NaNoWriMo Excerpt #4 -- The Vagabond (Outwilds)
I want to participate in National Novel Writing Month, but I need your help.
With the first excerpt for Outwilds out of the way, we now come to the fourth and final excerpt that I'll be posting. This one is also from Outwilds, and introduces a new character -- a mysterious man known only as The Vagabond.
While I typically don't pull any punches with my writing, I think fair warning is in order for this piece: there is a stark contrast between the general style of this excerpt and the last one. The world of The Vagabond is very different from that of Thomas and Gloria. While not excessively graphic, this excerpt is violent, so take that into consideration before reading it.
Novel: Outwilds
Genre: Fantasy, Sci-Fi, Western
Premise: Centuries after an unknown apocalyptic event nearly destroyed the human race, the world has limped on, harboring ancient magics and monolithic structures known only as Lighthouses -- seemingly supernatural entities that hold frightening power. Though mankind has struggled to reclaim what was lost when the world was cursed, there are many who believe that the world is moving inexorably towards destruction. When a small girl appears on the edge of an evil and inhospitable place known to the locals as the Outwilds, a chain of events is set into motion that will determine the fate of the human race. What mysteries does this girl hold, and will she play a pivotal role in the world's salvation -- or is she a harbinger of the end?
The town of Lancrest was quiet under the scorching heat of the mid-afternoon sun. A few people carried about their business, but most had retreated indoors -- some to continue their work, others for an afternoon siesta. There were few who saw -- and fewer who cared -- as The Vagabond casually rode into town, his face entirely obscured by the shade of his hat and the midnight blue bandana tied loosely around the back of his neck. His horse walked slowly down the street, bobbing up and down and kicking up a small amount of dust with its hooved plodding, as The Vagabond counted them again.
Six, counting the bartender. Four sat at a table near the back, beside a rickety honky-tonk piano, playing poker. Of those, three were armed with six-shooters. On the other side of the room, in the corner across from the bar, was Rik Joon, sitting casually with a glass of Dragonsblood in one hand; his free hand rested confidently on the hilt of his revolver. The bartender stood idly cleaning glasses; at knee-height, hidden from view, was a lever-action rifle, oiled and loaded. Joon would fetch 100 dolets; the three grunts would bring 20 each. That was more than enough to cover his expenses, but it was still only a fraction of what The Vagabond hoped to squeeze out of this encounter.
The horse came to a slow stop in front of the Fountainhead Saloon as The Vagabond opened his eye. He dismounted with one slow but deliberate motion, his serape blowing up momentarily to reveal the two cavalry pistols at his hips. He hitched the reins to the beam beside the trough as his horse took a much needed drink, then stepped decisively, with heavy bootfalls, into the saloon.
All the eyes in the room immediately fell on him as he stepped up to the bar. All three of the armed men at the poker table surreptitiously lowered a hand to their guns as they continued to chat. Joon didn’t move, save to raise the glass to his lips as he eyed over the stranger. The bartender looked him over carefully, stern and straight-faced; one eye was a ghastly and unnatural silver color, like a lead bullet aimed and ready to fire towards his head; the other eye was covered with a shoddy leather patch, crudely adorned with a three-eyed skull. Though the bartender was unfamiliar with his appearance, he was quite familiar with his bearing, and knew that there would be trouble if he stayed long.
“What’ll it be, stranger?” The words were cold and stark, clearly indicating that The Vagabond was not welcome. The silver eye remained fixed on the bartender’s face as a hand reached up and pulled the bandana down, revealing a rough face adorned with scars and a heavy five o’clock shadow.
“Bottle of Stardrip,” The Vagabond said in a low and gruff voice that matched his face. The bartender cursed inwardly.
“Shots are fifteen sens. A whole bottle will run you five dolets.” It didn’t take much figuring to realize he was price gouging. The bartender hoped that the stranger would be smart enough to take his business elsewhere. Much to his chagrin, The Vagabond pulled his serape aside, revealing a bounty license stitched to his shirt. He reached underneath the shirt and pulled out a small pouch, dropping it onto the bartop with a heavy clink. The bartender looked down at the pile of coins, glinting with a red copper tint in the oily lamplight of the saloon.
“Must be twenty dolets there,” the bartender said, loudly enough for the other patrons to hear. If he couldn’t break the stranger’s wallet, maybe he could scare him off.
“Twenty-five,” The Vagabond said, equally loudly. The bartender’s lip turned up a bit in a scowl, then he reached under the bar and grabbed an open bottle already a quarter empty, placing it on the bar in a last-ditch effort to drive the stranger off.
“Last bottle we’ve got,” the bartender lied. “Full price. Take it or leave it.”
The three men at the poker table still had their hands wrapped firmly around their guns, waiting for the signal to draw. Joon was holding his own revolver in the air, thumb wedged firmly against the hammer, a grim smile on his face. The unarmed man, a fresh-faced kid no older than twenty, had taken a seat at the piano, and started to play. The tinny notes rattling off in quick succession were likely meant to serve as a distraction while Joon’s gang got into position. The Vagabond’s silver eye stared headlong at the bartender, unmoved. He lifted his hand and pushed the pouch of coins forward, then opened his palm expectantly. The bartender handed him a shot glass with a grunt, then stepped to the side.
Joon stood from his table slowly, the sound of his movements covered by the rattling of the piano, as The Vagabond opened the bottle. He took a step forward as The Vagabond poured a bit of the dull yellow liquid into the glass. He cocked his revolver as The Vagabond pushed the cork back into the bottle and set it back on the bar. He gave a vicious smile as he lowered the revolver, aiming at the back of The Vagabond’s head.
The Vagabond whirled around, the heel of his boot twisting into the floor, and brought the bottle crashing onto Joon’s head. There was a dull thud and a sickening crack as Joon’s skull splintered and his neck snapped, the revolver falling limply from his hand. In the same movement, The Vagabond drew a pistol with his left hand and fired off two quick rounds; one pierced the heart of one of the poker players, and the other flew cleanly through the throat of the second and into the head of the third.
The Vagabond dropped the shattered neck of the bottle and drew his second revolver, spinning back around and planting it firmly against the forehead of the bartender, who was reaching for the rifle.
“Wouldn’t advise that,” he said bluntly. The bartender’s eyes widened a bit in shock, then he sneered, placing his hands onto the top of the bar.
“You won’t shoot me,” he said. The Vagabond pulled back the hammer with his thumb, the bartender’s ironic smile fading.
“That depends on whether or not you tell me what I want to know. Your life’s riding on it, so you best get that jaw working.”
“Fine,” the bartender said, beads of perspiration starting to trickle down the nape of his neck. “What do you want to know?” The Vagabond indicated with his free gun towards the back of the bar, where the unarmed man had run off.
“Which of you is Gran Mar?” The words were sharp and incisive. The bartender grimaced.
“What makes you think it’s either of us?” he said without thinking, biting his tongue only too late.
“You do,” The Vagabond said. “No one outside Joon’s gang or the bounty network would know that name other than Mar himself. You don’t carry yourself like a gunslinger, and you sure as shit ain’t a bounty hunter, so that just leaves us with one option, don’t it?” The bartender focused on The Vagabond’s trigger finger for a moment, then back on the unwavering silver eye.
“It ain’t me,” he said quietly, his throat dry.
“You’d sell the kid out to save your own neck?” The Vagabond said. The bartender smiled wanly.
“It’s the truth,” he said. “But the ‘kid’ is already ten leagues from here. Good luck hunting him down.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” The Vagabond said, baring his teeth. “It seems someone went and left a whole cartload of flour sittin’ right against the back door. Ain’t that just a damn shame? What do you say, kid?” The Vagabond paused, then fired a round from the gun in his left hand, the bullet throwing up some dust and splinters as it impacted with the floor at the back of the bar. “I said, ‘what do you say, kid?’”
The fresh-faced young man came out from around the corner at the back of the bar, hands raised in the air.
“Please don’t shoot me, sir,” he said, his voice trembling. “I swear I ain’t Gran Mar. I just take orders from him. I only do as he says, sir. I only been with the gang for a couple weeks, sir.”
The Vagabond smiled viciously at the bartender, his eye still fixed on him.
“Well, how do you fancy that?” he said, his revolver pushing harder into the bartender’s forehead. “Seems we’ve got a bit of a problem here. One of you is lyin’ to me, and I’m inclined to think it’s you.” The bartender shut his eyes and started to shake.
“I’m tellin’ the truth,” he said. “I ain’t Gran Mar.” The kid shook his hand accusingly at the bartender.
“I recognize his voice!” he said. “That’s him! That’s Gran Mar! He’s the one who gives me orders!” The bartender’s mouth twisted into a snarl.
“Why, you shit-mouthed little--”
The room was deafened as a bullet flew out the back of the bartender’s skull. His body collapsed onto the ground as the kid dropped to his knees, his hands over his ears. The Vagabond holstered one of his guns and walked over to him. He hoisted him up against the wall, shoving the barrel of his revolver into the underside of his chin.
“He wasn’t lyin’,” The Vagabond whispered through gritting teeth. “Not exactly. But I’m startin’ to figure what’s goin’ on here. I suspect that there ain’t no Gran Mar, but it’s just a name you an’ him conjured up to use as a shield. He feeds you information during a heist, you relay it to the gang, and you get a hefty cut without needin’ to stick your necks out too far. What do you say, kid?”
“How...how…” the kid stammered, trembling. The Vagabond reached up and pulled a small device from the kid’s ear.
“I’ve got an eye for Arts, kid. I’ve seen one of these before. Thing is, they ain’t cheap, so I’m wonderin’ how it is that a rookie like you got your hands on one. But that ain’t all. I happen to know that this particular Art ain’t no use without a second one. That means you had a partner. Again, here I am left wonderin’ just what kind of rookie thug would be partnered with an Arts user, and the only answer I’m gettin’ is that you and he concocted this little arrangement to skin money from Joon’s gang and run it through this bar. They do all the dirty work, and they can’t identify Gran Mar if they get caught. Pretty sharp.”
The Vagabond grabbed the kid by the collar of his shirt and dragged him over to the edge of the bar. He shoved his back against it and pressed the revolver barrel into his forehead, bending the kid back nearly double.
“Problem is, at some point that money’s gonna leave a trail, and that trail’s gonna lead back to the real Gran Mar. How much do you wanna bet your name’s on some of the documents in that safe I know you’ve got tucked down there? I’ll wager one bullet against your life.” The Vagabond cocked his revolver, the kid letting out a shriek.
“Okay!” he screamed, tears running out of his clenched eyes. “You got it! You’re right! Me an’ Mark were partners! We were runnin’ Joon’s gang behind the scenes! But I swear, it was his idea! He got his hands on these Arts, and he roped me into helping him!”
The Vagabond uncocked his revolver and holstered it, letting go of the kid. He slid to the floor in a mess of tears.
“Alright, kid, I’ll tell you what. The bounty clerk’s offerin’ 500 dolets for the dead body of Gran Mar, or 1000 dolets for anyone who brings him in alive. Since you’re the only man left alive who can be tied to that name, I’d say you owe me 500 dolets. Whatcha think?” The kid looked up in desperation.
“I never had close to that much money,” he whimpered. “We were puttin’ everything we made back into the bar. I wanted to go legit. I never wanted to be part of Joon’s gang in the first place. But the bar’s all I got now. I ain’t got nothin’ else.” The Vagabond hummed, dangling the Receiver in front of the kid’s face. He suddenly perked up.
“That’s right!” he said, picking himself up. “The Arts! Mark’s should be in the safe! I’ll betcha anything they’re worth at least 500 dolets! You can have ‘em if you don’t turn me in!” The Vagabond nodded, and the kid went around to the back of the bar, opening the safe. He pulled out a small handheld device and placed it on the bartop.
“Mark called this a ‘Transceiver’. I dunno where he got it. You can talk into it and your voice will come out of that other one. Damndest thing I ever saw. He’d tell us where to wait to ambush a train or a coach. I never figured how he knew.”
The Vagabond picked up the Transceiver and switched it on, holding it up to his ear. He turned a few knobs until he heard a voice crackle through, saying something about a shipment of iron. The kid’s face lit up in surprise.
“Must’ve planted a Transmitter somewhere,” The Vagabond said, switching the Transceiver off. “Probably a logistics office. Either way, this will serve as proof and payment -- proof that the dead bartender is really Gran Mar, and payment from you so I don’t have to bother bringin’ you in. Now, get me a wagon and help me load up these bodies, and you and me will be square.”
The kid nodded fervently, then ran for the door. The Vagabond slid the Transceiver into his pocket, thankful that the kid didn’t seem to know its true value. The kid stopped suddenly, noticing The Vagabond’s untouched shot at the end of the bar.
“Oh, I guess if the bar’s mine now, I gotta tend it. You still want your drink? I could get you somethin’ better if you want.” The Vagabond waved his hand dismissively, his eye shut, scanning the town for an Arts Dealer.
“I don’t drink,” he said, absentmindedly.