Red Creek

Let those who are filled with hate speak what’s in their hearts, for you will heed it in their words, hear it in their voice, see the facial mars of anger and bitterness, and they’ll be revealed as one without logical thought or a heart worthy of weeping over—the Book of Malice, the Sacral Compendium

Bastard returned just before full light. Wherever the hell he ran off to, Maro couldn’t guess. Despite all the training and battles, the horse would stop for food. When mealtime came, he devoured all in his path, far faster than what was healthy. If a stranger watched, they’d think he hadn’t fed the animal for days.

Bastard came trotting up to the cluster of oaks, staring at Maro, daring him to complain.

“Well, at least you’re smart enough to return to the food.”

Bastard shook his mane in response. He fed him, but giving him water turned both simple and complicated. Since Maro didn’t have a pot to cook in, he turned his hat upside down and poured water inside. The leather lining held the water rather than let it seep through. He reformed the hat more like a bowl and poured in a little from a canteen. When the horse drank it all, he poured in a little more. The only damnable part? Putting the wet thing on his head afterward, but it couldn’t be avoided.

Both watered and fed, Maro saddled Bastard, mounted up, and returned to the ruts. Picking up the trail of the heaviest wagon, he followed.

The rolling hills all blurred into a familiar and repetitive landscape. Sporadic shrubs popped up in unexpected places like zits on his ass. A few trees claimed their territory with an impressive display of dominance in an otherwise less-than-hospitable environment. Their towering trunks with wide, splayed branches proclaimed to nature that nothing could fuck with them. Maro kind of liked the symbology. Rocks peeked through the ground, and to the bounty hunter, it seemed like the entire terrain was covered with a thin layer of dirt, encasing the hard limestone beneath.

No wonder no one farms this wide open land.

Unless others knew about the creatures prowling at night, and that’s why they stayed away.

The warg came to mind.

With the deadly encounter behind him, and with all his years of reconning in the army, he realized his pitiful knowledge of the terrain. If he was to become a bounty hunter, and he still wasn’t sold on the idea no matter how enticing the money, he had a lot to learn.

More training? Am I ever gonna be done with it?

His whole life turned out to be nothing but one long, continuous, and never-ending session of learning not to shit himself, memorizing his letters and numbers, how to dress and match colors, formal education, the army, how to shoot his musket, build a fire, care for wounds…

Damn miserable experience.

The only enjoyable part was the sweet comforts of a woman, but that’d been a long while since his last tutoring session.

Perhaps he’d need to team up with someone in the beginning stretch of his new career? The idea rankled him. He hated people in general. The young boys in his unit were different. They obeyed, and their fears kept them in line, of reprisals, disobedience, and punitive action by Captain Hovath.

Ruthless bastard, but spending years out in the wilderness, chasing ghosts and heathens will change a man.

But Maro didn’t want to lose all his civility, just most of it. If others thought him a monster, it was because they didn’t know him. He did have morals, otherwise he wouldn’t have left the army, or be scouring the gods’ ass-end of Atar to find a missing girl. Despite not caring about the frivolity of other people’s lives, a little girl’s safety gnawed at his conscience.

I’m coming, Maribel.

He tried to push her out of his mind other than his need to hurry and rescue her. Sparing her from a life of whatever the Lanton gang planned would pay a little of the debt he owed the world of Atar for associating with the army and all the terrible things he partook. True, he fought a pernicious enemy who was deadly and barbaric, but Maro’s unit answered in kind.

If in the end all you do is blind and maim each other, what life is left to enjoy afterward?

When he put it in that context, thinking of each battle as part of a body, he’d be blind, deaf, and an amputee. If confined to a bed for the rest of his life, force fed to keep him alive, he’d hope someone would have the decency to put a bullet between his eyes like he did Peredur. Thinking of the dead bounty hunter didn’t bother him. It was the kind thing to do. Perhaps others wouldn’t see it as civil, but he saved the man excruciating hours of misery, dying a slow death because no one would have the stomach to end the suffering.

He wondered if he’d feel the same if it was Maribel. He shook his head, trying not to fixate.

The landscape didn’t change much as the hours trickled by. The rolling plains shifted to more hilly, and there were clusters of more trees the closer he drew to the forest. While still a solid two days away, the vegetation choreographed things to come. Crooked, proud oaks jutted out of the ground, almost surrounded and choked off by the cedar trees. That gray mossy shit grew over the bark, and the leaves faded from a lustrous hue to a pale green.

The bubble of a creek caught his ears, and he came to a halt to judge where the sound came from. Down at his feet, Maro peered at the tracks. A wagon stopped here for a short while, the ruts deeper in one area. Squinting his eyes, Maro noted the earth turned a rich brown and clumped together. Even the limestone underneath disappeared.

Bastard’s ears twitched, hearing the moving water, too. Maro took a quick glance skyward. They’d been going for several hours by now, still tracking the same meandering ruts.

“Let’s take a break, huh?”

He dismounted and laid the reins over the horse’s neck. And Bastard, being Bastard, took this as freedom to amble around, following his master to the bubbling creek. As he neared the rolling brook, Maro stepped on some loose, smooth rocks, stones that used to be underwater, which caused his foot to slip.

A frightened, pained voice called out. “Fellas? Is that you?”

Maro froze, his brow cocked. His eyes scanned the waterline on both sides of the creek.

“Bobby?”

Maro slipped the pistol on his left hip free and moved it to his right hand. If he was entering a shootout, he wanted the gun on his right hip available for a quick draw, instead of trying to pull from across his body. With cautious, light steps, Maro moved forward. The closer he drew to the creek, the rockier the terrain turned.

“Guys? I knew you’d come back. Help me!”

The voice came from his left along the creek. Maro stepped over the rocky shore; the clatter of pebbles underfoot shifted with each step. The only consolation to the ingress was the rushing water drowned out most of the noise. If lucky, Maro would be on top of him before he realized it.

Drawing closer to larger boulders hiding the person crying for help, he squatted low so his head wouldn’t be seen until the last moment. By the time Maro’s eyes fell upon the man, the stones were waist high. In a glance, Maro noted he stared at a dying man. The bandit, pale faced and beaded with sweat, laid on his back, the upper part of his shoulders and head propped against the rock face. The man’s charcoal gray coat was draped over him like a blanket.

That coat would look mighty fine with my black hat.

“You’re not Bobby,” the man said.

Maro grunted. “Not Bobby.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“I could ask the same, but I know who you are.”

The man’s brow frowned, suspicion etching his face. “You know me, stranger?”

“Not you personally, but I recognize a turd floating in the river when I see it.” With his left hand free, Maro used it to vault over the rock and land between the man’s legs. With the toe of his boot, Maro lifted the edge of the coat away, revealing the tourniquet on the man’s right leg, and a quarter of the way up the thigh. Maro removed the coat completely, tossing it aside so he could see the man’s hands. He sat weaponless.

Not that it’d help much. With blood loss and weakness, he couldn’t shoot Bastard in the hindquarters from ten feet away.

Maro’s eyes scrutinized the wound. “Looks like a love bite. Want to tell me what happened?”

The man scowled. “No. A disagreement between me and a friend.”

Maro grunted. “That friend be Bobby?”

The other didn’t say anything.

“Or would that friend be someone guarding an ambushed caravan from a day ago?”

The man’s eyes widened a fraction before he schooled his features.

“Thought so,” Maro said. He lifted his eyes to the surroundings, making sure they were alone, and no one snuck up on them. He’d seen variations of this kind of ploy, someone pretending an injury, or they were injured, and their mates took the helping stranger unaware. Maro glanced over his left shoulder, back towards Bastard. In greed, the steed drank from the creek without a care in the world.

Shouldn’t let him hog the sauce, but I’ve got other things to take care of at the moment.

The ex-soldier turned his eyes back to the dying man. “The tourniquet’s the only thing keeping you alive. Looks like a nicked artery. Tell you what,” Maro said, spitting on the ground and stirring it with his boot. “I’ll help you in exchange for information.”

A wary expression crept over the man’s face. “Like what?”

Maro pulled his hat off, taking his time, his hand reaching inside and reshaping it, letting the damp leather breathe. He squatted down and stared the man in the eyes. “The Lanton gang. You are—excuse me—were part of it.”

The man opened his mouth.

“Don’t deny it,” Maro cut him off. “I may look as ugly as a mule, but I’m not as dumb as an ass. Now, I don’t care what you stole. The way I see it, if you don’t protect what’s yours, if you’re too weak to stand your ground, maybe you don’t have the constitution to live on the frontier.” Maro paused. “Sorry, getting carried away with my philosophizing while you’re here bleeding out. Guess that’s the only way I can get anyone to listen to me.” A grin tugged at the corner of Maro’s lip. “A captive audience, you might say.”

“Listen, mister—”

“The girl,” Maro said, a grating hardness entering his voice. The other man went still. “Where is she?”

The man’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Maro drew the long hunting knife from his belt. The steel glittered in the sunlight, blinding him.

Damn sun.

“Now, I ain’t a barbaric man by any stretch of the imagination, at least, not in my natural element; I like peace, prosperity for all, and no one telling me what to do, but we don’t live in a fantasy world. So, I’ve learned my lessons the hard way, and after you get hit in the face enough, you remember to put up your fucking hands and protect yourself.”

Maro sighed, then with a single shake of his head, he spoke. “I’ve seen and done shit that’ll make your asshole pucker. Spending five years in the army on the front lines teaches you a lot about a man, what he’s willing to endure, his resolve, the cause he fights for, and what parts you can cut off to make him squeal like a butcher-shop hog.”

“Grace Autarch,” the other man said in a shaky breath.

Maro shook his head. “God ain’t here, only me, but I understand the confusion.” Maro took two hunched, waddling steps closer. “I only care about the girl, what happened to her, where they took her. So, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll stop cutting when you tell me what I want to know.”

The man’s eyes went wide.

Maro grunted. “I’m glad you see my resolve and the seriousness of the situation.” Maro lowered the knife to the man’s shin, to the soft muscle resting beside the bone. “Now then, the little girl. Is she alive?”

“Yes!” the other said with a sense of urgency.

Maro let out a pent-up breath.

“Is she healthy and whole?”

The other man nodded. “Last I saw.”

Maro grimaced. He didn’t want to clarify his question, but … he had to know. “Your gang’s full of a bunch of sadistic bastards, so I’ll only ask this once. Did any of you rape her?”

A look of horror crossed the man’s features. “Grace Autarch! She’s just a little child. Like seven.”

“She’s ten, no need to be inflammatory, and I noticed you didn’t answer my question.” Maro pushed the blade into the muscle.

The man’s lips parted to scream, and with his free hand, Maro threw dirt into the man’s mouth. Caught between screaming and choking, the body did the rest. He coughed and hacked and spat the dirt from his mouth. Maro withdrew the blade, the tip coated in blood.

“Now then, the girl?”

Once the man got control of his body, he answered in a rush. “No, we didn’t touch her. She had to be pure for the buyer.”

“What buyer?”

“I don’t know his name,” the man answered in a whimper breath. “Ludre never tells us more than we need.”

“Who the fuck’s Ludre?”

The man’s eyes widened in shock. “He’s the leader. How do you not know this?”

Maro shook his head. “Should I?”

“Aren’t you a bounty hunter?”

Maro shrugged. “New to the profession and these parts. I don’t give a shit about Ludre, just the girl. Where is she?”

“They took her to the meeting point, Double Rock Ranch.”

Maro sighed. “Where in the hell’s Double Rock Ranch?” Maro shifted the knife to right above the man’s ruined knee, and the man rushed to tell him.

“It’s to the north and west of here. Not far from the tree line of the forest, near Salt Canyon.”

“Northwest? Toward the wilderness and Red Creek?”

The man nodded, his eyes bulging. “Yes, please, don’t hurt me.”

Maro frowned. Torture was never a sure thing. Half the time, the prisoner spouted shit to make you stop cutting, and to be fair, he’d barely done anything to this man yet. For all he knew, this outlaw spun yarns to nowhere. “And what about the money?”

A frown flickered over the man’s face, but it wasn’t an immediate reaction. There’d been a delay. “What money?”

Maro grimaced. “Damn the Autarch. You had to lie to me.” Maro reached for the man’s hand, stretching it out. His prisoner tried to fight him, but Maro won the round by breaking his arm, then he deftly removed the man’s pinky. He would’ve done just the tip of the knuckle, but the struggle irritated him.

In the end, after a handful of shallow stab wounds and losing three fingers on the left hand, the man told him everything he needed. Maro wiped the blade on the man’s shirt.

The criminal wept, cradling his mangled hand with the other.

Part of Maro was repulsed by what he’d done. In the past, he’d only watched as interrogations happened, stood guard while the enemy screamed, cried, and spilled their secrets like blood on the front lines. Whether admitted or not, the icky feeling in his gut started the staining of his soul.

I’m damned, anyway.

If ever a chance for redemption, Maro doubted he could pay the exorbitant cost plus interest. But a slim reason for hope remained. He’d left Captain Hovath’s battalion, which ran amuck and counter to the regular army. Their small units were forward of all operations, and he took command on the frontier, where the guerilla fighters and bizarre tactics ran rampant.

Maro left the sadistic butchery behind, the senseless waste of life, but perhaps the ghost of those atrocities still followed, a proverbial ball and chain, forever shackling him prisoner. Knowledge was one thing, but he took no pleasure in what he’d done. He wasn’t like the interrogators in his old unit, the ones who had a bad day if there wasn’t someone to cut, pummel, or drown in a sobbing mess.

Can’t focus on that. Maribel’s still out there.

And it was true. The girl needed his help, and Maro, before he set out on this quest, promised the Autarch he’d kill everyone involved. Shooting a man in the face was impersonal—business, but removing parts of him while he wailed was something else entirely.

“Calm down,” Maro said after a time. “It could’ve been worse.”

“Worse?” the outlaw croaked, scarcely audible with his pain-riddled voice.

Maro nodded, then squatted in front of him. “I’ve seen the worst of what humanity has to offer. Of course, it didn’t start that way, not at first. That’s what happens when you throw in with the wrong people, and they turn you into a fanatic like them. It’s one word, one idea, one deed at a time. It’s a slow process, but a long con.”

Maro glanced around them, still ensuring they were alone. Someone might’ve heard the screams and came skulking.

“First time I saw an interrogation, they were punching him, softening him up. He spilled his secrets; they always do. There was sleep deprivation, starvation, dehydration, forced labor, you name it. The last one I witnessed, they turned the man into a eunuch. So, yeah, it could’ve been worse, like cutting your balls and shaft off and feeding them to you. Be glad I ain’t them.”

And Maro knew with certainty he would’ve done so if the scoundrel revealed anything untoward about the girl or her treatment. But the secrets the man spilled to save himself left Maro feeling hollow. Had they been worth the cost to his soul? He could wrestle with the philosophical quagmire once he rescued the little girl.

He stood, the pain in his legs reminding him that squatting for prolonged periods wasn’t the best idea. What Maro learned illuminated much of what he speculated. He’d been right about a man on the inside for the job, but he’d been wrong on the count. They had a man riding with the caravan, but the one who pulled the strings was the rotund banker in Tepress.

Fucking Avardi!

He stood atop as the mastermind behind the plan, telling the gang where to go, what to hit. While this Ludre might run the outfit, he answered to Avardi, ’cause without him, they relied on sheer dumb luck. What turned Maro’s stomach even more was that Avardi wanted Maribel unblemished for himself. And after his sick fun, he’d either sell her off to slavers, or kill her to keep his secret.

By the Autarch, I told the man to keep her! Maro closed his eyes and shook his head. I almost damned the poor girl forever.

But there was still time. She was alive, unspoiled, and would remain so until Avardi came to collect.

“You’re not gonna leave me here to die, are ya?” the man whined. Now writhing in pain and panicking, his accent bubbled to the foreground.

I was never a good man, and this is one of the reasons why.

Maro glanced down at him. “Yes.”

The man’s face went slack with terror and disbelief. “You can’t!”

Maro squatted again, put his knife to the man’s mangled leg, slipped it beneath the tourniquet, and sawed it free. “Watch me.”

Once the bandage split, Maro plucked it up and flung it behind him. He heard a faint splash as it landed in the water. The blood rushed through the artery, coloring his pants. It’d be a minute or two, and he’d cease breathing.

Maro stood as the man cried out, babbling nonsense, clutching the crimson flow.

I told you, Autarch. If I took this job, I’d be cleaning up the filth and sending them to you. I keep my word. If you want to smite me for what I’ve done, you can do it after I save Maribel. Maybe, for once in my life, I’ll do something right.

But good men perished. That’s how every story went. The smart ones, the evil bastards, the cowardly, they all survived while good men leapt to the front to die. He leapt to help a little girl now.

This task might end up being his last. While much remained that he wanted to do—lay with a woman from all corners of every map known in existence, lose a fortune or two, he’d be content if he went out with this one deed.

The ex-soldier held no delusions, however. He might be doing a righteous thing, but he used deplorable means to accomplish it. Did that balance out or tip the scales? He wouldn’t be privy to the knowledge until he stared up at the Autarch and received his judgement.

Maro blinked, realizing the man wasn’t moving. He’d died while Maro mused over the finite details of his soul and deeds.

That’s probably how my end will go, as silent as the trees swaying in the wilderness, and as dignified as a wet fart in the britches.

Glancing to the left, he spied the charcoal gray coat he’d discarded earlier.

That really is a nice coat. Hope it ain’t ruined.

To the man who bled out, he said, “Sorry, law of the land.”

Maro peeled off his shabby, thin coat and donned the newer one. Made of thick wool, it was much warmer, but he’d find something to bitch about before long. Maro sifted through the man’s pockets and possession, coming away with little. It seemed his friends picked him clean of anything noteworthy.

He stood up one last time, took off his hat, and muttered a little prayer. “Sorry, old chap. Wish things weren’t the way they were, but you did your works, and I did mine. Autarch, if you’re listening, judge him fairly.”

Maro donned his hat, turned on his heel, and promptly puked. The bile built with each cut, and now that the moment passed, the realization of what he’d done kicked it. He supposed it was a good thing, hacking up his guts. He hadn’t lied about seeing a man removed from his member, and the butcher who’d done it laughed about it afterwards. Maro wasn’t as sick as him, and he never wanted to be.

When this is over, if I survive, I’ll mend my ways. No more of this torture shit.

He glanced skyward, speaking to the god he’d never seen.

But that doesn’t mean I still won’t kill a man deserving of it.

Turning away, he headed to Bastard and the stream. He’d drink ’til bursting, refill the canteens, and hit the trail. He wasn’t far behind the gang, and he could move faster than a laden wagon.

But more importantly, he knew where they were going.