Corporal Danny Obierika and Private Gerald Maw crouched behind the great gun, which shielded them from the worst of the skinning sand. Danny donned a welder’s mask, Maw had a pair of safety goggles to protect his eyes, and both wore condoms over the barrels of their loaded muskets. The cannon could survive a little sandblasting, though it might erode the engraved crowns and maple leaves and Southern Crosses and other symbols of empire decorating the metal. They were more afraid of deliberate sabotage. A “freak” dust storm driving off the crowd was just too inconvenient to ascribe to mere chance.
They couldn’t hear each other speak, and even with bandanas over their mouths it would have only have filled their mouths with enough dust to turn their teeth to powder. Private Maw had to elbow Danny to get his attention as he pointed his weapon to the sky. Though the cloud looked black as it came toward them it appeared red from the inside.
The red sun was occluded momentarily as something flew overhead. It should have been impossible for anything to fly in the cloud, like flying in sand as it flowed downhill. It should have been whipped through the air by eddies of sediment and cast down to the ground. It must have been very large. Private Maw thumbed back his musket lock. If Danny missed he wouldn’t have a chance to recharge the piece, leaving Gerald’s shot their only chance to ward off whatever it was.
It eclipsed the sun again. Not totally. A thin membrane. A lightbulb viewed through red tissue paper. Then it came down toward them. Danny fired. It should have moved too fast to see it exit the barrel but he swore he caught George the III winking at him from the face of the silver shilling, pressed into a dome so it would fit in the bore, as the handloaded coin tumbled upward toward the target.
The cloud of dust billowing in through the roadhouse front door immediately captured the revelers’ attention. Mary Falling Drum was first to investigate and was immediately captured by the four mail-clad soldiers. The camera guy from WNN was second, he just happened to be closest and he heard the kid scream. He caught a vicious downward slash that narrowly missed his head and dropped him to the floor. Edith shouted, realizing the intruders had her daughter hostage. The big guy rested the blade of his spatha across Mary’s throat and arrested her mother’s upward motion. Bhoja had already thumbed back the lock on his muzzleloader but he wasn’t confident he could sight and hit the hostage taker through the crowd before the blade came down. The leader shouted something and pointed across the room at the pair of slaves and their infant son, doing their best to hide under the table.
The Regiment, the King of Swords, the gunslingers and even many of the assorted spectators had all fantasized about a moment like this, where their skills and mettle would be tested to protect an innocent person from evil. They were weapon obsessed weirdos and they all told themselves that someday everyone would recognize that they were right to be prepared. To surrender their guests would have been unconscionable but the slavecatchers had demonstrated their casual appetite for violence and they had a child for a human shield. Like the Stalker Redrick they were asked whether the offered reward was worth the death of a child. Whether to sacrifice the daughter of a woman they knew to protect two complete strangers and their son.
Seated at his table, pretending to be frightened by this perfect moment of tension, Outlaw Journalist Namond Lick helped everyone make a decision. He wasn’t interested in telling a story about moral cowardice, or waiting patiently for a lengthy negotiation in a language he couldn’t understand. He casually shoved his beer mug with his elbow, sending it sailing away from the table and crashing to the floor.
The room exploded into motion. Angella broke one of the prayer cards on her scapular. Before she even registered the crisp snap of the thin material she was in the backseat, feeling someone else reach with her right hand for her belt holster. It happened so quickly that by the time it had been communicated to her that her body had done this, she was already firing. The hand that had broken the prayer card swept over the top strap of the wheelgun to catch the hammer spur and the revolver spat a mouthful of black powder, triangulating a path between the bar-goers to the no good yellow bellied skirt wearin’ backshootin’ Judases clustered 'round the kid.
Her mouth opened as the spirit moved her.
“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-”
Bang. Bang.
“-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE HAW.”
Edith threw herself forward, right hand filled with the steak knife that once held her elk burger together, main gauche toting a chair scooped off the floor. She would have made a good legionary, the way she led with her improvised shield and followed with a thrust of the blade. The soldier blocking her path swung through the chair, catching her with the follow through as his lorica stopped the point of the cheap stainless steel knife just short of his heart. She accepted the splintered wood and blade without comment, shoving past and bowling him over to reach the legionary threatening her child.
The leader of the dismounted cavalry troop powered forward to the table where one of the churchmen had bundled Roxana and her son to the floor, shielding them with his body the moment someone fired a gun. The rest of the men tried to fight but the close packed tables made it hard for them to stand.
The King of Swords headed off the massacre. He stepped forward and puked a fat bladed Scottish broadsword into his waiting hand. He had already lost his shirt (along with his other clothes) to the naked woman and if anyone was paying attention amid the brawl they’d be treated to a closeup of his diaphragm flexing as the enormous basket hilt knocked against the back of his teeth, then came free of his mouth into his waiting hand. The decurion swung low, not seriously expecting to catch the King’s erection with the tip of his blade but rather hoping to force him back into a fallen chair and finish him off as he stumbled. The King stepped confidently forward and the blade hit him in the dick with a sound and spark like steel on steel, caroming off without leaving a dent. He casually struck the legionary with a push cut delivered around the spatha’s inadequate handguard, forcing the blade out of his opponent’s mangled hand. He had already forgotten about the hostage situation. The card game was no longer of interest to him. The gun outside could be devoured by the storm for all he cared.
The Legionary kept his cool. He stepped back and reached for a bottle with his left hand.
With its sixgun exhausted the thing riding Angela lost interest in contributing productively to the brawl and loped around the faro table, snatching up an abandoned margarita and downing it while pawing with its other hand at the woman struggling to fit into the King’s too long and narrow jeans. Animal had a shot at the sweaty bronze outrider who struggled with Colonel Bhoja. He held his fire. The fewer Redcoats who survived the brawl, the better their chances of stopping the monarchist supergun plot. To fire now would exhaust precious charges better spent on his upcoming showdown with the King.
But he couldn’t hide in wait for the last man standing. His pride would not permit it.
He fired a shot into the ceiling.
The Parthian auxiliary stabbed the Colonel. The Colonel grabbed the man’s sword hand before he could withdraw, spewing forth a torrent of obscenities in Urdu and clasping his attacker close. The busboy who had fucked Roxana’s mouth broke a glass water jug over the soldier’s head. He had not planned to fight. Hadn’t believed he could help. But when the cosmic cowboy fired a single thundering round his hands moved of his own accord. Behind him came his cousins, his uncle with his rubber gloves slick with cooking fat, and together they overpowered the soldier clinging to the Colonel and threw him to the floor.
Edith struck the soldier who threatened her child. His helmet protected his nose and eyes and temples but the cheekpieces were untied at the chin and she dealt him a vicious uppercut to his exposed jaw. The bones of his face were harder than the ones in her hand and at least one finger broke. His blade was wet with something. It slid through her red jacket and the tunic and skin beneath to taste the things inside.
She hit him again.
And again.
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