deanhenegar
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Something Different.
🕑 Added 2022-01-28 18:46:57 +0000 UTCI'm not feeling too well today, so I wasn't able to finish up the next chapter in Limitless Seas. Instead, I thought I'd post the first chapter of a new series idea I was working on. It's called the Deck Mage and is set around the turn of the century, and after an event that occurred years earlier that transformed the earth and brought magic back into existence.
Chapter 1.
One of the first things I learned on my long journey was that no matter how miserable you felt, no matter how hot it was outside, no matter how dusty the interior of the stagecoach was, sleep will eventually find you. It had found me, Bradford Fairbanks, only a short time ago, at least until the constant jostling of the coach over the rough dirt road caused me to nearly fall from my seat. I gave an exhausted sigh and looked around the coach. The seats were thinly padded, and while the faded cloth covering may have lost its color in the harsh southwestern sunlight, the scratchy nature of the fabric hadn’t abated one bit.
My fellow passengers were mostly asleep, with the older woman seated across from me snoring loud enough to wake the dead. The old woman’s husband was slumped up against her, not noticing her growling snores, an indicator of a long life spent together. I couldn’t seem to recall if I had asked their names, and it was far past the point in their journey where it would be polite for me to ask. I certainly wasn’t going to wake them just to satisfy my curiosity, especially if the pair were somehow able to sleep on this horrendous ride.
There was one other passenger inside the coach, a lovely young lady whose name I also couldn’t recall. You would think that a journalist such as myself would be good with names, but I always struggled unless I had a notepad to jot things down on. My notepad was safely stored away in my luggage since I hadn’t planned on needing it inside the coach. The young lady gave me a slight smile but then turned her attention back to the book in her hands.
Her gloved fingers covered the title, but I could almost guarantee it wasn’t one of my releases. I had done well enough in the newspaper game and managed to create a bit of a name for myself, but the success of being an investigative journalist hadn’t translated into success as a published author. There just wasn’t much demand for novels about the pre-faeblight days, so it was back to being a reporter for me.
This latest assignment was finally one that excited my sense of adventure, one that would, hopefully, bring me back into the spotlight. A living legend was tucked away in the Nevada town of Pioche. It was one of those out-of-the-way places that tried to survive on a failing silver mine. If I could convince the man to give me the interview he had promised to do, a guaranteed permanent staff position at the New York Times was mine for the asking.
Rumors of new troubles were stirring in the west, but it was likely just more overblown poppycock, a pathetic attempt to stir up interest in an otherwise uninteresting part of the country. It was widely regarded that the effects of the event were waning as time went on. In a generation or two, all the chaos would become something for the history books, perhaps even looked upon as a hoax. A booming sound from the roof of the coach jolted me from my thoughts.
“Hey in there, the towns in sight and we’ll be arriving shortly!” the driver shouted over the growing wind. I looked around for my things, the small attaché case I kept for holding my notes was the only thing inside the coach and my other bags were strapped to the luggage rack atop the rattling conveyance. I could only hope the jostling ride hadn’t damaged my prized typewriter. A relatively new design, the Columbia Index Typewriter promised to speed my writing and would assure that my submissions to the paper were legible. While I was generally known as being an excellent writer, my reputation for poor penmanship was legendary around the office.
Pulling back the heavy fabric covering the small window of the coach, I could just make out a few buildings in the distance. The wind had picked up and it was getting harder to see as the dust blew about. Storm clouds above also threatened another of the cursed, but thankfully rare, deluges in the area. We should be able to make it into town and finally find a comfortable, and hopefully louse-free, inn before the rain washed out the roads, which it would inevitably do. Whether or not the road was open didn’t matter for me at this point, I was going to be here for at least a few days, a week tops, to get all the details for the story. If I was lucky and the publisher liked what he was reading, I might even be given a larger advance to complete an entire series of stories on the notorious Silas Barnes.
The evening was turning into night when we finally pulled into Pioche. The rain had also decided to make its appearance, and large drops began entering the windows of the coach as the wind kept pushing the fabric window coverings aside. Thankfully, the coach finally jolted to a stop and when the driver opened the door, I could see the inviting sight of a saloon directly in front of us.
“Don’t worry about your luggage, Parson will bring all the bags in for you. Rooms, grub, and a drink of something to cut the dust are waiting inside folks,” the driver announced. I almost stopped to implore the driver to be careful with my bag and the delicate machine inside it, but the driving rain made me think of only one thing, getting into the saloon. A pair of swinging doors revealed a rather pathetic-looking establishment. Sure, I wasn’t expecting a grand resort, but the place looked quite rundown. At least the floors looked to have been swept recently and the smells coming from the kitchen in the back made my stomach growl.
“Come on in out of the rain folks, I think at least some of you have a room reserved and the others might want to think about getting one. The way that downpour is hitting, the road’s likely to be a mess for the next few days,” a man who looked to be the bartender, innkeeper, and restaurateur of this establishment, said.
“Thank you, good sir, my paper should have a room reserved under the name of Bradford Fairbanks,” I said. The bartender pulled out a bulky ledger, verifying my reservation. Sadly, the only way to easily get to Pioche was by stagecoach, the rail line that ran through the town was solely used to transport the dwindling supply of silver ore the mine produced. At least the town did possess a telegraph to keep it connected to the outside world. I could only hope the telegraphist was worth their salt as I hoped to have some rather long installments of my story to send back.
“Sorry, but you’ll have to haul your bags up the room on your own, it’s just me and the cook tonight, didn’t think you folks were going to make it in until tomorrow. Can I get you something to eat and a stiff drink while you’re waiting for your bag?” The bartender asked.
“That would be lovely, and just one more thing. Do you know of a man named Silas Barnes? I was supposed to meet him here in town,” I asked.
“I think everyone hereabouts knows who Silas is, that’s him over in the corner with Frank,” the bartender replied. I looked over to where the bartender had pointed. In the corner of the saloon, two men sat at a card table chatting over some beers. The older gentleman didn’t resemble the description I had been given of Silas, and the younger man didn’t look a day over thirty. Based on what little research I’d been able to complete before this trip, I knew that Silas Barnes had to be nearly seventy years old. Of course, either man could just be some local that happened to have the same name as his interview subject. If the research team at the paper had botched this up and found the wrong Silas Barnes, it might spell the end of my career as a journalist.
The younger man at the table was dressed in a pair of pinstripe pants and a matching vest over a crisp white shirt. It was an outfit that wouldn’t be out of place back in New York. Instead of a cowboy hat, the man wore a black bowler over his short, cropped black hair. Clean-shaven, the man’s only homage to the area of the country that he resided in, was the pair of well-worn boots on his feet and some work gloves covering his hands. The boots were kind of odd in that they featured several protective metal plates affixed to the leather. Given the smooth integration of the metal, I would guess it was the work of an enhancer.
Strapped to the man’s waist was a modern-looking pistol. Now, I was no expert on firearms or weapons of any sort, so I had no idea what kind of pistol it was. I pulled my notepad from the attaché and jotted down a reminder to find out about the gun, it was the kind of thing that readers ate up in these interviews. It would be even better if I could coax the man into creating some story for why he used that weapon, or even how it saved his life during a gunfight or some such tale. Wrong man or not, I was skilled enough in my craft to make even some local with an odd gun on his hip into a cowboy hero for the folks back in the city.
Confusion over whether this was the man I was here to interview dried up when he turned to look in my direction. One deep blue eye appraised me, like a predator assessing if I was either threat or prey. In place of his left eye, delicate gears and pulleys worked to focus an aperture over a glowing red gem. The man looked away, obviously not seeing me as someone who was interesting enough to warrant a second glance. His shirt sleeve pulled back a bit as he reached for his drink, revealing the gleam of polished brass where his right arm should have been.
The hand seemed to have no trouble holding the glass delicately despite its mechanical nature, a testament to the skill of the artificer that created it. I had read about work like this before, it was the type of thing only a faetouched artificer could produce. It was the type of thing that only people with dangerous connections, like Silas Barnes, would have access to. Pushing aside the irrational anxiety that was beginning to well up, I walked up to the table to introduce myself.
“Mr. Barnes, I’m Bradford Fairbanks, my paper contacted you about an interview? If you have the time, I’d love to get started as soon as possible,” I stammered out, I wasn’t sure why the man intimidated me, he was no more fearsome than a disgruntled editor, wasn’t he?
“Silas, I’ll take my leave, got to get back home before the missus gets angry at me for drinking away my day’s wages,” the older man said as he stood to leave, nodding politely at Bradford who took the man’s seat once it was vacated.
“I don’t recall saying you could sit with me,” Silas growled, turning to look at me once more. The man’s gaze was unnerving, there was an unspoken threat in the look. It wasn’t the type of threat that was leveled by a bully or street-tough, it was something else, an intangible knowledge that this man was deadly, and caution should be taken when interacting with him.
“My apologies sir, we can get together tomorrow if it’s too late for you to talk this evening. By then they should have unloaded my bags, you see, I have a new typewriting device that I would like to try out for this story if you don’t mind,” I said, frustrated with myself that I kept rambling instead of locking this man into an interview appointment.
“I did agree to an interview, and your paper did wire the money I requested for it. What I didn’t agree to was being hounded by a reporter when I’m trying to enjoy a drink and a conversation with my friend,” Silas said, taking a sip from his beer.
“Terribly sorry, sir, my apologies once again. I’m very eager to get this story started, after all, you’re exploits are quite the talk in certain circles and I would very much like to hear all about your claims,” I said, pulling out my notebook along with a fountain pen and a small ink bottle. I’d had always been taught to “assume the story” and plowed ahead with the interview, reluctant and potentially dangerous interviewee or not.
“A typewriter, you say, aren’t they rather heavy to drag around the southwest?” Silas asked, his disturbing glare moving about the rest of the room, surprising me that he even knew the devices existed. As Silas gazed about the room, his one real eye began to glow with a faint blue light, almost as if the living flesh sought to match the glow of the mechanical replacement for its lost comrade.
“Yes, but this new model is much more portable, I’ll show you if the driver would ever bring those bags in,” I added.
“You said the driver was bringing them in, if so, why is he sitting down for dinner?” Silas asked. It was true, the lazy man was eating his meal and leaving all our luggage out in the rain. The only bag inside the saloon was the one that the lovely young lady, whose name I still couldn’t recall, was dragging in now. The poor girl was positively soaked, but still had the same pleasant smile and ladylike demeanor as she sat down at the table nearest the entrance, likely not wanting to drag her heavy bag any further.
“What about the man riding shotgun? He’s the one that usually carries in the luggage and sees to the horses,” Silas asked.
“There was just a driver on this route, I don’t recall anyone else, other than the passengers,” I replied. My memory was a bit foggy, likely the result of a long, uncomfortable ride with too little sleep.
“And just how many passengers were onboard that coach with you,” Silas asked, the glow in both his eyes brightening as stood from his chair, his right hand resting on the butt of his pistol while his left hand expertly flipped through a small deck of cards that he had produced from inside his vest.
“It was just the three of us inside, that man, the lady, and myself. Say, you handle the cards pretty well, are you a gambler in addition to your other skills?” I asked, furiously taking notes, the gambler angle might broaden the story’s appeal.
“No, I don’t ever gamble, Brad, it’s a bad habit,” Silas said as he walked up to the bar, eying the others from the stagecoach.
“Oh, it’s not Brad, I prefer to go by Bradford,” My request went unheeded by Silas, but I did manage to catch a glimpse at the cards in Silas’ hand. They weren’t your typical playing cards, and instead of diamonds, spades, clubs, and hearts, I could see runes and strange images flitting by as Silas flipped through them one-handed.
“Can I get you a drink, Silas,” the bartender said, looking nervously at the glowing eyes of Silas Barnes.
“No thank you Bill, but you might want to keep the thunder brew close at hand, in case I want some,” Silas replied. A shocked look came over the bartender’s face, sweat beginning to drip down despite the air being cooled by the downpour. I was about to inquire about ordering a meal when the bartender ducked behind the counter, rummaging about and clanking bottles. Silas walked over to the older man that had been on the stagecoach with me, studying him intently before asking a question. “Excuse me, sir, I’m sorry to bother you after what must have been a long trip, but might I inquire if you were traveling alone on this leg of your journey?” He asked politely, shocking me, as I was beginning to believe that dismissive growling and harsh stares comprised the extent of the man’s ability to communicate.
“What’s that, yes, I was on my own,” the old man replied, looking confused.
“What about the ring on your finger, where’s your wife?” Silas asked.
“I’m, well, I’m not sure. Sorry, sir, but I need to gather my wits for a moment if you don’t mind,” the old man said.
“How about you, coachman, your company won’t make this run without a man riding shotgun, too many varmints out there to go it alone,” Silas said.
“Not this trip, just me on this run,” the man replied, his expression also showed he was confused. I was feeling the same way, something wasn’t right.
“If that’s true, then why did you leave the coach out there in the storm, with the horses still hitched and the luggage waiting to be unloaded?” Silas asked. The blue glow in his eye was now matched by a similar one in the hand he was flipping the deck of cards with.
“I should see to that right away, don’t know what’s come over me,” the driver said, starting to stand when Silas waved him back down into his chair.
“That leaves this lovely young lady, tell me, does anyone even remember her getting on the stagecoach?” Silas asked the room as he approached the smiling girl.
“Yes, she got on at…” the driver said, unable to answer. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember either, she was just always there.
“You can see me, can’t you?” The girl asked, her lovely voice like a breath of fresh air compared to Silas’ accusatory tone.
“Yup, might as well get this started then,” Silas said as a card from his brightly glowing deck shot forward to land on the ground in front of the young woman. The card began to grow and shift as Silas fed it more of the glowing power that he possessed. A small green creature with a wooden spear leaped out from the card, hissing as he charged at the young lady.
I stood up from my chair, angry that anyone would try to hurt that poor lady. If only I had a weapon to stop this Silas Barnes with, well, I suppose that I could try to use my pen to stab the man. After all, the driver and the other passenger were already moving to defend the lady as well. A second glowing card flew from Silas’ deck, this time, no creature sprang forth, and instead, a light pulsed through the room. When it hit me, I stumbled back into my chair, unsure what I’d had been trying to do just then.
A hiss sounded from the young lady, only, she was no longer a young lady. There, wearing the tattered remains of the lady’s dress was something horrible. It looked like a nightmare mix of a scorpion’s lower body with the upper torso of a young woman attached. Where before I had seen this woman as a lovely young lady, now she glowed with an evil aura that made my mind reel just to look at her. Instead of arms, she possessed a pair of chitinous claw-tipped appendages, one of which snapped down at the little creature that Silas had summoned from his magic deck of cards. With a meaty snip, the little green creature was cut in half, the remains disappearing in a wave of blue light.
“I would have taken my time, but no, you’ve forced my hand and ruined what could have been a wonderful summer-long feast,” the girl screeched, her voice piercing into my mind, leaving me helpless and trembling in fear at the spectacle in front of me. Thankfully, the innkeeper was made of sterner stuff and two loud booms sounded out as he leveled a sawed-off shotgun at monstrosity and fired. The human-like torso took the blasts, the flesh pierced and destroyed just as easily as that of a normal human. Screeching in pain and rage the monster charged forward, one of the sharp, insect-like legs piercing my elderly traveling companion as it brushed aside the tables and chairs in its way.
The gun in Silas’ hand answered the charge, round after round snapping out and while the handgun’s report wasn’t as loud as the shotgun, it did significantly more damage. Each shot glowed a different color as it slammed into the monster. I could see various magical effects accompany each hit. Sometimes acid sizzled in the wound, other times it was frost or fire. Through it all the monster squealed in pain, her voice reaching a crescendo when another of Silas’ cards landed in front of her and a new creature stepped into reality.
It wasn’t some little green creature with a simple spear this time, no, this time I watched as an armored knight of old stepped out, glowing sword already swinging for the girl turned monster. The sword clove through a claw that was reaching toward the knight, eliciting new levels of rage from the monster. A second claw grasped the knight around his waist, armor squealing as the monster tried to crush him. A second swipe of the sword severed the head from the beast, ending its cries, but not its attacks.
“That’s about enough out of you,” Silas growled as he raised his next card. No creature was summoned to fight his foe this time, instead, a beam of dark light was generated by the card. The beam slammed into the monster, melting any flesh it hit. I saw the beam for only a brief moment before it cut off, but once it did, I could see that most of the monster was now a pile of ash. The arm of the monster that had been severed by the knight jerked and clacked as if still trying to attack despite the body it belonged to having been destroyed. Even more disturbing was the monster’s head, which had rolled to a stop in front of me. The angry visage had transformed back to that of the lovely young lady, the eyes on the severed head looking directly at me as the final bits of life left them.
“Thanks for the assist, Bill, glad to see you can still shoot straight,” Silas said to the innkeeper. His joking manner was completely at odds with the gravity of what had just happened.
“I won’t ever forget how to do that, but I can’t believe I didn’t see her for what she was,” Bill replied, gesturing toward the monster’s severed claw with the still smoking barrels of his shotgun.
“No need to beat yourself up over it, that one was stronger than most of her kind,” Silas said. I found my wits slowly returning and I was able to clamber to my feet, moving closer to the bar and further away from the eyes of the monster, eyes that were disturbingly human.
“What was that thing?” I asked.
“Just a psy scorp. They’re not all that dangerous so long as you don’t let them get inside here,” Silas said, tapping the side of his head as he reloaded his pistol, holding open the bolt and feeding a strip of fresh ammunition through the top of the odd weapon.
“What’s a psy scorp?” I asked, still confused over what had just happened.
“Nasty critters, not all that powerful in combat, but deadly hunters once they get inside your mind. They numb you, make you see what they want. One of them sets up shop in a town like this and they’ll eat their way through the population in no time, without anyone even remembering who’s missing, be they loved one or stranger. This here example was as about as powerful as they get,” Silas said holstering his pistol and pocketing the no longer glowing deck of cards into his vest pocket.
It was then that I finally remembered what the monster had masked from me. There had been four of us on the coach, the old man and his wife, a traveling preacher, and me. The psy scorp had hailed the coach and boarded it just the day before. I remember being surprised that the coachman had stopped, it was typically against their policy to pick up riders anywhere but at a station, but I didn’t care once the lovely lady came aboard, and I began to forget.
“Where did it come from, how do we know there aren’t more of them?” I asked, looking with suspicion at the others in the tavern.
“They’re solitary creatures, if there was another in town, the two would have charged each other and fought to the death. You’ll start to remember what happened during the trip, and I might suggest you get yourself good and drunk as what you’ll remember isn’t likely to be pleasant,” Silas suggested. It was a suggestion I took to heart, quaffing down the shot that Bill had placed in front of me, motioning for another. I worried about the tab, my per diem only went so far, and getting good and drunk was certainly going to come out of my pocket. After the second drink, the potent liquor started to do its job, and I didn’t worry about much of anything after that point.
Comments
Craig Carey
Always take some time off to recharge. You write more consistently than most authors out there.
