To Race the Wild Wind Chapter 3

To Race the Wild Wind Ch. 3

Templer watched the sunrise the next morning from the roof of the Inn. His high vantage point gave the priest an outstanding view of the small town and the surrounding countryside. The town of Edgewater sat in a wide valley created by the Clearwater River. The small river meandered along the center of the valley surrounded by tall trees and almost manicured looking meadows. Constantine understood why the area had become a mecca for breeding destria. The Clearwater had run clean now for generations and the results were evident in the land surrounding this rare, clean water source. The meadows and pastures that bordered it were rich with green grazing. While perfect for the Destria this also fed the meat producing animals that supplemented the dietary needs of the big omnivores.

Sharp eyes picked up a cloud of dust being stirred up on the distance road. This sure sign indicated a caravan on the early morning move, bringing in guests along with supplies for the next week. Only the most powerful and the wealthiest of patrons had the means to arrive via WindClipper as the Talon had. A well maintained landing field for these was well north of the town. The unpredictable winds around the large valley meant NOBODY wanted one of the giant bio-machines landing in their backyard!

The main street of the town measured almost a full two miles. Markets, eating establishments, and several large Inns stood shoulder to shoulder with the inevitable bars and gambling joints. The northeast side of town was occupied by the inevitable small Temple surrounded by the nicer homes of Order officials, sycophants, and the wealthier citizens of the town. As the side streets moved south, smaller and smaller streets branched off at regular intervals. The businesses became seedier the further west of Main Street they got. On the far south side of town was a compound made up of small paddocks each with its own attached barn. These housed the many different beasts of burden that came in with the caravans passing through what was essentially a Port. For the next ten days, they would also accommodate the many destria that would arrive for the festival. Several barns were already occupied by early arrivals. One side of the compound was taken up by the good sized oval track used for shorter speed contests. Beside this were several arenas used for different scheduled events. This track, for the time being, had been set aside for the arriving caravans as a staging area to unload and disband.

The Talon sat up a little as the arriving group moved into town. The part of him that did not recognize the word "vacation" noted whether the mix of animals, people and the occasional rare machine was sanctioned. Smugglers were rife in the more distance Port cities. Edgewater being one of the most remote. Only the valuable clean water source and its importance to the caravans that drove commerce in the Holy cities had drawn the Order's attention to it. A Sanctioned River-witch and strategically placed fire salamander traps provided power for the town. This made the citizen's lives easier along with giving the Hand additional reasons to tax and patrol it. Still, this Port was far removed from the Order's center. The officials here had a reputation for turning a blind eye to smugglers and black marketers.

This caravan was a smaller one. It consisted of the usual mix of heavy laden wagons and pack animals. The wagons were drawn by massive drafters. Numerous tall, wooly pacacams strode amongst them. These grumbled and groaned as they labored under their heavy loads. Standing out in the mix were two ornate coaches drawn by matched teams of uniquines. At the sight of the gentle but spirited beasts of burden, the priest unconsciously relaxed. These marked the caravan as legal. Only the Order had the right to breed and use that particular beast. A number of Fist cavalry rode point and rear guard astride heavy boned battle birds attesting to the fact that at least one individual down there had some political pull.

The low rumble of engines had elegant eyebrows lifting as a several powerful ether-cycles appeared, riding herd on the group. The Cataclysm compounded by the wars and re-gen plagues that followed plunged most of civilization back into the dark ages. Not until the century following the hard won Truce did the Holy Cities began to lead the people back out into the light. The Cataclysm had rendered most machines useless. They had rusted into dust long ago. These had been replaced by semi-living constructs of flesh and metal that only the Demonae could create. Because of the Re-Gen Wars (and what had been created to fight in them) the public looked upon bio-mechs with suspicion. The small Ether-cycles could be mastered by a strong willed individual with some training. The more complicated mechs, such as Wind-Clippers had to be controlled by a Drow. These heavily Tainted humans were sniffed out by the Talons and enslaved as children. They were physically modified to help in controlling the elementals that powered the Sanctioned Bio-mechs. Drows not Sanctioned were considered rogue. When discovered, they were hunted by the Talons with impunity. This was an automatic death sentence, both physically and spiritually.

If, by chance, a person found an ancient machine that still worked, the fuel resources needed to keep them running were exceedingly rare. Any mercenary that could afford to own and operate either type of machine was either very good at what he did, or very crooked!

“HEY, you up there...” Grant's rough voice drew the priest's attention away from the caravan's slow progress. The big man had slipped out the inn's door and now stood with his hands on his hips looking up at the other's dark form. Once he had the Talon's attention, the bartender continued.

“Are you interested in eating some breakfast?”

Templer's outrider provided most of the energy his physical body needed, but breakfast actually sounded good. Better yet, his sensitive nose picked up the smell of something he had not had the luxury of enjoying in a long while... coffee! The gunman stepped off of the roof. He dropped the twenty feet to the ground to land in front of the startled Barkeep. With an easy grace, the priest straightened and settled his cloak. Grant just blinked.

“Well then, you had better come in and eat before it gets cold.” The big man stepped aside and held the door open. As Constantine strolled past he wouldn't have sworn to it but the priest was pretty sure he heard the other man mutter... “Show off!”

The priest was just finishing one of the biggest breakfasts he could remember eating when the deep rumble of cycle engines disturbed the morning's quiet. He watched with interest as Grant's warm and pleasant face became cold when a group of five walked through the door. All were young men, dressed in expensive leathers. All had at least one weapon displayed prominently on their bodies. Templer studied the group, his senses going on alert. Something about the boys reminded him of a pack of rogue wolves. The gunman transferred his cup of coffee to his blade-hand, freeing up the other in case it was needed.

“Hey there... old man!” The tallest of the bunch swaggered up to the bar. “My dad wants ta know when yer going to accept the offer he made on this dump ya'all call a bar?”

This boy was tall and lean. He carried himself with the air that he was better than those around him. His long red hair was pulled back from his freckled face in a neat pony tail. Insolent green eyes stared at the older man behind the bar. The rest of the group gathered in silence around their evident leader. Templer noted that all the group had their backs to him. All, that is, except an older blonde who had stopped just inside the door where he could see the entire room. This was the man that bore watching.

Grant met the young man's cold gaze and his lips lifted in a smile that did not reach his eyes.

“Rafe... you can tell your father that if he is interested in buying anything of mine, he can come talk to me himself.” The barkeep kept his voice bone chillingly polite. “That way, I can tell him to his face what I always tell you. The Ironwood is not for sale to him, not now... not ever!” The big man set his towel down and placed his broad hands on top the bar.

“Now, if you boys are planning on staying to eat or drink in my establishment, you need to take your weapons outside and leave them there.”

The young man's eyes widened then his handsome face twisted into a hateful sneer.

“Take and LEAVE our weapons outside? Do you really think you are up to disarming us, OLD man!?”

Rafe stepped back a pace slashing a sideways glance at his friends. They had their hands hovering around or on their choice of weapon. The second the boy's attention shifted off of him, Grant's hands dropped and came up filled with a double barreled shotgun. The gun's nasty looking sawed off muzzle was centered on the redhead's chest. Templer had been content to let the big man handle this, but a blur of motion by the door confirmed his earlier assessment. The stocky blonde's fast draw was impressive. Still, the gunslinger wisely froze when he found himself looking down the triple bores of the Trinity.

Behind the bar, Grant's smile became something scary. “I reckon that between him...” the big man nodded towards Templer, “... and this.” He motioned with the shotgun, "We'll have no problem pulling your teeth.”

The redhead paled and raised his hands, forcing a dry laugh. The others behind him made a sudden show of empty hands.

“WHOA... Don't be getting your balls all up in a twist... old man! I'm just joking!”

The cold green eyes that met Templer's as the boy turned, were anything but laughing. They widened as the young wolf took note of the hell lit gold staring back at him.

“No harm... no foul... right? We were just playing with ya'all!”

Templer did not answer. He switched his attention back to the man at the door. The muzzle of his gun never wavered off its target. Rafe followed his gaze.

“Come on boys, I can tell we aren't welcome in this genteel establishment.”

The blonde gunman lowered his weapon, his blue eyes never leaving Templer's hard face as the redhead led the others towards the door. He stepped back, allowing the pack to exit before him. With a slight nod of respect towards the silent Talon, he switched his icy gaze to look at Grant.

“Don Diego will be livid when he hears of this, you have to know that.”

Grant met the hard gaze without wavering. “I know. I just don't care.”

The blonde shrugged and slipped out the door. The fact that the man did not holster his side arm or give Constantine his back was silently noted by the gun slinging priest.

Grant released his weapon's dual hammers and replaced the lethal firearm back under the bar. Templer's eyes tracked the weapon. The Order limited the flow of firearms in the Realm. The fact that he had just witnessed no less than four of them in the possession of civilians was something of interest to a man of his rank. Templer sternly reminded himself he was on vacation as he raised his cup to Grant indicating that he needed a re-fill.

The barman picked up a mug along with the pot of coffee and approached Templer's table. Topping the gunman's drink off, he poured himself a cup of the fragrant liquid and settled into the chair across from the other man. The priest slipped The Trinity back into her holster as he silently watched the bartender take a careful sip of the hot black fluid. Grant swallowed, then leaned back with a sigh.

“Damn, I am getting to old for this kind of crap!” His voice sounded weary. “I cannot thank you enough for backing me. I know by law you aren't supposed to interfere in civil matters.”

Templer met the man's honest gaze. “I am on vacation... the rules don't necessarily apply. Besides, I figured you could handle the pup if you did not have to worry about the rest of the dogs.”

Grant took another sip and shrugged.

“Yeah... that's the problem when dealing with Rafe. He always stacks the odds in his favor. If you had not been here, I am not sure how this little incident might have turned out. Don Diego owns most of this town. Rafe seems to think that because he is the Don's only son, he is untouchable. And in essence, I guess he is right. If I had shot the boy, even in self-defense, I would not have lived long enough meet the hangman.”

Constantine tapped the tabletop lightly with the sharp talons of his blade-hand. With a Talon's enhancements, the rules governing his actions were very specific. Still, if Diego proved to be a radical, those rules could be bent... a little.

“Tell me about Diego.”

Grant shrugged his heavy shoulders.

“Don Diego is not happy with Edgewater’s slow growth and its small Port designation. He has plans to make it over into a Sin City.”

Both of Templer's elegant eyebrows twitched up in surprise. Those were BIG plans. Sin Cities had been created to give the faithful somewhere legal to blow off steam, and as a reward for those that had earned special privileges. Activities illegal in the Holy Cities, were allowed in these Sanctioned Dens of Iniquity. Gambling, pharmaceuticals and fornication were punishable sins even in the rough Bordertowns. The Hand rarely moved to enforce these rules in the rougher Port cities. Without the Order's Sanction there were limits in these places that did not exist in the Devil's playgrounds. (More so if the proprietors were NOT paying the agreed upon kickbacks!)

Grant gave a slight nod, correctly interpreting this subtle sign of surprise.

“The man has the political backing to get this approved. To move his plans along, he has to convert most of the main street to casinos, lotus houses and brothels. There are some of us who don't appreciate Diego's grand dream and refuse to sell out. Rafe has been strong arming the weaker ones in an attempt to remove the opposition. His father has paid the town Peacekeepers to look the other way. The Don is determined to push this down our collective throat, any way he can.”

Templer's softly tapping talons stopped, digging a little into the hardwood of the tabletop. Grant was right. Talons had no jurisdiction when it came to civil matters. The Hand would only intervene if the problem adversely impacted the Faithful or the Order's bottom line. As long as the trade (and wealth) continued to flow, his superiors would turn a blind eye up to a point. Especially if the Don was... generous. It was very evident that Diego had money and influence. Men like the blonde gunslinger did not work for coppers.

“Hnnn...” Templer idly ran a claw along the rim of his almost empty cup. “That blond was fast with a gun. Do you have any idea who he is?”

Grant emptied the pot in the process of refilling the Talon's cup.

“His name is Cal Farraway. Rumor has it that he has training as a Temple guard. Somebody owed the Don BIG and Cal was the payment. When the man isn't tying up, loose ends, for Diego... he earns his keep riding herd on Rafe. I don't envy him the job!”

A heavy rumble from outside and the clatter of hooves on cobblestone interrupted them. Grant jumped up, grabbing the now empty pot of coffee.

“CRAP... that would be Chrysta! I had better get more of this perking. That woman is as evil tempered as one of her destria if she doesn't get her coffee quota filled.”

The man's brown eyes pleaded with him from across the table.
“Do you think you could you go out and tell her to take it easy unloading? That will give me the time to get a fresh pot brewed!”

Templer had no reason to refuse what seemed an innocent request.

“No problem, Grant...” the gunman drained his cup and rose, “I can buy you the time you need.”

As the lean, shadow wrapped priest stalked past on his way to the kitchen door, the bartender would have sworn he heard the tall man mutter under his breath... “Coward!”