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"The Blade Which Drinks Life"
"The Blade Which Drinks Life"
4/26-4/29/1880
I.
Grimy and exhausted from days in the saddle, Johnny Packard rode slowly down the wide dusty street of Dogleg, Arizona. It was early on an April morning, crisp and clear. Johnny surveyed the town as he passed through on his black horse Terror. Not imposing at all, with no more than a dozen buildings flanking each other on the main street, Dogleg looked as if it had never been an exciting place. There was only one saloon and boarding house, with THE PLUGGED NICKEL painted on a board over its porch. There was a general store called MUIR'S, a stable and leather goods store, a combination post office and sheriff's house, a backsmith's shop and a church that stood alone far down the way.
This boring aspect suited the Brimstone Kid fine. Excitement was the last thing he wanted. There was still dried blood on his clothes that he could not scrub out and the stink of gunpowder clung to him. Just over twenty-one, Johnny was a slightly built redheaded man five feet four inches tall and barely one hundred and fifty pounds. He had on well-worn boots, black Levis and a black denim vest over a red flannel shirt. Strapped low on each leg was a Colt 45 Peacemaker that had seen a lot of use.
Ominous as those guns were, the real danger to the town was tucked inside the beaded hatband of the black Stetson pushed back on that sweaty red hair. Inside that band was a coin minted from an odd reddish metal, marked with arcane symbols no living man could read. It was that Darthan token which was his curse and which made him the Brimstone Kid.
He had to take care of his horse first. That was a rule no self-respecting cowboy would break. Since he had some money on him from the two weeks he had spent fixing up Old Man Hannigan's ranch including replacing most of the fenceposts, Johnny decided to make as fresh a start as he could. He brought Terror to a halt by the open doors of the stable where a watering trough stood. As the black stallion lowered his head and drank, the Kid uncinched his saddle and tugged it off. The saddlebags and bedroll followed. Johnny placed them carefully against the wall of the stable, then went inside.
The owner of the place was Lem Kearney, a middle-aged man with a limp and a shaggy grey beard. He seemed chatty enough. When he came out and saw Terror, the man had nothing but praise for such a magnificent specimen. They discussed terms. After Johnny paid him for the next two days, Kearney fetched a stiff brush and some cloths and began rubbing Terror down. Despite his usual distrust of strangers, the big horse seemed immediately comfortable with Kearney and submitted to being curried.
Leaving his saddle and some gear inside the door, Johnny said goodbye to Terror with some gentle stroking of the black hide and then trudged across the street with his saddlebags over one shoulder. He entered the saloon and promptly downed a shot of whiskey which he followed with gulps from a bottle of German mineral water.
Exhaling sharply, Johnny started to socialize with the proprietor. This was a heavy blondish woman named Bella, hitting sixty and comfortable with it, and she immediately claimed Johnny as her forlorn pet to care for. She told him he looked like Hell and Damnation, and he had to agree.
Johnny paid for a room for the next two days and asked if a bath was available. Clapping her hands, Bella summoned a pretty young Mexican girl and barked out orders in Spanish. As the girl sped to her chore, Bella said, "Chiquita will bring the iron tub into your room now. In about ten minutes or so, I promise she'll be fillin' that bucket with hot soapy water fer you."
"Ma'am, I am much obliged," Johnny said. He was holding his hat in both hands. "Nothing sounds more rewarding to me just now."
Bella escorted him to a room right at the top of the stairs behind the bar. It was big enough, not fancy, but clean and airy with an open window. There was a four-poster bed and a dresser, a commode in a cabinet and a full-length mirror on the inside of the door. As Bella had promised, the Mexican girl had tugged in an ornate steel bathtub that stood on four legs. Even as the Kid unbuckled his gunbelt and hung it on the bed's headboard, Chiquita bustled back in with a bucket of steamy water which she gleefully dumped in the tub.
"She'll fetch two more and then you can be left alone to soak," Bella said. "At noon, we start serving meals. Plain honest food, usually steak or pork chops, boiled potatoes and greens but it's all fresh and cooked proper."
The Brimstone Kid bowed his head politely. Johnny looked even younger than he was, being clean-shaven and with sharp features. The deepset green eyes had lost some of the bitter suspicion they usually held. "It was sheer Providence that led me here, ma'am."
As the girl returned with more sudsy water, Bella laughed heartily. "Them words is music to my ears, Mr Packard. Come down when you want to fill yer belly."
Two hours later, scrubbed and refreshed after a nap, wearing his spare shirt and socks, Johnny was finishing the big china plate of beef stew with drop biscuits and having a glass of beer. He felt as if the filthy young saddle tramp who had ridden into Dogleg was someone else. As Chiquita took away his plate, she left a dish with a thick slab of apple cobbler on it and Johnny devoured it almost with one bite. Most of his meals were tough and tasteless affairs of flapjacks made with water, dried beans boiled in a tin mug, or the occasional jackrabbit he shot or fish he infrequently caught when a stream was in the area. He was grateful for this day.
Leaving a half dollar on the table, waving to Bella over behind the bar, the Kid stepped out into a noonday sun. He needed to check on Terror, then he planned to return to his room and maybe read that dime novel he had purchased in El Paso. It featured Tom Pinto, "the Scourge of the Great Plains," and Johnny wondered how much the story would be like the real Tom Pinto he had met.
As he tugged the Stetson down firmly on his head, he could feel the Darthan token in the band was cold and inert. Good. He needed some peaceful times.
A few days dozing in this town would suit him fine. Then Johnny saw a couple riding slowly up the street on matching chestnut horses. A tiny woman with gold hair and a big bruiser of a man with shoulders wider than most doorways. When they spotted him, the man and woman started riding his way. Johnny knew he didn't have to go looking for trouble, it was always eager to find him.
II.
With a sinking heart, the Kid watched them head toward him. He stood on the steps in front of THE PLUGGED NICKEL with his hands down by his sides. His right palm just brushed the butt of his Colt. At least I got even a brief break in my nightmare of a life, he thought.
The man approaching was way over six feet tall, brawny as a lumberjack, with big hands and thick limbs. Without a hat for some reason, he had shaggy brown hair and beard, and he wore dark jeans and a heavy coat with a fur-lined collar. Strapped to his right hip was an old-fashioned Navy pistol, and in a boot behind his saddle was a two-handled straight sword in a leather scabbard.. not a weapon often seen on the frontier.
Riding slightly ahead of him, the woman wore man's clothing... boots, tan pants and a corded blue shirt with an open leather vest. She wasn't carrying any weapons that Johnny could see. The blonde was tiny, barely five feet tall and not even a hundred pounds. Her long golden blonde hair was tied behind her to cover her ears and hang down her back.
There was something off about her. Johnny didn't quite know what it was. She looked maybe thirty, maybe a bit younger, but those pale amber eyes were so sharp and self-aware that he felt uncomfortable under her stare. The Kid had thought that the big lug might be trouble but now he was sure that this little blonde was a threat of some kind.
Reining in their horses in front of him, the two did not smile and neither did he.
"I believe you are Jonathan Packard, called by many the Brimstone Kid?" asked the woman in a husky voice with the strangest accent. It had a singing quality that reminded him of Chinese.
"You have the advantage of me, ma'am," he answered carefully.
"Know that I am Embar of Elvedal," the woman said. "And this is my trusted servant Durgan of Androval."
"I take you at your word, then. Not that I ever heard tell of Elvedal or Androval, if they're places. 'Pears you have come looking for me, am I right?"
"Indeed." Nimbly as if she weighed almost nothing, Embar dismounted and handed her reins to the broad hand of her companion. "Come closer. There is something you must see."
As Johnny drew near, Embar glanced around and then pulled her hair aside to reveal an ear which rose to a sharp point.
"I must say, I'm at a loss," the Kid said. He thumbed his hat far back on his head and stared. "What am I to make of this?"
"Know that I am not a Human like yourself, but one of the immortal Eldarin. I am in fact a member of the royal family related to King Elzulang himself," she said. "Can you not sense it?"
Johnny did not hesitate. "Truth be told, I've been places and I've seen things in my time that ain't part of the natural order any way you look at it. I reckon you and your... Eldarin, was it? Your folk are one more."
Embar smiled with a smugness that should have been irritating. "You are deeper into the Midnight War than you know, Brimstone Kid. I want you to accompany myself and my comrade on a dangerous task. Failure will mean worse than death for us all."
"Heh. You got me pegged right, ma'am. Telling me that somethin' is too scary to try is exactly the way to get me to do it. I guess I'm a fool that way."
"Then hear me out. Come. Sit with us in the shade and I will tell you of my unfortunate brother and his tragedy. He is now wielder against his will of Hellspawn, the Blade Which Drinks Life...."
III.
Three days later, they camped in the foothills near the Mexican border. Before leaving Dogleg, Embar and her bodyguard had purchased a third horse to carry supplies. Evidently Durgan was carrying a fortune concealed on his person as he kept pulling out thick wads of the big bills from various pockets. They had paid Johnny an advance of two hundred dollars immediately. He now had spare shirts and socks packed away, as well as two boxes of cartridges for his Peacemakers.
They had crossed into terrain that was almost ridiculously rugged and difficult to negotiate, with many jagged rocks stabbing upward and sudden holes in the ground that had to be circled. The sparse dry grass and stunted bushes were spaced far apart and they saw little more than an occasional jackrabbit or lizard.
Embar had pointed out a fast-moving stream running down from the mountains ahead of them. They stopped to fill their canteens and water the horses, and both she and Durgan scrubbed her heads and arms in the water. Johnny followed suit, still uneasy around these strange people. He had accepted that Embar was not really Human. Aside from the weird amber-colored eyes and pointed ears, her senses seemed much sharper than a normal person's.
As far Durgan, the big man was what she called a Melgar, a 'Cousin of Man,' whatever that was. Johnny watched Durgan casually roll away boulders too massive for two husky men to handle, clearing a space for them. Night fell abruptly out here and they wanted to be set up before dark.
Seeing that Terror was well taken care of and was munching contentedly from a feed bag of oats, Johnny quietly removed his hat and hung it on his saddle horn. It was getting too close to nightfall for comfort. He had begun to feel the change coming on. As long as he was not in contact with the hat which held the cursed token, he would not transform.
He glanced up to find Embar watching him thoughtfully. Her golden eyes flashed in the sunset. "Ma'am," he said.
"We know of the Darthan coin you carry," said Embar in her odd accent. The Eldar woman had selected a likely spot for a fire and was walking around gathering bits of dry wood. "It is older than you may realize. When the Darthim minted that token, this land you call the West had not been formed yet."
"If you say, Miss Embar," Johnny replied. He joined her in setting up the wood, piling some leaves and twigs to use as tinder. "I know my letters, I can add and subtract but I sure don't have much book learnin'."
Dropping lightly to her knees, Embar took a piece of flint from her belt and struck sparks against her knife blade. When faint tendrils of smoke rose from the twigs, she breathed upon it and flames sprang up. The Eldar woman smiled triumphantly and arranged larger branches.
The Brimstone Kid watched her uneasily. She was beautiful enough, with delicately-cut features and flawless golden skin. Under the simple clothing, her body was slender and sleek, with small high breasts and a remarkably narrow waist. Yet he felt no attraction toward her. There was something alien and 'off' about the woman that troubled him. Suspicion had become bone-deep in the way he regarded the world.
As the fire caught and Durgan busied himself unburdening the horses, Johnny Packard ventured to sit on the ground near the fire. He shifted his gunbelt to get more comfortable but did not remove it. "What can you tell me about these... Darthim folk?"
"Better for you that you never meet them," Embar said. "The Darthim are cruel and arrogant, their gralic magick is strong and those who draw their attention regret it as they suffer."
Johnny ruffled his damp red hair with gloved fingers. "That coin sure don't make life any better for me," he sighed. "Before Machingtok cursed me with it, I was called Brimstone Kid only because I hailed from the west Texas town of Brimstone. It was just my handle. Now, when night falls, I become something dark and dangerous, the real Brimstone Kid." He gave a bitter laugh. "Even my horse Terror changes and the darn fool critter enjoys it."
"It is a peril to your very soul," Embar told him. "The best you may do is to channel the gralic force from that coin and put your demonic self to good use. That will not be easy. It is like tricking the scorpion to sting only on command."
"True words were never spoken, Miss Embar." Johnny got to his feet and stretched. "I do believe I will boil some water and make good strong tea for everone." He froze into position, then swung around and lunged to fetch his hat. Even as his hand gripped the brim, they all heard the scraping of leather against rock all around them.
IV.
"I suggest we make no moves that might alarm these gents," the Kid said in a low voice. Holding his black Stetson by the brim, he kept his hands in plain view and far from his guns. The imposing bulk of Durgan placed itself next to Embar after which they held still.
Very slowly and cautiously, a black-mustached face peered over a sharp-edged rock formation at them. The man snapped his fingers. From the four corners of an imaginary square around the camping party, four braves showed themselves. Only one held a firearm, an old Remington that had seen better days. The other three held long knives and one had a long war lance pointing down at the dried rocky ground. The Indians were all dressed differently, one in settler clothes but the others wearing buckskin leggings or loincloths or short kilts of red cloth.
"I ain't never seen a Sioux and a Navajo and a Cheyenne all pallin' around together," Johnny observed calmly. "You with the spear, yer a Ute if I ever saw one. What the hayll? What could bring four roosters whose tribes all hate each other together like best friends?"
As he spoke, Johnny Packard firmly placed the black Stetson on his head. To the West, a red sun's top rim went below the horizon. Johnny felt a sudden flare of heat and weight against his forehead. Despite being surround by hostile armed men, he grinned wickedly.
"You just hush up," warned the white man. He was a tall man with a prominent belly, wearing a pistol tucked into his belt. A long drooping mustache hung down the sides of his mouth. "Y'all are in territory claimed by the Red Blade now."
"The Red Blade..." whispered Embar in horror.
"Then we are on the right trail." Johnny kept his hands up by his shoulders. "Where might we find him?"
The white man seemed increasingly uneasy. "Boys, we hit the motherlode this time. Four decent hosses with harness, new boots that'll fit some of you, all kinds of loots. And a sweet lil mujere to provide some entertainment. It's a good night..." His voice trailed off as he noticed something.
In the flickering light of the campfire, Johnny's green eyes had turned bright red, lambent like the eyes of a cat. His face seemed to have grown more bony and angular, even his eyebrows looked shaggy all of a sudden.
"Tain't a good night for you lost souls," said the Brimstone Kid with a hollow sepulchral voice, "It's your last."
Faster than anyone there could follow, Johnny's right hand whipped up and the Colt detonated with three blasts that were louder and deeper than a revolver should have. The blasts echoed through the hills like thunder.
The white bandit, the Indian with the rifle and the brave with the lance all folded up and dropped lifeless to the ground. The two surviving Indians froze motionless. By the time they comprehended what had happened, it was all over.
The Kid held his Peacemaker steady on a spot between the two braves. 'We only need one of yuh to answer questions. Which one is it gonna be?"
"I will never talk--" began one of the Indians just before his face caved in a red ruin. The fourth shot boomed in the dusk and the Brimstone Kid deftly switched guns. He thrust the spent Peacemaker into his left holster and shifted the fresh revolver into his right hand.
"I got five shells now," Johnny said in that weird voice. "One fer each of yer arms and legs and one to finish you off. I suggest you start talking, amigo."
Staring at the bloody corpses all around him, the surviving Indian dropped his knife to the ground but made no answer.
Johnny drew back the hammer of his Colt with a thumb. "It'll be yore left knee first, my friend..."
"I am a Servant of the Sword," said the brave. "We have sworn allegiance to the yellow-haired man, Almek, the one who bears the Red Blade. I dare not take you to our camp but I will direct you there."
"Almek!" Embar said. "That is my brother's name."
Speaking rapidly, the Indian gave detailed directions on which dried creek bed to follow, where armed sentries were posted along the way, how many marauders were gathered under the Red Blade's rule. Johnny made him repeat everything.
By now, the Brimstone Kid was in full manifestation. The crimson irises shone with their own internal light and the voice was something from a grave. The big Colt in Johnny's grip shimmered redly as if it had been taken out of a fire. Without warning, the horses belonging to Embar and Durgan shrieked in panic and stamped their hooves as they struggled against their reins tied to tree branches.
The horses were trying to get away from Terror. Johnny's black stallion had also begun to visibly change. His eyes glowed red as well, steam came from his nostrils when he snorted and the long equine face looked as skeletal as if it was mere bone covered with skin. Terror shifted about and whinnied with the same eerie echo.
Glancing over at his steed, the Kid vented a remarkably ominious laugh. "Terror is eager to ride the night," he said.
The brave had given a description of the Red Blade. The leader of the bandits was a small man, shorter than the demonic Brimstone Kid, thin and even frail-looking. He had golden skin and bright yellow hair which came to his shoulders, with eyes the color of amber. Although he seemed he should be too weak to even lift the six-foot sword, according to the brave Almek weilded the Red Blade quickly and lethally. The sword seemed more like a living thing than a weapon.
The bandit camp was close, not more than an hour's ride away. Almec had sent a party of five men out to look for a reported stagecoach bearing a few well-off Easterners. They had spotted Johnny and his sponsors and decided to rob them instead.
"I do believe yer helpfulness to us has ended," said Johnny Packard. "Much obliged, friend..."
"Hold your hand," the Eldar woman commanded. "It is not our way to slay helpless prisoners."
The Brimstone Kid grinned. "Ma'am, these rannies intended to kill both me and yer pal Durgan. Then they was gonna take you with them as a plaything until your ladyparts got wore out or until they figgered you was not worth giving food and water. I got no sympathies for this hombre." Johnny snapped off a single shot which blasted a tunnel entirely through the Indian's chest in a geyser of blood.
As Emnbar and Durgan went to calm their horses, Johnny reloaded his spent Peacemaker with bullets from the cartridge box in his gear. He kept the shells in his belt loops for use in a running fight. "Walll," he drawled sardonically to his two employers, "I suppose now you folks have seen just what it is yuh hired."
V.
Moving with quick restless energy, Johnny searched the immediate area. He found the bandits' horses tied nearby and left them there, scaring the horses into a panic just by being near them. The Kid gave the frightened animals a quick examination, then hurried back to where Embar and Durgan had been watching.
"I don't see anything on them hosses that we could use," he told the Eldar and the Melgar. "We came well-supplied. Maybe I'll take the Remington longarm, though. You two ready to saddle up?"
"We are going to the bandit camp?" asked Embar. "Tonight?"
"I calculate it's for the best we get this over with." Johnny's voice still had that eerie ghoulish echo to it. "Better to confront them now while I'm... like this. In the morning, I'm just another cowpoke."
"Very well," said the Eldar woman. "Durgan, will you ready our steeds?"
"Yes, my lady." The big man picked up his saddle with one hand as if it weighed no more than a handkerchief and went over to start readying their horses again.
Johnny did the same for Terror. His black stallion had transformed as well as the Darthan curse neared him. The horse's face looked even more skeletal, his eyes had a red glint in them visible from yards away and steam snorted from his nostrils. As the Brimstone Kid cinched his saddle and fastened his gear, he saw Terror stamp one hoof in impatience.
"I can't believe you," he whispered to the black stallion. "You purely love this Brimstone gig. Look at you. You'd gallop into Hell if I let you!" Did Terror chuckle like a human being? It sure sounded like it. Johnny Packard went over to check on Embar and Durgan. Finding them ready, he mounted up and gave them both a probing stare.
"It 'pears we will be ridin' into more than common danger tonight," he said. "Ma'am, from what these owlhoots told us, your brother is not the man you knew before. This sword is Black Magick of the worst kind and I fear you will not be able to count on the love between you any more."
"So it seems," the Eldar woman answered. Her amber eyes met Johnny's glare without flinching. "Yet it is my duty. If he can be saved and returned to Elvedal, I must try."
"Just so we're clear on that," the Brimstone Kid. "And you, Durgan? I judge you are a brave man who will not shy away from any peril, but if'n you was to turn back, this is the time."
The big Melgar did not take offense. He gripped his reins in a gnarled sinewy hand and simply nodded his heads in a bow toward Embar. "I have given my word."
"Let's scratch some gravel, then," Johnny told them.
VI.
Campfires were visible ahead when the Brimstone Kid slowed his black horse and raised his open hands up to face level. Behind him, not fully comprehending, the Eldar and the Melgar did the same.
"I don't s'pose either of you is bulletproof?" he drawled as he watched the riflemen emerge from behind boulders and from up on a rocky outcropping nearby.
"Not I," Durgan adEmnmitted.
"No." Embar's voice sounded droll. "Our lifespans are exceedingly long, nearly immortal in fact, but we can be slain by violence or die of disease."
"I count six outlaws holdin' longarms on us," Johnny said. "I lie, make that seven."
In the vague starlight, the members of the Red Blade gang drew nearer. They were a bizarrely assorted mix of white men, Mexicans and Indians of various ages and backgrounds. A tall thin man with a blond beard and a poncho moved over to cover Johnny from ten feet in front of him.
"Ease up there, amigo," the Kid told him quietly. "I see yuh. I ain't about to try anything."
"Steady, steady," replied the man, keeping the long barrel steady. "Don't even breathe hard. Alvarez will claim yore irons."
As Johnny complied, an older Mexican with thinning white hair came up behind him. The man seemed as nervous as if about to try to slap a rattlesnake. He grasped the butts of both of the Kid's Peacemakers, slid them from the holsters and stepped quickly backward...
And a steel-shod hoof exploded right against the side of his head, caving his skull in. Terror gave a shrill banshee scream that echoed out over the plains. Even as the Mexican dropped lifeless to the hard dirt, Johnny had reacted. He vaulted out of the saddle and landed nimbly on his feet, both arms raised.
"Run, Terror!" he yelled. "Run, boy!"
In another second, the remaining members of the gang had reacted to the sudden blur of action. Too late. A black shape in darkness, the stallion pelted off at a full gallop and was gone from sight almost instantly.
"Whoa, whoa, don't pull them triggers," ordered the bearded man. "That hoss is gone. Chingo, how's Alvarez?"
Rising from the corpses, sticking the Peacemakers in his red sash, the Apache growled. "What you think? Of course he dead. Man get kicked in head by devil horse."
"Poor old Alvarez," said the bearded man. "I knowed him these past ten years on the trail. Awright, you got the strongest hoss, Lewis. Carry him across your saddle behind you. And you, the notorious Brimstone KId...."
The man's voice broke off. Johnny Packard had been disarmed and he had not moved. But in the icy light from the stars overhead, his irises glinted bright red. The bearded man flinched and moved back a step.
"You is gonna have to walk, devil rider. You other two, the big ranny and missy goldenhair, you ride along with Chingu behind you after we relieve you of your sidearms."
As the Apache drew Durgan's sword far enough out of its scabbard to admire the blade, he grunted. "Two long knives tonight," he said. "This one no match for the Red Blade."
"Take it anyway," the bearded man commanded. "Come on, get yoreselves pointed in the right direction. Let's roll."
In the center of six gunmen, Johnny Packard marched toward the campfires. They passed two sentries squatting on opposite sides of a path that had been packed down by many hooves passing. In another few minutes, the party entered a row of small tents and men lying rolled up in blankets. Several heavyset Mexican women moved about, carrying burdens and freezing in place at the intruders.
At the far end of the camp, before a jagged outcropping of granite that rose ten feet, stood a throne. It was formed of flat rocks fitted carefully together, padded with blankets and furs. On either side of this throne was a grisly pile of human skulls bleached white by the sun and stripped of every scrap of flesh, their naked jaws grinning in the flickering campfires. Crawling over the bones were brown rats and hopping from skull to skull were crows.
On that throne sat Almek.
Only a few inches over five feet tall, Almek was slender and even delicate looking. He wore dark leggings and slippers rather than boots, with a green silk shirt that shone glossy in the uncertain light. Almek had the same bright golden hair as his sister, hanging loose to narrow shoulders and his amber eyes narrowed as he watched the group approach.
But no one noticed him at first. Every eye was drawn against its will to the great two-handed sword he held with one hand on its hilt. Made of the copper-colored metal Gremthom, shimmering hotly as if freshly pulled from a fire, the sword Hellspawn had a blade six feet long and four inches across, straight for its length until the sudden sharp point. Etched into the blade were esoteric symbols of a sorcerous language only the Darthim masters could read.
Somehow Hellspawn gave off an air of menace. Even the hardened bandits and renegades who assembled around the throne stared uneasily at the Red Blade.
"Almek! My brother, I have found thee at last," called Embar. She reined in her steed and swung nimbly down from the saddle. "Do you not rejoice at seeing me?"
The Eldar prince raised his brooding head and stared at her with no welcome in his expression. Almek seemed weary and half-starved. The sunken cheeks and deepset eyes were those of someone driven past all endurance. He did not remove his hand from where it grasped the simple cross hilt of the great sword.
"Embar..." he said at last. "You have brought another victim of cursed Darthan magick with you." As he spoke, he pointed with his free hand at Johnny Packard.
The Brimstone Kid laughed. Gloved hands resting on his gunbelt with its empty holsters, surrounded by fifty hostile gunmen and facing an immortal weilding the most dreaded weapon in the Midnight War, he laughed as if mocking them all.
"If this don't beat all..." he began.
Almek snapped his fingers and gestured. Three of the crows beside his feet shot up and forward, wings flapping as they hurtled straight at the Kid. Quick as he was, even Johnny was taken off-guard. He raised his hands defensively toward his face, expecting beaks and talon to start ripping but that was not the crows' intention. The black birds ripped his Stetson from his head and flew away with it into the darkness.
Johnny gasped and convulsed violently, falling to his hands and knees. The Darthan energy left his body. The Kid seem to shrink visibly, the red gleam left his eyes and a mortal flesh-and-blood cowboy struggled back up to his feet. Sweat broke out on his face.
"You are no longer laughing," observed Almek in his smooth low voice. He turned his attention back to his other visitors. "Embar dearest, who is this other assassin you bring into my presence. A Melgar brute? Not much better than a beast of the field. And I see he brought an Androval blade with him. Chingu, give him back his sword if you will."
Durgan had climbed down off his own horse to loom up protectively behind the Eldar woman. He received the return of his weapon and held it in its leather scabbard as if ready to defend himself.
"Well it is that this Melgar has come to me," Almek announced. "Hellspawn hungers. It thirsts for lifeforce, which will restore strength to me as well."The Eldar prince rose unsteadily to his feet. He moved like an old man. Despite the way the red sword seemed much too heavy for him to lift, let alone weild, yet somehow Almek swung it back and forth in his feeble hands.
Drawing his own weapon, discarding the scabbard, Durgan strode forward into the center of a cleared area in front of the throne of skulls. He twirled the weapon, fixed a good grip on his hilt and dropped into a ready stance.
As Almek approached the big Melgar, the sword Hellspawn leaped up within his grip as if on moving its own. A low shrill humming emanated from the red blade. In an instant, Hellspawn was slashing furiously at its victim and the cursed blade howled like a winter wind.
VII.
Durgan was tough and experienced, stronger than any true Human, and he had survived many battles for his liege. Against Hellspawn, he might as well have knelt and offered his neck freely. His defenses were slapped aside by the flat of the Darthan sword and his own weapon went spinning away from numbed fingers. Despite the fact that Almek's pencil-thin arms should have not have had enough strength to even lift Hellspawn off the ground, the Eldar prince attacked in a flurry of rapid blows.
Within a few seconds, Durgan had been struck down and was sprawling on his back. With one hand, he fumbled for the dagger at his belt that was his last desperate defense but never reached it. The red blade was screeching as it lifted high and drove its point to sink deep into Durgan's chest.
Almek groaned and his eyes rolled up until only the whites showed. As the cursed blade slid into his victim, the Eldar prince leered wickedly. Beneath him, Durgan shriveled. The man's skin dried out and wrinkled up, his fingers curled into claws and his final breath rasped out as his very lifeforce was sucked into Hellspawn.
Stepping back, yanking his sword from the withered corpse, Almek stood fully upright for the first time. He seemed ablaze with vitality. The Eldar prince swung the huge red sword around his head and cried out, "Malegim! Malegim! Nothing can defy thee, my precious friend!"
Watching from beside the blonde Eldar woman, Johnny Packard fought to calm himself. He was mortal now, unarmed, surrounded by murderous outcasts of white, Indian and Mexican society. And he had just seen a cursed sword draw the strength right out of a living body.
Even the Brimstone Kid knew real fear at that moment. He did not see any renegade close enough for him to lunge and seize a gun away. A dozen rifles were trained on him from a safe distance. Johnny managed to take a deep steadying breath. He hooked his thumbs in his belt and announced loudly, "Walll, I reckon we can see who the real master is here, Almek. And it ain't you."
The Eldar prince stared at the Kid for a long ominous moment. His mocking smile faltered. He held out his free hand and a Shoshone brought him a rag which which he wiped the blood from Hellspawn before tossing the rag aside. "You mock now," he said silkily, "But soon you will be begging for a merciful death."
"Hayll, I've heard them words before," Johnny surprised himself by saying. "But I'm still here. Them what said those words... ain't."
Embar had stood motionless, the golden color drained from her face as she had watched the duel. Slowly, with infinite reluctance, she walked over and knelt beside the body of her Melgar friend. Durgan was mummified, all the moisture gone from his body. When she touched his check, it crackled like dry parchment.
"Forgive me, my friend," she whispered. Rising back to her feet, the blond Eldar lady came over to stand beside the defiant form of the Kid. She met Almek's gaze evenly. "My brother, is any part of you even still in there? Has the Malegim consumed you? Are you nothing but an enslaved hand to grasp its hilt?"
The weilder of the Red Blade went back to his throne and lowered himself thoughtfully onto its folded pads. He was moving with a quick, restless energy that had not been in evidence before. Propping the great sword up with its point in the dirt, he rested one hand on the hilt. "My heart is heavy that you came here, little sister," he answered at last.
"Almek, what has happened to you?"
"Do not hope to find kindness or mercy here," the Eldar prince said. "Hellspawn fills my body with great strength and courage but only by drinking it from the bodies of others. In time it fades. When the sword hungers again, I find myself weaker than I had been before."
"I calc'late it's like the opium dens in Frisco," the Kid offered bluntly. "I seen them Chinese fellers get so they couldn't function without their pipe. I reckon you're the same way, but instead of smokin' a bowl, you have to kill someone."
Almek regarded him somberly with those inhuman amber eyes. At close range, lines could be seen that had been etched in his face with pain and grief. Even for an Eldar, he was thin. The bones in his hands were no thicker than straws. "Wild tales have I heard of you," he told Johnny. "Devil rider on a devil horse. The Brimstone Kid. But because I also have been burdened with a Darthan sigil, I could sense the Darthan coin you struggled to bear."
One of the Indians came over and got down on both knees, pressing his head to the ground. "I must speak. Know, master, that this flamehaired youth is the shooter who murdered Pathaguay, my tribe's peacemaker. It was a cowardly deed."
"Yeah, well, that's how you might tell it," scoffed Johnny. "He was a-fixin' to carve my gizzard with a Bowie knife while I was sittin' at a palaver circle."
Almek tilted his head quizzically. "Two Dogs, do with this man as you will. I care not."
Leaping up, the man called Two Dogs gestured to the bandits. "The gantlet! Those who would redeem honor, line up in a gantlet. Let this shooter prove himself."
Watching the bandits form two lines facing each other just out of arm's reach, Johnny Packard hitched up his Levis and tugged down his white wrist-length gloves. Fear had been washed away by his quick temper. He saw many of the men were holding trimmed tree branches or war clubs. The chances of escaping this ordeal alive seemed nonexistent.
"Damned if these whoresons will see me beg or flee," he mumbled. The Kid took two quick steps into the gantlet. Instead of trying to make it down along the opening at a full run, he did the unexpected. Johnny seized the first man to his left, a beefy cowboy with a walrus mustache, and shoved him hard into the bandit next in line. Even as those two got tangled, the Brimstone Kid wheeled to face the Mexican opposite and slammed a wide roundhouse right to the jaw that snapped the man's head to one side.
In another second, the gantlet had fallen apart into a confused mass of men trying to reach the whirlwind of fists and feet in its middle. "Come on!" were Johnny's last words before he was overwhelmed. "I got some fer ALL of yuh!"
Two more of the bandits reeled back, one with a broken nose and one bent over gasping from a kick to the stomach. Fast and tough as he was, Johnny Packard was inevitably brought down. Men grabbed his arms, pinned down his legs. Then the beating began.
Watching by the crude throne, Embar covered her face with her hands. The thumping and grunting and cries of "He's a wildcat, hold him!" and "Owww, he BIT me!" rang out.
Leaning on the hilt of the Darthan sword, Almek smiled sadly. His gaunt face seemed fragile in the firelight. "You are shocked, dear one?"
"You are no true Eldar!" she cried. "My brother would never condone such brutishness. What has changed you so? What spell are you bound under?"
Almek did not answer at once. Finally, as if to himself, he said, "Hellspawn was forged and ensorcelled more than thirty thousand years ago. During the Darthan Age. Tollinor Kje himself, the Firstmade of his vile Race, created this sword and infused it with more gralic forth than any other talisman. Even Sagehelm, the Eyeless Helmet, is not as potent. Within the metal itself resides a cruel bloodthirsty spirit whose origin no one knows."
The crowd of bandits was settling down as they grew tired. Two of them hauled the bloodsoaked limp form in black off to the edge of the camp where it could barely be seen.
"Let him lie," yelled the Apache who had accused Johnny. "If he still breathes at dawn, we will stake him out naked under the sun and rub salt in fresh wounds." The gang began to assemble again in a circle around the throne. More than one limped or held a broken arm gingerly. One big blond owlhoot grumbled and spit out a tooth to the ground.
"You left the shores of Elvedal long ago," Embar said. "How did you end up.. like this?"
"Sadly enough. It was mere vanity, nothing more. I had heard rumors that Hellspawn had been seen in the lands of Humans again. In my pride, I thought I could master the sword and use it to defend our peoples. In my arrogance I tried to claim this Malegim and found it had claimed me." Almek lowered his head wearily. "Leave now, dear one. Leave before it is too late."
The tiny blonde woman gave a cold stare to the ruffians who surrounded them. "Almek, please! Come home with me. Cast this filthy thing aside and bask in the pure light of Elvedal again."
"I dare not," he said, unconsciously tightening his grip on the hilt. "My vitality is intertwined with Hellspawn now. When it drinks the lifeforce of another, I am stronger for a short time. If I were apart from the blade, I would be weak and listless and I would waste away."
"I can not believe it. Amrek, please! Very well, I will free you myself." The Eldar lady lunged forward and seized the pommel above her brother's hands, trying to wrest the weapon away from him. Hellspawn hummed and whirled, whipping up and around, dragging Amrek's arms despite his resistance... the blade drove staight through the center of Embar's torso. From between her shoulders, the point of Hellspawn emerged in a gout of bright blood.
VIII.
Johnny did not witness the death of Embar. On the edge of the camp, he sprawled unmoving where he had been left. He was so bruised and sore, with cracked ribs and torn muscles, that just breathing was agony. Eventually, he struggled to a level of consciousness where he realized he was lying face down on cold dirt. The Kid fought back a moan.
This sure looked like the end of the trail for him, he thought dimly through the pain. Not far away, the howling and yelling of excited men reached him. He remembered everything now. The little yellow-haired dude and his nightmarish living sword. The fifty murderous renegades of different races and backgrounds. Vividly, he recalled how that Melgar hombre had been killed and how he himself had been deprived of the cursed red coin that was the source of his transformation.
Embar. Wait. Where was she? Johnny Packard tried to move his arms and legs but couldn't. What about that Embar lady? She had hired him, he had taken her money and he had promised to stand by her. The Kid took as deep a breath as he could manage, ground his teeth together and managed to get his left arm under his body. Could he get into a sitting position at least?
He vaguely felt a massive presence nearby, the soft thud of hooves coming next to him. Terror? It couldn't be. Then something was dropped gently on the top of his head. Hot fire rushed through his body, He gasped as the pain was washed away and replaced with furious enraged strength. Suddenly he could see clearly through the gloom.
Johnny reached up and tugged the black Stetson down tighter on his head. Over his forehead, tucked beneath the beaded band, the Darthan coin felt like a white-hot coal. Where Johnny Packard had sprawled half dead, the Brimstone Kid leaped nimbly up to his feet and glared all around. So far, no one had seen him. The backs of all the men were turned toward him as the bandits watched their leader by the fire.
Beside him, the great black stallion snorted steam but made no other noise. Glowing red in the night, Terror's eyes met his with intelligence greater than a normal horse ever showed. The Kid stroked the thickly muscled neck gratefully. He had long known that Terror was smarter than other beasts, well into human range, and now he owed his life to that.
Where were his guns? There was no way to tell and no chance to search for them. Barely thirty feet away from him, the closest bandit stood facing away. A tall conical sombrero and a poncho which reached to his knees marked him as Mexican and the butts of two pistols showed where they were tucked into a sash around his wide waist.
More silent than a panther stalking, Johnny Packard came up behind the bandit. One hand clamped fiercely around the man's lower face, keeping any outcry from being made, and Johnny's other arm tightened around the barrel chest from behind. The Brimstone Kid lifted the heavy bulk up off the ground and stepped back behind Terror. When he broke the man's neck, it made almost no noise.
Seeing as clearly as if it were daylight, Johnny snatched up the dead bandit's guns and found they were cheap British Bulldogs. He hated that make but this was no time to expect choice. He spun the cylinders and found both revolvers were loaded with all six chambers filled. He grinned wolfishly and cocked the hammers with his thumbs.
In the back of his mind, he wondered what would happen at dawn when he returned to normal. Would he again be battered to the point of helplessness? No time to worry about that now. The Kid faced the circle of shouting badmen and strode forward. He shoved some of them aside, ignoring their outrage, and stepped into the circle to face Almek.
The withered body of the Eldar woman had been covered with a quilted blanket but the top of her blonde head showed and the slim outlines made it clear who was lying under it. Almek sat hunched on his throne facing the corpse, one hand resting on the hilt of the red sword. With its point resting on the ground, taller than many of the men there, Hellspawn gleaming and shimmered in the uneasy light of the fire.
As the grim figure of a gunfighter in black moved past them to confront their leader, the assembly muttered and drew back. Even though they were all armed and hardened outlaws, the bandits saw something in the Brimstone Kid that made them shrink away from challenging him.
Holding up both pistols, Johnny spoke in a hollow sepulchral voice that echoed in the night, "It ends here, mister. That's yore own sister a-lyin' there."
Almek sighed and rose stiffly to his feet like an old man. "We both bear the burden of Darthan magick," he said. "Everything I ever loved, I have slain. There is no future ahead for me."
"Yuh got that right," growled the Kid. He extended his right arm and snapped off a shot. Louder and brighter than an ordinary gunflash, the Bulldog exploded a crimson flash of flame that cast new shadows.
Instantly, the great red sword whirled in the Eldar's frail hands and the bullet richoted off the blade with a whine. Almek had not done that. Hellspawn moved on its own, circling its point in the air, tugging its so-called master's arms behind it.
Johnny barked a fierce laugh. "I can see I ain't dealing with you direct-like, hombre." He fired once with the gun in his left hand. Johnny was not nearly as good a shot with his left. Few gunmen were. But the bullet sped close enough to Almek's head that the Darthan sword wheeled upward to deflect it. Even as that slug was on its way, the Kid had blasted away twice with the right hand revolver and both shots crashed hard into Almek's leg.
The red blade had not been quick enough to block the following shots. Almek screamed and fell to the ground, letting go of Hellspawn so he could try ineffectually to catch himself.
"Mebbe we'll meet again in Hell," growled the Brimstone Kid. "Don't wait up for me, hear?" He fired twice more and the Eldar man's face vanished into a red mush as the back of his head blew open.
Johnny shifted the left hand gun into his right grasp because there were more bullets in it. He glared at the shocked crowd which seemed to be too stunned by the past few seconds to react. His eyes flared with lambent red glints.
Behind him, Terror stomped through the assemmbly which parted in fear to let the horse pass. Fully transformed by now, the black stallion was an unnerving sight with eyes glowing in a skeletal head. Johnny placed a hand along the beast's side and patted it gratefully. "Good boy," he muttered. "Yore a real pal."
Seeing the frightening black horse standing beside the equally intimidating gunman, the crowd rapidly began to melt away. First, bandits on the outskirts took a few steps back out of the campfire light and fled. More followed. In a few minutes, all the gang was running away with only a few managing enough nerve to pause long enough to snatch up their belongings before clambering up on their own horses and galloping away.
Only a handful were left. These were Apaches, tough-minded and raised to never admit fear. The biggest one, in rawhide leggings and a blue longsleeved shirt, with a red headband confining thick unruly hair, still held a rifle in both hands. As he caught Johnny's attention, this brave began to raise the barrel of that weapon but froze halfway as a pistol was pointed right at his face.
"Steady there, chief," warned the Kid. "I want to keep a few of you roosters alive. Listen up. See those shovels over there by the gear left behind? I want four graves dugs and I mean now! Get to it, boys."
Sullen but compliant, five Apaches set to their grim task. When four parallel holes six feet long by three feet wide were deep enough, Johnny ordered them to drop the corpses inside. Durgan and Almek went into the ground as they were, with only arms folded across their chests giving them even a hint of dignity. The lady Embar was still wrapped in a blanket stiff with dried blood. She was lowered into her grave with only a bit more care than the men had been.
By the time dirt had been packed down hard enough to discourage scavenging animals, the night was almost over. Dawn was beginning to show as a faint haze to the eastern horizon. The Apaches kept glanced back at the empty fourth grave, obviously concerned they were going to end up down in it. Johnny Packard told the exhausted braves to take anything they wanted from what remained of the camp and to ride off. The Apaches quickly seized the clothing and weapons and food that had been left behind, climbed up on their horses and headed into the distance. Only scraps and bits of debris remained off the dreaded bandit camp.
Once they were gone from sight, the Brimstone Kid exhaled deeply. He had gathered his own gear and had loaded his Peacemakers before allowing himself to relax. He found a wooden keg of rainwater and drank his fill using a tin mug, then brought Terror over to have some.
As the sun broke over the horizon, Johnny dwindled down to normal humanity. His body ached and throbbed again from endurng the gantlet but his injuries were not nearly as severe as they had been. As he watched, Terror whinnied and trembled before becoming a normal living horse again.
Scattered around him was debris left behind as the bandits had fled. The campfire had long ago gone out and left only cold ashes. Johnny had been putting the final confrontation off but now he walked over and stood staring down at Hellspawn.
More than six feet long from hilt to point, the Darthan sword seemed as if it had been crafted from a single piece of dark red metal. Gremthom, he thought, the same unholy material his own cursed token was made of. Johnny had shoved his Stetson back so it hung between his shoulder blades. As he neared the red sword, he could feel a throbbing reaction from the Darthan coin in his hatband.
How long he stood there, gazing down mesmerized by the sword, Johnny couldn't say. He was lost in bloodthirsty visions of himself as a new dark lord conquering the West. Driving the Indians far north and south, wiping out hordes of outlaws by himself, decreeing new laws and slaying any who questioned him... He saw himself as seven feet tall, draped in black robes, sitting on a pyramid of human skulls and fondling the hilt of Hellspawn. He could remain the Brimstone Kid forever and never be humbled by the weak flesh and blood of Johnny Packard again...
Never to enjoy a cup of coffee early in the morning. Never to whisper with a woman in the dark. Never to laugh honestly and freely at a joke. Never to be fully human.
Abruptly, he gave a start and shook his head. "Nice try!" he yelled out loud. "Nice try, you goddam sword. But I ain't about to be yore slave like Almek was. I'm tellin' you, no!"
Careful not to touch the Darthan weapon with his hands, the Kid drew a loop of his lariat around the crosspiece and quickly dragged the sword over the ground until it fell into the fourth grave. He could still feel the tugging sensation of the cursed artifact calling to him. It vas not too late, he thought, he could still claim Hellspawn for his own. The Kid tightened his fists and walked stiffly away.
Taking one of the shovels, Johnny filled in the grave and tamped down the dirt firmly. He led Terror back and forth to get the soil packed tightly. By now, he was so tired his head throbbed. He straightened up, wiped his grimy face with the back of a hand and saw his long shadow stretching out over the graves. Daylight had come on the plains. Johnny put a boot in the stirrup and hauled himself up into the saddle. He numbly let Terror wander off in whatever direction the black horse chose.
12/6/2017
4/26-4/29/1880
I.
Grimy and exhausted from days in the saddle, Johnny Packard rode slowly down the wide dusty street of Dogleg, Arizona. It was early on an April morning, crisp and clear. Johnny surveyed the town as he passed through on his black horse Terror. Not imposing at all, with no more than a dozen buildings flanking each other on the main street, Dogleg looked as if it had never been an exciting place. There was only one saloon and boarding house, with THE PLUGGED NICKEL painted on a board over its porch. There was a general store called MUIR'S, a stable and leather goods store, a combination post office and sheriff's house, a backsmith's shop and a church that stood alone far down the way.
This boring aspect suited the Brimstone Kid fine. Excitement was the last thing he wanted. There was still dried blood on his clothes that he could not scrub out and the stink of gunpowder clung to him. Just over twenty-one, Johnny was a slightly built redheaded man five feet four inches tall and barely one hundred and fifty pounds. He had on well-worn boots, black Levis and a black denim vest over a red flannel shirt. Strapped low on each leg was a Colt 45 Peacemaker that had seen a lot of use.
Ominous as those guns were, the real danger to the town was tucked inside the beaded hatband of the black Stetson pushed back on that sweaty red hair. Inside that band was a coin minted from an odd reddish metal, marked with arcane symbols no living man could read. It was that Darthan token which was his curse and which made him the Brimstone Kid.
He had to take care of his horse first. That was a rule no self-respecting cowboy would break. Since he had some money on him from the two weeks he had spent fixing up Old Man Hannigan's ranch including replacing most of the fenceposts, Johnny decided to make as fresh a start as he could. He brought Terror to a halt by the open doors of the stable where a watering trough stood. As the black stallion lowered his head and drank, the Kid uncinched his saddle and tugged it off. The saddlebags and bedroll followed. Johnny placed them carefully against the wall of the stable, then went inside.
The owner of the place was Lem Kearney, a middle-aged man with a limp and a shaggy grey beard. He seemed chatty enough. When he came out and saw Terror, the man had nothing but praise for such a magnificent specimen. They discussed terms. After Johnny paid him for the next two days, Kearney fetched a stiff brush and some cloths and began rubbing Terror down. Despite his usual distrust of strangers, the big horse seemed immediately comfortable with Kearney and submitted to being curried.
Leaving his saddle and some gear inside the door, Johnny said goodbye to Terror with some gentle stroking of the black hide and then trudged across the street with his saddlebags over one shoulder. He entered the saloon and promptly downed a shot of whiskey which he followed with gulps from a bottle of German mineral water.
Exhaling sharply, Johnny started to socialize with the proprietor. This was a heavy blondish woman named Bella, hitting sixty and comfortable with it, and she immediately claimed Johnny as her forlorn pet to care for. She told him he looked like Hell and Damnation, and he had to agree.
Johnny paid for a room for the next two days and asked if a bath was available. Clapping her hands, Bella summoned a pretty young Mexican girl and barked out orders in Spanish. As the girl sped to her chore, Bella said, "Chiquita will bring the iron tub into your room now. In about ten minutes or so, I promise she'll be fillin' that bucket with hot soapy water fer you."
"Ma'am, I am much obliged," Johnny said. He was holding his hat in both hands. "Nothing sounds more rewarding to me just now."
Bella escorted him to a room right at the top of the stairs behind the bar. It was big enough, not fancy, but clean and airy with an open window. There was a four-poster bed and a dresser, a commode in a cabinet and a full-length mirror on the inside of the door. As Bella had promised, the Mexican girl had tugged in an ornate steel bathtub that stood on four legs. Even as the Kid unbuckled his gunbelt and hung it on the bed's headboard, Chiquita bustled back in with a bucket of steamy water which she gleefully dumped in the tub.
"She'll fetch two more and then you can be left alone to soak," Bella said. "At noon, we start serving meals. Plain honest food, usually steak or pork chops, boiled potatoes and greens but it's all fresh and cooked proper."
The Brimstone Kid bowed his head politely. Johnny looked even younger than he was, being clean-shaven and with sharp features. The deepset green eyes had lost some of the bitter suspicion they usually held. "It was sheer Providence that led me here, ma'am."
As the girl returned with more sudsy water, Bella laughed heartily. "Them words is music to my ears, Mr Packard. Come down when you want to fill yer belly."
Two hours later, scrubbed and refreshed after a nap, wearing his spare shirt and socks, Johnny was finishing the big china plate of beef stew with drop biscuits and having a glass of beer. He felt as if the filthy young saddle tramp who had ridden into Dogleg was someone else. As Chiquita took away his plate, she left a dish with a thick slab of apple cobbler on it and Johnny devoured it almost with one bite. Most of his meals were tough and tasteless affairs of flapjacks made with water, dried beans boiled in a tin mug, or the occasional jackrabbit he shot or fish he infrequently caught when a stream was in the area. He was grateful for this day.
Leaving a half dollar on the table, waving to Bella over behind the bar, the Kid stepped out into a noonday sun. He needed to check on Terror, then he planned to return to his room and maybe read that dime novel he had purchased in El Paso. It featured Tom Pinto, "the Scourge of the Great Plains," and Johnny wondered how much the story would be like the real Tom Pinto he had met.
As he tugged the Stetson down firmly on his head, he could feel the Darthan token in the band was cold and inert. Good. He needed some peaceful times.
A few days dozing in this town would suit him fine. Then Johnny saw a couple riding slowly up the street on matching chestnut horses. A tiny woman with gold hair and a big bruiser of a man with shoulders wider than most doorways. When they spotted him, the man and woman started riding his way. Johnny knew he didn't have to go looking for trouble, it was always eager to find him.
II.
With a sinking heart, the Kid watched them head toward him. He stood on the steps in front of THE PLUGGED NICKEL with his hands down by his sides. His right palm just brushed the butt of his Colt. At least I got even a brief break in my nightmare of a life, he thought.
The man approaching was way over six feet tall, brawny as a lumberjack, with big hands and thick limbs. Without a hat for some reason, he had shaggy brown hair and beard, and he wore dark jeans and a heavy coat with a fur-lined collar. Strapped to his right hip was an old-fashioned Navy pistol, and in a boot behind his saddle was a two-handled straight sword in a leather scabbard.. not a weapon often seen on the frontier.
Riding slightly ahead of him, the woman wore man's clothing... boots, tan pants and a corded blue shirt with an open leather vest. She wasn't carrying any weapons that Johnny could see. The blonde was tiny, barely five feet tall and not even a hundred pounds. Her long golden blonde hair was tied behind her to cover her ears and hang down her back.
There was something off about her. Johnny didn't quite know what it was. She looked maybe thirty, maybe a bit younger, but those pale amber eyes were so sharp and self-aware that he felt uncomfortable under her stare. The Kid had thought that the big lug might be trouble but now he was sure that this little blonde was a threat of some kind.
Reining in their horses in front of him, the two did not smile and neither did he.
"I believe you are Jonathan Packard, called by many the Brimstone Kid?" asked the woman in a husky voice with the strangest accent. It had a singing quality that reminded him of Chinese.
"You have the advantage of me, ma'am," he answered carefully.
"Know that I am Embar of Elvedal," the woman said. "And this is my trusted servant Durgan of Androval."
"I take you at your word, then. Not that I ever heard tell of Elvedal or Androval, if they're places. 'Pears you have come looking for me, am I right?"
"Indeed." Nimbly as if she weighed almost nothing, Embar dismounted and handed her reins to the broad hand of her companion. "Come closer. There is something you must see."
As Johnny drew near, Embar glanced around and then pulled her hair aside to reveal an ear which rose to a sharp point.
"I must say, I'm at a loss," the Kid said. He thumbed his hat far back on his head and stared. "What am I to make of this?"
"Know that I am not a Human like yourself, but one of the immortal Eldarin. I am in fact a member of the royal family related to King Elzulang himself," she said. "Can you not sense it?"
Johnny did not hesitate. "Truth be told, I've been places and I've seen things in my time that ain't part of the natural order any way you look at it. I reckon you and your... Eldarin, was it? Your folk are one more."
Embar smiled with a smugness that should have been irritating. "You are deeper into the Midnight War than you know, Brimstone Kid. I want you to accompany myself and my comrade on a dangerous task. Failure will mean worse than death for us all."
"Heh. You got me pegged right, ma'am. Telling me that somethin' is too scary to try is exactly the way to get me to do it. I guess I'm a fool that way."
"Then hear me out. Come. Sit with us in the shade and I will tell you of my unfortunate brother and his tragedy. He is now wielder against his will of Hellspawn, the Blade Which Drinks Life...."
III.
Three days later, they camped in the foothills near the Mexican border. Before leaving Dogleg, Embar and her bodyguard had purchased a third horse to carry supplies. Evidently Durgan was carrying a fortune concealed on his person as he kept pulling out thick wads of the big bills from various pockets. They had paid Johnny an advance of two hundred dollars immediately. He now had spare shirts and socks packed away, as well as two boxes of cartridges for his Peacemakers.
They had crossed into terrain that was almost ridiculously rugged and difficult to negotiate, with many jagged rocks stabbing upward and sudden holes in the ground that had to be circled. The sparse dry grass and stunted bushes were spaced far apart and they saw little more than an occasional jackrabbit or lizard.
Embar had pointed out a fast-moving stream running down from the mountains ahead of them. They stopped to fill their canteens and water the horses, and both she and Durgan scrubbed her heads and arms in the water. Johnny followed suit, still uneasy around these strange people. He had accepted that Embar was not really Human. Aside from the weird amber-colored eyes and pointed ears, her senses seemed much sharper than a normal person's.
As far Durgan, the big man was what she called a Melgar, a 'Cousin of Man,' whatever that was. Johnny watched Durgan casually roll away boulders too massive for two husky men to handle, clearing a space for them. Night fell abruptly out here and they wanted to be set up before dark.
Seeing that Terror was well taken care of and was munching contentedly from a feed bag of oats, Johnny quietly removed his hat and hung it on his saddle horn. It was getting too close to nightfall for comfort. He had begun to feel the change coming on. As long as he was not in contact with the hat which held the cursed token, he would not transform.
He glanced up to find Embar watching him thoughtfully. Her golden eyes flashed in the sunset. "Ma'am," he said.
"We know of the Darthan coin you carry," said Embar in her odd accent. The Eldar woman had selected a likely spot for a fire and was walking around gathering bits of dry wood. "It is older than you may realize. When the Darthim minted that token, this land you call the West had not been formed yet."
"If you say, Miss Embar," Johnny replied. He joined her in setting up the wood, piling some leaves and twigs to use as tinder. "I know my letters, I can add and subtract but I sure don't have much book learnin'."
Dropping lightly to her knees, Embar took a piece of flint from her belt and struck sparks against her knife blade. When faint tendrils of smoke rose from the twigs, she breathed upon it and flames sprang up. The Eldar woman smiled triumphantly and arranged larger branches.
The Brimstone Kid watched her uneasily. She was beautiful enough, with delicately-cut features and flawless golden skin. Under the simple clothing, her body was slender and sleek, with small high breasts and a remarkably narrow waist. Yet he felt no attraction toward her. There was something alien and 'off' about the woman that troubled him. Suspicion had become bone-deep in the way he regarded the world.
As the fire caught and Durgan busied himself unburdening the horses, Johnny Packard ventured to sit on the ground near the fire. He shifted his gunbelt to get more comfortable but did not remove it. "What can you tell me about these... Darthim folk?"
"Better for you that you never meet them," Embar said. "The Darthim are cruel and arrogant, their gralic magick is strong and those who draw their attention regret it as they suffer."
Johnny ruffled his damp red hair with gloved fingers. "That coin sure don't make life any better for me," he sighed. "Before Machingtok cursed me with it, I was called Brimstone Kid only because I hailed from the west Texas town of Brimstone. It was just my handle. Now, when night falls, I become something dark and dangerous, the real Brimstone Kid." He gave a bitter laugh. "Even my horse Terror changes and the darn fool critter enjoys it."
"It is a peril to your very soul," Embar told him. "The best you may do is to channel the gralic force from that coin and put your demonic self to good use. That will not be easy. It is like tricking the scorpion to sting only on command."
"True words were never spoken, Miss Embar." Johnny got to his feet and stretched. "I do believe I will boil some water and make good strong tea for everone." He froze into position, then swung around and lunged to fetch his hat. Even as his hand gripped the brim, they all heard the scraping of leather against rock all around them.
IV.
"I suggest we make no moves that might alarm these gents," the Kid said in a low voice. Holding his black Stetson by the brim, he kept his hands in plain view and far from his guns. The imposing bulk of Durgan placed itself next to Embar after which they held still.
Very slowly and cautiously, a black-mustached face peered over a sharp-edged rock formation at them. The man snapped his fingers. From the four corners of an imaginary square around the camping party, four braves showed themselves. Only one held a firearm, an old Remington that had seen better days. The other three held long knives and one had a long war lance pointing down at the dried rocky ground. The Indians were all dressed differently, one in settler clothes but the others wearing buckskin leggings or loincloths or short kilts of red cloth.
"I ain't never seen a Sioux and a Navajo and a Cheyenne all pallin' around together," Johnny observed calmly. "You with the spear, yer a Ute if I ever saw one. What the hayll? What could bring four roosters whose tribes all hate each other together like best friends?"
As he spoke, Johnny Packard firmly placed the black Stetson on his head. To the West, a red sun's top rim went below the horizon. Johnny felt a sudden flare of heat and weight against his forehead. Despite being surround by hostile armed men, he grinned wickedly.
"You just hush up," warned the white man. He was a tall man with a prominent belly, wearing a pistol tucked into his belt. A long drooping mustache hung down the sides of his mouth. "Y'all are in territory claimed by the Red Blade now."
"The Red Blade..." whispered Embar in horror.
"Then we are on the right trail." Johnny kept his hands up by his shoulders. "Where might we find him?"
The white man seemed increasingly uneasy. "Boys, we hit the motherlode this time. Four decent hosses with harness, new boots that'll fit some of you, all kinds of loots. And a sweet lil mujere to provide some entertainment. It's a good night..." His voice trailed off as he noticed something.
In the flickering light of the campfire, Johnny's green eyes had turned bright red, lambent like the eyes of a cat. His face seemed to have grown more bony and angular, even his eyebrows looked shaggy all of a sudden.
"Tain't a good night for you lost souls," said the Brimstone Kid with a hollow sepulchral voice, "It's your last."
Faster than anyone there could follow, Johnny's right hand whipped up and the Colt detonated with three blasts that were louder and deeper than a revolver should have. The blasts echoed through the hills like thunder.
The white bandit, the Indian with the rifle and the brave with the lance all folded up and dropped lifeless to the ground. The two surviving Indians froze motionless. By the time they comprehended what had happened, it was all over.
The Kid held his Peacemaker steady on a spot between the two braves. 'We only need one of yuh to answer questions. Which one is it gonna be?"
"I will never talk--" began one of the Indians just before his face caved in a red ruin. The fourth shot boomed in the dusk and the Brimstone Kid deftly switched guns. He thrust the spent Peacemaker into his left holster and shifted the fresh revolver into his right hand.
"I got five shells now," Johnny said in that weird voice. "One fer each of yer arms and legs and one to finish you off. I suggest you start talking, amigo."
Staring at the bloody corpses all around him, the surviving Indian dropped his knife to the ground but made no answer.
Johnny drew back the hammer of his Colt with a thumb. "It'll be yore left knee first, my friend..."
"I am a Servant of the Sword," said the brave. "We have sworn allegiance to the yellow-haired man, Almek, the one who bears the Red Blade. I dare not take you to our camp but I will direct you there."
"Almek!" Embar said. "That is my brother's name."
Speaking rapidly, the Indian gave detailed directions on which dried creek bed to follow, where armed sentries were posted along the way, how many marauders were gathered under the Red Blade's rule. Johnny made him repeat everything.
By now, the Brimstone Kid was in full manifestation. The crimson irises shone with their own internal light and the voice was something from a grave. The big Colt in Johnny's grip shimmered redly as if it had been taken out of a fire. Without warning, the horses belonging to Embar and Durgan shrieked in panic and stamped their hooves as they struggled against their reins tied to tree branches.
The horses were trying to get away from Terror. Johnny's black stallion had also begun to visibly change. His eyes glowed red as well, steam came from his nostrils when he snorted and the long equine face looked as skeletal as if it was mere bone covered with skin. Terror shifted about and whinnied with the same eerie echo.
Glancing over at his steed, the Kid vented a remarkably ominious laugh. "Terror is eager to ride the night," he said.
The brave had given a description of the Red Blade. The leader of the bandits was a small man, shorter than the demonic Brimstone Kid, thin and even frail-looking. He had golden skin and bright yellow hair which came to his shoulders, with eyes the color of amber. Although he seemed he should be too weak to even lift the six-foot sword, according to the brave Almek weilded the Red Blade quickly and lethally. The sword seemed more like a living thing than a weapon.
The bandit camp was close, not more than an hour's ride away. Almec had sent a party of five men out to look for a reported stagecoach bearing a few well-off Easterners. They had spotted Johnny and his sponsors and decided to rob them instead.
"I do believe yer helpfulness to us has ended," said Johnny Packard. "Much obliged, friend..."
"Hold your hand," the Eldar woman commanded. "It is not our way to slay helpless prisoners."
The Brimstone Kid grinned. "Ma'am, these rannies intended to kill both me and yer pal Durgan. Then they was gonna take you with them as a plaything until your ladyparts got wore out or until they figgered you was not worth giving food and water. I got no sympathies for this hombre." Johnny snapped off a single shot which blasted a tunnel entirely through the Indian's chest in a geyser of blood.
As Emnbar and Durgan went to calm their horses, Johnny reloaded his spent Peacemaker with bullets from the cartridge box in his gear. He kept the shells in his belt loops for use in a running fight. "Walll," he drawled sardonically to his two employers, "I suppose now you folks have seen just what it is yuh hired."
V.
Moving with quick restless energy, Johnny searched the immediate area. He found the bandits' horses tied nearby and left them there, scaring the horses into a panic just by being near them. The Kid gave the frightened animals a quick examination, then hurried back to where Embar and Durgan had been watching.
"I don't see anything on them hosses that we could use," he told the Eldar and the Melgar. "We came well-supplied. Maybe I'll take the Remington longarm, though. You two ready to saddle up?"
"We are going to the bandit camp?" asked Embar. "Tonight?"
"I calculate it's for the best we get this over with." Johnny's voice still had that eerie ghoulish echo to it. "Better to confront them now while I'm... like this. In the morning, I'm just another cowpoke."
"Very well," said the Eldar woman. "Durgan, will you ready our steeds?"
"Yes, my lady." The big man picked up his saddle with one hand as if it weighed no more than a handkerchief and went over to start readying their horses again.
Johnny did the same for Terror. His black stallion had transformed as well as the Darthan curse neared him. The horse's face looked even more skeletal, his eyes had a red glint in them visible from yards away and steam snorted from his nostrils. As the Brimstone Kid cinched his saddle and fastened his gear, he saw Terror stamp one hoof in impatience.
"I can't believe you," he whispered to the black stallion. "You purely love this Brimstone gig. Look at you. You'd gallop into Hell if I let you!" Did Terror chuckle like a human being? It sure sounded like it. Johnny Packard went over to check on Embar and Durgan. Finding them ready, he mounted up and gave them both a probing stare.
"It 'pears we will be ridin' into more than common danger tonight," he said. "Ma'am, from what these owlhoots told us, your brother is not the man you knew before. This sword is Black Magick of the worst kind and I fear you will not be able to count on the love between you any more."
"So it seems," the Eldar woman answered. Her amber eyes met Johnny's glare without flinching. "Yet it is my duty. If he can be saved and returned to Elvedal, I must try."
"Just so we're clear on that," the Brimstone Kid. "And you, Durgan? I judge you are a brave man who will not shy away from any peril, but if'n you was to turn back, this is the time."
The big Melgar did not take offense. He gripped his reins in a gnarled sinewy hand and simply nodded his heads in a bow toward Embar. "I have given my word."
"Let's scratch some gravel, then," Johnny told them.
VI.
Campfires were visible ahead when the Brimstone Kid slowed his black horse and raised his open hands up to face level. Behind him, not fully comprehending, the Eldar and the Melgar did the same.
"I don't s'pose either of you is bulletproof?" he drawled as he watched the riflemen emerge from behind boulders and from up on a rocky outcropping nearby.
"Not I," Durgan adEmnmitted.
"No." Embar's voice sounded droll. "Our lifespans are exceedingly long, nearly immortal in fact, but we can be slain by violence or die of disease."
"I count six outlaws holdin' longarms on us," Johnny said. "I lie, make that seven."
In the vague starlight, the members of the Red Blade gang drew nearer. They were a bizarrely assorted mix of white men, Mexicans and Indians of various ages and backgrounds. A tall thin man with a blond beard and a poncho moved over to cover Johnny from ten feet in front of him.
"Ease up there, amigo," the Kid told him quietly. "I see yuh. I ain't about to try anything."
"Steady, steady," replied the man, keeping the long barrel steady. "Don't even breathe hard. Alvarez will claim yore irons."
As Johnny complied, an older Mexican with thinning white hair came up behind him. The man seemed as nervous as if about to try to slap a rattlesnake. He grasped the butts of both of the Kid's Peacemakers, slid them from the holsters and stepped quickly backward...
And a steel-shod hoof exploded right against the side of his head, caving his skull in. Terror gave a shrill banshee scream that echoed out over the plains. Even as the Mexican dropped lifeless to the hard dirt, Johnny had reacted. He vaulted out of the saddle and landed nimbly on his feet, both arms raised.
"Run, Terror!" he yelled. "Run, boy!"
In another second, the remaining members of the gang had reacted to the sudden blur of action. Too late. A black shape in darkness, the stallion pelted off at a full gallop and was gone from sight almost instantly.
"Whoa, whoa, don't pull them triggers," ordered the bearded man. "That hoss is gone. Chingo, how's Alvarez?"
Rising from the corpses, sticking the Peacemakers in his red sash, the Apache growled. "What you think? Of course he dead. Man get kicked in head by devil horse."
"Poor old Alvarez," said the bearded man. "I knowed him these past ten years on the trail. Awright, you got the strongest hoss, Lewis. Carry him across your saddle behind you. And you, the notorious Brimstone KId...."
The man's voice broke off. Johnny Packard had been disarmed and he had not moved. But in the icy light from the stars overhead, his irises glinted bright red. The bearded man flinched and moved back a step.
"You is gonna have to walk, devil rider. You other two, the big ranny and missy goldenhair, you ride along with Chingu behind you after we relieve you of your sidearms."
As the Apache drew Durgan's sword far enough out of its scabbard to admire the blade, he grunted. "Two long knives tonight," he said. "This one no match for the Red Blade."
"Take it anyway," the bearded man commanded. "Come on, get yoreselves pointed in the right direction. Let's roll."
In the center of six gunmen, Johnny Packard marched toward the campfires. They passed two sentries squatting on opposite sides of a path that had been packed down by many hooves passing. In another few minutes, the party entered a row of small tents and men lying rolled up in blankets. Several heavyset Mexican women moved about, carrying burdens and freezing in place at the intruders.
At the far end of the camp, before a jagged outcropping of granite that rose ten feet, stood a throne. It was formed of flat rocks fitted carefully together, padded with blankets and furs. On either side of this throne was a grisly pile of human skulls bleached white by the sun and stripped of every scrap of flesh, their naked jaws grinning in the flickering campfires. Crawling over the bones were brown rats and hopping from skull to skull were crows.
On that throne sat Almek.
Only a few inches over five feet tall, Almek was slender and even delicate looking. He wore dark leggings and slippers rather than boots, with a green silk shirt that shone glossy in the uncertain light. Almek had the same bright golden hair as his sister, hanging loose to narrow shoulders and his amber eyes narrowed as he watched the group approach.
But no one noticed him at first. Every eye was drawn against its will to the great two-handed sword he held with one hand on its hilt. Made of the copper-colored metal Gremthom, shimmering hotly as if freshly pulled from a fire, the sword Hellspawn had a blade six feet long and four inches across, straight for its length until the sudden sharp point. Etched into the blade were esoteric symbols of a sorcerous language only the Darthim masters could read.
Somehow Hellspawn gave off an air of menace. Even the hardened bandits and renegades who assembled around the throne stared uneasily at the Red Blade.
"Almek! My brother, I have found thee at last," called Embar. She reined in her steed and swung nimbly down from the saddle. "Do you not rejoice at seeing me?"
The Eldar prince raised his brooding head and stared at her with no welcome in his expression. Almek seemed weary and half-starved. The sunken cheeks and deepset eyes were those of someone driven past all endurance. He did not remove his hand from where it grasped the simple cross hilt of the great sword.
"Embar..." he said at last. "You have brought another victim of cursed Darthan magick with you." As he spoke, he pointed with his free hand at Johnny Packard.
The Brimstone Kid laughed. Gloved hands resting on his gunbelt with its empty holsters, surrounded by fifty hostile gunmen and facing an immortal weilding the most dreaded weapon in the Midnight War, he laughed as if mocking them all.
"If this don't beat all..." he began.
Almek snapped his fingers and gestured. Three of the crows beside his feet shot up and forward, wings flapping as they hurtled straight at the Kid. Quick as he was, even Johnny was taken off-guard. He raised his hands defensively toward his face, expecting beaks and talon to start ripping but that was not the crows' intention. The black birds ripped his Stetson from his head and flew away with it into the darkness.
Johnny gasped and convulsed violently, falling to his hands and knees. The Darthan energy left his body. The Kid seem to shrink visibly, the red gleam left his eyes and a mortal flesh-and-blood cowboy struggled back up to his feet. Sweat broke out on his face.
"You are no longer laughing," observed Almek in his smooth low voice. He turned his attention back to his other visitors. "Embar dearest, who is this other assassin you bring into my presence. A Melgar brute? Not much better than a beast of the field. And I see he brought an Androval blade with him. Chingu, give him back his sword if you will."
Durgan had climbed down off his own horse to loom up protectively behind the Eldar woman. He received the return of his weapon and held it in its leather scabbard as if ready to defend himself.
"Well it is that this Melgar has come to me," Almek announced. "Hellspawn hungers. It thirsts for lifeforce, which will restore strength to me as well."The Eldar prince rose unsteadily to his feet. He moved like an old man. Despite the way the red sword seemed much too heavy for him to lift, let alone weild, yet somehow Almek swung it back and forth in his feeble hands.
Drawing his own weapon, discarding the scabbard, Durgan strode forward into the center of a cleared area in front of the throne of skulls. He twirled the weapon, fixed a good grip on his hilt and dropped into a ready stance.
As Almek approached the big Melgar, the sword Hellspawn leaped up within his grip as if on moving its own. A low shrill humming emanated from the red blade. In an instant, Hellspawn was slashing furiously at its victim and the cursed blade howled like a winter wind.
VII.
Durgan was tough and experienced, stronger than any true Human, and he had survived many battles for his liege. Against Hellspawn, he might as well have knelt and offered his neck freely. His defenses were slapped aside by the flat of the Darthan sword and his own weapon went spinning away from numbed fingers. Despite the fact that Almek's pencil-thin arms should have not have had enough strength to even lift Hellspawn off the ground, the Eldar prince attacked in a flurry of rapid blows.
Within a few seconds, Durgan had been struck down and was sprawling on his back. With one hand, he fumbled for the dagger at his belt that was his last desperate defense but never reached it. The red blade was screeching as it lifted high and drove its point to sink deep into Durgan's chest.
Almek groaned and his eyes rolled up until only the whites showed. As the cursed blade slid into his victim, the Eldar prince leered wickedly. Beneath him, Durgan shriveled. The man's skin dried out and wrinkled up, his fingers curled into claws and his final breath rasped out as his very lifeforce was sucked into Hellspawn.
Stepping back, yanking his sword from the withered corpse, Almek stood fully upright for the first time. He seemed ablaze with vitality. The Eldar prince swung the huge red sword around his head and cried out, "Malegim! Malegim! Nothing can defy thee, my precious friend!"
Watching from beside the blonde Eldar woman, Johnny Packard fought to calm himself. He was mortal now, unarmed, surrounded by murderous outcasts of white, Indian and Mexican society. And he had just seen a cursed sword draw the strength right out of a living body.
Even the Brimstone Kid knew real fear at that moment. He did not see any renegade close enough for him to lunge and seize a gun away. A dozen rifles were trained on him from a safe distance. Johnny managed to take a deep steadying breath. He hooked his thumbs in his belt and announced loudly, "Walll, I reckon we can see who the real master is here, Almek. And it ain't you."
The Eldar prince stared at the Kid for a long ominous moment. His mocking smile faltered. He held out his free hand and a Shoshone brought him a rag which which he wiped the blood from Hellspawn before tossing the rag aside. "You mock now," he said silkily, "But soon you will be begging for a merciful death."
"Hayll, I've heard them words before," Johnny surprised himself by saying. "But I'm still here. Them what said those words... ain't."
Embar had stood motionless, the golden color drained from her face as she had watched the duel. Slowly, with infinite reluctance, she walked over and knelt beside the body of her Melgar friend. Durgan was mummified, all the moisture gone from his body. When she touched his check, it crackled like dry parchment.
"Forgive me, my friend," she whispered. Rising back to her feet, the blond Eldar lady came over to stand beside the defiant form of the Kid. She met Almek's gaze evenly. "My brother, is any part of you even still in there? Has the Malegim consumed you? Are you nothing but an enslaved hand to grasp its hilt?"
The weilder of the Red Blade went back to his throne and lowered himself thoughtfully onto its folded pads. He was moving with a quick, restless energy that had not been in evidence before. Propping the great sword up with its point in the dirt, he rested one hand on the hilt. "My heart is heavy that you came here, little sister," he answered at last.
"Almek, what has happened to you?"
"Do not hope to find kindness or mercy here," the Eldar prince said. "Hellspawn fills my body with great strength and courage but only by drinking it from the bodies of others. In time it fades. When the sword hungers again, I find myself weaker than I had been before."
"I calc'late it's like the opium dens in Frisco," the Kid offered bluntly. "I seen them Chinese fellers get so they couldn't function without their pipe. I reckon you're the same way, but instead of smokin' a bowl, you have to kill someone."
Almek regarded him somberly with those inhuman amber eyes. At close range, lines could be seen that had been etched in his face with pain and grief. Even for an Eldar, he was thin. The bones in his hands were no thicker than straws. "Wild tales have I heard of you," he told Johnny. "Devil rider on a devil horse. The Brimstone Kid. But because I also have been burdened with a Darthan sigil, I could sense the Darthan coin you struggled to bear."
One of the Indians came over and got down on both knees, pressing his head to the ground. "I must speak. Know, master, that this flamehaired youth is the shooter who murdered Pathaguay, my tribe's peacemaker. It was a cowardly deed."
"Yeah, well, that's how you might tell it," scoffed Johnny. "He was a-fixin' to carve my gizzard with a Bowie knife while I was sittin' at a palaver circle."
Almek tilted his head quizzically. "Two Dogs, do with this man as you will. I care not."
Leaping up, the man called Two Dogs gestured to the bandits. "The gantlet! Those who would redeem honor, line up in a gantlet. Let this shooter prove himself."
Watching the bandits form two lines facing each other just out of arm's reach, Johnny Packard hitched up his Levis and tugged down his white wrist-length gloves. Fear had been washed away by his quick temper. He saw many of the men were holding trimmed tree branches or war clubs. The chances of escaping this ordeal alive seemed nonexistent.
"Damned if these whoresons will see me beg or flee," he mumbled. The Kid took two quick steps into the gantlet. Instead of trying to make it down along the opening at a full run, he did the unexpected. Johnny seized the first man to his left, a beefy cowboy with a walrus mustache, and shoved him hard into the bandit next in line. Even as those two got tangled, the Brimstone Kid wheeled to face the Mexican opposite and slammed a wide roundhouse right to the jaw that snapped the man's head to one side.
In another second, the gantlet had fallen apart into a confused mass of men trying to reach the whirlwind of fists and feet in its middle. "Come on!" were Johnny's last words before he was overwhelmed. "I got some fer ALL of yuh!"
Two more of the bandits reeled back, one with a broken nose and one bent over gasping from a kick to the stomach. Fast and tough as he was, Johnny Packard was inevitably brought down. Men grabbed his arms, pinned down his legs. Then the beating began.
Watching by the crude throne, Embar covered her face with her hands. The thumping and grunting and cries of "He's a wildcat, hold him!" and "Owww, he BIT me!" rang out.
Leaning on the hilt of the Darthan sword, Almek smiled sadly. His gaunt face seemed fragile in the firelight. "You are shocked, dear one?"
"You are no true Eldar!" she cried. "My brother would never condone such brutishness. What has changed you so? What spell are you bound under?"
Almek did not answer at once. Finally, as if to himself, he said, "Hellspawn was forged and ensorcelled more than thirty thousand years ago. During the Darthan Age. Tollinor Kje himself, the Firstmade of his vile Race, created this sword and infused it with more gralic forth than any other talisman. Even Sagehelm, the Eyeless Helmet, is not as potent. Within the metal itself resides a cruel bloodthirsty spirit whose origin no one knows."
The crowd of bandits was settling down as they grew tired. Two of them hauled the bloodsoaked limp form in black off to the edge of the camp where it could barely be seen.
"Let him lie," yelled the Apache who had accused Johnny. "If he still breathes at dawn, we will stake him out naked under the sun and rub salt in fresh wounds." The gang began to assemble again in a circle around the throne. More than one limped or held a broken arm gingerly. One big blond owlhoot grumbled and spit out a tooth to the ground.
"You left the shores of Elvedal long ago," Embar said. "How did you end up.. like this?"
"Sadly enough. It was mere vanity, nothing more. I had heard rumors that Hellspawn had been seen in the lands of Humans again. In my pride, I thought I could master the sword and use it to defend our peoples. In my arrogance I tried to claim this Malegim and found it had claimed me." Almek lowered his head wearily. "Leave now, dear one. Leave before it is too late."
The tiny blonde woman gave a cold stare to the ruffians who surrounded them. "Almek, please! Come home with me. Cast this filthy thing aside and bask in the pure light of Elvedal again."
"I dare not," he said, unconsciously tightening his grip on the hilt. "My vitality is intertwined with Hellspawn now. When it drinks the lifeforce of another, I am stronger for a short time. If I were apart from the blade, I would be weak and listless and I would waste away."
"I can not believe it. Amrek, please! Very well, I will free you myself." The Eldar lady lunged forward and seized the pommel above her brother's hands, trying to wrest the weapon away from him. Hellspawn hummed and whirled, whipping up and around, dragging Amrek's arms despite his resistance... the blade drove staight through the center of Embar's torso. From between her shoulders, the point of Hellspawn emerged in a gout of bright blood.
VIII.
Johnny did not witness the death of Embar. On the edge of the camp, he sprawled unmoving where he had been left. He was so bruised and sore, with cracked ribs and torn muscles, that just breathing was agony. Eventually, he struggled to a level of consciousness where he realized he was lying face down on cold dirt. The Kid fought back a moan.
This sure looked like the end of the trail for him, he thought dimly through the pain. Not far away, the howling and yelling of excited men reached him. He remembered everything now. The little yellow-haired dude and his nightmarish living sword. The fifty murderous renegades of different races and backgrounds. Vividly, he recalled how that Melgar hombre had been killed and how he himself had been deprived of the cursed red coin that was the source of his transformation.
Embar. Wait. Where was she? Johnny Packard tried to move his arms and legs but couldn't. What about that Embar lady? She had hired him, he had taken her money and he had promised to stand by her. The Kid took as deep a breath as he could manage, ground his teeth together and managed to get his left arm under his body. Could he get into a sitting position at least?
He vaguely felt a massive presence nearby, the soft thud of hooves coming next to him. Terror? It couldn't be. Then something was dropped gently on the top of his head. Hot fire rushed through his body, He gasped as the pain was washed away and replaced with furious enraged strength. Suddenly he could see clearly through the gloom.
Johnny reached up and tugged the black Stetson down tighter on his head. Over his forehead, tucked beneath the beaded band, the Darthan coin felt like a white-hot coal. Where Johnny Packard had sprawled half dead, the Brimstone Kid leaped nimbly up to his feet and glared all around. So far, no one had seen him. The backs of all the men were turned toward him as the bandits watched their leader by the fire.
Beside him, the great black stallion snorted steam but made no other noise. Glowing red in the night, Terror's eyes met his with intelligence greater than a normal horse ever showed. The Kid stroked the thickly muscled neck gratefully. He had long known that Terror was smarter than other beasts, well into human range, and now he owed his life to that.
Where were his guns? There was no way to tell and no chance to search for them. Barely thirty feet away from him, the closest bandit stood facing away. A tall conical sombrero and a poncho which reached to his knees marked him as Mexican and the butts of two pistols showed where they were tucked into a sash around his wide waist.
More silent than a panther stalking, Johnny Packard came up behind the bandit. One hand clamped fiercely around the man's lower face, keeping any outcry from being made, and Johnny's other arm tightened around the barrel chest from behind. The Brimstone Kid lifted the heavy bulk up off the ground and stepped back behind Terror. When he broke the man's neck, it made almost no noise.
Seeing as clearly as if it were daylight, Johnny snatched up the dead bandit's guns and found they were cheap British Bulldogs. He hated that make but this was no time to expect choice. He spun the cylinders and found both revolvers were loaded with all six chambers filled. He grinned wolfishly and cocked the hammers with his thumbs.
In the back of his mind, he wondered what would happen at dawn when he returned to normal. Would he again be battered to the point of helplessness? No time to worry about that now. The Kid faced the circle of shouting badmen and strode forward. He shoved some of them aside, ignoring their outrage, and stepped into the circle to face Almek.
The withered body of the Eldar woman had been covered with a quilted blanket but the top of her blonde head showed and the slim outlines made it clear who was lying under it. Almek sat hunched on his throne facing the corpse, one hand resting on the hilt of the red sword. With its point resting on the ground, taller than many of the men there, Hellspawn gleaming and shimmered in the uneasy light of the fire.
As the grim figure of a gunfighter in black moved past them to confront their leader, the assembly muttered and drew back. Even though they were all armed and hardened outlaws, the bandits saw something in the Brimstone Kid that made them shrink away from challenging him.
Holding up both pistols, Johnny spoke in a hollow sepulchral voice that echoed in the night, "It ends here, mister. That's yore own sister a-lyin' there."
Almek sighed and rose stiffly to his feet like an old man. "We both bear the burden of Darthan magick," he said. "Everything I ever loved, I have slain. There is no future ahead for me."
"Yuh got that right," growled the Kid. He extended his right arm and snapped off a shot. Louder and brighter than an ordinary gunflash, the Bulldog exploded a crimson flash of flame that cast new shadows.
Instantly, the great red sword whirled in the Eldar's frail hands and the bullet richoted off the blade with a whine. Almek had not done that. Hellspawn moved on its own, circling its point in the air, tugging its so-called master's arms behind it.
Johnny barked a fierce laugh. "I can see I ain't dealing with you direct-like, hombre." He fired once with the gun in his left hand. Johnny was not nearly as good a shot with his left. Few gunmen were. But the bullet sped close enough to Almek's head that the Darthan sword wheeled upward to deflect it. Even as that slug was on its way, the Kid had blasted away twice with the right hand revolver and both shots crashed hard into Almek's leg.
The red blade had not been quick enough to block the following shots. Almek screamed and fell to the ground, letting go of Hellspawn so he could try ineffectually to catch himself.
"Mebbe we'll meet again in Hell," growled the Brimstone Kid. "Don't wait up for me, hear?" He fired twice more and the Eldar man's face vanished into a red mush as the back of his head blew open.
Johnny shifted the left hand gun into his right grasp because there were more bullets in it. He glared at the shocked crowd which seemed to be too stunned by the past few seconds to react. His eyes flared with lambent red glints.
Behind him, Terror stomped through the assemmbly which parted in fear to let the horse pass. Fully transformed by now, the black stallion was an unnerving sight with eyes glowing in a skeletal head. Johnny placed a hand along the beast's side and patted it gratefully. "Good boy," he muttered. "Yore a real pal."
Seeing the frightening black horse standing beside the equally intimidating gunman, the crowd rapidly began to melt away. First, bandits on the outskirts took a few steps back out of the campfire light and fled. More followed. In a few minutes, all the gang was running away with only a few managing enough nerve to pause long enough to snatch up their belongings before clambering up on their own horses and galloping away.
Only a handful were left. These were Apaches, tough-minded and raised to never admit fear. The biggest one, in rawhide leggings and a blue longsleeved shirt, with a red headband confining thick unruly hair, still held a rifle in both hands. As he caught Johnny's attention, this brave began to raise the barrel of that weapon but froze halfway as a pistol was pointed right at his face.
"Steady there, chief," warned the Kid. "I want to keep a few of you roosters alive. Listen up. See those shovels over there by the gear left behind? I want four graves dugs and I mean now! Get to it, boys."
Sullen but compliant, five Apaches set to their grim task. When four parallel holes six feet long by three feet wide were deep enough, Johnny ordered them to drop the corpses inside. Durgan and Almek went into the ground as they were, with only arms folded across their chests giving them even a hint of dignity. The lady Embar was still wrapped in a blanket stiff with dried blood. She was lowered into her grave with only a bit more care than the men had been.
By the time dirt had been packed down hard enough to discourage scavenging animals, the night was almost over. Dawn was beginning to show as a faint haze to the eastern horizon. The Apaches kept glanced back at the empty fourth grave, obviously concerned they were going to end up down in it. Johnny Packard told the exhausted braves to take anything they wanted from what remained of the camp and to ride off. The Apaches quickly seized the clothing and weapons and food that had been left behind, climbed up on their horses and headed into the distance. Only scraps and bits of debris remained off the dreaded bandit camp.
Once they were gone from sight, the Brimstone Kid exhaled deeply. He had gathered his own gear and had loaded his Peacemakers before allowing himself to relax. He found a wooden keg of rainwater and drank his fill using a tin mug, then brought Terror over to have some.
As the sun broke over the horizon, Johnny dwindled down to normal humanity. His body ached and throbbed again from endurng the gantlet but his injuries were not nearly as severe as they had been. As he watched, Terror whinnied and trembled before becoming a normal living horse again.
Scattered around him was debris left behind as the bandits had fled. The campfire had long ago gone out and left only cold ashes. Johnny had been putting the final confrontation off but now he walked over and stood staring down at Hellspawn.
More than six feet long from hilt to point, the Darthan sword seemed as if it had been crafted from a single piece of dark red metal. Gremthom, he thought, the same unholy material his own cursed token was made of. Johnny had shoved his Stetson back so it hung between his shoulder blades. As he neared the red sword, he could feel a throbbing reaction from the Darthan coin in his hatband.
How long he stood there, gazing down mesmerized by the sword, Johnny couldn't say. He was lost in bloodthirsty visions of himself as a new dark lord conquering the West. Driving the Indians far north and south, wiping out hordes of outlaws by himself, decreeing new laws and slaying any who questioned him... He saw himself as seven feet tall, draped in black robes, sitting on a pyramid of human skulls and fondling the hilt of Hellspawn. He could remain the Brimstone Kid forever and never be humbled by the weak flesh and blood of Johnny Packard again...
Never to enjoy a cup of coffee early in the morning. Never to whisper with a woman in the dark. Never to laugh honestly and freely at a joke. Never to be fully human.
Abruptly, he gave a start and shook his head. "Nice try!" he yelled out loud. "Nice try, you goddam sword. But I ain't about to be yore slave like Almek was. I'm tellin' you, no!"
Careful not to touch the Darthan weapon with his hands, the Kid drew a loop of his lariat around the crosspiece and quickly dragged the sword over the ground until it fell into the fourth grave. He could still feel the tugging sensation of the cursed artifact calling to him. It vas not too late, he thought, he could still claim Hellspawn for his own. The Kid tightened his fists and walked stiffly away.
Taking one of the shovels, Johnny filled in the grave and tamped down the dirt firmly. He led Terror back and forth to get the soil packed tightly. By now, he was so tired his head throbbed. He straightened up, wiped his grimy face with the back of a hand and saw his long shadow stretching out over the graves. Daylight had come on the plains. Johnny put a boot in the stirrup and hauled himself up into the saddle. He numbly let Terror wander off in whatever direction the black horse chose.
12/6/2017