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‘Voidspawn’ (sci-fi story) Ch. 1
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Chapter 1
Calynn felt exhilarated for the first time in months as she raced over the arboreal landscape, running and leaping with uncanny swiftness through flowering forests and across open meadows. It was not because she was breaking any particular rule or regulation that she was so enthralled; she was well within her duties taking the agility-enhancing RECON suit out for a trial run. It was not because no one knew where she was – if Stahl and the others had truly wanted to find her, they could easily have followed either her personal transponder signal or the suit’s in-built geobeacon. It was not even because she was not entirely certain of the functionality of the suit’s safety limiters, which prevented the form-fitting armor’s prehensile carbon nano-structure from crushing the operator’s bones during a strenuous task such as running and leaping at preternatural speed through the wilderness.
She felt exhilarated merely to be out of sterile labs and climate-controlled observatories. Much as she enjoyed her profession, the past few months on this remote world had taken a mental toll. The wanderlust instinct that had led her down a long path to the eventual rank of First Explorer had screamed at Calynn for weeks, aching to be out among the plains, forests, and caves of their temporary home. The planet, recently christened Septa Upsilon III, practically begged to have its utmost mysteries plumbed. Who knew what unknown ruins or long-forgotten secrets might await them on this uncharted world, if only they would go seeking?
Their orders had been explicitly to the contrary, of course. Her team’s task, given by Aethernet upon reporting the recent discovery of this bountiful world, had been to establish a base camp and secure it, remaining on site and busying themselves with maintenance tasks until such time as the first excavation crews arrived. The miners would then take it from there, and Calynn’s party of explorers would be free to depart, to find other virgin worlds ripe for the taking, while Septa Upsilon III was most likely stripped bare and plundered of all its ample natural resources by the massive excavation engines.
Such was the way of the Ma’li. Calynn tried with middling success not to think of herself as a complacent participant in the continuing operation of a vast engine of war.
No doubt when the excavation crews arrived, the planet’s pristine beauty would not go unmarred for long, but by then she would be long gone and on the search for new and uncharted worlds. She was merely an explorer, a pioneer. When the famous explorer Marcus of Polara had a century before discovered the mineral-rich Acquilon star system, had he at that moment become responsible for the genocide that would later fall upon the semi-sentient race of beings that had dwelt there, when they refused the ungenerous terms offered to them by the covetous Ma’li Federation? Calynn did not believe so, and she did not believe that she was in any tangible way responsible for the plunder of any of the worlds she and her team had discovered on their voyages. After all, she considered, someone else would have discovered all of those planets if not for her.
Tearing herself from her ruminations on the matter, the explorer nearly took a fatal stumble. An upthrust column of natural stone veered suddenly in her path as she sped through the wilderness. Reflexively, she vaulted over it, limbs pedaling in a great leap as she soared precipitously over the obstacle. In her haste, she had misjudged and jumped too far, the powered weave of the RECON suit passively enhancing her speed and stamina far in excess of their norms. She covered her bare face with her arms as she hurtled through a hanging curtain of vegetation and emerged with a burst of scattered foliage into the air, to be enraptured by the resplendent sweep of scenery that lay suddenly all about her.
The rushing wind in her face was almost as intoxicating as the view. The gorgeous forestscape rolled in the gentle wind below her as she hung in the air for a glorious moment. The local sun cast the warming rays of its golden light onto the sweeping emerald hills in a dazzling display of natural splendor. Calynn almost didn’t realize that she was now beginning to plummet, having reached the apex of the mechanically enhanced leap which she suddenly realized had carried her over the edge of a precipitous drop in the terrain.
Calynn’s stomach leapt into her throat as gravity took hold. The wind rushing past her took on a vertical affect, and her heart began to pound in her chest as she was gripped by instinctive fear. In the reckless haste of her monotony-breaking expedition, she had bounded right over the edge of a tall cliff. Her panicked senses returned to her just in time, as the rapidly approaching trees below began to grow much too large for her liking. Throwing her arms wide to catch the wind, Calynn hurriedly issued a mental command to her suit. The flexible weave writhed against her skin with a familiar ticklish sensation that ran down both her arms.
Fighting against the wind that rushed deafeningly past her, Calynn brought her hands together in a practiced gesture and smote the air before her with open palms. There was a clap like thunder that echoed for miles across the valley. As if the motion had suddenly opened some massive and unseen pressure valve, a furious column of white fog shot forth from her outstretched hands like a streaking comet, an icy mass of super-compressed air almost solid in its roiling density. The great wave of pressure rapidly broke the velocity of her fall, crushing the lush vegetation some distance below into a fine pulp even as it was frozen solid by the frigid air released from the RECON suit’s ultra-high pressure microstorage tanks.
Even over the wind, the explorer heard the high-pitched whine of overtaxed micro-machinery as the tanks began to run dry, the nanocompressors continuing to hurl forth torrents of air like the breath of some frigid god. Heart pounding her chest, Calynn rode the wave of buffeting winds to the snow-covered ground in a successful execution of the suit’s relatively untested ‘fall mitigation system’.
This was but one configuration of the versatile nanites which comprised the suit’s intelligent fabric. This particular utility had proved useful enough to merit the great demands of energy required for its operation, and the unfortunate side effect of drastic local temperature change. Given enough resources, the suit could have been equipped – programmed – with any conceivable mechanical utility. The infinitesimally small, yet intelligent machines which made up the fabric could with the proper instruction combine to emulate almost any machine, even while remaining too small to be seen by the unaided eye. Calynn knew as much, of course. She, after all, had programmed this particular suit more or less from scratch.
The explorer had little time to reflect on the success of her designs, as she was still travelling at an appreciable speed both horizontally and vertically when she impacted the ground shortly thereafter. As intended, the suit absorbed much of the remaining shock as she tucked into a somersault. Calynn rolled along the ground for some distance, the reactive fabric stiffening, softening, and rearranging itself as needed to absorb and redistribute the successive impacts. When she finally came to a halt among a bracken of flattened shrubbery, a thick mist steaming from the joints of her suit, she was flat on her back and panting desperately for breath. What at first were choking, breathless gasps of panic soon became gales of relieved laughter as Calynn realized that she was, but for some superficial bruising, completely unharmed.
“Pad,” She said through panting breaths, a grin of exhilaration and relief upon her face, “Take note: Rapid Exploration Cognito-Organic Nanoweave suit, field test three completed. Results: exemplary. Possible future modifications include improved shock absorption systems… ” Only then did she realize her constant companion was not with her. Looking around in the still-dissipating fog of her landing, she did not see Pad. Her brow furrowed in worry. Had some local predator mistaken the little guy for a snack?
It hardly seemed likely, given the mundanity of the local wildlife – a fact which Calynn had noticed with some disappointment, being herself an avid xenozoologist and eager to discover unknown and unseen forms of life among the galactic rim. Second Explorer Stahl had been quick to point out to her that any lack of distinguishing animal life was, in his considered opinion, more than made up for by the veritable cornucopia of fascinating flora to be found in the whispering depths of the leafy oceans with which their temporary home was awash.
He had not put it in so many words, of course. In reality her assistant slash team security officer had merely commented in characteristic brevity that the local plants were nice, as the two of them had stood together gazing out over the verdant landscape from the roof of the modular habitation complex that served as their home base. As a private joke at her laconic Second’s unknowing expense, Calynn amused herself by verbosely paraphrasing simple statements Stahl had made. Most often it was in her own thoughts, but sometimes with dry amusement she even misquoted her subordinate to other members of their team – even on one occasion in a report to their superiors. That Stahl, if made aware of the fact, would have been more than passingly annoyed made it all the more terribly amusing.
Some people said that Calynn had a strange sense of humor.
However verbosely it was put, Calynn did not share the deep appreciation for flora that she had projected onto Second Explorer Stahl. Here there were none of the strange and often deadly megafauna that could sometimes be found in the uncivilized detritus of frontier star systems that littered the galaxy’s edge. Not that she wanted to encounter such creatures, persay. She merely, after countless mundane discoveries, had no more scientific interest for such prosaic creatures as could be found on any number of planets throughout known space. Septa Upsilon III practically typified what the Ma’li reverently referred to as The Great Plan, at the mention of which Calynn often had to fight an irresistible urge to roll her eyes.
Whatever one called it or however one explained it, the idea was fairly simple and undeniable. There had been found time and time again to be a number of unexplainable biological similarities that seemed to pervade across all of space. Evolution – if one believed in such a thing – seemed to have walked much the same paths throughout much of creation. This was not without a significant amount of exception, yet it was taken as a general rule throughout known civilization. She had yet to see an unfamiliar form on this world; there were antlered and hoofed cervids, twitch-nosed lagomorphs with long ears, even pad-footed vulpids darting among twisting eaves of the gnarled forests.
Even the trees, despite their varying appearance and composition, were among the most common form of life in the known universe. In the sparkling rivers that rolled across the grassy plains, she had seen armored crustaceans, and shimmer-scaled swimmers which were more or less fish – and which would some time later prove to be quite edible. In overall shape, function, and even composition, they were essentially the same creatures she had found on a dozen other newly discovered planets. Boring.
The fact of these uncanny universal biological similarities was undeniable, especially to one as well-travelled and learned as Calynn. Where her opinion differed considerably, however, from the Ma’li was where her government’s official view ascribed a religious aspect to this phenomenon, forming part of the foundation for the state-enforced Ma’li dogma to which all upstanding citizens ascribed, albeit in many cases under an unspoken threat.
Dogma or no, Calynn ached for a new and exciting discovery, some beast or even plant that she had not seen a dozen variations of on her travels. Her companions back at the habitation dome were glad for the opportunity to kick their feet up with some light duty in these hospitable climes. Most of them, she knew, were here because it was a well-paying job, in its way, and in some cases because they had been drummed out of more lucrative scientific pursuits in favor of the undemanding solitude of the galactic prospector’s lot. Consequently most of them executed their duties only to the letter, with little encouragement or desire to do otherwise.
This was with the notable exception of her direct subordinate, whom some time ago Calynn had affectionately nick-named Stalwart Stahl, and who was determined, as she had put it, ‘to ruin everyone’s fun as always’. She’d quickly countermanded the Second Explorer’s plan to implement a series of drills and training exercises to keep up the team’s fitness during their sojourn. Calynn cared little what her team did while they awaited the excavation teams, but more than that she disliked Stahl’s presumption in commanding her team. They were scientists, she’d informed him in no friendly tones, not soldiers, and they would not be ordered about like grunts entering boot camp.
As for herself, she was more than happy to take on extra duties, lest the suffocating pall of boredom settle over her like a lead blanket. Under the guise of such a duty, she had come miles now into the wilderness, and taken a tumble that had been perhaps a bit too close for comfort. She would likely have some explaining to do upon her return. She hoped that said explanations would not include how she’d manage to lose Pad in the rugged forests.
Her thoughts were interrupted and her fears alleviated as a small silvery shape dropped over the edge of the cliff far above, slowing to a controlled fall as it rapidly approached the ground with far more finesse than she had demonstrated only moments before.
The Personal Assistance Drone alighted a few feet above her, hovering gently. It was less than a foot in diameter, an orb of smooth metal which freely levitated without any apparent mode of propulsion. Calynn, of course, was aware of the internally-mounted motive system that the drone was equipped with, having performed the installation herself. Only upon its sudden return did she realize that she had missed the reassuring hum of the drone’s repulsors.
“Explorer,” addressed the unwaveringly stoic synthetic voice of the drone. “Do you require medical assistance?” She laughed breathlessly at its droll tone as it addressed her. The small hovering robot was not truly sentient, being equipped with a fairly cheap neural processor unit, but after so many months of constant companionship, she could not help but project personality onto the endearing little drone. “Diagnosis,” the drone announced. “Explorer One is delirious and possibly concussed,” it continued, ignoring Calynn’s grin. “Will depart to seek out assistance unless response within fifteen seconds,” The drone hovered before her, floating gently up and down on drifting remnants of the fog of the explorer’s landing.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” She told Pad, standing up and dusting herself off. “Acknowledged,” responded the drone dryly.
“As is your deep concern for my wellbeing,” the explorer shot back.
“Acknowledged,” repeated Pad. Calynn smiled wryly at the expected response, noting a few scrapes on the smooth black outer surface of her formfitting suit as she examined it.
“Can’t say how the suit fared, though,” she said ponderously, straining her neck to check the backside of the armor. “Pad, perform system diagnostic on RECON suit,” Calynn commanded, holding her arms out from her sides.
The drone immediately complied, interrupting its casual survey of their surroundings to come and circle around her. “Scanning,” it droned. Red streamers of holographic light played out from the small glassy eye on the front of the robot’s otherwise smooth outer skin. Though she could not see it, Calynn knew that there was also a rapid exchange of information occurring wirelessly between the drone and the powerful micro-computing modules distributed amongst the weave of the suit.
After a few moments, the red lights of Pad’s scanners died away, and the drone hovered in front of her face once more. “Diagnostics complete. Minimal damage sustained to microstructure. Maintenance operations suggested at earliest convenience, but suit is operational at 90% capacity,”
Calynn nodded. “What would I do without you?” she asked sweetly. Pad did not respond, intelligent enough to recognize a rhetorical question, if not a sarcastic one.
The drone began scanning their environment for potential dangers or discoveries, as she had programmed it to do in idle moments. Calynn liked to think of it as Pad’s inquisitive nature. She too regarded their surroundings, not entirely certain and not entirely caring just yet where they were. The sky was a pleasing shade of bluish-green, and the amber disk of the local star was still far above the lazily advancing horizon. Here the days were something like forty standard hours long, she recalled, and this one was not yet halfway over.
“Pad,” she began, eliciting a glance from the hovering drone. “Follow me, scanners active,” she commanded unnecessarily, well aware the drone had been specifically programmed to do just that more or less at all times. She smiled as Pad complied in what she decided was moody silence, following her lead as she trundled on into the thick forest.
Jed and the Cold Bloods – Ch. 8
Chapter VIII
‘The thing about deputies is, they’re like to run away at the first sign of trouble unless you train ’em up real good. But that takes precious time that might’ve been better spent just doing the extra work yourself. Personally the only time I’ve felt need for more than a couple helpers is during some kind of catastrophe.
‘Course, there’s seldom time to train deputies during a catastrophe. So it often pays to have a few good men ready to take up arms in time of need,’
– E.G. Tucker
The sun shone brightly above the training yard. Deputies Coleman and Hawthorne stood at attention to either side of the sheriff, regarding the fifteen deputies lined up before them. This spacious field, the next valley over after the crest of the tall hill, on the eastern slopes of which was Jed’s office. The training field was reserved for the sheriff’s exclusive use. Since the time of Marcus it had been a known policy of the village that none were to come there without the sheriff’s leave. For their own safety, of course. The last thing the sheriff needed was to worry about one of the townsfolk catching a stray bullet when he was trying to focus on target practice.
Jed had spent many a day here in Marcus’ tutelage. Even now the memories of the long toil of training were fresh in his mind: learning the ways of the gun, the blade, and the fist. Sparring with his father. Spending long hours discussing the philosophies of rights and wrongs – and hours more running laps when he displeased Marcus with some smart aleck remark. Though he had often resented his father’s hardball training methods at the time, in retrospect Jed was glad for every wearisome hour of it. He now did not have nearly the time to train the deputies properly – not that he meant to, in any case – but nonetheless Jed intended to apply Marcus’ uncompromising methods of instruction with an intensity that he hoped would have made the old sheriff proud. These boys would be sore and weary when the day was out, Jed was sure, but if there was any better way to prepare them for the monsters they might very well be called to face, he didn’t know it. As Jed once had, they would probably resent the stringent demands of their training. And they too would come to be glad for the harsh discipline that was to be instilled in them, or so Jed hoped.
Still, he ruminated, he had morale to consider too. The sheriff knew J.R. and Huber Hawthorne would stick with him regardless, but the younger deputies, he imagined, were only kept from the fear they no doubt felt by a certain amount of false bravado: they imagined themselves mighty warriors, all that stood between their people and the black maw of perdition. While that might have yet proven – in part, at least – to be true, for the moment Jed could not afford to disabuse them of their unwarranted confidence. Although he hated to manipulate the young men so, he for now needed desperately to prolong the inflated sense of righteousness that he could plainly see upon the faces of the young trainees. This was one of the reasons he had gathered them all together for group training rather than the perhaps more thorough one-on-one sessions that Jed had always known – the other and chief reason being lack of time. The sheriff reckoned that this would be a bonding experience for the new deputies, to breed a sense of brotherhood and zeal among them, and that was very much something he wanted to cultivate, if this was to be anything like a solid fighting force if and when it came to that.
The dynamics of peer pressure within the large group, after all, would make for fertile and easy ground in which Jed could sow the complementary seeds of duty and camaraderie. Such things the sheriff had learned from his long lessons with the apothecary – of psychology, philosophy, and other sundry sciences of the mind. Just as his training with Marcus, he had often resented the apothecary’s lessons. Two days before in the cursed depths of Ricker’s Vale, his father’s intensive training had saved his skin by a hair’s breadth in his battle with the lizard-beasts, whose proper name he still felt reluctant to use.
Now the sheriff had cause to be equally grateful for Tomasic’s more scholastic ministrations, as the long and often boring lessons on history and philosophy had taught him how folks were, and how they thought. Most importantly, in this case, he had learned how militias were run, and the psychology behind leadership. Without those long lessons and the wisdom they had offered, he would likely now have been at a loss in managing the impromptu soldiers gathered before him. Upon Marcus’ instruction, and with the apothecary’s assistance, Jed had made a thorough study of multiple treatises on military history and tactics, chief among them the autobiography of General Vernon Wyoming – entitled, simply, Blood and Glory – who very notably served as commander-in-chief of the great continental army during the first wars of liberation. In his memoires, the long-respected General Wyoming recounted in great detail his experience forming and leading the great army to eventual victory from the many scattered regional militias.
Wyoming, to quote his memoires, had by sweat and toil forged a mess of plowmen, blacksmiths, and scullery maids into a proud and unified fighting force that would later be the hammer to break Mescona’s long-worn chains of oppression. Chief among Wyoming’s grand strategy had been to place anyone of proven valor in leading roles commensurate to their experience. The fierce warriors of the native Mesconan tribes proved invaluable in whipping into shape the farmers – and, in fact, scullery maids – who shared their ranks, for the natives had never once bowed before the tyranny of the powers of the Old World. The tribesmen had long known battle with the oppressive foreign armies, and they had been eager to fight alongside their new allies. Along with whatever proper soldiers could be found – some foreign defectors, some militia veterans – the tribal warriors formed the core of the so-called Braves: the iron head of the decisive spear thrust that was Wyoming’s plan of war.
Jed had long found the general’s memories fascinating, along with Marshall E.G. Tucker’s famous Lawman’s Field Manual, which had long informed the basic tenets by which most sheriffs were trained. Helpfully to Jed, the latter contained a few chapters dedicated solely to the instruction and management of deputies. As the sheriff had formed his plans concerning the amateur lawmen, he had time and again thought back to some passage or tidbit of wisdom presented by one of the old texts. In many ways, the two books were similar, as their respective authors were each men of action and learning both, who had much to say on the philosophy of their profession as well as its practical application. While he had found the texts merely a passing interesting in his childhood studies, Jed reflected on how truly indispensible the knowledge he had gleaned from them was, now that he had occasion to apply the lessons practically. Taking after General Wyoming, he had placed in leadership roles such men of experience as they had – deputies Coleman and Hawthorne alone, until Edmain Larkin recovered his strength. They were hardly Wyoming’s Braves, but they were all Jed had, and he’d resolved to put his faith in them. After all, the two senior deputies had long been his steadfast friends, and they were as eager as anyone to defend their families besides.
Both books, too, had spoken at length on the psychology of men at arms, and how one might bring the best out in each man in his service. Jed had long had an intuitive ability to read faces and glean intentions. He had now to apply that skill on a larger scale. Men in a crowd would act as one for better or for worse, Wyoming had long before written, especially in a militia where the twin yokes of brotherhood and duty are heavy upon the shoulders of each man. The sheriff had to see the bigger picture, and consider the group implications of every action he took or order he gave. As he stood waiting in deep thought, feeling the eyes of all fifteen deputies boring into him as one, Jed reflected on just how true the old general’s words seemed to be.
Though it rankled of dishonesty, for they were not true soldiers, the sheriff intended to reinforce as best he could the deputies’ feeling of soldierly fraternity, the vestiges of which had already begun to show among them. Many of the men were, in fact, already friends, having signed up in pairs or groups. Jed did not doubt more than a few had signed up to avoid derision from their peers, or as Huber had earlier joked, to impress a girl. It was all well and good as far as Jed was concerned. If each of the deputies regarded the others as his brothers in arms, after all, they would be all the more likely to watch each other’s backs properly, and more importantly to stand firm beside one another if and when the time came that true danger stared them down with its cold and hungry eyes.
The sheriff was going to do all he could to prevent them from coming into harm’s way, of course, but he was not fooling himself into thinking that it was not a distinct possibility. Whether his and Huber’s coming venture was successful or not, the town needed to be guarded at all times from possible invasion, and being guarded meant doing something about it if one – or more, Jed thought with a wary shudder – of the vicious beasts did try to attack the town in his absence. He wasn’t about to have the deputies sit idly by waiting for a help that might not be coming – though in truth he was worried most that they would run screaming for the hills when their false bravado was shattered by first contact with their foul enemy. The prospective lawmen needed to be prepared for combat, and Jed wasn’t going to bank on each man mustering up enough grit on his own accord to stand toe to toe with the monsters that besieged them. They would need suitable encouragement and, more importantly, combat training.
Unfortunately, Jed thought resignedly, that meant he was going to have to mislead them, for to tell them the truth would be to say they had no business fighting monsters, and send them all home. He could plainly see the false bravado that the deputies had on display with the notable exception of Parker Bringham, who Jed reckoned was a bit too smart for his own good and who looked very nervous indeed. Puffed up chests and squared shoulders were to be seen all around, with only the merest wrinkle of doubt and anxiety hidden behind the masculine facade. Jed thought himself an honest man, and he believed that in all things, the truth was best. He wanted nothing more than to strip away the false courage that so plagued these men – to tell them that they were in terrible danger and might very well die in vain trying to defend their homes.
He could do no such thing, of course, no matter how his conscience demanded he tell them the truth. His only hope, it seemed, was to play to those feelings of gusto which the deputies were already developing, and to downplay the entirely justifiable doubts that each man surely harbored. General Wyoming had spoken at some length on this very subject – in fact, that was where Jed had gotten the idea. Vernon Wyoming had at first despaired when looking out upon his sad and scattered excuse for an army – over-enthusiastic amateurs by the cartload, who if put to the test were just as likely to blow their own foot off as shoot in the direction of the enemy.
The general had spoken of rolling up one’s sleeves and getting right into it, when it came to shaping a militia. Building an army is bloody work, he said, and you couldn’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. When all was on the line, a general could not be afraid to manipulate his men as needed – physically, emotionally, whatever the cost of victory. To play off of their sense of duty. To remind them that they were likely all that would stand between their families and utter destruction. To remind each of them that if they shirked in their duties or failed to rise to the occasion, it would be to the shame of not only their father’s name but also to each and every brother that stood in arms beside them. The reinforcing of that so-called peer pressure, whereby each man was held firm by the unspoken judgment he felt from the men around him, was key to maintaining a firm and unified front, especially in the face of an enemy that was more well-armed and very possibly more well-trained.
To hear General Wyoming tell of it, that bolstering of natural bravado was half the job of a commander. The other half was to not shirk in giving orders, despite knowing that the man to whom you gave them might very well die as the direct result of that command. Above all, the general had stressed, men at arms looked to their leader for guidance. And even if he felt sick to his stomach, knowing that he had just ordered a friend to their possible death, that meant the leader in question putting on a stern and confident face as he did so. For the general to admit to doubt was tantamount to admitting defeat before the battle had even begun. The commander’s morale – outwardly, anyhow – was everything. Before you went handing out masks of bravery to the frightened soldiers under your command, Wyoming had wrote, you had first to don one yourself.
There was a fine line to tread with bravado, however. Too little encouragement and the men would still feel doubt niggling in the back of their minds, and it would taint everything they did. Such men could not be trusted on the front lines, for if they broke, others would join them in their despair and flee, and all would be lost. Too much encouragement, however, would turn a soldier incautious and foolhardy, and that was in many ways worse. The bravado that let a man at arms stand unyielding against impossible odds, or stay cool tempered and rational even while under cannon fire, was very nearly the same mania that would see a soldier cut down in a vainglorious charge toward the enemy. It was a taxing and difficult balancing act, and in any sufficiently large group, one or more soldiers would inevitably fall victim to either black despair or the so-called Curse of Valor. The latter was especially deadly, Wyoming had wrote, for at least in fleeing, the lives of the men were not so wasted.
A soldier might easily become too invested in the narrative of the righteous warrior that a desperate general had to paint in order to forge an army of liberation out of a few tens of thousands of farmers and tradesmen, most of whom had never hefted a weapon in their lives. Such men were all too easily lost in a blaze of glory. It was not, Wyoming had written, a thing to be proud of, to so manipulate the trusting men under your command. But as the general had famously said: “War is a shameful thing. The only pride to be had in it is that of victory,”
As with most of the general’s words, Jed found that these resonated with his own instinctual feelings on the subject – the ends justified the means. He would feel regret in the doing, but if it would potentially save all the village, the sheriff would gladly have traded away his honor wholesale. As he gazed at the deputies stood at attention before him, Jed reconciled his thoughts on the matter. There was nothing to be done but to take the wisdom of the ages to heart and beginning forging his army, such as it was. After all, this strategy of playing up the foolhardy courage of his men had evidently worked so well for the massed armies of Mescona in the wars of liberation. Besides, he had only sixteen or so men to worry about, where General Wyoming’d had tens of thousands.
Still, the sheriff reminded himself to temper the men’s false courage with a very real caution, lest his plan backfire most grievously. In this, he felt fairly confident, if not entirely at ease with the casual deception involved. He had only to reinforce the bonds of brotherhood that already existed between the deputies – most of them had known each other since childhood, after all. Jed was certain he could get the men to where they were confident enough in themselves and their brethren that they would stand firm against their horrid foe if necessary, and yet wary enough to not take unnecessary risks and go down in a hail of bloody bravado that broke the carefully crafted illusion of competence and left their brothers in arms running for the hills.
After all, that sensation of false gusto was one with which the sheriff had lately grown intimately familiar. In this, too, Wyoming had been almost prophetically correct. Jed’s face was a careful facade of steadfast bravery as he looked out over the deputies, every inch the warrior icon upon which the amateur lawmen could model themselves – or so he hoped. But just as he was sure the men harbored beneath their own masks, Jed felt upon him as always the doubts and anxieties that threatened to usurp his cool judgment, if he was not vigilant. Even now he was carefully suppressing the nervous impulses that had plagued him since the trip to that accursed valley.
His eyes wanted to scan the treeline constantly to pick out the foes that were surely hidden there. His fingers ached for the comforting grip of the pistol. The hair on the nape of his neck stood up, and every gust of wind and distant animal call sent a surge of instinct up his spine. His legs ached to run – either fleeing in terror, or toward the enemy in the frenzy of battle. He was not sure which. This was surely the fine line of which Wyoming had spoken, and upon which the sheriff needed to ride as an inspiration to the men that he hoped desperately would follow in his wake. The conflicting feelings rather made him sick to his stomach, but he had little time to dwell on his own wellbeing. “There is no room for sentimentality” Wyoming had written. “Its kill or be killed. This is war,”
Jed supposed it was war indeed that had come to their sleepy village, for he didn’t know what else to call it. The conflict could only end in death – either for them or for the enemy. And whether the sheriff was worthy or not, he had thrust himself into the position of commander-in-chief for this motley militia. The fate of Dormis rested singly in his hands. Not for the first time, the weight of this responsibility tugged at Jed, and he felt for a moment overwhelmed. As he had more than a few times in the past days, he brushed aside the trappings of despair and set his mind on the task at hand. They couldn’t spend all day waiting around.
After all, they had a war to fight.
“Well, its about a half hour past noon. I guess Hawksly ain’t comin’,” The sheriff announced to no one in particular. All were silent. “Reckon we ought to start without him then,” There was a general murmur of assent. “Clyde, you’ll be in charge of catching Darek up when he gets here. I ain’t got time to waste repeating myself,” “Yessir Sheriff sir!” Responded Deputy Culler. “That goes for everybody, come to think it. Y’all pay attention now, this ain’t a schoolyard lecture. This is serious business,” Jed paused for emphasis, catching the eye of each deputy in turn as he regarded the assembled crowd with a slow stare. “There’s lives at stake. Anybody who don’t genuinely mean to lay down their life in defense of their neighbors, go now. Ain’t nobody’ll think less of you,” There was a stifling silence in the pause that followed. No one moved but for a few nervous shuffles and sideward glances.
The latter he was noticing much of, in fact, each man at some time or another surreptitiously looking at his fellows to see what kind of face they were putting up. Thankfully, in the eyes of most Jed saw only duty and determination, false or otherwise, with only the occasional hesitance of trepidation. The sheriff nodded, pleased both that none had left and that all seemed so hung up on what the others were thinking. That played right into his plan, he noted with a satisfaction that he was loathe to feel. He’d no doubt most of them did not feel nearly as confident as they looked – or if they did, he again had to question whether it was ignorance or courage that he was seeing, for they were then a damn sight more confident than Jed was himself.
“Nobody? Alright then, I’ m glad for it. I ain’t kiddin’ around when I say we need every one of y’all we can get,” He saw a touch of pride spread across the assembled faces. “I’m not gonna lie to you, these are lean times, deputies. We seen peace for so long now, few remember what hardship is like, me included. Sure we had a tough winter or two to fight through, but now for the first time in living memory, our very way of life is under assault,” He let this sink in. “The enemy we’re facin’ don’t care two licks for any one of us, hateful as he is. Y’all won’t get no pity or mercy, if it comes to fightin’, so I don’t expect you to show any yourselves. Got that straight? The enemy’s stolen our livestock… What’s next, our children?” With this he saw a murmur run through the crowd, more than a few of whom he knew had little ones at home. “Old Huber here, I found him in the enemy’s clutches, tied up like a hog waiting to be bled,” Out of the corner of his eye, the sheriff saw Huber shudder, and he wondered for a moment if he’d been hair too emphatic.
After a pause, Jed continued. “But I put the fear of the law in them as I found there easy enough. Queer and alien as they are, they don’t take kindly to blades or bullets more than anybody else. Gun’s I ain’t got to spare, but you’ll each get a blade before the day’s out… You got a question, Fisher?” Fordham Fisher had his hand rather meekly raised, and presently he stammered out the question that seemed to be on the tip of everyone’s tongue. “What, er, what are you sayin’, Sheriff? They?” The young deputies nodded their collective assent to this question, and Jed realized he’d skipped over a few points. “Them as live in that damned valley. I don’t know what everyone’s been calling ’em, cold bloods maybe? That’s rightful enough. But the proper name the apothecary told me is ‘Boreans’, so we ought to use that. Just like with anything, the first step to victory is to conquer your fear, deputies,” Fisher’s mouth hung open, as it tended to when the young man was confused, but he said nothing more. There seemed to be another question hanging in the air that nobody wanted to voice.
“I know what you’re thinkin’,” Jed began. “Can there really be such things as monsters? All too unfortunately there are, and they’re vicious and hateful and tough. They got claws like knives, teeth like needles, skin like armor, and blood like ice, so cold it burns,” The sheriff let his scars and bandages serve as example of these facts. “Rightfully they ain’t even alive like you or me understand. But they can be killed all the same, I promise y’all that. I killed me five of them varmints between my pistol and my knife, and I wish that had been the end of it. But I’m afraid all we did was stir up the hive. That’s why tomorrow, me and Huber are going back to…” He was hesitant to remind them of the cursed valley where he had met the Boreans, not wanting to bring to mind the deep superstitions associated with that damnable place. Regardless of what he may or may not have seen there, he didn’t need that fact hurting morale. “To the valley. To tell ’em what’s what, and put an end to this if we can,” Jed finished.
As he had half-expected, the crowd seemed to be lingering somewhere between disbelief, evident shock, and deep respect. He didn’t expect them to quickly accept the disquieting facts of the situation. The stark reality of it would sink in soon enough, they needed only time to digest the information. After all, it had only been the day before that the priest had first told the village of the Borean threat in his morning sermon. Again Jed wondered just how much detail Falmer had gone into, and whether what he was telling the deputies now was mostly redundant information. Well, he’d talked enough in any case. If the deputies were anything like himself, he reflected, they’d feel a sight more confident after getting their hands dirty.
“Alright, enough chatter. Training begins now,” Jed announced loudly and evenly over the murmurs of the crowd. “First thing’s first: hand-to-hand combat. That’ll be followed by armed combat, then endurance training, followed finally by the basics of investigation and inquiry. If the sun ain’t down after that… we’ll do firearms practice,” This elicited grins all around, their disquiet forgotten for the moment, except from Deputy Hawthorne, who only coughed nervously. Jed felt a twinge of guilt even as he lied to the boys, but he pressed on, not letting it show. “Any questions? No? Alright then, Senior Deputy Coleman, front and center!” J.R. came forward and Jed made a wide circle around the miner, dragging a foot behind and ushering the deputies back to make room. “My pappy taught me,” Jed began, deliberately playing off of the deep reverence all the village still held for Marcus. “That fightin’s one of them things you gotta learn by doin’. Let’s see now… ”
The sheriff considered the men before him as Deputy Coleman stood placidly in the center of the ring. J.R.’s long, dark beard stuck out proudly from his chin as the senior deputy crossed the thick cords of his arms over his broad chest. All but the largest and most foolhardy deputies were cowed at the thought of wrestling with the musclebound miner. Although in particular, the tallest and most ornery of the young men assembled – red-haired Mert Erikson – appeared wholly unconcerned at the prospect. Jed opened his mouth to declare Coleman’s opponent, meeting Erikson’s confident gaze, when the paranoid bent of his strange mood made him turn to seek the source of the dull noises that had for a few minutes been grazing the edges of his hearing. All followed his gaze and noted with quiet apprehension the way the sheriff’s hand fell immediately to the heavy pistol at his side. Huber Hawthorne kept a firm grip on his wood-hafted felling axe. J.R. Coleman did the same with his trusty iron pick.
Willfully Jed took his fingers from the comforting grip of the revolver, for he had recognized the sound that no one else seemed to yet hear: not cold breath hissing between needle-sharp fangs, but the more mundane huffing breath of a young man who has run far in a right hurry. Jed’s shoulders relaxed substantially, and this subconscious motion of released tension did much to dispel the worry gathering among the doughty deputies. Jed immediately recognized the dark hair and loping gait of the wiry figure that crested the tall hill to their immediate east. As the absentee made his way down the rocky slope toward the training ground, the sheriff waited patiently with the other deputies at his back. Finally the black-haired young man dropped down into the valley proper, and Jed called out with as much authority as he could muster.
“Deputy Hawksly!” The deputy winced, hurrying the final dozen yards despite his evident weariness. He stood, puffing for breath but at attention, before the waiting sheriff. “I’m so sorry, Sheriff. Only I went down to Ed Larkin’s house to see if he was feelin’ better, but he ain’t…” Hawksly managed to sputter out. “You’re late,” Jed told him simply, disappointed though not surprised that Edmain had not yet recovered. “Know what that means, deputy?” Hawksly shook his head briskly, breath not yet caught. The sheriff smiled ruefully. “Means you’re first up for hand-to-hand combat training,” The deputy looked cautiously enthusiastic. “Oh. Well that don’t sound so bad,” Said Darek Hawksly. Jed nodded, holding out a hand. “Gimme that there bow and step into the ring,” The deputy took off the bow and buckskin quiver that were slung across his lanky shoulders and handed both to the sheriff.
Hawskly promptly lost what breath he had just regained as Jed stepped aside to reveal the opponent that awaited him in the ring in question. Senior Deputy Coleman was not quite as tall as the younger man, but seemed near twice as broad at the shoulders as he towered in the center of the makeshift arena. Hawksly skirted around the opposite edge of the ring and looked over to Jed, who was examining the deputy’s hunting bow with evident approval. Owing to Hawksly’s native ancestry, it was traditionally wrought of cedarwood and ram horn. The sheriff gave the bow an experimental tug, finding it surprisingly stiff. Hawskly must have been a good deal stronger than his thin frame would have suggested, Jed reflected, and then set the bow and arrows aside for the moment. “Y’all best pay attention, you might could learn a thing or two,” Jed told the small crowd.
“The rules are simple. First’n out of the ring loses. First’n to say ‘Uncle’ loses. Nothin’ below the belt, no eye-gougin’, hair pullin’, etcetera. We’re trainin’, not trying to kill each other. Any questions? What is it, Hawksly?” The deputy lowered his raised hand nervously. “Er, thing is. My pappy taught me pretty good how to wrassle already,” Jed raised an eyebrow, having expected some comment like this in some vain attempt to get out of Coleman’s ring. “Good fighter, is he? I don’t reckon as I’ve ever met your pappy at church or the like. Always off on huntin’ trips, I believe your mama always says,” Hawksly nodded. “That’s true enough, but he don’t take kindly to churches either way. He keeps to the old ways like. The spirits of sun and wind and rain and such. Anyhow, I’ll just go ahead and step outta this here ring, since Mert seems rarin’ to go… ” Jed shook his head, ushering him back into the ring. “I’m sure your daddy taught you plenty good, but as a formality, would you be so kindly as to show us?” Jed said in a tone that made it clear this was not a request.
“Besides,” the sheriff said, showing his teeth. “I’m sure Senior Deputy Coleman won’t hurt you too bad, will you J.R.?” The black-haired miner said nothing, and his beard bristled as he stood with arms folded. Hawksly reluctantly edged his way back into the ring. “I’ll go easy on him,” said the lanky hunter with good humor, and despite himself Coleman burst out laughing along with the rest of the deputies. “That’s the spirit, boy,” He rumbled in the deep bass of his voice. “Let’s get us going, eh Jed? The sun ain’t gettin’ any higher,” The sheriff nodded and raised a hand, open palmed. “Everybody ready now? Begin!” He waved his hand, and as one the crowd stepped back a pace to give the fighters room.
Coleman cracked his neck, unfolding his thick arms and somehow managed to loom over Hawksly despite being inferior in height. The younger deputy paced cautiously around the outside of the circle, getting a feel for his opponent. With a sudden yell, Coleman lunged forward and swung both arms like a rearing grizzly. Taken by surprise, the lithe hunter only just managed to duck out of the way, sidestepping the bigger man with a quick rabbit punch that seemed utterly ineffectual against the hard slabs of Coleman’s muscle. The senior deputy jumped back away from the edge of the ring, clipping the circling Hawksly with his thick arm and sending him toppling to the ground. Taking the advantage, Coleman leapt atop the fallen deputy as Darek scrambled in vain to rise to his feet.
His thick arm barred across the younger man’s throat, the miner ground his rough knuckles into the top of Hawksly’s head. “Say Uncle, boy!” He said with a throaty laugh. Gasping and twisting in the bigger man’s grasp, the hunter suddenly writhed like a snake and hooked an elbow back into Coleman’s broad gut. The miner’s grip relaxed with a sudden cough and Hawksly slipped nimbly from his hold, catching the breath that he had only just regained when the fight had began. As Coleman rose slowly to his feet, chuckling darkly to himself, Darek stilled his breathing and faced his opponent head on. He bounced lightly on his feet as the old traditions had taught, feinting this way then that to confuse his enemy. The bulky miner came at him with a grappling bear hug that he charged to meet before ducking aside and landing a pair of punches into Coleman’s side.
With an annoyed grunt, J.R. whipped about with a nimbleness that belied his bulk, but Hawksly was already gone. The sparring match continued in this manner for some time, with the bigger man chasing the nimbler about the ring. Neither seemed the more likely to win, trading the advantage back and forth. Both were soon worn out, panting for breath, but agile Hawksly seemed the better off between them. He ducked and weaved toward the gasping miner in a zig-zagging charge meant to confuse the slower man. The younger deputies cheered him on, enjoying the show greatly and inspiring Hawksly with confidence. Consequently, the hunter was taken by complete surprise when Coleman suddenly leapt forward and checked him by the weight of his body. Hawksly’s thinner frame was knocked stumbling backward by Coleman’s brawny chest, and before he realized it, the hunter had stumbled across the edge of the ring and fallen on his backside. Coleman’s hearty basso laugh rumbled through the sunny valley, and as Hawksly rose to his knees he found the miner’s rough hand outstretched toward him. He took it with a grateful pant of breath and was hauled to his feet by Coleman’s prodigious strength.
“A fine bout,” Rumbled the miner, smiling beneath his wiry beard. Hawksly nodded, the breath knocked out of him by the final blow. “Thought I almost had you… ” The hunter panted out between breaths. Jed came forward and clapped Hawksly on the back. “Well fought, deputy. Don’t feel bad about losing, J.R.’s been wrestlin’ and such since before you were born. You ought to be proud you did as well as you did,” The younger deputies added their approval with a few yells and jeers, which made Hawksly smile. He turned to J.R. “Where do you learn to fight like that? That ain’t like nothin’ my pappy ever showed me,” Jed answered for the miner. “You don’t seem the sort to visit the old tavern, but I have to go down there at least once a week to gather up some poor drunk who picked a fight with J.R. and lost his teeth for the trouble,”
Coleman snorted. “A few score years ago there was a big rush down southwest way to mine up a rare metal somebody’d found there, quicksilver or some such. It dried up real quick like, but nobody told my daddy that before he’d come all the way across the country to get rich on it. I was just a youngin then, and I went around from town to town with ol’ John looking for work all the way. Time came where he had some debt collectors after him, and real desperate-like he joined a wrasslin’ competition. Turned out he was real good at it. There was good money in it for a time, ’til he’d won too much and nobody wanted to wrassle him no more. That’s when we moved up here to get away from the noise of the minin’ towns. Without any competition for minin’, he gave up wrasslin’, but when I was old enough I convinced him to show me all his old moves anyhow,” J.R. smiled wistfully, and Jed looked meaningfully at the sun which was slowly but steadily beginning to sink. “Anyhow, who’s up next?” Said Coleman, taking the hint. Tall Murt Erikson stepped eagerly forward, and Coleman waved him into the ring with a rumbling chuckle.
The training continued long through the afternoon. After everyone’d had a bout in the ring (none quite managing to dethrone Coleman, whom some of the deputies started referring to as ‘The Champ’ amongst themselves) Jed handed out a pile of rough-carven wooden training weapons. There were blunt wooden poles meant to imitate spears, and shorter dowel rods like long knives or swords. Also there were several roughly carven longbows, none near as fine as Hawksly’s traditional native recurve. The sheriff organized the deputies into three groups, led respectively by Huber, Coleman, and himself. Under Jed’s general instruction and the group leader’s specific, the three groups trained in various kinds of combat – armed against armed, armed against unarmed, sword against spear, etc. A fourth and smaller group, some of whom had prior experience, were placed under Deputy Hawksly to practice archery against the strawmen Jed had set up on the south end of the valley.
None but Jed had any prior experience or formal instruction in armed combat. The two senior deputies improvised and asked questions of the sheriff as needed, but their wits and experience were sufficient to give the young deputies at least an introduction to the basics of combat. The four groups rotated as necessary to make sure each man received roughly the same degree of instruction, and practice with each permutation of weaponry that Jed had thought to provide. The sheriff did not of course expect the deputies to be fighting with swords or spears, or even bows for that matter. This was merely the best method of which he had conceived to familiarize the amateur lawmen with the taste of battle, and give what little training he could to their no doubt lacking reflexes.
Jed, of course, had the advantage of long years of harsh training under his father. With the wooden swords he sparred many a student that afternoon, and only a few managed even to land a glancing blow. Most didn’t even manage that much, and received only a few knocks and bruises for their trouble. Rubbing their bruised limbs, a few muttered invectives beneath their breath, which Jed pretended not to hear. He remembered being in precisely their place, though he had been younger, and the ire which they felt. He had felt that anger himself, and in the retrospect that he hoped his students would come to share, he knew that it was only the despair of being beaten and seeing the long road of improvement that lies ever before the unlearned amateur.
After the weapon training was complete (or as good as it was going to get, as Jed thought to himself), the deputies were made to run laps around the training field to build up their endurance. Here the laborers fared somewhat better than the less physically active among them. Deputy Bringham in particular was a wheezing mess before the end of the long first lap around the wide field. Jed had expected no less, but was determined to give the boy no special treatment. In fact, he thought it best not to pick him out at all, lest he be the mockery of the other deputies. They were, after all, supposed to be his brothers. He saw at first a few disparaging glances in the panting scholar’s direction. The sheriff’s heart was warmed, however, when he saw Deputies Fisher and Owens stop to help the younger man up and slow themselves to run alongside him, encouraging him. Perhaps they liked their ale a bit too much, Jed thought to himself, but those two had their hearts in the right place.
After they had all caught their breath and had a light snack that Jed had brought along for them, they all sat cross-legged in the cool grass for a less physical lesson. The sheriff went on at some length, recalling aloud many a lesson of law that Marcus had told him so long ago. This, like all the training of that day, was not strictly necessary for the simple watch duties Jed had in mind for them, but he was determined that anybody carrying the title of lawman be rightfully acquainted with his proper duties. He told them of watchfulness and situational awareness, of de-escalating a dire situation, of when force was and was not called for, and the like.
The sheriff waxed verbose about the sacred duty of the lawman, the righteous protector of all things good and pure. Throughout these talks, all listened intently and reverently, and when finally he had finished, Jed took any training-related questions that happened to be on the minds of the assembled audience, answering them as best he knew how. Most of the askers came away satisfied. In particular, bright-eyed Parker Bringham asked a few very pertinent questions about the law, methods of engagement, and the proper way to nonlethally subdue an outlaw.
In answer to the latter, Jed took out a rope and had Huber Hawthorne show the assembly how to tie a proper lasso. The sheriff then took a volunteer from among the deputies and whipped the rope out like a striking snake, tightening the coil about Deputy Owens’ wrist before the younger man knew what was what. In the space of a couple seconds, Owens was on the ground and Jed knelt on his back, binding a tight knot around the deputy’s wrists with quick and practiced precision. The sheriff had each of the deputies give the lasso maneuver a couple tries. Any more than that would have to wait for another day, for even now the sun was beginning to sink. The day had all too quickly been eaten away by the training. Happily Jed noted that despite their weariness and bruises, most of the deputies seemed to have quite enjoyed themselves. Even, to the sheriff’s surprise, Deputy Bringham. In fact, the young scholar seemed very pleased with himself despite his mediocre performance throughout the day.
Glancing with deference to the not-yet-sunken sun, Jed’s hand rested on the hilt of his pistol. He didn’t want the deputies to realize he had been putting them on when he had spoken of firearms practice, but there wasn’t time for more than a few shots in any case. He resolved to only let a couple of the precious rounds be squeezed off, and by someone he knew wouldn’t be a danger with the gun. “Well boys, I’d wanted each of you to get a turn shooting, but it seems like we’re out of time. I know, I know. I was lookin’ forward to teachin’ y’all how to shoot,” He scanned the crowd of crestfallen faces, and none seemed to pick up on his mild treachery. Jed felt another twinge of guilt. “Guess y’all will have to settle for a demonstration,” He added, and this seemed to perk up a few disappointed faces. Jed slid his pistol outs of its holster and flicked the cylinder out, letting the heavy .45 rounds fall into his cupped hand.
“Senior Deputy Coleman,” Jed called, and Coleman was standing at the ready. “Sheriff,” He rumbled. Jed flipped the revolver over in his hand with easy agility and handed it grip-first to the miner. Coleman’s white teeth shone in contrast to his black beard as he grinned, gripping the heavy pistol in his hand. “Boy ain’t she perty,” J.R. appreciated. Jed slid four of the bullets into the pocket of his holster, juggling the remaining pair in his hand. “First rule of shootin’,” The sheriff announced, waving the deputies back out of any potential danger. “Whether you think its loaded or not, only point your gun at somethin’ you aim to kill. Rule two, shoot good or don’t shoot at all. Bullets ain’t cheap. Rule three…” Jed paused, tossing the bullets to Coleman who began to load them immediately. “Y’all might wanna cover your ears. When you’re ready, J.R.,” The sheriff finished.
Coleman snapped the cylinder shut, gripping the heavy gun in both hands as he leveled it at one of the practice dummies. All clapped hands over their ears, except for Jed who stood with arms folded, appraising Coleman’s technique. “See the way J.R.’s doin’ it? Feet apart, both hands, brace yourself, take deep breaths, and… fire,” As if the shining pistol had responded to its master’s command, it barked and jumped in Coleman’s hands. Jed felt the familiar tremor in the air as the great pistol thundered, as if somebody had slapped an open palm on his chest. The dummy’s head exploded in a shower of straw, and it collapsed into a mess of cloth and wood on the ground. J.R. shook his hand in the air as if it’d been bit. “Gotdang, that kicks like a mule,” The miner remarked, though he still had a grin on his face. He looked questioningly at the sheriff.
Jed nodded. “Go on and do another, deputy, but that’s all we got time for today unfortunately,” There was a profound look of disappointment amongst the young deputies, but Jed suspected his next training session – if there ever was another – would see a good deal of enthusiasm for it. That was assuming, of course, that the next train finally brought him more bullets. J.R. fired again, the sound of the shot echoing far across the hills. Another one of the practice dummies splintered into the scrap wood and old hay of which Jed had haphazardly crafted them. The sheriff nodded, pleased that he had evidently chosen well his senior deputies. Coleman tossed the still-smoking pistol back to Jed, who caught it and stowed it back in the holster with a deft flick of his wrist. He was not quite showing off for the deputies, but he did notice a few looks in his direction. Most of the admiration, however, was directed at Coleman. Good, thought Jed. Coleman would be in charge in his and Huber’s absence, after all. It would be well that he garner some respect among the men. “Nice shootin’, deputy,” Jed said sincerely, not adding his unspoken hope that the miner was as good a leader as he was a gunslinger.
The shooting done, the sheriff waved the deputies over for one last thing, cracking open a small crate. “Just one last thing I got for y’all,” He said as he upended the open box onto the ground, revealing a stack of long hunting knives not dissimilar to the one hanging from his own waist. Owing to the short notice on which Jed had procured them, they were of subtly different shape and feature and age, but all were good and solid blades. The deputies eyes lit up at the sight, and Jed couldn’t help but grin at them. “Guns I ain’t got much to spare, but I wouldn’t post y’all to watch unarmed. Come get you each a knife,” He started handing them out, along with a simple leather sheath for each. Soon each of the deputies was proudly tying a knife onto his belt. “The bows are for y’all too,” Jed added. “There’s not enough to go around, but I want each watch and patrol to have at least one bow, for what good it’ll do,” There were nods and grins all around. Now that they were armed, they surely felt like proper militiamen, it seemed to Jed. Even if their armaments were in truth wholly inadequate for the threat at hand. “Course, anybody who has some kinda weapon at home is free to bring it when he’s on duty,” He added as an afterthought.
“Whelp,” Said Jed with finality. “That’s all for today, deputies. Let’s get you all home before the sun goes down proper. Deputy Coleman, would you be so good as to organize tonight’s watch?” Practically before he had finished speaking, the miner answered. “Sure would. Hawskly, Culler. You two are with me tonight. Y’all meet me at the town square after supper, sound good?” The two turned from their quiet chatting to respond as cheerily as they could presented with the undesirable night watch. “Yes sir!” Jed nodded, pleased. “Alright then, I reckon as the rest of y’all are dismissed. Me and Huber are leavin’ at dawn, and we won’t be back for at least a day,” The sheriff paused, looking out over the assembled faces which held such a mix of emotions – weariness, bravado, hopefulness, carefully hidden fear.
One last thing he added: “Good job today, men. I know its your first day, but its no exaggeration when I say y’all made me proud out there. I couldn’t hope for a finer batch of recruits. Already when I look at y’all, I see lawmen. Soldiers. I hope it don’t come to it, but if’n it does, I know y’all will give hell to any of them cold-blooded freaks as dares to encroach on our homes. And I can’t ask any more than that,” Some of what he said was even true, Jed reflected grimly. He had tried to put as much inspiring pride as he could into his voice as he had given the little speech. The deputies seemed to eat it up well enough. Again he felt a twinge of guilt, and Jed had to remind himself that it was all for the greater good. Besides, to some degree just feeling like they were soldiers was enough to make it halfway true, he thought. Despite his self-justifications, and despite General Wyoming’s writings on the subject, Jed wondered if that was truly good enough reason to lie to the men in his service.
He supposed it would have to be. It was too late now to go changing his mind anyhow.
Jed and the Cold Bloods Ch. 6
Chapter VI
‘On the first day, let all feast and make merry.
But before nourishing the body,
Let there be a more generous banquet for the soul,’
– ‘The Prism of Heaven’, Chapter 6: Verse 22
It was by all accounts a fine Sunday meal, though perhaps ‘feast’ was too strong a word when compared to the overgenerous banquets of the prosperous east. This was the only regular occasion of merriment to be had in those lean times, in the far west. Things were improving now that spring had come, but it had been a terrible winter indeed. Even now they were still recovering from the bitter season; a toast was made to honor the departed souls of Arthur and Delilah Heathrow, so cruelly taken by the chill of deep winter. In the closing days of the year, the assailing winds had finally swept over the barrier of the eastern hills and came howling down into the sunken valley which housed Dormis. The Winter of 338, as it inevitably became known in the lore of the village, was almost the worst in living memory, second only to the terrible Winter of 308, which had taken four lives.
Jed had not been around to see it, but Marcus had once assured him that it ‘hadn’t been as bad as all that,’ Presently, the passing chill of the winter was the furthest thing from Jed’s mind as he was handed a plate laden with as fine an assortment of victuals as ever the village had on offer. Jed took it with relish and a grateful ‘Ma’am,’ from the offering hands of Helena Cooper, the daughter of a well-to-do merchant who had retired to Dormis out of desire for peace and quiet. The woman, now in early middle age, evidently still harbored memories of her youth spent exalting herself high among the social circles of her home city of San Marcone, far away to the southeast. Trapped in this isolated locale, she had therefore made it her business to be at what she supposed was the top of the local social ladder – she was among the most active devotees of the church, to such an extent that the priest often remitted more mundane tasks to her purview – clerical matters, the priest would say with a congenial chuckle at his own wordplay.
Chiefly Helena Cooper organized social events such as the current feast, leaving the hired servants to care for her elderly father in the capacious Cooper homestead, and leaving Gawain Falmer more time to minister his holy craft to the pious people of Dormis. Jed had not seen the priest since the frantic planning of the night before, but he did notice aged Cornelius Cooper at the less crowded side table flanked by his ever-present valet. The retiree’s dedicated steward was a rather likeable, if bookish, fellow – in many ways much like the old man he waited on – who had come with the Coopers from San Marcone, and whose name Jed had never had the occasion of learning. The retired merchant was chatting amiably with red-haired Ben the baker, who as always was not shy about indulging in his own handiwork. The baker’s plate was stacked high with, among other things, a sort of golden brown crescent which appeared to be filled with jam, and which Jed confirmed with a quick glance were gratifyingly present on his own plate. The stout baker was universally agreed to be a master of his craft, and on this matter the sheriff had no disagreement.
Jed took his usual seat away from the eagerly chatting masses of the villagers, where he could keep an eye on things and slip away unnoticed when he felt need to return to his duties. Chiefly the townsfolk were seated at the long wooden tables which had been hewn expressly for the purpose of the weekly feast. The sheriff set his tray at the sparsely populated end of the side table, some few seats away from Cornelius Cooper and the baker seated across from him. “sheriff,” Ben said with a nod which Jed returned. “Jed,” commented the retired merchant, who Jed had seldom had dealings with. “Cornelius,” Jed said deferentially, for the old man seemed alright to him, if a bit urbane. “Sir,” nodded Cooper’s valet beside him, not wishing to seem rude. Jed thought to nod in response, but he decided to be more friendly and stuck out his hand, leaning across the table.
“Don’t think I ever caught your name before,” The sheriff said, shaking the steward’s hand. “Jed Marcusson,” He added, by way of introduction. “I’m the sheriff ‘round these parts, if’n you ain’t figured that out yet,” The valet gave him an affable smile. “I do apologize for any apparent unfriendliness on my part. My name is Alford Weathering, formerly of San Marcone. I manage Mr. Cooper’s personal affairs, as I’m sure you know, and occasionally travel to represent what remains of his business interests,” The steward glanced at his uncaring employer, who was fixated with relish upon the fine fare before him. “Of course, a man of action such as yourself wouldn’t want to hear about such mundanities,” He added sheepishly.
The old man amiably elbowed Alford in the ribs, only half paying attention to the exchange. “Oh, lighten up, will you Al? You act as though we’re still dining with the upper crust at the Golden Finch. Jed’s a good old fellow, ain’t you sheriff?” The old man laughed and Jed chuckled in return, noting the amusement the merchant seemed to take in interjecting a sprinkling of rural colloquialisms into his otherwise sophisticated mode of speech. He was appreciative of the old man’s levity; this was, after all, meant to be a time of rejoicing, and the valet did seem so terribly serious. “It’s good to know you, Mr. Weathering,” The sheriff commented lightly. “And sheriffin’ isn’t so exciting as all that. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but its mostly a lot of walkin’ around. Ain’t been but two or three times as I’ve ever needed to pull my gun out, other than for target shootin’,”
This grabbed the valet’s interest, though the man seemed to stop himself from leaning over the table to look. “Would it be terribly unseemly of me to ask if I could have a look at it? Your weapon, that is,” He questioned. Jed looked up at him with a mouthful of jam – the crescents were just as good as he had imagined – and chewed out a reply, covering his mouth with a hand. “Might be as I could. You had some kind of dealings with guns before? Wouldn’t figure you for the shootin’ type, no offense meant,” The steward nodded with a polite smile, keenly aware of this fact. Demure in his black suit, he was of a plain and unassuming appearance with his combed black hair and spectacles. “None taken, sir. Might be as – you might say that, rather – its an academic interest. I took a natural philosophy course on the art of gunsmithing one semester in my university days and it has remained a side hobby of mine to study firearms. Fascinating devices, wouldn’t you agree?” Jed considered this, sipping at his cup to wash down his food.
“Can’t say as I’ve ever thought of it that way,” The sheriff admitted. “Always seemed to me the same as a steam train or a windmill – it just works. But then, I’m no natural philosopher. Studying to be an alchemist, were you? Sounds like a mighty fine job, being in the natural sciences,” Jed commented while he cut into the side of roast beef that the thoughtful hostess had provided him with. Weathering shook his head, examining the jam crescents that he had saved for last among the meager servings to which he had helped himself. “Oh, no. Far from it. I was studying to be a train engineer, since you mention it, not a proper natural philosopher like an alchemist. I merely took the course as my elective study to meet certain requirements of the university,” The valet interrupted himself to sample the jam crescent. “Oh my,” He commented with relish. “These are delightful,” Jed nodded in agreement. “That they are. Good job, Ben. As always,” The sheriff told the Baker, who was rather busy eating and merely inclined his head gratefully in response.
“Although actually, Mr. Marcusson – may I call you Jed? – that’s a common misconception; alchemists only make bullets, not the guns themselves. That falls under the purview of the gunsmith,” Jed was genuinely interested, and he looked up from his meal. “That a fact? It’s news to me, I always figured alchemist, gunsmith, same thing really. And sure, you can call me Jed if’n I can call you Al,” The sheriff commented offhand. The steward nodded and went on, seemingly grateful to have an outlet of conversation for his hobby. “The trade of gunsmithing is considered to be more of an art than a natural philosophy such as Alchemy, and the course I took covered only the most basic aspects of it. Most gunsmiths study as an apprentice under a master, rather than by formal education at a university such as, by way of contrast, one might attend for the study of alchemy. That requires more than a few years of formal schooling,” Jed nodded interestedly throughout this explanation. “Y’don’t say. That’s just about how you become a sheriff,” He commented, savoring a few bites of the roast beef before going on. “Anyways, if you’re interested in seeing my service weapon, I’ll do you one better and you can join me and the boys for shootin’ practice. I’m aimin’ to do it tomorrow when I show the deputies a thing or two to help ‘em in their new duties,”
Alford agreed eagerly, looking to his employer for confirmation, but Cornelius Cooper was looking elsewhere. The old man turned to the valet, grabbing his sleeve and gesturing across the main table with his eyes and his head. The valet followed the old man’s gaze, leaning forward slightly to look at whatever had been so important. Jed couldn’t see what the retired merchant was indicating in his unsubtle manner, but the sheriff saw Weathering’s brow crease in discomfiture as the valet flustered and sat upright again. The steward said something that Jed did not catch over the din of the feast, but which made Cornelius begin to laugh vigorously with the uncaring mirth of age.
Alford shook his head, dabbing his forehead with a damp handkerchief. Pretending not to notice, Jed stood up to refresh his drink with a ‘Pardon me’, discreetly passing through the old man’s line of sight to see what all the fuss was about. Melissa Owens, wed last spring, had just stood up from a position leaned over the large banquet table, where she had been distributing to plates the fresh pastries that had just come from the ovens. Having seen in passing the rather generous bust that the young woman displayed even while upright, Jed had a reasonable guess as to what Cooper had been so unsurreptitiously indicating to Cooper’s rather amusing embarrassment. Despite himself, he smirked at the old lecher, whose raucous laughter the sheriff could still hear as he reached for the steaming teapot on the serving table to fix himself a mug. His hand crossed another over the handle of the pot, and he looked up to see the apothecary stood on the opposite side of the table, wrapped in her green linen shawl despite the growing warmth.
“Pardon, ma’am, I didn’t see you there,” Jed said deferentially, retracting his hand. The apothecary waved it off, lifting the kettle to pour a measure of steaming water into the mug the sheriff had in hand. He placed the cup gratefully on the table to allow her to pour, and then added a measure of tea leaves to steep while Tomasic began to speak, pouring her own cup. “You and Huber didn’t see anything of note upon your excursion this morning, I take it? I was expecting to see you again before the feast. I caught only the tale end of your little ceremony there in the square,” She gave him a wry grin, not often seen on her wrinkled features. “You’re a born leader, Jed. I don’t think you see how much those boys look up to you,” Her eyes twinkled in a way that Jed had seen before, when he was a boy in her occasional instruction and had finally worked out the correct answer to one of her esoteric questions. The sheriff shook his head dismissively, adding a touch of sugar to his tea and stirring it with a spoon, regarding the swirling liquid impassively.
He turned to look at the banquet table, where with a glance he saw a few of his volunteer deputies, digging into their food with a will. “I’m well aware of the way they look at me, all keen-eyed. They thinks a bit of brass on their chests makes ‘em lawmen, and they’re fixin’ to fight to defend their families. I know exactly how them boys feel, it ain’t easy for a strong young man to feel helpless to defend his pretty new wife,” He regarded Melissa Owens across the crowd, and the girl was gazing wistfully toward the baker’s shop. Briefly Jed regretted assigning her husband to take first guard duty. “And now they’ve signed up they reckon they’re gonna do something about the trouble everyone’s in a huff about,” The apothecary met Jed’s gaze as he turned to look at her. No one knew the trouble to which the sheriff referred better than the two of them, and Tomasic regarded him with patient wisdom as she breathed deep of the fragrant steam of her tea.
“That kind of thinking can get a man killed if he doesn’t know what he’s doin’,” Jed finished, and the apothecary sniffed in amusement. “And I suppose you’re more qualified to risk your life in our defense, are you Jed?” The sheriff regarded her seriously. “That I am. I know what I’m doin’,” Tomasic nodded deferentially. “Granted Marcus trained you well, Jed. But those boys – your deputies, lest you forget – are going to do all they can to protect their homes and their families. What they lack in training they make up for in courage, I assure you. You need only lead them wisely. They knew what they signed up for when they repeated your oath,” Her tone was one of consolation, and Jed could see the wisdom of her words but still he was troubled. “Did they? I’m not so sure. This could get bad, Maria. You know that as well as I do, or so I hope. What are they gonna do when they see a full-grown Borean in front of ‘em with claws like knives and murder in its cold eyes? Hearin’ about it is one thing, but..,” The sheriff worriedly trailed off, gazing into the darkening depths of his mug. He looked up and noticed that the apothecary seemed to have a look of hesitation on her face, as if she could not decide whether to speak up on a matter.
“…What?” He inquired gently. “Something the matter?” The apothecary said nothing for a time, sipping her cooling tea. She changed the subject, or so Jed thought. “I rather think you should talk to Gawain when you have a chance, Jed,” He nodded, testing his own drink. “Falmer? I aim to, soon as I can find him. Ain’t seen him since last night though. I reckon he’s been busy consoling folks and whatnot after breakin’ the news to everybody,” Tomasic still bore a pensive look, but was not obliged to say anything more on the subject. “Well, I’ll leave you to return to your meal. Good day, sheriff,” Taking her mug and a small plate of vittles, the aged healer strode off. “Ma’am,” Jed acknowledged, moving to return to his own table. He could see from where he stood that it was rather more full than when he had left it. As he made his way around the intermeaning table, his course was interrupted by the passage of a young man whose dark hair and lanky build Jed immediately recognized.
“Deputy Hawksly,” The sheriff said with a slight authorative emphasis as the wiry hunter brushed past him. The younger man took a moment to register the title but snapped to attention thereafter, straightening the brass shield whose shiny face stood in stark contrast to the motley greens and browns of his clothing – evidently Darek Hawksly did not own any particularly formal clothing aside from his dully camouflaged hunting tunic, as he was one of few not in some formal state of dress. “Yes sir, sheriff!” Hawksly said with enthusiasm. Jed eyed the empty plate the hunter had been carrying back to the serving table, he assumed for a second helping. “Enjoying the feast?” He asked over the din of forks and knives scraping plates. The younger man nodded vigorously with a grin. “Didja try the jam crescents, Jed – er, sheriff, sir? That ol’ Ben’s a genius, huh?”
Jed nodded in agreement, broaching the subject he had stopped Hawksly for. “Listen, you’ve already ate, right? I want you to find another deputy – I see Culler over there chattin’ up one of the serving girls – and go relieve Owens and Fisher on top of the bakery. They’re like to turn in their badges if they don’t at least catch the tail end of the feast. Take some food with you if you like,” With obvious reluctance Darek nodded and set his plate with the rest of the dirty dishes, heaping a few items from the serving table in his arms and striding off. “You can count on me, sheriff. Hey, Clyde, we got work need’s doin’!” Satisfied, Jed continued on his way, returning to his seat at the side table across from one of the new arrivals. It was Gawain Falmer, and the middle-aged priest in his white robes was engaged in pleasant small talk with Cornelius Cooper. Jed sat, placing his steaming mug carefully upon the table. “Father,” He greeted politely when a lull happened to appear in their smalltalk. “I trust your sermon went well? A shame I wasn’t able to attend,”
The priest nodded to him, the habitual look of calm wisdom upon his care-lined face. “sheriff, so good to see you,” He commented with a smile that seemed by all appearances genuine but that Jed had doubts about. “The sermon went well as can be expected with the dark tidings I was obliged to bear,” The priest’s mood took a turn for the maudlin. “I will rest the easier knowing that I provided whatever comfort I could to our harried flock. But we need not speak of such grim things during this time of merriment,” Jed nodded his tacit agreement, not caring to say otherwise under the public eye. The sheriff had expected to find an ill mood in the air after the pronouncement they had all agreed was necessary, and he had indeed sensed some tension amongst the villagers as he observed the celebration. Yet the people, for the most part, moved with a fixity of purpose about them that he had not expected, overcoming the despair of their besiegement with apparent ease. If that were so, Jed thought, he envied the villagers either their ignorance or their stalwart courage – or perhaps some mix of both.
If the villagers were, if not at peace then at least no more worried than they appeared to be, then the sheriff reckoned they all owed Falmer some debt of gratitude, for the priest’s apparent wisdom was surely seeing them through this storm with admirable efficacy. Jed, although thinking no particular ill of the priest, found this somewhat hard to stomach. He had seen his people nominally in the grip of panic a few times before, and the superstitious townsfolk had been high-strung throughout each supposed catastrophe.
During the previous winter, tempers had flared at the meeting of the town council, and emotions had run especially high following the discovery of the Heathrows’ frozen bodies in the wake of the bitterest cold yet seen in those days. There had been a bickering and a quarreling then that had begun feuds fated to last generations. Surely here was an equally terrible catastrophe, with potential for many more to lose their lives if Jed was any judge, and yet the people were what passed for merry in these grim times. Not that he was complaining, but what, then, had the priest told them to effect such a reaction? Stunned by the sudden thought, Jed began to wonder how much the priest had elected to tell the crowd after all. Had his showing the crowd the frostbite scars been the first folks had known of his journey to rescue Huber Hawthorne? Maybe it was more ignorance and less courage that explained the strangely even mood about the village.
That didn’t quite strike a chord with the sheriff, however. The feast was merry, by all accounts, but as he had observed the crowd, some instinct had gnawed away at Jed that did not align with this theory. He could not avoid the thought that each toast and each round of laughter from the merrymakers was an act, like folks putting on a play, and not the blissful merriment of the ignorant. To Jed’s keen eye, each villager bore a mask. Each smile was fake, each laugh forced. When all the food was gone and the feast was drawing to a close, the accompanying dancing seemed terribly unenthusiastic to the observing sheriff. He could not definitively put his finger on quite what was off in the manner of the townsfolk, but through long years of training, his father had impressed upon him to trust his instincts. This he struggled to do, however, and the sheriff began to consider if perhaps he was imagining things. He thought back to the night before, to the creeping sense of dread that he had carried with him through the forest. His mind drifted back to the accursed valley, with the sinking sun at his back slowly fading to reveal the abominable fluorescence of the blighted earth beneath his feet.
He had scarcely before experienced such self doubt as he now felt. Surely he had been victorious in the cursed valley, and had done as well as any could be expected to in the circumstances. But now he doubted his memories of the night before, the lambent glow of the ground chief in his misgivings. Had his mind been playing tricks on him, and was it now? The sheriff had felt strange since ever he had entered that lonely place in search of the wayward farmer. He wondered if Huber felt the same. Once the adrenaline of combat had faded, he had felt bleary and detached, as if he were merely watching as his body fled in mortal terror with the panicked farmer at his heels. The flight from Ricker’s homestead was a blur of fluorescent mist and dark forest, accompanied by the snapping of branches and the hideous bestial screeches that echoed through the night. The sheriff tore his mind forcibly from those disquieting memories, even the thought of which were renewing his anxiety. He founds the hairs on the back of his neck standing, and he began to feel slightly dizzy.
Jed slowly let out a breath that he realized he had been holding in. There was a stuffy air that had been slowly building beneath the wooden pavilion, or so he thought, but seeing suddenly that his cup was empty, he decided to put the feeling down to having imbibed the hot beverage too quickly. Adjusting the suddenly chafing collar of his long coat, Jed stood with a murmured “ ‘Scuse me,” and walked off to get some air among the adjacent gardens of the church. He breathed in a few deep breaths, and sat down on one of the stone benches scattered throughout the immaculate yard. It was unlike him to let such anxieties get the better of him, yet here he was unable to so much as consider the strange happenings of the night before. Still there had been no mention of the witch-light in Ricker’s accursed valley, even between he and Huber, who had no doubt seen it in their flight from the barn. Jed pondered this, wondering just how far the superstitions harbored by the villagers would carry – so far as to believe what would no doubt sound like an outlandish tale?
Harried as they were daily by whisperings of the eldritch and the macabre from the gossipers and storyspinners, what would these people do faced with a true horror right upon their very doorstep? Had the priest been open and forthright with the people, and was it therefore merely denial that the sheriff was seeing? He’d no idea, and he resolved to glean whatever subtle information he could from the common folk. If the priest had already approached the troubles from some particular angle in his sermon, it wouldn’t do for Jed to countermand any of the his words. He had borne that in mind when making his own brief announcements before the feast, assuming that the priest had been utterly forthright about the Boreans and Huber’s kidnapping, and yet being vague enough not to contradict any possible edicts Falmer had made of his own accord.
Now the sheriff was not so sure, and he wondered how best to handle this delicate situation. The leadership of the village – for so Jed considered he and Falmer both, among others – could not appear divided on such fundamental things as the nature of their invaders, or the resulting blow to the all-important morale of the people might be catastrophic. He would need, he decided, to speak to the priest alone – or preferably with the apothecary also present – at the earliest opportunity. Glancing back toward the table, he saw that Falmer appeared to be in no hurry to leave his company, engaged in easy conversation with his tablemates. Just now the priest seemed to be extolling the virtues of the baker’s craft, holding one of the few remaining jam crescents aloft. Ben the baker had a modest smile upon his face and an empty plate before him, evidently having finally had his fill.
The feast was more or less over, and Jed figured with a certain relief that he ought to be getting back to work. Distanced from the crowd by some twenty yards, Jed drew out his pipe and began to fill it with tobacco. As he had a habit of doing when the sheriff was having a smoke, Huber Hawthorne happened to walk up just then, with a satisfied grin on his face. Covering his mouth, the farmer belched before nodding to the sheriff in greeting. “That was a fine meal, I tell you what,” Said the farmer with conviction. “Need somebody to help you smoke that there pipe?” The farmer said hopefully. Jed waved him over to the stone bench with a snort of laughter. “First I save your life, now you’re smokin’ all my tobacco? You best be a fine deputy indeed, Hawthorne,” He smiled, joking easily with his old friend. Huber nodded seriously, fumbling for his box of matches.
“I won’t let you down, Jed,” He said with sincerity as he handed the sheriff a match and struck it on the side of the small wooden box. “If there’s anything I can do to help, you got but to name it,” The match flared into life and Jed puffed at his pipe, bringing the ember into life. The sheriff exhaled with a sigh of contentment, blowing a smoke ring. “I do appreciate it, Hue. You and all the rest of the deputies, I reckon you’ll be a great deal of help, it’s just..,” He handed the pipe to Huber Hawthorne, who took it and puffed at it with a quizzical expression on his face. “Just what?” Said the farmer as he blew out a stream of white smoke. Jed shook his head, looking back at the pavilion, where the last few dances were dying down and the celebration was gradually winding to a halt.
“Bein’ remembered as a hero is all well and good, but I couldn’t bear for one of y’all to be hurt in my service – or worse. Risking your skin to protect the people is my job, y’all are supposed to be the ones I’m protecting. How can I put you in harm’s way? Not that I aim to if I can avoid it,” He explained. Huber nodded sagely, a strange gesture from the uneducated farmer. “Look here, Jed. You got your oath of law and such, but now we’ve sworn an oath too. We ain’t eager to go dyin’, but we’re willing to lay down our lives if’n we need to, to help keep these people safe. Or at least, I am, I don’t know about them other fellers, I think Hawksly’s just tryin’ to impress a girl,” He grinned as he finished speaking, his last statement in jest. Jed smiled faintly, though he was unconvinced. “I see what you’re sayin’, but I don’t know, Huber. I can’t do anything but try my best to keep them boys out of harm’s way. As for us..,” Huber looked thoughtful for a moment.
“Us?” He echoed, questioning. Jed nodded grimly, smoke curling from his lips in a slow stream as he exhaled the last of the smoke and tapped the spent ashes from his pipe. “You said yourself, I need a body to watch my back. Ain’t nobody I’d trust better to do it,” He looked up and caught Huber’s eyes, alert for any hint of hesitation. The farmer sat up straight, and though he detected faint traces of fear, Jed saw only determination on his deputy’s face. “Where’s it need watchin’, your back? Got another hike planned for us, have you?” Deputy Hawthorne questioned. Jed nodded, trying to match the farmer’s apparent conviction although for once he did not have quite the confidence in his own abilities that Huber seemed to harbor. Opting for a determined grimace to hide his trepidation, and resting his hand casually on the comforting grip of his revolver, Jed responded. “By tomorrow I hope we’ll have the watch all accounted for, patrolling the village on a tight schedule of overlapping sweeps. I aim to meet up the deputies tomorrow and show them a thing or two – you included, Hue. If’n you want to return to Ricker’s Vale, I need you sharp as can be, and that means as much training as y’all can get in a timely manner,”
The farmer nodded a bit too quickly – eager, Jed thought – and yet he could sense somehow that Huber was forcing himself to overcome the reluctance that he was surely harboring in returning to that awful place. The sheriff could relate, and he said nothing, even now unwilling to dredge up the memories of their previous trip unless absolutely necessary. Jed reckoned that perhaps he was projecting his own feelings onto the farmer, somehow discerning the same grateful amnesia on Huber’s part. The sheriff had almost found the words to ask his new partner about their journey the night before when Deputy Hawthorne interrupted with what was in the farmer’s mind a more pressing thought. “So I, uh, I get a gun right?” Huber said, failing to hide his clear enthusiasm at the idea. Jed lost his train of thought, having been deep in consideration of a rather more serious matter that now he could not quite recall. “Er, depends,” The sheriff muttered, trying to regather his thoughts.
“Depends on what? I wasn’t kiddin’ around about bringin’ my pappy’s woodaxe, but..,” He left the obvious conclusion to this statement for Jed’s imagination to fill, which it ably did. The farmer would watch his back a damn sight better with a gun in his hands, though Jed reminded himself that the farmer was not properly trained in their use the way he had been. He had on occasion invited Huber to join him in target practice, but still he wasn’t sure if he could trust the newly made deputy with a firearm in the heat of battle – particularly the scattergun that was all Jed had to spare. This problem could be overcome with a relatively small amount of training, Jed was sure, but there was here too a more pressing concern.
“Depends on..,” Jed began, but he cut himself off as over the din of the dispersing crowd he heard four loud chimes. Before the fourth ring had finished, Jed had snatched his pistol from its holster and leapt to his feet, eyes scanning their surroundings for danger. So tautly stretched were the sheriff’s uneasy nerves. Huber had not seemed to hear the bells until Jed’s reaction had drawn them to his attention, and he had only managed to scramble to his feet after the fifth ringing of the bell had finally reached them. Jed’s suddenly thumping heart began to relax as he realized with this fifth bell that the signal had not been one of danger after all. He reholstered his pistol, breathing out a long sigh of relief as his anxiety began to be dispelled with some small difficulty of his mind. He noticed with some amusement that Alford Weathering had been looking interestedly in his direction after he had drawn the revolver.
“The train,” Jed finished belatedly as Huber straightened his straw hat and settled back onto the stone bench in relief. “Begging your pardon, sheriff?” Huber said in confusion, having not noticed the bells until Jed’s reaction, and thereafter losing track of their count. Jed was about to speak when the high shrill of a far-off steam whistle reached them, and the assembled peoples began to make their way in the direction from which the sound had come. Now there was some genuine mirth kindled in the townsfolk, Jed noted as they made their collective way toward the long overdue arrival. The steam whistle of the coal-powered locomotives was always a welcome sound, seldom as it came. The last arrival had been at the beginning of that long and terrible winter of 338, and people surely had many belated parcels and letters to receive. Many, of course, would come merely for the spectacle, to greet the train and hear tales of the east from the railway officials and what few others ever rode as far as the western end of the tracks that was known to some as the village of Dormis.
“The train,” The sheriff repeated simply, heading off at a jog toward the lonely railway station lay at the extreme eastern border of the village. Huber Hawthorne trailed off after the sheriff with the rest of the crowd, huffing and puffing as he jogged. Still he had not quite recovered from their treks through the wilderness, and the farmer found himself wishing for the sheriff’s seemingly endless stamina. Still he did not quite feel right for his wounds and his weariness. Deputy Hawthorne found himself noticing the bandages bound around his torn and scratched wrists. Shuddering as he loped miserably along, the deputy recoiled from the memories this sight brought up, unable to cope with the strange and eldritch rememberings that he thought surely must be mistaken.
Not trusting his own memory of their flight through the nighted valley, Huber had deferred to Jed’s explanations the previous night and that morning in their discussion with the apothecary, not caring to delve more than surface deep into the black visions of Ricker’s Vale that still haunted his mind. Huber Hawthorne was almost entirely certain that the earth could not truly glow with a pale and hateful light. Surely the sickly light of the moon had played some trick on his panicked mind as they had fled through the syrupy mist that had permeated the valley. Shaking his head at the thought, Deputy Hawthorne wondered whether Jed was having such misgivings about the state of his own mind. He dismissed the idea immediately, reckoning that the fearless sheriff couldn’t possibly harbor any such doubts. After all, the farmer thought, he had gunned three of the beasts down before his waking eyes, and by the glances Huber had taken of the barn before they had fled, he reckoned that another three or four of the lizard-things had been gutted on Jed’s knife. Still the farmer had trouble believing that anyone could emerge relatively unscathed from such a fight, and surely, he thought, the sheriff had nothing to fear or doubt when he had made such short work of a veritable brood of the vicious creatures.
Huber Hawthorne reckoned that it would be best if he didn’t bring his misgivings up, lest the sheriff think he was soft. He desperately wanted to regain his honor and protect the village besides – not to mention Jed himself. Beyond the steadily growing crowd that had come to see it, the snaking iron length of the coal train stretched out before Huber as he approached the railway station at last. Jed was already there, he could see, scarcely breathing heavily from what was in Huber’s mind a long run. The farmer stumbled his way down to a walk, catching his breath. It wouldn’t do to appear all sweaty and out of breath if he was meant to be a deputy. He didn’t want to reflect poorly upon the sheriff he so respected, and that meant no complaining about being tired or not feeling right – both of which the farmer surely did. And especially, Huber reminded himself, that meant no bringing up any nonsense about glowing valleys and hateful whispers being heard on the wind.
“Just the moon playin’ tricks,” The farmer muttered to himself as the shuddering memory of the lambent valley threatened to blot out the approaching sight of the train before him. Huber forced the thoughts away, shivering despite the warming sun upon his back.
Extraordinary Tales 