniform though, I can¡¯t help but wonder what I¡¯ve gotten myself into as I look into the mirror and see a drab and cheerless drone set to join the others at work here in Mueller¡¯s Quay. None of the clothes fit properly either, as they at least two sizes too big and hang off my skinny frame like sails on a boat. Nothing for it though, so I put on a happy face and head back down so I can get to work.


    Adapt and thrive, that¡¯s their mantra ain¡¯t it, so I best get to adapting so I can thrive right quick.