Red Creek

The desire a man finds in his loins for a woman should be the same as the compulsion for truth; may her carnal embrace satisfy his body, just as dispensing justice should satiate his soul—the Book of Lust, The Sacral Compendium.

Maro reached the trees by Herod’s Gate as dusk turned to twilight, and before long, starlight would swallow them whole. He went to the left of where the wagon entered, to the south. After tethering Bastard, he removed the saddle. Then, fed and watered his mount. Normally, Maro didn’t hobble Bastard. He was too well trained, but the ex-soldier wouldn’t take any chances tonight. This close to the bandits, the last thing he needed was Bastard to leave on his own accord and seek the promised sweets.

Taking a canteen of water, he chugged half.

That’ll pull me out of sleep.

Maro found a smooth patch of ground at the foot of a tree with two roots sticking up in a V shape. He wedged his neck in between to keep his head out of the dirt. Wrapping his new coat tight about him, he lowered his now sweaty hat over his eyes and fell asleep.

Several hours later, his bladder woke him, pleading for release. He made his feet and staggered a few paces away, unfastening his belt as he walked. Relieved, he returned to his camp. Bastard was awake, glancing at his rider.

“What? Don’t give me that look.” He sighed. “I said if we found any sweets, you could have them. We haven’t gone there yet.”

Bastard snorted. The darkness, the trees shifting in the wind, the chirp of crickets, and the dropping temperature made him shiver. The day might belong to mankind, but creatures ruled the night, predators and jackals coming out to hunt and feast. Nothing was more terrifying than waking up to some critter crawling across you, or the fangs of a warg smiling at you.

Scarier than waking up sober next to a two-crown whore.

Maro patted the horse’s neck, then used Bastard’s back as a prop for his arms, and he leaned against the horse, gazing in the darkness toward the five men. He doubted Maribel was with them. He didn’t spot her earlier when the wagon stopped, but that meant nothing. Perhaps she grew feisty, and they trussed her up like a calf. Maro hadn’t heard her either. Maybe they gagged her as well? Just because she was supposed to be unblemished for Avardi didn’t mean they’d let her cause problems the whole ride. If she did, they’d be tired of an unruly child.

“Bloody work ahead,” he said, both to himself and his steed.

Bastard nodded.

“Like old times.”

The horse craned his neck.

Maro glanced at him. “Could be Maudlin Ridge all over again.”

Bastard’s ears flickered backward.

“I didn’t like it anymore than you did, but orders were orders.”

Maro hated falling back on that excuse. Sure, people cast stones after the fact, but when you voiced descent in the moment, you found the barrel of a gun in your face and an ultimatum to do or die. Maro hadn’t known anyone to swallow a bullet, not when they loved living.

Bastard faced the front.

“A lot of folk died that day,” he mumbled into the darkness, “but not any of ours.”

The bitter taste of imaginary bile rose in Maro’s throat. Maudlin Ridge had been one of the biggest blunders he had a hand in. The camp was supposed to be filled with enemy combatants, and it was, but also populated with family members.

Women and children.

Maro’s recon unit swept in during the wee hours of night and subdued the majority without issue. One person per abode. Maudlin Ridge got its name from the palladium miners who all went there to strike it rich. They built a small town, but less than two years after, all left poorer than when they arrived.

Once the main body of the army closed the gap, his unit pulled out and continued on. The massacre that happened in the wake of his departure was the first inkling he wasn’t on the right side of the confrontation. Now, in retrospect, even with just cause, he didn’t believe war had a right side. Sure, there could be a cause, but every soldier was someone’s son, father, or sibling, and no amount of violence or victories changed that.

He sighed. “Maudlin Ridge, then.”

Bastard snorted.

Another massacre awaits.

The difference now was that he had no reinforcements, no army to sweep in after and subdue everything. Working alone, he couldn’t keep any enemies at his back, even tied up. He’d have to kill them. The men warranted death for what they’d done, taking Maribel. Hell, if even half of what Horace had said—the guy running the Bounty Hunter’s Guild in Tepress—was true, they all deserved to die, and he had no qualms about that. His dilemma stemmed from the assumption that once he quit the army, he left that life behind.

You can’t go off to fight and come back wholesome. No one’s the same.

But when did this become his war?

When you let a little girl jerk your heartstrings.

He sighed.

Women are trouble at any age. That’s why I pay them to go away after the fact.

He glanced down at his fingers on his right hand. The curse still clung tight, and would remain so, until he visited a brothel—the only way to cure it, for adults.

Would you rescue the kid if it were a little boy?

Probably. Maro had yet to father any children himself, but after seeing all the horrors he had a hand in, perhaps he’d raise a son or daughter to be better. And if he wanted to be a father, he had to start somewhere.

And after you kill this entire gang?

Water washed away the stains of blood, but the filth clutching his soul would have to wait until the Autarch took his life. They’d square up then, but for now, he’d just have to settle for being a dangerous man.

Pondering over it, little separated him from the criminals. The only difference came from the morality of ethics instilled in him from the army, and his childhood before that. But even then, he saw the moral corruption and the rot amongst the ranks, and he wanted no part of it. Perhaps he was a good man?

Then, why am I still alive?

Good men died; there were no two shakes about that. He wasn’t clever, nor a coward, so what did that make him? Villains always seemed to survive.

Am I the bad guy?

He knew punishment awaited him, whether from a judge, the law of the land, or the Almighty Autarch himself. One way or the other, there’d be a reckoning, and there’d be a price to pay.

But what would the cost be?

He was already willing to die. Atar would have one less pestilence to worry about. He feared the comfort of life, the change to walk the righteous path, because one day, the bill would come due, and the price would be more than he could bear.

“Alright,” Maro said to the stallion. “Let’s move closer, but I go in alone.”

It made sense to move the camp closer. The last thing he wanted to do when finished with his work was to trek all the way back to collect his things. Horse ladened with possessions, both traipsed through the woods, drawing ever closer.

When Maro saw the first orange flicker of fire between the trees, he stopped and moved Bastard out of sight. They had to be thirty meters away. Maybe further. By the time he tethered and removed the saddle again, he discovered another problem. It happened when he placed the saddle on the ground.

Bastard was aroused.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” he muttered to himself. Then, he remembered. One man of the group said the mare was in heat.

“Damn it.”

Bastard grew antsy, turning his head, searching.

“Hey, big boy,” he said, coming to the horse’s head. “We ain’t got time for this, alright? I thought you were too old for this shit.”

Maro wondered if he’d ever be too old. He shook his head. No, he’d never reach that age. Even if the flesh couldn’t rise to the occasion, the salacious itch would still crawl through his veins.

Still, the longer he delayed, the more agitated Bastard would get, then his element of surprise would be gone. What came next would be ruthless, and it had to be carried out with precision and no delay.

Alright, Autarch, if you don’t want me to send these tainted souls your way, now’s the time for a sign like a bolt of lightning, or some mystical creature that talks to me. Otherwise, open up your doors, ‘cause this is gonna get nasty.

Checking his musket pistols one last time, he tucked them away in his belt. He wouldn’t be shooting unless he had to. Pulling his knife free of its sheath, he waded forward and descended upon the sleeping men.

The work went quick, and most only woke up as the blade entered their throats; he kept the red shirt man for last. As the leader of this outfit, he’d have all the answers. The trouble would be in breaking him, but Maro’s skills would ensure cooperation.

The red shirt man woke up when Maro straddled him, but he was rendered unconscious with a right hand. Knocked out, Maro bound the man’s hands in rope, then cut away his clothes, which proved harder than expected. Tied and naked, he dragged the man over to the wagon, then with another length of rope, bound him to the wheel through the spokes.

By now, Bastard’s whining grew loud and restless, and the wagon leader woke from the sound. His eyes fluttered open long enough to see Maro squatting near him.

“Good,” the ex-soldier said, “you’re awake. You’ll want to be for what happens next.” He stood. “I’ll give you a minute to admire your friends, then we’ll talk.”

He stepped out into the darkness, working his way back to Bastard. The stallion appeared agitated.

“Easy boy.” The bounty hunter stepped close and patted the horse’s neck. “Alright, I’ll give you a choice. We can hunt for sweets, or you can rut yourself silly. Take a moment to think about it.” He waited a few heartbeats, then removed the harness that kept Bastard in place. The horse bolted through the trees in search of the mare.

Maro grunted. “Yeah, I’d pick the same.” He returned to the tied man.

When he saw Maro closing in, he shouted. “Do you know who I am? Do you have any idea who you’re fucking with?”

Maro stopped at the man’s feet. “No, I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. But since it’s important to you, why don’t you tell me your name?”

The man’s lips twisted. “I’m Bo Samine. Second in command of the Lanton gang.”

Maro smiled, a rarity these days, and he made sure Bo noted it. “Then, you’ll have all the answers for me. But before we get to the questions, I want to make sure you saw my handy work. I killed four of your men before I captured you.”

“But—” the man glanced at one of the dead men.

“Yeah, he’s supposed to be on watch; he fell asleep. That’s bad for business, and he was the first to go.” Maro squatted and pulled off his hat. “Now, I wouldn’t call myself a sadistic man by any stretch of the imagination, but I’ve seen some inventive shit in my time, and I won’t hesitate to introduce you to some of the more eccentric methods of information gathering. If you jerk my dick on this, you’ll be sorely displeased.”

Bo’s lips drew into a thin line, and Maro noted the rage behind his eyes.

Maro continued. “I’ve already had a lovely chat with the fellow you left for dead. The man with the tourniquet. What’s his name again?”

“Sebastian?”

Maro grunted. “Sebastian?” He pointed with his hat. “What kind of fucking name is that?”

“What did you do to him?”

“Nothing he didn’t warrant,” Maro said. “Just asked a few questions. When he lied, well, parts of his body had to depart. When I finished, he was still alive; do you know why?”

Bo shook his head.

“Because he squealed like a stuck pig. He told me everything he could, so I left him with seven fingers.” He sighed, stood, and glanced out into the darkness, towards the sounds of Bastard. “The horse’s getting himself on.”

“What?”

Maro looked down at Bo. “My horse. He’s fucking your mare. Speaking of fucked, I want you to know how well and deep you’ve stepped in it. See, I left—uh, Sebastian, wasn’t it?—yeah, I left him alive, but I also removed his tourniquet, and I let nature do the rest.” He grew quiet, rubbing the dark stubble on his jaw, trying to remember the details. “He said he disagreed with someone named Bobby. You know about that?”

“Bobby? There’s no Bobby in our group. So, you did kill him?”

Maro twirled his blade in his hands. “No, nature did. Aren’t you listening?” Maro squatted again. “Now, we’ve got a problem. Sebastian said Bobby, and you say you don’t have one, and that leaves me in a bit of a quandary. So, I tell you what. Why don’t I cut on you until your stories match?”

Like Sebastian before, Maro sank his knife into the soft muscle running along the shin bone. Bo screamed, and the horses grew restless at the sudden noise. He pulled the blade out, the tip coated with blood.

“Now, don’t be so vocal about it,” Maro said. “Besides, you might attract the wildlife.”

“Fuck you!”

“No need to be rude.” He stuck his blade in again, just a little higher. A thin sliver of flesh separated the two incisions. He’d work in this manner up the length of the leg, if it called for that, then come back and sever the remaining flesh if necessary.

Bo jerked and hitched. Maro knew what it felt like, the searing pain as cold steel punctured the thin layer of flesh. The blade came free, and he waited for Bo to stop screaming.

“Now then, how’d Sebastian get hurt?”

“He was shot, alright? Shot by one man on the caravan. Nothing can be done.”

He mulled over what Bo said. It could be the truth. There was no way to check the validity of the statement, but there were other ways to test who told the truth.

“Since you’re the number two man, who’s number one?” Bo opened his mouth, but Maro cut him off. “Now, before you go spouting lies, remember, I had a chat with Sebastian before he died, gave him the same treatment you’ll get if you lie to me. If your stories don’t match, I’ll start cutting on you faster than a cat licking its ass, and that’s pretty damn fast.”

He held the knife in front of Bo’s eyes.

“Now that we understand each other, let’s take it from the top. Who’s the number one man in the gang?”