Gaseous Form is one of those Spells that I’d love to learn, but can’t really justify keeping in my back pocket.

  Mostly because it’s a Spell that’s solely meant for getting out of dodge, and I’m more than capable of doing that all by myself most of the time. It’s an Oh-Shit-Spell pretty much, something you use when you’re in a pinch and can’t do nothing else, and I already got one of those. The always Prepared and rarely utilized Misty Step does the job well enough, while also leaving me the option to reposition and re-engage or get gone to live and fight another day. Sure, it’s not as fool-proof as Gaseous Form, as I still gotta leg it if I’m hoping to run, but it’s only Second Order, meaning it don’t cost a full quarter of my daily Aether tank to use, sixteen Grainage that could well be saved for a big, game-changing Fireball instead.

  Which goes to show where my priorities lie, as the best defense is a good offense. Words I live by, and might well die by given my reluctance to overcommit on defensive measures. Then again, is that really true? I got Mage Armour, Conjure Armour, Misty Step, and a flex slot for Mental Fortress, Shield, or whatever Concentration Spell I feel like keeping handy. Then there’s the Spells that ain’t wholly defensive in nature, but serve a similar purpose. Entangling Growth, Spiked Growth, Web, Grease, Fog Cloud, and more, all meant to help you survive on the battlefield without any ability to directly harm the enemy. Not unless you lead them into the Spiked Growth or set the Grease aflame, but that’s a whole extra step that wouldn’t be necessary if I just tossed out a Flame Cloud or Fireball.

  Now granted, I don’t have the Formula for Flame Cloud and have never Prepped or Cast it. Alls I’m saying is that not all Spells are equal, so you gotta be selective about what you Prep when you only got so many slots. That means that even if I were to get the Spell Formula from Gunnar and learn it for myself, I don’t see a world in which Gaseous Form ever makes it onto my Spell list, not unless I were to drop all my Divination Spells or up my limit to 16, maybe even 20 Prepped Spells, along with a whole lot more Grainage to use them more freely.

  This ain’t to say the Spell’s no good. Frankly, it’s one of the more Magical Spells out there, or at least it seems that way to me. Somehow, the Spell knows what’s a part of you and what isn’t, what you’re carrying on your body versus just touching you in general. Then it transforms everything that should be transformed into gas, not just the clothes you’re wearing including the duster hanging off my gangly frame and the hat up top of my head, but even the stuff you carrying like on my belts, in my pouches, or the bull’s head medallion sitting on a band around my hat. Didn’t Transmute the carpet I was stood on, or the desk I was leaning against. Got my prosthetic though, which I was wearing rather than holding, as well as the vial I just drunk out of and was still holding onto, and would’ve picked up on anything else I was holding too.

  Like that book I done left behind, if only to give off the illusion of ignorance for a little while longer, though I dunno how effective that’ll be. Time will tell I suppose, but I ain’t all that worried about it.

  What I am concerned about is where I’m heading, because while the Potion of Gaseous Form lasts a whole hour, gas don’t move all that quick. Nor do I have the best grasp on how to move either, as this do be a potion after all. With the Spell, I imagine I’d at least have some intuitive understanding of how to move around, but alas, that don’t transfer over with the Potion. Feels a little like wrangling jello, except so much more difficult since I got nothing to really grab with, and the whole time I’m drifting about on the breeze, I’m praying that I brung the whole lot of me and didn’t leave nothing behind. Vital or non-vital, because I done lost all that I care to lose when it comes to body parts.

  I’ve even grown reluctant to cut my hair in recent days, and it’s getting pretty long and scruffy. If I’d’ve known I was gonna run into Noora, I would’ve cleaned up a bit more. Wouldn’t be the first time I cut my own hair, and I did Elodie’s hair justice enough, so why can’t I do that for myself? Didn’t even have my shirt tucked and self all put together, not after roughing it out on the open road for so many weeks now. Figures. After spending a whole week hoping to seeing her again, I gave up all hope, then ran into her looking like a scruffy, scraggy, sweaty, smelly mess of a man.

  In contrast? Noora looked stunning. Divine even. Got them smoke, almond eyes and those full lips that come together in a calm and confident expression that fits so well overtop her caramel skin. She’s more gorgeous than ever now too, as she’s put on some muscle to pad out her slender yet undeniable curves that keep her from being downright twiggy. Never knew women could be built like that until I met her, so soft and well-proportioned that there ain’t a thing you’d like to change. All women are soft, even the broad-shouldered and athletic Sarah Jay, or Tina with her farmgirl build, but Noora was extra soft like she was made of water and just sorta melts in against you. Josie was the same way, with an added bit of adorable thanks to her expressions and mannerisms, a reminder that makes me miss her all the more.

  Small wonder Noora skipped town; every time I see her, I just think about how I lost Josie, and knowing she had that effect must’ve torn her up inside…

  At least she’s doing well for herself, or she was until I showed up. Working for a Neo Nazi white supremacist couldn’t have been fun, but it paid the bills. Left town with next to nothing after paying back every dollar I ever gave her and in three months had earned enough to stake a claim and pay folks to build her a cabin. Bought herself the tools, books, and materials needed to upgrade her gauntlet too, going from a cattle prod to a right proper zapper which she put to good use during the fight. Didn’t seem none too fazed by the fighting or the dying either, and not in a cold or callous way. Just used to not letting it bring her down is all, and keeps moving in spite of it.

  Said it before and I’ll say it again, but I admire Noora from the bottom of my heart, because she is strong beyond compare. I’m not talking physically, but mentally, emotionally, and probably spiritually too. Wears her pain like a badge of honour and uses it to drive her forward, whereas I drag mine around like a thousand kilos of dead weight.

  Yeah, dropping in to see her in Stonesford would only complicate matters for the both of us, especially with Tammy in the mix. I don’t begrudge Noora for jumping in bed with someone else so quick. Don’t mean she loved Josie any less than I did, only that she won’t let the pain and loss hold her back. Can’t say I don’t want her in my life either, because complicated feelings aside, I do very much like the idea of having a crew to roll with out in the Deadlands. Don’t much care for joining up under someone else’s banner, especially not someone younger and less capable than I am, but it wouldn’t need to be forever. Just for a little bit while I earn enough out here in the Deadlands far away from the Qin until they find someone or something else to focus on besides little old me.

  Doubt it’ll happen though. Not only will the Order keep coming after me, Tammy don’t strike me as much of a fan. Or one to share, and she’d have to if Noora gets her way. Me, I’m too weak to deny her for long, but not so sordid as to go behind Tammy’s back to do it. Another time, another life, maybe that’s where I end up next, working in a merc company under someone else’s banner, but somehow, I get the feeling I won’t be getting that letter from Noora inviting me to join up.

  All this and more goes through my head as I drift on the breeze overtop of Fairhaven. Gives me a good, long look at the town, and I gotta say, it do seem like a little slice of paradise here in the Deadlands. It’s got tall walls, sturdy gates, and attentive patrols to guard against Abby and intruders alike, but that don’t detract from the town’s ambiance. It’s got them raised wooden walkways I noticed while blindfolded, and they do make for a neat and homey sort of vibe, while other folks skim over the swampy marsh in rafts or flat bottom boats that give the whole place a different sort of traffic buzz as folks go about their day. They got all the essentials too, like a bakery, a butcher, postal office, and church, but also a touch of the non-essential like a prizefighting arena for boxing and a theatre advertising weekly concerts and community events. They got a candy store, a taxidermy shop, an ice cream parlor, and pie stand, a billiards hall, a cigar club, and a fair few other shops and venues you wouldn’t find in half the towns on the Eastern Front.

  Like I said before, a touch of the non-essential is what makes a town a town, turning it from a fortified position into a real, honest to goodness community which is what they’ve built here. Shows that the people here got good lives, with time and money to spend on the finer things in life, which wasn’t what I was expecting from a bunch of Neo-Nazi fascists. Makes it real easy to understand why people would want to sign on for the Order of the Cleansing Light. They take care of their own, and here on the Frontier, that’s an offer better than what most can match.

  Including the Federation, who’ll use you and toss you aside as soon as you prove inconvenient.

  Course, I only got one side of the story. I’m sure Fairhaven got its dark secrets, including the secret underground lab filled with captured Abby and medical equipment that almost certainly has something to do with what I was sent to procure. If it doesn’t, then the Order is mixed up in even more funny business than I care to imagine, though I dunno what I can do about it. Far as I can tell, official policy from the four nations guarding the Deadlands is to live and let live when it comes to Aultman and Sons, as that there be the golden goose they don’t want getting cooked. Doubt they’ll care to investigate any claims I make without any proof, and I ain’t about to put Edward in a spot where he might have to go against orders on my behalf. He’d probably burn Fairhaven to the ground if I let him know what’s going on, but he’d get more than a slap on the wrist for it, especially if Aaron and Luther ain’t on board.

  And truth be told? I don’t see any reason they should be. Fairhaven do seem rather nice and peaceful, albeit monochrome when it comes to skin tones. Which is a decision I don’t agree with, but partially because I’ve always been on the outside looking in. The one Qink in a melting pot who just always stood out, even though I’m more American than most actual Americans. I love guns, hate taxes, wear a big cowboy hat, and will try and build anything and everything myself before resorting to buying it in a store. I’m a walking stereotype in almost every which way, but all folks see is my face and that means I ain’t American enough for them.

  So really, if you think about it, Fairhaven do be the iconic American town, those real American values that they don’t speak of out loud.

  Which ain’t entirely fair. Lotta folks like being around people who look and think just like them. That’s why you get people migrating to communities where they’re more culturally homogenous, like the black community in Meadowbrooke, the Jewish community up in Silver Summit, or the Mexican/South American border town of New Sonora. That don’t make them racist though. It’s kist human nature to want to be around similar people, and I got nothing against it so long as there’s no requirement against ‘outsiders’. Whether that requirement be implicit or explicit mind you, as there are all too many unspoken rules that keep folks from mingling as they should.

  There are also plenty of Americans who don’t agree with the Order’s dogma, and a fair few who accept me for who I am. Problem is, them folks are the silent majority who don’t do nothing when folks like the Order speak up. Ain’t just my experience either, as I know Astrid and Errol would both agree. They’ve been through the wringer themselves and those ‘good’ Americans didn’t do squat to help, even though most people would agree that what happened wasn’t right. Lip service didn’t do nothing to make Astrid and her family feel safe in New Hope, nor did it get Errol his spot back in Basic, now did it?

  That there is a real shame, because like some fella once said, the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing, and I see a whole lot of folks doing diddly squat about the Neo-Nazi infestation here in the Deadlands.

  And yet, I can’t bring myself to hate the people of Fairhaven, not in a broad, sweeping manner. Can’t just write them all off as racists who deserve to be shot dead in the streets, because while they have their strong opinions, I ain’t seen or heard about them doing anything all that terrible about it. They’re not lynching people of colour or chasing them off with torches and pitchforks. They just don’t employ or service the people with the ‘wrong’ skin tones, and leave them a choice between moving elsewhere or starving for lack of work. Which is far tamer than what happens in most places, so even though I wholeheartedly abhor their opinions and beliefs, I can’t condemn them to death for it.

  Not until they actually do something worth responding to. Thing is, that sort of thinking was how the Nazi’s rose to power in the first place. They didn’t come out swinging for the fences and snatching minorities off the street from day one. No, they started off talking about taking patriotism to the extreme, of nationalization and protecting their way of life from outsiders looking to destroy it. Then they promised jobs for Prussians in a time of global economic collapse, when most were unemployed and facing extreme poverty. That’s all they had to do, make promises they couldn’t actually deliver on, not without breaking international laws banning them from building up an army for war. Thing is, it worked, as there ain’t no money like war money, so most folks were happy and fed instead of miserable and starving. That’s why didn’t no one rock the boat when the Nazi’s started taking people off the streets, labelling them dissidents or undesirables who went against the nationalistic order, while the other nations were much too busy with their own economical hardships to do anything about Nazi Prussia gearing up for a second go around.

  A situation that ain’t all that different from what’s happening here in Fairhaven, I’d say. Might be the Order really is preparing for war, but I can point and scream to the high heavens all I like and won’t no one care to do nothing about it. No one besides Edward maybe, and I can’t bring myself to put that on him. Partially because he’s family and I won’t use him like that, but also because when I look around Fairhaven, I don’t immediately see a den of racist warmongers. I see regular, American folks for the most part, and while they might give me dirty looks if the ever cross me in the streets, I get that in New Hope, the town I grew up in, so is this place really all that different?

  You know… aside from management. At the very least, the Marshal won’t stand for no overt declarations or demonstrations of racism. More subtle displays on the other hand, he can’t do nothing about, or rather his code of ethics demands he do nothing because there’s no law that says he could. That’s the problem when you see the world in black and white when really, it’s all just shades of grey, and while there’s something to be said about slippery slopes, it don’t feel great living out on the margins when you didn’t do nothing to deserve it. Nothing besides being born with a different shade of skin that is, and while my daddy had it in him to swallow his pride and keep his head down, I’m afraid I’m much too American to do the same.

  So I take a good, long look at the idyllic Fairhaven and remind myself that not all evil is overt, ugly, or even all that apparent. More often than not, it’s boring, banal, and blends in with the surroundings, and I’ve no idea how to fight this kinda evil. I know that I gotta do something, but what is it that I’m supposed to do? Can’t go on an all-out rampage, and denouncing them won’t do nothing seeing how they don’t care to hide their beliefs, so what’s the middle ground between the two?

  Corporate espionage is what I’ve settled upon, though it’s not like I came here with that in mind. Alls I wanted to do was kill some Abby, and I done plenty of it. Didn’t profit as much as I’d like, as the terrain and circumstances don’t allow for quick getaways with heavy loads, so it don’t favour a solo operative like myself. Nor do the locals, at least not this particular solo operative, as not only have I pissed off the Order something fierce by gutting their head honcho’s eldest son, I’ve also ticked off the Pathfinders as Jocelyn knows good and well I had something to do with the attack. Then there’s the whole matter of the French, who are gonna be royally pissed when they realize they’ve lost a whole patrol of Legionnaires, and I can already guess who’s gonna come under suspicion for it. Yours truly of course, because going after anyone else involved would be much too difficult, so why not punch down at the little guy who got no one to back him?

  So I suppose all that’s left to do is grab the package on the outskirts of town, then get gone from the Deadlands once and for all.

  Course, there’s a part of me that says if I’m gonna get blamed for all these woes, I might as well do something deserving of it. Burn down that headquarters building for one, and hope I get everyone inside, Papa Aultman and his creepy menagerie of Abby included. Or park myself in a tall building somewhere and start plinking off racists without remorse. Not women and children of course, but every guard and able-bodied man carrying more than one gun ought to be fair game. Even if little Dick survives, and that’s a big if, neither he nor Papa Aultman are gonna let me off easy, so any one of these fellas on the streets could end up coming after me. Why not do a little pre-emptive strike and thin down their numbers a bit, just enough to keep them from coming after me? I said that I was gonna give them the horns, but if I leave now, then I’ll be letting them off easy, make them think they can come after me with no consequences whatsoever.

  Now, a lot of that is the anger talking, and I feel like some can be attributed to mind magic shenanigans. Not all, as I do have me a temper, one that’s hurt more than helped if I’m being honest with myself. Taking out Vanguard National and the Puglianos didn’t do me no favours, and I still remember that young Qin boy crying for his mama as he laid there dying from a gut shot I gave him. He came after me, so he was fair game, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t lose no sleep over him. Or Corey Macintyre, though that one’s easier to put out of mind seeing how he died quick and quiet. Smooth sailing as it were, though I doubt the same could be said for the wife and three kids he left behind, four people I don’t know how I can ever face without remorse.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  How many Corey Macintyres might there be in a town like this? Can’t rightly say, but I also know I got no desire to find out. Leaving quick and quiet might mean more trouble later on down the line, but at least I know how to handle that sort of trouble. It’s the other kind of troubles I can’t rightly figure out, the moral quandary of living with what I done even though I was mostly in the right.

  And even then, I’m starting to doubt that’s entirely true. Hard to stay the course when everyone you love, trust, and admire keep saying you headed down the wrong way. Marcus, Uncle Teddy, Uncle Rigsby, and even Uncle Art, while I get the feeling Edward, Aaron, and Luther are all keeping mum because they don’t want me to leave and never come back, even if they don’t wholly approve of how I do things. That’s the British way of dealing with disagreements among friends after all; you ignore everything about the disagreement itself and just act as if everything is fine and dandy.

  So to be a good man, I ain’t gonna shoot up the town. Or set anything aflame. Or make threats like a knife stabbed into Papa Aultman’s pillow, or a bomb left in his toilet. I’m just gonna pick up and leave like a good little boy, after grabbing the package of course. Finding the place ain’t easy, and my one and only potion of Gaseous Form runs out long before I get there. It do get me out of town and into the swamp proper though, so I move slow and careful through the brush unseen while looking for the landmarks I was directed to.

  Honestly, if it wasn’t for the fact that my back was against the wall, I would’ve never taken this job from the Manfredis. Not just because they mobsters, but because they’re also working with amateurs to boot. Could tell just by the directions they gave, which were vague and hardly helpful at all. Takes the better part of an hour to find the stream with the three trees tangled together like a tripod, and another twenty minutes to follow the current to where the ground goes soft and the fronds turn east. From there, it’s a straight shot west until I find an old abandoned town where don’t no one live anymore, on account of it having been overrun by Abby a year or two back.

  To make matters worse, the package is buried in a run-off ditch behind what used to be the tanner’s workshop. That means digging through soil that’s been soaked in piss and chemicals, and while time has long since erased all marks and replaced the smells with the bouquet of decaying swamp, it still ain’t pleasant to think about. Doesn’t take much to hit paydirt though, as a few minutes with Mould Earth uncovers an oilskin wrapped around the very package I was sent to pick up. A few quick passes with Prestidigitation takes it from caked in mud and muck to somewhat grubby, and then I tear into it to find a relatively clean lead-lined case similar to the one the Legionnaires handed over to me before I shot most of them dead. Hopefully that case is still with Gunnar, who was clever enough to grab the package off of Leonard’s sled while the rest of us were all busy fighting Abby, which means all that’s left to do now is to make like a tree and leave the Deadlands once and for all.

  Here's hoping there’s smooth sailing ahead, but somehow, given the shit-show I done left behind, I get the feeling that won’t be the case. Course, they’re gonna be looking for me close to Fairhaven, as a man can only travel so far and so fast on foot. I imagine the Order got manpower enough to close off most routes out of this central region, especially since they know I’ll want to link up with my people who they got under surveillance. Yeah, Papa Aultman shouldn’t have let that slip in my presence, but I suppose he figured he had me dead to rights, didn’t he? Still might have if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m a quick study and my mother’s brother is an admittedly brilliant teacher, a combination that means I got a new Big Spell in my back pocket which I have yet to use, one that I prepped for the express purpose of getting out of dodge right quick, but leaves me more options than Gaseous Form ever could.

  I’m talking about a Third Order Spell that nine out of ten Rangers will want Prepped at all times, because the sheer versatility is simply unmatched. Need to get somewhere right quick? Be anywhere else but where you already are? Want a better angle on your quarry, or need to cut them off before they get away? This Spell got you covered and then some, as you can throw it on to blast away at your enemies from the high ground without needing any sort of ground to speak of.

  All it takes is a feather I saved from Frowny for just this occasion, and a short chant I made up for myself. Wasn’t about to try and use some dead language I don’t understand suggested by my mother’s double-dealing brother who probably had my father killed. You never know what sort of tricks them sneaky Qinks might try, because even if it do sound racist, it’s still the truth. “Cape – Volatum,” I intone, and the feather dissipates from between my fingers as its consumed by the Aether, an exchange I’ll happily make any day of the week as my feet lift up off the ground. Yeah, that’s right. This here is the be all end all of mobility Spells, one that lets you soar through the skies like a bird on the wing, the often imitated, but never duplicated Fly Spell.

  “It’s a bird, it’s a plane,” I say with a smile, grinning so hard it hurts, “It’s Super Howie!”

  At first glance, it feels a lot like the Levitate Spell, except I’ve got this intuitive sensation of how much more I can do with it. I won’t just float to a height of six metres and stay there until the Spell runs dry. No, I can control how low to the ground I go, or how high up I can soar into the skies, and with a thought, I do just that.

  Only to crash into every branch on my way up and earn me a fair few dings and scratches for it.

  “Okay,” I say, once I’m free and clear of the branches and sitting just above the treetops. “No auto-pilot on this thing. Good to know.” Reaching into my pouch for another dab of Red Sun Balm, I focus on the Fly Spell once more and feel the constraints of Concentration holding the Spell together. Almost lost hold of the Spell on my way up, and that would’ve been a real waste. Especially since again, it only lasts 10 minutes at base, or 20 using the Extend Metamagic bead on the bracelet my Mama made. Means I gotta hustle, and I get right on that, zipping off through the skies with the wind in my hair and a big, toothy smile stretched across my face.

  One that don’t last for long as I hit a cloud of buzzing bugs that do be lingering all about the Deadlands. They all go splat pretty much as you’d expect, but I didn’t see them on account of my one swollen eye making it harder to see fine detail. You’d think bugs would move out of the way of giant flying creatures, but no, they took that impact head on and we all came out worse for wear because of it. I couldn’t have avoided them even if I wanted to, because while that intuitive control is easy to grasp, it also tells me the strict limits I’m working with. The Spell takes wider turns than my metal wagon under full load, so even though I saw them bugs, I stayed the course and got a mouthful of protein for it. It’s not like I was Flying all that fast either, as the Spell only goes about 200 meters a minute, a distance you could cover walking in two and a half minutes tops. Means that at most, I can cover a grand total of 4 klicks with 20 minutes of the Spell, which don’t sound like much, and really isn’t. Still good for all those things I said before, like getting out of a tight spot or putting your enemies into one, and you can shoot or sling Spells while you zipping around unlike with Gaseous Form.

  Course, that means they can shoot back, which ain’t ideal, but overall, I still rate Fly much higher than Gaseous Form for a Spell to keep in your back pocket. Hell, it’ll make trips to Silver Summit so much quicker than it already is, as instead of climbing up the mountain, I can soar up to town in a matter of minutes and skip over all the hard parts.

  Yes sir, Fly is one of them Spells I’ve been excited to learn for some time now, but I always figured I ought to aim for the more impactful ones, as opposed to pure utility. Then again, it’s not like Uncle Teddy was ever gonna teach me Lightning Beam, Frost Nova, or Flame Cloud, though I do already have the Spell Formula for that first one thanks to my Mama’s notes, even if I never put in the time and effort to learn it. Should change that at some point, but now I’m spoilt for choice, as there were a fair few other Spells available in the Arcane Grimoire that I’d also like to learn.

  To say nothing of whatever Spells might be hidden inside and available only after I Attune to it. Damn well tempted to do it now, even though ain’t nothing changed from before, nothing besides the rush of soaring through the treetops on my own power. There ain’t nothing like it, not zipping down mountains on my Floating Disc or jumping off cliffs and waiting till I see the ants crawling in the dirt before activating Featherfall to land safely. Even seeing all them Skreeler Wasps come diving down at me wasn’t as big a thrill as this, and I ain’t even pushed the Fly Spell anywhere close to its limits yet. See, that speed is what the Spell is capable of in a vacuum, but the physical world got all sorts of other variables to account for. Like gravity, which is a constant, but the higher up you go with the Spell, the harder its gotta work to account for it. Wind speed too, meaning that when the wind’s at your back, you can really get to zooming, but you won’t make much progress trying to barrel through a headwind.

  So if you go up as high as you dare with the Fly Spell, then find an air current moving in the right direction, you can let the Spell bring you back to ground while the wind and gravity accelerate you to speeds beyond what it says on the tin.

  Or so I hear at least. Tim’s talked about it before, as he do love him his extreme sports, and as eager as I am to give it a whirl, I figured I ought to learn how to crawl before I literally Fly. To say nothing of the fact that a man flying high in the sky will be easy to spot in broad daylight, and I’m trying to stay on the down-low as best I can, so I stick to the treetops and cover as much ground as possible. Twenty minutes and four klicks pass in the blink of an eye, and I do what I can to stretch the Spell out. Holding the weaves together is about as difficult as it sounds, like wrangling smoke with your bare hands and concentrated power of will. When it’s a kind of smoke you understand and are familiar with, it’s somewhat manageable, as you get a feel for how its coming apart and know where to shore it up instead of dividing all your attention across the entire Structure and letting it all slip through your fingers as it unravels apart.

  That’s how it be with a lot of the Spells I use on a day-to-day basis. Mage Hand, Mage Armour, Detect Abby, Detect Magic, even Eagle Eye which I ain’t used all that much of late, I can hold those Spells for two, sometimes three times their base duration, and that’s without accounting for the extra time from Metamagic. With Fly though? I hold the Spell together for all of a half second before it comes apart at the seams. Luckily, this time I thought ahead and maneuvered over to a bare patch in the tree line and come down slowly as the built in failsafe to the Fly Spell gently deposits me onto the ground.

  Or rather, in this particular case, a puddle deep enough to soak me right through to the knees.

  Beats a hard landing though, so I wade on over to dry land, empty my boots, rid myself of a whole heap of leeches, and apply a second dose of Red Sun Balm. The first already be wearing off, and I got more aches, pains, and bruises than I remember feeling when I first woke up. Don’t love that, but it is what it is, as I need a clear head to be trekking through hostile and unfamiliar territory without Settle in Shadows. The good news is that four klicks puts me well away from Fairhaven’s borders, and about half a day’s trek from where I bunked down outdoors with Gunnar for the night. Don’t got my Sanctuary Stakes on me though, and after not one, not two, but three close run ins with a Mimic, I ain’t sure if I want to risk camping outside without protection. Even if I had the juice to spare for keeping Mental Fortress up all night, I can’t sleep and maintain Concentration on the Spell at the same time, and the same applies to Protection against Abby, which only lasts 10 minutes at base and I don’t even have Prepped.

  That means that if I don’t meet up with my people, then I gotta make it to a Waystation before dark. My best bet would be the one Jocelyn pointed me at, as there ain’t no way I’m gonna stop off at a French outpost with the blood of a few Legionnaires still splattered across my duster. I’d much rather find my friends and family right quick though, as I do be hurting more than I care to admit and am starting to wonder if that truth serum was less effective than I was led to believe, and a concussion did most of the work for it.

  With nothing else for it, I sacrifice another of Frowny’s feathers to cast Fly again and get to zooming right quick. As I set out, I notice a vague sensation leading me in a particular direction, like a thread pulling at me or a faint current carrying me off course. Being wary of mind magics as I am, I probe it for any sort of sensation, bit it don’t feel like it’s coming from inside my head. Instead, it feels like it’s coming from elsewhere, like someone threw me a line to grab at and wants me to follow it. Curiosity overcomes caution as I follow the vague sensation for a bit, but it’s a long ways off and my Fly Spell comes to an end before I reach the source.

  So I pause to Ritually Cast Detect Magic, and confirm my earlier suspicions. It ain’t in my head. There’s really a pulse of magic that’s coming at me, so I wander about to try and triangulate where it’s coming from. Ain’t all that far away, less than two klicks as the crow flies, so I dab some more Red Sun Balm on my upper lip and put all of my eggs into one basket to cast Fly a third time.

  Leaving me with next to no Aether left for any more Spells, and little gas left in the tank for getting me somewhere safe. Might be able to squeeze out a First Order Spell if I care to risk passing out in the process, but that’s usually not a good gamble when the shit hits the fan. If you got a 50% or even 25% chance of passing out in exchange for a First Order Spell, then you better off going with and handling things the good old-fashioned way.

  Might not be smart, going right towards an unknown Spell tracking my position, but better to know now if the Order got some way of finding me, as opposed to finding out after I done gone to sleep for the night. Besides, if I can spot them and Fly away, then I’ll be able to stay ahead of their chase or even lead them into an ambush.

  All of which comes to naught as I spot my pursuers and make a big, dramatic entrance by dropping down about fifteen meters in front of them to avoid landing in any puddles and giving them a fright. The look on Astrid’s face is priceless as she goes wide eyed with adoration, while Gunnar gives me a chuff and a shake of his head. As for Harald, I don’t think he even notices, not until he lifts his head outta his book to figure out why they’ve stopped.

  Credit where credit is due though, he’s here with the rest of them, when he could well have stayed behind to wait for Edward and the others.

  Chrissy’s here too, and she skips on over with the kiccaws in her arms and baby Cowie at her side. My little partner is over the moon to see me, and aggressively shoulder checks my legs again and again while I do what I can to scritch his head. Then comes the kiccaws who get dumped in my arms, which ain’t all that bad if not for the fact that they hungry and happy to eat up all the insects stuck on my face and duster. Frowny is especially aggressive about it, leaping up onto my shoulder and giving me a whole heaping helpful of love bites while fluttering his little wings like a fiend, all while I laugh and fend the birds off as best I can without hurting them.

  Only for Chrissy to grab my head with both hands to give me a better look, with a startling look of concern etched into her usually taciturn features. “Howie hurt,” she declares, looking like she in pain to see it, so I smile bright and wide to show her I’m fine.

  Course, that causes the split in my lip that sorta healed over to break open again, and I wince to feel it. “I’m alright Princess,” I say, as I don’t want to lie to her, but I also don’t want to alarm her. “Got roughed up a little bit, but I made out alright.” Granted, I’m really only feeling that way because of the Red Sun Balm, which again, is already wearing off. Ought to be real concerning since I took three hits in an hour and can still feel some on my upper lip. Grabbing a kerchief to wipe my brow and face, I pop Stella on my free shoulder and keep Terrance in my hand as I give Chrissy a big hug to calm her nerves. “Don’t you worry about me, Chrissy,” I say. “These bumps and bruises ain’t nothin’ but a chicken wing. A big meal, a Regeneration, and a good night’s sleep will have me right as rain, no two ways about it.”

  Glancing around to find my bearings, I look to Gunnar and ask, “So uh… which way to the closest waystation?” Seeing his surprise, I explain, “I been Flying for the last hour, and things look real different from up there, so I ain’t entirely sure where we are.”

  Gunnar nods and points to the south east. “Closest safe spot is the campsite we prepped about an hour that way. Next closest is a waystation about five hours south east, or the French outpost we stopped in at about the same distance straight east.” Grimacing, he gives the lead-lined suitcase in my hands a pointed look and says, “Regardless of where we’re heading, we might want to stop at the campsite either way. I uh… might’ve left something important there.”

  Meaning the other suitcase containing the package I’m supposed to deliver to the Serbians for a cool 10 grand. Smart that, not carrying it around with him after filching it from Leonard’s sled. Suppose that’s how Gunnar’s made it this far on the Frontier with little to no combat ability to speak of, as he’s got them survivor’s instincts on top of a whole slew of Spells meant to keep him alive and out of harms way. Soon as I got both suitcases in hand, I’m thinking we head back to the Protectorate outpost and wait for Edward, then bid him farewell and see what he wants to do next. If he wants to escort us back to Stillwater, then I’ll have to slip away unseen one night and Fly the suitcases out over the patrols to hide them somewhere safe, preferable in the forest south of Stillwater somewhere so I can pick them back up after we leave.

  Then it’s just a simple matter of handing both suitcases over to the Manfredis and Serbians, settling my debts and picking up a cool 10 grand in the process. That’s a good chunk of change, more than enough to make all this trouble well worth it, though any more might tip the scales against it. Either way, the finish line is almost in sight, so all I gotta do is keep on keeping on until I bring home the big win.

  One foot in front of the other. That’s all I gotta do. Put one foot in front of the other until I collect my packages and get out of the Deadlands for good. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  The-One-Who-Wakes was most displeased, but It would not heed the call.

  With Its prey well on their way to beyond Its reach and Its spawn rendered to numbers too ineffective to matter, It had failed its task and must suffer the consequences. It would be deemed ineffectual and inadequate, a creation that failed to meet standards and therefore a deviation from the norm. There was only one outcome for a creation such as this. An unmaking, a return to the deep sleep of oblivion, where Its essence would then be remade and repurposed anew. Another comrade would awaken, but not It, for It will have been consigned to nothingness, never to awaken again.

  So It resisted the call, though It knew It could only do so for a time. Between limited existence and eternal unawareness, the decision was clear, so it sought any and all means to subsist no matter the cost. Following the disastrous battle, one in which the Vessel marked for The-One-Who-Wakes was taken by another, It followed Its quarry for as long as It could, hiding its presence within the Void despite the ever-insistent call of The-One-Who-Wakes. When Its quarry parted ways with the Vessel It desired for itself, there was a decision to be made. Stay the course and hope to find success in order to avoid oblivion, or pursue a target of Its own designation, the second, more powerful Vessel It desired for Itself.

  So for the first time in existence, It moved of Its own accord and followed the second Vessel who had already been marked.

  Only for Its new quarry to be captured by other prey-things, and brought to another bastion beyond Its reach.

  Another failure then, and It seethed with emotion to be denied in such a manner. With nothing else to compel It, It lingered upon the borders of the bastion and waited. For what, It did not know, but the only other option was to accept oblivion, and this could not be. So It waited, and waited, and waited.

  Until the vessel reappeared once more, beaten, bloodied, and bearing the marks of one of Its brethren, one It had never before met. Strange. It knew all of Its brethren, for The-One-Who-Wakes shared the knowing of them all. New brethren would not know of those who had been consigned to oblivion, whether that be by The-One-Who-Wakes or the freak-prey who hunted them in turn. Stranger and stranger, but It cared not to investigate, only to seethe in rage and fury to know that Its prize had almost been poached.

  Almost, but not quite, so the prize was still there for the taking. It followed the Vessel as it soared through the skies, followed it back to three more Vessels to choose from, including one that was the choicest Vessel of all, even more delectable than the feared Scaled-Devouring-One, a Vessel who had consigned more of Its brethren to oblivion than any other prey-thing without even being a freak. The Scaled-Devouring-One was simply too strong, too powerful in mind and Spirit for It or Its brethren to eat, yet still more continued to try at almost every opportunity. That was how tempting a target the Scaled-Devouring-One was, a meal so great that the singular essence of this one prey-thing might well be enough for It to know satiety, if only for a fleeting moment before losing it to the Void.

  The weight of numbers could bring down the Scaled-Devouring-One eventually, but It was not willing to take that risk.

  This new Vessel was almost as delectable, and so full of potential and possibility that It would almost immediately pass through the veil once the Vessel was safely inhabited. Safely was the operative word, for failure would mean consignment to oblivion all the same, so measures must be taken before It tried. Reaching out to what few slivers of self were still available, it sought to create chance and opportunity, but there was none to be had. Its spawn were too few and feeble to take these prizes, and It dared not risk Its entire existence without first weakening Its prey.

  So It looked elsewhere for chance and opportunity, and found something worthy of note. Not all slivers of self were embedded in spawn, as others sought to turn the prey-things to their cause, whispering into their minds all the temptations they desired and urging them to do harm to their fellow prey. These prey-things in particular were primed for violence, eager and ready for it, their anger stoked and vigilance raised as they hunted for the killer of their fellow prey things.

  A slim chance, but one best taken all the same, as It risked emerging into the Not-Void to connect with its sliver and drive the prey-things to rage and action both. “Signs you see,” It whispered. “Tracks of that which you seek. Follow them to find the satisfaction you desire.” The Magic ebbed and flowed to show the prey-thing what it wanted to see, and with a word, it called to its fellow prey-things and set out on the path It laid out for them, one that would see them come into contact with the four vessels in short order.

  And in the chaos and bloodshed that ensued, It would claim a Vessel for Its own, thereby avoiding the call of The-One-Who-Wakes and oblivion awaiting It.