“Right now, I don’t feel too agreeable.”
***
It was still well before noon, but the desert sand was already too hot to touch. The wind howled over the searing sand like the voice of a banshee, wailing out the same few sour notes over and over.
Averno wasn’t a city of note. It regularly changed hands between the Southsea Pirates and the occasional mining company. At present, it was a group of humans and dwarfs that made up most of the town’s leadership, and mining was their business. And business had been good. A little too good. In fact, the management of the Consolidated Gold Mining Company had a few glaring issues with some former employees regarding outstanding debts.
Mordecai was the only gnome in town, and he was tending the newest headstone graveyard; a dull stone slab that bore no name, when the ghostly figure appeared through the simmering heat. A Warlock. And an Undead one, at that. He could tell by the demonic beast she rode. He watched for a moment and then quickly tidied his tools up. He wasn’t done yet, but he wasn’t going to miss this. The dead weren’t going anywhere.
The Warlock expected to be cordially ignored, so she took special note of the looks she got as she rode into town. Mostly humans, goblins and dwarves; so perhaps not so used to her kind. There seemed to be a unique kind of fear in their eyes, though. It piqued her interest, like the tantalizing smell of dry blood and desert sand. She dismounted outside of the tavern and surveyed the town, putting a long cigar between her lips as she did so.
The trolls in Stranglethorn Vale had taught her that certain large leaves made a fine rolling paper and her herbalism skills ensured there was always something to roll in them. She was about to make herself a light when a gnome appeared at her feet, holding up a match that he was ready to strike.
“Greetings, Captain,” he said politely, and he held the flame aloft, carefully shielding it with his hand. The Warlock leaned forward, grinning at his chosen title for her.
“Thank’ee,” she answered, and stepped into the tavern.
The room was dim. The lanterns and chandeliers stayed unlit in the heat of the day, and the Warlock seemed to like this just fine. She casually regarded the small group that was huddled at the other end of the bar, staring at her stupidly. Her glimmering orbs rolled towards the bartender.
“Beer,” she grunted, pointing at the taps, “and a bottle,” and she waved at the rows of whiskey that lined the wall behind the bar.
“It’s thirsty?” One of the huddled ones muttered, and a ripple of laughter ran through them. She took little notice, but her glowing orbs flickered unmistakably in their direction.
She sat at the other end of the bar, and when the quivering human bartender put the frothy glass in front of her, she dropped a few gold coins in his direction. Much of his apprehension seemed to evaporate at that point.
“Will there be anything else, ma’am?” He asked politely.
“A quiet moment to drink it in,” she answered, waving her hand dismissively. The bartender nodded and backed away. The group at the other end of the bar continued to mutter amongst themselves.
The cigar burned quietly in the ashtray. A long stream of thin smoke snaked past her face into the dark ceiling.
“Think it’s…fast enough?” One of them said, and he turned as if to draw his pistol.
One of the Warlock’s gloved hands reached up from under the bar and grabbed the whiskey bottle. The huddle shuddered and broke up a little, clearly unnerved by her sudden movement.
“I lot faster than you’ll ever live to be,” she rasped. She then drained her beer, picked up her cigar and whiskey bottle, and walked back outside.
Mordecai was still on the porch, and the way that the Warlock opened the door, he could tell she wasn’t too pleased. He wasn’t surprised to see the Boys following her.
Jack and the Boys is what the group was called, and they were thick as thieves. In fact, they were thieves. Thieves, murderers and mercenaries, all three. They were currently employed by the Consolidated Gold to do what they did best. They had a particular target; a former employee, who was expected to return to the city the next morning. That person was clearly not this Warlock. However, it had been a slow day, and they were bored.
They had not been hired for their brains. They obviously knew little about Warlocks and even less about the Undead. Mainly, that you shouldn’t get mixed up with one out of carelessness and boredom.
The Warlock reached the middle of the dusty street, clouds of smoke following her. Jack cut in front of her, giving her a full view of the permanent sneer fixed on his face.
“Trash like you too good for our bar?” He snarled, spitting in the dirt.
“Evidently,” She answered, puffing on her cigar.
Jack carried both a cutlass and a pistol. He was known for his speed and accuracy; hence the rather high price CG had paid for his services. He drew his sword and neatly cut the Warlock’s cigar in half. She took the remaining half slowly out of her mouth and gave it a disappointed look. Her orbs squinted into angry little slits.
“That was rude,” she said slowly. Jack set his jaw and the Warlock watched the thick, blue vein in his neck start to throb.
“You’re just trash,” Jack repeated stupidly. “Lower than pig shit.”
The Warlock did not answer. That layer of flesh covering that swelling vein seemed to get progressively thinner as she stared at it.
“Maybe she can’t hear ya. Got that pig shit in ‘er ears.” One of the Boys decided to contribute to the conversation.
“There’s no need for all that,” the Warlock’s tone was deceptively conciliatory, but her eyes flickered greedily at Jack.
“Don’t know what smells worse,” the other ventured, “her or the pig shit.”
The Warlock smiled at Jack, and spoke a few horrible words. Her face contorted into a glowing visage of dripping fangs and glowing eyes. He screamed and ran away, shaking his head and stumbling as he did so.
The first did not have a pistol. He tried to attack the Warlock with his sword, but her blade was quicker. The hand holding his sword was neatly severed from his body before he burst into flames. The second was already covered in postulate boils when she turned on him, snarling. Another turn and her blade had taken his head. Just as they both fell into dead piles at her feet, Jack came running back towards them, still in the grip of Fear.
The Warlock’s already wide smile grew even wider. She aimed carefully with her bloody sword as he grew closer. The cut would have to be just right.
She swung, carefully and deliberately, cutting Jack’s throat but not severing his neck. In a single motion she planted her sword in the dirt and grabbed a handful of his hair, bending the his open throat back. Blood gushed from the open wound. Moaning greedily, she sank her teeth into the shredded flash and began to feed.
After a few moments, Jack’s knees gave, and they fell like hewed trees into the dirt. The Warlock’s lips were slick with gore. She knelt firmly on his chest, her lips still locked on his neck, seeing to it that she had squeezed every last drop from him.
Slowly, as she was gorged and deeply satisfied, she rose from him and let the blood drip freely down her chin. She calmly picked her sword out of the dirt and took the whiskey bottle out of her pack. She took a long, deep swig. Perhaps now she could get that moment of quiet in the bar now.
When she turned to walk back in, she saw the grinning gnome at her feet again. He seemed oblivious to the murky concoction of booze and blood dripping down her neck. She produced a fresh cigar and allowed him to light it.
“What did you say your name was again?” He asked politely but enthusiastically, as the end of the cigar began to glow.
“I didn’t,” she answered, before stepping back into the bar.
It didn’t take long for Sheriff Rockridge to come bumbling along, sweating profusely. Loch Modan never got this hot, and his Dwarven constitution was pressed by it at the best of times.
Morgan had sent him before the bodies had even hit the dirt. The meeting had only been a few minutes long, but it was the most they had said to each other since the incident.
“It…it did what?” Dominic, the tavern owner, had missed the first part of the conversation. He had stood too long gawking with the other townsfolk. He had walked in on the barber’s description of events. His shop was across from the tavern and he had seen the whole thing.
“Right through the neck, and then she sucked him dry! God damndest thing I ever saw….” He had been saying.
Morgan, the Chief Executive Officer of CG, was sitting at the head of the table. He was dressed formally as usual, in his three piece suit with the polished silver buttons. For the moment he was silent. When he saw Dominic bumble in, he spoke.
“It doesn’t matter what she did,” he said, through clenched teeth, tapping his index finger definitively on the surface of the table. “What matters is that Jake and his boys have gotten themselves killed a single day before they were to be of any real use.”
“They’ve been drinking and smoking and sitting pretty for three seasons,” Mayor Harding chimed in next. He was not only the mayor, but also one of CG’s major shareholders. He always wore his felt top hat, even inside, even on sweltering days like this. “Bloody waste!”
“Harding, you know I can’t stomach cursing,” the town cleric, a dwarf named Hagar, fanned herself with her hand. “Gentlemen, I cannot be the party to the hiring of a mercenary. I am but a child of the Holy Light, a simple cleric…”
“It may be time we unsimplified you, Hagar,” Harding said, with mock politeness. “Our interests, yours, and the interests of this town are identical. “
“If you have another suggestion, then let us know, Cleric,” Morgan hissed, “otherwise, just sit there and sweat with your mouth shut.”
“She’s back in the bar, just walked right back in,” Mordecai poked his head in the door. He was smiling broadly, which enraged the already displeased CEO.
“Then get busy and clean that mess up,” Morgan barked at the little gnome before turning to the scruffy little dwarf. “Rockridge, go to the tavern and have a chat with that…thing. Since she’s the one who ate Jack, maybe she’s the one who can take his place.”
The other patrons at the table nodded enthusiastically. This could be played to their advantage. With a creature like this defending them, their problems would most definitely be over.
“We’ll give her whatever she wants,” Harding said. “Money is no object.”
At this pronouncement, some at the table seemed to balk.
“They’ll be released today,” he leaned forward, and the tall shadow of his hat crept ominously across the table. “And it will take them a day to get here. Any of you gentlemen have any other plans?”
The others nodded stiffly in assent. Except the Cleric, who politely excused herself.
Rockridge put on his floppy hat and marched out the door to speak with the Warlock.
It’s in there, the townsfolk gestured towards the tavern. The Sheriff couldn’t see anything but his own reflection in the dark windows, so he had no choice but to venture inside.
The bartender was the only person inside besides the Warlock herself, who was sitting in a dark corner near the back. Her glowing eyes and the end of her cigar seemed to light up in unison.
“You…you mind if I…” the fat, furry dwarf gestured to the chair. The Warlock replied with an almost imperceptible shrug, and he carefully sat down.
The Warlock took a swig from the bottle. Rockridge saw a few drops of bloody whiskey drip from her chin to her collar.
“Eh…um…you want those things laundered?” He asked, sputtering through his grizzled mustache a little. “We can get Mordecai to give those a right clean boiled wash. Uses lye for pants rabbits, no itch nor scratch!”
The Warlock smiled, a wide, evil smile that showed the rims of her black gums. She slowly shook her head.
“Ahem…well…ma’am, we need to talk about those three boys. N..n..now I’m the Sheriff…and those folks outside, well, from what they say it’s a clear-cut case of self-defense….”
The Warlock coughed and made a funny spluttering noise. It took Rockridge a moment to realize that she had laughed.
“Clear-cut, indeed,” she said, taking another swig. “No charges, then?”
“Well no! No charges ma’am, certainly not!” Rockridge laughed nervously. “B…b…but the boy you killed, ma’am, his name was Jack Borders, and he and his friends were…employed locally. By…by the mining company here in Averno. That was his name, in case you’re interested.”
“Well, I’m not really interested, Sheriff,” the Warlock answered. She pulled at her cigar again, eyeing him rather impatiently.
“We…we still need someone to do his job,” The Sheriff said, fidgeting with his hat. “And his employers, they think you can take his place. See…he was supposed to take care of some…delicate…business for us. Three men are coming back to town tomorrow…and they have to be taken care of. Well, just like you took care of Jack, beggin’ your pardon ma’am.”
The Warlock smiled, but she shook her head.
“I’m not for hire today,” the Warlock answered. “Besides, I have nothing against these men you’re expecting. Who did you say they are?”
“Moe Stubbs, his cousins Jerome and Larry. They were official troubleshooters for CG..um..Consolidated Gold. Moe, well, he knows a few things about the powers of Fel himself. This town…well, we had some trouble with pirates and smugglers. And they took care of it, too, but they got too big for their britches. Started to get pushy…so, well…we had to…”
“Had to…?” the Warlock moved her hand in a circular motion. Normally, she was not this patient.
“Well..we had to take them into custody! Caught them trying to steal a solid gold ingot. Hid it under the floorboards of their shack, they did!”
“Kinda careless of ’em” the Warlock sighed, and drained the rest of her bottle. “Does this company often leave gold lying around?”
“Uhm..well, I can’t say that it ain’t peculiar,” Rockridge pressed the edges of his fingers against the rim of his hat as he spoke. It was covered in sweaty fingerprints. “In fact, Moe kept bringing that up at the trial. Saying that he was bein’ railroaded. That’s why they’re mad at us, y’see our problem?”
“Sheriff, the only problem you’ve got is a short supply of guts,” the Warlock wheezed and rose from the table.
“B…beggin’ yer pardon ma’am,” he said quickly, “but I ain’t no law man! They just hung this thing on me after that young Marshall James was killed.”
The Warlock seemed to hesitate when he mentioned this. Rockridge hurriedly continued.
“Like I said, Moe knew something about shadow magic. And he had a demon, that nice lookin’ one, the one with a whip. That poor Marshall was whipped to death, right here in the street. Bullwhipped!”
“I smelled the old blood on the ground as soon as I rode into town,” the Warlock said, “It was cold, but it reeked of some horrible injustice and a painful ordeal. My curiosity has ensured your survival. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
She turned on her heel and walked outside, much to the relief of the bartender. The fear of Morgan’s wrath drove the grizzled, rotund little man to chase after her.
“What if…what if we gave you anything you wanted?” He spluttered. “Money is no object, that’s what Morgan said! And he’s the man with the gold, he is!”
The Warlock stopped on the tavern threshold and looked at the dwarf closely. Then she asked carefully,
“Anything?”
A few moments later, the Warlock and Sheriff Rockridge were standing in the Dry Goods Store. Mundy, the proprietor, stood by nodding along as the Sheriff and Warlock spoke.
“Anything I want, eh?” The Warlock had reached the end of her cigar and crunched it under her boot-heel as she crossed the threshold and stood among the crates and barrels.
“Certainly Ma’am,” Mundy acknowledged politely, trying to hide his obvious disgust with the creature who had just walked through his door. “Anything you see here, and if it ain’t here we can try to get it for you. And…”
Mundy was suddenly distracted by the other patrons in the store. An older Tauren and her young companions, two little calves who were clinging to her skirts, were standing by a pile of blankets and linens. One had reached out to touch the thick, heavy softness of a dense red one, and this made Mundy forget about the smell for a moment.
“Hey there, keep your…your dirty hooves offa that!” He spat, and waved his handkerchief at them as if it was a flag. “You there, keep those kids under control! Goddam savages!”
The grizzled old Tauren, who was obviously of little means but not without pride, nodded apologetically but drew the children firmly close. The Warlock looked carefully at the young Tauren, as if she was reminded of something. They stared back at her without blinking. The Tauren were allies of the Forsaken and were a race too ancient to know judgment or fear. She stepped forward.
“If I can have anything, then,” she said, and gathered up a handful of the blankets, then dumped them rather unceremoniously into the old Tauren’s arms.
“No, no,” the old Tauren shook her head, staring nervously at the shopkeeper, whose face was turning purple.
“Tell her it’s alright,” the Warlock said without looking back at Mundy.
“It’s alright,” Mundy said in a quiet and controlled voice, the color in his face not abating, even darkening more when the Warlock took a few jars filled with candy from the front desk and handed them to the little ones, who smiled gratefully.
Their next stop was the clothier. Alexis Jennings was a tailor of some repute, and Averno’s nouveau riche had expensive tastes. The Warlock that now stood in her parlor, reeking of gore and grinning wickedly, was not what she’d had in mind when she had set up a shop there. Nevertheless, this was the Warlock that was going to save them from Moe and his boys.
“How’s that one feel?” She asked, as the Warlock draped a hemp cloak with a gold and pearl clasp over her shoulders.
“Not bad at all,” the Warlock croaked back. “I’ll take it.”
“Very good, Madam! So that’s three pairs of hand-stitched boots, embroidered belt with a silver buckle, the woolen cloak…five and two, carry the nine…”
“Ahem,” Rockridge cleared his throat and interrupted her. “That’ll be no charge, Alexis.” And he chuckled with glee when the color drained from her face.
By now a small crowd had gathered to watch the Warlock, led by Mordecai. He stood faithfully by the Warlock with his trusty box of matches in hand. She left a trail of cigar butts along the road.
Their last stop was the tavern. Mayor Harding was talking to Henry, the bartender, waiting for them. He wrinkled his nose as they came in but said little. He greeted the Warlock with the usual protocol, repeating that the town was at her service and would follow any plan she devised for Moe’s defeat.
But she didn’t want to talk business. The Warlock only wanted to buy everyone a drink.
“Even me?” Mordecai asked. “Do I get a get a glass of beer?”
I said, everyone,” the Warlock said. “You, barkeep, what’ll ya have?”
“Thank you very kindly, Madam!” The bartender said, opening the cabinet underneath the counter. “I’ll have a cigar! Now, including the cigar and drinks, that comes to about…”
“Ah, there’s no charge, Henry,” Rockridge said, his fat lips still fixed in the same smile underneath his grizzled moustache. “You was at the meetin’! Whatever she wants, she gets!”
“I…I didn’t know that meant free whiskey and cigars,” Henry sniffled.
“Everybody’s gotta put somethin’ in the kitty, right?” Rockridge countered, his smile widening. He didn’t notice the Warlock’s two orbs shift and turn, and then roll towards him like two granite boulders.
“Right,” she declared. “And since you ain’t a law man, Rockridge, you won’t mind if this town gets a new Sheriff.”
She ripped the shining star from his shirt pocket, then turned to the gnome next to her and pinned it on his vest instead.
“I’m the Sheriff?” He asked, and the Warlock nodded while taking a long draw from her smoke. She drink with deep satisfaction as the little gnome declared triumphantly,
“I’m the Sheriff!”
“You…little…runt…” Rockridge gagged.
“I’m not a runt anymore!” Mordecai said, standing on the bar stool. “I’m the Sheriff!”
“And the mayor,” the Warlock snatched Harding’s felt top hat off his head and dropped it on Mordecai’s. “Any objections?”
“AND I’m the mayor?” Mordecai squealed with glee. “I’m the Sheriff! I’m the Mayor! No more, Mordecai, clean up the mess! Mordecai, fetch the water, do the laundry, shovel the stalls! I’m gonna declare a holiday! Hawt damn!
Hawt DAMN!”
The room was filled with pale, sweaty faces and wild staring eyes. No objections. In fact, nobody said a word. Except for Mordecai, who had noticed a deficiency with his new job title.
“Wait,” he said, “I don’t have a gun. How can I be Sheriff without a gun?”
“All of you need a gun,” the Warlock said. “If we’re going to form a regiment.”
“A…a regiment?” Harding managed to gag.
“The City of Averno Municipal Volunteers,” she replied, her grinning face masked in smoke. “Everyone here is a member.”
She turned to Rockridge, who was shining with sweat and white as a sheet.
“Our next stop is the gunsmith.”
* * *
“Well, that’s that.”
At these words from the Warden, the stockade doors opened, and three men walked out.
They stood blinking in the bright noonday sun. Waves of heat shuddered in the dust that circled their ankles. The Warden followed, and unceremoniously tossed their weapons in the sand. He backed up carefully, holding his large gun at the ready, as they picked them up. He was the most concerned about the warlock, who picked up his staff without taking his eyes away from the Warden’s face.
“What about the horses?” Moe asked, in a low, grating voice. “We had three good animals.”
“A man of your persuasion don’t need no horse,” the Warden sneered, as he turned and walked back under the gate. “Besides, whatcha think you been eating the past few months?”
“I didn’t eat my own horse,” Jerome said in a pouty voice, as he picked his rifle up and dusted his pants off. “He just up and sold ’em, that’s what he done!”
“Shadap, you imbecile,” Moe snorted, calmly picking up his staff.
“What that’s what he done!” Jerome spouted back.
“I said, shaddap,” Moe growled back. “When we get to Averno, you can have Harding’s horse. Fried or barbecued.”
Both men snickered at the joke. Larry was staring at the horizon as he strapped his gun belt on.
“Looks like we walk some,” he said, squinting through the dusty air. “He and Morgan don’t seem to have remembered.”
“Oh, they’ll remember,” Moe’s voice hardened. “One way or another, they’ll remember.”
* * *
The Gunsmith, a dwarf nick-named Flint, had to bite his upper lip to keep it from trembling when the Warlock stepped over his threshold.
He was ordered to outfit the “regiment” with his finest rifles. The shopkeepers certainly looked funny picking up the weapons that they didn’t understand how to use. Only Harding picked his up with confidence. Morgan was no-where to be seen.
“All right,” the Warlock paced back and forth in front of the tavern. “You expect Moe and his boys about sunrise. You’re all scared as Fel, too scared to do anything about it.”
The Warlock stepped from the last wooden stair down onto the pale, rocky street. She tossed the butt of her cigar into the wind, which came whipping between the wooden buildings with a sudden angry fierceness. The coppery hint of blood lingered in the dust that hovered around her ankles.
“A few guns and lookouts on the rooftops,” She stood in the middle of the empty street and gestured with her gloved hand, “an easy ambush even if you can’t shoot straight.”
The wind hissed against the dry gravel. Then she heard the ghostly voice as it whispered among the broken rocks.
Help me.
Ah, so it speaks. The Warlock was not surprised. Her suspicion that an angry ghost haunted Averno had been confirmed. She turned and regarded the townsfolk. They were watching her intently and had clearly heard nothing.
The wind whistled, this time a strange unearthly shriek in her undead ears, followed by the same harrowed whisper, help me.
That man who had been killed in the street by Moe’s succubus; the former sheriff by the name of James. How long ago had he died in this very street?
“Everyone take a place, see to it that you have a clear view of the road…except you,” and the Warlock pointed to Henry, the proprietor of the tavern. “I need a drink.”
Grateful but confused, the humble bartender shuffled into the shade of his workplace. The Warlock followed, and when she reached the top stair still not a person moved. She sighed, then turned suddenly and snarled rather loudly,
“I said, get up there!”
That was enough to keep them busy for a few minutes. Henry stepped behind the bar and said, “I…um…beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am, but I thought we was…”
“A bottle and a light,” the Warlock ignored his attempt at a question, and produced another cigar from her pack as Henry uncorked the bottle. “I want you tell me about this James fellow, the one who was bull-whipped in the street.”
Henry coughed uncomfortably, and a bit of the whiskey dribbled from the mouth of the bottle. His hands were shaking. The Warlock snatched it away before he could spill any more.
“I…maybe…you might want to ask Mayor Harding about that, ma’am.”
“You mean you didn’t see it happen?” The Warlock moved the unlit cigar that was hanging between her lips and eyed him suggestively.
“Well…we…of course, we all saw it happen.” Henry fumbled about for flint and tinder. Sweat dripped down his face and made his fingertips slick.
“So it was Moe and his succubus? And the whole town just stood around and watched?”
Tired of waiting, the Warlock produced her own flint and tinder and lit the cigar herself. Clouds of smoke swirled around her head.
“L..like I said Ma’am, maybe you should go talk to Harding…”
“Fine,” the Warlock sneered. She had been looking for an excuse to corner the Mayor anyway. “In the meantime..is that your coach out back?”
“Well…no ma’am, that’s Morgan’s private coach. Saves it for when he takes…um…company to one of the rooms upstairs. In fact, I was told to send it out at sunset…”
“Then you have time to put it to use for me,” the Warlock said. “Step out back and drive those horses out into the street. Let’s give our regiment some target practice.”
The Warlock didn’t have time to see the color drain from Henry’s face. She grabbed her whiskey bottle and headed back out to the porch.
The regiment had taken their places on the rooftops. Some were in second floor windows or on balconies.
Alexis was there, watching the preparations and fingering her knife. When she saw the Warlock, it seemed to take no notice of her. She was puffing a cigar and had just obtained a fresh whiskey bottle.
The tailor wasn’t really thinking about what she was going to do. The Warlock stopped, with her back to her, and seemed to be listening to something. Alexis got close enough to see her very own stitching on the cloak before the Warlock spoke.
“You’re gonna look awfully funny with that knife sticking out of your ass,” she snarled, turning to glare at Alexis. Her eyes narrowed at the tailor, who was speechless and out of breath.
“Where’s Harding?” The Warlock asked, taking a swig of whiskey. “You know, don’t you?”
Alexis gagged and shook her head in response but could not speak. She put away her knife and returned to the shade of the porch.
Mordecai was standing in the street as well, proudly brandishing the huge handgun that he had procured from the gunsmith. He was the Sheriff, after all, and that meant he got the biggest gun.
“Orders, Cap’n?” He asked, when the Warlock turned away from Alexis.
“You’ve got target practice,” she said bluntly. “The bartender…Henry is it? Is going to drive a coach down the street. You and the regiment pretend its Moe and his buddies and shoot away.”
“Harding’s coach?” The little gnome was grinning ear to ear. How many times had he been forced to polish up the ebony wheels, or launder those hideous velvet drapes?
“Yes ma’am!”
A clopping sound announced the approaching coach. It was a fine one indeed. The Warlock wasn’t looking in Alexis’ direction any more, but heard her gasp audibly and scurry off. Henry was sitting in the driver’s seat, looking very nervous.
As soon as Mordecai yelled, “Fire!”, he jumped from the seat and ran for cover.
He probably could have stayed safe exactly where he was.
Gunshots rang out over the dusty little street. Not a single one even nicked the moving coach.
“Fire! FIRE!” Mordecai yelled over and over again, his voice now sounding more like a desperate cry for help than a command.
The Warlock sighed, and waited for the unscathed coach to draw closer. When it came within range, she raised her hand and called upon the powers of Fel.
The coach erupted in green and red flames. The horses screamed, and broke from their charred tethers to bolt down the street. The coach ground to a halt and stood in the middle of the street. The burning ebony wood popped and crackled like a pile of pine cones.
The regiment had scrambled from their perches to stand and watch the fireworks. One muttered to Mordecai, “Can she do that every time?”
“Damn right she can,” the little gnome answered proudly.
The Warlock smiled calmly and puffed at her cigar as the coach burned merrily away in the centre of the street.
* * *
It wasn’t long before Moe and his compatriots came across some fresh horses.
The dwarf who was doing the washing up by the campfire was rather surprised when the succubus sauntered over the dry brush and smiled at him. She took no notice of his two human companions, who were sound asleep only a few feet away. Instead, to his amazement and pleasure, the creature gave him her full attention.
He was so mesmerized by her demonic whiles that he didn’t notice the three strangers that calmly followed her. Two drew their swords and guns and slaughtered his companions in cold blood while they still slumbered. They struck the bodies ruthlessly and with furious anger. They were clearly on a path that was drawn in blood and driven by revenge.
“That’s enough, Zoisite,” Moe said, and raised his hand.
As he spoke the horrible word, Zoisite released the dwarf from her whiles and unleashed her lethal whip. It cracked over his eyes and blinded him as his body burst into strips of orange and green flame. He tried to scream and run, but he was a dead man stumbling. Larry grinned with glee and finished him with a gunshot.
“You could have let him burn,” Moe said casually, staring at the burning heap with a ravenous hunger that seem to possess all warlocks. “Nobody can hear him.”
“They´ll have a search party out as it is,” Larry said. “Now, who gets to ride the goat?”
They both looked at Jerome.
“I’m a victim of circumstance,” Jerome simpered, as he grabbed the reins of a rather undersized Alterac ram.
Larry and Moe laughed viciously. They mounted up and started to ride towards Averno as the moon rose in a sharp crescent over the sand dunes.
* * *
Of course Alexis knew where Harding was. He had taken a place with his rifle in her shop, with the supposed intention of using the balcony upstairs as a vantage point. Upon reaching her comfortable and familiar bedroom, however, he leaned his rifle against the wall and lit a cigar. He sighed and sat in a big, comfortable chair and didn’t even bother to draw the curtains. When he heard Mordecai yelling, he rolled his eyes and wondered what they were shooting at but couldn’t be bothered to look. He took a long draw and blew it towards the ceiling.
Idiots, he thought, blowing a puff of smoke into the ceiling. After all this was over, he’d crawl into Alexis’ bed for a few days and let Morgan take care of the business for a while. Where was he, anyway? He could handle a rifle, couldn’t he? He was disappointed that Alexis wasn’t here as well, but she turned up only moments later.
She came puffing up the stairs, and her eyes had a wild look in them. Her skin was pale but her cheeks were flushed.
“Oh, there you are, my dear,” he said, taking little or no notice of her obviously agitated state. “I was hoping you could…”
“Harding, you idiot!” She choked. “Haven’t you been watching? Don’t you understand what she…what that thing is doing?”
“Now, Alexis, honey,” Harding said sweetly, paying no attention to the window, “be a little patient, will you?” He stood up and left his gun behind, leaning against the armchair. “When you meet a creature like this, who’s used to having her way, you let her have it…until she goes too far.”
“Too…far?” Alexis choked and started to raise her voice. “Just what do you consider going too far? Isn’t murder and destruction of personal property even a misdemeanor in this town?”
“There now, honey,” Harding said gently, putting his hands on her shoulders, “There’s too much at stake to throw away on hysterics now.”
“Hysterics?” Alexis voice lowered to a hissing snarl. “Hysterics? I can remember some hysterics! One night not too long ago…”
“That´s enough, Alexis,” Harding’s voice hardened and he gripped her shoulders in a sudden panic. “You keep your mouth shut!”
“What hysterics?” another voice croaked from the doorway. For a moment the only sound in the room was the swish of liquor inside a near-empty whiskey bottle.
Harding turned his head and found himself looking at the Warlock.
* * *
The Warlock stood in the street and stared at the burning coach rather intently, taking the occasional swig from her whiskey bottle. While the ‘Regiment’ cheered at the rudimentary fireworks, her undead ears heard that husky voice again, underneath the crack and hiss of the warping wood.
Help me…help me, damn you.
So, the Warlock thought, you asked for help. Obviously none came. And what did you do then, perturbed spirit?
Curse you, the ghostly voice whispered. Curse you all.
Oh, I see. The Warlock thought. Your curse has come, my companion in Fel.
It was time to find Harding. She had seen Alexis run back into her shop when the coach had clattered out into the street.
The Warlock produced another cigar, and as Mordecai lit it she told him to find out if there was anyone staying in the hotel, and to remove them if there were. Then she turned and strode into the tailor shop. She saw nobody, but heard rather tense voices at the top of the stairs.
“I can remember some hysterics one night not too long ago…”
“That’s enough, Alexis! You keep your mouth shut!”
“What hysterics?” The Warlock asked, as a way to announce her presence.
Harding stared at her, speechless. Alexis’ eyes were fixed on the window, however. The curtains were almost closed; there was a strip of light between them. Something outside was making the light bob and weave in a strange way. The Warlock laughed softly. Smoke hissed out from between her teeth.
Harding let go of Alexis’ shoulders and turned towards the window. He threw open the curtains and stared in horror at the bonfire that was still burning in the middle of the street.
“My…coach…” He murmured, his voice cracking in disbelief.
“My…beautiful…coach…”‘
The Warlock smiled and took a generous swig, leaving the bottle empty. “My coach, actually,” she hissed. “Shame you missed target practice.”
Harding spun away from the window, his face purple with rage. He picked up the gun and pointed it at the Warlock. Alexis screamed and dropped to the floor.
Harding’s anger only skewed his aim slightly. The glass bottle shattered. The Warlock’s right side was torn open, leaving a smoldering hole in her robe. Slivers of bone and glass glittered on the dull wood planks.
“No need for hysterics, Harding,” the Warlock limped towards him, oblivious to her injuries, still holding the broken glass bottleneck in her hand.
Harding’s eyes were wide with a mixture of terror and anger. The Warlock could smell the hot blood in his cheeks and heard the pulpy flesh tighten around his muscles.
He raised the rifle again, and cocked it. His trigger finger tensed.
The gun went off, but the Warlock moved suddenly and quickly. She ducked to the side as the powder and bullet blazed past her, and neatly sliced one of Harding’s outstretched arms with the broken glass. She grabbed it fiercely and was able to take a generous, slurping drink from the open vein before he struggled free and ran from the room.
The gun fell to the floor with a dull thud. Alexis scrambled after him.
The Warlock stood swaying the room for a moment, carefully licking the fresh gore from her lips. She still clutched the piece of bloody broken glass, and her long grey tongue and wizened mouth sucked at it as if it was a piece of candy.
As she limped down the stairs, she heard hoof beats on the ground, and Alexis’ voice screaming,
“Harding! Take me with you…she’ll kill me! Harding!”
The Warlock appeared in the street just in time to see Harding disappear in a cloud of dust into the sunset. A few stars were starting to peep out in the eastern sky. The Warlock puffed at her cigar and lurched towards the inn. There was some commotion at the front door. A few disgruntled guests were arguing with Mordecai about being thrown out of their accommodations.
“If you don’t like it, she’s standing right there.” The gnome said boldly. “Go on ahead and tell her!”
Only one was bold enough to do so; Hagar the Priest. She marched down the stairs and faced the Warlock as she limped up to them, obviously wounded but self-possessed as ever.
“You cannot turn these people out in the street!” The dwarf declared fiercely, trying to ignore the reek of blood and dead flesh that always surrounded the undead. “It’s inhuman, sister, inhuman!”
“I’m not your sister,” the Warlock snarled, puffing at her cigar and regarding the priest with comic interest.
“We are all brothers and sisters in the Holy Light,” Hagar retorted.
“So these people then, they’re all your brothers and sisters?” The Warlock’s smile widened.
“Indeed they are,” the priest acknowledged boldly.
“Well then,” the Warlock’s fierce smile stretched across her face, “they can all stay at your place.”
The pallor on Hagar’s face resembled the colour of chalk. The Warlock went into the inn as the guests filed out, grumbling quietly. She heard Hagar saying,
“We’ll be finding space for you in our own homes…yes, and it won’t cost you more than regular hotel rates.”
Mordecai was sitting at the bar, waiting. He looked rather alarmed when he saw her.
“You alright there, Cap’n?” He asked.
“I’ll be taking the finest room in the house,” she ignored Mordecai and spoke to Henry. “Send up a bottle, will you?”
She would need the space to brew a few healing potions before pursuing Harding. She was not in a hurry; her mount was fast, and her goal was not to catch him.
* * *
The marble quarry was only about an hour’s ride out of town, and Moe had no intention of stopping there. However, when they saw a rider blundering towards them, they came to a halt.
“Wonder who that could be,” Larry said, squinting through the dim moonlight.
“They’re in a bad way, whoever they are,” Jerome said. Even from that distance, the rider apparently had a bad injury on their left arm.
“Don’t you boys recognize that handsome bay?” Moe’s thin, pale lips stretched into a greedy smile, “It’s our old friend Harding!”
* * *
The Warlock had finished with her herbs; she thought of going to the tailor for repairs to her clothes as well. The thought made her cackle so hard she almost didn’t hear the rap at her door. She turned and saw the door open, and the Troll chambermaid appeared with a fresh bottle of whiskey. Not too surprising that Henry would have sent the girl. He was cowering quite a bit when she saw him downstairs.
“You be wantin’ another bottle,” the troll spoke quietly but didn’t flinch or cower like the others. Trolls were even older than the Tauren, and much more fierce.
The Warlock motioned the Troll closer.
“Open it,” she said, “and tell me why Morgan and the CG would have wanted to kill that Marshall.”
“There be nobody that want to talk about that,” she answered, as she uncorked the bottle, “but maybe today, my name be Nobody. So I tell you.”
The Warlock smiled appreciatively and took a generous swallow, listening intently.
“There be a big safe in Morgan’s office. That where the plans and maps for the mine be. It show where the gold be, and where they dig. I not be knowin’ how, but the Marshall, he find the plans, and he find out where the mine going. That the gold be under an old troll city to the east, in the desert. If anyone find out…”
“The Trolls rightfully own the gold, and not CG,” the Warlock smiled. “Not only would Morgan and Harding lose everything, but so would their investors. This sorry town would fall apart. So he asked Moe and his boys to finish him off with a few gunshots and a succubus.”
“You been speakin’ with the Spirit,” the troll smiled. “Yeah, you be here for him. You be his curse. He been waitin’ for ya.”
The troll’s face darkened as she continued.
“And I be waitin’ for ya, too. James…the Marshall…he be a just man. He tell me about the gold. He tell me my people should have it. The night he die, Henry trick me. He lock me in the cellar. I…I hear the Marshall die. And I be helpless.”
The Warlock took a deep, long drink and rose from her chair.
“I’ll be following Harding now,” the Warlock said. “Prepare my horse, will you?”
There was a moment of silence. Then the two dark sisters shared a laugh.
* * *
The gash in Harding’s arm was deep and ugly, as if someone with long, sharp teeth had sliced it and taken a bite out of him. He had lost a lot of blood. His cheeks were almost grey and covered in a thin film of sweat. Moe had pulled him off his horse and they were crouched together in the dirt. His two compatriots stood nearby, impatiently fingering their weapons.
“Moe…” He stammered, breathing heavily, “Moe…things are…Averno has changed…you gotta know…”
“Easy there, Harding,” Moe smiled his thin, hungry smile. “There’s only one thing we need. The combination to that great big safe in Morgan’s office. You just give us that combination, and we’ll patch up yer arm, prop you up in a little tent over there, with a nice cool waterskin…”
As Moe spoke, Harding’s face twisted with rage. A flush of colour passed over his cheeks.
“I’ll give you the combination,” He choked, “The combination to the gates of Fel!”
Moe, whose patience had already been wearing thin, finally lost his temper. He pulled out his staff and smashed Harding’s head open. It took a few steady blows for him to die. As he gagged out his final breath, blood poured from his wounds and formed in a sticky puddle on the dusty ground.
“Sure had a lot of blood left in him, didn’t he?” Jerome chuckled. The others laughed with him.
“I guess we’ll have to blast it,” Larry said, still thinking about the safe.
“We could,” Moe said, grinning at the blood dripping from his knife, “or we could persuade Morgan to…”
The small shrub that Harding was lying beneath in exploded in a ball of orange and green flame, sending Moe and his companions reeling more than a few yards. They scrambled to regroup by a rocky outcropping near their terrified mounts.
“He burned my ear off!” Jerome was screaming and holding the side of his face.
“Must be Morgan,” Larry hissed angrily, peeking out of the shelter and trying to get a look.
“He burned me! He burned my ear off!”
“Shaddup!” Moe snarled back. “Lucky he didn’t burn yer whole head!”
Moe peered out carefully. There did seem to be a figure crouched on the far side of the quarry, at a higher vantage point.
“Morgan!” Moe yelled. “Harding would never have survived that wound! We just put out him out of his misery….”
For a moment they saw and heard nothing but the whining call of the desert wind. Then a low, droning hum before another explosive flew through the air and blasted their meager shelter. There was only a dark void and no noise or fire. It took them a few minutes to dig them from the sand and rock. They heard the galloping hoof beats, fading as they headed towards Averno.
“By the gods,” Moe was still dusting himself off, “when I find out who that was…Jerome! Grab that bay! It’s time to burn down Averno!”
* * *
Morgan, usually so calm to the point of being unearthly, was trembling. Their numbers were dwindling. It seems that Henry had taken to hiding as well. And where was Harding? From what Alexis had told him, it didn’t sound like he was coming back. Both she and Hagar had rushed into his office at the same time, both in a state of extreme agitation.
Alexis had just finished whimpering about her store and the destruction of Harding’s coach. Hagar was growling about immorality and disrespect to the Holy Light.
“That’s enough, both of you,” he said angrily. “Promising is one thing, paying is another! She just might catch a stray Hammer of Justice. We could afford to hire a Paladin! Would that satisfy your monetary loss and moral outrage, ladies?”
They were silent, but he could tell by the hard, angry looks in their eyes that this would satisfy them just fine.
“They’ll be here soon,” Morgan hissed. “I’ll be joining the regiment on the rooftops; taking Harding’s place, as it were. If I were you, I’d find a place to hide. Now get out.”
The moment his two visitors had disappeared from sight, Harding didn’t pick up his gun right away. He grabbed a suitcase and frantically started to fill it, starting with the contents of his safe. Then he picked up his gun, saw to it that it was locked and loaded, and at last he crouched by the window, waiting.
* * *
The Warlock rode calmly back to Averno. Mordecai was waiting for her in front of the inn.
“They’re coming,” she said. “Everyone better be ready.”
“Yes Cap’n,” Mordecai said, with a quick salute. Then he and the Warlock stepped into the tavern, where the simpering regiment was waiting for their orders.
“Alright now, they’re on their way!” The little gnome bellowed. “Everyone take their places!”
They moved rather slowly, but one withering look from the Warlock and they quickened their pace. Mordecai lit yet another one of her cigars, and the Warlock sighed out a large puff of smoke and moved towards the bar.
“Um..ain’t ya gonna give the order to fire?” The gnome asked, as she took a stool.
“Nope,” she answered. “You are.”
There was no sign of the bartender. The Warlock puffed patiently, and after a moment the chambermaid appeared. She had a strange grin on her face.
“What you be havin’?” She asked.
“Beer and another bottle,” she said, and then rather coyly added, “you can keep the key to the cellar.”
“Morgan be on his own tonight,” she smiled and brandished the copper key. “This time he be the one who get tricked.”
The Warlock nodded in quiet satisfaction and started to drink her beer. The troll placed another whiskey bottle on the bar.
There were a few moments of silence. They heard the clatter and thud of footsteps on the roof.
“You really be wantin’ to save this town?” The troll asked after a moment.
“To be honest,” the Warlock mumbled into an empty beer glass, “I don’t know if I like this town all that much.”
The troll smiled again, this time wide enough to show her sharp teeth.
“I be leavin’ soon’,” the troll said, and her voice grew husky with a dark warning, “And I be bringin’ my people back to claim what be theirs. If you be here when we come…”
“I won’t be,” the Warlock waved her hand dismissively. “I just rolled into town for a drink and a peaceful smoke. I don’t care for your gold or Morgan’s mine.”
“If you say so, then that the way it be,” the troll said, and she seemed satisfied.
The Warlock took the bottle, drew a long, deep breath from her cigar, and rose to leave. But she didn’t head for the front door. She walked towards the back door.
“You be watchin’ yer back, Warlock,” the Troll called after her. “The people, they be afraid of you, and that make them dangerous.”
“It’s what these people know about themselves inside that makes them afraid,” the Warlock said without looking back. She turned away and disappeared into the dark night.
* * *
Moe only rode a mortal steed to the quarry so as not to leave his companions behind. Now, he had mounted his felsteed and rode a few meters in front.
Mordecai saw the cloud of silvery dust approaching them in the moonlight. All three were riding hard.
“Here they come!” The gnome yelled, drawing his own weapon.
The riders were visible in the dull light. Moonlight shimmered off the lake, creating three stark silhouettes against the grey sand. In only a few seconds they would be in range.
The wooden house nearest to the riders suddenly burst into flames. An angry little imp hopped in with the horses, screeching and throwing balls of green fire.
“Fire!” Mordecai screamed, “Fire, fire, fire!”
Hardly a shot was fired by the regiment. Most dropped their guns and ran in fear as the three horses rode into town. Mordecai managed to fire a shot or two, but he too ran in fear when Moe blazed through the street on his unholy steed with a screaming demon on his shoulder.
Larry fired a few shots, sending most townsfolk screaming. Jerome fired at the rooftops with both pistols, sending the regiment running. Moe threw his fel fire wildly in almost every direction, his little demon lighting up almost everything he missed.
“Get everyone in the tavern,” Moe yelled over the crackling flames, “I want a drink before we burn it down!”
* * *
Henry had managed to escape from the cellar just in time to run into the bar and see Moe and Larry. He was also shocked to see many pale, frightened faces crowded into his bar.
“M…Moe,” he shuddered and looked around nervously. Neither the Warlock nor his chambermaid were anywhere to be seen.
“Get me a bottle,” Moe hissed, observing the frightened crowd and drinking in their terror. “Hurry up!”
He snatched the bottle and took a swig. Then he looked at Larry and asked,
“Where’s Jerome?”
“Right here,” Jerome answered, as he came in the door dragging a struggling female figure, “and look what I found hidin’ in the bushes!”
He tossed the hapless Alexis roughly to the floor. Her hair and clothes were in tatters and she was blubbering loudly. Moe’s poisonous smile widened when he saw her.
She looked up at him and whimpered.
“Moe, it was always you,” she sobbed. “That’s why Harding hated you…he knew how much I loved you!”
“Yeah?” Moe said, his teeth showing as if he planned to take a bite out of her. “I bet you just cried yourself to sleep every night, thinking of me in that territorial prison.”
“Oh, I did, Moe, I really did!” She wailed.
“I can just see it now, you riding around in that fancy coach, lyin’ in that fancy bed, just a-cryin’ and a-humpin’…”
“Oh no, Moe, no,” she whimpered and dropped her eyes.
“Let’s go and see to that safe,” Moe snarled, looking away from Alexis.
“Moe…Moe, you’re gonna take me with you, aren’t you?” Alexis sniffled and looked up at him with dewy eyes.
“I can do better than you in a four-bit Ironforge fancy house,” Moe slurred. Then he viciously threw the half-empty bottle across the room. It smashed, spraying the crowd with whiskey and bits of glass.
“Gimme another one,” he hissed at Henry. “Come on, hurry up! Jerome, why you still standing there?”
“Goddam right, I’m still standin’ here,” he said angrily, the side of his face still caked with what was left of his ear. “Who was the sumbitch that ambushed us in the quarry?”
A number of frightened eyes flickered back and forth, but no-one spoke.
“I got a feeling we’re gonna find that out right now,” Moe snarled, and motioned to his demon.
The captive townsfolk cowered together, holding their collective breath in a terrified silence.
The crack of a whip shattered the unearthly quiet. It swung through the door and wrapped around Jerome’s neck, dragging him outside. Then the vicious giggle of a succubus.
Moe froze for a moment. The shrub that burst into flame; it had been an immolate spell. The explosion in the sand; a shadowbolt. And now…a succubus.
Who was the other Warlock?
Jerome did not have time to look before a vicious whiplash tore through both his eyes. He stumbled blindly into the middle if the street, screaming.
“Who are you?”
The harsh desert wind wailed, the fires that burned in the street spat and hissed. The succubus laughed heartlessly. The townsfolk stood frozen inside, like they had that other dark night, listening, listening to a helpless man scream.
“Don’t hurt me! Please don’t hurt me! Help me! Somebody help me!”
The whip wrapped around Jerome’s neck, silencing him forever. Moe and Larry ran outside and found him lying in the dry sand, mouth and eyes wide, frozen with a mask of terror. There was no sign of a succubus or a warlock, but there was an unmistakable smell that neither man could ignore.
“A Forsaken,” Larry sniffled, and added in a frightened whisper, “Moe, the goddam horses are gone!”
By now the townsfolk had quietly filed out to the porch. They stared with a morose silence at Jerome’s prone body. None made a sound, as if the fear had left them, and all that was left was a dull acceptance.
“Check the barn,” Moe said, trying to look through the smoke and fire that was filling the street. His demon whimpered fitfully.
Larry ran to the barn. He had barely looked inside before he heard a strange whisper. It seemed to rise up from the ground and fill his ears like a cloud of dust.
Help me.
“Who’s there?” He drew his gun. “Who are you?”
Something shuffled in the darkness. A dark figure rose through the dim light. He squinted and cocked his gun.
“Who are you?” He yelled in panic.
This time the whip slipped down from above and tightened around his neck. He was lifted roughly from the ground, his body rocked with violent gagging. Moe rounded the corner just in time to see his legs stop twitching. He too, saw a shadowy figure in the barn, just long enough to send in his demon.
The spiky little creature hissed angrily and bounced towards the fleeting shadow.
There was the flash of metal, then another, and the creature was quickly returned to the Fel fires that spawned it.
Moe growled with frustration, and cast his most fearsome spell. The threshold of the barn was filled with straw and cobwebs and lit up very quickly. Moe could see clearly inside for a moment, but there was nobody there.
Moe turned and stood in the street, brandishing his staff in front of him more like a shield than a weapon.
She was standing in the street, waiting for him. He could see her glowing eyes, and smell the rot of decaying flesh and old blood when she exhaled. In one of her gloved hands she held a sword.
Then he heard a sharp whisper. At first he thought it was her, but it seemed to come from the ground, and sounded oddly familiar.
Help me…
He cast a shadowbolt at her as he ran for cover. It missed. She ran after him and seemed to sail over the ground like a ghost, all glowing eyes, sharp steel and jagged yellow teeth.
“Who are you?” He cried, turning wildly to face her, understanding at last that there was nowhere to run.
“Who are you?”
The blade swept through the dusty air, catching the first pale light of dawn as it drew Moe’s blood. It sliced into his chest, which burst in a shower of blood. The Warlock’s face was doused with it as she drew closer, straightened her sword, and drove it through his collarbone. She ran her long tongue from the hilt to the blade as the blood streamed down it’s shaft, drinking in the warm gore, until she was face to face with him.
“Who…” Moe gurgled, but that was all the breath left in him. She pushed him off the blade and he crumpled into the gravel, dead.
The Warlock stood in place for a moment, hungrily licking the thick blood from her blade. So distracted was she by it’s savory taste that she didn’t hear Morgan’s careful, quiet footsteps behind her.
He raised his gun, aiming carefully.
A shot went off, but it was not his.
This time Mordecai’s aim was true. Morgan fell face down into the dirt, a suitcase stuffed with coin and banknotes resting next to him.
* * *
Hagar clutched her prayer book as the early morning sun started to climb over the sandy dunes, performing the last rites as quickly as protocol would allow. Like many others, she was in a hurry to get out of town. Rumor had it that marauding trolls were on their way to claim the mine.
Mordecai was in the graveyard as well, finally seeing to it that a certain unmarked grave would have a name. The Warlock stopped by him as she was leaving.
“I’m just about done here,” he said quietly. “You sure I can keep the rest of that money?”
“I’ve taken my share. You’re handy with a gun,” she peered at him from under the brim of her hat, orange orbs glittering with mischief. “Get yourself some training.”
“I never did know your name,” he said.
“Yes, you do,” the Warlock replied. Her felsteed growled and hissed, then lurched into the hot desert wind. In only a few short moments, she was gone.
Mordecai stood and watched her fade away. The grave next to him read,
MARSHALL THOMAS JAMES
REST IN PEACE
Notes about the references;
The story is taken from my favorite western film, “High Plains Drifter.” I’ve always based Hyzanthlay’s character on the Drifter somewhat, which Clint Eastwood pulls off in this film with a particular supernatural meanness that any Forsaken Warlock would appreciate.
Lago Averno is the lake just outside of Naples, Italy. Legend has it that this is where the legendary hero Aeneus was shown visions of the future in Virgil’s epic poem “The Aenid”. Local Neapolitans still claim the lake, formed from a volcanic crater, is the gate to Hell. The town in the original movie is called “Lago” and I’m pretty sure the Italian director knew what he was doing.
Consolidated Gold is a mash-up of a few names of Canadian mining companies, which are some of the worst industrial polluters and perpetrators of worker abuse on the planet. They openly shoot union bosses, bribe and coerce local authorities, and flout local environmental laws. Several politicians currently working in the Canadian government are closely connected with Barrick, for example.
Many of the antagonistic townsfolk in the story are named after some of the teachers I knew in junior high school. They were some of the worst people I have ever known. Only in a Catholic School system could these kinds of people have access to children.
Other references include Rockridge, the name of a city from another great western, “Blazing Saddles.” Moe, Larry and Jerome are the names of the Three Stooges.
Zoisite is the name of one of the Dark Generals from the first season of Sailor Moon.
With special thanks to director Sergio Leone and scriptwriter Earnest Tidyman.
