Red Creek

Anger in my name must only be with just cause; petty anger for the sake of personal gratification is a rebuke of all that I value—the Book of Balance, The Sacral Compendium.

Maro traversed the wide dirt street; Bastard trailed his right shoulder but didn’t fight the gentle tension of the reins. You could tell a lot regarding a town by the roads they kept, and this one had little more than packed dirt covered in putrid water puddles and small mountains of manure. No one bothered to clean the streets, which foretold the miniscule hope for Tepress.

At least Bastard made his own contribution.

Bastard was the only possession Maro kept from his time serving. The horse, too old for battles, would soon be a burden to the roving soldiers. Since Maro resigned without warning, he forfeited any further pay, but they let him keep the stallion slated for slaughter. In the end, he came out better. Bastard still had a few years of travel left in him, and once Maro figured out his life, retiring the poor fellow to the field only seemed sensible.

I can do at least one kindness. That’ll be decent of me, right?

Besides, Bastard was the skittish sort, like his rider.

The nakedness of walking around without a musket and sword wore Maro down, but it’d be a feeling he’d have to acclimatize to. His eyes darted over the pedestrians going about their lives. Women wore pluming skirts and bonnets over their hair, perhaps a shawl around their shoulders or necks. The men wore trousers and shirts, or some type of overalls. Boots were a way of life here. Maro shook his head in wonderment at their simple lives without worry. None hurried as they milled about.

How could they be indifferent about life?

It was hard not to see them as mindless, bleating sheep in need of shepherding, but the military drilled that reality into his head on the front lines. Outside the idyllic lifestyle bubble of denizens, wars erupted, food stores were plundered, possessions tactically acquired, and murderers always kept their doors open for business for a quick coin.

Maybe I should become a lawman?

It seemed a logical choice, especially when the thought settled so well with him. He didn’t have any qualms upholding the law. In his estimation, lawmen were integral for protection and prosperity. Nothing thrived in lawlessness except the strong. The world of Atar needed people like him: a robust constitution, an unbridled sense of morality, a stiffened spine, and a stomach to get the job done. The notion settled over him like a warm coat, but the images of all the unblinking gazes of dead soldiers, the remains of guerrilla fighters, and the war-torn landscapes stole that comfort.

No, someone like me with a questionable past can’t be a lawman.

That would be like asking him to preside over a trial for a murder he’d committed. He couldn’t, in honorable conscience, sentence anyone for his misdeeds, no more than take responsibility for following the laws of the military: his superior’s orders.

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. He grunted. Well, that’s one profession scratched off the trivial list.

A sudden powerful gust kicked up the top layer of dirt from the ground, creating a haze in the air. Maro shut his mouth.

Don’t need sand making matters worse.

He eyed a shop on the left with a sign: General Store. It was a shabby building, not quite dilapidated, but it might give way in the next massive seasonal storm. He couldn’t open a goods store and deal with people all day. Mucking out stalls wasn’t a viable option, a job more suitable for young lads who’d yet to sprout whiskers on their chin. He didn’t know shit about being a smith. In short, his skill set limited him to taking orders to seize, detain, and kill.

Too bad there wasn’t a job like that; I’d be perfect.

The throngs of people thinned now as he passed from the densely packed part of town and into the outskirts. The uncluttered buildings spread out more compared to the cramped confines within the town’s heart. He never understood why so many businesses wanted to be in the center. It just meant more assholes in your way, living on top of each other, scurrying about in reckless haste. Maro knew when the time came to settle down, it’d be him, a cabin in the middle of the woods, peaceful quiet for leagues around, and not a damn wayward soul in sight. That’d suit him fine.

Maro’s eyes darted over the window signs advertising what lay inside, which he found useless since the signs above the doors told him what to expect. He had provisions to last until the next town. A slight chill crept through him, and he shivered for a moment. Despite the day’s warmth, cold plagued him, even in the warmer months of the year.

He grimaced and pulled his thin, tan coat tighter.

Just another damn intolerable side effect with the boon of fire.

But he didn’t have the boon in full capacity, only aspects. Those with full mastery called flame from nothing. Maro could manipulate fire once kindled, and the ability to call heat was his, which became useful while sitting in a gods’ forsaken shit hole while it pissed icy rain from above. The front lines weren’t a frolic in the fields.

There were four boons granted by the gods: fire, water, wind, and life. Each held advantages, but the side effects of all made the wielders leery, or downright curse their existence. The range of ability varied from person to person, and Maro wasn’t potent by any stretch of the imagination. If shackled with the fortitude of impressive feats, he might’ve been blamed for the fire that engulfed the buildings five days ago. Willing flame into existence lay far beyond his abilities, but once a spark flared, it became his.

Makes campfires easier while on the trail.

Other bonuses came with the boon, of course, and more often than not, they came in handy during his soldiering days. He saw far better than most in darkness, and sickness or poisons burned through his body fast, helping him recover where others languished for days or died. He manipulated light to a degree, making shadows darker, obscuring his presence as he did in countless situations while fleeing pursuers.

But that’s where the positive ended and the detrimental side effects began. Coldness harried him every day of the year, regardless of the warmth outside, or the flames of a fire close by. Sunlight hurt his eyes, even on overcast days such as this, and despite his affinity, the daylight always made him feel weak and drained. Nights were far more preferable. The connection with flames burned inside him, and no matter how much he ate, he never came away satisfied for long, nor did he put on weight, which exacerbated his coldness. The last physical detriment came with brittle bones, and Maro broke more than a few in his time fighting.

One thing he hadn’t realized as he ambled through life was its effects on his disposition. He’d always been temperamental, and his demerit of intolerance didn’t help either. His mother often called him her reckless child, but he never dreamed it stemmed from the boon. Explosive anger, compulsive tendencies, feeling restlessness while he waited for officers to heft themselves off their fat ass and issue orders … all elements derided from his boon.

And having a shit personality.

“Damn the Autarch, Maro,” his mother used to curse, “if you always let your passions rule you, you’ll be alone for the rest of your days!”

Maro grunted. The old nag’s been right so far.

The only companionship he’d known was with a paid woman or his brothers-in-arms, and that sorry bunch of bastards left a lot to be desired. If he ever turned melancholy about how miserable his life unfolded, or if he picked apart the discrepancies of his character, one look at the woeful collection around him made his future less bleak by comparison.

But none of that helped with the misery of feeling cold year-round, or the sensitivity to light.

Others had their own quirks thanks to the boons, and an entire field of people studied personalities of those with different affinities. Maro didn’t believe in lumping so many people into categories based upon their boons, but he admitted some held merit, including him.

Maro’s eyes, still roving over the shops before him, settled on a sign above the door to a building on his left: Bounty Hunter’s Guild of Tepress.

Bounty Hunter’s Guild?

While aware they’d always existed, he’d never set foot inside one nor knew how or why they operated. But they carried supplemental supplies he needed, and in this case, a damn fine hat, and perhaps a weapon. Maro changed course and led his steed to the hitching rail outside the double doors. Animal secured, he patted his neck.

“Alright, Bastard, you behave. No fooling about, got it?”

The horse lifted his head in response, then nuzzled the side of Maro’s face.

“That’s a good boy.”

Maro ascended the three weathered steps to the porch and entered the shop. Bells jingled overhead as the hatch opened and closed. He stopped, his eyes widening as he scanned the wares. Hanging weapons covered almost every spare inch of the wood-paneled walls. Most were muskets of different makes and artistic styles, and they even had a few of the newer, double barrel guns—two shots at a time instead of one. At the far end of the wall, shorter, one-handed muskets hung like lazy, limp twigs next to their longer, more powerful brothers. Glass cases acted like a barricade between him and the rest of the place. Knives of all imaginable kinds, as well as ammunition, lay within.

“Morning,” a voice called out. Maro turned to the greeter, a man with long, black hair sweeping past his shoulders. A pencil-thin moustache hugged the space between his upper lip and nose. From this distance, it resembled a slumbering caterpillar.

Maro grunted in response.

“The name’s Horace. Anything I can help ya with?” the man asked.

Maro’s eyes drifted back to the weapons. “Got a lot of beauties in here.” He nodded at the one-handed muskets. “What are those?”

“Pistols. They’ve been making them for a handful of years now. I got to tell ya, the advances with guns in the last ten years are astounding. There’s even word they’ve got one that shoots six shots before you need to reload.”

“A musket?”

Horace shook his head. “Pistol.” He nodded, his eyes darting to the handguns on the wall. “Before long, those will be obsolete. That’s the way it’s going now, smaller weapons.” He turned away from the merchandise, and he sized Maro up. “Got your membership on you?”

Maro’s lips twisted in a grimace. He opened his mouth to speak when the bells above the door chimed. Both men turned to see the newcomer, a man of average height but broad shoulders and chest, rush through the door. He sported blonde hair and crazy, icy blue eyes, and while pale, he didn’t resemble the Mium ethnicity.

“Peredur,” Horace greeted. “What brings you in a hurry?”

The man rushed up to the counter. “Gimme two cartons of balls and the accompanying wads and powder. Now!”

Horace held up his hands to placate him. “Alright, don’t be so irritable.” Horace moved off to do as Peredur asked.

Maro sized up the man from the side. A long beard hung from his chin like a curtain of brown stalactites, but nary a whisker shadowed his upper lip. Two pistols decorated his hips, one on each side. A massive knife sat behind the gun on the hip closest to Maro—the left one. Maro moved away, back towards the entrance. On the wall, a wood board clung to it with leaflets and drawn pictures.

Voices rose behind him. “…rumor of the Lanton gang sniffing around…”

Maro perused the sheets, realizing they were wanted posters for criminals. He read one.

Wanted: Dead or Alive. Severino ‘Tart’ Tatum. Wanted for the theft of military supplies along the Barren Frontier, theft of cattle in Moisy, robbery of the Bounty Hunter’s Guild in Shaerhys, and murder in Karisil. Reward set at one rune—one hundred crowns—if dead. One hundred twenty-five if alive. Any apprehension will receive a ten percent discount on your next purchase of a musket or pistol. All items in possession at the time of custody or death are at hunter’s liberty.

“… you can’t take on the entire gang by yourself …”

Damn the Autarch, a hundred crowns? That’s what I made in a month with the army.

“… pick them off one at a time …”

For a moment, untold riches filled Maro’s eyes. What he could do with those sums. How long could it take to bring in a criminal? True, he might have to navigate the trail for a few days, but to bring in a hundred crowns in a week? If he ever got tired, taking a break and living like a king for a few weeks wouldn’t be bad … perhaps a poor king, but a monarch none the less.

He glanced over the poster again, noting the option for dead or alive.

Alive’s more money, but a damn fine payout is coin in the pocket. I’ve been in the wrong damn profession this whole time!

He didn’t have qualms about killing folks who deserved it. There’d been many times on the battlefield when he dealt death to the enemy. As numerous instances crept up, he questioned whether such punishment was merited, which wasn’t counting the innocent people slaughtered in the crossfire. In the end, Maro pondered whether he was part of a good cause, or if he’d thrown in with the villains.

“…sent a caravan of supplies and people out. Ripe pickings, if you ask me…”

Had he not enlisted, Maro wouldn’t possess his current skills now. Regardless, few professions called for former battlefield butchers. If he hadn’t joined as they marched out to quell the uprisings in the Frontier War, he might already be dead. Signing up came at the right time, either soldier up or turn criminal, and Maro knew he didn’t have the temperament for such an undertaking.

“…on the road to Red Creek…”

An image of the little girl, Maribel, flashed through Maro’s mind.

He spun around. “What was that?”

Horace and Peredur glanced at him as if they’d forgotten he existed. Maybe he didn’t. Peredur scowled, his hand sliding to the musket on his right hip. “Stay out of it, scarecrow. You get in my way, I’ll gun you down, too. This is my bounty.”

Maro had been threatened before, by people who bluffed, and by those who meant it, both of which bothered him little. Peredur meant it.

“Got something to say?” Peredur prompted.

Maro grunted and shook his head. What did he care if someone had a fire poker riding up his crotch? Then again, the sergeant in Maro wanted to slap Peredur around like a green recruit on his first outing, blundering through the undergrowth and giving their position away.

Can’t do that anymore. Not part of the army, and the citizenry would turn me over to the lawman if I did. I may not be a good man, but I ain’t a dumb one.

Now considering it all, being in the military held advantages, certainly its privileges—like slapping around little shits like this.

“Didn’t think so.” Peredur’s hand moved away from his pistol, and he turned back to the counter. “Put it on my tab, Horace.”

Horace narrowed his eyes. “If ya don’t come back with your quarry, ya better come back with money. This is the last time!” Maro watched Peredur’s spine stiffen, his shoulders squaring, but before he said anything, Horace cut him off. “Ya got issue with it, take it up with Guild Master Drallus. And ya better think before ya open your mouth and threaten me.”

Peredur deflated, but he snatched the balls, wadding, and gun powder off the counter. He turned and stormed out, running into Maro’s shoulder as he left. Maro watched the man leave. The bells chimed twice overhead, and once they died away, Maro turned back to Horace.

“Charming lad.”

Horace shook his head. “He’s frantic. That’s all. He’s been down on his luck, bringing in the bounties as of late.” Horace frowned. “Don’t think I got your membership chit earlier.”

“Don’t have one.”

Horace’s brow lifted with surprise. “Well, I can’t sell ya anything—weapons, at least.”

“Here for a hat.”

Horace nodded, thoughtful. “Yeah, I can sell ya one. Right this way.”

Ten minutes later, and twenty crowns poorer, Maro exited and settled his new hat on his head, of a quality he’d never seen before, not even in the army stocks. To his surprise, and a prominent reason as to why he bought it, it came with a leather interior to keep his head warm. But if he took care of his black, wide-brimmed hat, it’d last as many years as the crowns he paid. He ambled down the steps and into the overcast light, noticing the difference.

“Damn, that’s nice.”

Bastard perked up at the sound of his voice. Maro untied the horse and faced him toward the street, his head pointing in the direction opposite of Maribel, Avardi, and Red Creek.

He glanced back.

Ain’t my business. I never was a good man, so ain’t no reason to start now.

With a shake of his head, he climbed into the saddle and nudged the mount with his heel.

“Alright, Bastard, let’s get this over with.”

With the town to his back, Maro left his life as a soldier behind.