S.G. MULHOLLAND
AN AMERICAN WASTELAND
A Puck Novelette
By S.G. Mulholland
It had rained the night before, that much he could immediately by how the soil and sand beneath his feet made a delightful squelching noise and sank with each step. It was not uncommon for hard rains to come at the end of summer, or at any point in the year if he was being honest. But normality had a way of evaporating out here in New Mexico.
It was raining now as well, but only a soft downpour, the kind that made you wet without even knowing it was happening. He could feel his long crimson locks gradually getting damper and damper the further he walked.
There was a fell wind that accompanied the rain but that was always true this far into the American Wasteland, this far into the Glimmer. It cut sharply across his skin and he pulled his black coat tight around his chest to shield himself from the freezing attack that defended the moors.
“Just my luck I suppose” he said to himself bitterly, “Either that or I just have insanely bad karma”
Puck growled low and pushed his irritation as far down into his stomach as he could but his annoyance at being dragged along to the moors was only getting harder to contain with each passing hour.
“Is there a pub near here?” Puck yelled at his companion, “I have need to warm my feet else they’re going to fall off!”
“You asked to be here, no one forced you to go on such a stupid quest” said the ghostly figure of his sister, floating next to him with ease as he drew in one heavy breath after another.
“Who said anything about this being a quest, I never said it was a Quest so stop saying it’s a fucking Quest” he said. He ventured a look over his shoulder and saw that Voona’s ghost was smiling at him brightly, her face a perfect picture of preteen bemusement. In an instant, he felt his brimming tantrum start to subside and a wry smile of his own began to form across his face.
Puck looked to the sky, the clouds turning from grey to black as the weather signaled its intentions to give more than a light drizzle to accompany them on their path.
“Yeah, definitely bad Karma” he said and quickened his pace to follow Jenny.
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“He’s called The Man in Black” the young boy sitting on the stool next to him explained to Puck as he read a couple of lines and glanced sideways at his young companion. Seeing the expectant look from his childish face the Fae was not sure if he wanted to share his opinion on the young lad’s book.
“And, what does he do?” he asked with the measured tone of the aged speaking to the youth. The young man grunted in exasperation, frustrated that Puck had clearly not been paying as much attention as he had wanted.
“Uncle Puck, I told you!” he whined.
Puck stared down blankly at the young boy then shook his head with confusion.
“You did?” he said. The young boy snatched the book back from Puck and began to rifle through the pages until he found what he was looking for, held the page open and pointed at the line he wanted him to read. Puck took the book back from him and looked down at the page.
“The Man in Black fled across the desert…” he read aloud, almost gingerly. He took another sideways glance at his friend who gestured him to continue reading with a large smile. “…And the gunslinger followed.”
“See, didn’t I tell you that was an amazing beginning?” he asked eagerly.
The Fae had to hold his tongue firmly behind his teeth at the question. Puck had never been one for the art of Saga Speaking, it was a part of magic that had eluded his once vast repertoire of Spellweaving. From his experience, most Saga Speakers preferred to recount the deeds and tales of those who had actually lived, albeit usually dressing it up a certain amount for artistic purposes. He could not say as he saw a great deal of value in the art but he understood that most people did.
Hume Saga Speakers tended to make their stuff up as they went along. Recounting stories that were entirely fictional and told the stories of people who did not exist. Puck could not understand why these lunatics did not get the help they so clearly needed. If there were that many people living inside someone’s head, whispering things to them, telling them to write down their stories then there must clearly be something wrong with that person.
“I suppose it is” Puck offered fairly, “I still don’t know with this fellow does but I suppose it’s a good start.”
“Mum!” the boy shouted.
“What?” Sirenia said from her spot at one of the tables at the far end of The Maltings. She had been sat cross legged at the table by the window for several hours now. A mountain of paperwork strewn in front of her, a large cup of coffee and a calculator standing at the ready when needed.
“Uncle Puck’s not listening to me about the book!” he whined.
Sirenia did not even look up from her calculations but instead continued to scribble on a notepad as she made her deductions.
“Puck, pay attention to Errol or else I’ll box your ears!” she said without raising an eye, her voice remaining flat and uninterested.
Errol decided that educating his “Uncle” on the finer points of his favourite book was clearly a lost cause and so decided to take his book and promptly left the bar area. Puck heard the door on the far side of the pubs kitchens slam and knew instantly that he had taken his book to read in the playground outside.
Consulting his pocket watch and finding that it was only nine fifty five in the morning Puck decided it that it was time for his breakfast drink. The Perky Parrott had been closed for renovation these last few weeks so his desperation for decent coffee had driven him to begin his drinking earlier and earlier. At least, that was the excuse he told himself along with all the other reasons he gave for his rampant alcoholism.
Walking behind the bar he took in the sight of all the drinks available. He looked over his shoulder quickly at Sirenia and saw that she was still too engrossed in her work to pay attention to him. Turning back to the stock in front of him he selected a strong Dwergan whiskey called “Iron Forge” and Draed ale called “Oak Heart”. Once he had poured himself a large helping of each, he went to take his first sip of the day.
“You better be willing to pay for that” Sirenia said, again without looking up from her paperwork.
Immediately, Puck stopped himself from drinking and looked over at Sirenia with confusion. Ever since she had taken ownership of The Maltings she had never once charged him for a drink. In fact, he was more than certain his bar tab, as it stood right now, could probably have paid for her supply of alcohol for the next year. At least, that’s what Sirenia tended to tell him anyway.
Feeling a sudden urge of guilt, he pulled his purse from his pocket and emptied several shillings into his hand, grabbed his drinks and came and sat opposite Sirenia as she worked.
He placed the money gently down in front of her then knocked back his whiskey. Sirenia, for the first time, looked up from her paperwork but only to take the money, pocket it and add its value into the sums she was currently making her way through.
“A bit snowed under there aren’t you?” he asked as he took a sip of his ale. Again she did not respond but shuffled her papers and rooted around through her notes until she found what she was looking for.
Taking in his friend as she worked he noticed that there was something wrong about her, she looked tired. Alfr’s never looked tired, it was a simple fact of the universe. The elven people had an uncanny knack for looking amazing at any given time, regardless of circumstance or situation they looked flawless. Even Alfr veterans from the war, the ones who had come out of it missing limbs, scarred, burned and horrifically changed both physically and psychologically still looked far and away more beautiful than any human, even if it was a dark beauty.
But they never looked tired.
Sirenia not only looked tired but she looked haggard and restless. Dark rims and shadows fell beneath her bloodshot eyes as she worked. Her skin, usually a perfect porcelain white, was blotchy and had turned a creamy off white shade that looked like a spoiled egg. Her cheeks were dry and flaky and seemed to peel off in large sections of dried skin. Her jawline had always been pronounced but the flesh on her face seemed to sink inwards as if she had lost weight drastically. Her hair, normally so bright and vibrant now looked brittle and greasy as it drooped past her face.
“Is everything alright?” Puck asked. Sirenia continued to ignore him, either out of desire to be left alone or simply because she was too busy, he did not know which but he was not going to find out.
He stood sharply and slammed a hand down on the table right in front of her, forcing her to look at him.
“Sirenia” he said, “What’s wrong?”
The blonde Alfr looked up at him slowly, her eyes dark and red sore. She put her pen down gently on the table and pinched the bridge of her nose. She looked exhausted. There was a weight to her whole posture that seemed to bear down on her soul that she was keeping hidden in a way that she did not vocally express, but Puck could see it was there.
“I can’t sleep” she said. “There’s…”
“There’s what?” Puck asked.
She dipped her head forward, her expression heavy and sad. There was an unspoken grief hanging over her that spoke outwardly from her core. Puck could not bear to see his friend laid so low and he reached out a hand to take hers.
For a moment Sirenia simply stared at his pale hand, its skin whit as fallen snow, as if she could not see it or that it was not there at all.
All of a sudden she snatched her hand away and stared at him with a bright blinding hatred he had never seen before. She jumped to her feet and laid a firm hard slap across his cheek, sending him flying to the floor as she roared in fury at him.
“You’re a selfish boy Robin Goodfellow, do you know that!” she screamed, “You sit here day after day, drinking so as to forget your guilt, waltzing through the lives of those who care for you without ever giving a second thought to the destruction you leave in your wake!”
Puck was struck dumb by her outburst. Excluding cases where Errol was involved, Sirenia’s worse side never bubbled to the surface as she kept her more emotional side in tight check.
He rubbed the side of his face, the sting of the blow still bright and fresh across his face and could offer no response except to sit there dumbly staring back at his friend.
“You’re a fool Robin, a big steaming pile of Dragon shit and maybe, just maybe, the world would be better rid of you once you drink yourself to death!” she stormed behind the bar and made for the staircase that lead to her apartments upstairs.
She paused for a moment and looked back over her shoulder. Tears were free flowing from now red and puffy eyes, her sobs deep and heartfelt as she fought in vain to choke back the mysterious grief which had taken hold of her.
“You know what!” she shouted, “Perhaps I’ll join you and see if your way truly works at all!”
She stormed across the bar and grabbed a bottle of black rum then headed back up the stairs, the snapping shut behind her.
Puck sat on the floor in complete and absolute disbelief, his face continuing to sting and swell as he could do nothing but look at the empty space where Sirenia had been standing. He was utterly perplexed by the outburst; Sirenia had never and would never behave in such an overly emotional way, it was simply not in her nature.
The sound of heavy bare feet padding their way over to Puck broke him from his stupor and he found himself staring into the face of Slozo, Sirenia’s Trollish chef. He looked down at Puck with soft, sympathetic eyes the peered through a string of greasy hair held back only by an overly large red bandanna. His overly large front teeth gave him a lopsided smile before holding out a large hairy hand for Puck to take.
“What the hell was that about?” Puck asked as Slozo pulled him to his feet.
“The boss has been like it for the last couple of days Mr Puck” Slozo explained.
Puck had to smile through the pain on his face at the ever present courtesy of trolls. Even after such a dramatic outburst as Sirenia had given, Slozo still maintained the adherence to courtesy and politeness that was infamous amongst his people.
Picking up his chair and seating himself again, the Red Wolf took a long draught of his beer and moved his jaw around experimentally. The pain from simply drinking shot through his jawline like a spike and he winced at the sensation.
He gestured for Slozo to sit and the large troll squeezed into the booth with a thud, shifting the table with his belly and looked at Puck sheepishly.
“There was a courier in the night” Slozo explained, “Errol said that whoever it was came late, after closing and banged on the door so hard that he was afraid they might break it down”
“What did they want?” Puck asked.
“Errol said he couldn’t make out what was being said, just that their voices were raised and that the Boss mentioned something about a set of guns and a horse?”
Puck had been about to reach for his whiskey when Slozo mentioned the gun and the horse but stopped so as to take in the enormity of what he had just said. He twisted in his seat, a certain uncomfortable knot began to form in the pit of his stomach and all of a sudden he felt very, very, sick.
“A pair of six shooters, right?” Puck asked, “With an accompanying ammo belt?”
Slozo looked at him, his face a mixture of astonishment and confusion. Puck glanced back down at his drink, his little finger began to tap the wooden table uncontrollably.
Flashes of the war suddenly began to blaze through his mind like strobe lighting. Faces and places tore through his brain, of foreign battlefields, he could hear cannons firing in his head like thunder, could smell the smoke and the blood as if he were back there again. His fingers itched for weapons that weren’t there as his senses desperately searched for enemies that didn’t exist.
He took a pull from his beer and tried to breathe as steadily as he could but even now he could feel the sweat begin to pour as his heart beat faster.
“Are you alright Mr Puck?” Slozo asked with the concerned innocence of a teenager.
Puck ran a hand over his face, discarding of the sweat as best he could then fumbled in his coat for his pipe.
“Yeah,” he lied, “Yeah, I’m good. What about the horse?”
“Apparently there wasn’t one, but the messenger said that a six legged black stallion was due to appear any day now, in service to its new master” Slozo explained.
“Shit” Puck muttered. He finished his whiskey then placed his pipe between his teeth and filled it with weed.
“What does this mean Mr Puck?” Slozo asked.
“Nothing good” he replied. Once he lit his pipe and several bellows of purple smoke began to waft from his nose he rose and grabbed his beer.
Without saying anything further he went straight for a door behind the bar, the same one Sirenia fled through not a few minutes earlier and headed upwards to the land lady’s private dwelling.
Like the rest of the Maltings, Sirenia’s living area above the pub was predominantly wood panelled, dark oaken walls matched the floorboards that creaked beneath his feet. He could still hear the sounds of the pub beneath him, of revellers coming in for the lunch time rush while everything here, in the living quarters, remained quiet.
Puck was more than a little interested in Sirenia’s dwelling; his first concern was his friend but he would have been lying if he had said he wasn’t being the slightest bit nosy.
Unlike most veterans of the War of the Wild Hunt, Sirenia did not make a display of her time in active service. She had been young during the great migration, barely in her twenties when the Great Breach departure was made. As the war progressed, like so many other Mythic’s, she had been pressed into service out of desperation. She had an aptitude for magic and had put it to use as a field healer; but when the depths of her abilities began to manifest, that’s when things changed for her.
While there may have been a complete absence of memorabilia of her past life there was an overabundance of memories from her life as an adoptive mother.
Errol had not been her first adopted child. Sirenia’s true calling, even beyond that of being the Gatekeeper of the Maltings was to give a home to children who had none. Crude art made by children on thick pieces of purple paper lined the walls of her home. Photos of her attending graduations, weddings, birthdays and dozens more celebrations were ever present. He could not count how many children’s eyes were looking down at him nor how many different nationalities they came from.
Black skinned Humes, White Skinned ones, light brown ones and a whole melange more, Sirenia had adopted them all and given them the best life possible before letting them fly the coop.
Puck had known most of them of course, had watched them grow and fly away as the dutiful “Uncle” figure that he had always been. He never would have told Sirenia but, if he was speaking truthfully she probably already knew, he relished the role. It was the one part of his meagre existence that did not make him feel sick about himself.
The furniture in the dwelling was basic and it matched the wooden theme of the rest of the pub. Puck suspected that his friend had been gifted most of her furniture from Jeff, York’s resident Green Man. Most of it looked as though it had been moulded straight from the earth itself. Oaken arm chairs, not so much cut as they had been crafted through use of old Elysium techniques to produce overly large dining chairs. A large dining table had been placed at the far end of the living room in front of a circular window; it appeared as though it had been grown more out of the floor than it had been placed there and again, Puck suspected that Jeff had more to do with it than anything else.
There were the usual array of bookshelves, lined with all kinds of classical literature from both Hume and Mythic authors. Books on science and engineering, art and philosophy as well as one or two comics thrown in for good measure sat on Sirenia’s shelves proudly.
Yet it was not the literature he had come here for but the small figure lying on the sofa in front of him weeping quietly as she drank from her bottle of rum.
Puck pulled up the coffee table in the centre of the room and sat in front of his friend, taking the bottle gently away from her as she continued to weep and stare at a small card in her hand.
“This is about Garrett isn’t it?” Puck said quietly.
Sirenia nodded, tears falling freely, her face a streaky mask of grief and heartbreak.
“When did you last hear from him?” he asked, handing her a tissue from a box next to his foot. She blew her nose with a loud and unpleasant sound then threw the used tissue across the room before sitting up.
“We haven’t spoken since…” she stopped herself short of finishing the sentence.
“Since the peace accords in 1953” Puck finished for her.
She nodded silently then sat up, her eyes never leaving the tarot card. Sirenia stroked the picture as though it were an old photograph, a fading memory of someone closer to her heart than even her bones.
The silence hung between them for longer than Puck was comfortable but more than that he did not like seeing Sirenia so broken.
Most would have thought the matching of Sirenia to a Death Rider might appear like madness but Puck had seen them both together for that brief spell in time and knew the truth of their hearts because of it. They had shared a short but powerful and passionate coupling, one that brought relief and compassion to their war torn world, bringing respite and affection to an otherwise blood fueled chapter of their lives.
But when the war ended and Garrett had decided to leave it was an unpardonable sin both for Sirenia and Puck who had to pick up the pieces of what the Death Rider had left behind.
“I told him I hated him” she said, the tears beginning to flow once more, “I said that I hated him and that I hoped that I never saw him ever again!”
Puck nodded quietly, simply listening to his friend’s grief as a means of comfort.
“I didn’t tell him how I felt or what he meant to me, I just spat venom at him as he looked at me with those sad eyes” she said. Her memories caused her such pain, Puck could see that and as she continued to bawl like a new-born he felt the , the Red Wolf, stirring within him.
“I need you to do something for me” Puck said getting to his feet, “I need you to get ready to open a doorway for me!”
“Why?” she said sniffling through the tears, trying as much as she could to compose herself.
“Because I’m going to go get the bastard!”
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He could smell the blood in the air as he descended the stairs. Smoke and firelight greeted him as he descended further into the heart of The Maltings. Further and further he went, the sound of running above his head as he continued down the steps, searching out the place of ritual he was there for.
Most magic, as is well known, is rooted in the four elements. Of all four the elements of Earth and air are the most overlooked yet the lifeblood of the most creative and diverse forms of the art flow like rivers and upon air flows, is rooted and housed in the soil and stone. It was therefore no uncommon that the base sight of all strong magic in The Maltings, and the cause of the sights great power, would be etched on the Ley-line stones beneath its very soil.
Puck knew that sights such as these had been annexed back to the Mythic’s in the peace treaty of ’52, he had been there to see it afterall.
This humble public house was but a smokescreen for one of the more powerful sights in York. As far as importance went, The Maltings ley-line outranked The shambles for brute strength and Cliffords tower for the most precise sense of accuracy.
It therefore made sense in strategic terms that only a high ranking spiritual Wind Walker, be given sole access and guardianship. It was a position most coveted and brought with it no end of personal fortune.
Running a hand along the wall beside him, Puck felt the cold dampness and soggy condensation as he went on. Yorkshire had seen some hard times over the centuries and that bred some hard folk. That same hardness could be felt in the stones; it ran cold water in a soon to be frozen lake, in Pucks veins and he snatched his hand away from the pain.
The air suddenly began to get thick and cloying and the smell of sweet juniper and garlic mixed together assailed him all at once. The smoke was blinding and Puck had trouble finding his way. It was only through the application of blind luck, intuition and the faint orange light beyond the smoke that drove him forward.
Waving yet more of the foul smelling smoke from in front of him, Puck found the source of his blindness; sat before him, smoking away, was a large open, iron cast brazier. As he stared into the flames, sweat beading down his head from the heat, his eyes stinging with water, he heard it; The faint and steady beat of bone on drum.
The steady thud of animal flesh being beaten by bone made drumstick, kept time with his own furious heartbeat that snapped to attention at the very first sounding of the drum. The drum beat was no the only thing out there, there was a voice.
A raw, low, harmonious song, sung in a language no-one used anymore. The sound of a thousand tongues, synchronising all at once thrummed in his ear like a constant vibration. The words spoke of many things, of darkness, of blood of forgotten gods and their courts, of palaces now leagues beneath the ocean, of a folk who once walked earth like titans but now were no more. At first he found it painful, then his highly attuned hearing got used to the sound, allowing him to move further forward.
The further forward he moved the more the smoke dissipated; only enough to grant meagre enough sight to what was needed of him and no more.
A circle, drawn in blood had been etched out on the cobblestones in front of him. Ancient runes and sigil had been drawn in clear red liquid, still fresh enough to taste on the air even through the incense.
Through the drifting clouds of pulsating fog and disgusting incense, the silhouette of a figure began to emerge. Her hands were empty but for the small, childlike, drum she continued to beat a steady rhythm on. Her skin was dusted alabaster white but her lips were red from the sacrificial blood. Her eyes were painted black with ash as were the runes on her face, only half of which Puck could see. The upper half was shadowed by a large and ornate headdress, resplendent with large deer antlers and jewel encrusted tassels which hung low over her eyes and obscuring most of her gaze. Her dress was long flowing and dragged along the floor as she walked, the seams and the hem were dipped in a dark blue while the rest had been spattered with yet more blood.
“Robin Goodfellow of the family Ashtar son of Queen Ashtar and Ersu Goodfellow, step forward into the circle!” Sirenia commanded.
Puck did as he was instructed, noting with interest the altar placed behind her. As he knelt in supplication before her, he saw the altar was made of good solid northern oak. It had varnished to a keen shine but it had also been stained with the blood of numerous sacrifices. Runes of numerous different languages were carved and etched into every possible part of the altar.
He watched as Sirenia took a large bowl from the altar, dipped her fingers into the contents and began to flick hot wet blood at him.
She might have placed the drum down but somewhere within the ceremonial temple the drumming continued. Puck could feel the power of the sight begin to surge all around him. The air, once thick with the scent of juniper and garlic was now replaced by a thinning of the air in general. There was power here, old power and it was waking up.
He could taste the blood as Sirenia continued to spray his face. The fingers on both her hands were stained a perfect dark red. He watched as she drew a sinister smile across her face, taking a taste of the life force of all beasts both Hume and Mythic.
“I give to you Blood of the Earth, so you may find your way back upon your return” she said in a voice that was not quite her own.
She placed the silver bowl back and retrieved and clay plate with an assorted set of ceremonial items laid out. Puck grimaced in expectation of what would be expected from him; it might have been several decades since he last performed a teleportation ritual but he remembered exactly what was expected of him.
“You must taste of the elements so you may have safe passage on your journey”
On the plate before him were foud different parts for him to consume along side a large red root that grimaced even harder at the thought of eating. Th lat time he had done this ritual, the priest had less to work with and the materials were nowhere near as pleasant as these ones. He might not have been looking forward to this but he grit his teeth and decided just to get on with it.
“You must taste of Ash so as to gain the blessing of Fire” she commanded. She gestured to the pile of grey ash and Puck did as he was instructed. It tasted bitter and wrong on his tongue and it stuck to the roof of his mouth. After much coughing and heaving, he finally managed to force it down his neck.
“You must taste of the spice, so as to gain the blessing of Earth”
He looked down at the small pile of black pepper, took a quick pinch and practically threw it down his neck. It touched his tongue long enough to make his eyes water and h was tempted to spit it out but he knew the offering would be rejected and the ceremony would fail.
“You must taste of the Ouse, so as to gain the blessing of water”
A small clay cup sat on the plate and once more he did as he was told. He snatched the cup from the plate and necked the foul tasting river water. The taste may have been disgusting but it was enough of a palate cleanser to rid him of the ash stuck to the roof of his mouth.
Taking a small pipe from within her robes, Sirenia filled it with a disgusting and odorous substance. Lighting the pipe she inhaled a few breaths before passing it to Puck.
“Breathe in the smoke and gain the consent of he whose blessing is most important, Haroku, king of the wind, so he may lift you on eagle’s wings and fly you like Hermes to there and back again” she commanded.
Puck took the pipe and inhaled deeply, letting the mysterious concoction fill his lungs. He felt his vision begin to blur as his eyes watered from the strong and sour taste. Sirnia began to disappear into the smoke itself but the sound of chanting and the beating of drums carried on. The music quickened and intensified in its pace and ferocity and the power in the room began to sure through Puck, making him feel lighter than air. He could hear Sirenia singing in a voice that was both hers and not. It was a high pitched cry to the gods of old for passage, a cry for the blessing of the four elements.
“Remember your promise Puck” Sirenia said in sad voice through the smoke and music.
He looked downward to where the altar should have been and saw only a burlap sack. He reached out and pulled it toward him. Tempted as he was to open it and view the contents, Puck could feel the vibration of the guns, of their desire to go back to their master and so the sack remained closed. He pulled thesack close to his chest and held on tight.
“A Death Rider is nothing without his weapons” Sirenia said, “Make sure they get to him… then bring him home”
He continued to breathe the smoke, letting it fill his lungs until he almost choked on it. He could feel his eyes burning and his hands tingling as his nerves began to incinerate. He breathed fire and his whole body felt heavier than a boulder and lighter than air all at once.
He wanted to cry out, even as the sweat continued to pour down his face and stung his eyes he still wouldn’t. But pride can contain pain for only so long and, as he wretched and writhed on his knees in the middle of the circle, he felt the urge to scream grow even larger.
It was only the sight of a small figure emerging from the thick grey clouds did the pain finally dissipate. He knew her of old and his heart both leapt and saddened at the sight of her.
“Do not forget the root” she said as she took him by the hand and placed a small red root in his palm.
“Without this we won’t be able to find our way home” she said.
“We?” he said in confusion, “But you can’t…”
“I told you once, a long time ago Robin Goodfellow…” she said reaching out and taking his face in her ghostly hands, “… Together… “
“…Forever…” he said closing his eyes and letting the power of Sirenia’s spell do its work.
The earth beneath his feet began to move faster than he had expected. He was lighter than air and moved at twice the speed of sound. The drums and the chanting began to fade, as though they were moving further and further away from him. He felt his stomach begin to turn with motion sickness, bile and fluid beginning to spill upward until…
Everything came to a sudden stop. The smoke began to die and peel away so too did any vestiges of The Maltings pub. The cold stone beneath his feet was replaced by fine black sand. A grey skyline with a dark shadowed sun beat down an intense heat that did no favours for his already sweat soaked body.
“Where are we?” his spirit companion asked.
“The American Wasteland” Puck replied.
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Puck emerged through the smoke in a smouldering heap of agony and exhaustion. Teleportation was never easy on the traveller; moving a physical body from one point to another was relatively easy for something small, but on a living being, an actual living being, the effect was always painful. Fatigue and pain were usual side effects but in rare instances organ failure and internal bleeding could happen. That was the price that could be demanded for taking short cuts, for skipping the distance instead of fighting the path that needing walking in blood.
The red Wolf could definitely feel the pain and could taste the blood but he could also feel black sand running between his fingers. Thick and dark it almost looked volcanic, like ash rain falling from an active fire canyon.
There was a thick and temperate heat in the air, cloying and stifling at his every breath, choking him with its warmth to the point of very real and severe discomfort.
Pushing himself off the ground, sand still peeling from his face and hands, he took in his surroundings.
All around him was black desert, a barren wasteland of black sand and dark skies that teamed with thunder and lighting, ever threatening rain and never delivering it. There was no sign of life anywhere; neither the smallest fly or lizard could be seen moving. There was no wildlife, no birds, rats or wildcats circled the plains or hunted in the wilderness. There was simply nothing.
Puck saw a hint of movement to his left, something out far on the horizon, something he had long since tried to forget.
A giant swirling vortex, hundreds of miles high, reaching from the very tip of the skyline to the very depths of the dirt. It was as black as midnight and spun like a dark tornado sent by a righteous and angry deity. Lightning sparked and flashed, spitting and screaming its destructive power like a brattish child.
He shivered at the sight of the Maelstrom and felt sick at the memories it brought forward.
“So, that’s the Texas Maelstrom is it?” Voona asked from over his shoulder. Puck didn’t even bother to look at the ghost of his dead sister as he got to his feet.
“I didn’t think we’d be able to see it from here. I mean, didn’t the incident happen in Dallas? That’s a couple of hundred miles from here and that’s only if Sirenia got us to New Mexico” Voona said.
“Sirenia doesn’t make mistakes” Puck said flatly, “We’re in the Wasteland. No matter where we go we’ll always be able to see it”
“Anything else I need to know before we get moving?” she asked with a chuckle.
“Yeah, lots of things that can wait. We need to get on the road as we’re burning too much daylight. We don’t want to be out when sundown happens” he explained.
“What happens at sundown?” she asked.
Puck turned and looked at the ghostly apparition with a steely gaze, his blue eye shining brighter in the half-light while his green one became encased in shadow.
“Very bad things” he said as he stepped up on a large rock to scan the horizon.
“Good thing we have those then?” Voona said pointing at the burlap sack containing the six shooters Sirenia had given him that now lay at Puck’s feet.
“Much good they’ll do” Puck said cynically. Voona looked at him with a raised eyebrow, her form fluttering in what little wind ran through the desert plains. The expression on her vapour like face was one of mixed intrigue with impatience.
“A Death Rider’s weapon will only heed the call of its master and he’s the one we’re looking for”
Voona’s body language, if it could be called that, spoke of both extreme annoyance coupled with drastic fear. Puck knew that the odds were stacked against them, that the foul mutants and spirits who dwelt in the wasteland were every bit as lethal to those who had taken the time to forearm themselves but without weapons they were as good as dead.
“Are you telling me that we’ve come to the most dangerous place on Earth and we don’t have so much as a toothpick to defend ourselves?”
Puck shrugged at the spirits outburst, as if the thought of dying out in the cold of a strange and foreign land did not even phase him. But one thought did give him pause to contemplate, to consider a possible by product of recklessness; if he were to die then what would happen to Voona?
“We’re on the honour system” he said with a laugh, trying outwardly to show no concern.
“Fuck the honour system you need a gun you damn fool!” Voona shouted. The outburst sent a minor shockwave outward from their position, the tainted magical air around them sensing the disturbance.
“Will you keep your bloody temper in check” Puck hissed, “If you lose too much control you’ll send a psychic shockwave outward and we’ll become a fucking dinner bell for any nearby…”
“Nearby what?” she asked. Puck looked away, again trying to cover his fear up as best he could.
He looked to the sky and felt a sudden gust of wind blowing from the south. The heat was mad and intense. He could already feel beads of sweat pouring down his back causing his shirt to stick to him. His mouth was beginning to go dry as the phlegm began to build up in the roof of his mouth and made his tongue swell. He ran hand across his brow, fresh water coming away on his fingers already making them swelter and swell.
He could feel Voona twitching about nervously next to him, her eyes everywhere and yet focusing on no one thing at all. She wrung her non-existent hands anxiously as her vapour like form flitted about him, hovering just above and behind his shoulders like some kind of ethereal moth.
“You picking something up?” he asked as he kept one eye on the position of the grey sun which mercilessly blared down through the black clouds.
“You were right, it took me little while to get in tune with it but you were right” she said nervously, “This place has bad energy, all around us. It’s seeped into the earth and in the air as well.”
“Yeah, that’s the Wasteland for you” he said as he pulled out Garrett’s Tarot card from his pocket and inspected it.
The print was beginning to flake and fade especially at the edges. The image of the lovers was enough to make out what it was but still looked sun bleached and cracked. The male figure looked ashen and grey while the females blonde locks were more white now than gold. They both looked thin and wrinkled, sullen and drained while their figures worn and weary where once they were full and voluptuous. The tree beneath which they embraced was now in the autumn of its life, its leaves turning brown and gold where once they had been a luscious emerald.
“We’re running out of time” Puck whispered to himself. He looked over at Voona who stared down at the card, her eyes aglow.
“Which way?” he asked. Without looking up from the card, she raised her arm and pointed south.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
“Only the dead can sense the steps of another soul” she said with a wolfish grin, “Trust me.”
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The sun may have set over the yard arm but that did not stop the heat from cloying at Puck’s throat like a stranglehold. The heat was truly insufferable and there were parts of the fae that were beginning to itch from the discomfort. His ever present red shirt was soaked through, sodden with perspiration as he continued to walk. His crimson locks were slicked back, giving the impression of a styled fashion choice as opposed to the very real fact that it was the only way to stop his sweat wrung hair from stinging his eyes. Beads of perspiration ran down his face at a constant pace, soaking the black sand with every drop that fell.
“Surely it can’t be much further?” he whined as he adjusted the burlap sack he carried over his shoulder.
“You whine like a child you know” Voona said as she floated next to him, “What’s happened to Deag MacTir? Has the Red Wolf suddenly vanished?”
Puck shot the ghost of his sister a hateful glance but decided not to respond.
He pulled the tarot card from his pocket and checked it again. For the last few hours it had remained unchanged. The lovers were still wrapped in their embrace, aged by whatever force had caused it but otherwise unchanged.
He couldn’t ascertain if this was good or bad? If it hadn’t got worse then Garrett was in no immediate danger but it also didn’t mean he was safe. He could be injured, held captive, being tortured or interrogated, the possibilities were endless.
Out here in the Wasteland there was a plethora of things that could maim or kill you. A smorgasbord, of mutants, foul spirits, treasure hunters, mercenaries and worse all called the Wasteland their home and none of them were anything he wanted to encounter.
“We’re here” Voona said.
Puck wiped the sweat from his eyes and looked to the distance as he reached the summit of a small hill. In the distance he could make out the shapes of a few dilapidated buildings next to several dead shrubberies and large ashen trees. He could hear the sounds of raucous laughter and drunken revelry. Gunshots sounded out, echoing across the dead plains and making Puck’s heart stop for a moment at the sound.
“What the hell kind of idiot fires a gun out here with no cause to?” Puck snarled before spitting. His mouth and throat were both dry, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth while he could feel his left hand begin to shake uncontrollably.
There was a sickness on him, he had known about it for a long time. It was the kind that sunk deep into his stomach making him feel sick. There was a nauseous sensation running through him, a pain that twisted in his belly like a knife and threatened to force what little was in there back out into the world. For a few seconds he felt a line of shivers dancing their way up his spine, giving him chills.
“Your friends are right you know, you drink too much” Voona said with a concerned look.
He glanced sideways at the spirit and spat again before looking back at the ruins.
“Is he there?” he asked. Voona nodded grimly and rubbed one of her ghostly arms nervously.
“There’s more down there isn’t there?” he asked. Voona nodded solemnly as her image flickered in the twilight. Puck’s sister often wore her heart on her sleeve and he could tell just by looking at her that something was wrong.
“What is it, what’s down there?”
“Bad spirits”
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Puck crept down the hillside to the outskirts of the ruins. The sounds of raucousness grew louder the closer he came to the dilapidated buildings. A rusted metal sign hung from its post, creaking in the wind as it swung back and forth. Puck had to squint to make out the words but eventually he could discern his location: FORT SUMNER.
If it was a fort then clearly blood had been spilt, which meant that restless spirits were more than likely to reside there.
Pucks left hand continued to aches as a spike of pain shot through the inside of his arm. Immediately he dropped the sack with Garrett’s pistols and began to massage the pain.
Looking down at the bag he could hear the six shooters rattling as they vibrated, eager to escape, desperate to return to their master. He folded over the bag and tucked it under his arm, muffling the sound only enough to be out of earshot of those not standing beside him.
He crept closer to what looked like a ruined shop of some kind. A burnt out vehicle sat out front, rusted and dilapidated it looked ready to fall apart but would provide extra cover in a pinch.
Ducking into an alleyway between the shop and some hollowed out building, he peered round the corner to see where the gunfire was coming from.
A modern transport vehicle, the kind used for moving dangerous prisoners or troublesome livestock sat close to a large fire at the centre of a wide open yard. A short distance away from the fire lay two dead bodies, gaping bullet wounds in the foreheads of both men spoke to their ending.
A third man, barely able old enough to hold that title, dressed in the same military black gear as the other two stood a little aside from the bodies. His chest was covered in thick black body armour while an overly large hunting knife sat strapped to his hip. He was playfully spinning a standard issue Glock pistol on the forefinger of his right hand, doing a series of impressive spinning tricks with the deadly weapon. He would fan it above his head, across his face in both a horizontal and vertical position or on a constant spin until he grew bored and returned it to his holster, but never for long.
Judging from the gear alone, Puck could take a guess that he was a conscripted soldier in National American Guard. Most volunteers were given higher rank and status and also the heavier weaponry to go along with such standing.
This lad was young, no more than twenty at a push. A black bandanna held back a fuzzy mange of blonde locks from falling across his face but nothing to soak up the sweat that ran like a waterfall down his face.
He had an excited look on his face, the kind a child has as its about to open a gift from a parent. At every sound the New Mexican desert made, every twitch and every hoot, the boy was ready. Spinning like a ballerina, gun in hand to wherever the sound came from, ready to unleash fire in a flash.
But it was not the boy who held Puck’s attention, nor the fire, nor the vehicle and nor was it the two bodies that caught his eye. Rather it was a telephone pole across the yard that had his complete focus, more specifically, the large figure tied to it.
He was big, bigger than the average man for certain, both in height and in brawn. A tattered and torn duster hung about his shoulders and draped down his body like a personal suit of armour. The bound hands that stuck out of his sleeves, were large and covered in dirty wraps from old wounds; instead of a mottled pink, both fists were a murky grey, the kind seen on corpses. He wore light brown leather trousers, the same colour as his duster, held up at the waist by a thick leather belt with a silver buckle shaped like a skull with two sapphires for eyes. Puck could see the holsters at his waist were empty and glanced down at the sack under arm out of a strange need for confirmation. The boots on his feet were made from a thick cowhide and had a pair of steel spurs jutting from the ankles. His face was obscured by a large filthy bandanna, coupled with an overly large Stetson it was virtually impossible to see anything of his face. The only part of his features that were in any way visible were a pair of cerulean eyes which glowed like twin stars in the dark of night.
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“Garrett” Puck whispered.
“So that’s a Death Rider” Voona said over Puck’s shoulder, “He doesn’t look all that lethal”
“Don’t let the appearance fool. Garrett and two other Riders single handily broke the siege of Birmingham, took out an entire regiment of British soldiers stationed in Germany and burned Newfound Land to ash. Death Rider’s should never be underestimated, that one least of all” he explained.
“If he’s so deadly then how has been strapped to a post by one Hume?”
“That’s what I want to know”
Puck looked down at the sack, its contents rattling harder and louder than they had before. Their master was close and they knew it but Puck could feel more from them than that; there was division between the guns, confusion had sunk deep into the six shooters th kind that split brotherhoods, ended friendships and killed kingdoms. They were eager, desperate even, to return to the hands of their master but the uncertainty was causing a distinct level of aggression between the two.
The sound of a bullet leaving a gun brought Puck’s attention back to the scene before them. The young boy had fired a shot just past Garrett’s head and was now spinning the Glock on his forefinger again.
There was something in the way the boy moved, in how he stepped and pulled his gun and then returned it. The hands of the boy were clearly soft as Veal but the way he pulled the gun showed years of practice and experience, the kind far above what he was clearly capable of.
Something had crept out of the Wasteland, had taken hold of him and was using him like a puppeteer uses as marionette.
The boy whooped with joy as he let another bullet fly and danced a short jig as it connected with a stone sitting on a windowsill of the shop.
“Damn that feels good!” the boy exclaimed as he holstered his weapon. Immediately he pulled the gun again let fire, this time sending a bullet into the post just above Garrett’s head.
He exclaimed loudly with the excitement of an infant at Christmas and wheeled the Glock yet again.
“Holy hell! What is this thing made from?” he asked, the childlike enthusiasm never leaving his face or voice. “It’s so light, like holding a feather that fires bullets!”
Puck looked to Garrett and considered his next move. Stealth was going to have to their best option, he knew he would be able to creep round to the Death Rider and remain out of sight, once there he could free him at which point Garrett could dispatch the boy with ease. It was just a simple case of keeping low enough out of sight and not drawing enough attention to himself.
“Puck” Voona said, “There’s definitely something wrong with that lad”
“You think I can’t see that” he hissed.
“No, I mean, really wrong!” she said with more ferocity. “Look at him, really look at him!”
He knew that she meant for him to use “the eye of the Fae”, a technique of spirit seeing passed down through generations of their people. Puck had not used magic in a long time, he had neither the ability nor the inclination too anymore, it was simply too dangerous for him to do such things again.
“Just tell me for fucks sake will you?” he said impatiently.
“He’s…” she began.
“You know, as much as I love this gun…” the boy said, the twang of his Boston accent giving way as to his geographical origins, “…And boy do I love this gun, you just can’t go wrong with old iron!”
The boy turned his head and looked squarely at where Puck was hiding, then held out his hand and grinned manically. A force like magnetism gripped the burlap sack and yanked it out of Puck’s hands and sent it flying straight into the boys. The Fae was about to run but the boy drew down on him, aiming his Glock straight at Puck. He froze instantly, he knew how good the lad was with a gun and did not want to risk incurring his aim nor test the speed of his bullets.
“Looks like we got ourselves a fox in the henhouse” he said spinning his pistol, then he fixed Garrett with fierce gaze and fired off another shot past his head, “What do you say, huh Patsy? You think I should dust this asshole where he stands?”
For the first time since he had arrived at Fort Sumner Puck began to feel uncomfortable. Whatever was controlling the boy was clearly mad but more than that he seemed to have a personal gripe with Garrett. The impossibility of the situation was an unsettling one for the Fae; Humes, by their very nature, could be just as unpredictable as Mythic’s, sometimes even more so. This one was different; there was a mania to his movements, a desire to end things once and for all, death with that went beyond death. He needed to prove something, something he could not let the grave stop him from doing.
“Come on my redheaded friend” he said gesturing Puck to come forward, “Come out into the light where I can see you better. Hands held high mind you; don’t want you pulling a fast one on me like old Pat here!”
Puck did as he was told and came into the firelight, hands held high. He glanced to his right to take a look at Garrett; the Death Rider had not moved an inch in all of this time, not even so much as to twitch at the gunshots, but now he was staring directly at Puck and his eyes did not show any sign of happiness.
“What’re you doing here?” Garrett asked in his usual dry and rough voice as Puck came to stand next to the phone pole.
“Here at the request of a mutual friend” Puck muttered through closed lips. “Where the hell’s your fucking horse. Surely Sleipnir would have done something about laughing boy over there?”
“Yes, where is that lovely beast of burden of yours eh Pat?” the boy said as he danced his way over to the vehicle and gave it a hearty thump on the side. There was a dull echo that resonated from inside and, for a moment, nothing happened. Then it began, a screaming like a furious wail, the sound of an outraged beast that caged and was ready to get out and wreak bloody murder and mayhem on its captors. The vehicle started shaking as the beast kicked and reared and screamed even more forcing the truck to rock on its wheels.
“You tell that thing to pipe down or I’ll do it some injury!” the boy said.
Garrett shifted his gaze from the boy to the vehicle and let out a loud, throaty whistle. He whispered a few indiscernible words under his breath and the ruckus from inside ceased immediately.
“Atta boy” the lad said, “So, we got some things to clear up before we get down to what needs to be done!”
“This guy doesn’t like to shut up does he?” Puck said. Garrett’s only response was a stiff nod. The boy walked over to Puck and held the Glock in front of his face, hammer pulled and ready to fire at a moment’s notice.
“This guy has waited an awful long time to say his piece with Ole Pat here, so you’re gonna let him. You hear me son?” the boy said.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that you American’s love to talk so make your point and get it over with!” Puck snapped.
The boy looked over at Puck, anger permeating from him with every step he took towards him. He held out the gun in front of him and it felt as though an hour had passed before the Iron barrel finally pressed against the skin on his forehead.
“You pipe down mister, else I’m gonna let the iron do the talking for me ya hear?”
Puck glanced sideways at Garrett who gave a slow shake of his head, signalling to the Fae that for once he should do as he was told and keep his mouth shut. Puck mimed zipping his mouth closed and the boy backed up a few steps before pointing his gun at Garrett.
“You killed me Pat!” the boy said venomously, “You waited for me in the dark and you shot me in the fucking back!”
Garrett said nothing at the accusation. He simply remained quiet, staring at the boy over the bandanna obscuring his face and making fists with his hands against the bindings which held him in place.
“You have any idea what that does to a guy like me? A guy who hadn’t been beaten in a gunfight ever, a guy who killed twenty one men and had never so much as been scratched! You fucking cheated Pat but we’re gonna do something about that right now!”
The boy backed up, keeping the gun trained on Puck and Garrett, never letting his sight leave either one of them as continued backwards toward the fire.
“Be careful” Puck heard Voona say, though he did not move to meet her eyes as she spoke, “Bad spirits infest this one, he may be harder to take down than you think”
A crack of gunfire cut the conversation short and the wood above Garrett’s head exploded before his arms fell to their side. The large Death Rider began to untangle himself from the rope binding him to the pole at his waist and allowed them to drop with a thud on the black sand. Puck watched as he massaged his wrists and shook out any possible numbness. He paced about in a small circle, dipping his head so his hat could cast shadows across his face, obscuring it from vision once more.
“We’re gonna do this right, ya hear? No sneaking in the night, no surprise attacks, we’re doing this the way it needs to be done” the boy said reaching down for the burlap sack and retrieving the twin gun Puck had brought with him. The boy looked at it lovingly for a moment then tossed it across the fire. It landed with a thud, almost automatically, at Garrett’s feet.
The big man bent slowly as he picked it up, as though ironing out any kinks in the muscles of his back and shoulders, then picked up the firearm. The pearl handled pistol glistened in the firelight, its slivery iron caste body shone a quiet red reflection that flashed across Puck’s gaze.
Garrett gave the pistol an experimental spin, fanning it outward in a flatbed motion then passed it from his left hand to his right, gun still spinning before holstering the iron; hammer drawn back of course.
Where?” he asked the boy. The boy gave a sideways smile and gestured across the fire. Garrett tipped his hat and went to take his place across from his opponent.
“He’s going to die you know” Voona said, “The boy’s simply too fast and he won’t be able to break through his spirit wall. Not unless…”
Puck watched the spirit furrowing what appeared as her brow. If she were alive then her whole body would have tensed up; as it was, her form blew against the wind, floating and spinning away like dust only to reform and pull away again with the breeze.
“I can take the shot for him” she explained, “If I stand in with his body, give unto him my energy, the energy taken from the spirit world, then he can win”
Puck’s heart stopped beating and immediately he felt sick with anger as he balled his fists.
“Take the shot for him! Are you insane?” Puck hissed, “If you do that then you’re could die if he lands a fatal shot!”
“If I don’t do it then he’ll kill us for sure!” she replied.
“How? How do you know that?” Puck demanded.
Voona went quiet, her expression falling as though made from overly wet clay. There was something she had seen, something that only the dead could know, something only a spirit could know.
He had known he could feel something, magic was all around them in the wasteland so the raw power of the worlds beyond worlds had a way of leaking through into this reality out in the desert. Puck had simply shrugged it off in spite of the danger, knowing full well that anything out here could split the veil, walk through and eat all of them whole.
But now he sensed something different. An older power lurked just beneath the surface of the boy, older even than the spirit who taunted Garrett. An evil force had infected both the malign spirit and the boy, was using them both as puppets in a strange and violent dance.
The ground beneath Garrett’s feet crunched with a rhythm of heavy footfall. The stone pebbles crunching as his silver spurs sang the song of his steps until he came to stand directly in front of the boy. Puck looked across at the boy and studied him hard for a moment, taking in everything he could about him and, for just a moment, saw what was behind him.
Another young boy, of a similar age to the one with his hands on the gun, stood within him. His face was dust scarred and torn from days of long rides and night of little sleep. He looked as though he had seen too much death and more over he looked as though he had enjoyed too much of it as well. He was thin, more or less underweight from malnourishment. His teeth were stained yellow in places, black in others and missing in yet more places than was healthy. He wore a crooked top hat, a striped jumper, brown breeches and a pair of broken boots.
Yet moreover, he could see the shadow of a young woman guiding and moving them both like chess pieces. There was no true form to her only a shifting void around a pale face with glaring violet eyes.
“She who wields the darkness” he whispered. Voona nodded, her eyes glazed over with terror.
This changed everything, for everyone and Puck knew in that instant that the boy, both of them, had to die.
“Are you sure you can make the shot?” he asked. Voona looked away as though she were about to cry or that she had been stung by a nettle.
“I can try, but I can’t guarantee anything”
“Then do it” Puck said.
The spirit that was Voona smiled at Puck one last time before disintegrating into a whirlwind of floating vapour. The cloud of dark blue mist floated across the sands, breaking in the wind occasionally only to come together once again and continue its journey. As it reached Garrett, the cloud began to take the shape of a stream of particle matter and slipped up Garrett’s trouser leg to be seen no more.
Puck kept his hands in the air as he sidestepped around the campfire so he could see both men. The tension had grown heavier, like lead and copper hanging in the air. The scent felt choking at the back Puck’s throat and his voice began to sound ragged with every in take of breath.
“Yo, Red, catch!” said the boy before throwing something in Puck’s direction.
A rusted and blackened tin can landed perfectly in is hands. What the boy wanted him to do with it, he had no idea but he knew he was about to find out.
“On the count of three throw that into the air” he said then looked back at Garrett, “When it lands, we draw!”
Garrett nodded and pulled his duster to one side so he could draw more easily.
Gripping the can tightly in his hand, Puck watched as the two gunmen stared dead eyed at one another. He saw now, for the first time with all sense and clarity just who and what had been here all along: Two spirits, risen and ready to settle old grudges.
Puck drew in a breath, closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.
“One…”
Before he could count to two, a flash of blue lightning sparked in the darkness, followed by the sound of a whip cracking. He saw the boy drop to his knees before keeling over onto his back. Blood spurted from his mouth forming into bubbles as the cold red liquid hit his lungs and ran down his chin.
He ran to where the boy lay and bent down to show him some measure of comfort when Garrett stepped in and pulled him up by the arm.
“This is for me to finish, you hear?” he said. Puck nodded at the seriousness of his voice and backed away, hands held up in the air.
As Garrett knelt he saw Voona’s essence seeping out from the bullet wound on the boy’s chest. It whipped and spun as though disoriented or drunk as it floated back toward him. Gradually, after a few seconds, the essence began to take form once more and Voona became real again.
“How was it?” Puck whispered to the spirit.
“Well, I understand why you drink now” she said with a chuckle. “Don’t ever let me do that again.”
Puck nodded and turned back to Garrett who was now kneeling next to the boy. He had lifted his head into his hands, cradling him like a father would his wounded son and was speaking in a low voice to comfort him.
In spite of his excellent hearing, Puck could only make out the occasional phrase or saying. Names such as “Billy Boy” and “The Kid” were whispered by the Death Rider in a rare moment of compassion along with phrase like “Bonney” and “Sum Bitch”.
Puck had not been around Garrett in several decades and when he had been he had never seen such a side to such a lethal killer. Garrett was a Death Rider, possessor of the Lovers card, wielder of the Twin Iron, he was not a man made for affection. The only one who had seen it was Sirenia and even she did not talk of it much.
He watched them as minute after minute passed, the boy’s life bleeding out from him as the blood continued to pour from his mouth and chest until finally, he let go of his last breath.
Garrett pulled his second gun from the dead boy’s hand, stood and tilted back his hat so he could wipe away a stray tear from his eye then straightened it once more before beginning to stride toward the transport vehicle.
“You should go to him” Voona said, “He’s been through a lot”
Puck had no idea what she meant and he did not care to find out at this point. It was already after dark and he could the sound of creatures stirring in the wasteland. Right now, he just wanted to get as far away from this cursed place as possible.
The Death Rider had a long stride which was not unexpected for one of his height and Puck struggled to keep in step with him as he walked.
“You cheated!” Puck said, more than a little amazed.
“I drew first to save my neck” Garrett said, his gravelly voice cutting hard across his throat. “Doesn’t matter how you win the game just so long as you do win it”
“Long time eh?” Puck said trying to keep the mood light. The two of them had never shared a particularly great relationship and judging by how Garrett glared at Puck his feelings toward The Red Wolf had remained unchanged over the years.
"Who was that guy?" Puck asked. Garrett looked down at the body of the boy, the vapours of the spirit drifting upwards
"Just a boy who became a legend and died holding a grudge, spitting bile at me and cursing my name" he said sadly.
"An old friend then?" Puck asked and Garrett nodded, "One you shot in the back?"
"The matters of who I kill and when are none of your concern, wolf, and it's best you stay out of them altogether" he snarled as he cracked his fingers menacingly.
And just like that it felt like old times. Garrett had a way of losing his temper over the slightest of inflection in another persons tone but Puck was banking on their former comradeship to see him through any potential moment where he might find his brains blown out due to his inability to hold his sarcasm behind his teeth.
“What were you doing all the way out here?” Puck asked.
“I might ask you the same thing Fairy Boy!” Garret said harshly.
“You might want to back that statement up a pace or two else we’re going to have a problem!” Puck said angrily. “I didn’t come all the way out here for my sake or for that matter yours. I came out here for Sirenia!”
Garrett stopped in his tracks and looked down at the dirt, his heart and his head both somewhere far away from there, in another place and another time.
“It was none of her concern!” he said walking away. “She never should have sent you!”
“She didn’t! I came out here because the thought of you dying was killing her you stupid bastard!” Puck yelled.
“More than anyone else living, she should know I can handle myself!”
“Is that why you sent her your irons, were about to send her Sleipnir and did send her this!”
Puck ran in front of him so as to block Garrett’s path. He removed the card from his pocket and slapped it against the lapel of his leather duster, holding it in place with the palm of his hand. Garrett pulled his hand away with firm but softly applied pressure and took the card from him, looking at it before tucking it into his coat.
“What were you doing out here Garrett? Why did you send your irons to Sirenia? Who was the boy?” Puck asked, the tone of his voice demanding answers.
Garrett tapped the hilt of his right handed pistol, a nervous tick Puck had seen him use during the war whenever being questioned by superior officers. Like all Death Riders, Garrett did not like being spoken down to, hated it in fact; he knew that his breeding and his creation had been born out of necessity just like the rest of his kind and as such considered themselves above most questions, especially by idiot fairies.
But Puck knew how to get to him and that was not by pulling rank or use of threats, it was by tugging at his heart.
Leaning against the transport, he placed one foot behind him against the metal of the vehicle and sighed heavily.
“I’ve been living up north for the last few years, eking out a meagre living as a bodyguard for the last of the crime syndicates in Chicago. I didn’t need the money I just needed somewhere to be…” he said hesitantly. “I came into a gun fight with a boy who was out for revenge against my boss, couldn’t have been more than twenty years old at the time I put a bullet in his brain. As I leaned down to touch him I got a flash of something from a long time ago, long before I was born; it was a face, a face I knew like my own and a voice that called to me”
“A voice?” Puck asked in all curiosity and slight fear. “What did this voice say to you?”
A long time ago? Puck thought he had the measure of Garrett, but the look in the Death Riders eyes truly unnerved him. It wasn’t fear, nor terror but something new; a cold new reality being born for the first time in the eyes of a man whose entire world view had been taken and turned upside down. Puck had seen that look only once before, on a small fishing boat off the coast of Bermuda, in the eyes of two poor souls who were devoured mere moments later.
“It said ‘Follow me, follow me back home to Fort Sumner. Follow me to the end Garrett and I will show you wonders’”
He knew who Garrett spoke of; he had seen her shape and form guiding the boy, whispering in his ear, telling the spirit of the dead that possessed him what he should do and why. It was a bold and terrible new truth to think of, to possess, but Puck knew that his world and the world of all them were about to change and not for the better.
“What about the boy? There was something beside the voice guiding him, who was it?”
Garrett kicked the dirt in the awkward fashion that he always did and rolled his neck so as to look at anything besides puck.
“A leftover remanence of a soul I once knew… apparently, not that I can remember, least ways, not fully”
Garrett pushed past Puck, refusing to be delayed anymore and stomped round to the heavy metal doors that sealed the prisoner inside. He tore the iron bar holding it shut with ease and flung the doors open. He did not even get the chance to say or do anything before a large beast screamed and jumped out of the vehicle, shaking its blood red mane and rearing on its hind legs, all four of them thereby kicking out his front two legs.
Sleipnirs were not uncommon among Death Rider’s, most of them were bred for battle but the bond between Rider and Steed went deeper than most. Puck had seen Rider’s go mad or kill themselves rather than be without their mount, it was almost like a parent and child like bond only more visceral, soul connected, as though they were both one and the same, indistinguishable.
Garrett moved next to the beast, speaking in quiet hushed tones so as to soothe the beast, calming it with the sound of his voice and his gentle reassuring touch. Once his mount had calmed he grabbed a hold of the saddle and hoisted himself upwards into the seat, grabbing a hold of the reins.
“There’s something out there Fairy, something none of us want to see. You should prepare for what’s to come” Garrett said. Reaching down into his saddle bag he pulled out something wrapped in white cotton and threw it to Puck.
“Give that to the Green Man, he will know what to do with it when the time comes” he said. “And if you want my advice, you best get out of here and quick, unless you want to end up as somethings lunch”
Garrett was about to spur his horse on when Puck grabbed the reins by the Sleipnir’s muzzle.
“What about Sirenia? What should I tell her?”
Garrett looked to the horizon, his eyes growing sad for a moment then reached into the inner pocket of his duster. He removed the tarot card, leaned down in his saddle and passed it to Puck.
“That card you’re holding is my heart, it always was. It belongs with her, give it to her for safekeeping and tell her that I’ll come for it someday”
Raising his fist, his hand began to glow with bright white light. He held it there for a moment, waiting for the raw magical energy that surrounded them to be called to his hand. The power sucked into his palm like a vortex, eventually becoming full before he aimed it at the clouds above and let it go with an almighty bang.
The line of white power travelled for a few second and then exploded into the clouds. Nothing happened at first and the Puck felt it, the light patter of rain cross his face.
Pulling back on the reins and spurring the Sleipnir onward, Death Rider and steed rode far and fast for about a hundred metres before launching themselves into the sky. The Sleipnirs hooves danced and burned across the falling rain, carrying Garrett into the deep black of the storm clouds and whatever lay beyond.
“Couldn’t just say goodbye like a normal fucking person” Puck said to himself.
“Your friends not going to like this is she?” Voona said appearing next to him.
“Nope, no she is not” Puck replied sharply. “In fact, by virtue of my failure I think I’m pretty much a dead man”
“Stop being a drama queen, you’ll be fine and she’ll understand”
“Clearly you don’t know Sirenia. If I come out of this unscathed it’ll be a miracle”
He reached into his pocket and retrieved the Root of Return and bit into it then swallowed it whole. It tasted just as foul and disgusting as it had done during the ritual but this time he felt better for going home.
He could feel his body becoming lighter and his skin beginning to tingle. From the blackened sand at his feet he saw pure white smoke beginning to rise and he knew that he was on his way home.
“At least it got me out for a while” he said to no-one especially, “And if I never have to leave York ever again then it’ll be several lifetimes too soon”
The smoke covered every part of him, every sense, cradling him like a new born, rocking him gently into a sense of calm before moving him slowly to where he needed to be.
As his eyes began to grow heavy he looked to that same sky that Garrett had disappeared into and wondered what it was the Death Rider had gone in search of and when he would see him again. For now, he did not care, he only cared for the comfort of a familiar stool, a good beverage and the kind face of a true friend. In a word, all he wanted was home.
