Red Creek

Let not your enemies suffer unjustly, slight not a friend with unkindness, break not a man’s heart undeservedly, torch not a woman’s comfort of security—the Book of Morality, The Sacral Compendium.

The early morning light came as it always did, a stabbing pain in his eyes. Too bad it didn’t bring warmth, but it revealed a pillar of smoke in the distance. The black curling plume climbed like a lazy tornado among the sparse, wispy clouds. Maro couldn’t tell how far it was or how big, but he fought the urge to jump to the worst conclusion.

I ain’t never had the best of luck, so why would it start now?

He wanted to hope, to be charitable with his optimism, but the pessimist in him knew what lay ahead: the remains of the caravan, charred wagons, and corpses abound. In short order, he’d know whether a little girl intured among them.

Of course, he prayed for Maribel’s safety. He wasn’t much for talking to the gods and groveling for small favors. They never answered him anyway. He supposed that wasn’t true, considering all the times he begged for deliverance in skirmishes over the years. Someone had listened, hadn’t they? Was it enough to turn a heathen into a devout believer?

Not Maro. He’d need divine intervention to feel the overwhelming presence of the holy ones, manifested into the physical and undeniable in the flesh. He supposed they could slap him in the face. That’d be proof, wouldn’t it? Perhaps a small miracle, to be sure?

He wished to be wrong about what lay ahead, but wishes were like prayers: wasted hot breath. What had happened when the gang descended upon them? Did they come in shooting, or try to ambush them in their sleep? The more he thought about it, coming in with pellets flying sounded like a lot better way to die.

I’ll take a shot to the face than the slow cut of steel on my throat.

That’s how Jeb died, his companion of three years in the army. They’d suffered through the worst of atrocities together, and when they stood side by side, they could weather anything. Then, one night, as Maro slept and Jeb remained on watch, the insurgents slipped through their lines and slit Jeb’s throat. It was Jeb’s responsibility to stay awake. Maro had awoken to the sound of his gurgling, choking on his own blood … hell of a way to wake up.

So, Maro did the only sensible thing: he shot the son of a bitch in the face from ten feet away. The splatter from out the back of the man’s head blinded his friends behind him. Maro went on a rampage with his knife and also picked up the steel that took his friend’s life. Soaked in blood and gore and unidentifiable bits, he swore he’d never cleanse the stains away.

He shook those dark thoughts away. No, hope had to win out, at least for the moment. Maybe a cookfire? Or did they burn a big pile of brush to keep warm? But the ex-soldier doubted it. He’d seen an immoderate sickness in the world; his hands had been bloodied by the work, too.

“Come on, Bastard,” he urged, and kicked the horse’s flanks, but the poor beast was exhausted. He didn’t get much life out of him, and Maro couldn’t blame him. They’d ridden hard yesterday, and it’d been a full day since either got sleep or had a decent meal. Luck wasn’t with either horse or rider, and the rising smoke was further than both could’ve guessed. Noon came before they pulled up to the remains.

Maro nearly fell out of his saddle with exhaustion, and Bastard breathed in heavy, labored pants, his sides heaving.

“Poor boy.” Maro pulled the stirrup closest to him up and hooked it on the saddle’s horn, loosened the girth strap all the way, and removed the saddle. It dropped to the ground. “Easy lad, easy,” he said, stroking the beast.

Maro let his eyes roam over the camp, searching for signs of the girl. If the entire situation broke bad, he hoped she was already dead, so she wouldn’t suffer, something quick, or an accident. It wouldn’t be the first time a stray musket ball struck the wrong person.

It’s not like they are the most accurate weapons in the world.

He glanced behind him, to the south, on the other side of the road. A sparse forest rose up with a multitude of cedar trees, but it wasn’t dense, and no one could hide inside without being spotted. He scrutinized it, then discarded it as a hiding place. Turning back to the camp, he surveyed the wreckage.

The charred remains of a wagon still smoked with each gust of wind, but it was embers now. Only half a spoke survived the fire, which helped Maro identify the remains. If anyone said a tornado ran through the campsite, tossing the luggage around, he would’ve believed them, except the missing wagons.

The attack had been clean and quick, but judging from the site, he knew if they found her alive, she’d be taken. As far as he could tell, no one survived, and it didn’t look like the Lantons took the time to be too sadistic. No evidence of torture.

Maybe they wanted to be in and out before anyone else came along? Autarch, if you’re listening, please don’t let me find that girl’s body.

He felt almost guilty for asking, then just as terrible for wishing her alive. Unless she escaped on her own and was clear of all trouble or pursuit, praying for such an outcome put her in more peril than if she were dead.

Maro grunted at the thought and stepped away from Bastard. He waded through the smoking and charred debris, the strewn out chests. Judging by the remaining embers, the fires started long ago, well before dawn. Not everything burned. One wagon had been tipped on the side, and a few crates lay discarded, but as to why the outlaws had abandoned them, he could only guess.

As he moved deeper through the damage, a cough made him freeze in place.

Did that come from the left or the right?

It was the kind of cough used to clear your throat, but weak and pathetic. He’d heard it before, the type to remove liquid from your lungs, so you kept breathing. Pooling blood was troubling someone, but how long before it wouldn’t trouble them anymore?

Maro’s hand dipped to the hilt of his blade, and in a slow, smooth, noiseless motion, he slipped it free. Watching where he set his feet, he continued on, his eyes scanning for the person in need and for ambushes.

Gods, what I wouldn’t give for a musket.

He rounded the wagon on its side and caught sight of a man slumped against the underside. Blood covered his features, streaked his face, soaked his shirt right where he held his guts close to his body. Still, despite all, he recognized Peredur, the bounty hunter, itching for a fight in Tepress.

“Gods’s wrath,” he cursed under his breath. He fought the urge to run up to him, to help, but that’s how you ended up dead. During the war, the insurgents laid traps that way, pooled gunpowder under a person or body, and when you moved them or rushed through a trip wire, it’d set off a spark. Nothing remained of those eager to help the wounded.

With slow, methodical movements, Maro made it to Peredur’s side, and the bounty hunter’s eyes flitted to him before resting in a steady gaze.

“Y-you,” he said with weak breath.

“Yeah.” Maro squatted next to him. As he did, one of Peredur’s pistols lay beside him, and the ex-soldier snatched it up, inspecting it to ensure it was loaded. It was.

“Help me.”

“The girl; where is she?”

“Girl?”

Maro wanted to be kind, to offer comfort in Peredur’s dying moments, but that wasn’t his way. He wouldn’t lie to the man, nor would he bide time while Peredur called for his mother. In some sick, twisted humor, when perishing men went to the Autarch, a woman’s name was always on their lips. Sometimes, they left a lovely maiden behind; most of the time, they sought the woman who gave them life.

The ex-soldier leaned in close, bringing his face level with the dying man. “Don’t jerk my dick. There was a girl in the caravan. What happened to her? Did she die? Did they take her?”

“No—” he coughed, “no girl.” He winced as some of his intestines slid out of his grasp. “Help.”

Maro sighed, glancing the bounty hunter over, then around him, searching for any sign of tampering. “You crawl here yourself?”

“Y-yes.”

Had Peredur been mistaken? Did he not see the girl? But that didn’t mean she wasn’t here. Or had Avardi duped him back in Tepress and lied about putting Maribel on the wagons? Perhaps he thought if he got Maro away from him, chasing a coach with a phantom girl, that he’d give up, if he ever caught them.

Avardi didn’t appreciate the lengths Maro would go to, or the urge to seek vengeance on those who wronged him.

Maro kept his head on a swivel, taking in the wreckage, ensuring no one snuck up on him. “I can help you,” Maro said, turning back, “but don’t fuck with me. I only care about the girl. Did you see her?”

Peredur nodded. Anger shot through Maro, and he wanted to punch the man in the face or grab a fistful of guts and twist.

“You son of a bitch,” he shouted. “You’re wasting my time, her time, and you’re dying. Did they apprehend her or kill her?”

“T-ta-take.” Peredur coughed, causing the bloody insides to jiggle in his hands.

“Who took her?”

“Lanton.”

Maro groaned in frustration, knowing what future awaited Maribel. The kindest fate would be a quick death, worse if she was sold off to a slaver, and even worse still … he didn’t want to think about that, not with so many sick bastards in the world, but he’d make sure there’d be fewer when he finished.

A righteous anger rose within him, white hot and blinding. He’d kill them all, every last one of them. He wouldn’t quibble over the means; he’d just hurt them in ways they never imagined. His time in the army, fighting on the front lines, standing guard as they interrogated all those who survived each battle … he wouldn’t need to get inventive.

“Was she alive?”

“Yes.”

Maro wracked his brain. What should he ask? What would help him the most? “How many in the Lanton gang?”

“Eleven.”

Eleven? Why the odd number? Or perhaps not so odd; one leader, ten lackeys.

“Help me,” Peredur asked with a thready voice.

“Alright,” Maro said, standing. He glanced around, making sure he was still alone. “I’ll help you.” Without sympathy or pause, he cocked the musket-pistol, aimed between the bounty hunter’s eyes, and pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out, and a wisp of smoke exited the barrel. Bastard cried out from where he stood, frightened by the sudden noise, but as a horse trained for battle and musket fire, he wouldn’t bolt for the hills.

Normally.

When they took him by surprise, that was another matter. He might be skittish for a few moments, but he wouldn’t run off … far.

Better not.

Maro removed his hat and held it to his chest. “Sorry, Peredur, but nothing could be done.”

And it was true. Maro had seen men with wounds like Peredur, and they never survived long, and if they did, they screamed in agony. Even with trained healers, few as there were, most expired. What he’d done was a kindness. Someone watching from afar wouldn’t think so, equating it to nothing short of murder, but damn the man who’d never stood in Maro’s boots and cast judgement. He gave Peredur a quick release, as he would if Bastard broke his leg out on the trail.

No point in suffering.

Maro turned the pistol in his hands, inspecting the weapon. He’d never seen one, other than the guild shop in Tepress. Muskets were inaccurate at best, and a shorter barrel wouldn’t do the shooter any favors.

Alright, Autarch, you’re testing me mightily, but I ain’t fucking around. Keep that kid alive, or else. Oh, and uh, look after the son of a bitch I just sent your way, even though he’s a dick.

Knowing if anyone was close enough to hear the shot, they’d come full speed, probably with guns smoking. Maro couldn’t be caught with his pants at his ankles. He patted down Peredur, searching pockets and the belt. He pulled out a coin pouch that jingled, a small, thin, circular disc shape with BHG stamped on one side and Tepress right under it. On the other side, Peredur’s name was etched.

“Bounty hunter chit?” he mused aloud. Reaching the man’s waist, he unbuckled the gun belt, tugged it free, and stood.

Oh, and uh, Autarch? Since I found a gun, which I assume is your will, prepare yourself, cause I’m about to send a lot more souls your way.

He donned the gun belt, fidgeting until it sat comfortably on his hip. With prudence guiding him, he reloaded the musket-pistol.

Maro glanced at Peredur’s boots, and they were far nicer than his own, what with the holes and thinning sole. He put his foot against the dead man’s boot, finding them a match. He sighed and squatted. “Law of the Land, Peredur,” he said, and began unlacing them. “Sorry about that.”

Shod with new skins, Maro stood and searched for the blood trail. Peredur said he crawled this way, leaving his possessions behind. If the gang were in a hurry, they might’ve overlooked his gear, and that’d be a nice boon for him.

One question nagged Maro: was Peredur part of the caravan, or did he trail them? If he had to guess, he joined the group as a way to ensure he ran across them. That, too, troubled him. If he recalled correctly, and he might not, being half-starved and sleep deprived, Peredur mentioned taking them out one or two at a time.

Does the poor sod have more guns?

He traced the blood path back to another wagon, this one with a wheel broken, the axle ground into the dirt. A deep divot scored across the rolling plain. Most of the contents had shifted or crashed to the soft ground. Otherwise, it didn’t seem disturbed.

Why would they? It’s a broken wagon, and speed’s of the essence.

Maro surveyed the site. Five wagons remained, and despite the state he found them in, they formed a half haphazard circle.

Five out of twelve. They carried off seven wagons. Guess I better find the others, see if they have anything to identify them with, but first…

He sifted through the debris, finding the dead bounty hunter’s gear. The bag still had its straps, and Maro rummaged through. There were a few changes of clothes, skivvies, a few shirts, some socks, and canned fruit, smoked and dried meat, and some hard cheese.

Well, that’ll plug up the strongest of stomachs.

And more, it’d keep him from starving.

He thought about Bastard, and what he’d feed the poor beast. Maro hadn’t tied him up, so the horse went grazing. But they’d need water. Still squatting, he waddled forward and searched for a canteen. He found two and stuffed them in the bag.

Maro also discovered a small bottle of spirits. He gazed at the container, seeing the liquid slosh within. His mouth watered from want, and if it had a voice, he could hear it calling to him. ‘Just a little sip; that’s a good lad. Everything will work out alright. You don’t have to feel all those terrible things you had a hand in.’

He twisted the top off, swirling the small glass flask before taking a whiff. A spicy cloying hit his nostrils, and for a moment, he remembered all the merriment that accompanied the drink. He licked his lips. A single swig wouldn’t hurt, right? He glanced about him. No one was here to fall prey to his inebriated savagery.

But that sweet violence caused him to stop. He’d brutalized too many while chugging away, sucking down the vile demon in the bottle, and friend and foe alike fell victim to his bony fists, or the prickling heat of his boon. In his cups, he turned hateful, and he chose to share his displeasure with anyone close by, making everyone as miserable as him.

That’s the problem with most bastards today. They’re fucking inconsolable, and they want to drag everyone down to their level.

And with that thought, reminding himself he was once like those little, whiny cock suckers running rampant, screaming about how unfair and unjust the world was, he twisted the lid back in place, and stuffed it into his bag.

I’m fucking dumb, but I ain’t so stupid. If I get shot, I’ll need to clean the wound.

And during this ludicrous quest, he ran a damn good chance of just that.

His stomach growled, and he pulled a long strip of meat from the bag and chewed as he went on to his next stop. Three bodies greeted him, but he found a few more scraps of food and another canteen. Upon frisking the cold corpses, he came across another pistol and more coin, but the muskets were gone.

Figures they’d stop for firepower, but they didn’t consider the pistols worthy of collecting? Their mistake.

He moved to the next, and on it went, adding to his stores, always frisking, keeping count. When he finished, he tallied up the bodies: eleven, not twelve.

It’s not like the damn thing drove itself, so where’d he run off to?

It was possible he escaped, but Maro doubted it. Another option was that he was captured and taken by the Lantons. While that, too, seemed improbable, it was more likely than the first scenario, and he couldn’t discount the possibility of the man going willingly. He mulled over the thought. Would the Lantons be smart enough to embed one of their own with the caravan—that way, they’d know which to hit and which not to?

What if they had a man on the inside but for all the caravans? Why would they hit this one?

Maro turned and surveyed the field, taking in the ruts of the wagons.

Surely they wouldn’t hit this one just for Maribel?

The more he thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed. A gang wouldn’t risk their lives for a little girl to sell or keep. Besides, how would they know she was on the trail? No, this attack was prompted by more, so what made this convoy more special than the others? They went out once a month, and Avardi said only some were attacked.

What drew you bastards? What am I missing?

He pulled off his hat and ran fingers through his short brown hair as he thought. He’d need to go through the wreckage again, and this time, pay closer attention than counting bodies and stuffing his bag. Maro checked all five pistols he found. He ensured they were loaded and ready for use, tucked two in his holsters, and the rest into the belt.

Hat placed on his head, his eyes wove over the ground and the tracks. He’d tracked and reconned four out of the five years with the army. He noted the horse prints, both those with wagons attached and those without. Each wagon, judging from their size and their supplies, had four to six horses a piece. That he recollected, the trail to Red Creek wasn’t a arduous one, rolling hills and nothing mountainous. Four to six would be plenty, depending on the load.

He roamed through the center of the devastated camp, his eyes on the ground. All tracks crisscrossed, making it hard to parse any sense of it, but then, he saw it: ruts deeper than the rest. Focusing on that, he followed the path two dozen paces out of the shambles and almost due north.

He lifted his eyes to the horizon.

In the distance, the Shrouded Mountains loomed, a two-to-three-day journey—if he rode hard—and Bastard wouldn’t finish it alive. With the thieves pulling wagons with supplies, it’d take longer.

His gaze dropped to the middle ground, noting the Blighted Forest that sprouted like a thick wall between him and the mountains, and the trees butted up against the foot of the rising slopes. The forest ran east to west for days, or even a week, depending on how far along it he was and which direction he took.

Unless there’s a road, there’s no way they’re getting through, which means they’d have to turn off somewhere.

Besides, monsters thrived in there—gigantic serpents that swallowed men whole, combative nymphs, and the ankle-biting gnomes.

Well, at least hags aren’t in the area.

Other monsters lurked inside, but he wasn’t an expert. Too many roamed the land to know them all, and a vast majority were region specific. Only a few were nomadic, going where they pleased. Moreover, he couldn’t discount the Cursed. They cropped up anywhere. Of all the monsters of Atar, they were the most dangerous; as creatures, they were the most like the rest of civilization because they used to be them. Anyone could become one.

Even Maro.

He glanced down at his fingers, searching for any sign of the curse spreading, but his fingers remained unblemished.

For now.

Everyone battled with it. The curse was innate in them all, and the more one used their powers, the more it spread. There were ways to cure yourself, for a time, but it always came back. If you let it spread too much or go too long without proper attention, you became one of them.

Maro dropped his gaze to the ground, the ruts filling his eyes. Why was this trip any different? He closed his eyes, thinking back over the last twenty-four hours. Gods, he was tired. His heavy eyes drooped, and sleep threatened to overwhelm him. If he could stand a little longer like this, he’d be fine.

Nothing to it.

The banker’s words floated through his mind. “No, just a few with muskets. Usually that’s enough of a deterrent. We didn’t want to make a show of too much force; that implies you have something special to protect and invites robbery.”

Maro struggled to make sense of the interaction, to open his eyes. The sunlight seemed brighter, and he winced. How long had he been standing there? Did he fall asleep? He glanced at the ruts again.

Show too much force. Why would you care, Avardi? Why does a banker concern himself with the caravan’s protection?

Somewhere in his addled mind, it clicked.

Gods, you stupid son of a bitch! You stuck a girl in a convoy ladened with money. That’s why the ruts are deeper. That’s how you knew how many muskets they had. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

A troubling thought wormed its way through. How did the Lanton gang know? It came back to the missing man, and the more he thought about it, he grew certain of the mole within.

You’re really testing me, aren’t you, Autarch?

Though it’d sting, he glanced skyward, finding the sun, then closed his eyes and pulled away. He shivered as his eyes watered. Why couldn’t it be warmer? He’d have a few more hours of light, and by the time he stopped for the night, he and the horse would be going for a day and a half. They needed rest.

Maro gazed over the wreckage. Bastard needed food, and the ex-solider to find a way to carry it. One more sweep would allow him to gather anything useful for the trail, and then, they’d start up again.

One last, hard ride, Bastard.

He hoped he didn’t kill the poor beast.

I’m coming, Maribel.