prologue to "Two Bone Bullets" - a tale from Nowhe

[Marksman45]

<i>that subject line should read "a tale from Nowhere."</i>
~-~

Myrian Marson thought fondly of her twin sons, Ashton and Houston. They would be already to the city of Haddensdale by now, just in time to escape the rapidly descending dusk and darkness. In fact, she wondered for a moment why they had not yet called to tell her they had arrived safely, until she remembered that the storm two weeks ago had downed the telephone lines in the area, and Valley Telecomm had not yet bothered to repair them. This did not make it easier to stifle her maternal worrying, even despite her insistence to herself that they were grown boys of seventeen years and quite capable of taking care of themselves.

Alone in the kitchen Myrian stood, fondly remembering how the twins’ father Travin wanted to name them Smith and Wesson. He thought it rather amusing. Myrian did not, and promptly named them herself.

Travin was an expert marksman of the highest degree and made his living as a hunter in the Tipswich Forest, on the edge of which their house was built. His mastery was such that adventurers and mercenaries from the neighbouring region of the Rustbelt would make the dangerous (and possibly endless) trek through the wild, unknowable Expanse between the cities of the Rustbelt and the outside territories in an attempt to hire him. He would have none of this. A quiet, sedentary life with his family and the Tipswich wilds were all he desired; the wealth and fame of a Rustbelt adventurer held no gravity for him, at least not after looking in Myrian’s fiery eyes. Whether it was the fear or affection that those eyes engendered in him that stayed his mind from wandering, he was never sure. Nor was he ever particularly able to differentiate the two. The affection frightened him, and the fear he somehow loved, with all its intensity and glorious perfection.

When Travin disappeared three years ago, the twins believed that he had finally taken up one of the offers from that strange and lawless country, and they were simply grateful that he passed on his encyclopedic knowledge of firearms before he left. Myrian, however, knew that he did not leave. He could not have left. It would be impossible.

Myrian’s smile over “Smith and Wesson” faded as she pulled open a drawer. The drawer squeaked and the collection of metal kitchen implements rattled. After removing a long, sharp knife, she closed the drawer and concealed the knife under her dress.

“This is the last night,” she had promised herself.

* * *

She sat quietly in her parlor chair, waiting. A sudden alien smell – one which she was never able to put her finger on but learned to detest – alerted her that he had arrived.

“My dear Myrian,” he said, stepping out of the shadows. Slowly advancing toward her, he smiled. It was a hollow smile filled with an unholy something.

Myrian looked in the other direction as he removed his orange hooded cloak, revealing his ash blond hair and shock-white suit.

“Myrian, my love,” he cooed, standing beside her. She remained silent, her eyes fixed on the wall ahead of her.

“Woman!” he hissed, seizing her chin and turning her face forcefully toward him, “You will look at me when I am speaking to you!”

To say that she was unafraid would be a lie. Every man, woman, and child in the Mathwen Valley and its neighbouring lands feared this man. They knew who he was, they knew the sort of feats of which he was capable, they knew his name, though they never dared speak it. They knew all about him, but still they had certainly never seen him, let alone face-to-face, in their own home. But Myrian was not about to let that fear show. She ripped herself from his grip and resumed her gaze on the wall, chin up, her nerve bolstered by a force that could not quite be called duty. No, she did not owe Travin this. She chose, free of any contract implicit or explicit, to do this. It was not duty – but the term love has been made too crude, too weightless, to justly describe the force that fueled Myrian’s strength.

“I have a question for you, who is so knowledgeable,” she said, nearly choking on her fear. “What happened to my husband?”

The man knew immediately where this was going, and knew immediately that he did not like it. “Ah, but surely one so bright and fiery as yourself has already deduced this,” he replied with sardonic venom disguised transparently as sweetness.

“Perhaps. But tell me anyway, so I might corroborate my theory.”

“He went out to hunt and was killed.”

“Yes, this much I had suspected. But who killed him?”

The man recognized the significance in Myrian’s word choice. She did not ask what killed him. She asked who killed him.

“Ah, but surely by now it is obvious.” His words slithered from his lips. “But if you must know…” He knelt down, put his mouth to Myrian’s ear, and whispered with relish,

“I did.”

He was perfectly confident that she was at his mercy. What did it matter if she knew? He had his way with her enough times anyway. Indeed, he was beginning to grow bored of her, wasn’t he? It was that time again…

He stood up and, with a wry smirk, began to rattle on, in that way his pride and wicked self-satisfaction never could let him refuse.

“You may or not be aware of it, but you are, at present, the most beautiful woman in the Valley.”

Myrian snorted.

“It is true, I have looked.” He continued, “And so naturally I wanted you. And when I want things, I take them, and when I am presented with obstacles, I simply… remove them.”

Myrian filled with rage but did not allow her expression to change. He must not anticipate her move. “Yes. Of course.”

With that, she produced the knife and slashed at him. A deep gash appeared in his face, and he staggered backward, shocked, put his hand to the wound and examined the blood on his fingers. Myrian lunged at him with the knife and plunged it deep between his ribs. He let out a gasp of air. Myrian backed off, tears running down her face, her body trembling with adrenaline.

Then he began laughing. He pulled the knife out of his ribcage and, with a wave of his hand, vanished it. He waved his hand again and the wounds closed.

“Imbecilic slattern,” he growled, slowly walking toward her. Defenseless, she backed away and stumbled over a side table. In a haughty voice, he continued, “Do you not know that I could kill you as you would kill a fly? Do you not know that I kill at will? After where I have been, what I have done, what I have seen, a human life is nothing more than a speck of dust. A particularly insignificant speck of dust.”

“Fine then!” She spat, “Kill me! What will that accomplish? My sons will revenge me. They will revenge their father.”

“Revenge? Against me?” He laughed. “No one exacts revenge upon my head. The devil himself lacks the constitution and nerve to even think of it.”

“My sons will revenge me. They will revenge their father."

His eyes narrowed and became eyes that were not human – eyes that were of a snake and of a falcon simultaneously.

“We will see about that,” he said, his voice low and sinister. “We will see.”

He focused his unearthly gaze upon Myrian. She doubled over in pain and collapsed. Ashton and Houston would be sleeping soundly in a mildly-comfortable bed in some Haddensdale inn by now, she thought. What a horrible thing she had done, to bring this upon them, the horror they will feel when they come home and see whatever this demon of a man leaves of her.

The thoughts hurt more deeply than did the fell sorcery that afflicted her. Finally the thoughts left and she blacked out.

[Lightning Rod]

mars,
don't let this go to your head (you are conceited enough already )

but your writing is enchanting

[tinkerjack]

.

u write dem we read um

don't let this go to your head

What size hat do you wear anyway?
enthrall is right clay, no way I was not going to finish reading it.

[Marksman45]

Thanks, Clay

This piece was really pretty hard to get down properly.
When pulp is good, it's my favourite stuff. But good pulp is a difficult thing to manage.

[Marksman45]

oh hey tinker, i missed your reply because I had my post reply window open for a long time before I hit "submit" because I was chatting on AIM

Thanks for your readership, as always

And I'm actually not quite sure what hat size I wear. Whereupon the hat do I look for it?

[tinkerjack]

I suppose I was just thinking about the swelled head joke that clay made. I figure you are much too old for that.

all ways a pleasure to do readership with you

a little tag thingy on the hat band inside,

[Marksman45]

Oh, I got the joke. It just happened to alert me to the fact that I don't know what hat size I wear. Which was kinda distressing. And I can't find the stinkin' tag

[tinkerjack]

if it fits wear it
You had that black sombrero looking hat I think, looked good on you wear it in good health.

[creativesoul]

forlorn and lovely and a bit kinky
perhaps these characters are not fantasy? you have been there done that?
lovely

[Marksman45]

Thank you, creativesoul

Indeed, it is not fantasy. It's all true. I was there. As an invisible observer in this case, but I was there.

[mnaz]

you are writing metaphorically, of the global menace?

rust belt . . .

[Kailashana]

Well! Ah do daclare (she said in Scarletesque!)

Gone the beautiful city, it seems Rome was built in one day.

~A