can run back home to Bradsleigh and live the rest of your life without a care in the world. You do this shit ‘cause you like it. Me and Mays, we gotta make a living. Pretty sure we both wanna stay alive while we do it.”
“We’ll never get out of this if you’re too much of a coward to take some risks.”
Blatcher’s anger was stoked. “Me, a coward? Out that door, Glaive. Now, you son of a bitch. Outside with me, and I’ll show you how much of a coffing coward I am.” The outburst didn’t get much of a reaction from the other shepherds, who were busy making a commotion about the starwinds.
“Good,” said Toler. “Finally, you’re pissed. Pissed is better than worried.”
Blatcher’s brow knitted together.
“I got all three of us clean slates as part of the deal. I told Calistari he could sell his ammo and his dolls–right under Vantanible’s nose, if he wants–as long as he leaves us out of it and gives us good reports.”
Blatcher’s mouth was open, his face blank. For a long time Toler didn’t know whether he was about to take a hit or get a hug. It was a relief when Blatcher gave him neither.
“Here’s the best part,” Toler said. “He paid us our share in advance.”
13
It didn’t take long for Rills to lose what little appeal it had. Toler thought it must have been an incredible place to be in the days when mighty rivers had still rushed through it. These days, there wasn’t much to do, and there weren’t many residents who could offer goods worth trading. If you liked peasant seafood you might enjoy the local delicacies, but otherwise the river town was nothing more than a convenient stopping point between Tristol and Lottimer.
The aurorae had become so bright by the time the shepherds staggered back to the motel that it looked like dawn was already touching the sky. Unable to sleep and distressed about the coming storm, they woke early and the caravan started off in the small hours of the morning.
The starwinds weren’t storms in the typical sense; they weren’t visible when they hit the surface, and they didn’t bring dust or wind or precipitation–though their arrival often triggered other weather events. They were more something you felt, like an unseen gloom settling in the air; a crackling presence that electrified everything it touched. The starwinds messed with you, screwed up your natural rhythms, made your brain go foggy. It got hard to sleep, hard to think, and hard to stay rational.
Some people had heart problems when the starwinds came. Others got physically sick. Andover Mays was one of them. Hard as he was, he never let himself hold up the train. Every so often Toler would see him lean over in the saddle and spew up his guts, just as matter-of-fact as if he were having himself a spit. Afterward, he’d sit up, rinse his mouth, and light a new cigarette as if nothing had happened.
Over those next few days, Toler descended into a maze of confusion. He found himself depressed and overcome with malaise; tired, but unable to make his brain stop working long enough to let him sleep. Synapses pulsed, sending lazy signals like marbles down a sidewalk, losing steam, losing traction, bouncing away and rolling off course before they went missing. Flashes of Reylenn came and went over the monotonous hours; her eyes sparkling when she smiled, a secluded lane and kissing in the dark, lifting her skirt, the urgency behind it, the feel of her hips in his hands. His mind felt like a leaky bucket, dripping thoughts as he tried to grasp at them and pull them back in.
“I feel like I’ve been shot in the head with a jigsaw puzzle,” said Blatcher.
“You look like it,” said Toler. “Perpetually.”
Blatcher gave him one of his ugly glances. “Boy, if I wasn’t so out of it, I’d beat you senseless. And if I knew what perpetually meant, I’d prob’ly do it again.”
“You’re always the first to make a threat around here, Mr. Blatcher,” Calistari said from his seat above. He looked happy for a man whose skin resembled pink cauliflower. The starwinds didn’t seem to be having much of an effect on him.
Blatcher was in no mood to be chastised, Toler knew–especially now that they had clean reports to maintain.
Blatcher nodded, restraint written all over his face. “You know me too well, Mr. Calistari,” he said, forcing the words out through one of his stiff smiles.
“You’re a simple man, Mr. Blatcher. It doesn’t take much.”
Blatcher gulped. Toler could swear he saw the shape of a sentence or two sliding back down his throat.
Further off the trail, a ramshackle hut came into view, outlined against the horizon. The route from Rills to Lottimer took them through several tiny hamlets, so it wasn’t uncommon to see the dwelling of a hermit or dust farmer who’d found a freshwater well and claimed it as his own. Most of these hamlets were no larger than a handful of crude shacks, or what was left of a fuel station and a pre-Heat farmhouse or two.
Lodd Wallingford and Ort Raukel had ridden ahead in tandem so Lodd could relieve himself behind a hillock somewhere. Toler saw their horses grazing at weeds on the hilltop. The caravan passed, but neither shepherd reappeared. Toler watched the horses go by until they had faded into the distance behind. “Jakob.”
The merchant scrunched up his forehead.
“Lodd and Ort have been gone a long time. Their horses are all the way back there now.” He pointed.
Calistari waved a hand. “Go get them.”
Toler wheeled and made for the hillock. By the time he was halfway there, he realized he should’ve let Blatcher and Andover Mays know he was splitting off. They were on the opposite side of the flatbed, and they might not notice he was gone. Oh well–this’ll only take a second. Unless it turns out like the cave. Shit, I should really go back. His indecision was taking him further and further away from the caravan, making the idea of going back less appealing. If something’s wrong and they need help, it’s better if I get there quickly, he decided.
Toler reached the top of the rise and stopped when his horse came alongside the other two. “How many times am I going to have to–” he began.
On the far side of the hillock, Lodd lay on his back, knees bent, pants around his ankles. His head was cocked back at a crooked angle. There was a red hole in his chest as big around as a pint glass. The sand beneath him was stained like dark wine. High Infernal. Through the haze of his addled consciousness, it took Toler longer to catch sight of Ort Raukel, who was sprawled on his stomach several yards away. The dark-haired man looked back at Toler and motioned in the direction of the hut. A field of brown weeds, scrub and cacti lay between the hillock and the tiny shack. It was an unremarkable thing, not much more than three walls and a roof of rusty corrugated steel sheets nailed to a wooden frame.
“Are you hurt?” Toler asked, reining his horse into a sidestep, for whatever small benefit it might give him to present a moving target.
Ort shook his head.
“What happened?”
Ort shrugged, then pointed toward the hut again.
Helpful. This dway doesn’t even talk when his life is at stake. Toler scanned the field, trying to force himself to concentrate, to shrug off the weight of the starwinds bearing down on his mind. He was in plain sight of whoever was across the field, but part of him felt safer there since he was still within view of the caravan. The last of the flatbeds was well past them, though, so he doubted anyone was paying attention.
There was a zip from down the field, and a thump.
Ort clutched the space between his shoulder and his neck. Blood spurted between his fingers. His eyes met Toler’s, wild and anguished. He still didn’t make a sound.
Toler considered bolting back toward the caravan, not out of fear but in want of help. The train was so far off now that by the time he returned, Ort would be dead. The dark stranger had never spoken a word to him, but he was still a shepherd. Toler had to stay.
He yanked his long-barreled revolver from its saddle holster and leapt to the dirt as a shot buzzed past him. The ammunition he’d taken from Calistari’s doll was still in his pocket. He rolled onto his back behind
the rise and began to load, cursing himself for not doing so sooner. His fingers were clumsy from the storm-sickness, shaky in his haste. He dropped a bullet on the ground and had to wipe the sand from it before chambering the round. Damage to the weapon was the least of his concerns at the moment, though. Twice as he loaded he heard the hillside thud. Each time, pale sand exploded in a spray and rained down on him. The horses spooked a little and trotted off to find another clump of scrub grass.
The loaded gun was unsteady in Toler’s hand, heavy and strange. He was out of practice using it, and his deadened mind made the prospect feel daunting. Everything blurred. He rolled over twice and popped his head above the rise, scanning the field for whoever it was that had made an enemy of himself. He ducked again and rolled over three more times in the same direction, pulling up clouds of dust. His throat was parched, his lungs aching against the debris he was sucking down with every breath. His eyes came to rest on his saddlebag, where he knew lay warm liquid refreshment. It was so far off now, and yet there was a part of him that thought it would be worth it to get there, to take one last swallow before he died.
He popped his head over the rise again. This time he saw his foe–not by some stroke of luck or because his vision had cleared, but because the cloaked figure was running toward him. The figure was crouching as it ran, wearing some kind of camouflage suit, a thick layer of khaki-colored cloth strips. There was a rifle in his hands, large and black and glinting in the daylight. Toler shoved himself to his feet, his boots clumsy against the sinking sand on the hillside. He snapped off three shots as quickly as he could manage without letting the revolver fly wildly off-aim. After the third, he held the gun aside and squinted at the figure, now prone in the sand. He stood there and steadied his aim, dumb and groggy, like a cactus waving in a strong breeze. The figure lay there for a long time, unmoving, the rifle underneath the body. Did I hit him, or is he just playing dead? There was only one way to find out.
You are an idiot, Toler thought, leaning forward into a run.
As he drew nearer, he began to circle around the figure, angling his path to the left. With startling speed, the figure snapped into position and fired a shot from the half-propped rifle. Toler heard the bullet buzz past him. The figure flicked open the bolt to eject the shell. By the time he had chambered a new one, Toler was on him. He slid to a halt and emptied his last three rounds, gripping the revolver with white knuckles.
The head slumped over, and the rifle fell flat.
Toler closed the remaining distance and snatched up the rifle. There were two red stains in the cloak, one near the center of the spine and another just above the left buttock. He nudged the figure with a boot, rolling the body over onto its back. There was a gurgling sound from beneath the metal grille in the nyleen mask. When Toler bent and took hold of the mask, the figure grabbed him by the forearm with both hands. Toler ripped the mask away and wrenched free. A shiver ran through him when he saw the face.
It was a mutant. Or at least, it would be soon.
No one knew what caused mutantism for sure, but the going theory was that too much exposure to the starwinds unlocked a latent genetic deficiency in certain people. This man wasn’t crouching by choice. That was the way he was now, his body twisted and shriveled with the onset of his condition. A mass of reddened boils sprang from one side of his face. His left eye was blanched, white and milky, the other a more normal shade of brown.
He coughed a few times. The sound was laborious and wet, and blood washed up on his lips. “Help me.”
Pitiful thing. He’s dead already. “You killed a good friend of mine,” Toler said. “Another man’s back there dying.”