THE SHEPHERD OF EVIL EXCERPT

Jeremy Lee Riley's "The Shepherd of Evil, Sidoria: Book Three" will arrive in September. Until then, here is the first chapter to tide you over. Enjoy, and remember to check back soon to snag your own autographed copy of the book.

THE SHEPHERD OF EVIL, SIDORIA: BOOK THREE

From the Confession

of Boyd Dykes

In the year 1363 AE

My name is Boyd Dykes, and I will soon be hung for a crime I didn’t commit.

You’ve no doubt read the papers or heard folks gossiping about my alleged killing spree. You may have me pegged as some mad dog in need of putting down, and though this is far from the truth I don’t blame you for thinking it. But I’m not a bad man. Once I’ve had a chance to explain myself I hope you will come to realize that.

I write this confession from the cramped confines of my jail cell, using a quill pen fashioned from the tail of a rakair bird-of-prey and parchment that would otherwise be used to wipe my backside. I have no choice in this matter seeing as how my guards won’t provide me with actual writing paper, but time grows short and I must finish before my big day.

My hope is to tell my side of what happened that terrible day nearly a month ago here in the town of Misery. Keep in mind that I have nothing to lose by telling the truth. I wish only to record for posterity my side of the story in the vain hope that someday my name might be cleared.

A day does not go by that I'm not visited by one or more members of this fine, upstanding community. Everyone from our mayor (gods curse his worthless hide) to gossiping old spinsters file past my cell to gawk at the monster whose bloody rampage created such chaos in their otherwise dull lives. People I've known for years, who I used to greet in passing on the street, stare at me now with a mixture of fear and hatred. Many ask the same damn question, “Why'd you do it, Boyd?” over and over again.

I never answer them. What would be the point? Say I did try to speak in my defense, to explain how I was led astray by a dark man with soulless eyes and a grin as cruel as it was charming, would they listen? No, they wouldn’t care a lick about that. It would spoil the illusion they've gone and created of me. As far as they’re concerned, I’m a heartless monster who deserves what he gets. I guess somebody has to answer for all that blood spilled, and it’s a lot easier to sacrifice an innocent man to the altar of mass hysteria if you first strip away his humanity.

Now before you go thinking I’m trying to heap all the blame on somebody else’s shoulders I'm not saying I am completely innocent of the crimes I've been accused of. I accept responsibility for my part in the events I am about to unfold for you, the reader, just not to the extent folks seem to think me capable. Whoever you are and however you came across this confession, I leave it to you to decide whether my sentence was a just one. The fate of my good name lies solely in your hands. I can only pray that those hands belong to a just and fair-minded person.

So, having gotten that out of the way, let us move on to the heart of the matter—or the “harsh realities” as folks hereabouts are fond of saying. It’s not like I don’t know why you’re bothering to read this parchment. It’s not because of me, I know that. No, you’re here because of him.

Well, I won’t keep you waiting, but a word of warning before we continue: the man you wish to meet, even if it is only in writing, is the true monster here. Death lingers behind his words, and they will seduce you as surely as they seduced me. Who knows, if you’re not careful you might find a noose of your own waiting at the end of this tale.

The day that would lead to my ruin began typically enough. I had spent the morning out at Weeping Rock, a little hill on the northeastern edge of town. It was a quiet, secluded place that I came to when I needed time to myself. The hill offered a wonderful view of the desert landscape, which spread out before me as far as the eye could see.

Not that there was much to gaze at, mind you. The desert was a barren place, made up of rock and scrub and little else. What it did provide was an escape from the drudgery of my existence. From here I could see Old Road winding through the hills and gorges, stretching from the shores of the Skala Sea in the northwest to the wall of the Elysium Empire in the far east.

I liked to imagine myself on that road, my worldly belongings on my back, a rifle slung over my shoulder or a sword hanging at my side. Where I would go I couldn't say, but anywhere was better than here. I wanted to travel and explore, maybe get into an adventure or two. I wanted to see the sprawling cities of distant lands that many a traveler had spun tales about while warming his bones by the inn's fireplace. Most of all, I wanted to lay eyes on Elysium; that great eastern civilization cut off from the rest of the world by stone walls said to stretch as high as the heavens themselves.

It was a place of endless opportunities, these travelers would say over their cups, but only if you were smart and daring enough to achieve it. A man in Elysium could rise through the ranks of the military, or, if he was most fortunate, receive divine favor from the Emperor himself.

I had dreamed of making the long and dangerous journey to that fabled kingdom since I was a child. But the shackles of responsibility and, admittedly, fear of the unknown had kept me from achieving my heart's desire. Still, dreaming was free. So here I found myself once or twice a week, staring off into the distance and imagining a time when I could strike out on my own, far from this wretched town and its people.

But look at me, going on about my dreams of far off kingdoms when I know what you’re really interested in is the dark man and the murders he would commit in my name. I only mention Weeping Rock because it is the place where I first heard the voices.

Now, I know such an admission doesn’t exactly prove my sanity, but these were not voices in my head. I know this because I wasn't the only one who heard them that day. There was one other, a woman whose brutal death placed me in this cell, but we’ll get to her soon enough.

When I arrived at Weeping Rock that morning, the sky was overcast with a cool breeze that promised a strong chance of rain. Now as the afternoon approached, the first rumblings of thunder sounded over the distant mountain range.

A storm was brewing, but it was still a ways off. It likely wouldn't reach us until sometime this evening. Regardless, I figured it was time to pack away my dreams and head back to town. It was nearing lunchtime and my stomach wasn’t shy about letting me know it, the rumbling of which was nearly loud enough to drown out the distant thunder.

Thoughts of roast mutton and a tankard of ale to wash it down with were foremost on my mind as I watched a wagon appear on Old Road. It was heading back from the boneyard a mile outside of town and kicking up enough dust to choke a yezbac. I couldn't make out the wagon's occupants from here, but I knew who they were all the same. The only people who had business with the dead today were Misery's undertaker, Gustav Asher, and his dimwitted assistant, Lunk.

If I left now I might be able to catch up with them on the road back to Misery and save myself a walk. I knew Asher wouldn’t mind. He would probably appreciate having someone other than Lunk, who wasn’t known for his conversational skills, to talk to for a change.

As I bent to gather the remains of my morning's picnic from under the hill's single, crooked tree I heard what I can only describe as a myriad of voices speak my name so low that I scarcely thought I heard anything at all. My skin prickled at the sound and I spun around, half-expecting to see some bizarre sight behind me, like a gaggle of witches or maybe a bevy of corpses from yonder boneyard. But I saw only the desert, its sterile landscape near-blinding in the shimmering heat of the afternoon sun.

“Hello?” I called, but no one answered me. I was alone except for Asher and his assistant, and they were too far away to have caught sight of me yet. I stood perfectly still, head bent to one side, listening, but the voices did not repeat themselves.

I figured it must have been my imagination, for the voices didn’t sound human. Granted, I had only heard—or thought I heard—my name called for an instant, but there was something eerily ghostlike in the way they had spoken. It was as if the voices were somehow displaced, neither real nor unreal, but both at the same time.

It was the wind, I decided. The approaching storm was kicking up a gale and I mistook the rustling of the tree’s branches for voices, that was all. There was nothing sinister or unearthly going on here. It was just my overactive imagination getting the better of me as usual.

I shrugged away my apprehension and, descending the hill, took Old Road back towards Misery. Along the way, I was nearly run over by a trio of cavalry scouts coming from the opposite direction. They were riding their bikes, those wheeless contraptions that hovered a foot or so off the ground by way of what the scouts called an “anti-gravity device.” The bikes boasted steel armored plating and machine guns mounted on either side of the foot controls, but this extra weight didn't seem to slow them down in the least.

I had seen the bikes move at accelerated speeds, sometimes so fast that they were nothing more than blurs against the landscape. Thankfully, these scouts weren't traveling anywhere near that fast or else I might've been smeared across the road before I knew what hit me. I had more than enough time to spot them and make room to pass, but they decided to have some fun with me by spreading out three abreast, taking up the entire road. I hugged the rim, but the scout on my end thrust out his foot as he passed by and kicked me into the mud.

“Deadlander trash!” he bellowed over his friends' laughter. They gunned their motors and the bikes took off into the distance.

“Same to you, friend,” I muttered as I stood and wiped mud off the rear of my britches. I watched the three figures disappear behind a mass of large rocks, only to reappear a second later on the other side. They were no more than specks on the horizon now, their golden armor twinkling in the sunlight.

Cavalry scouts were the elite of Elysium’s grand army, patrolling the wastes in search of land to extend the Emperor's rule upon. Loud and unruly when sober, lethal and unpredictable when drunk, they spelled trouble no matter how you looked at it.

This trio looked as if they were on their way back to Fort Brix, a fortification about a day's journey north of here. Misery was the closest town to the fort, so it was here that the scouts came when on leave or when they needed to pick up supplies. Being Elysians, they considered themselves above those of us who had made our homes in the Deadlands, and they often showed their disdain through bullying, name-calling, and, on more than one occasion, cold-blooded murder.

We Deadlanders put up with their abuse because we had no choice. Elysium was superior to us in every way, from their advanced technology to their military training and growing influence over our culture. They were conquering the Deadlands one region at a time mainly through show of force and the promise of a better life for those willing to submit to imperial rule.

Of course, there had been resistance on our part, but our armies were disorganized and undisciplined, our weapons primitive in comparison to Elysium's own superior firepower. What I didn't understand was why we were trying so hard to resist them. Maybe things would be better with Elysium in charge. It certainly couldn't be any worse than it was now.

I finished wiping the mud from my britches and was just turning back towards town when I heard a commotion behind me. I looked and saw a cloud of dust rising from the other side of the large rocks. There were yells and curses and the sound of beating hooves. Asher's wagon appeared seconds later, led by a team of out-of-control yezbacs. Asher had hold of the reins, yanking on them in every conceivable direction and calling for the four mindless beasts to stop. Lunk lay sprawled in the wagon's bed, clinging to the sides and weeping hysterically.

If I was a bigger man, a braver man, I would have grabbed hold of the lead yezbac's head as it passed by and forced it to stop, thus bringing the wagon to a halt. But I was just plain ol' gangly Boyd Dykes, skinny enough to serve as a scarecrow and ugly enough for the job twice over according to some. So all I could do was jump to one side and watch in horror as the wagon shot past me, swaying first to the left, and then to the right. I was certain the thing was going to lose a wheel or flip over, but somehow Asher managed to get his team under control and bring them to a stop.

“What happened?” I called, running to the wagon. Lunk peered at me over the rim of the bed and mumbled something unintelligible. He looked scared out of what little wits he had. Asher coughed and swatted at the dust that still hung thick in the air. He wiped sweat from his pointed red beard and smiled down at me from the driver's seat.

“Oh, hello there, Boyd.”

The pleasantness in his voice caught me by surprise. I stopped in my tracks and blinked up at him. “Are you all right?”

Asher waved away my concern. “Fine, fine. We had a run in with some scouts. They spooked my team and sent them into a panic, that's all.”

“What do you mean that's all?” I shouted. “They damn near got you killed!” The lead yezbac shook the dust from its maroon-colored fur and trumpeted its agreement through the long appendages around its mouth.

“Nonsense, I had it under control.” Asher hopped down from the driver's seat and slapped the side of the wagon where his assistant lay cowering. “Lunk! Get your useless ass down here and help me check this coffin-pusher for damages.”

Lunk uttered a low whine but did as told. He gently climbed over the side of the wagon and lowered all two-hundred-and-eighty pounds of himself onto the ground. The wagon's springs groaned and then let out a steely sigh of relief once he was out. The gigantic youth looked at me shyly with his one good eye. The other was consumed by a large tumor growing on the left side of his face. He met my gaze, quickly looked away, and went about his work.

“Need any help?” I asked Asher as he climbed under the wagon to check the axle-tree.

“Aye and many thanks,” Asher said. “Keep an eye on the gals, will you? Make sure they don't go and get spooked again.”

I nodded and carefully approached the lead yezbac, who watched me nervously from the corner of her large and lidless black eye. Speaking gently, I reached out with the utmost care and stroked the creature's shaggy snout. The yezbac shied away but then relented to my touch.

“So, what brings you out to the ol' dumping grounds?” I laughed as one of the yezbac's long appendages crept into my shirt in search of food. I pulled away but continued to rub her snout.

“The Kalb family.” Asher pried loose a small rock wedged between one of the wheels' spokes and then crawled out from under the wagon and dusted off his hands. “Husband, wife, and son. Robbed and killed by marauders while coming back from Hunter’s Ridge with supplies.”

“That's a damn shame.” I didn’t know the Kalb’s well, but they seemed like decent enough folk. They had been spending a lot of time in Hunter’s Ridge of late. I’d heard rumors that they were planning to move to the town once they raised enough kyn to buy a house there, but they should’ve known better than to travel between there and Misery without an armed escort. The roads were far too dangerous.

“'The marauders stripped them bare,” Asher said. “I had no choice but to take the cost of burial out of their hides. Literally.” He checked the brake line next. Once satisfied, he turned and shot me a wink. “You be sure to look me up now if you need a nice pair of leather boots, hear?”

“Um, thanks,” I said, “I’ll be sure to do that.”

Asher was a true entrepreneur, always on the lookout for ways to make some extra kyn. Of all the businesses in Misery, Asher's Funeral Home was the most lucrative. Not a day went by that he didn't have one or more “customers” occupying his cellar, or a fresh pair of “genuine leather boots” in his window.

“Aye, well, she seems none the worse for wear,” Asher said. He gave the wagon's side a hearty slap, climbed back up into the driver's seat, and called over his shoulder to his assistant: “Lunk! Look lively now, lad, or I'm leaving you behind!” Lunk complied at once, all but jumping into the wagon’s bed. The springs moaned, and the wagon sunk an extra foot into the soft earth. Asher smiled down at me. “Need a lift back to town, Boyd?”

“Well, if you don't mind,” I said.

“Not t'all. Hop on up, you can be my lookout.” Asher lifted a long-barrel rifle from the floor of the wagon and handed it to me. “Don't want to end up like the Kalb's now, do we?”

“No,” I said, climbing up into the passenger seat. I made sure the weapon was loaded and then chambered a round. “We don't at that.”

The lead yezbac trumpeted its agreement.

. . . . . . .

We rode back to town mostly in silence. Asher smoked his pipe and occasionally called out to his team, tugging on or snapping the reins depending on if he wanted the beasts to go faster or slower or around certain obstacles in the road. Lunk rested happily in the back, probing his nose for treasure.

I sat guard in the passenger seat, ever vigilant of my surroundings. Marauders were always a threat in this region, but the scouts mostly kept them at bay. Had I known about the Kalb family I would never have ventured outside of the town limits today.

Once we reached Misery's outskirts I handed Asher his rifle, thanked him for the ride, and hopped down from the wagon. “Not t'all, Boyd,” Asher said. “Remember now 'bout those boots. If you don't want 'em then be sure to let others know.”

He snapped the reins, cursed at his team, and continued down Misery's main street, which was just a continuation of Old Road, paved in some spots, but mostly more of the same dirt, scrub, and rocks. Lunk grinned at me from the wagon’s bed, his finger still exploring the depths of his nose.

I walked down the street with my head down. It would’ve been easier to ride all the way into town with Asher but that would have exposed me to too many onlookers, and since I’d skipped work at the mines today for my little excursion out at Weeping Rock, I figured it best to remain on the discreet side.

There was no reason for me to take the day off. I wasn't feeling ill in the least. In fact, I was feeling quite spry. A peculiar mood had settled over me, a restless longing for something of which I was unaware. All I knew was that I wanted to move about freely in the sunshine, to breathe in the open air and not the blackened stench of some eroded mine shaft.

Let me tell you a little something about Misery. I know I keep putting off what (and who) you're truly interested in reading about here, but before we get into all of that I feel it is important that I first explain to you the nature of this town and why it is that I felt the need to do the things I did to escape it. It's no secret that I loathe this place. They don’t call it Misery because it invokes feelings of hope and opportunity.

Misery sat along the border between the provinces of Zhu and Tryggr in the southern region of Gos. A mining town, its chief purpose was to extract the rare ore, guanda, from the surrounding hills. Our buyers, in turn, used guanda in the manufacturing of everything from building material and eating utensils to weapons and armor.

The owners of the mines made a fortune from this process, which meant they could afford to live wherever they pleased. Often, that was nowhere near this region, let alone the town itself. On the other hand, those of us who had to dig, haul, and process the ore, worked for a flat fee that was barely enough to keep a roof over our heads and food in our bellies. We had no choice but to live near the mines in dwellings we built ourselves from whatever scraps of material we could scrounge together. These were often poor, ramshackle abodes with dirt floors and leaky roofs.

Those who could afford decent homes, such as our good mayor, lived on the north side of town while the middle class occupied the east and south sides. The poorer lot (myself included) found ourselves crowded together on the west side nearest the factories and smelting plant.

As I'm sure you can imagine, such living conditions proved harmful to our health. We inhaled dust from surface mining operations and black smoke spewing from the factories chimneys on a day-to-day basis. This led to severe breathing problems for many of us, especially among the children, whose still-developing lungs often weren't strong enough to fight the infections that set in. This resulted in them either being bedridden for long stretches of time or, as was more often the case, their lungs simply shut down and they died.

That was the worst of Misery, resigned for the wretched and poor, of which there were many. However, if you had the kyn and knew the right people then living here wasn’t as bad as all that. In fact, it could be downright pleasant.

The rich, or “northsiders” as they were called by the poorer lot, lived atop a large hill in homes built from the finest materials around. The hill's elevation put the northsiders above the dust and factory smoke and provided them with a bird's-eye view of the town. The rich literally looked down on the rest of Misery.

Even the middle class was pretty well off. Though not as rich as the northsiders, these folks came from good stock, often applying their smarts and natural charisma to set themselves up with cushy jobs such as school teachers, merchants, bankers, saloon owners and the like.

Had I been a member of either of these classes I might not have been so desperate to escape my life here. But I belonged to the lowest class, the pitifully poor, and as such I had no choice but to eke out my living in the very bowels of this town's wretched economy—what the upper classes referred to as “Dung Row.”

What annoyed me most about my situation was that, unlike many of my fellow westsiders, I was smart enough to understand what I was missing out on. My step-mother, an ex-teacher from Elysium before she fell on hard times, had seen to my schooling along with my step-siblings. I could read and write well enough, and even count without using my fingers and toes, but none of this was enough to allow me to rise above my lot.

So it was that I lived and worked alongside the wretchedly poor in the shadows of the factories and smelting plant, the furnaces of which burned night and day, producing great clouds of smoke so thick that a typical westsider wouldn't be able to see ten feet in front of him. The exteriors of homes were often blackened with soot, and the wheezing cough of pedestrians was a common sound in the streets, often accompanied by someone keeling over from exhaustion or just plain dropping dead.

One might ask why so many people stayed here if life was so hard. The truth is if I had an answer for that then I wouldn't be here myself. But if I had to guess, I would say that these simple, mostly illiterate folk, who tended to breed in great numbers and were all related to one another in some way, had too many ties here in town to simply pack up what scant belongings they had and strike out for parts unknown.

Of course, there were also marauding bands and goblin hordes to consider, as well as the unpredictable and often chaotic weather. The Deadlands had earned its harsh reputation on the bones of many an adventurer too stupid to know when to stay put. I suppose that is one of the reasons I remained here myself. I had been called many things in my twenty-six years, but stupid was not one of them.

These thoughts were foremost on my mind as I made my way down Misery's single, partially paved street. The sun shone dully overhead, its beams barely able to pierce the heavy blanket of smoke. My head remained lowered in a vain attempt at anonymity, and I nearly ran into a group of harvesters on their way to the mayor’s private gardens as a result.

The harvesters had likely just finished eating their lunches. They strode down the center of the street, a dozen big and brawny men with hoes slung casually over their shoulders. Several were coughing into blood-stained handkerchiefs. One had a tumor the size of an egg growing on the tip of his nose. He paused long enough to glare at me before moving on.

I muttered an “excuse me” and continued in the opposite direction. One of them yelled at me to get my head out of my ass and watch where I was going. I quickened my pace and didn’t look back. I didn’t want any trouble, especially with a bunch of bulbs like them.

“Bulb” was a local term for anyone sporting deformities like the tumor on the harvester's nose or the one that had nearly consumed the left side of Lunk's face. They were quite common hereabouts. In fact, more than half of Dung Row and a smattering of the middle class suffered from such defects.

No one could prove it, but many believed these disfigurements were due to harmful emissions from the plant and factories. These sometimes resulted in stillborn births, but often the children experienced deformities ranging from cleft palates and harelips to tumors and skin lesions.

There wasn't much being done about it, though. Without the factories, there was no town, and without a town, the people were as good as dead. So, Misery's elite had adopted a strict policy of looking the other way.

This callous disregard for the people sickened me, but it wasn't enough to put me off my appetite. Since the miners would be lined up outside the cookhouse on the far-right corner of Dung Row, I had opted instead to take my meal at the Swords Crossed Inn, which was the only other establishment in town that served food at this hour of the day.

The inn sat on the northeast side of Misery, as far from the smoke and dung as possible while remaining within town limits. Being a high-class establishment, its prices were outrages, but that was okay, I was the sole dependent of what scant earnings I made and could afford the occasional self-indulgence.

If you excluded the factories, the two-story inn was the largest building in town. It was also the most lavishly designed, what with its gabled roof and stone exterior. The windows sported real glass too, an exception to the oiled skins and wooden shutters found in most other residences.

Our mayor had dug deep into the town’s coffers to erect the building. Being a border town, Misery saw its share of travelers passing through on their way from one province to another. The inn's luxuriousness was meant to attract these wayward souls, ensuring that they spent a goodly amount of kyn on one of twenty spacious rooms, all of which were nearly as large as your average townie’s house.

As it happened, this was the off-season for travelers, so I was counting on the inn being nearly empty this early in the day. Most of the town’s respectable citizens were either in the mines or out working the gardens, preparing the harvest in time for the summer market. They would have no time for such luxuries as a mug of ale and a hand of cards. Not if they wanted to keep a roof over their families’ heads.

I passed under the inn’s gently swaying sign, the crossed swords engraving of which gave the place its name. A thick mahogany door sat deep within a giant archway. Normally it would be closed to keep out the dust, but it stood open today to admit a cool breeze blowing in from the desert. The storm would take a while to reach us, but in the meantime, it looked as if people were taking advantage of the drop in temperature to air out their homes and places of business.

The first person I saw when I stepped inside was the innkeeper, Dix Hyland, in his usual spot behind the long mahogany bar that he kept polished to a spit shine. His large belly rose and fell with each labored breath beneath an apron stained with that day’s food and drinks. A small tumor sprouted from the corner of his right eye and he wore a long mustache to cover up a nasty harelip that would have otherwise exposed far too many of his crooked, yellow teeth.

His back was to me, but he noticed my reflection in the large cracked mirror that hung behind the bar and nodded a hello. I returned the nod as I stepped farther into the room, being sure to avoid the two men who sat at the bar, talking with the innkeeper. I knew the men. In a town as small as this how could I not? They were Buck Keenly and Willem Hadar, two loudmouths who couldn’t keep a secret between them to save their lives.

They must have just come from the mines judging from the amount of mud on their boots, which they had propped up on the brass foot rails like a couple of hens come to roost. I signaled Hyland for a drink and ducked into the adjoining room, hiding my face as much as possible. The last thing I needed was for one of them to go squealing to our foreman that they had seen me hanging around the inn when I should have been in bed with the flu.

The place wasn't as deserted as I would’ve liked. There were around a dozen or so people occupying the lower levels, with gods knew how many in the rooms upstairs. I figured I'd be all right though if I kept out of sight at one of the corner tables and didn't draw attention to myself.

The taxidermic head of a yezbac named Feela stared blankly at me from the archway that divided the gambling area from the main room. I patted its shabby head for good luck as I passed by, a habit I had picked up from some of the other gamblers. I wasn't a superstitious man by any means but in a place like Misery, I figured you needed all the luck you could get.

Once on the other side of the archway, I paused long enough to give the room a good once over on the off-chance there were more miners in attendance. There were none. Only a handful of gamblers passing the time at the card tables while a couple of youths played billiards, sipped watered-down Cat’s Eye, and tried to look tough.

The town’s school teacher, Morrow Young, fidgeted nervously at a roulette wheel as he worked up the nerve to approach a sitting couch where a gaggle of doxies sat with legs spread wide in advertisement while they smoked cigarette after cigarette and gossiped among themselves.

Hyland had gathered the women from every shithole city, town, and village on the map. Most came from large but poor families looking for one less mouth to feed, others were abandoned by their men to survive however they could in these withered regions. All were illiterate, treacherous, and wily to the bone.

The innkeeper acted as their panderer. He took seventy percent of their earnings and beat them regularly to keep them in line. Rumor had it that he used some of the more cunning girls to pick off the occasional drifter for his valuables and then buried the body in the inn’s cellar or some other undisclosed location.

The truth of these rumors was suspect, and our recently departed magistrate had never felt it worth his while to investigate the matter. I’m sure the fact that Hyland kept the rest of the clientele happy and coming back year after year had something to do with it.

This was your typical afternoon crowd. Some of the faces might change, but it was, more or less, the same old boring routine; a bunch of nobodies whiling away their useless and dull lives at one of the few places in town that didn't smell like the underside of a mongrel's ass.

What was different on this day was the stranger seated at the corner table (the very one I had planned to lay low in) playing a game of Capture the Ace with an oft-drunken dreg named Vul Shadwell.

It was my first hasty glimpse of the man who would come to dominate the remaining days of my life.

. . . . . . .

As I said earlier, we didn’t get many travelers this time of year. Those who usually drifted through were either listless vagabonds or self-absorbed diplomats on missions for their lords. Neither made for good company.

The man at the table, however, impressed upon me a sense of awe underlined by a respectful wariness. There was something in the dark twinkle of his eyes and the twisted way he smiled that urged me to use caution; that, despite the cards in his hands, this man wasn’t playing with a full deck.

Yet, despite these warnings (or maybe because of them), I found myself compelled to walk over to the table and introduce myself. Sometimes I liked to press travelers for any stories they might have on the outside world. It was the closest thing to actually being there, I suppose, and this one looked like he might have some real beautes to tell.

“Afternoon, gents," I said. "Mind if I join you for a game?”

Shadwell muttered something under his alcohol-tainted breath but otherwise didn't object to my presence. The stranger looked up from his cards, his face a mask of shadows despite the well-lit room. His entire being seemed to radiate darkness, from the tone of his skin to the manner of his dress, which consisted of a black button-down shirt, open at the collar and tucked into a pair of faded jeans. Polished black boots with strange runes stitched along the sides ended just short of his knees.

Snug in a holster on his left hip was a revolver with a grinning skull etched into its handle. The handle itself protruded front-wards, allowing him to yank it into play with his right hand at a moment’s notice.

Part of me wondered if he was a hired gun. Maybe bought by the mine owners to keep the workers in check, or the ranchers to protect their herds. Gods knew it wouldn’t be the first time. I doubted that was the case, though. The man didn’t look grim enough for that line of work. Most likely, he was just some well-to-do adventurer passing through on his way to brighter prospects.

The stranger gave me a once over with those dark eyes of his and then motioned to an empty chair between him and Shadwell. “By all means, friend. I could use some fresh company. I fear my worthy opponent here isn’t much of a conversationalist.”

“Screw you,” Shadwell muttered. He finished off his mug of ale and sat it down next to his revolver, which he had placed on the table within easy reach. This was likely meant to intimidate the stranger, who didn't seem the least bit unnerved by its presence. There was good reason for this, as the gun was a hunk of junk that probably hadn’t been cleaned, let alone fired, in ages.

“See what I mean?” the stranger said. “Aside from a few choice expletives about my parentage, that’s as much as I’ve been able to coax out of the man. I’m positively starved for conversation.”

“No worries there,” I said, sitting down between the two. “I’ve been told I run off at the mouth.”

The stranger let out a hearty laugh. “A talent frowned upon by the less educated, I fear. It tends to tax their limited vocabulary.”

“Screw you,” Shadwell muttered again. Then, to me: “You're gonna have to wait your turn, Dykes. I’ve got too much riding on this game for you to screw it up.”

I looked at the pile of loot in the middle of the table: three-thousand kyn easy, with a few silver draks and a handful of ri thrown in for good measure. High stakes indeed. I wasn’t sure how much of it belonged to Shadwell, or how he managed to raise that kind of scruff to begin with, but I could tell by the sweat running down his brow that it was the absolute limit of his funds.

He was right. It was all or nothing riding on this hand, and he was too damn drunk to realize just how outclassed he was.

Capture the Ace was a popular card game introduced to the Deadlands by Elysians in the early days of the Empire's expansion. You played the game by laying a deck of cards face up on the table with the ace card in the center. The players would then try to match the cards in their hands with those on the table until one of them captured the ace card, thus ending the game.

After that, points from the captured cards were tallied and whoever had the highest score won the pot. It was harder than it sounded. I had seen some games last all night, while others, whether through luck or deceit, could last less than an hour. Ironically, it was often the former rather than the latter that ended in bloodshed. The players had more kyn to lose, you see, and tensions were usually at their breaking point.

By the looks of it, the stranger was ahead by a mere ten points. However, the game could still go either way. If Shadwell was able to capture the ace it would easily put him in the lead. It was a slim chance, but possible.

“The handle’s Borys,” the stranger said. He drew a Three of Cups from the deck and matched it with a Three of Batons on the table. “Don’t bother asking for a last name because I don’t have one. My mother was a doxy, you see, and my father one of countless strangers she took between her legs to keep from starving. She died giving birth to me. Sad story, wouldn’t you say?”

I nodded. “Aye, but not all that uncommon, I fear. My mother and father were slaughtered by goblins when I was ten years old. I hid in a ditch for two days and watched as vermin picked their bones clean. Some folks from town found me and I’ve been stuck here ever since.”

“As you say, my interesting new friend, sad but not uncommon. Though I’m sure your tale of woe is all the more tragic because you actually knew your folks. As for me, I am just another bastard in a world of bastards. It strickens the heart, I can assure you.”

Borys’ eyes remained fixed on Shadwell as the latter drew a card from the deck, mumbled some obscenity under his breath, and discarded it. He grinned broadly, and I was struck with the image of a wolf observing its prey.

Hyland brought over my drink, scowled at Borys, and shuffled off again. I knew that look all too well. It was Hyland's way of saying without uttering a word that he hoped you choked on your ale and dropped dead (but only after you paid your tab, of course). Apparently, Borys had wronged the innkeeper somehow. Over what I would very much like to know. “I don't think Hyland likes you much,” I said, fishing for the answer.

Borys exhaled dismissively. “Ah, well, there was a bit of a disagreement over the price of my room. Your illustrious innkeeper believes occupying such an elegant setting as this was worth twice the usual rate. I assured him, quite firmly, that it was not.”

So that was it. Hyland took great pride in his establishment and wasn't above overcharging guests when he thought he could get away with it. He usually tossed out those who couldn't meet his demand, but I could understand why he had a change of tune with this particular stranger, and it had nothing to do with the kindness of his heart.

He was afraid of Borys, and I couldn't say I blamed him. The man was dangerous; you could feel it wafting off him almost like a scent. That danger would attract some people, and repel just as many. Little need to guess which class I fell into.

“So, you weren’t born in this wretched little town, eh?” Borys went through the same process of drawing a card, shuffling through his hand, and matching it with a card of the same numeral value on the table.

“No, sir,” I said. “Spent the first five years of my life north of here in Zamari. It’s a little province in Eulimi, so small you’ve probably never heard of it.” I paused, waiting to see if perhaps he had heard of the spit of land, but Borys gave no sign one way or the other. I quaffed my ale, let out a hearty belch, and continued: “Father had an itch to travel, so we spent a lot of time wandering from one town to another before winding up here in Gos where—”

Shadwell slammed his fist on the table, rattling the kyn and spilling a few onto the hardwood floor. “You all mind shutting your yaps? I’m trying to play here!”

Borys offered a sympathetic frown. “Why, I do apologize, my good man. We shall discontinue all further conversation until you’ve played your hand.”

“Asshole,” Shadwell sneered. Borys pinched his lips together with his forefinger and thumb. I snickered at this and Shadwell shot me an angry glance. Embarrassed, I cleared my throat and looked away. That's when I noticed Buck Keenly and Willem Hadar at the roulette wheel.

I had hoped the two were just stopping in for a drink before returning to the mines, but it appeared that they were either looking to press their luck at the wheel or waiting for an opening with the doxies (which, I suppose, was another way of pressing one's luck). I shrank down a little in my chair, hoping they wouldn't look this way.

Still grumbling, Shadwell drew from the deck. He stared at the card in his hand for a moment and then his dull eyes brightened with excitement. I knew at once that he had found the honey card. This special card was able to immediately bypass the remaining ones in the deck and capture the ace. The players agreed on which card would be the honey card before the game began. In this instance, it appeared to be the Jack of Coins.

“Captured the ace!” Shadwell sang happily. His voice, high and reedy, carried across the room. I shot a glance in Keenly and Hadar's direction, but they appeared too caught up in their own game to have taken notice. Shadwell threw the honey card on top of the ace and leaned back with a triumphant smile on his scraggly, pock-marked face.

“Well, look at you,” Borys said. He didn’t appear the least bit disturbed by this sudden change of events. With so much kyn riding on this game I would have been in hysterics myself, but Borys calmly spread his cards on the table and, turning to me, asked if I would act as their impartial judge.

“Me?” I said, looking from Borys to Shadwell.

“Go ’head,” Shadwell said. “But I can tell you now, I’m the winner.”

He was right. A cursory glance was all it took to see that Shadwell was now in the lead. I tallied up the score nevertheless and it was just as I thought, Shadwell was the winner by a measly five points.

I was about to announce this when Borys sat forward and inspected one of his cards, the Two of Cups. “Hold on a tick, what’s this?”

“What?” Shadwell and I said at the same time.

Borys wedged the nail of his index finger between the card and another one stuck beneath it. He peeled the card free and held up the King of Swords for us both to see.

“Well, looky here. It appears this card was stuck to the bottom of another of my cards this whole time. What are the odds of that?” He tossed the card down on the table and leaned back with his arms crossed, face beaming. “King’s worth fifteen points, eh? I do believe that makes me the winner.”

Shadwell stared at the King of Swords, his mouth hung open in a slack expression that made him look more foolish than ever. The card's crudely drawn visage seemed to stare mockingly back at him. “You . . . you cheating sonuvabitch!”

“Vul, don't—” I began but never had time to finish. I knew exactly what he was about to do and in his condition, it was akin to suicide.

Shadwell jumped up, tipping over his chair in the process, and went for his gun. Borys remained seated, smiling up at the man. If he feared for his life he didn’t show it. Shadwell pointed the gun at his face and pulled the trigger.

There was an explosion and I ducked halfway under the table. I expected to find Borys’ corpse lying there on the floor, dark eyes staring lifelessly up at me while blood trickled from a neat little hole in the center of his forehead. Instead, I heard Shadwell let out a long and animal-like howl of pain.

I risked a peek over the table's edge and saw the old dreg hunched over, his body quivering, face a mask of agony. He clutched the bloody ruin of his right hand against his chest. His gun, the hunk of junk that it was, had exploded when he pulled the trigger, taking off several digits and embedding shrapnel up the length of his arm.

Borys threw the man a wink. “Looks like you lose all around, my friend.” He drew his own revolver. Its oiled blue-black finish gleamed in the afternoon light seeping through the windows. The cylinder rotated, the hammer snapped once, and the muzzle flashed.

A wad of lead smashed through Shadwell’s nose and blew chunks of skull and brain onto the wall behind him. Shadwell made a wheezing noise and did a half turn before collapsing to the floor in a heap of spent flesh.

. . . . . . .

Borys holstered his revolver and gathered the cards. “You still up for a game?” he asked, already forgetting Shadwell as if he was nothing more than some bothersome fly in need of swatting.

I continued to stare at the body sprawled on the floor. The fact that this had but a moment before been a living human being was not so easily lost upon me. “You killed him,” I said at last.

Borys shrugged. “He called me a cheat.”

“You did cheat!”

“Well, he didn’t have to call me on it, now did he?” Borys reshuffled the cards and dealt a fresh hand. “So, are we playing or what?”

I glanced around the room. Everyone was staring in our direction. Keenly and Hadar were pointing and whispering, Morrow Young had a shocked expression on his face as he stood with a doxy’s hand down his britches, and the two young toughs were backing towards the exit, nearly bumping into Hyland, who stood at the room's entrance, bar towel in hand, mouth agape.

“You didn’t have to kill him,” I said. “He bet everything he had on that hand. ’Course he was going to be angry. He did enough damage to himself without you putting a bullet through him.”

Borys tossed his cards on the table and leaned back with a sigh. “Never bet the devil your head, my friend.”

“Devil? What devil? What are you going on about?”

“The devil,” Borys’ tone was thick with condescension. "Lucifer. Satan. The Father of Lies. Do any of these names sound familiar or has the Clan of Christ yet to spread this far south of Elysium?”

I had some inkling of what Borys was talking about. Even here in this backward region word of the new god had spread. He went by many names—J’havaa, Wylaa, Adolai, and Ehim, to name but a few—and tolerated no other god above him.

The Clan of Christ had been actively spreading the word of J’havaa since at least the first century. In that time, their numbers had increased enough for even Elysium’s Emperor to take notice. This, of course, was the last thing any aspiring cult would want. The Emperor, like most of the known world, worshiped Valdueis, ruler over the heavens and earth.

The Emperor sat on his throne only because Valdueis proclaimed it so. Any competition to that claim was a good way to stir up an insurrection. So, the Emperor had given the word: Seek out and eradicate the Clan of Christ and offer as sacrifice all blasphemers to the True Faith.

That hadn’t stopped the clan from growing, however. Far from it. Being outlawed just seemed to strengthen their resolve to spread their holy word to every village, town, and city in the ten regions. Those caught and executed were looked upon as martyrs to the faith. It was almost as if they considered it an honor to die for their god.

“Are you one of them? One of the . . . the Christ followers?” I could barely spit the words out. Just saying the name aloud was a good way to ensure a visit from any number of Imperial spies or sympathizers, but my curiosity had gotten the better of me. Borys spoke as if he might belong to their Order, but that didn’t seem possible. The clan was a cult of fanatics willing to die for their cause, but one thing I'd heard their faith frowned upon was the taking of a life.

A mischievous grin broadened the corners of Borys’ mouth. “You're asking me if I’m associated with a religious group outlawed by the Empire under penalty of death.”

“Well, are you?”

“But of course,” he said. There was no attempt at discretion. He didn’t even lower his voice.

“How is that possible? I mean, after what you just did, isn't that against the rules of your religion?”

Borys chuckled. “As with all things in life, it’s a bit more complicated than that. Have a seat, regain your composure, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“What about . . .?” I glanced at the body on the floor. Blood was pooling around the remains of Shadwell’s head. The body, rank to begin with, had taken on an even fouler stench as its muscles relaxed and the bowels emptied. I wanted to flee that stench, to get as far away from it and this stranger as I could, but I couldn't seem to get my legs to follow through with the notion.

Borys followed my gaze and nodded. “Ah. That.” He looked at the others skulking about the room, whispering among themselves. “So, am I to expect trouble from the local constabulary?”

“I doubt it,” I said. “Misery’s been without a magistrate since Calo Lanvin got himself shot dead by the Coffin gang about a month ago. So far, nobody’s worked up the nerve to pin on the badge.”

Borys arched an eyebrow. “A lawless town? Now there is a situation ripe with possibilities.”

“Well, it’s not completely without law,” I was quick to add. “We got Fort Brix northeast of here. Cavalry scouts come in all the time to drink, gamble, and piss away their earnings. And, of course, we have the Watchmen’s Committee.”

“Watchmen’s . . .” Borys’ eyes lit up as the word’s darker meaning dawned on him. “Ah, lynch mob justice, the staple of all small towns.”

“Say what you will, but one of its members is eyeballing your handiwork as we speak.” I shot a glance in Keenly’s direction. Borys looked the man over and rose. I took an involuntary step back, as did most everyone else in the room.

Borys pointed to Shadwell’s corpse on the floor. “This man called me a cheat and attempted to murder me,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear. “I fired back in self-defense. Is there anyone here who says differently?”

“He—he was unarmed when you killed him,” Keenly worked up the nerve to say.

“He was wounded,” Hyland chimed in. “There was no way he could’ve done you harm.”

“Oh?” Borys knelt over the corpse and began searching its pockets.

“Here now, what’re you doing?” Hyland called to him. Borys did not answer until he found what he was searching for in Shadwell’s left hip pocket. He raised the folding knife for all to see.

“Here is your answer,” he said. “Wounded he may have been, but he was still whole enough to stick this little number into any part of my anatomy had he a mind to do so.”

“That’s nothing more’n a toad-sticker,” Hadar spoke up.

“I’ve seen men eviscerated with a lot less. You’re telling me that I was just supposed to sit here and let him do the same to me?” No one had an answer for that. Borys pointed to Keenly. “You, sir. I’m addressing you.”

“Me?” Keenly leaned back against the roulette table as if he wished he could lose himself behind it.

“Aye, sir. Do you agree that under the circumstances I was within my rights to defend myself from what I perceived as a life-threatening situation?”

“Um, I-I guess.” Keenly looked to Hadar for support, but his friend spied something interesting on the tips of his boots and kept his head lowered throughout the rest of the conversation.

“So then, I can sleep without fear of your so-called ‘Watchmen’s Committee’ dragging me from my bed in the dead of night?”

“Well, I guess since you put it that way,” Keenly said with a shrug.

Borys tossed the knife on the table and took his seat once more. “Good. If your town has an undertaker, then I suggest somebody fetch him at once.”

Keenly and Hadar nearly tripped over each other as they raced out of the inn. It occurred to me that both men had seen me standing with Borys. I was going to have a time explaining this to my foreman come morning.

Borys looked at Hyland next. “And you, Innkeeper? Have you any more words for me?”

Hyland scowled at Borys, threw his towel over his shoulder, and returned to the bar without a word. Borys looked the rest of the room over. Slowly, its occupants went back to what they were doing before the shooting, though they made sure to keep a close watch on the dark-garbed stranger from the corners of their eyes.

At last, Borys turned to me and said, “Forgive me, friend, but I seem to have misplaced your name.”

I swayed a bit under his stare. There was something in the way he looked at me that made it hard to think straight. “Boyd,” I said. “My name’s Boyd Dykes.”

“Well, Boyd Dykes, would you be so good as to arrange me some company for the evening?” Borys tossed a couple of kyn my way. I instinctively caught the coins and then stared at them a moment as the realization of what he was asking pierced the murky haze of my mind.

“You . . . hold on, you want me to buy you a woman?”

“If you would be so kind.”

I glanced at the doxies peeking out from their various hiding places throughout the room. “Well, you're in the right place. Take your pick, though I must say that Hyland might have a thing or two to say about it. You've already insulted his inn and then you went and killed—”

“Ah, you didn't let me finish,” Borys said. “It can't be just anyone, especially these walking incubators for disease and God knows what else.” His brow furrowed, and his dark eyes took on a faraway look. “I see a woman getting on in years, widowed perhaps, with long fiery locks of hair. Do you know of a female matching this description?”

“Aye,” I said, taken aback. He had just described somebody I knew very well.

“Good. Then she is the one you will bring to my room this evening.”

“What makes you think I would do that for you after what you did to Shadwell?”

Borys played idly with the cards in his hands. “Why not? You had no compassion for that drunk, did you? Besides, don’t you want to get to know me better? Isn’t that why you approached my table in the first place?”

“What? No, I . . .” I grasped my head and looked away. Those eyes. What was it about those eyes?

“Come now. You sit in this sodden inn, in this backward town, day in and day out, listening to these uncultured oafs spew their gibberish and waste away their pitifully dull lives between drinking binges, and you wonder where your life is going, if there is a meaning to your existence. You’re not like the rest of them, are you, Boyd? You want to rise above all this filth. You want to be somebody.”

I drew in a startled breath. It was as if he had plucked the very thoughts from my mind. “Who are you?”

Borys leaned forward and grinned. Once again, I was reminded of a wolf observing its prey. “Is that important? What matters is that I hold the answers to your questions. You know this. That is why you sought me out.”

“I wasn’t seeking you out,” I blurted. “I was just curious was all.”

Borys shrugged. “Just so. You have a good mind that hungers for knowledge. I recognized it the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“You did?”

“Indeed, I did. We are alike, you and I. Both of us misplaced souls searching for the meaning of our existence. Tell me, Boyd, have you ever seen the Wall of Elysium?”

“No, I was born in the Deadlands, but I’ve always wanted to see the inner kingdom. The wonders it’s said to hold. I hear its beauty is beyond telling.”

“I’ve seen it.”

I stared at Borys in disbelief. “You have? What was it like? Do they have giant fountains and waterfalls like I’ve heard stories of? Do they have palaces made of gold and buildings hundreds of feet tall?”

“Aye, and more,” Borys said. “Do as I’ve asked you and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Mister, that’s a deal.” I pocketed the kyn and turned to leave, but stopped after only a couple of steps. “I just have one question before I go.”

“Only one?” Borys japed. “By all means, ask away.”

“When Shadwell threw down on you, you didn’t flinch. I mean, how were you so sure the gun would misfire?”

“I wasn’t. It was a simple matter of observation. The gun appeared to be in poor shape. I figured there was a fifty-fifty chance the thing would either misfire or blow up in his hand.”

“That or it could’ve blown your brains out,” I added.

Borys shook his head. “There was never any danger of that.”

“Oh? How can you be so certain?”

“Because the Lord is on my side,” Borys said. “And He has work for me yet in these blighted lands.”

Like it? Read the rest in "The Shepherd of Evil, Sidoria: Book Three". On sale in September. Only from Wamingo Publishing.